John Feinstein - Change-up - Mystery at the World Series

Susan Carol was beaming. “What a wonderful story.”

Morra shook her head. “It’s wonderful that he’s pitching. But let’s see how he pitches.”

“That’s my sister,” David said. “She can find the black cloud in every silver lining.”

“Maybe she’s really Stevie’s twin,” Susan Carol said. She was smiling when she said it, but he knew she meant it.

Susan Carol was practically skipping on the way back to the hotel. “I don’t know who I’m happier for right now, Norbert or you,” she said.

“Or David Doyle maybe?” he said.

“Huh?”

“Come on, Susan Carol, you had the full Scarlett O’Hara bit going on back there.”

Susan Carol reddened a little, something he had never really seen her do before. “Well, that was my role here, right? Be nice to David?”

“Yeah, but there’s nice and there’s ‘naaace’-or let’s put it this way, I didn’t think you would enjoy it quite so much.”

Stevie was hoping she would say something like, “Come on, Stevie, you know you’ve got nothing to be jealous about.”

She didn’t say that, though. She didn’t say anything. He decided to drop it. He was sorry he had brought it up. Instead he took out his cell phone and called Kelleher.

“How’d it go with the old man?” Kelleher said. “He fill your notebook with stories about Amarillo, Texas?”

“He did,” Stevie said. “He also filled my notebook with a story about the fact that he’s starting tonight.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. “He’s what ?” Kelleher said. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“Ross Detwiler did something to his knee getting out of bed-” Stevie said.

“Getting out of bed?”

“Yeah, apparently. Anyway, none of the other starters are on schedule to pitch tonight, and they used the other two long guys in the bullpen last night-”

“So he’s it,” Kelleher broke in. “Wow. You better get back here and write this right away so we can get it up on the Web before anyone else finds out.”

The Internet had changed the newspaper business. There was no such thing as a first-edition deadline for the next day’s newspaper anymore. The writers were on twenty-four-hour call. If something happened that was newsworthy, they were expected to write it instantly to get it up on the Web. This was a perfect example.

“We’ll be back in a few minutes and I’ll start writing,” Stevie said.

“Good. Why don’t you come to my room with your computer? You can tell me about the Doyle kid gawking at Susan Carol while you write.”

Stevie almost gagged when he heard that. He looked at Susan Carol, who he knew would pick up on anything he said in response. “Sounds good,” he said, keeping his voice as even in tone as he could. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

He snapped the phone shut. He and Susan Carol walked the rest of the way to the hotel in silence.

IT DIDN’T TAKE STEVIE VERY LONG TO WRITE the story about Norbert Doyle replacing Ross Detwiler on the mound for game two of the World Series. Kelleher was delighted with the details of Acta walking up during breakfast to give Doyle the news while he was sitting with his kids.

“You two really have a knack for walking into stories,” Kelleher said. “And this one doesn’t even involve getting yourselves into trouble, the way you guys usually do. You can write the profile on Doyle later and plug in details on how he pitches tonight for the late editions. Good job breaking this, though-no one else will have it, that’s for sure.”

Stevie laughed weakly. “Better to be lucky than good,” he said.

“Best to be both,” Kelleher said. “Tell me about the Doyle kids. Were they nice? Was David completely tongue-tied meeting Susan Carol?”

Stevie shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said. “If anything, it was the other way around.”

Kelleher looked up in surprise. “What? Susan Carol? I’ve never seen her tongue-tied.”

“Me neither,” Stevie said. “David is really tall and really good-looking.”

Kelleher waved a hand. “She’s been around good-looking guys before. I wouldn’t worry about it. You were jealous of Jamie Whitsitt, and there wasn’t anything to that, was there?”

“No, there wasn’t,” Stevie said. “But Jamie was four years older than she was and not too bright. David is our age and smart. She went all Southern belle as soon as she laid eyes on him.”

Kelleher shrugged. “Be honest, Stevie. Are there girls at school you think are good-looking? Of course there are. It doesn’t change the way you feel about Susan Carol. She was probably caught a little by surprise. It’s human nature, nothing more.”

Stevie knew he was probably right. Still, he couldn’t shake the queasy feeling in his stomach.

Once Stevie had filed his story, Kelleher suggested they take a walk through Faneuil Hall. “Where’s Tamara?” Stevie asked.

“She went to tape something for TV,” he said. “ESPN keeps asking her to come on because they want to hire her. She knows it’s a really bad idea, but they’re throwing a lot of money around, and it doesn’t hurt to let the newspaper know they’re interested in her. And given what’s going on in the newspaper business, she has to give it some thought.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t blackball her just for being married to you,” Stevie said.

“Maybe they think I’d be less critical of them,” Kelleher answered, laughing.

“I doubt that.”

“Me too,” Kelleher replied. “Come on, let’s go.”

Stevie tried to call Susan Carol, first in her room and then on her cell, to see if she wanted to go with them. There was no answer, which surprised him a little.

“Maybe she turned her cell off to take a nap,” Kelleher said. “We’ll find her when we get back.”

Given the coolness between them on the walk back, Stevie thought some time apart might not be a bad idea. So they headed out the door of the hotel for what Kelleher said was a short walk to Faneuil Hall.

“That’s the great thing about Boston,” he said. “When the weather’s good, you can walk just about anyplace. It’s a major city but a small town-at least geographically.”

While they walked, Kelleher explained some of the history of the place. The original Faneuil Hall had existed during the Revolutionary War. It was a thriving marketplace for years, which led the city to build the even bigger Quincy Market next door. It had all fallen into disrepair, but then the city came up with the idea to turn the area into a place with shops and restaurants, and now it was thriving again.

“We’ll go to Regina ’s for pizza,” Kelleher said. “It’s as good as any in the country. But first I want to show you Red.”

“Red?”

“You’ll see,” Kelleher said.

They walked under an archway into what looked like a small town. There were cobblestone walkways and, on either side, long brick buildings that housed stores and restaurants. The smell of food drew Stevie toward an open doorway, but Kelleher headed straight down the cobblestones until he came to a bench.

“Red,” he said.

He was pointing at a statue of a man sitting on the bench with a cigar in his hands. The statue was life-size and looked almost real.

“Red Auerbach,” Stevie said.

“Very good, Stevie,” Kelleher said. “You pass today’s history test.”

Stevie was reading the plaque next to the statue. It said that Arnold “Red” Auerbach had led the Boston Celtics to fifteen NBA titles as coach and general manager of the team.

“Fifteen titles, that’s amazing,” Stevie said.

“Actually, it was sixteen,” Kelleher said. “Look at the date on the plaque-1985. The Celtics won another one in 1986. Just before Red died, I was in town, and I called him from right here to tell him I was sitting next to his statue.