Chasing Hindy by Darin Gibby

Title: Chasing Hindy
Author: Darin Gibby
Publisher: Koehler Books
Pages: 284
Genre: Thriller

ADDY’S DREAM AS a patent attorney is to help bring a ground breaking energy technology to the world. Addy’s hopes soar when she is wooed by Quinn, an entrepreneur, to join his company that has purportedly invented a car that can run on water using an innovative catalyst. After resigning her partnership to join Quinn, Addy discovers things aren’t as they seem. The patent office suppresses the company’s patent applications and her life is threatened by unknown assailants if she doesn’t resign.

When she is arrested for stealing US technology from the patent office she realizes Quinn has used her. Now, Addy must find a way to clear her name while salvaging her dream of propelling this technology to the world, all while powerful forces attempt to stop her.

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Book Excerpt:

ADDY FELT LIKE jumping out of her car and doing a quick happy dance in the middle of stalled traffic. Her excitement at   becoming  the  newest—and  youngest—partner  at  the intellectual property law firm of Wyckoff & Schechter was nearly overwhelming.

She grinned at the shadow on the hood of Hindy, her treasured retrofitted cherry red Shelby Mustang. The shadow was created by a barrel-sized, hydrogen-filled balloon that floated above the Mustang’s roof. Gawkers pointed and laughed as the Shelby eased down El Camino pulling the tethered balloon as if in a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. The balloon—which on one side sported her law firm’s logo, and on the other Hindy in giant cursive script—was just an advertising gimmick to show her passion for alternative energies. It was only strapped to the roof on calm, sunny days when she was travelling at slow speeds using routes that avoided overpasses. The retrofitted Mustang was  really powered by four electric motors using electricity produced by solar panels and a conventional fuel cell.

At first, the Wyckoff partners questioned Addy’s prudence in strapping a floating balloon to the roof of any vehicle, but they’d

come to admire the effectiveness of her marketing innovations. They even lifted their champagne glasses at the end of her mentor’s welcome speech acknowledging that her Shelby was responsible for bringing in increasing numbers of the “green” companies sprouting like weeds all over the Silicon Valley— inventive, entrepreneurial companies in need of legal advice and support for their patents.

While  the  traffic  inched  forward,  Addy  chuckled  with excitement. “Hindy, ol’ pal,” she said, patting the dashboard, “you and I are going places now! Next time some overzealous cops accuse you of being a traffic hazard, I’ll stare them down and inform them they’re messing with the partner of a highly prestigious law firm.”

Traffic  momentarily  loosened  and  Addy  eased  Hindy forward, careful not to snap the lines tethering the egg-shaped balloon. Addy sang along with Zissy Spaeth, pop rock’s newest and most flashy star, as Zissy belted out her latest hit, Light in Your Eyes, over the radio. In the corner of her eye she noticed a blaze of neon orange.

Her heart stopped. In the car next to her someone was pointing a bazooka-sized gizmo at her balloon. She blinked, trying to clear her vision.

A  flare shot  out,  aimed  straight  at  her  floating ball  of

hydrogen.

Even in the late afternoon sunlight, it was impossible to miss the explosion. The dirigible burst into a giant fireball, then slowly deflated and floated down toward the Shelby’s crimson hood.

Addy  stomped  on  her  brakes,  hoping  the  balloon’s momentum would shoot the flaming mass forward. The fireball, safely secured by its fluorescent yellow nylon tethers, crashed down onto the windshield, blocking Addy’s view. She screeched to a halt, slammed her shoulder into the door, flung it open, and darted out, catching the heel of her pump on the doorjamb, which sent her sprawling headlong onto the pavement.

She heard tires squeal and at least a half dozen blaring horns. Stinging pain shot up from her elbow and knees. Thank goodness traffic had been just inching along.

Ignoring the pain, she bolted forward, arms raised, ready

to yank the still-burning fabric off the windshield. Before she got close enough to grab it, the sweltering heat from the flames scorched her cheeks, and she shielded her eyes with her forearm. Just when she reached the hood, a breeze lifted the infernal blob and propelled it directly at her, the nylon cords now seared through.

