Bobby picked up the ball, but for reasons known only to the gods of the game, he dropped it. Picked it up again, dropped it again. Shactman was shrieking.
The runner from first crossed the plate. The score was tied.
Bobby picked up the ball cleanly this time. The batter neared third base at full speed. The third base coach waved him around, betting Bobby couldn’t make a decent throw to the plate.
Plenty of time. I can do this.
Miguel Juarez, the husky catcher, a ringer on the Beth Am team, stood at the plate, waiting for the throw.
I can throw the ball to him on the fly. Yes, I can.
The batter rounded third, head down, hauling ass for home. Bobby remembered everything Uncle Steve had taught him. He planted his back foot and stepped forward, reaching down with his right arm and extending his left arm for balance. He kept his eyes on Miguel and came over the top, releasing the ball just after his arm passed over his head. The motion was smooth, and Bobby was amazed at how hard he’d thrown the ball.
“A cannon for an arm.” That’s what they say on Sports Center about Vladimir Guerrero.
The throw was right on line. Straight at Miguel Juarez, guarding home plate. This was gonna be AMAZING.
“What a throw by Bobby Solomon! Our top play tonight on ESPN. Does that kid have a gun or what?”
Hands on hips, Miguel looked up. Watched the ball sail over his head. Over the backstop. Over eight rows of bleachers. And land in the parking lot with the sound of glass shattering.
The batter scored and leapt into the arms of his ecstatic teammates. High-fiving, yelling, laughing, smacking one another on the shoulder, blowing bubbles with their gum. Final score: Plymouth Church Pioneers 10, Beth Am Bobcats 9.
“Gonna mess you up, dipshit.”
Rich Shactman jacked an elbow into Bobby’s gut, then trotted past him toward the dugout. Bobby dropped to one knee, thinking he might vomit, but he caught his breath and got back up.
Coach Kreindler gathered the team’s bats in front of the dugout.
“It’s him or me, Coach!” Shactman tossed his glove against the concrete block wall of the dugout.
Kreindler turned toward the boy, confused, the aluminum bats pinging against each other.
“The scouts from Gulliver and Ransom only come to the playoffs,” Shactman whined, “and we’ll never make them with Solomon messing up.”
“Nu? What would you have me do, Rich?”
“Throw Solomon off the team. I’m your star.”
“Gevalt.”
“So what’s it gonna be, Kreindler? Solomon or me?”
Bobby heard every word. Watched as Kreindler shot a worried look in his direction. But the coach never answered. Just kept gathering up bats and balls.
No. Not poison or explosives or a spear. There’s one thing I’m better at than Shactman. Swimming. I’m going to drown him.
SOLOMON’S LAWS
5. Listen to bus drivers, bailiffs, and twelve-year-old boys. Some days, they all know more than you do.
Seventeen
“That was a great throw,” Steve said.
“It broke a rearview mirror in the parking lot,” Bobby said.
“Hard and true, right on line to the catcher. A bit high, maybe…”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“The mint chocolate chip is supposed to make you feel better, kiddo. I’m here to tell you the truth. You have what they call a long arm.”
Uncle and nephew were sitting at a table outside Whip ’N Dip on Sunset Drive. Bobby had barely touched his ice cream. Steve had already polished off a cone of peanut butter swirl. And sure, he was trying to cheer up the boy. But Steve meant what he’d said. The velocity of the throw had been astonishing. The skinny kid had a rubber arm.
“You should be pitching.”
“Coach Kreindler will never let me.”
“I’m gonna work with you on your control, teach you a few pitches. Then we’ll show Kreindler what you’ve got.”
“When will you have time? You’ve got that stupid trial.”
Another sore point. Bobby desperately missed Spunky and Misty. And he was still pissed about Steve defending Gerald Nash.
“Everyone’s entitled to a defense, kiddo, even wackos like Nash.”
“He’s not charged for his beliefs. He’s not even charged with releasing the dolphins. He’s charged with getting a guy killed.”
Spoken like a true prosecutor, Steve thought.
“You care more about that bird turd than you do about Misty and Spunky,” Bobby fumed.
“Not true. But there’s nothing I can do about your pals.”
“You could have rented a boat and looked for them.”
“We’ve been through that, Bobby. Where would we look? The ocean’s too damn big.”
Bobby knew his uncle was right, but he was too upset to let up. “Your client’s full of shit, you know.”
“Meaning what?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“C’mon, kiddo. Why’s Gerald Nash full of shit?”
“I’m taking the Fifth.”
Steve had learned a long time ago that a trial lawyer, especially a solo practitioner, needed help. Take the Courthouse Gang, for example. Most lawyers ignored the retirees who hung around the Justice Building, wandering from courtroom to courtroom, seeking free entertainment. Hell, most lawyers never even noticed the oldsters.
In his first year practicing law, Steve made friends with Marvin (The Maven) Mendelsohn, Teresa Torano, and Cadillac Johnson. All over seventy, and all had seen hundreds of trials. Together, the three were great at sizing up people, figuring out when they’re lying. Maybe it takes a long life to develop those instincts. Whatever the reason, Steve relied on the Gang for picking juries. He couldn’t afford a high-priced jury consultant, or even a low-priced one, for that matter. He could, however, buy The Maven a Reuben with extra Russian dressing, the standard fee for courtroom advice.
Bobby added something else to Steve’s team. The kid knew everything. Okay, that was an overstatement. But thanks to his echolalia and eidetic imaging, he remembered virtually everything he’d ever seen or heard. It was a gift, one of the quirks of his central nervous system abnormalities. While Steve couldn’t tell you what he ate for breakfast, Bobby could remember every license plate he’d seen on a drive from Miami to Disney World.
“Why are you holding out on me?” Steve asked.
“No hablo Ingles.”
“Bobby, this is your uncle Steve. We’re tight, right?”
“Most definitely.”
“So…?”
The boy’s abilities were not limited to memorization. If he grew interested in a subject-baseball, supermodels, dolphins-he was able to engage in abstract thinking, too. He could demonstrate mathematically that runs-batted-in are the least meaningful statistic in baseball. He invented a body-fat analysis that could reveal-using only photographs-which supermodels had surgically enhanced breasts. And he was translating dolphins’ clicks and whistles into dozens of words and phrases-that effort interrupted by the felonious Gerald Nash.
“Why’s Nash full of shit?” Steve persisted.
Bobby slurped at the ice cream puddling in his cup. “Nash told you the dead guy had a boat with a lift to pick up Spunky and Misty, put them in a tank.”
“Right. They were going to take them to the Straits and let ’em go.”
Bobby screwed up his face in a look that said bullshit. “Why go to all that trouble?”
“Because if they left the dolphins in the Bay, they’d swim right back up the channel to the park.”
“So why didn’t they? The gate was wide open.”
“I don’t know. You tell me, kiddo.”