To Danny Finder

Batter up!

Duke Snider

1955

The scribbled "Duke" looked like "Dude" but, yeah, this was the one. And Danny Finder Jr. was paying Jack a pretty penny to get it back.

Seems it belonged to his father who was way on in years and not thinking too clearly. His mind had regressed to childhood when he'd been a rabid Dodgers fan. His favorite had been the cleanup hitter, Duke Snider. Danny Sr. had been at Ebbet's Field for one of the World Series games in 1955 when the Bums beat the Yanks, and he'd snagged a signature from his hero.

That signed baseball loomed large in what was left of the old man's mind, and when it disappeared from his nursing home room, he went into a tailspin. The man-child was inconsolable, refusing to leave his bed or even eat.

His son had gone to the police but the NYPD had no time for a stolen baseball, even one worth a couple—three thousand because it was signed and dated by Duke Snider in a World Series year.

And so he'd come to Jack.

Money was no object—he seemed to have plenty—if he could get back that ball.

Strange what ends a man will go to for a sick father. Fathers and sons…

Here came that lump again.

So Jack had put out feelers but got nary a nibble. For the hell of it he'd checked eBay and whattaya know—there it was. Jack had started bidding. The price topped out at $2,983. Jack simply could have bought it and ended the job then and there. But the thief would have walked off with nearly three grand. Yeah, he'd have retrieved the ball but he wouldn't have worked a fix. And that was a big part of what it was all about. Jack liked to leave his stamp on his work.

So he'd e-mailed the guy asking where to send the check and received the address of this rat hole.

Tonight he'd come to collect.

Leaving the ball in its display globe, Jack placed it in the flimsy plastic grocery bag he'd brought along, then looked around for a few other small items to take. He wanted this to look like a simple B and E—nothing personal.

A lot of… merchandise littered the floor and tables: DVD decks, iPods and other MP3 players, X-Boxes and PlayStations, video games. This guy had to be a small-time fence.

He opened the room's only closet and let out a yelp as someone leaped toward him. He had his Glock in hand and snapping up before he realized it wasn't human: But it looked human. Well, as much as a blow-up sex doll could look human. Its wide eyes and mouth fixed in a perfect lent it a perpetually surprised look.

Jack backed away and watched it make a slow-motion descent to the floor, where it bounced once and lay still.

Nothing much else in the closet but some ratty-looking clothes.

Jack reholstered the Glock and stuffed a couple of iPods and some video games—he'd heard good things about the new Metal Gear—into the bag. He stepped to the door and pressed his ear to the wood. All quiet in the hallway. He turned the knob—

—and felt the door slam into him, knocking him back. He was reaching for the Glock when he saw the pistol in the skinny white guy's hand.

"Hold it right there, fucker! Don't you fuckin' move!"

"You need help, Scotty?" said a black guy in the hall.

"Nah, I'm cool. Thanks for the call, though."

"Want me get the cops?"

"I'm cool, Chuck, I'm cool. Let me handle this."

Of course he didn't want anyone calling the cops—not with all this hot stuff in his pad.

With his free hand Scotty flipped on the overhead light, then kicked the door closed.

"Well, well, well," he said, swaggering closer. "What have we here?"

Jack put on a sheepish grin—damn well should be sheepish. He'd screwed up. One of Jack's rules was never go out on a fix if you're not one hundred percent. And he hadn't been near a hundred percent since yesterday afternoon. His concentration had been way off.

Jack could see how it went down: Someone spotted him picking Scotty's lock. The spotter called Scotty and the fence had been waiting in the hall for Jack to open the door. Good strategy, especially with Polio's delicate musicianship to mask any sounds that might have given him away.

"Heh-heh. Kind of funny, isn't it," Jack said. "I mean, you with all this stolen stuff and me stealing some of it."

"Do you see me laughing, fuck face?"

Jack flicked his gaze between Scotty's mean dark eyes and the .32-caliber pistol—a Saturday night special if he'd ever seen one—pointed at his midsection. A revolver—good. Hammer down—even better.

Guy was an amateur.

"Well, no, but—"

"But nothin'. Drop the bag."

Jack complied and raised his hands to upper-chest level. He was waiting for Scotty either to check the contents of the bag or try to pistol whip him. That was when Jack would make his move.

"Wh-what are you gonna do?"

"Know what Dumpster divin' is?"

"Sure. I had to do it now and then when I was hungry and tapped out. Why?"

"Because you're gonna do it again. Long distance. From the roof."

Jack added a quaver to his voice. "N-no, wait. W-we can—"

"We can nothin', fuck face!" He sidled in an arc to Jack's right and cocked his head toward the door. "Move. We got us some stairs to climb."

Jack shook his head. "N-no. I ain't goin'."

"Fuck you ain't!" He stepped closer, extending the pistol toward Jack's midsection. "Shoot you right here an' be done with it!"

A little closer… just a little closer…

"What are you so mad about?" He jutted his chin toward the love doll on the floor. "Not like I raped your girl or nothin'!"

Scotty's gaze flicked toward the doll. His face reddened, then whitened.

"That does it!"

The muzzle pushed forward. Jack's hand darted out and grabbed the top of the pistol. Wrapped his fingers around the cylinder. Clutched it in a death grip.

"Hey!"

Scotty pulled on the trigger. But the cylinder had to rotate before the hammer could fall. Jack had the cylinder locked in place.

Yanked on the gun, bringing Scotty closer. The fence's eyes wild with shock, confusion. Kept yanking on the trigger but getting no result. When Jack had him close enough, he let loose a vicious head butt, crushing Scotty's nose. The sound of collapsing bone and cartilage echoed through Jack's skull.

Music.

Scotty's head snapped back. Blood flowed from his flattened nose. But he didn't let go of the gun. So Jack reeled him back in for another butt. Scotty tried to use his free hand to fend him off. Jack slapped it aside and butted him again. Harder this time.

That did it. Scotty's knees buckled, his grip loosened, and Jack had the pistol all to himself.

But Scotty wasn't finished. With the loss of his weapon he became a wobbly, panicked, fist-swinging dynamo. Must have thought Jack was going to shoot him. Not the plan. Too much noise.

Ducked or blocked the fence's wild swings until he had an opening, then slammed the pistol against the side of his skull. Opened a gash but he didn't go down. Guy must have an iron skull. Leaped at Jack, slammed into him and got his arms around him. They went down, landing on the love doll. It popped and deflated with a loud hiss.

Scotty took a wild swing at Jack. This one connected. The flash of pain through Jack's chin released something within him. Dropped the gun. Grabbed one of the doll's deflated legs. Wrapped it around Scotty's throat and pulled. Felt a fierce joy, building toward exaltation, then rapture, finally exploding into a black consuming ecstasy as he tightened the plastic noose further and further—

Until he heard a small, weak, strangled voice whimper, "Please… you're killin' me… please… killin'…"

Jack stopped and saw Scotty's face. Felt the dark joy boil away. Let go and backed off, scrabbling away on palms and heels. And sat and stared at what he'd done.