Chapter 16

 

Fred awoke around seven the next morning. As was his routine, he took Molly and Who Knows downstairs for their food and water and afterward immediately out the backdoor so they could dispense with their previously processed meals and drink. When he re-entered, he was surprised by the presence of Officer Paul Lewis sitting at the kitchen table. Lewis was the patrolman of the day that Jim had rotated to guard Maureen. Because of different schedules and limited resources, Jim had to shift the watch duty to various policemen based on their availability. Unfortunately, their level of competence varied significantly, too. 

Lewis was no friend of Fred’s; in fact in a moment of lost control he had once tried to kill Fred. Only Fred’s support saved Lewis from a jail term and the loss of his job. 

Lewis had at the time been resentful that Fred had jumped over him in the selection process for promotion to lieutenant. But over the ensuing years his anger toward Fred seemed to abate, since he now was infuriated even more at Jim Hebert who hadn’t even served the intermediate step as a lieutenant before he rose to captain. Lewis believed longevity should be the only legitimate way to progress through the ranks, and he was incensed that it no longer seemed to be the code that his department was following. Due to some convoluted logic, Lewis blamed the benefactor more than those who altered the past precedents.

Part of Fred’s continuous frustration with Paul was that he was totally rooted in processes and procedures and didn’t seem to be able to stray from his strict bureaucratic interpretation of his job. He was effective when it made sense following procedures to the letter of the law, but appalling when the situation dictated that he employ some discretion and creativity. All that notwithstanding, Fred was sure that Paul was professional enough that he would ensure the safety of Maureen. In fact, Fred was positive that Paul would give his life in order to execute his job as required, even if he had little respect for Fred as his superior.

Fred had a few hours to spare before he was scheduled to meet with Debra Black. He decided to drive to the 17^th street ballpark to watch some of the senior softball games in progress. Whenever he did that, he found he could fully relax and mentally transport himself to a distant future point in time when he too would be happily retired and competing as actively as these aging Social Security and Medicare recipients. 

He watched the seniors exit their cars in the field’s adjoining parking lot—some had knee replacements, many with obvious painful arthritis, a few with non- functioning arms—but regardless of their afflictions they shared one thing in common. When they put on their sponsors’ uniforms, they suddenly felt and seemed young again. Many went into their car trunks to retrieve a prerequisite necessity before the big game, a couple of pain pills quickly gulped down. Thus rejuvenated they walked with a new-found spring in their steps from the parking lot to their respective ball fields. In their minds’ eyes they were eighteen again, competing once more for their coveted championship, energized with the same amount of gusto and loyalty to their present teams that they had exhibited to their high school and college teams many decades earlier. Maybe they were no longer as fleet of foot, and their athletic abilities were definitely limited by age, but they competed and they competed well. Fred guessed that before they had left their houses, many of them drank some sort of combination of B-12, Geritol and a Jack LaLanne special concoction. Fred couldn’t help noticing that the air was saturated with the smell of Ben-Gay. 

Fred had gotten to know the various players—Howard Quinn, an effective pitcher with an artificial knee whose volley of new off-color jokes kept his team in stitches; Bob Powell, a former football coach and now a senior softball manager, whose highly technical directions to his confused teammates often resulted in throws from outfielders in every possible direction but the right one. Earlier, Fred had met with Larry Catchpole, also a manager and still a natural athlete who could seemingly play any position when he substituted for the frequent age-related medical absences of his players.

While sitting in the bleachers, Fred mentally reviewed what he was going to say to Black. He wanted to tell her about the stolen monolith, but he was fearful such a confession would lead to his immediate arrest. Damn it, he thought, why did I keep the thing anyway? As he walked unhurriedly back to the parking lot, he was still undecided how he would deal with his meeting which was coming up in less than an hour. As he started to enter his car, a home run ball whizzed by him. It was a powerful drive that had to have traveled over the fence 300 feet from home plate and at least 20 feet beyond. Fred smiled and took his cap off to the elated player slowly limping around the bases.