James Patterson - Lifeguard

And the son of a bitch had something very precious that belonged to him.

The FBI had bungled things. Damn it, he had warned them. Now he couldn’t take any more chances. Kelly needed to be found. He didn’t give a shit what happened to him. As far as he was concerned, Kelly should have ended up in that house in Lake Worth with the rest of them. Stratton straightened the newspaper and read. FBI sources said they had no direct leads on the suspect’s whereabouts. This was becoming a very public nightmare for him.

Stratton took out a cell phone and punched in a private number. After three beeps, a familiar voice answered. “Gimme a minute, okay?”

Stratton waited impatiently, checking the morning faxes. He had nurtured this particular relationship for a long time. Now it was time to call in the chits. He’d been paying for the guy’s godforsaken kids in private school. For bonefishing trips to his house in the Keys. And right now, Stratton needed to collect on his investment.

The voice came back a few seconds later. “You’ve seen the morning papers, huh?”

“I’ve seen them,” Stratton spat into the phone, “and I’m not liking what I read. The FBI has made a mess of things. Kelly has something very important that belongs to me. Don’t be fooled – he has the goods . You said you were handling things. So far, I don’t see any evidence that the situation is ‘handled.’ It’s only getting worse.”

“It’ll be taken care of,” the man said, trying to sound calm. “I have a man in the area already. He assures me we have a lead on Mr. Kelly.”

“I want what’s mine. I don’t have to make that any clearer, do I? Whatever else happens is of no concern to me. This is just business.”

“I think I get the picture, Mr. Stratton. Relax,” the man said. “I know you’re a busy man. Play some golf. Get yourself a massage. I should be hearing from my man anytime. You can count on him. Like I told you a hundred times, Mr. Stratton” – the man laughed – “what’s the point of having friends -”

Stratton punched off the line. He placed the cell in his jacket and stood up and straightened his Thomas Pink shirt. This is the way he should’ve handled it from the start, with a real professional.

His wife came into the room. She was wearing black running tights with an orange cashmere sweatshirt wrapped around her waist. “Going out for a run, dear?”

“I should be back in half an hour,” Liz Stratton said, going over to the desk. “I was just looking for my keys. I thought I left them here.”

“I’ll alert the boys.” Stratton reached for the phone.

“Don’t bother, Dennis.” She picked up her keys on the desk. “I’m only going down along the lake.”

Stratton grabbed Liz by the wrist and jerked her to a stop as she went by. “No bother at all,” he said, squeezing.

“Get your hands off me, Dennis. Please.”

“I’m surprised at you, darling. You know the rules.” He had that look of pretend caring in his eyes that was nothing but ego, control. They stood for a second, eye to eye. She tried to pull away from him. Then she backed down. “Call your goons.”

“That’s better,” Stratton said, relaxing his grip and revealing a large red mark on her wrist. “I’m sorry, darling. But we can never be too safe, can we?”

“Don’t be sorry, Dennis.” Liz tried to rub the pain out of her wrist. “You squeeze everybody, dear. That’s your style. It’s what’s so charming about you.”

I PUSHED THROUGH the metal turnstiles, blending in with the crowd, and headed up the ramp to the sign that said FIELD LEVEL BOXES down the left-field line.

That familiar rush of adrenaline raced through me as soon as I saw the field: the old-time placard scoreboard. The closeness of the Green Monster, where in 1978 Bucky Dent had ended our dreams yet again.

Fenway Park.

It was a gorgeous spring afternoon. The Yankees were in town. I only wished for a goddamn minute that they were why I was there.

I walked down toward the field to Box 60C. Then I stood for a second behind the thin, narrow-shouldered man in a white open-collar shirt facing the field.

Finally, I sat down next to him. He barely turned. “Hello, Neddie.”

I was shocked at how frail and weak my father looked. His cheeks were sharp-boned and sunken; his hair, which had always been white, had thinned to a few feathery wisps. His skin was parchment gray. My father’s hands, which had always been tough, workmanlike hands, looked more like skin-covered bones. He had a scorecard rolled up in them.

“I heard you wanted to see me.”

“Gee, Pop, I’m all choked up,” I said, staring at him for a second. “They actually the Yankees down there, or some more undercover guys from the FBI?”

“You think I had something to do with what went on at the house?” My father shook his head. “You think, Ned, if I wanted to sell you out, I’d do it in front of your mother? But to your question,” he said, grinning, “see number thirty-eight, I’m not so sure he could hit my fastball.”

I couldn’t help smiling. Frank lit up, too. For a second I saw the old, familiar sparkle in his eyes, the Boston Irish con heating up.

“You’re looking good, Ned. You’re quite the celebrity now, too.”

“You look…” I wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t so easy to see my father looking like that.

“You don’t have to say it.” He tapped the program on my knee. “I look like a ghost who doesn’t knows he’s fucking dead.”

“I was gonna say, better than I’d heard.” I smiled.

The game was already in the third inning. The Sox were at bat, down 3-1. A chant rippled through the crowd, pushing for a rally. My father shook his head. “In a million years, I never thought I’d have to tip my hat to you, Neddie-boy. I spent my whole life slowly sliding down the pole of life’s opportunities. And look at you! You knock it out of the park on your very first try.”

“Guess I was always holding back a bit.” I shrugged. “Always knew I had greatness in me.”

“Well, it breaks my heart, Neddie.” Frank curled a wistful smile. “Wasn’t it that Senator Moynihan who called it the plight of the Irish to have our hearts continually broken by life?”

“I think he was talking about the Kennedys, Pop. Or the Sox.”

“Well, it breaks an old man’s heart anyway,” my old man said. “Whatever’s left of it.”

I looked into his light blue, almost transparent eyes. Not at the wasting old man I hadn’t seen for four years. But at the lifelong con man, who I knew was conning me again. “It breaks mine, too, Pop. Who’s Gachet?”

My father kept his gaze trained on the field. “Who’s who ?”

“Come off it, Pop. You lived your life how you wanted, but now I’m caught up in it. I need you to get me out. Who’s Gachet?”

“I have no idea who or what you’re talking about, son. I swear to God, Ned.”

It always amazed me how my father could take a bald-faced lie and feed it back just like the truth. “Georgie slipped up,” I said.

“Yeah?” My father shrugged. “How is that?”

“He mentioned a Jackson Pollock that was stolen. I don’t think that’s ever come out.”

Frank smiled. He tapped me on the shoulder with the program. “You missed your calling, Ned. You should’ve been a detective, not a lifeguard.”

I ignored the dig. “Please, Pop, who’s Gachet? Don’t play me. We both know Mickey would never have made a move without running it by you.”

I heard the crack of the bat. The crowd rose and gasped with expectation. A line-drive double off the wall by Nomar, two runs home. Neither of us was really paying attention.