[b]Toledo, Ohio[/b] Billy Carter watched from the dugout as Country Jones came to the plate. Country, called such because he came from Arkansas or some other hick place, was currently leading the Ohio League in home runs, runs batted in, and batting average. County swung the bat in his hands a few times in practice. Billy saw his large biceps flex with each swing. Years of working in fields and throwing bales of cotton had created those muscles. Although a colored man, Country was the best player on the Mud Hens and without a doubt one of the best in the whole Ohio League. "C'mon, Country," Billy yelled with the rest of the team. The game today marked Billy's tenth with the club since joining them as a batboy. He found the ball field a few hours after he and Clark Johnson jumped off the train they had hid on all the way from Detroit. Clark found work a day or two after they got to Toledo. It was welding workd in a machine shop for damn good pay for a colored man, especially compared to what he was making back in Detroit. He asked around and found a job for Billy with the steel foundry next door. Maybe in the fall and winter, Billy had said. For now he was all about baseball. Mud Hens manager Phil Lagrange said he had a full team in the middle of the season and couldn't put him on the roster. But he saw that hunger in Billy's eyes, he must have recognized it as something he had a long time ago. Billy just wanted to be on and around the baseball diamond, regardless of what he was doing. He watched Billy play and was impressed, so he cut a deal with him. Billy got to hang around and take in the sights and be the team's batboy in exchange for an option to try out for the team next year, or if they were in dire need of an emergency player he could play some this year. Country stepped to the plate and choked up on the bat. It was the bottom of the sixth, Mud Hens up 4-3 to the Sandusky Snappers. The pitcher on the mound had been throwing heat all game long, but he was inaccurate as hell. Plenty of his fastballs were meatballs. Early in the third, Skeeter Collins sent one ball rocketing out over the left field fence for two runs. Country himself had knocked in two runs the next inning with a line drive that moved so fast it had steam on it. Now with the pitcher on the mound getting tired, his velocity going down along with his accuracy, this was where Country thrived. After two wide pitches set up the count for 2-0, the third pitch came across the plate and hit Country right in the left thigh. He fell backward onto the ground and started hollering. Billy and the rest of the Mud Hens were on their feet shouting, threating to come out of the dugout and tear that son of a bitch to pieces. "Sit the hell down!" Lagrange shouted over the din. "Sit down, all of you! Ain't nobody fighting here today!" He went out to the plate while the rest of the team watched warily from in the dugout. Lagrange helped Country to his feet and, with the help of the Snapper's catcher, got him limping back into the dugout. Country took his hat off and tossed it to the ground. "Fuck!" "Calm down," Lagrange said as he tore open Country's pants and looked at his leg. "It's a bruise. A deep fucking one that'll take a few days to heal, but I'm sure ain't nothing broke, Country." Lagrange stood and looked around the dugout while Country kept cursing up a storm. The old manager's blue eyes cut through the ruckus and commotion inside the dugout before they fell on Billy. "Carter." "Yes, sir." Billy suddenly noticed the noise had died down. You could hear a pin drop, but all Billy could hear was his own heartbeat. "I need a pinch runner for Country. You still wanna play ball?" "Yes, sir," he said in a voice that sounded more like a croak than his actual voice. "Then get ready, son." Lagrange went out to talk to the ump about the change while two of the Mud Hens turned Billy around and drew on his back. As a ballboy, his shabby uniform didn't have a number. Using a piece of charcoal they scratched a double-aught on his back. "Get 'em kid," one of them said as they ruffled his hat. "Run like hell, boy!" Billy trotted out onto the field while Lagrange waved at him on the way back to the dugout. He took his place and first and took a deep breath. A fair sized crowd were here today, not too many people can come to a ball game on a weekday afternoon, but it was more people than Billy had ever played in front of that was for damn sure. Mike Carlton, the first base coach, patted him on the shoulder. The Snapper's first baseman eyed Billy sideways. The man, he may have been in his early 20's but compared to Billy he was fully a man, spat a wad of tobacco juice on the dirt and got set. The staticky PA system in the stands crackled to life. "Pinch running for Country Jones is... 00, Willy Carter." Billy looked back at Carlton with wide eyes. "They got my name wrong, coach!" "It's not the end of the world, son. Now pay attention." "Now batting, 21, third baseman Matthew Robinson." Matt came to the plate and took a few practice swings. A white boy from Indiana, Matt was more of a solid contact hitter than a home run threat. He hit his share of bombers this season, but nothing compared to Country. Shit, nobody except the big leaguers were keeping pace with Country. Billy watched the signals from the third base coach and took his lead. With a one-run lead, they'd be looking for insurance, but Lagrange never got too aggressive with it. Billy didn't get the green light to steal from the third base coach, but he still took his usual long lead. The pitcher stared at him long and hard before winding up and tossing a hard one to the plate. Matt fouled it off right behind the plate. Had he been just a second earlier with his swing, that ball would be halfway to Canada. Billy took another long lead, sliding back to first after a failed pickoff attempt sent dirt flying in the air. Billy dusted himself off and smiled. He was in the pitcher's head now. It was just like playing ball back home in Detroit. Another long lead, another pickoff attempt