ONE CUP (Part 2)

8

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Ray Garrett

I deferred thinking about future plans until the season’s end. Now, it was time. Something to do to pass the time while driving north on I-95.

I could turn back. Bike Week would be coming to Daytona in a few weeks. I could probably find some work helping set things up, maybe stay and tend bar. Christmas and tourist season would soon follow, and in February, the Daytona 500. But then, soon after the 500, would come Spring Training, and I wanted to be as far away from Florida as humanly possible by then. I refused to be one of those pathetic hangers-on I used look down upon my first couple of years in the minors, when I was still a hot-shit prospect. Maybe now with Dad gone I should go back home to work the family farm. Or maybe become a pilot. I took flying lessons in my Dad’s Cessna Skyhawk while in high school, and always loved it. I already had a little over 500 hours and my commercial and instrument ratings. 

Maybe I could make use of my commercial pilot license and do some crop dusting for my Uncle Zack. Or get my flight instructor rating.  I always loved flying, and as Plan B’s go, it wasn’t a bad one. But my first love, and my best shot at making some real money, was baseball. 

Traffic was light. The time and the miles went by fairly quickly, and before I knew it I was heading west into the purple and orange sunset on Interstate 10. I thought about calling home to let my mother know I was coming home, but I just couldn’t make myself do it. Like most sons, I always loved my parents, but didn’t appreciate them enough. I was arrogant, rebellious. The old man and I fought all the time. I could never please him, it seemed. Mom did her best to keep the peace. She was the glue that held the family together.

My old man was a lot wiser than I knew. Dad was gone, now, claimed at fifty-six by a massive heart attack, and it was too late to swallow my youthful pride and apologize. Dad and I would never get our opportunity to make peace. It’s something I will just have to learn to live with.

It would be good to see Mom, and, I suppose, her new husband, Dick, but at the moment I needed some time alone to lick my wounds and reflect. They would no doubt know my season was over now, and would be expecting me to show up soon. Mom was probably already scheming to arrange for Lynette Gray and me to “accidentally” bump into one another. Lynette was a nice girl, and pretty. We attended the same elementary and high schools, she being one year behind me. Nothing against Lynette, but I never had any interest in our being anything more than just friends, nor did she ever give any indication she wanted anything more from me. Mom would one day have to accept it. Who am I kidding? My mother will never accept it. She will continue to harass me until I have a moment of temporary insanity and commit matrimony with someone who wants to give her a half dozen grandchildren.

Time lost all meaning as I drove on, absorbed in thought. I’d hoped to get through Atlanta before stopping for the night, to avoid the rush hour traffic the next morning. But, I was nowhere near Atlanta. I was still in Florida, and hadn’t yet turned north on Interstate 75. My eyelids fluttered, my head dipped, and I swerved out of my lane onto the rumble strips. I woke up, shook it off, and pressed on, only to repeat the process again. And yet again. I had to admit it. I just couldn’t fight off the need for sleep.

I pulled into a rest area and chose a parking spot facing a tree that would do an acceptable job of blocking the glare from the security lights. I partially closed the windows, enough to keep anyone from reaching inside and grabbing me or stealing something. Whatever it is thugs do to unsuspecting people who are asleep in their cars. I shut off the engine, reclined my seat and closed my eyes.

9

Nick Taylor

I started working for Wallace Jackson not long after I retired from the Indy P.D. My ex-wife got the house and I was on the hook for enough alimony I had to keep working or stop eating.

Mr. Jackson was accustomed to having things his way. He is the principal owner of a chain of automobile dealerships scattered throughout the Midwest which were founded by his recently deceased father, Graham Jackson. The Jackson family also owns a restaurant in Hilton Head, and a furniture manufacturing plant in his hometown of New Castle. And of course, the Indianapolis Bobcats baseball team.

Mr. Jackson is a sharp businessman. Not dishonest, as far as I could tell, but ruthless as hell, just like his father. The old man once shut down the furniture plant when he got wind of a grass roots movement to unionize the workers. When he was accused of union busting, his response was he was just shutting the plant down so they could all sit down and talk about the future of the company. Three days later, all talk of a union was history and the plant reopened.

Again like his father, Wallace Jackson always found a way to gain the advantage, and he took no prisoners. So I can’t say I was totally surprised when I was called to his office and given the task of digging up dirt on his star player.

