Dead Ball by R. D. Rosen Read Free Book Online

little laugh, “if Campy can change your stroke and turn you into the game’s most consistent hitter, I can change your lifestyle for a week or two and keep you alive. Marshall, can you put Moss up tonight in your home?”
    “Sure.”
    “Wait a second,” Moss said. “I’ve got plans with my lady.”
    “Tell her you’re temporarily indisposed. Marshall has a very nice house, and I’m sure you’ll be comfortable there tonight until I can get back from Cambridge tomorrow with a change of clothes and my gun.”
    Cooley looked up. “Gun?”
    “I’m good with a purse, Moss, but I’ll feel safer with my .38.”
    “Damn.”
    “I’ll see if I can come up with a new house for you by tomorrow. In the meantime, I don’t want you anywhere near your own.”
    “I need to go home and change my threads,” Cooley said.
    “No,” Harvey said, then quickly: “Look, we all hope this is nothing. These things often are.” He let the reassurance hang there in the air for a moment before it quickly dispersed on its own, like a puff of cigarette smoke.
    “Maybe we ought to clue the rest of the team into what’s going on,” Felix suggested. “So they can be looking for any unusual activity, suspicious characters?”
    “Let’s wait on that,” Harvey said. “Let’s stick to the motivational-coach cover for now. By the way, I wouldn’t mind having that for a little while.” He pointed again at the headless jockey standing politely on the table between Marshall and him. Harvey didn’t think he had seen one of them in anyone’s yard for twenty or thirty years.
    “Be my guest,” Marshall said, taking off his designer eyeglasses and wiping each lens tenderly on a handkerchief. “All right with you, Cool?”
    “It’s cool with Cool,” the ballplayer said, and Harvey felt a stab of disappointment to hear Moss indulge in the celebrity vogue for referring to oneself in the third person.
    “Should we get it fingerprinted?” Felix asked.
    “I assume it’s already been handled enough to make the search for usable prints futile.”
    They struggled to get the lawn jockey—and its head— back in the box, and Marshall beckoned Robert the skybox steward and gave him instructions to get the package down to Harvey’s car in the players’ parking lot.
    Five minutes later Harvey stood with Moss Cooley in the clubhouse while he gathered up some toiletries and extra clothes from his cubicle. They were alone except for a twentyish clubhouse assistant, collecting dirty postgame dinner plates from the food area and sponging off the two long dining tables. A much older black gentleman was vacuuming the clubhouse’s indoor/outdoor carpeting.
    “I don’t need this shit,” Cooley muttered as he began to lay his belongings carefully into a small green nylon duffel bag with the Jewels’ logo silk-screened on the side. “I don’t need you all in my business.”
    “Don’t blame you,” Harvey replied, careful not to say too much or make a bad impression. He and Moss, who had had no relationship at all until an hour ago, had been thrown rudely together now, like contestants on Blind Date. “Listen, I’d appreciate it if you used a different bag. I’d rather you didn’t carry anything that might identify you.”
    Scowling, Cooley took the two hangered items—a pair of slacks and a silk shirt with a brown-and-tan geometric pattern—and held them out to Harvey. “Here, you take them then.” He disappeared around the corner into the food area, returned with a plastic grocery bag, and dropped his toiletries and some other items into it.
    “I want you to do something for me tonight, Moss, while you’re enjoying Marshall’s hospitality. I want you to make a list of every place you go regularly in and around Providence at least once a week. Gas stations, movie theaters, restaurants, you name it. Any place you go on a regular basis. Plus any place where you’re known to make an appearance. Any place the papers have reported you