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

“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?”