James Patterson - Don’t Blink

“Look, Mr. Daniels, it’s like this,” he said. “Eddie Pinero is a sick and twisted motherfucker who kills with little provocation and even less remorse. Personally, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Then again, Vincent Marcozza probably thought the same thing. So it’s your call. Now, are you going to give me the recording or not?”

“OH MAN, oh man, oh man.”

Dwayne Robinson sat alone in the darkness of his tiny one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side. The place was barely furnished, almost as empty as the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black tipped over by his feet.

He was mumbling to himself, thinking that he missed his kids so much, it felt as if his heart had been carved out of his chest. For years now their mother had Kisha and Jamal out in California, as far away from him as possible. But even if they lived next door he knew he’d probably be too ashamed to see them. He hadn’t paid child support for over a year. The last time he did, the check bounced, and he was ashamed about that, too.

There was nothing more to hock. His two Cy Young awards were long gone. So were the old Yankee jerseys. On eBay, the highest bid for one of his signed baseballs was $18.50. His rookie baseball card had no bids at all.

Again, the phone rang.

It had been ringing all afternoon and into the night. Not once did he answer or even check the caller ID. He didn’t need to; he knew who it was.

He was sure that writer, Nick Daniels, was a decent guy, and that’s what made it worse. Dwayne pleaded with himself, Just call him back and tell him you’re okay.

Just lie, like you always do.

But he couldn’t even do that much. He was too scared. The same fearless pitcher who chose to stay here in New York, even after letting the entire city down, was too scared to talk to some writer.

All he could do was close his eyes and let the darkest of dark thoughts creep into his mind like shadows across the outfield and around the monuments at Yankee Stadium.

Never having to open his eyes again. Not ever. That would be good.

“Goddamn it!” he yelled, swinging his huge clenched fist through the darkness. But the invisible demons were always out of reach.

His eyes popped open as he stood, turned on the light, and began pacing the floor. His fear had turned to rage, the alcohol coursing through his blood no longer dulling the pain. Instead, it was greasing the wheels. Every muscle, every nerve ending, fired at once as he lunged for the empty bottle of Johnnie Walker, scooping it up while cocking his arm.

This would be no curveball.

This was a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball aimed right at the bare wall before him.

Smash!

Shards and splinters of jagged glass scattered across the apartment as he fell hopelessly back into his chair, sobbing into both hands.

Dwayne knew one thing for sure.

He couldn’t keep his secret any longer.

He had to talk to that damn reporter, whatshisname – Nick Daniels.

AFTER RETURNING HOME from the Nineteenth Precinct, where Detective Ford had sweet-talked me into handing over my recording from Lombardo’s under the threat of a sub-poena, I spent the rest of my day alternating between calls to Dwayne Robinson and contemplating life on the run from Eddie Pinero.

On the plus side, an extended stint in the Witness Protection Program would make for one hell of an article.

I could only pray I was overreacting about Pinero and what he might do to me.

As for getting through to Dwayne Robinson, well, that was getting damn frustrating – and I don’t give up easily. Especially not on a story as big as this one could be.

Courtney had given me Dwayne’s home number, courtesy of his agent, but if Dwayne was home he sure wasn’t picking up. The guy didn’t even have an answering machine, so I couldn’t leave a message, something like Call me, you self-centered son of a bitch. It’s time to grow up, Dwayne.

I just kept trying and trying every hour on the hour for the rest of the day. Half the night, too.

I’d like to tell you I had big plans for that evening as a certified, very eligible bachelor living in Manhattan, but I hadn’t expected to be home for the weekend, let alone in the country. There were friends I could call but I wasn’t really in the mood to do anything.

As for the one person who maybe could’ve changed my mind about that, she was with her fiancé. Unfortunately, I happened to know that the future Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Ferramore were guests of the mayor and fellow billionaire Mike Bloomberg at his home on the Upper East Side. Clearly my invitation had gotten lost in the mail.

So instead I ordered in a Hawaiian pizza, popped open a Heineken, and watched some TV. Flipping around the dial, I sampled a few minutes of Larry King and his suspenders, followed by the local ten o’clock news.

Then I landed on the ultimate of ironies.

Staring back at me beneath the brim of his cap pulled tight above those intense, fearless eyes I remembered was none other than Dwayne Robinson. The channel was ESPN Classic, rebroadcasting the game that had first put Dwayne on the map – a twenty-strikeout gem against the Oakland A’s on a very hot August night ten years ago.

Given my fruitless attempts that day to reach Robinson, I was tempted to switch the channel if only out of spite. I couldn’t, though. It truly was a classic game, and no matter how many times I’ve seen it, I always have to watch some of it again.

Apparently, I wasn’t alone.

Out of the blue, the phone rang next to me on the couch. “Private caller,” read the ID.

“Hello?” I answered.

There was no response, but I could tell someone was there, and it was more than just a gut feeling. Through the phone I could hear the same game I was watching.

“Dwayne?” I asked. “That you?”

It was my first thought. I mean, if I ever struck out twenty people, I’d be watching a replay of the game, too. Every chance I got!

But if it was Robinson he wasn’t answering.

I tried again. “That was an amazing night for you against Oakland. One for the history books. You’ll never forget it, right?”

After another silence there finally came a voice. His voice.

“Yes,” said Dwayne. “It was a special night. Almost seems like it wasn’t really me. Or that this isn’t me. I’m not exactly sure, Mr. Daniels.”

I drew a deep breath and exhaled. “It’s good to hear from you,” I said. “I was a little worried.”

“Yeah, I know you were trying to call. I’m sorry I -”

“No apologies necessary. I wanted to make sure you were all right, that’s all. You are all right, aren’t you?”

He sure didn’t sound like it. I could tell he’d been drinking – or doing something – but he wasn’t slurring his words. He sounded more depressed than drunk.

He left my question hanging.

“Dwayne, you still there?” I asked.

“I’m here.” He paused. It felt like a lifetime. “Listen, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Sure. Absolutely,” I said. “Just tell me where.”

“Not now. Tomorrow.”

No, not tomorrow, right now! I wanted to yell.

This was no longer about finishing a sports interview, that much was pretty clear. There was something else going on. What the hell was it?

“Where are you now, Dwayne? Are you home? I can be there in ten minutes.”

“No, I’m tired, Nick. A little wasted, to tell the truth. I need to get some sleep.”

“But -”

“We’ll do it tomorrow. I promise. Believe me, I can keep a promise.”

I wanted to keep pressing, hopefully change his mind. Instead, I pulled back.

“Okay, how about we meet for breakfast?”