Four Blind Mice

played organized ball after Little League.
    I stood on deck, trying to figure how he would play it. Actually, there weren’t any fences at the field, so he couldn’t hit one out of the park if he wanted to. So what would he do?
    The first pitch floated up to the plate, fat and juicy, but Sampson never took his bat off his shoulder. It was hard to imagine a more tempting pitch would come his way.
    Warren Griffin was doing the pitching for their team. He was a decent-enough athlete too, fielded his position well.
    “Didn’t like that one?” he called to Sampson. “What’s the matter with it?”
    “No challenge.”
    Griffin smiled. He signaled for Harris to come out to the mound. Brownley Harris was doing the catching, and he looked like a slightly shorter version of the old Red Sox great Carlton Fisk. Pudge.
    On the next pitch, Griffin wound up and delivered a windmill-style fastball toward home plate. He was real quick, what they call sneaky fast.
    But so was Sampson.
    He dropped his bat and sent a near-perfect bunt down the third-base line. They were so surprised, he could have walked to first base and made it easily. He was on, the bases full.
    “Up to you, sugar,” Sampson called from first base. He was grinning at me, winking, pointing an imaginary six-gun my way.
    I started to smile as I strolled to the plate. He’d put me on the spot, just as he’d planned it.
    “You like a challenge too?” Warren Griffin called from the pitcher’s mound.
    “You a bunter or a hitter?” Starkey taunted from his spot at shortstop.
    The catcher, Brownley Harris, settled in behind me. “What’s it going to be, hotshot? How you want it?”
    I looked back at him. “Surprise me,” I said.
    Griffin set up for a windmill-style pitch, so I figured he was coming with heat.
What the hell?
I thought.
Just a friendly little game.
    The fast pitch came in a little high, but it was close enough to my wheelhouse that I couldn’t resist taking a whack. The bat cracked and the ball shot straight over the pitcher’s head, still picking up speed and altitude. It flew over the center fielder’s head too. Our team of misfits was going crazy screaming and cheering from the bench. Suddenly, there was some joy in Mudville.
    I was on my horse, rounding the bases. Starkey gave me a look as I touched second and raced past him. It was as if he knew something.
Did he?
    I made it to third and saw Sampson ahead of me; he was waving me home. I didn’t even look toward the outfield — I was coming no matter what happened out there.
    I curled around third base, and then I accelerated. I probably hadn’t moved this fast in years. I was really motoring.
    Brownley Harris was waiting for me at home plate — but where was the ball? I was moving like a runaway train when I saw the throw from the outfield skipping through the infield on two hops. Hell, it was going to beat me home. Goddamn it.
    Harris held his ground as he took the perfect throw from the center fielder. He had me dead to rights.
    I kept barreling toward him. Harris was blocking home plate with his beefy body. If I hit him hard, it might knock the ball loose. His dark, hooded eyes held mine. He was ready for impact, whatever I could give him. He looked as though he’d played some football, still looked tough and in shape. Army Ranger. Killer. His eyes bordered on mean.
    I was bearing down on Harris, and as I got close I lowered my shoulder. Let him see what was coming his way.
    Then, at the last possible instant, I went wide and low. I did a pretty hook slide around the catcher. With my left hand, I touched home plate between his thick legs and muddy cleats.
    “Safe!” the umpire yelled, and spread his arms wide.
    As I was getting up, I caught sight of Harris out of the corner of my eye. He was moving toward me fast. This could be trouble. No more friendly little game.
    His right arm suddenly shot forward and he slapped me five.
    “Nice play,” he said. “You got us that time, partner. Be ready for you next time. Hell, we’re all on the same team anyway, right? H and K all the way.”
    Jesus, he actually seemed like a nice guy.
    For a killer.

Chapter 83
    “YOU RUN PRETTY good for a washed-up cop in his early forties,” Sampson said as we walked through a dusty lot filled mostly with minivans and trucks. We’d seen enough at the company picnic. After our show of respectability, we’d lost the softball game by seven runs — and it could have been even worse.
    “At