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“Right, just yankin his chain,” says the fireman, and when Dean raises his shot-glass to his mouth, the fireman doesn’t just bump him but shoulder-checks him good and hard. Instead of drinking his whiskey, Dean finds himself wearing it.
“Oh, pawdonme,” the fireman says. He’s grinning. “I seem to have—”
Dean spins on his stool and hauls off, fist wrapped around the shot-glass. The big-headed fireman sees the punch coming—Dean isn’t exactly speedy—and ducks. Mr. Big Head’s not especially speedy, either, and instead of swishing harmlessly over his head, Dean’s fist connects with the broad shelf of the fireman’s brow. Mr. Big Head tumbles off his barstool.
“That’s it, that’s it!” the bartender says. “Take it outside if you want to continue this!”
Dean Miter has no intention of taking it outside or continuing anything. He unrolls his fist with a cry of pain. Three of his fingers are dislocated and one is fractured. The shot-glass has broken in his hand. There are deep lacerations from which fangs of glass protrude. Blood patters down on the bar.
Dean’s pitching days are over.
Chapter 6
1
After a string of pleasant May weather, Monday the 19th dawns bleak and drizzly. While Holly is doing more insurance paperwork (and struggling to stay awake; she has a problem with rainy Mondays), she gets a call on her personal. It’s Izzy.
“I’ve got something for you, but I don’t want to send it by text or email. Those things can come back to haunt lowly bureaucrats like me. Can you come see me?”
Any excuse to ditch the paperwork is a good excuse. Holly asks if Izzy is at the cop shop.
“Nope. Bell College. Stucky Memorial Gym.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Long story. I’ll tell you when you get here.”
2
Holly finds Izzy in the Bell College fieldhouse, dressed in sweatpants, sneakers, and a Police Department tee. Her hair is tied back and she’s wearing a fielder’s glove on her left hand. Tom Atta is crouched down about forty feet away. He pounds his fist into a catcher’s mitt, then holds it up at chest level. “Throw the dropper. You’re warm enough. Bring it, Iz.”
Izzy’s more than warm enough, Holly judges; there’s a tree of sweat down the back of her shirt as she winds up and lets loose. The ballstarts out high, probably out of the strike zone, then drops what looks like three inches. It’s like a magic trick.
“Nice one,” Tom calls, “but you have to start it out lower, or else it’s gonna wind up in some fireman’s wheelhouse. One more.”
He tosses the ball back. This time the pitch she throws starts out at the height of an imaginary batter’s upper arms, then does that same crazy three-inch drop.
“Perfect,” Tom says, rising from his crouch with a grimace. “If they can hit that, probably they won’t, but if they do, they’ll beat it into the ground. Save your arm. Your company’s here.”
“Save your knees, old fella,” Izzy says with a grin. She takes a return throw from Tom and walks over to Holly. “We’d be outside on the softball field, if not for the rain.” She flaps her shirt against her neck. “This place is too hot.”
“What exactly are you doing?” Holly asks.
“My master’s bidding.”
Tom joins them. “She means Warwick. Captain of this year’s PD softball team. Also our boss.”
Izzy leads them over to the bleachers and sits down, rubbing her shoulder. “Lew has drafted me to pitch in this year’s Guns and Hoses game because Dean Miter—who wassupposedto pitch—broke his hand in a bar fight downtown.”
“The bar’s called Happy, but Dean ain’t,” Tom says.
Holly knows the bar well but doesn’t say so. Tom takes off his mitt and shakes his hand in the air. The palm is red. “You can really bring it when you get warmed up, Iz.”
“I’ll choke once I’m facing real batters,” Izzy says glumly. “I haven’t pitched since college, and that was alongtime ago.”
“That dropper’s still nasty,” Tom says. “There’s your out pitch.”
Holly knew Izzy was in shape, but this side of her—the athletic side—is a surprise.