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The Stretch Run

by Jason Bennett
Chapter 4

Monday morning happened way too quickly for the night I had been through. I had fallen asleep shortly after the sun began coming up, and woke when the pain in my nose became too much to sleep through. I lifted my head carefully from my pillow, which was covered in dried blood, crusty and black, sticking to my matted hair.

I stood up too fast, and stumbled to the bathroom to find whatever painkillers I had stashed. After settling on, and swallowing, two Tylenol with codeine, I looked in the mirror. Half my face was covered in dried blood, and my left eye, half-swollen shut, was black. My nose was nearly twice its normal size. I couldn't wait to go to work.

I turned on the shower and stood facing it. I let it pour over me until the hot water ran completely out. I didn't make an effort to wash my face, as I knew I probably couldn't handle the pain: I let the water wash it for me.

After nearly 20 minutes, as I felt the painkillers beginning to take the edge off, I found some loose clothes to put on. My cargo pocket shorts, a baggy t-shirt, and flip-flop sandals felt confining, but even sports writers need to dress to go to the office, and that's where I intended to go.

I climbed into my jeep and looked into the mirror again. I looked worse than I had with blood crusting my face. I determined, however, that I could see well enough to drive, so I headed for the office.

Inside the newsroom, I checked the morning edition, and the wires. The place buzzed, and occasionally someone would toss me a vague hello or a wave. I hoped no one would mention the condition of my face, but when you look like you got hit by a truck, people tend to notice.

"You should see the other guy," I answered one concerned inquiry sarcastically, and "what black eye," I answered another. I almost felt bad about being such an asshole about it, but I really wasn't in the mood.

The call to the police had come in too late last night to make today's edition, but the story surely would go into tomorrow's. I had to find Barry Levin to find out what he already knew. He would undoubtedly handle this high-profile story himself. Luckily for me, he wasn't a great reporter.

I walked to my desk to see if anyone had given me anything after I left yesterday. Finding my in basket empty, a rarity for a Monday, I sat down to call Levin.

I dialed his office extension. After three rings, he picked up his phone.

"Barry Levin."

"Good morning, Barry. Carson Osborne here."

"Good morning, Carson, how are you today?"

"Long story."

"You sound like you have a cold."

"Something like that. Listen, I need to come up and talk to you for a minute. You gonna be in your office?"

"Yes," he said. "I'll be here for an hour."

"Thanks." I hung up the phone and thought for a moment. I had to be a little careful with how I handled him.

I wandered to the television room, just around the corner from my shabby desk, and turned on the set, flipping back and forth between ESPN and CNN. It didn't appear that anything big had happened in the 4 hours I slept, so I walked back to my desk.

I picked up the phone and dialed Donnie's number.

"Hello?"

"Donnie. Carson."

"Hey. You sick?"

"Yeah. Listen: you coming to the game this afternoon?"

"I can't. I have a picnic."

"Sounds thrilling. Anything new on Case?"

"Not yet. We found some physical stuff that we're sending to the lab, and the forensic guys are there today. We'll know more soon."

"Has Levin contacted you?"

"He tried," Donnie said. "He left me a message at work. I checked my voice mail and he was on there. But I haven't called him back yet. I don't really have anything for him, anyway."

"Good, then if you talk to him, that's what you'll say?"

"Yeah. It's the truth."

"Okay. When's your picnic done?"

"I should be finished by five or six," he said. "Why?"

"I want to come over and talk to you. I'll be there by six."

"Okay," he sounded hesitant. "What are we talking about?"

"I'll tell you when I get there."

I hung up the phone. I was very frightened, all of a sudden, of speaking with Donnie that evening. I had a very funny feeling that Olivia's murder was not going to be solved quite as easily as I had hoped, and as it had appeared the night before. My face hurt.

I rode the elevator two floors upwards to where Levin's office was located. He was lucky enough to have a private office, with a door. Not a desk in the middle of a public area, like I had. That wasn't really why I disliked the guy, though.

I knocked on his door.

"Come in," he said as I pushed the door open. "Carson, you look terrible."

"Well don't worry," I said, "it only hurts when I breathe."

"I mean, are you okay? What happened?"

"You should see the other guy," I repeated my sarcasm of earlier. "Never mind about it, really. Listen, I have a question for you."

"Okay, I'll help you if I'm able to."

