Third Strike (3 page)

I nodded. “It does.”

“Can't he wait?”

“In the first place,” I said, “Larry said he was in trouble, that this whatever-it-is was urgent. He kind of scared me. Second place, I don't know how to get ahold of him to tell him the plan's changed.” I shook my head. “Now what do I do?”

“Call J.W.,” Evie said. “If anybody can tell you what to do…”

“It's J.W.,” I said. I took a sip of gin and tonic, then picked up the phone and called the Jacksons' number in Edgartown. Zee answered on the third ring. I told her I needed to get to the Vineyard tomorrow.

“Jeez, Brady,” she said. “With the ferries not running, it's a zoo down here. A veritable monkey house. You sure you want to do this?”

“I don't have a choice. I've got to see a client. I was hoping J.W. might…”

“He's outside playing in the tree house with the kids. Let me get him for you. Hang on.”

I waited, and a few minutes later J.W. came on the line and said, “You serious?”

“I've got a client in Menemsha,” I said. “He's got some kind of emergency, wouldn't tell me what it was. I told him I'd be there tomorrow.”

“You don't want to be here,” he said. “Prices of everything are skyrocketing, tempers are flaring, and it's gonna get worse before it gets better. It's getting so bad I almost wish I was somewhere else.”

“Well,” I said, “it can't be helped. I was hoping…”

“It's a long swim, brother.”

“What would you do if you were in my situation?”

“I guess I'd call me,” J.W. said. “I know some people with boats, assuming you're willing to pay scalpers' prices.”

“My client will pay,” I said. “Just tell me who to call.”

“Sit tight,” he said. “I'll get back to you.”

A couple hours later, just as Evie and I were finishing our take-out pizza—Vidalia onion and goat cheese for her, eggplant and sausage for me—J.W. called back.

“I talked to Zee about it,” he said. “She agrees with me. Everybody who's driving boats back and forth from here to America's gonna charge you an arm and a leg. Except for me. So I'll come and get you in the
Shirley J
. How's that sound?”

“That's a lot to ask,” I said. “I'm willing to pay.”

“Come on,” said J.W. “It'll give me an excuse to sail my catboat o'er the bounding main, you know?”

“In that case,” I said, “thank you.”

“We got a perfect morning tide,” he said. “I'll meet you in Woods Hole around noon, okay?”

“Noon is great,” I said. “I'll shut down the office. Nothing much going on in Boston law offices and courtrooms on Fridays in August anyway. Julie will be thrilled to get away from the office for a long weekend.”

“You gonna need a car? What about a bed?”

“I hadn't gotten that far,” I said. “But, yes, I'll definitely need a car. I suppose I'll stay with Larry. I'll figure that out when I get there, I guess.”

“Larry being your client?”

“Larry Bucyck. Know him?” J.W. didn't say anything for a minute. “I'm sure I don't know him, but the name definitely rings a bell. Lives in Menemsha, you said?”

“He used to pitch for the Red Sox.”

“Not the guy who—?”

“That's him. The ninety-one playoffs.”

“Larry Bucyck,” said J.W. “Wow. A name to be reckoned with. Right up there with Bill Buckner and Bucky Dent. Haven't heard that name in years. So Bucyck's down here on the island, huh?”

“Has been for the past fourteen or fifteen years. Lives pretty much like a hermit.”

“Don't blame him,” said J.W. “If I was him, I guess I'd want to crawl into a cave and never come out. So he's your client?”

“I negotiated his contract, and later on I did his divorce. I guess that makes me his lawyer. He seems to think so.”

“So what's so important he's dragging you down here in the middle of a damn ferry strike?”

“I don't know,” I said, “and if I did know, I couldn't tell you. All I know is, he says he's in trouble, he sounds scared, he's got something he wants to show me, and I told him I'd be there.”

“Heigh-ho, Silver,” said J.W.

“Aw, you're worse than Evie. I'm just a lawyer doing my job.”

“I'll see you at the dock in Woods Hole, noon tomorrow,” he said. “We'll have a nice sail, go to the house, have a beer, visit with Zee and the kids. You can use Zee's Wrangler for as long as you need it.”

“I appreciate it,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Finish up with Mr. Bucyck,” he said, “we can sneak over to Cape Pogue, catch us a mess of bluefish.”

“That,” I said, “is an incentive to finish up with Mr. Bucyck. See you tomorrow.”

When I put the phone down, I caught Evie frowning at me.

“What's the matter?” I said.

“You better tell me who Larry whats-his-name is.”

“If you're a true-blue Red Sox fan, you'd know.”

“I've only been a Red Sox fan since I met you,” she said.

“You've missed most of the angst, then,” I said. “This was back in ninety-one. The Sox made up four or five games in the standings in September, didn't nail down the wild-card spot till the last day of the season. The media were resurrecting old Red Sox phrases like Cardiac Kids and Impossible Dream. It was pretty thrilling. Anyway, they called Larry Bucyck up from Double A in the middle of August. He was a right-hander, a power pitcher. Major-league fastball, nice quick-breaking little slider, decent control. Local kid, grew up in Waltham, pitched for B.C. Made second-team All NCAA, pretty obvious he was going to get drafted early, so my old buddy Charlie McDevitt, he was a friend of the Bucyck family, he recommended me. To handle Larry's contract.”

“Like a sports agent?” said Evie.

