TOUGH GAME

by James Blakey

Dubler positioned himself five feet from the bag, pounded his fist into his glove, and leaned forward on the balls of his feet.

Nakamura’s pitch was inside. Murphy turned on it, hammering the ball down the third base line. Dubler stuck out his glove. He couldn’t field it but managed to knock it down. After a mad scramble, and with no time to look back the runner at second, he launched his throw to first base. The ball sailed wildly over Arroyo’s outstretched glove into the stands.

Dubler, hands on his hips, kicked at the dirt, and stared at the ground.

“Batter to second base, and the runner on second will score, giving the Monarchs the lead,” the radio announcer told his listeners. “Dubler’s having a tough game. Struck out twice, and that’s his third error in as many innings.”

A series of boos filled the air as the Dragons’ fans registered their displeasure with Dubler’s performance. But in the front row, a man in a gray suit and a fedora smiled.

#

“One out in the bottom of the ninth, and the Dragons have men on first and second,” the announcer said. “Finally, a chance for Dubler to redeem himself. He’s oh for four on the day with three strikeouts. Last time up in the seventh, he tapped a weak grounder to second.”

Dubler walked toward the batter’s box, his face etched with grim determination. The fans greeted him with a Bronx cheer.

The first pitch was a fastball high and inside, sending Dubler to the ground.

“Ball one!” called the umpire.

Dubler stared down the pitcher and gritted his teeth.

The second pitch broke early, and in the dirt. Dubler, appearing to be badly fooled, swung and missed. The spin on the ball sent it bouncing away from the catcher all the way to the wall. The runners advanced to second and third. With first base open, the opposing manager called for an intentional walk, taking the bat out of Dubler’s hands.

He walked sullenly to first base and felt the pit in his stomach grow. Before he had time to formulate a plan, Gorman crushed the first pitch over the left field wall for a game-winning grand slam.

Twenty thousand happy Dragons’ fans celebrated deliriously. The man in the fedora didn’t.

#

Dubler sat in front of his locker, his head drooping.

“Don’t be low. We won!” Arroyo slapped him on the shoulder. “You had a tough game, amigo. But that’s okay, we’re here to pick each other up.”

Dubler looked up and managed a weak smile.

“Tough game, Dubler.” Carolyn Rodgers, the blond reporter from the cable station, thrust a microphone in his face. “What happened out there?”

Dubler slapped the microphone away. “Why don’t you talk to Gorman? He’s the hero.”

“Hey guys!” shouted Simmons. “Who’s up for a little fun tonight at Engine Forty-Nine? First round’s on me.”

The clubhouse roared with approval.

“How about you, Dubler?”

Dubler shook his head. “You guys go on without me. I think I might be coming down with the flu.”

“What’s that?” Scott Blackbell, the Dragon’s manager, pointed a bony finger at Dubler. “Next time, you’re feeling sick, let me know. Don’t pull that ironman crap on me.”

“Sure thing, Skipper.”

#

Dubler avoided the remaining reporters, showered, and picked at the food from the post-game spread. When there was no one left in the clubhouse, he grabbed his bag and walked to his truck.

In the gloom he saw a small figure lingering near his F-250. Was it some kid waiting for an autograph? Security was supposed to keep them away. As he got closer to the truck, he recognized Louie in his trademark fedora. Dubler swallowed hard.

“Hey there, Mr. Baseball,” Louie said. “You really let me down today.”

Dubler shook his head. “Did you see the game? I did my worst without being obvious about it.”

“Oh. I saw. But this is the third time you’ve been a disappointment. My friends are out a lot of money, and they’re not happy.”

“Look, I’ll do better, or rather worse, tomorrow,” Dubler said. “It was a really tough game.”

“Things are going to get a whole lot tougher.” Louie pulled out a stainless-steel semi-auto pistol and fired twice into Dubler’s chest.

Dubler fell to the ground, his eyes filled with disbelief.

“You play baseball, you know the rules. Today was your third strike,” Louie said. “And now you’re out.”

THE FAMILY BUSINESS

by James Blakey

Evegeny slipped the Markov nine-millimeter into the shoulder holster and shrugged on his sports coat. As he crossed the room, Irina ignored him, not lifting her gaze from the television. He stepped onto the expansive balcony, and a stiff breeze off the Atlantic greeted him. Below, the white sands of Jupiter Island reflected the scorching heat of the midday sun. He cleared his throat. “Mikhail, I would speak with you.”