She braced herself for the fireball when she felt arms wrap around her chest and yank her back, barely in time to avoid the searing molten mass of goo about to descend on her head, threatening to fry her face and melt her hair.

“Are you crazy? What are you thinking?” a deep voice

bellowed in her ear, still holding her tight.

Together they watched what was left of the blimp float like a falling leaf onto the grassy shoulder, just like the Hindenburg did almost eighty years ago.

“Someone clearly doesn’t like you, short stuff,” her rescuer said, now standing next to her stroking his goatee, his face hidden behind dark sunglasses and a low-riding Dodgers cap. “More like out to get you. That was some kind of flare the driver shot at your blimp. I tried to spot his license plate, but it was covered up. Snapped a picture with my phone, though,” the man said fishing it from his pocket. “You can kind of see a tattoo on his forearm. The police will love this.”

Before she could thank him, someone cried out, “Call a fire

truck! The grass!”

Brush fires in California were no joking matter. Addy could smell the smoldering grasses. A strong breeze fanned the flames, pushing the fire toward a row of redwood trees.

Then she heard a whiny voice coming from the milling crowd of stranded passengers who’d gathered to find out what was holding up their homeward commute. “I’ve seen that blimp before. I knew it was trouble,” the whiner complained.

“Yeah, but at least she’s part of the solution,” said someone else. “Her car doesn’t use gasoline. Look at what you’re driving,” he said, sneering at the whiny woman’s crossover SUV.

Addy’s knees buckled, her head spinning. She plopped down onto the pavement and hugged her bare legs. This couldn’t be happening.

Why would someone try to destroy her car?

The Investment Club by Doug Cooper

Title: THE INVESTMENT CLUB
Author: Doug Cooper
Publisher: Rare Bird Books
Pages: 362
Genre: Literary/Upmarket Fiction

Forty million people visit Vegas every year but most never get past the strip. What about the people who live there? What brought them there? What keeps them there?

Told from the perspective of a seasoned blackjack dealer, The Investment Club tells the stories of a self-destructive, dwarf entrepreneur, a drug-addicted musical performer-turned-stripper, a retired, widowed New Jersey policeman, a bereaved, divorced female sportscaster, and a card-counting, former Catholic priest before and after their fateful meeting at the El Cortez Casino in downtown Vegas.

As the five learn the greatest return comes from investing in one another, their lives stabilize and take on new, positive directions. But their love and support for each other can take them only so far before they must determine the meaning and value of their own lives.

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First Chapter:

Chapter 1

Date: Friday, January 17, 2014                                                        Dow Jones Open: 16,408.02

           Never split tens.                                                                                    

           The words flashed in their eyes and formed on their lips. Nervous fingering of chips followed. Except for third base, the last, and most important, seat at the table. He controlled the fates of the other players, a role he seemed to enjoy. His stout digits remained steadfast, cupped over the stack of ten black chips measured to split the hand. Never had a doubt. Once he saw the house had a five of hearts, he knew his play.

My left hand slid to the shoe, eyes directed toward first base. “Twelve.”

The brim of her faded green military cap angled downward, concealing her eyes and half of her tawny face. Her hat more fashion than function, this girl had never served, at least in the armed forces. Her body, though, was all function. Lean and mean. Definitely put on this earth to move. It was just a question of if that was in the vertical or the horizontal.

She waved her hand over the cards, never lifting her gaze from the table. “I’ll stay. You’re going to bust.” She was there for one purpose: to make money. Played every night. Never for less than $25 per hand and often as high as $200 when she really got rolling. I wouldn’t say she was unfriendly or mean. Just had an edge to her. Wanted to be left alone and not have to talk to anyone.