“When my father brought a major league expansion team to Indianapolis, he promised this city a championship,” he said. “We’re a contender now, after only two seasons. Hell, we might even get into the playoffs. Mike Prescott becomes a free agent when this season ends, and keeping him here is key to my father’s promise being fulfilled.”

I nodded. “What can I do to help?”

I did the usual things. I talked to people who knew Mike Prescott—not an easy task when the person you’re surveilling is a celebrity athlete who carefully guards his privacy. Posing as a real estate appraiser, I set up a surveillance camera on the vacant home with the FOR SALE sign in the yard across the street from the Prescott home. He had no idea I was following him, watching, and waiting for him to screw up.

For a rich and famous big league baseball player, the guy was pretty dull. Not much going on with him at all. I reported as much to Mr. Jackson a week later.

“Well, I suppose it’s possible Mike Prescott may be the boy scout he appears to be after all,” Mr. Jackson said. “Or he might not be. The only way to know for certain is to test him.”

“With regard to his wife,” I said. “I have reason to believe Kayla Prescott may be having an affair with an underage boy.”

“How young?” Mr. Jackson asked.

“Sixteen. Almost seventeen.”

“Alright,” he said. “No need to get too concerned about that. Most kids his age are doing it anyway. Keep an eye on them. Bring me anything you can I can use.”

“I’m on it,” I said. “And one more thing. She’s been asking around, trying to be discrete but not doing such a great job of it. She’s wanting a divorce, and is trying to break the pre-nup.”

“Okay, good. Work that angle as well. Let me know what you find out,” Mr. Jackson said, and ended the call.

10

Nick Taylor

There is a woman in town whom I visit from time to time. In exchange for an hour or so of her time and companionship, I gladly make a cash donation. Whatever else might occur is between two consenting adults of legal age. We have had numerous stimulating conversations over the past couple of years, during which the subject of how I make a living has been mentioned. From time to time, she has employed my services.

I know it was a breach of professional ethics when I mentioned to Jackie I was doing some work for Graham Jackson, but I’ve known her a long time, and I trust her. She took an immediate interest. Particularly so when I told her I was keeping an eye on the Prescotts, and Mr. Jackson wanted to put Mike Prescott to the test. Jackie was the one who came up with the plan. We would work both angles. Dangle temptation in front of Mike Prescott. Arrange for Jackie to meet Kayla and steer the conversation in the direction of divorce and prenuptial agreements. Get Kayla to think she was participating in setting up her husband to break the pre-nup.

“Is that even necessary?” I asked.

Jackie shrugged, smiled. “Not if you’re content with the money you’re getting from Graham Jackson. Imagine what Kayla would pay to get the pre-nup broken.”

We were up and running our scam within seventy-two hours. Jackie arranged to be introduced to Kayla Prescott. They became fast friends, and Kayla came on board, willing to pay a hefty fee in exchange for evidence her husband was cheating.

Don’t ask me how she found out—maybe she asked Kayla— but Jackie was able to learn what Mike Prescott was into, and brought in one of her friends, a girl who called herself Mistress Fredericka. He took the bait.

While the girls were doing their part, I arranged an incall location in an upscale apartment on the east side of town, complete with audio and video surveillance equipment in every room.

11

Kayla Prescott

My fiancé, Bobby Ogden, was dead, and I was discouraged as I stood by the casket with his parents. Bobby was my best hope of moving up in the world, and now he was dead, killed in what the police were calling a road rage incident. Now, what was I going to do? In my mind, I turned over my options, all the while attempting to smile, hugging people coming to pay their respects.

“So sorry for your loss.”

Weak smile. Nod. “Thank you for coming.” Sniff.

“If there’s anything we can do . . .”

Maybe find me a man with a few million in the bank. Nod. Sniff. Dab the eyes with a tissue. “Thank you.”

“He was such a fine young man.”

Hug, sniff, “I loved him so much.” Sniff. Look at my watch. How much longer until we can get outta here?

