Three Strikes and You’Re Dead

By Michael A. Draper

Baseball goes on strike. . . and the fans are not happy. A chat room group Friends against the baseball strike rants against the astronomical salaries and greed of the players who have ruined the game for the everyday fans. One member, The Vindicator, decides to take action to end the strike, and soon some of the highest paid baseball players are being murdered. Who will be next? Can the murderer be stopped? The action and suspense build as the FBI and a trio of clever amateur investigators rush around the country trying to predict where the murderer will strike next, and to discover his identity. This thoroughly modern page turner uses social media in unexpected ways and will keep you enthralled until the last page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499049329

Book preview

Chapter 1

America’s pastime is past its time. That lead story grabbed his attention as he punched the button on his clock radio.

The window over the sink had been tinged by the morning mist. Using the side of his hand, he cleared enough to get a circular view before going outside to get his newspaper. Then he put flame to one of his cigarettes and smoked it down to its nub as he looked through the smear of the glass.

Although the morning haze was burning off, creating shadowy images that artists might have sold their souls to capture on canvas, all he saw was the pockmarked back of the trailer next door. The damp aroma of cedar and pines permeated the air outside his trailer, but the only smell that greeted him was the mixture of stale tobacco, old beer, and musty clothes. He didn’t mind missing those healthy scents. The sour beer odor reminded him of his days at a neighborhood bar where he was often the first customer before the staff had a chance to clean up from the prior night’s partying.

As he learned more details about the breaking news story, his guts began to roar and it felt like someone was playing light my fire in his stomach. You can spread horse manure on an English muffin, he muttered, the bastards went and did it! It’s not enough that the average salary is over two million dollars. No, sir, that’s more money than my whole family ever dreamed about in their combined lives. Those players are too damn greedy.

He walked over to his unmade bed and sat down to put on his socks before sliding his feet into his loafers. No job, and trying to survive on disability income checks, while having millions doesn’t satisfy those greedy slugs. It’s not fair and it’s time for true baseball fans to let these money hungry bums see where we stand!

Moments later, he went to the door of his trailer and picked up the newspaper that had landed in the bushes, thrown by the kid who didn’t care where it went. Asshole kid can wait ’til pregnant alligators make house calls to clean the toilets before he sees a tip from me.

Before going back in, he glanced over at his neighbor’s trailer, glad Mrs. Timmons wasn’t outside so she could nag him about something. He’d been running into her more often as she carried her bags of empty booze bottles to the garbage bin. Her usual nagging these days seemed to be about his physical shape. You should start working out, you’re beginning to look like a pear. Then she’d laugh in that cackle of hers. Otherwise, she’d be mumbling about, Lots of jobs out there, it’s a shame for a grown man like you to spend so much time in a little trailer. She’d give that mean laugh again and go inside her trailer to turn on her soaps on TV.

Inside his own place, Skubul flopped into his easy chair, scratched his armpits, and smelled his fingers to check if he needed to bother with a dab of deodorant, then opened the paper to the sports page and began reading. As predicted, baseball players today voted for a strike because they couldn’t get all of their demands met. In addition, they refused to concede to any of management’s points. The sides are so far apart that there doesn’t seem to be any desire to compromise. This time the strike could certainly put an end to the season, and the return of baseball as we know it might be in jeopardy. It will also have a devastating effect on fans’ support of their beloved sport.

He groaned in disgust. Ah, shit, that does it.

Grabbing a beer from the fridge and spotting a piece of last night’s pizza on the counter top, he began his breakfast and turned on his computer.

On the Internet’s expanded news, he read the Associated Press article about the end of bargaining.

AP reports that talks between players and owners broke down yesterday. This was the last date that an agreement could have been reached without affecting the normal schedule of games.

Well, shit fire and save matches, let’s see what the guys say. He clicked onto Chat and went to his chat group Friends against baseball strike. There must be other people who feel they’ve been taken advantage of for the last time. Maybe working together we can make them listen to us.

