Change-up (25 page)

“I think I’d rather go see Harvard Stadium,” he said. “Oldest in the country, you know.”

She groaned. They ordered their pizza and walked to the dining area. Stevie was considering going back for a third slice when he saw David and Morra approach. Neither was carrying any kind of food. Clearly, they were here strictly for business.

“Make this fast,” David said by way of a greeting.

“Nice to see you too,” Stevie said, going very quickly from nervous to annoyed.

“Have you got the story?” Morra asked.

Susan Carol reached into her purse and pulled out two copies of the story.

David’s and Morra’s eyes narrowed as they read. At one point David said, “How can you say my dad had no comment when you haven’t asked him about any of this?”

“Bobby Kelleher left him a message yesterday
and
called John Dever, who said he wouldn’t talk to us,” Susan Carol said. “Obviously, if he talks to us, we’ll change that. We can change anything. Right now these are the facts as we know them.”

“This is
so
unfair!” Morra screamed.

“Then tell your dad to talk to us so we can make it fair,”
Stevie said. “
He
started all of this by saying a drunk driver killed your mom.”

“You’re nothing but a self-righteous asshole, Thomas!” David Doyle said, leaning close to Stevie so he wasn’t heard by everyone around them. He appeared to be about eleven feet tall at that moment, but Stevie wasn’t going to back down.

Stevie said, “You’re just pissed because you’ve tried every dirty trick to keep us from getting this story, and we got it anyway.”

“No you
didn’t
. You’ve got nothing!” David said, shoving Stevie so hard that he tumbled backward and fell into someone at the next table.

“Hey!”
Stevie heard the person shout. Jumping up, Stevie ran straight at David, and the two of them went flying, landing on the ground with Stevie on top. Doyle was stronger than he was, and he could feel him rolling over to get on top of him. That would not be good. He pulled a hand free and swung a fist at David, catching him on the side of the head. He felt a stinging sensation in his hand and then heard loud voices saying, “Break this up, break this up!”

A security guard was pulling David away, and another was pulling Stevie to his feet. David struggled briefly, but the beefy guard was holding on tight. Stevie didn’t struggle. He was relieved someone had intervened. The fight, he suspected, would not have gone well for him if it had continued.

“You want to fight, you take it someplace else,” the security guard holding David said. “You got that?”

David didn’t answer. “Hey, kid, you got that?” the guard repeated. “Start in again and we’ll call the cops and let them deal with you. Understand?”

Stevie nodded that he understood.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” David said.

The two guards let the boys go, then stood there to make sure no one lunged for anyone.

Stevie pointed a finger at both Doyles. “The story runs Thursday,” he said, aware that people were still watching and listening. “One way or the other.”

He turned to Susan Carol. “Let’s go,” he said.

“This isn’t over, Thomas,” he heard David shout as he turned to walk away. “I promise you it’s not over.”

Stevie knew that David Doyle was right. This was far from over.

STEVIE WONDERED HOW SUSAN CAROL WOULD FEEL
about his fight with David, and if she had noticed that when the security guards showed up, he was about to lose. Her concern didn’t seem to be about the outcome of the fight so much as the fact that there had been a fight.

“Are you okay?” she kept asking. “You know how badly you could have been hurt fighting with someone that size? What is it with you boys that you have to start fights?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “My hand’s a little sore from punching him, but I’m okay.”

She paused—they were crossing the street in front of the hotel now—and gave him the Smile. “Stevie, you were very brave to go after that bully,” she said. “You were also very stupid to stoop to his level.”

He started to respond but was just smart enough not to.

They went straight to Bobby and Tamara’s room to report what had happened. Kelleher was smiling when he opened the door. “So, you’re giving up journalism for boxing, I hear?” he said as he ushered the two of them into the room.

“How did you hear anything?” Stevie asked.

“Sit down and I’ll tell you. But first tell me if you’re hurt. You don’t look any the worse for wear.”

Stevie held up his left hand, which was still throbbing a bit. “I could probably use some ice for this,” he said.

Tamara jumped up. “I’ll go get some. Bobby, you fill them in on the call.”

“Call?” they both said.