Next to her in seat two, a burly man, about six foot two or three—somewhere in his late sixties— nodded approvingly. He had a half-inch gray flattop that with each tilt of his head revealed a thinning patch on top. “Good girl,” he said. “You don’t have to have great cards; just need the dealer to have worse ones.“ He plucked a red five-dollar chip off his stack and placed it next to his bet. Holding up his index finger, he said, “One card, down please.”

Sliding the card from the shoe without revealing the value, I said, “Down and dirty.” Directing my attention to his neighbor, I nodded at the seventeen in front of the surgically enhanced Barbie doll in seat three. “The ol’ mother-in-law’s hand.”

She furrowed her brow, barely wrinkling her taut forehead. “What does that mean?” It was obvious she didn’t know the game, but she wasn’t stupid either. Everything she did had a purpose. What she revealed at the table was exactly what she wanted the others to see to elicit the reaction she desired.

“It’s a seventeen,” I said, about to drop one of my standard lines, good at least a few times a night. “It’s like your mother-in-law. You want to hit it, but you can’t.”

“Well, I don’t have to worry about one of those.” Her eyes sank to her cards. “So do I hit or not?”

The burly, elderly man to her right said, “Always assume the dealer has a ten as the down card, sweetie. With the dealer showing five, you don’t want to hit because the house probably has fifteen and is going to bust.”

“Just let her play her hand, gramps,” the guy at third base said. Diminutive in stature—oh hell, I’ll just say it. He was a little person or dwarf or whatever the politically correct term is these days. He played with aggression and anger. Winning wasn’t enough. He wanted more. Acted like he deserved it. Like the world owed it to him. He banged back the remainder of his third cognac and motioned for the cocktail waitress to bring another one.

Nip-Tuck Barbie pushed her puffy lips out in a pout, waving her perfectly manicured fingers over her cards. “I’ll hold then.”

Seat four was all business. He was around fifty, black and distinguished, with a wiry frame. He had short salt-and-pepper hair on the sides and back that connected into a beard the same length but much thicker than the rest. Too methodical to be a pro, but he knew the game. He was firm and decisive. It was obvious he liked the strategy and analysis. My guess was accountant. His face was too kind to be a broker or a banker. Wasting no time, he pushed his fingers outward from his clenched fist over the cards. “I’m good with eighteen.”

The waitress delivered another cognac to the little guy at third base. He took a green twenty-five-dollar chip from his growing stack, which was almost as high as the one on his shoulder. He downed the drink in one gulp. “Bring me another,” he said. His eyes were drooping with each drink. He ran his hand through his wavy, reddish-brown hair and pushed the thousand-dollar black stack next to his bet. With his index and pinky fingers extended like a two-pronged fork, he said, “Split ’em.”

I tilted my head to alert the pit boss. “Checks play. Splitting tens.”

Gramps said, “Come on, junior. You’re going to take the bust card and screw the table.”

The pit boss walked over. “Splitting tens. Go ahead.”

I pulled the first card from the shoe, hesitating before revealing its identity. “You sure about this?”

He pressed his index finger repeatedly into the felt. “Flip the damn card.”

It was an ace. “Twenty-one.”

He pointed at the second ten. “Paint it.”

I pulled a queen from the shoe. “Split again?”

“Nah, I’m good with twenty,” he said. “I don’t want to be greedy.”

“Too late for that,” the Accountant in seat four said.

I knew what was going to happen before I even played my hand. I had seen it too many times before. One asshole screwing it up for everyone else. I revealed my down card. A king of spades. “Dealer has fifteen.”

The Accountant rubbed the bald patch on the crown of his head and shifted back in his chair. “Would’ve busted if you hadn’t split.”

“Come on, need a big one,” Lean and Mean at first base sneered.

I flipped the next card to add to my fifteen. An ace of clubs. “Sixteen,” I said, “Not going down easy.”

“Six or higher, six or higher,” Gramps said, standing from his chair.

I pulled the next card, peeking under the corner to delay their unfortunate fate before flipping a three of hearts. “House has nineteen.”

I scooped Lean and Mean’s last four green chips from the bet circle.