I’d not met Bobby’s parents before, so this whole thing was pretty awkward. They were taking it hard. I suppose it was understandable, but there was something else. Something more than just grief. I normally don’t go sticking my nose in other people’s business, mainly because I don’t care and I don’t want to get drug into their drama, but these people had nearly become my in-laws, so I supposed I should at least show some concern. “Mrs. Ogden?” I said, “What’s troubling you, Ma’am? Other than the obvious?”—meaning her son in the casket a few feet away.

“I want you to call me Ruth Ann,” she said, reaching out to gently place her hand on my forearm. Her voice became squeaky and she appeared weak, about to collapse. “I know this is hard on you, too, Kayla.”

“I can tell something is wrong,” I said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Ruth Ann Ogden shook her head, dabbed at her tears with a handkerchief. “No. Nothing anyone can do,” she said. “We were hoping Bobby’s sister would be here, but we haven’t been able to reach her. She may not even know he’s dead.”

“Oh, my!” My mouth dropped. “If you can give me her address and phone number, I’ll get one of my friends on it. Maybe we can call the police or something.”

Ruth Ann stood a little taller, regained her composure, as her husband placed an arm around her at the shoulder to support her.

“We’ve not been in contact with our daughter for three or four years now,” Mr. Ogden said. “Not since she—”

Ruth Ann elbowed her husband lightly. “Not now, Burt,” she said. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

Burt opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it. He looked to me and said, “Thank you for offering to help, Kayla, but no, we don’t know where to begin to look. She could be anywhere.”

And at that moment, Michael Prescott arrived, accompanied by my cousin Sally and Ian McGregor.

12

Ian McGregor

I made a fool of myself at the funeral home. The night before the funeral service, there was a scheduled visitation. I was so distraught over Bobby’s death, knowing I shared much of the blame, I didn’t want to go. My mate, Mike Prescott, convinced me it was the honorable thing to do. “Nobody blames you, Ian,” he said. “Not entirely. Plus, you gotta face down your fears. How many times have I heard you say that?”

“I was talkin’ about baseball,” I reminded him. “Besides, I’m basically full of shit.”

I faced down my fears alright. More accurately, I drowned them with a bottle of whiskey. I was in the bag when Mike and Sally came by to collect me at my apartment and on the way to the car I fell down the steps. When Mike tried to help me up, I started laughing. And just as quickly my laughter turned to sobbing. “God, I wish I could undo it,” I wailed.

Mike and Sally helped me into the car, a red Ford SUV. I’ve no idea what they were thinking, taking me to the funeral home in my condition.

I sat in the back seat, both windows rolled down in case I needed to hang my head out to throw up.

With Mike’s help, I staggered up to the coffin, where Bobby’s fiancée, Kayla, stood with Bobby’s parents.

Mike gave Kayla a hug and a peck on the cheek. She turned away when I attempted to do the same. Her cousin Sally embraced her, then stood next to her with an arm around Kayla’s waist.

“Mr. and Mrs. Ogden,” Mike said to Bobby’s parents, “I’m Mike Prescott. I’m so sorry for your loss. Bobby was a great friend, and a great teammate as well.” They exchanged handshakes and hugs. Mike turned toward Kayla, and they hugged. “So sorry, Kayla.”

Kayla held him close, buried her head into his chest, sobbing. “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, Michael,” she said. “I don’t understand. How did everything go so wrong?”

Mike patted her shoulder and said, “Be strong, Kayla.”

Mike stepped back, gestured toward Sally and me.

“Mr. and Mrs. Ogden, this is my fiancée, Sally Landrum, and Ian McGregor.”

“Sally’s my cousin,” Kayla added.

The Ogdens nodded, attempted brave smiles. “Thank you for coming.”

I staggered forward. Through tear-filled eyes, I said, “I want you to know I’m so sorry. Bobby was a good shit.” Mrs. Ogden looked at Kayla, then back to me. I could tell she was kind hearted. I could see it in her eyes. She placed a hand on my shoulder. And then I said, perhaps a bit too loudly, given my inebriated state, “They done a right fine job on him, didn’t they, Mike? You can’t even see where the bloke knifed him.”

Mrs. Odgen recoiled and, just as Kayla had done with Mike a moment before, buried her face into her husband’s chest, and began sobbing. Mr. Ogden gave me a look of contempt. Being drunk on my arse, I was oblivious to the harm I was causing. To his credit, Mike tried pulling me away, just as I vomited on the shoes of the parents and fiancée of the deceased.