Trial and Error

news when it helped put out the fires in Kuwait’s oil wells after Desert Storm.

“Not just an oil company,” Teresa told them. “They’re a defense contractor, too. Submersibles, body armor, night vision goggles. Hundreds of items for the military.”

“Fine,” Steve said. “But why would Hardcastle send two guys to roust me? Why do they care what Gerald Nash knows?”

“No se. But they also make communications equipment for the military.”

“So does AT amp;T,” Steve said. “So what?”

“Ten paciencia, Stephen. Have patience.”

Teresa clicked the “Defense Subsidiaries” button on the screen. An instant later, a new picture appeared. Two dolphins arcing from the water, both with white harnesses circling their bodies. One harness was fixed with an antenna, the other with a camera.

“The communications gear is for dolphins,” she said, hitting another button. The image changed. Six dolphins in a turquoise sea, all swimming fast enough to leave foamy wakes. Printed over the image were the words: “Keeping Ports Safe at Home and Abroad. The Marine Mammal Strike Force.”

“Holy shit,” Steve said. “There’s a new villain in the courtroom. Hardcastle Energy Services. Big, rich, powerful. What more could I ask for?”

“A defense based on the evidence,” Victoria suggested tartly.

“Sanders was an ex-Navy SEAL who handled dolphins. He worked for two guys from Hardcastle, a defense contractor that provides dolphins for the military. Like I said before, A leads to B, and B leads to C.”

“Okay. Keep going. Where’s C lead?”

“Jeez, give me a couple hours. By dinner tonight, I’ll have my theory of the case, and I’ll spell it out for you.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Here’s the crazy thing, Vic. My client’s always railing about the military-industrial complex. An unholy alliance between big business and warmongering politicians. The State Attorney is just a tiny cog in a big wheel of conspiracies and corruption. All that left-wing boilerplate from a guy who’s not very bright. But you know what, Vic? Gerald Nash is right. The bastard’s been right from day one.”

Twenty-eight

The Bashers

Coach Kreindler told Bobby he could pitch. But only in practice. And only to two batters.

Still, it was something. Whatever Uncle Steve had said to the coach-or whatever he’d threatened-had worked.

But where’s Uncle Steve now?

A sticky evening. Mosquitoes and no-see-um gnats were buzzing in the glow of the field lights. Bobby was already lathered in sweat and his glasses were fogged.

On the mound, Bobby nervously toed the dirt the way he’d seen pitchers do on TV. One difference. Those guys never caught their spikes on the rubber and tripped. He’d nearly fallen twice and hadn’t yet thrown a pitch.

Uncle Steve was late. He’d called from the car, saying traffic was backed up on Dixie Highway. Bobby had wanted to ask a question about his grip for the fastball, but his uncle was focused on his trial.

“Bobby, what do you know about the Marine Mammal Strike Force?”

“Not much. It’s mostly classified.”

“But you’ve heard of it.”

“There’s stuff on the Internet, but no way to know if it’s true.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Dolphins being trained to fire toxic darts at enemy divers or drag them under and drown them, that kind of thing.”

“Jesus. Gives new meaning to the term ‘wet work.’”

“Suicide missions, too. Dolphins loaded with explosives to attack terrorists’ boats. Really weird stuff.”

“Is that real?”

“Dunno. You’d have to really be a sicko to do that to a dolphin.”

Now Bobby wondered, just how could he pitch without his uncle here?

“Let’s go, Robert,” Coach Kreindler yelled from behind home plate. He was wearing a “Kreindler Means Kosher” T-shirt and leaning over the catcher in the umpire’s position.

Barry Roth stood in the batter’s box, crowding the plate. Thin, wiry, the Bobcats’ leadoff hitter. Quick wrists, a singles hitter. Not a bad kid, at least compared to Rich (The Shit) Shactman.

The catcher was Miguel Juarez. His family didn’t belong to Beth Am, but Miguel’s dad was the security guard at the synagogue, and none of the Jewish kids wanted to catch. Miguel had short, thick legs, and could throw out a runner at second without ever coming out of his crouch. Bobby looked in for the sign. Miguel wiggled one finger.

Fastball.

Bobby worked the ball in his hand, his index and middle fingers running across the seams. He wound up, a jumble of herky-jerky motions. He looked uncoordinated. But his arm was a whip.

He let fly.

The ball sailed straight toward Barry Roth’s head.

Barry’s legs flew out from under him as he hit the dirt, the ball rocketing all the way to the backstop.

“Ball one!” Coach Kreindler shouted. “Robert, watch it out there. No brushbacks.”

But Uncle Steve had told him not to be afraid to throw inside.

“The inside of the plate is yours. You have to take it away from the batter.”

A shudder ran through him. What if he hit Barry? What if he hurt him?

“What are you waiting for, Solomon? Chanukah?” Rich Shactman yelling from the on-deck circle. The jerk was swinging three bats, showing off his muscles.

Miguel Juarez signaled for another fastball. Bobby wound up and threw again. High and wide. Miguel came out of his crouch to nab it. Ball two.

Barry Roth crowded the plate even more. Another pitch, Bobby tensing up and hanging on too long. The ball skidded in the dirt before it reached the plate. Ball three.

Where are you, Uncle Steve?

Bobby tried to relax, but he couldn’t. He tightened his grip even more, and the ball squirted out of his hand like a watermelon seed. A floater that looked like slow-pitch softball, going straight up and falling ten feet in front of the plate.

“Ball four!” Kreindler yelled. “One more batter, Robert.”

The coach seemed pleased, as if letting Bobby pitch had been both annoying and a waste of time.

“Rich, get in there and take a couple swings,” Kreindler said, smiling at his slugger.

Swaggering to the plate, Rich Shactman glared at Bobby, who took a shaky breath, picked up the resin bag, bounced it in his pitching hand a couple times, then tossed it away.

Stalling.

Tension gripped Bobby, a hundred pigeons flapping inside his chest. He tried to remember everything Uncle Steve taught him.

The grip. The windup. The release. I’ve forgotten everything.

“C’mon, Robert,” Coach Kreindler yelled. “We only have the field for an hour.”

“Which ends in two dang minutes,” came another voice. A husky man in a pin-striped baseball jersey stood at the fence along the first-base line, his gut hanging over the steel railing. Shug Moss. Coach of the First Baptist Bashers.