She ripped her hat off in disgust, her thick black hair and crescent eyes now visible, and glared at Junior. “You’re such a dick.”

I placed my hand on Gramps’s down card.

He pleaded for a ten. “Monkey, monkey, monkey.”

I turned over a six of diamonds. “Seventeen.” I snagged the two red chips from his failed double and redeposited them into the house bank. Returning to Nip-Tuck Barbie, in one motion I collected her chips and also seat four’s. “Another seventeen and eighteen, not enough to beat the nineteen.”

Greedily rubbing his hands together, Junior said, “But my twenty-one and twenty are. Daddy about to get paid!”

I pushed two stacks of one thousand to match his bets. “Twenty black going out.”

The pit boss approved the payout.

“That’s it for me,” Lean and Mean said. “I’m not wasting any more money playing with this jackoff.”

“Me, too,” Gramps said and pushed his thirty-eight fifty to the center to cash in. “I’m done.”

“Quit your bitching,” Junior said, tipping the waitress fifty for the new cognac.

“But we all would’ve won if you hadn’t split,” Gramps said.

Junior tossed two of the blacks back to me. “Give me some green.”

I measured two stacks of four green chips. “Check change. Two black coming in.”

He combined the stacks and tossed four green at Lean and Mean and one each at the other three players, giving the last one to me. “That ought to cover it, you bunch of cry babies. That’s why they call it gambling.”

Lean and Mean flipped the chips back to him. “I don’t need your charity.”

He pushed them to the middle of the table. “Well somebody take them because I don’t want them.” His eyes scanned the players, stopping on Lean and Mean. She put her hat back on and pulled the brim low again. He said, “Heeey, wait a second. I know you. You work down at OGs, don’t you? You and your girlfriend soaked me for about five grand one night.”

OGs was Olympic Gardens, a midlevel strip club on Las Vegas Boulevard between downtown and the strip. Midlevel because it’s not as swanky as the upper-tier places like Spearmint Rhino or Sapphire, but it’s also not the bottom rung like you walked into a methadone clinic the day after New Year’s. OGs biggest advantages are the location right on LV Boulevard and having male and female dancers to cater to both genders. The men perform upstairs and the women downstairs, which was obviously set up by a man, because that’s how most men want to operate in their relationships as well. If patrons want some seediness without feeling the need to bathe in hand sanitizer after leaving, then OGs is the place.

Lean and Mean snatched her purse off the back of her chair and slung it over her shoulder. “I don’t know you.”

“Well, you should. We spent about four hours in the VIP room. Your name’s, um…Faith, and your girlfriend, oh, what was her name? She was a real rock climber, that one. She had that chalk bag of coke in her underwear and kept bumping me up while she was dancing. Damn, what was her name? I kept calling her Dora the Explorer.”

Gramps said, “Just drop it. The lady said she don’t know you.”

“What are you, her pimp?” Junior gulped more cognac.

“That’s OK,” she said. “I was just leaving.” She turned and angled toward the door. Gramps followed her.

Nip-Tuck Barbie squirmed in her chair. “Geez, I never knew blackjack had so much drama.”

Junior picked up the hundred dollars in green that he had tried to give Lean and Mean from the middle of the table. “For someone who works for tips, you’d think she’d be more appreciative.” He tossed them to me. “I’m sure you’ll put these to good use.”

And that was how I met these five broken people—a drug-addict singer-turned-stripper; a widowed, retired New Jersey police officer; an alcoholic, divorced sportscaster; a card-counting, ex–Catholic priest; and a self-destructive, dwarf entrepreneur—who all somehow managed to wander into the El Cortez and sit at my table on a random Tuesday night.

I haven’t always been a blackjack dealer, but I have always lived in Vegas—fifty-seven years. Have held just about every hospitality job this town has to offer, from parking cars to cooking food to serving drinks. What I’ve never done is been a big winner. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my share of winnings, but they don’t even come close to the losses. For every night in the black, there were two or three in the red, and the red numbers always seem to be higher than the black ones. Don’t let anyone tell you different. They might say they’re even, but they’re well south of even; it’s just a question of how far. That’s why I gave it up years ago and switched to this side of the table. I can guarantee you I walk out of the casino up every night.

