“What was his home run average before that?”
“Before when?”
“This season, punk.”
“I dunno, like five or six a year. Until the end of last year, when he started nailing them.”
“So a second baseman who doesn’t even hit ten home runs in a single season starts hitting sixty the next year and nobody thinks he’s juicing. He’s gotta be.”
“He’s not, no way.” The kid shook his head, giving a confident smile. “Says he figured out a new way to hit the ball in the off season. He even does blood tests on TV in front of everybody. He’s one hundred percent clean.”
A rage flowed through Roy. “Blood tests my ass. You know he’s using some new formula they don’t know how to test for yet.”
“No, he ain’t a cheater like your brother was.”
“Say what?”
“Roy B. Brands is the biggest cheater in baseball ever.”
“Why you…”
Roy reached for the kid, but he was too quick. He ducked under Roy’s large fingers and shot up the stairs. Roy was behind him, his breasts bouncing as his feet banged on the steps, shaking the entire apartment complex. He was going to teach that brat a thing or two about respecting your elders.
“Lolo!” the kid screamed. “Lolo!”
The boy was just inches from Roy’s grasp when an apartment door opened and the kid dove in, head first, vintage Pete Rose style. A little gray haired man, not even five foot, stood in the doorway aiming a .44 Magnum.
Somehow, Roy found it within his power to stop. Like he’d ran to second and had planned to round it, but the third base coach told him to slam on the brakes.
The man rattled off a volley of words in Tagalog or whatever language he spoke. His eyes were wide, and his arms shook fiercely under the weight of the weapon. Roy held up his hands in self defense.
“Look, man. I don’t understand a word you’re sayin’. But I’ll just walk on down the stairs. Alright?”
The man kept on berating Roy, probably calling him every insult in the Pilipino language.
“Uh-huh. Sure, right. Ok. Well, I say you keep that opinion to yourself, hear,” he said, backing up with his hands in the air.
The diatribe continued, and Roy had had it. He didn’t have time for this shit. He waved the geezer off.
“Get some rest, old man.”
Roy turned to the staircase and took the first step down when a blast exploded behind him. The air pressure shifted as a bullet flew past his right ear.
“Shiiit!” Roy cried, leaping down the stairs. He turned to see nobody standing at the door. That revolver probably knocked the old man over, but Roy wasn’t going to double check.
As he made the final step to the ground floor, Carlos swung open his door. He held a sheet around his torso, but it didn’t hide his souvenir bat that was pushing through the material. In his other hand, he held a nine-millimeter. It was pointed at Roy.
“What’s going on, mamacita?”
“The old man upstairs is shooting a gun. He’s crazy.”
“Nothing to see, honey,” Maria said from the shadows. Her polished finger nailed hands grabbed Carlos from behind, pulling him back. He pushed her away while never taking his eyes off Roy.
“Is he shooting at the kids or at you?”
“Carlos, let’s get busy again,” Maria said.
“Back off, babe.” He glared back at Roy. “I have a feeling you’re causing trouble here.”
“Really, me?” Roy said, pointing at himself like a child with crumbs all over his mouth, denying he’d ever broke into a cookie jar.
“Yeah, something isn’t right about you, man. Know what I’m saying?”
Roy shrugged.
“I don’t know what it is, but I wanna find out.”
Maria came from behind and yanked off Carlos’s bed sheet. Roy turned away before he would see something that would cause him several months’ worth of self-esteem issues. Carlos chased Maria, butt naked.
“Come back here, perra!”
Roy ran into his apartment and shut the door, turning the lock and shoving the deadbolt. The couple was shouting again, building up for another passionate round of baby making.
“Mr. Brands, or have you completed your sex change operation yet?” a voice asked from behind.
Roy whipped around. There were two men standing in his living room. One was white and short in an ill-fitting suit. He was probably in his late forties. His voice sounded like that asshole creditor. Next to him was a big beefy black man full of muscles, wearing a T-shirt extended to its maximum stretching capacity. Roy was a little taller, but the guy pumped iron regularly and was a decade younger.
Roy was disturbed by what the bruiser carried in his hands. The Babe Ruth Home Run trophy. When all of Roy’s assets had been confiscated and auctioned off, that trophy was the one thing that he had managed to hide, claiming to have lost it. Nobody believed him, but so what? If they couldn’t find it, it was their loss. He’d only recently brought it out of hiding – under a bed in a Four Season’s Suite in San Francisco. He’d removed the mattress and punched in the middle of the box spring. Dropping the trophy inside, it had never occurred to him he’d never be able to afford a suite there again. How he got it back was a long messy story involving him impersonating a maid. It hadn’t been easy and standing in front of him were two men holding the one possession that proved he was the greatest baseball player ever.
“Hand me back my trophy,” Roy said in his most threatening voice.
“Oh really. I thought it was lost,” the slimy man in the suit said.
“Just like he didn’t take the juice,” the bruiser said.
“Looks like you take more than just vitamin supplements,” Roy said, mad dogging the younger guy.
“Yeah, well. I’m not testifying under oath or nothin’. And I don’t got no man tits either.”
“We searched your apartment, and it looks like you really don’t have shit, except for this little trinket,” the boss man said.
“It’s my home run trophy, and nobody gets it.”
“Au contraire, fucko. We have it. And you still owe us a hundred and eighty thou. If you step aside, we’ll be on our way.”
Roy felt his blood boil. He flexed his fingers in and out of fists. The squirt stepped forward. Roy decked him with his left, sending the man flying backward. The bruiser brought up the trophy like it was an axe. Roy charged him, head down like a bull, getting under his raised arms and ramming him against a wall. The bruiser’s breath burst out of his lungs.
Roy snatched the trophy in midair before it hit the floor. He’d been a four time Gold Glover. He hadn’t lost his fielding skills at all.
The runt was stumbling for the door.
“Oh no you don’t, punk.”
The little man tried to run, but Roy grabbed him by the collar and threw him to the ground. The bruiser stood, trying to catch his breath. Anger flooded Roy’s eyes. He needed to get them out, but then what? Go back into hiding? But where? And what about his record? Was he going let a little, scrawny second baseman take it?
The loan shark crawled past Roy, hoping to sneak away. Roy grabbed the loudmouth by his ankles and pulled his legs. The man shrieked