Kelleher nodded. “Felkoff. I just hung up with him. I’m guessing David and Morra called him or their dad right after you all went in separate directions. He said he’s going to read the story and get back to us on whether there will be any comment from Doyle. He also said, ‘If it’s the bunch of lies that David and Morra say it is, I’ll get a court order to stop you.’”

“What’d you say to that?” Susan Carol asked.

“I suggested in the kindest terms possible that they deal with the facts in the story rather than making threats about it. We won’t be the only ones chasing this down—he might as well deal with us.”

Tamara returned with the ice and wrapped it in a towel for Stevie.

“So, let’s get to the good stuff,” Kelleher said. “Tell us about the fight. Felkoff claimed you jumped David.”

“Oh, that is
such
a lie,” Susan Carol said indignantly.

“I figured as much,” Kelleher said. “Did you hurt him when you punched him, Stevie?”

Stevie shook his head. “I doubt it. I caught him on the side of the head, and he’s got a pretty hard head.”

In a cab to the stadium, they actually talked about baseball and the chances of there even being a game seven for Norbert Doyle to pitch in. For that to happen the Nationals would need a winning performance from Shairon Martis against Daisuke Matsuzaka tonight.

“I just have this feeling,” Stevie said as they pulled up to the ballpark, “that this thing is going seven.”

“Me too,” Susan Carol said. “Stevie and I don’t do routine endings very often.”

“You got that right,” Kelleher said with a nod.

Even though this was only the third time Stevie had been through the Fenway press gate and walked down the hallway to the field entrance, he felt as if he’d been doing it all his life. He felt almost calm as they walked past the Red Sox clubhouse. The series could end tonight if the Red Sox won. Even if it went seven games, he would be back home in school no later than Friday. That thought made him less calm: he still hadn’t finished
The Great Gatsby
.

As soon as they walked onto the field, he heard someone call his name: “Steve, hey, Steve Thomas.”

He turned and saw a coterie of media heading in his direction. Right! He’d almost forgotten that he was news after Doyle’s accusations.

Kelleher held up a hand to stop them. “Okay, fellas, we know why you want to talk to Steve,” he said. “Why don’t you tell everyone who wants to talk to him to meet us over by the Red Sox dugout in five minutes.”

Phyllis Merhige was standing a few feet away. “Jeez, Bobby, you guys want to use the interview room?”

“No,”
Kelleher said, not noticing the smile on her face that told Stevie she was joking. “The less time this takes, the better.”

“What do I say?” Stevie said as they walked in the direction of the dugout.

“Very simple,” Kelleher said. “You tell them that all their questions will be answered when you finish the story you’ve been working on, and that the Doyles don’t always get their facts straight. Do
not
call them liars, we don’t want to be that strong just yet.”

“And when they ask follow-up questions?”

“Just say, ‘Read my story.’ That’s your mantra.”

“Why don’t I come too,” Susan Carol said. She had walked up behind them while they were talking.

“Fine with me,” Stevie said. “I could use the support.”

A group of cameras and microphones were waiting for them.

It was Tyler Kepner, the
New York Times
Yankees beat
writer, who asked the first question. “Look, Steve, we don’t want to make this a big deal,” he said. “But the guy who may pitch a potential seventh game in the World Series pretty much confronted you in the clubhouse the other night, then said you were pursuing his daughter. What can you tell us?”

Before Stevie could give his Kelleher-coached answer, Susan Carol jumped in. “Here’s what I can tell you,” she said. “If Steve was pursuing Morra Doyle, the first person he’d have to answer to would be me—because
I’m
his girlfriend.”

“So there’s no chance he made phone calls without you knowing?” someone said.

This time Stevie jumped in. “Be serious,” he said. “If you looked like me, and you were dating Susan Carol, would
you
be calling another girl?”

That got a laugh.

“Why is Doyle making this claim, then?” Kepner asked.

That was when Stevie went into his routine about the story he was working on and the Doyles having trouble getting all their facts straight. Several people tried to get him to break down, pointing out that if what the Doyles said was true, Stevie probably shouldn’t be allowed to continue covering the series.

“That’s right,” Susan Carol said, jumping in. “But the
Herald’s
still got him here—another good reason to doubt the Doyles’ claims.”