Sporty writes that his heart has been taken out of the game. He doesn’t know how he’ll occupy his time without being able to watch his favorite sport. His team, along with all the others, will be staying away from the ballparks until this labor problem is resolved. Since OLE Sporty is bedridden with a condition known in lay terms as too big and too fat, he doesn’t know how he’ll get through the next six months without his precious amusement.

Shortstop is discussing trying to get as many people as possible to boycott a game when the players return. He’s optimistic that the strike will be short-lived, and he will get to show his displeasure soon after the players get back to playing ball.

Doris writes that it’s just not like the old days. She thinks we should get a huge petition and have over a million signatures demanding that the players go back to the fields, and that the owners come up with some solution so that the fans won’t be deprived.

Rob from lower Manhattan writes, I feel that Major League Baseball and the players’ union have stabbed us in the back. I wish there was some curse I could cast on them all and turn them into statues where pigeons like to defecate!

The Advocate wrote that The fans have taken every decision baseball has made over the years and never had their say. It’s time to show baseball how we feel.

Resting his elbows against his lap for a moment, he sighed. He wished The Advocate suggested something specific. There’s not much here, he thinks, as he considers hitting the reply button at the end of The Advocate’s message. Maybe he has an idea and is able to back up his statement; otherwise, these fans don’t have any real ideas on expressing outrage with baseball’s final insult to their fans.

Yes, sir, and I think I’m just going to have to do something about it. One of these days people are gonna pick up their newspapers and see that someone is striking back at baseball and they’re gonna treat me like a hero.

He walked along the narrow road between trailers and bought a six-pack of beer from the liquor store in the shopping center outside the trailer park. Then he stopped at the Quick Mart and purchased a TV dinner. While making his purchases, he smiled to himself as he considered the ways he could think of to make baseball suffer for its selfishness, and how to come up with the needed capital to pay for his retaliation. Maybe the members of the chat group might have some disposable funds he could use. He decided to contact The Advocate from a computer that couldn’t be traced back to him.

Chapter 2

Not long after, in another part of the country, the scene couldn’t have been more different. Temperatures were expected to be in the middle seventies today, and one of San Antonio’s many festivals was just getting under way. The twin wings of the entrance to the golf resort seemed like arms opening up to invite guests to enter. It was as if the cement, steel, and emerald green glass of the hotel beckoned to the unaware to enter a spider’s nest, to spend their money and forget the outside world.

One guest in particular had no way of knowing an evil presence danced nearby, bringing malevolence to his dwelling that was unimaginable.

His eyes were fighting to stay closed. He forced them open to see what the illumination was that was ruining his sleep.

The sun was rising. Its glow shone through the balcony door he had left open. It allowed the nighttime breeze to whisk back the sheer white curtain and whirl into his room. The soft touch of the wind caressed his face as if a child had crawled into his bed and attempted to awaken him by gently blowing on his cheeks. He breathed in the sweet smell of the freshly mowed grass interspersed with the aroma of honeysuckle from a vine growing wild outside his hotel window.

Against the wall at the head of the bed, the sunlight warmed the glass-framed picture of a cowboy in a sweat-stained hat, bringing a herd of long-horned cattle into a corral that sat in front of a snow-covered mountain. After the rising sun lit the picture with its glow, it yawned and stretched its light over the king-sized bed where the man had lain sleeping until that moment.

Bobby Chapel had it made. He was in his prime and just last year he had signed the most lucrative contract to be given in the new Texas Alamo team’s history.

Here was a franchise that moved from the frigid north to San Antonio, now one of the largest cities in the country. Elsewhere, fans could fight the wind, rain, and cold weather to be at a game, but here they could sit in a climate-controlled stadium. Hard choice to make.

