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

“I’ll say,” Stevie said.

“But he said it was all right as long as you took some homework with you on the train.”

That reminded Stevie that he was supposed to write a report on The Great Gatsby , and he had barely started the book.

Tamara walked back into the room.

“What’s going on upstairs?” Kelleher said.

“Nothing good,” she said, sitting down. “Susan Carol feels that you two have put her in an impossible position: either she gives away something she was told in absolute confidence or she’s betraying you guys by not helping with the story.”

“You agree with her?” Kelleher asked.

“Honestly? Yes, I do.”

“Does that mean you don’t think I should go to Lynchburg?” Stevie asked-hopeful.

“No, it doesn’t,” she said. “The story needs to be pursued and it’s clearly your story. I just don’t think any of us should ask Susan Carol about it again.”

They agreed to split up for dinner to give them all some time apart. Tamara would cook for Susan Carol, and Stevie and Bobby would go out. They went to a place called Rio Grande, a Tex-Mex spot one town over in Bethesda. The place was huge and packed, but they only had to wait about five minutes to get a table. Stevie had just ordered steak fajitas when he saw someone approaching the table. Kelleher saw him too, and the look on his face made it apparent he wasn’t thrilled.

“Bobby, how’s it going?” the man said, extending a hand as he walked up. He was, Stevie guessed, in his mid-forties and he was overdressed for a place like Rio Grande in a jacket and tie.

“David, what brings you here?” Kelleher said, shaking hands.

“I live fairly close by and I like the food,” David answered. He turned to Stevie. “I’m guessing you must be Steve Thomas. I’m David Felkoff.”

Stevie accepted the proffered hand and said, “Nice to meet you.”

“David’s an agent,” Kelleher said, which instantly told Stevie why he had looked so unhappy when Felkoff walked up. Kelleher liked agents about as much as most people liked the dentist.

“Player representative, Bobby, you know that,” Felkoff corrected.

“Right, of course,” Kelleher said, sarcasm in his voice.

“Well anyway, just thought I’d say hello,” Felkoff continued, apparently unbothered by Kelleher’s cool reception. “Been on the phone all day talking to book and movie people about my new client. Made me kind of hungry.”

“New client?” Kelleher said.

“Norbert Doyle,” Felkoff said. “If there’s ever a guy who deserves to make a few extra dollars…”

“It’s you,” Kelleher said, which made Stevie laugh.

Felkoff glanced at Stevie for a second and kept going. “Always the funny guy, aren’t you, Bobby?”

“Didn’t Norbert already have an agent?” Stevie asked.

“Not one who could get him meetings with Disney, DreamWorks, Paramount, and Universal,” Felkoff said. “Not to mention Random House; Little, Brown; and Simon and Schuster.”

“Come on, David,” Kelleher said. “Stevie could have gotten him those meetings after last night.”

“Bobby, why do you always have to be so negative?” Felkoff said. “I saw you in here and it occurred to me you might be the perfect guy to write the book-which will be optioned for a screenplay even before you’re finished writing.”

“Well, thanks but no thanks,” Kelleher said. “I don’t write other people’s books, and I certainly don’t get involved in projects with agents like you.”

Felkoff shrugged. “Okay, fine then. I’ll get Mitch Albom. He’s a lot more talented than you anyway.”

“No doubt,” Kelleher said.

Felkoff looked at Stevie again. “Well, it was nice meeting you, young man,” he said. “Don’t believe everything Kelleher tells you about agents.”

“No worries,” Stevie said. “I can form my own opinions.”

Felkoff turned and walked away just as their food arrived.

“Sorry about that,” Kelleher said, “but in a business filled with bad guys, he’s one of the worst. Typical of him to jump on a guy like Doyle-trying to get him a fast movie deal and then act as if he’s the only one who could have gotten it done.”

“There’s just one thing,” Stevie said. “He may not know the movie’s ending.”

Stevie made no attempt to say more than hello to Susan Carol when they got home. He didn’t have to pack, since the plan was for him to come home as soon as he was finished at the courthouse. Kelleher seemed to think he might even make it back in time for the game.

“It’s no more than a ten-minute cab ride from Union Station to the park,” he said. “You catch the four-forty-five train, you can be in the park for first pitch.”

Stevie was in bed by ten-thirty, but as always happened when he knew he had to be up early-especially to do something he didn’t want to do, like cram before a test-he tossed and turned. He wondered if he and Susan Carol would ever be friends again, much less boyfriend and girlfriend, and he wondered if there really was anything he could find out in Lynchburg that would shed light on the story. And what did any of this have to do with baseball? He finally drifted off to sleep and woke up to find Kelleher standing over him.

“You didn’t hear the alarm,” he whispered. “It’s five-thirty-five. Rise and shine.”

He felt better after a shower and the scrambled eggs and bacon Kelleher made for both of them. But the sun wasn’t even coming up when they got in the car.

“Isn’t this the way to the ballpark?” Stevie said when Kelleher swung the car onto the Fourteenth Street Bridge.

“Good memory,” Kelleher said, pointing at a sign ahead that said Nationals Park, with an arrow pointing to the right. “We’re going to get off two exits before the ballpark exit.”

Kelleher parked in the Union Station garage, and they went down two escalators to get into the station. A few minutes later, after they had gotten Stevie’s tickets and Kelleher had bought him a latte at Starbucks, Kelleher pointed him to his gate.

“I’ll have my cell on all day,” he said. “Anything happens, and most important, if you have any trouble at all at the courthouse, call me right away.”

“Okay,” Stevie said, feeling his stomach twist a little because he was about to go off into the unknown all alone.

Kelleher put his hand on Stevie’s shoulder. “You’re going to be fine,” he said. “You’ll get the records on the accident, and we’ll see where that leads us. Worst-case scenario? You’ll be bored. So relax.”

“Right,” Stevie said, forcing a smile.

He squared his shoulders, pulled out his ticket, and headed for the gate.

The trip passed fairly quickly. Stevie read both the Post and the Herald as a stall and then finally turned to The Great Gatsby . He got through about forty pages before his eyes got heavy and he pushed the seat back to sleep. The train was half empty, so he had lots of room.

He awoke to the sound of the conductor announcing, “ Lynchburg, Virginia, in five minutes. Next stop is Lynchburg.”

He looked out the window and saw that they were passing through rolling hills with the leaves still green on the trees. Fall came later in southern Virginia than in Boston, Philadelphia, or even Washington.

He looked at his watch as the train pulled in to the station: it was 10:25-five minutes early. He hoped that was a sign that things would go quickly and he would be back on the train headed for Washington soon. He might even make the end of batting practice.

The Lynchburg station was very small, especially compared with massive Union Station, and he only had to walk a short way to get outside to a tiny cab stand. There were three taxis sitting there and no one was ahead of Stevie in line.