I looked at Levin's office. Not even his pencils were out of place. A picture of his wife and son sat on the corner of his desk, dusted, at a perfect 45-degree angle to the desk's edges. His computer screen, also dusted, showed a calendar for the month of August. Every day was full. I wondered if this guy scheduled his trips to the bathroom. "I saw a police call last night to the Case house. What's the story?"

"It's Olivia Case, Carson. She's dead."

"I thought so. I heard through the grapevine. What have you found out about it?"

"Nothing, yet."

"Who've you talked to?"

"I called the police; Detective Pagliocci is in charge of the investigation. I'm trying to get a hold of him for an interview."

"Donnie Pagliocci? He's a good friend of mine." I picked up a marble apple paperweight from his desk. It had been sitting between his pencil cup and his telephone. He reached out his right hand to take the paperweight from me.

"Yes, that's him. I haven't been able to get in touch with him today."

"Listen, Donnie's a good friend of mine," I repeated myself, just to make sure he'd heard me. "I'll be speaking with him later today. If you haven't gotten him yet, I'll have him call you. What have you gotten from the cops so far?"

"She was shot, several times. The father found the body late last night. That's about it."

I enjoyed an internal sigh of relief at his words. I didn't want to have to ask him to hold anything back. It would be much easier for me to keep the info from him than it would have been to keep him from printing it. Luck was with me, so far.

"Sounds bad." I shook my head, hoping my performance was believable. "Is that what you're going to print tomorrow?"

"Unless I can get any further details from Detective Pagliocci, or an informant, then yes, that's it. I'll probably do a brief bio of her, and of Case, also."

"Well, okay. Anyway, like I said. I'll have Donnie call you, if you haven't talked with him, yet."

"Thanks, Carson, I appreciate it."

I walked out of his office, wondering about an informant. Would he have one? Would he even know how to find one?

*

"There's no doubt that having Rusty here is a big boost to the team." Augie Zupec sat in his sparse office leaning back in his cloth-covered office chair. The dirty white walls of the room were covered in pictures of players and coaches, some framed, some signed, some tacked up with pushpins. Augie was dressed in his uniform pants and a white t-shirt - his standard pregame outfit. He wouldn't put on his uniform shirt until just before the game. He never actually wore spikes. Just tennis shoes. "Having Rusty on the team is almost like having another coach here, only one that can still play. He really knows the game."

I had come to the park even earlier than normal. I wanted to speak with Augie and Rusty about my column for the week. I had yet to write one about Rusty Montgomery, a formerly big star on his way down the ladder. Plus, talking baseball with Augie always improved my mood. After the predictable ribbing about my black eye and swollen nose, he was happy to oblige me. "Any word on how long he might be here? I mean, he really could come in handy in the stretch run for you guys. His leadership in the locker room, seeing as he's been through this once or twice, could provide a boost to your young lineup."

"He'll be here for the rest of the year, Ozzie. But don't print that. He doesn't know that himself." Augie lit a cigarette and set it in the ashtray on his cluttered desk. "The big club is still telling him he might come up before the year's over. He's done Ozzie. They're going to release him next spring."

"And he doesn't know anything?"

"Nah. No reason to ruin his year. He's playing pretty well."

"Guess so. Where is he, anyway?"

"Should be here by now."

I decided to temporarily shift the conversation in a different direction. "I know this isn't an easy day for the team, Augie, or for you. Any thoughts about Jerry's daughter?"

"I don't want to talk about that, kid. It's terrible. But Jerry told me to go ahead with stuff here. We're playing it for her, today."

"Okay, Augie, thanks." I stood up to walk out of his office. "If you see Rusty, let him know I'm looking for him, okay?"

"Sure."

I walked back into the locker room and found Colby Akers sitting in front of his locker.

"Colby," I extended my hand, which he shook, "I'm Carson Osborne. I cover the team for the Times. I don't think we've been officially introduced."

"No, guess not." Akers stood in his compression shorts and socks, a ¾ sleeve white and blue t-shirt clung to his already sweaty frame. He was built - a physical specimen of no less than six foot three and 240 pounds. It's no wonder he was hitting homeruns at a record pace.

"How do you like playing up here so far?"

"Like it just fine. I mean, I won't be here long."

"No? Where you headed?"

"I'll be in the show before the years over. This is just temporary."