Kelleher showed up at that point to ask if there were any more questions. There were none. “Thanks, Susan
Carol,” Stevie said as the crowd began to break up. “You bailed me out….”

“Again,” she said. “I have to go find Tamara. I’ll see you in a couple minutes.”

Stevie and Kelleher were walking in the direction of the exit to head upstairs when Kelleher’s cell phone rang.

“Felkoff,” he said, looking at the number.

“I was about to give up on you,” he said, picking up.

“Fine,” he said in response to whatever Felkoff had said. “We’ll be there in five minutes.” He snapped the phone shut.

“He says Stan Kasten gave him use of his box for the next thirty minutes,” Kelleher said. “Let’s go.”

They took an elevator up to the luxury suite level. Stan Kasten, the Nationals’ president, was waiting for them as they got off. “These are the guys I told you about,” he said to the guard at the door. “They’re with me.”

“Stan,” Kelleher said with a smile, “tell me you’re not in cahoots with Felkoff.”

“I’m
not,”
Kasten said, clearly not as amused by Kelleher’s gibe as Kelleher. “But he represents my game-seven pitcher—if there is a game seven—and he’s all over me saying you guys are about to drop a bomb on us. I told him he could use our box to talk, so you can have some privacy.”

“Did he tell you what it’s about?” Kelleher said.

“No. And I don’t want to know unless you really are going to drop something big on us. Then I expect a phone call from you, giving me fair warning.”

“You got it, Stan,” Kelleher said.

They had reached the box marked Washington Nationals Ownership.

“He’s waiting,” Kasten said. “You’ve put me in a terrible position.”

“Why?” Kelleher said.

“I think I may be rooting for Felkoff on this one,” he said. “The thought makes me just a little bit sick.”

He headed down the hall.

“Ready?” Kelleher asked.

“Never more ready in my life,” Stevie said.

Kelleher pushed the door open. David Felkoff, printout of their story in hand, was waiting for them.

There were no niceties or phony handshakes when they walked in. Felkoff started right in on them.

“This story isn’t even close to true,” he said. “You print this, you’ll have libel suits coming at you from about ten different directions.”

“Really?” Kelleher said. “Doyle told Stevie his wife was killed by a drunk driver. Stevie got the police report, talked to the police officers involved
and
the Doyles’ babysitter to piece together the truth, and this is what he got. How are you going to prove malice, which you’d need to do in this case since Doyle’s a public figure?”

Felkoff stared at the two of them for a moment. “So you’re willing to put your paper’s reputation on the line
based on the reporting of a fourteen-year-old?” he said. “I’m betting Wyn Watkins won’t be quite so confident about that when I call him in the morning.”

Wyn Watkins was the executive editor of the
Herald
. He had almost pulled the story Stevie and Susan Carol had written accusing the owner of the California Dreams of covering up steroid use by his players on the eve of the Super Bowl. But he hadn’t, and the story had been proven completely true.

“Go ahead and make the call,” Kelleher said. “Watkins has put his faith in Stevie on a page-one story before, and it paid off. I doubt you’ll have much luck, but please, be my guest and call him.”

Felkoff was red in the face. “How can you print this
now
? He may be pitching game seven of the World Series tomorrow night. You expect him to talk to you on the day he pitches game seven? Are you crazy?”

“He could have talked to us on the off day or today,” Stevie said, jumping in. “Instead he spent the time spreading lies about me and refusing our calls. So don’t blame us if the timing doesn’t suit you guys.”

“Was I talking to you, kid?” Felkoff said.

“You better talk to him,” Kelleher said. “It’s his story.”

Felkoff paced around in a circle for a few seconds. Stevie started to say something else, but Kelleher put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“Okay,” Felkoff said. “Here’s the deal. You come to my Boston office at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning and I’ll have Norbert there.”

Kelleher shook his head. “No way we’re doing this on your terms or in your office. There’s a small park on the back side of the Marriott Long Wharf. It’s never very crowded. You guys meet us there at nine o’clock in the morning.”

“Nine o’clock?” Felkoff said. “You know Norbert won’t be in bed until one a.m. tonight. Why so early?”