Bobby smiled, considering how good his life could be. He’d grown up in Florida and done exceptionally well in baseball; then, he’d been picked by Detroit in the first round of the draft. After receiving a lucrative signing bonus, he quickly played his way into the majors. He became a starter on the team by the time he was twenty, and was voted to the all-star team at age twenty-two. Being a bachelor with dark hair and good looks, he became an idol for young girls everywhere. His fan clubs demonstrated their devotion at each of the cities his team visited. Such was their adoration that he became accustomed to screaming girls cheering for him wherever he went. When he kept playing at the all-star level, he was offered a huge contract to stay with the team, but instead elected free agency.

That didn’t sit too well with the fans in the Motor City. Chapel’s decision to sign with San Antonio stunned both the team and its fans. They had assumed they would have Bobby on their payroll for years to come, and that they would be able to build their team around him. Prior to his arrival, his old team had found it almost impossible to attract free agents. Now, with his departure, top-notch players were again reluctant to sign. As a result, the team was predicted to be unsuccessful both on the field and at the box office.

As much as Bobby loved the fans in the Motor City, he was ultimately lured to San Antonio by more money and the opportunity to play and live in a city where people were laid back, friendly, and enjoyed the warm climate throughout the year.

Bobby told one reporter, I toured San Antonio and was captivated by its charm. I’ve never seen anything quite as romantic as ‘The Paseo del Rio’ or River Walk, as it’s known to the San Antonians. The cobblestone and flagstone paths stretch along the river’s walkway, and tunes of Mexican mariachis delight the crowds that stroll along the water’s edge or relax in the many riverboats and river taxis carrying the passengers back and forth along the narrow river. It’s as if John Wayne left the Alamo and met a band of American Indians and friendly Mexicans and decided to build the best little city possible.

As overjoyed as the San Antonio fans were about Bobby’s arrival, those in the Michigan area were devastated. An outsider would have thought that he was a rapist or murderer if they looked at the letters and messages he received.

If you don’t have the loyalty to stay with the team that made you a star, I hope you get injured and are forced out of baseball.

Hey, rich boy, I’m gonna break your knee so badly you’ll never play ball again. Then you try to earn a real living like the rest of us.

You’re a bonehead. Watching you play is like having a root canal and a kidney stone attack at the same time.

You’re a traitor and should be spurned by fans everywhere!

During a luncheon with his agent, he protested, There were days when I’d open my mail and find nothing but complaints and prior fans wishing me bad luck. I’d be amazed at how mean-spirited they could be. Any of them would have done the same thing if they had the chance.

Bobby saw his opportunity and timed it just right for the Alamo’s first year in the league. They wanted to make an immediate splash, and spent big bucks to bring in a number of free agents. He was number one on their list.

He joked, What a trip, to be wined and dined by all those phonies. They had rehearsed lines telling me how important I’d be to their team. Their city would love me. I’d never have to worry about money again.

Chapel remembered the irony of his father telling him he should go to college first so he could have something to fall back on if his dream of being a major league baseball player didn’t come true.

Shit, Dad, here I am pulling in over twenty million a year, and you’re earning what, forty to forty-five thousand annually, after thirty years spent as a teacher and high school coach, putting up with teenage kids who don’t want to be in school and couldn’t care less about what you were trying to teach them. Oh, yeah, college really paid off for you big time.

Dear old Dad didn’t have any qualms now since his youngest son signed a six-year, one-hundred-twenty-million-dollar contract. Nope, Dad and Mom were enjoying the house he had bought them in Tampa. They could swim in their own pool, or Mom could play canasta and Dad could golf or play tennis with his buddies at the club where his son paid his membership. They were already looking down their noses at everyone, as if they had amassed a fortune and that made them better than other people. If it wasn’t for Bobby, the only membership they’d have was in the Elks Club, where they could drink and party at their own speed. Just don’t ask him to spend too much time with them. Boring! He had better things to do with his life than fishing at the end of the family pier and watching TV game shows or Judge Judy at the end of the day.

