Three Strikes and You're Dead Read Online Free

gave a quick nod and hurried away.
     
     
    “Don’t look at me,” Ty said to his manager, his hands in the air. “I was just tryin’ to congratulate him.” The grin was back on his face.
     
     
    Washington scowled at him. “I got no patience for grandstanding,” he said, pointing his finger at his star player. Then his expression softened. He gave Ty a soft punch in the arm. “Good job today, son.”
     
     
    “Thanks, Coach.”
     
     
    “Yes, congratulations, Ramos,” a deep voice said from behind Ty.
     
     
    I saw concern flash in Washington’s eyes and just as quickly disappear as the manager gave the owner a hearty smile, and said, “Congratulations to you, H.B. I told you we had a winning team.”
     
     
    Bennett rested a hand on Ty’s shoulder. “Leave us alone, boy.”
     
     
    “Sure thing, sir,” Ty said, looking to Washington, who waved him away.
     
     
    “I don’t like it when my orders are ignored,” Bennett said.
     
     
    “Shouldn’t we discuss this in your office?” Washington said softly, his eyes on the television reporter across the room. “We don’t want to be overheard.”
     
     
    “Don’t tell me where I can talk. This is my team and my locker room. You’re my employee, and don’t forget it.”
     
     
    Washington shrugged, but even from a distance away I could see a vein beating in his temple, a sign of the tension he felt. “Suit yourself,” he said, feigning nonchalance.
     
     
    “I do suit myself. And so should you if you know what’s good for you. Didn’t I tell you to leave him in?”
     
     
    I noticed that with all the Gatorade, beer, and soda flowing, no one in the locker room had dared pour a drop over Harrison Bennett, Sr. He was immaculately dressed in a gray sharkskin suit, a white shirt, and a tie patterned with little baseball caps of red, white, and blue. He was a tall man, broadly built, with a receding hairline camouflaged by a buzz cut that gave him the appearance of someone in the military.
     
     
    Washington plucked at his damp jersey and weighed his words. “Junior hadn’t connected all day,” he said slowly. “The Texons had a leftie on the mound. We needed a good bat against a left-handed pitcher. Ramos was that bat.” He locked eyes with Bennett, his lips a tight line.
     
     
    “I don’t pay you to second-guess my instructions.”
     
     
    “But you do pay me to win,” Washington said. “And that’s what we did.”
     
     
    The Gazette reporter, pretending not to listen, was inching toward the two men, and across the room Karen Locke strode in their direction and beckoned to her cameraman, who switched on the light on top of the camera.
     
     
    Bennett squinted in the glare. “Turn that off, and get it out of here if you want to keep your locker room privileges.”
     
     
    “But, H.B.,” Karen said, smiling sweetly, “the people in Mesa are always interested in what you have to say.”
     
     
    “I already gave you a quote. I said turn it off.”
     
     
    Karen gestured to the cameraman, who extinguished the light.
     
     
    “Now get out of here,” H.B. said. “And that goes for you, too, Tedeschi. Put that notebook away. You print anything I didn’t tell you directly, the Gazette will never get another interview with a Rattler. Do I make myself clear?”
     
     
    The locker room had fallen silent, all signs of celebration suspended. Meg gripped my hand again.
     
     
    I watched, fascinated, as the reporters retreated from H.B. Obviously, freedom of the press was not honored here. It was more important to maintain access to the team than to challenge its owner in public. But I wondered why in the midst of a celebration of his team’s victory its owner would reprimand the man responsible. It obviously had to do with the manager’s decision to use Ty as a pinch hitter for the owner’s son. I’m not a big baseball fan, although I do enjoy following the trials and tribulations of the Boston Red Sox, and I’m