that Billy beat back to first. Finally, he threw to Matt. It was a meatball that Matt got around on and sent screaming out to right field. Billy started running at the sound of contact. The line drive bounced into right field as Billy was rounding second. The right fielder out there got a good hop on it and was scooping it into his glove while Billy was halfway between second and third. He saw the stop sign the third base coach was making as he raced towards the bag. Billy had but one thought: Fuck that. He shot around third and was running towards home with a full head of steam. He saw the ball coming from right field in a straight shot. Right fielder had one hell of an arm, Billy thought in those few seconds between third and home. The only concession he would make was that going home might not have been the best idea. The catcher was standing at the plate, eyes glued on the ball as it came from right field. I was a simple foot race at this point, Billy's feet against the ball. He got low and slid for home. The dust kicked up, but he could hear the snap of the catcher's mitt and feel it slap him on the back. But not before his long fingers touched home plate. "Safe!" The ump yelled. Billy stood up, covered in dirt and dust and pumped his fist. The hometown crowd cheered and applauded while Matt Robinson was still on first base clapping. Billy walked to the dugout and to a round of back slaps and handshakes from the rest of the team. Lagrange wrapped a meaty arm around his shoulder and pulled him in close. "That was a thing of beauty, kid," he said in Billy's ear. "But you ignore my third base coach again, I'll fucking break your neck." ----- [b]Washington, D.C.[/b] "Traci, get in here right now!" Traci Lord looked up from her cubicle office at her name being bellowed across the offices of the [i]Washington Post[/i], her home for the last few months. Scowling, she stood up and walked through the bullpen with all eyes on her. Bill Bussey, the [i]Post[/i]'s managing editor, had a stare that could cut through steel. But Traci had already learned that his bark was far worse than his bite. She saw a copy of her story in his hands as she entered his office. "What is this shit?" "It's a story, sir. You know, letters arranged into words, words arranged into sentences, and so on and so on until a narrative takes shape." Bussey scowled at Traci for a moment before sliding his reading glasses on his pointy Roman nose and reading her story. "'Congressman Harlan Lewis' House bill to fund the African war effort against Spain is a step in the right direction, a step that can lead to strides if the Norman Administration is willing to end its continuous stalling on foreign affairs.' You don't see a problem with that?" Traci shrugged. "It's an op/ed article, Bill. My opinion and not the paper's." "You all but called the president chicken-shit." "My opinion, Bill." Bussey's scowl deepened, his face turning a shade of red. "The paper endorsed Norman, we like Norman." "Oh, I like him too," said Traci. "But he's letting Congress dictate the pace of is foreign policy. It's--" "Not very presidential?" Bussey asked with a raised eyebrow. "I was going to say chicken shit," she said with a smirk. "But that works too." "Whatever you think, I'm rejecting the column." "What?!" Traci's eyes went wide. It was all she could do to keep from going across the desk and tackle Bussey to the ground. "We didn't hire you for your op/eds, Traci. We want stories, Traci Lord stories. I want you out in the field, reporting events as they happen. Like that embedded story you did in China. That artist?" She turned a shade of red. Everyone brought up that story. A year in China ended up with a twelve-part series for the [i]New York Times[/i] about the day to day life in the People's Republic. She spent time with everyone from the politicians on down to beggars in the street. The series was a smash hit at home and made her a known name in journalism. She'd spent most of that year with a dashing painter named Mei. Mei had more skill in the bedroom than he ever did on the canvas, a fact that came through when he painted Traci's portrait. [i]The Badly Drawn Lady[/i] was the name the wits at the Foreign Correspondents Association in Bejing gave the painting when the saw it. The story had circulated around press corps and news services until it became the stuff of legends. "Bill, I--" "You know what I mean, Traci," he said with hand up to stall her protest. "You are a known quantity now, sure. And we did promise you editorial pages, something we've been living up to. But this bill going through the House could have serious consequences. I want you roaming the Capitol day and night, talking to everyone in Congress about it. Take the mood of the place and track the course of the bill. I want drama, Traci. I want the type of drama only you can give to a story. That is ten times more powerful than any opinion you can provide, can you do that?" Traci nodded after a moment's deliberation. "I'll make some phone calls and head to the Capitol as soon as I can." ----- [b]Chicago[/b] Johnny Leggario cracked his knuckles and settled back into the seat of his car. Six hours into the stakeout and he had settled in for a long haul. The house he was sitting on was a dump, a scorched husk of a building that someone torched years ago. It was the perfect place for squatters and people trying to lay low. Johnny had Carl the Wop to thank for leading him here. Carlo Di Pietro ala Carl the Wop, capo to the Greek and one of the many cogs in the Outfit, managed a dozen bookie shops on the Northside of the city for the Greek. Johnny spent three days boning up on Carl the Wop through his contacts, following the man and his family as they went about their day to day tasks. Carl's bio read like a million others who joined the Life, always written out with an uppercase L. He was old school, joined the Outfit when he was still a teenager during Capone's heyday. Purse snatching led to strongarm robberies which led to hijacking and running numbers. Sixty years old