Trial and Error

“I know.”

“We’ll go down to Key Largo a lot. When the kids from the hospital come by, you’ll introduce them to Spunky and Misty.”

“Can I teach the kids to talk dolphinese?”

“You bet.”

The water below them was shallow and clear, brown sea grasses waving below the surface.

“I’m sorry about all that stuff that happened before, Uncle Steve.”

“What stuff?”

Bobby shrugged, and the helicopter passed over the shoreline of Coconut Grove, following the path of banyan trees along Main Highway.

“You know. All the mean things I said about you not caring about Spunky and Misty.”

“Not a problem, kiddo. You were upset.”

“Yeah. But that’s not an excuse. It was extremely…” He paused to dig up a word. “…immature of me.”

“You’re a Solomon. Immaturity is expected from time to time. Now, are you ready to take the mound?”

“Coach Kreindler won’t let me pitch in a real game.”

“We’ll see.”

The helicopter landed at the neighborhood park on Morningside Drive, where a police car met them and drove Bobby the few blocks to the house on Kumquat. He changed into his Beth Am Bobcats uniform, grabbed his glove and spikes, and the cops brought him back to the helicopter. They took off again, and seven minutes later, the chopper with the FBI logo was settling into the outfield, where the Bobcats and the Bashers were finishing warm- ups.

Now, that’s what I call making an entrance, Steve thought.

Bobby, Steve, and Victoria hopped out.

“Go warm up that throwing arm,” Steve told Bobby, who raced off to join his teammates.

Coach Ira Kreindler waddled out of dugout, waving his arms.

“What’s the meaning of this!” Kreindler huffed to a stop near second base.

“We’re delivering your starting pitcher.” Steve gave the pilot the thumbs-up, and the FBI chopper lifted off.

Kreindler hung onto his yarmulke in the wind from the rotors. “Forget it, Solomon. I’ve got enough problems today.”

He thrust a lineup card into Steve’s hand. Penciled in as the leadoff hitter for the First Baptist Bashers was “R. Schactman.”

“Richie on the Bashers?” Steve said. “I don’t get it.”

“That spoiled momzer switched teams. He said the scouts from Gulliver and Ransom would see him play more on a better team.”

“What a bastard,” Steve agreed.

“So forget about Robert pitching. The ball Shactman hit off him in practice hasn’t come down yet. Besides, Robert missed warm-ups, and you know my rules. If you’re late, you don’t play.”

Victoria intervened in her customary, polite way. “Mr. Kreindler, couldn’t you make an exception? Bobby’s had an incredibly hard night.”

“Yeah, Kreindler,” Steve said. “While you were making chopped liver, he caught a murderer and two thugs and rescued two endangered dolphins.”

Kreindler gave them a dubious look that made Steve want to punch him in the throat. “I’m sure he did, but rules are rules.”

“Like the kosher rules?” Victoria asked. “What are they called?”

“The kashruth, Ms. Lord. That happens to be my business. Kreindler’s Kosher Meats.”

“My business is enforcing the law, at least until I turn in my badge tomorrow. Are you aware it’s consumer fraud to sell nonkosher food as kosher?”

“How dare you!”

“One word from me, and the State Attorney’s Office will launch an investigation.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’ve never sold a milligram of trayf in my life.”

“Then an investigation will clear you. In two or three months.”

Steve laughed. “That’s a lot of rotting brisket.”

“Ms. Lord, I never expected this from you.”

“Me, either,” Steve said. “Vic, you’re terrific. You’re outstanding. You’re-”

“An extortionist!” Kreindler fumed.

“Just let Bobby pitch two innings,” she suggested.

“That’s all anyone can pitch! League rules.”

“Good. It’s settled, then. And, of course, I’ll be so busy tomorrow, I won’t have time to open any new investigations.”

Kreindler’s face turned the color of borscht. “You’ve got some chutzpah, lady.” He sighed so heavily, his throat wattles waffled.

Bobby took his warm-up pitches while Rich Shactman, the traitor, glared at him from the on-deck circle.

Concentrate, Bobby told himself. Keep the ball under control. Remember everything Uncle Steve taught you.

“Imagine a circle where you want to put the pitch, and paint everything else black. You won’t see the batter. You won’t see anything but that circle.”

Rich Shactman stepped into the batter’s box and crowded the plate, daring Bobby to pitch inside. He pointed his bat at the pitcher’s mound and squeezed one eye shut as if sighting a rifle. “Right back at you, Word Boy.”

Bobby turned toward the bleachers where Uncle Steve and Victoria were nestled together, their shoulders touching. Bobby nodded to indicate he was okay. He wasn’t going to pee his pants just because Rich the Shit Shactman was twirling a Louisville Slugger at him.

Behind the plate, catcher Miguel Juarez signaled for a fast ball inside. Bobby focused his mind, painting the circle right under Shactman’s hands, trying to move the prick off the plate.

Bobby wound up, kicked high, and whipped his arm forward. A blazing fastball six inches inside hit Miguel’s mitt with a thud that echoed across the field. Shactman staggered backward, stunned at the speed of the pitch.

“Ball one,” the umpire called.

“You hit me, I’ll kill you!” Shactman snarled.

Bobby shrugged like it was no big deal.

In his catcher’s crouch, Miguel showed two fingers-curveball. Coach Kreindler didn’t want the boys throwing curves, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

Bobby held the ball with his index and middle fingers and snapped his wrist at the moment of release. The pitch seemed to sail inside, and again Shactman stepped back, his knees buckling. But this time, the ball broke over the plate.

“Strike one!” the umpire yelled.

Shactman looked embarrassed. He’d bailed out like a sissy.

Bobby worked quickly now. Another fastball. Right over the plate. The ball had already popped into Miguel’s glove by the time Shactman started his swing.

“Strike two!”

Shactman seemed bewildered. He moved deeper into the batter’s box, dug his back foot into the dirt. Miguel signaled for a curve, on the outside corner. Bobby shook his head. He wanted strength against strength. Fastball against power hitter. Mano a mano. He wasn’t afraid.

“Right back at you, Shactman,” Bobby called out.

“Huh?” Shactman stared at him.

“Fastball down the pipe.”

Calling his pitch, letting the prick know, challenging his manhood.

Bobby worked two fingers across the seams, resting his thumb under the ball. He wound up, lifting both