What a blast he was having! Just like Jackie Gleason would say on the reruns of the TV show he liked to watch, The Honeymooners, the appropriate exclamation was How sweet it is!

Hell, even with his agent giving him financial advice, he couldn’t find enough ways to spend the portion of his salary that they agreed could be his discretionary money.

Remembering one of the things he’d bought for his entertainment, he reached over to the tray that held his shaving utensils. He gently slid everything to the side of the counter and took out a package he kept taped to the bottom of his clothes hanger. It was time to give himself a little treat. With baseball on strike, there was less drug testing to worry about. Placing enough powder on the tray, he smiled and took a crisp bill out of his wallet. It might only read as a one-hundred-dollar bill, but it delivered much more than that in pleasure. He curled it up to make a good straw, then took a snort and closed his eyes to enjoy the hit as it spread throughout his body.

Let’s see, he said to himself, whom should I call today to let spend some time with her hero? There are two or three at the top of my current list, and since I was with Heather yesterday, I think I’ll let Susie be my plaything for today and tonight. Yes, she has such a nice body. But god is she ever a publicity hound! She just loves it when someone takes a picture of us when we’re together and she thinks there might be a chance she could see her photo in a magazine or newspaper.

Oh, yes, Bobby darling, one of these days, if I just get a chance, I know I’ll be somebody special out in Hollywood. All I need is a break, and when enough people see me, I know somebody will realize that I’m just what they’re looking for in whatever project they’re working on.

I should tell her that the only movie I expect to see her in is Susie Goes Down for the Team. He smiled as he picked up his cell phone and gave her a call.

Hello.

Hey, Susie Woozy, it’s me. I just closed my eyes and your picture jumped into my thoughts. It’s amazing how real you looked. I felt like I could reach out and touch you. Reason I called is that with the baseball strike, nothing’s going on and I felt like doing a little partying tonight. Want to join me?

Sure, Bobby, I was hoping to hear from you. I’ve been thinking about you too.

Umm.

I really enjoyed being at the party at the Hyatt with all the other players and their wives and girlfriends. It was so neat.

He smiled, remembering the fun they had together after the party. Yeah, they’re a good bunch, but tonight I thought it’d be more fun if it was just the two of us. Since I’ve got everything here, you could stay over so bring your stuff.

Goodie, that sounds romantic. What time should I come over? Do I have time to do my hair?

He had a quick vision of her sitting across the hot tub with her feet floating in the water, and her shapely breasts peeking out of the bubbles. Rising and falling from the darkness of the water, like they were a gift that was being offered and taken away by the God of Lust. He smiled at the image, and let his mind go further, thinking how she would sit across from him and stretch her feet to slide against his body, and let her toes do some fancy walking. Then, she would get him worked up. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, she would rise up out of the water, giggling, naked, and eager to please.

Make it in an hour or so. I’ll call and have some lunch and champagne sent up, and we can spend some time in the tub to make us all relaxed, unless there’s something else you want.

She said nothing for a moment, and then answered in a whisper.

No, anything you want is okay. I’ll come over in about an hour. See you then.

He walked to the balcony and looked at the golf course beneath his window then gazed back at his room.

The room was probably bigger than the entire main floor of his boyhood home. Marble floors led to a seating area with a black couch and matching sealskin colored leather chairs that faced a working fireplace. Across from the fireplace was his entertainment system with a wide screen TV, pool table, and full music sound system. Behind the seating area, three steps led to the kitchen with a glass partition closing it from the dining area. Next to the dining area was his bar with a mirror top and silver and black background. Shelves were stocked with glasses and bottles of whatever kind of liquors he or his guests could imagine. Through the walkway was his bed and, to the left, the bathroom and hot tub.

Not bad for a guy who had had to share a bedroom with his brother. He’d go to sleep while his brother did his homework, listening to the radio. He enjoyed being with his brother in those days, but resented having to wear his brother’s hand-me-downs.

He yawned, stretched his arms out, and