"Awful sure of yourself, aren't you?" His attitude made my nose hurt worse. "I mean, you got guys like Rusty and Castro in front of you. They have much more experience."

"Castro isn't consistent, and Rusty's just old. I'm better 'n both of 'em."

"Listen, how well did you know Olivia Case?"

He pulled on his uniform pants. "I knew her a little. We're not real close."

"That so?"

"Yeah."

"I don't believe you, Colby."

He looked at me sideways and spit. "Why should I care what you believe?"

I pulled out the picture I had found in her bedroom of the two of them together. I held it out and he took it from me.

"Okay?" he shrugged.

"You look close, to me."

"We went out a few times. Big deal. It wasn't serious. She was hard to get serious about." He looked around the room and took a step towards me. "She was way too into the nose candy," he said softly. "She did that stuff all the time. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like a good party, but that girl was hooked on it."

I looked at the picture. The two of them sat on a couch; she curled up in the crook of his massive arm while he grinned stupidly at the camera. She had a look of serenity on her face that seemed out of place for a drug addict. She always hid that aspect of her personality very well.

I noticed for the first time that Olivia's friend Trish sat in the background. Seeing her there reminded me of speaking with her the other evening at the bar. She seemed like a friendly girl, and was very pretty. "Where was this picture taken?" I asked Akers.

He stopped and looked at me. "What's all this about? Why you asking so many questions?"

"I'm just curious. You two look pretty chummy."

He looked at the picture again, then back at me. "Lots of girls want to be chummy with me. This was at a party a month or so ago. I forget exactly where."

"Who was there?"

"Everyone," He shot back. I was getting under his skin, and for some sadistic reason, liking it. "I don't know, just everyone."

I looked at the picture a bit more "How well do you know Trish?"

"Who?"

"Trish, Olivia's friend." I showed him in the picture.

"Not too well."

"I'm surprised," I said distractedly while looking at her in the picture. "She's cute."

Staring at her in that picture made me thing of my conversation with Donnie. Maybe he was right. Dianne didn't seem to have any more interest. Maybe it was time to talk to Trish.

"Thanks, Colby. I'll see you around."

"Yeah."

*

The stands were still nearly empty when I walked out of the locker room. The batting cage was in place, and the visiting team began hitting practice as I grabbed a beer and a hot dog and found my usual seat. I closed my eyes and listened to the sharp "tock" of bat on ball, and I could almost see the arc against the blue sky. I popped another couple Tylenol.

Across the infield, I glanced at the seats behind the Anglers' dugout. Trish was there, by herself. I realized it must be fate, after having just spoken to Colby about her, so I walked over to her and sat down.

"Hi, Trish, how are you?"

She looked at me. She obviously had been crying. "I'm okay. I'll be okay. How are YOU? What happened?"

"Oh," I said, "nothing. Just a minor misunderstanding with a hoodlum at a bar."

"Oh."

"Look," I said, "I know that today probably is hard for you. It's hard for me, too."

"Hard, yes. It's very hard. I was just with Olivia yesterday. We had lunch. I must have spoken with her just a few hours before this happened."

"I know how you feel," I said. "I talked with her a couple days ago, and everything was so . . . normal. You just never know."

"That's so true," she said. "You just never know."

"Look," I did my best to screw up a bit of courage. "I don't do this very often, or very well, but I wondered if you'd like to get together later this week and talk." I took a drink of my beer. It had been four years since I asked a girl out. "I mean, I guess finding out about Olivia really made me realize that nothing is for sure, and, well, I wanted to ask you out before, but I was a little nervous. Now, well, I just don't want to miss any chances."

She smiled a crooked little smile. Trish was not conventionally beautiful. She had dark curly hair that fell in ringlets around her face and down to her shoulders. Her eyes were dark, but honest looking, and her fair skin made them seem elegant. Her smile made her seem very real, not at all like someone who was unapproachable. "It would be nice to talk with you. I'd be glad to."

I smiled as she reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. She wrote her phone number on it, and handed it to me.

"Thanks," I said, as I stood up to walk back to my seat. "I'll call you in a day or two."

"Okay."

I walked a couple steps, and turned back to face her. "Do you always come to batting practice?"

"Yeah," she shook her head, "I do. It's easier to get a more detailed look at their swings. Then I can tell what they like and don't like at the plate."

I nodded. "Thanks," I said as I walked away. I needed another beer.


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