I’ve tried dealing other games, but there’s just something about blackjack. I like how communal the game is. I like how strangers sit down and in no time will be fist-bumping and high-fiving. Of course there are a fair share of squabbles as well, like the one I just told you about. You see, a lot of players think they’re just playing their individual hands, that they should trust their guts. But the good ones know there are rules and every decision at the table affects everyone else. I know the math says different, that each play is an independent event and will help others just as often as it hurts. But I’m talking about the bigger play, the energy at the table, the stuff that flows through and carries us all.

Yeah, I’ve seen a lot in my years flipping cards. Seen players win fifteen hands in a row and lose just as many; be down to their last ten dollars and walk away up a thousand; win five grand and slink away with their pockets turned inside out. Won’t say I’ve seen it all, though. Just when I think I have, a night like that Tuesday happens, and a story like I’m about to tell you unfolds.

Now I’ll admit I wasn’t present for all the stuff I’m about to share. Some of it I was and some of it was told to me, and, well, some of it I just filled in the blanks, and you’re going to have to trust me because in this job I’ve learned how to read people and recognize problems before they happen: the colleagues headed for an affair, the social drinker on the road to alcoholism, and the newlyweds who won’t make it to their fifth anniversary. Amazing what people will reveal across three feet of felt. They think they’re in control, but putting a stack of their hard-earned money on the table loosens up more than their wallets. It triggers their vulnerability, and that opens up the vault to all their secrets. I just have to watch and listen, like reading an open ledger. Most tell more than I ever care to know, as much by what they don’t say as what they do.

                                                                                                            Dow Jones Close: 16,458.56

Gil by Darin Gibby

Title: GIL
Author: Darin Gibby
Publisher: Keohler Books
Pages: 301
Genre: Contemporary Fiction/Baseball

Some gifts come with a price.

Twenty years before, high school coach Gil Gilbert gave up his dream to play professional baseball so he could marry his pregnant girlfriend, Keri. When he miraculously discovers that he can pitch with deadly accuracy and speed, he must choose between his successful career and comfortable family life or his chance to play with the Colorado Rockies during a player’s strike. Gil stuns the pitching staff with 100 mph fastballs and is offered a contract.

After joining the Rockies, the world soon learns that Gil is a supernatural phenomenon and the Rockies keep winning. But Gil soon faces stiff opposition, including a frivolous lawsuit, a father who feels his son’s calling to pitch is to save souls, and threats from the striking players. As the season progresses, Gil discovers that his unexpected gift is the result of a rare disease, and continuing to pitch may hasten his own death.  While Keri supports his decision to keep playing, she is fearful about her husband’s bizarre health condition.

Gil must decide what price he is willing to pay to live his dream.

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GIL HURLED THE baseball as hard as he could at the

backstop. He needed to blow off steam and calm himself before

he did something stupid, or regrettable. He picked up another ball

from the fluorescent-orange five-gallon bucket, and concentrated

on his form.

He was consumed with frustration, and was venting with the

baseball instead of with his fists or mouth. He tried concentrating

on his form instead of his woes. Gil could control his pitches,

but not his destiny. He was good, but not good enough. At age

forty-four, Gil knew he was well past his prime and was trying

to accept the inevitability of unfulfilled dreams.

He reached again into the bucket beside him on the mound

and grabbed another ball. Focusing his form, he hurled another,

and then another. Arm back; elbow bent, he told himself. He

threw once again, then he looked up, and saw his buddy and

assistant coach, Peck, making his way over to him from a series

of disjointed brown brick buildings, the campus of the Prairie

Ridge High School Coyotes.

“First strike I’ve seen you throw all night. What gives, Gil?”