I shrugged. “Larry was drafted in the third round. The contract was pretty much boilerplate except for the specific numbers. It was all routine, but I think Larry and his folks felt good, having me help out. So anyway, he spent two and a half years working his way up through the minors, getting people out at every level, and when the Sox called him up, everybody in New England was pretty excited about it. Local boy makes good, you know?”

Evie smiled. “What about you? Were you pretty excited?”

“Sure,” I said. “I get excited by the Red Sox anyway. But this kid was my client. That was very cool. So like I said, this was the middle of August, and the Sox were in second place, chasing the Yankees as usual, still in the hunt for a playoff spot. Larry pitched pretty decent in long relief, the Sox had that great September, and they put him on the playoff roster. He was the last man on the depth chart, didn't figure to get into a game unless it was already one-sided, just there to maybe absorb some innings, save the other arms on the staff. Lo and behold, the Sox kept playing well, winning playoff games, and they made it to the American League Championship. So it comes down to the seventh game. They're playing the Angels in Anaheim, and by game seven both pitching staffs are used up. So wouldn't you know, the game goes into extra innings. It's after our bedtime back in Boston, but of course all of New England's watching. So finally, the top of the fourteenth inning, the Sox manage to eke out two runs, and all they've got to do is get three outs and it's on to the World Series. Whoever they had in there pitching, can't remember his name, he goes back out there in the bottom of the fourteenth and promptly gives up a hit and then a walk to the first two Angels. Tying runs on base, nobody out. You look out to the bullpen, there's only one arm left out there.”

“Larry Bucyck,” said Evie.

“Pink-cheeked rookie Larry Bucyck himself,” I said. “Our manager goes out, talks with the pitcher. I'm watching on TV—it's about three o'clock in the morning, the game out there on the West Coast—and I can see the manager and the pitcher both shaking their heads. So they bring in Bucyck. All the hopes and dreams of Red Sox Nation—don't forget, 2004 hasn't happened yet, the Curse of the Bambino's still a big black cloud of doom hanging over us—everything resting on young Larry Bucyck. Kid looks about twelve years old, and when the TV camera zooms in on him, he looks so scared he might puke.”

“Your client,” said Evie.

“I was so nervous,” I said, “I thought I might puke myself. It was nerve-racking, but pretty cool, too, having this kid I worked with, my client—seeing him out there in this situation.”

“That doesn't seem fair,” said Evie, “bringing an inexperienced boy into a situation like that.”

“Fair, schmair,” I said. “He's all they've got. Anyway, look, he's a professional. He's got a job to do. Get three outs before they score two runs. Shouldn't be that hard. So, first guy, Larry strikes him out, good fastball in on his hands. Next guy hits a two-hopper to the shortstop, easy double-play ball, ballgame over, on to the World Series. Except the second baseman has trouble with the relay, can't get it out of his glove. We got the out at second, but the batter beats it out at first, so the Angels are still alive. By all rights, Larry Bucyck should be the hero, but instead there's runners on first and third and he's still gotta get one more out. The manager goes strolling out to the mound, talks to the kid, pats him on the ass, tells him he's doing great, don't worry about it, whatever. So the next batter, strike one, strike two, like that. All we need is that third strike and it's all over. But then the youngster makes the oh-two pitch too fat, typical rookie mistake, and the batter smacks a line shot to left, clean single. The Angel scores from third. Now we've just got a one-run lead. But still two outs. I'm watching on TV, I want to cover my eyes. I'm seeing Larry's body language, and I don't like it. So, sure enough, he walks the next guy, four pitches, not even close. Now they got the bases loaded. And, not to drag it out, four more pitches, he walks the next guy, too. Now the game's tied up. The TV camera pans on the Sox bullpen. Nobody's up and throwing, which the manager was gonna keep hearing about until he got fired two years later, but the fact was, they didn't have anybody, and the manager already made his allotted trip to the mound, so he can't even go out there and give the kid a pep talk. So anyway, to spare you the agony of it, Larry walks the next guy, too, four straight pitches not even close to being strikes, and the game's over.”

Evie was smiling at me. “That was all those years ago, and you remember every detail.”

“How could I forget? For a while, nobody forgot. Twelve straight pitches out of the strike zone.” I shook my head. “Actually, I left out a lot of details, figured they'd bore you. That was the abridged version.”

“I'm not sure I followed it all,” she said, “but it sounds like Larry Bucyck choked.”

“Oh, absolutely,” I said. “You hate to say it, hate to accuse anybody of choking. But twelve straight balls? Walk in the tying and winning runs? That was awful. Worst thing you can do in that situation is not throw strikes. He coughed it up, just gave them the game. No doubt about it. Larry Bucyck shit the bed big time.”

“I bet the media and everybody were pretty hard on him.”

“Less than you might think, actually,” I said. “They were a lot harder on the manager for putting himself in a situation where he had to bring Larry in with the game on the line, and they were pretty critical of the veteran second baseman for botching the double play. There was a shitload of analysis of that inning, needless to say. The manager—I can't even remember who it was, we had a whole string of unmemorable managers back then—he made a couple moves back in the eighth and ninth innings that were rightfully second-guessed. But, see, the subtext of it all was, Larry Bucyck wasn't good enough, over his head, never should've been in there in the first place, which wasn't exactly great for the kid's confidence. Anyway, none of that mattered, because Larry was harder on himself than all the fans and media put together ever could have been. It was like his whole image of himself had been destroyed in fifteen minutes on a September night in Anaheim.”