“Alright already,” Pierre said. “Finish up.”
Michael had finished peeing ten seconds ago. But he pretended he was not done. He waited another few moments and demonstrated the task was completed by shaking up and down.
“Pierre,” Michael said, “with all that’s going on, my stomach is upset. I have … you know … diarrhea. Very nasty.”
Grunts and shrieks filled the air, Miss Christine was putting up a good fight. But she still needed his help.
“Mon Dieu,” Pierre replied, “go behind that tree. But stay where I can see you.”
Michael shuffled over to the large palm tree, his leg irons rattling, closer to the object. He pulled down the blindfold so he could see better. Pierre was oblivious.
He crouched, slid his pants to his ankles and pretended to evacuate his bowels.
“Your friend seems to be having a good time in there,” Michael observed.
Pierre grunted, lighting a cigarette. “I get her next time.”
Michael reached down with his right hand, his pitching hand, and grabbed a rock the size of his fist. He sucked in two quick breaths. He would have one chance. If he missed, he would die. A bullet would rip through him. If he did nothing, Miss Christine might die.
Bad things happen when good people do nothing!
Michael rose up pretending to be done. Squeezing the rock under his arm, he snapped his jeans closed. He let the rock slide down into the fingers of his right hand. It was oblong with sharp edges.
That’s good, he thought. If I hit him, it will do more damage.
“Stay there, Pierre,” Michael called out. “It’s pretty disgusting back here. I’m coming out.”
There was just enough play in the ankle chains to allow him to shift his feet. Any good ballplayer—and Michael considered himself one—pointed his shoulder at his target and stepped into his throw for maximum velocity and accuracy. The ankle chains would not allow him to step. This heave would be all arm, like he was turning a double play at second base with the runner at his feet.
He peeked out from behind the tree and spied Pierre, dropping the stub of his cigar to the ground and crushing it under his foot.
Now!
The chains at his feet rattled. Michael pushed out from behind the tree, his shoes scuffing the sandy ground. Hearing the commotion, Pierre started to raise his lowered head. Michael stared at his target, the small space between the Frenchman’s bushy eyebrows.
Aim small, miss small!
He rotated his upper body as he had done thousands of times on the pitcher’s mound. Pointing his left shoulder, he cocked his right arm behind him. Pulling down and back with his left arm to create torque and rotation, Michael slung his right arm up and out in a three-quarter arm slot, just like his pitching coach had instructed. He released the rock as his arm reached full extension.
Michael felt a pain and heard a pop in his elbow as the rock left his hand.
The words “Please God!” slipped from his lips.