Gil kept his foot lodged against the rubber on the pitcher’s

mound then stooped down and plucked up another baseball.

2 GIL

With a quick windup, another of his pitches cut the thin Colorado

air and hammered the fence.

“Okay,” Peck interrupted, stepping between the mound and

home plate. “That’s enough, Gil. We need to talk before you ruin

a whole bucket of balls—and your arm. With these budget cuts

we’ll be lucky if we get enough for the season.” He turned and

made his way to the backstop, tugging on two balls lodged in the

wire lattice. Peck yanked one out and ran his fingers across the

torn leather.

“Holy crap,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

Gil flippantly tossed the ball back into the orange bucket.

“What’s got you so pissed off?” Peck asked.

Gil slid the back of his worn leather glove across his brow.

“I’ve got my reasons.”

“Like?”

“All my life I’ve worked so hard, tried to do the right thing,

and look what it’s gotten me.”

Peck lifted up his ball cap and smoothed back his brown

wavy hair, letting his burly hand glide over his six-inch mullet.

“Are you kidding me? You’ve got the hottest wife this side

of the Mississippi, two of the most well-mannered kids I’ve ever

met, and you’re one of the most highly respected high school

coaches in the state. And you’re still playing ball—and coaching

it. Most guys your age gave it up long ago. What’s with the selfpity?”

“My age, exactly,’’ Gil huffed. “What I’ve really got is some

loser job that is going nowhere fast.”

“Shoot, Gil. I’m your assistant. What does that make me? A

double loser?’’

Peck made his way to the mound, his tattooed arms folded,

like a coach ready to talk some sense into his rattled starter, or

else make a decision to yank him before the other team could do

any more damage.

“How so?”

“We don’t need to go into this, not now.”

Peck continued rolling the ball in his hands, digging his

fingernail into the sliced leather. “Oh, I think we do. You know,

with the strike, all the major league teams are looking for

replacement players. You could try out for the Rockies.”

DARIN GIBBY 3

Gil grunted. “That’s not going to last. The owners will cave

before the season starts and all those replacement players will

be back on the streets. Besides, I gave up that dream—and I’m

too old. All I’ve been doing is messing around in the rec leagues

for years. I’d get creamed, even by replacement players.”

“Not from what I’ve seen. You can still throw in the eighties,

and you have a big breaking ball. I’ve seen it. No way, I bet you

were just firing at least eighty-five,” said Peck, looking at one of

the scarred balls he plucked from the fence. “That’s better than

most minor leaguers.”

“You never told me why you didn’t try to play professionally,”

Peck continued. “You must have had one rocket of an arm when

you were younger.”

“Unlike you, I didn’t stand a chance,” Gil snapped back.

“That’s not what I heard. And not with what I just watched

you throw. What gives?”

“It’s really complicated.”

“Try me.”

Gil hung his head and breathed out deeply.

“Well, when I was playing for ASU, a lot of scouts were

looking at me. I had to make a decision.”

“Like?”

“Being a responsible adult and finishing my degree, or being

flighty and chasing some harebrained idea that I was good

enough to play professional baseball.”

“I take it you were offered a contract?”

Gil nodded.

“You never told me that. So why didn’t you sign?”

“Some things came up, and getting a degree seemed like a

better choice than wasting my life away in the minors.”

“Easy there. Remember who you’re talking to.”

“You had a real chance, Peck—if you hadn’t had those elbow

problems. Not so with me. Do you know how many twenty-yearolds

can throw a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball?”

Peck shrugged.

“A whole bunch.” Gil adjusted his cap. “It’s water under the

bridge. My life is in the history books. I made my bed and all

that stuff. I’ve lived a very mediocre life. Four years of misery

to get a physics degree. I was too much of a loser to even try to

4 GIL

get a masters degree. I took a job as a lousy high school teacher

making fifty thousand a year, coaching on the side. What kind of

loser career is that?”

“Again, Gil, consider your audience. At least you are the

head coach. Look at me. I’d kill for your job.”