Mikhail relaxed in a lounge chair, tapping away on his laptop. “Evegeny!” He beamed, shut the laptop, and rose to hug his brother. “I will make us drinks.”

Behind a well-stocked bar at the far end of the balcony, Mikhail mixed vodka with grapefruit juice into tall glasses filled with ice. He handed one to his brother. They turned to watch the breaking waves.

Evegeny frowned. “I am troubled by noises on the streets.”

Mikhail sighed. “If you insist on a conversation about the family business, then all the family should be present.”

Evegeny stifled a grunt. “You want to interrupt Irina’s shows?” Their sister cared for nothing but the latest installment of Real Housewives and the fashions and shoes on display at the Aventura Mall. “This is a discussion between men. You’ve ceded West Palm to the Jamaicans and given away the cocaine trade to the Albanians. Albanians, for God’s sake. They’re heathens!”

 “I apologize for not consulting,” Mikhail said. “But we’re making more money than ever. It was time to abandon high-profile, risky endeavors. People get shot. The public makes demands. The police come down hard.” His smile grew wide. “But with Medicare fraud, insurance fraud, everyone is paid: the doctors, the clinics, the patients. There are no bodies. No victims to complain. No one even suspects.” He raised his glass high. “America, truly the land of opportunity.”

Evegeny downed his drink and refilled it. His brother was always so sure of himself, but Father left Mikhail in charge, because he was the oldest, not the strongest. “No one doubts your inventive talents for making money. But it’s dangerous to show weakness in the face of our rivals.”

“Not weakness. Cleverness.”

“They may not perceive it that way. And to our competitors, perception is reality.”

Mikhail waved his hand dismissively. “Will you ever be satisfied? You have more money than you could ever hope to spend. What else do you want?”

Power. Respect. These are more important than wealth. That his brother couldn’t understand proved Mikhail had been corrupted by the very country he was corrupting. “I want control.”

Mikhail shook his head. “That is the wrong attitude. Forget the ego. Be smart.

Evegeny gulped his drink, set down the glass, and produced the pistol. “Now I am not smart?”

“Put that thing away.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” His face flushed. Why must Mikhail be so willful? “You will be permitted to continue peddling your insurance schemes, but I am running things.”

“We can discuss this. But not at gunpoint.”

The alcohol fueled Evegeny’s rage. “No more talk.” He raised the weapon.

“Be reasonable.” Mikhail reached for the pistol.

“Enough!” Evegeny’s finger twitched. The gun fired twice. Mikhail’s shirt erupted in red, and he dropped to the floor.

“No!” Evegeny fell to his knees and checked for a pulse. Nothing. He cradled Mikhail’s head; empty blue eyes stared back. “See what you made me do, Brother? If only you weren’t so stubborn.”

He fought back tears and formulated a plan. He’d get the maid to clean up the mess and have Mikhail’s driver dispose of the body. Evegeny would explain that the staff worked for him, now. They would understand and do as they were told.

He booted up Mikhail’s laptop. Password protected. His phone, too. No problem. He knew experts who dealt in such matters.

 Taking on the Jamaicans would require plenty of men. He’d issue an ultimatum. Give them a we—

Gunshots erupted from behind. Evegeny’s body exploded in pain. He gasped for air, but it wouldn’t come. He collapsed on the floor. With great effort he lifted his head and saw Irina staring down at him with contempt. Evegeny tried to speak. All that emerged from his throat was a low gurgle.

“Thank you, Dear Evegeny.” His sister smiled cruelly. She kicked him in the ribs with the pointed toe of her zebra-patterned ankle boot and jabbed the stiletto heel into his chest. “I see we both had doubts about the direction of the family business.”

She pointed the gun at his head and fired.

James Blakey’s fiction has appeared in Mystery Weekly, Crimson Streets, and Over My Dead Body. His story “The Bicycle Thief” won a 2019 Derringer Award. He lives in suburban Philadelphia, where he works as a network engineer for a software consulting company. When James isn’t working or writing, he can be found on the hiking trail—he’s climbed thirty-eight of the fifty US state high points—or bike-camping his way up and down the East Coast. Find him at www.JamesBlakeyWrites.com.