and Carl had climbed as far on the criminal ladder as he could go. To some, that would mark Carl as a suspect for the robberies. He couldn't get past the Greek, so he was letting his own joints get heisted and splitting the money. He got paid and got to rub shit in the old man's eye. The clues that tipped Johnny off to the real culprit were long sleeves and itchy arms. Carl's youngest son, Carlo Jr., still lived with his folks at the age of thirty. Johnny watched him coming and going the past few days. He always wore long sleeve shirts and always picked at his arms when he walked down the street. It took Johnny all of ten minutes to peg Carlo as a junkie, the sleeves hiding the track marks that itched so bad when the kid needed a fix. He followed Carlo to a shooting gallery near Jefferson Park. From there Johnny followed the guy Carlo copped from which led him to a stash house in Forest Glen. A small pack of four dealers worked out of the house. Four dealers, a four-man crew ripping off bookie spots, a weak junkie whose father ran the bookmaking shops, a junkie that could trade information for a fix. He waited another four hours before he made his move. It was five in the morning when Johnny slipped on a pair of canvas gloves and carried a six shot revolver with a suppressor attached to the end under his sports jacket. He looped around the back of the building and came through a broken window, slow and quietly to avoid noise and cuts from the shards of glass around the building. Johnny pulled the gun out along with a flashlight covered in tape, emitting only a pin-sized light to use as a guide. He held his nose when he passed by three buckets that had been used as latrine. It took him ten minutes to find their stash tucked away in a baseboard near the fireplace. Nearly a hundred grand in crisp twenty dollar bills inside a satchel, not the type of money junkies handed over for Horse. No, this was the type of money the Greek's places carried before a big payout was coming. In addition to the cash, Johnny found a half pound of uncut H, two shotguns, and six pistols. He tucked the money, dope, and guns into the satchel and swung it over his shoulder. Johnny slowly glided up the rickety stairs like a ghost. Muscle memory kicked in when he reached the landing where the crew was sleeping. Check the corners, clear the rooms, plan your escape, kill as soon as you have eyes on the target. Just like he'd been taught. The four guys were passed out on piss-stained mattresses. Johnny kept the flashlight beam low and aimed. Recoil shot up his elbow as he fired off four quick shots. The rounds hissed through the room, four bullets exploding the four men's heads. He reloaded and fired off four more to each man's heart to be sure they were dead. His task done, calmly walked out into the early morning air. Johnny tucked the revolver into his jacket and climbed into the car, driving six blocks away before tossing the gun and his gloves in a trash can beside the road. -- "Who the fuck are you?" Carl the Wop sized Johnny up like a piece of meat. He stood on the doorstep of the man's impressive townhouse, impassively meeting the mobster's gaze. "I'm Johnny Legs. You know who I am, who I work for. Let's take a ride." The look of recognition filled Carl's eyes, quickly followed by fear. He knew what Johnny did, and why he was visiting him like this. Johnny saw a tremble in his lip, his eyes beginning to show moisture. "Oh, God... Please--" "If I was going to kill you you'd be dead already," Johnny said with slight annoyance. "Let's take a ride." Thirty minutes later they were sitting in Johnny's car, parked outside a coffee shop ten blocks away from Carl's home. Johnny retold the story, the guys robbing the Greek's shops, following the trail and killing the four men, and of course Carl's own son. "Look... I know my son has had problems, and me and my wife we've tried to help him... but... you..." "You know who I work for," Johnny said again with a cool tone. "I'm offering you the chance to do it on your son's terms. Bobby C. will hold you and your family responsible for this theft. If he has his way, I'm gonna come back to your house with four more guys and we'll chop your entire family to pieces." Carl the Wop slumped forward in the seat and began to shake as he sobbed. Johnny ignored him and instead pulled a covered syringe from his coat pocket. "This spike is loaded up with pure heroin. I don't care if your boy is a goddamn dope fiend, this much pure H will kill him. It's either the OD or that other option I mentioned. Either give it to him or inject him tonight when he's asleep, but he does not live to see tomorrow." Johnny slipped the syringe into Carl's jacket while the man continued to cry. He felt a stab of remorse and something else much more powerful. Johnny realized it was envy. If Jimmy Leggario would have been faced with this same dilemma, he knew Jimmy would not hesitate to sacrifice his son to save his own ass. Carl the Wop went back home somber and quiet. They rode in silence, the only time Carl acknowledged Johnny at all was a short nod to him as he got out the car and went into his house. For an old soldier like Carl, the nod was final acceptance to do what needed to be done. Johnny hit a nearby payphone and called Stein to tell him that the job was completed. He told the lawyer to notify the Bobby C. to check the papers and he'd find five deaths on the Northside all within the same day of each other, a quadruple homicide, and one OD. The lawyer gave his appreciation and told Johnny where to drop off the cash and drugs he had recovered. The money for the job would be waiting for him when he arrived home that night. Johnny started up his car and headed back home. It wouldn't be long before he got another phone call with another job and another person who needed to be hurt. Johnny hated himself, not because he was becoming his old man, but because he [i]had[/i] become his old man. He glanced up in the car's rearview mirror and wasn't entirely sure who it was he saw staring back at him.