Impressed me. Clinked glasses and put their contents down in a swallow.
'C'mon, Hank, let's take a ride.'
Another loaded line. Curious. Said, 'Where to?'
'Your motel room. I want to see your stuff.'
Christ, I wondered, did she say anything that wasn't loaded?
Got in her yellow Vette. Stopped at me room. She stayed in the car. Picked up me Louisville Slugger. Burned
'Now where to?'
'You'll see,' she purred.
Drove through a darkened industrial park. Pulled into an empty parking lot in front of what looked to be a warehouse. The local bat-away. She had the keys. Stepped inside the darkened hall, punched numbers into a keypad, threw a light switch. Have you ever entered an empty church? Was what it felt like for me. This was me own St. Paddy's.
'Fast cage is over there.' She pointed to the far right end of the facility. 'What size helmet?'
'Yer joking me, lady. Helmets are for pussies. No offense intended.'
'None taken. It's your funeral.'
Got in the cage. Stood in the right hand batter's box. 'Whenever you're ready.'
Five seconds later, a yellow ball whizzed by me at the knees. I made no move. Judged the speed at ninety. Next ball, same thing. Statues have made more movement. This time I eyed where the ball was coming from. Third ball I smacked right through the square in the netting through which the pitch had come. Next ball, same result. And the next and the next and the … Jumped into the lefty batter's box. Closed my eyes. Listened. Smacked the ball just above the hole in the netting.
'Shite!'
'I'm convinced,' she said. 'You're the best I've seen.'
The pitching machine went silent. As I stepped out of the cage, the lights dimmed. Nothing more frightening than a dark church. Got into hitting position.
'Fuck is th-'
The tail end of the question was shoved back into me mouth along with me front teeth. Something snapped. Heard it more than felt it. Coughing up teeth and blood, I was down, dazed, me arms and legs as useless tits on a tennis racket. After a second she came back into focus. Standing over me, a hurly in her hands.
'Manny Alcazar,' she hissed. 'Remember him, Mr. Clemente?'
Mind racing. Yeah, shite, I recalled. A thick-bodied, squat spic, took his time dying, too. He was one of my early nineties one-bone-at-a-time jobs. Didn't know why management wanted him done or done that way. Never questioned the instructions.
'Yer father,' I choked.
'You caught on about five minutes too late, asshole. Fucking shame that I snapped your vertebrae. Would have liked to have you feel the bones breaking.'
'The hurly?'
'Shite and onions, my mother's Irish, you prick.'
Last thing she said to me. She put down the hurly and picked up me own bat. Poetic justice, I suppose. I watched her shatter me legs. Well done. She'd a powerful swing. The girl had real potential and there was little doubt, with proper training, mind you, I could have added a good ten miles an hour to her bathead speed.