Gil spit and covered up the spittle with a kick of his toe. “You

know I didn’t mean that.”

“But seriously. How can you say it is a loser job? With all

the talk of your science fair this year—and another season in the

playoffs—you could easily get teacher of the year. How many

people can brag about that? And the kids here love you to death.

You are the coolest teacher ever. How many high school students

beg to have their science teacher play at their prom? You can

sing Sunday Bloody Sunday better than Bono.”

“When I get to play him! The only gigs I get anymore are

overplayed country songs about some guy finding religion. Have

I ever written one of my own?”

Peck shrugged. “I’ll bet you have.”

“Well maybe, but you’ll never hear it on the radio. Just good

ol’ Gil. Friend to everyone, foe to no one. That’s all I am.”

“Well tell me this, if teaching is such a loser job as you say,

then why did you choose it?”

Gil shook his head. “I don’t want to go there.”

Peck hopped up beside his friend and shoved him back,

enough to dislodge Gil’s foot from the rubber. “With the energy

you were putting into that ball, I think we need to go there. Come

clean with me. How long have we been together?”

Gil’s jaw muscles clenched, and he slapped his glove against

his thigh then looked up into the fading sky. “Alright, I’ll tell

you, if you really want to know. I did the honorable thing and

married her, then dumped any dream of playing pro ball. I took

a teaching job to pay for the baby. Would you believe that I

met her at a frat party? You know when you go to those dinner

parties and everyone has to tell how they met? I couldn’t do it.

I made up some story about how I picked her out of the crowd

when we were playing UCLA.”

“Whoa, wait a minute. Way too much information. I didn’t

mean to pry like that.”

“She was pregnant. My plans for baseball were over. And

DARIN GIBBY 5

don’t you ever mention it to anyone—my kids don’t know.”

Peck reached out and put a hand on Gil’s broad shoulder.

“How was that a bad thing? Look at what it got you.”

“Yeah, a beautiful family that I can’t even support. Not

now—not now that I am going to lose everything.”

“Gil, what exactly are you talking about?”

“The little turd is suing me, that’s what.”

“Are you drinking, man?”

“Do I ever drink? I am the clean-cut all-American parent.

Except that now I am getting hauled into court.”

“For what? Wait, for when Zach was screwing around after

practice and thunked Shaila in the head?”

“Yes, they’re suing the school and me personally. Two

million bucks. Claiming the ball cracked her skull and caused

brain damage.”

“If you ask me, the ditz already had brain damage.”

“Yeah, well tell that to a jury. They are going to wipe me out.”

“They can ask for anything, you know that. Besides that, the

school district is required to defend you.”

“That’s what I thought, but it’s not that clear. What if they

don’t? I can’t afford a lawyer. You know how much I make. What

am I going to do?”

Peck also spit and shook his head. “I see now.” Then he went

and fished a catcher’s mitt from the equipment bag. “Okay, at

least throw the rest at me so we don’t destroy any more balls. And

don’t worry, they won’t fire you. Can you imagine the protests?

You’ve had a winning season for fifteen straight years.”

Gil went into a full windup and whipped the ball at his catcher,

each pitch slamming into the glove with a loud smack. Peck bolted

up and tossed down the mitt, shaking his stinging hand.

“Holy crap! What is going on here? You taking some kind of

performance cocktail? Your gut is gone, your chest looks like a

bulldog’s, and you are solid as a rock.”

A hint of a smile crept onto Gil’s weathered face. “Drugs?

Never did them—not being the son of a preacher.”

“Then what? You don’t just all of the sudden hurl like that.”

“Mid-life crisis is all. Lots of stress builds the physique… and

I’ve been working out some.”

“No, man. What kind of drugs are you on? I’ve caught for a

6 GIL

lot of pitchers, but nothing like this. You gotta be throwing in the

nineties, pushing a hundred. I’ve got to get a speed gun on you,

Gil. What is the record these days?”

“The fastest pitch? Some say Bob Feller threw a one-hundredand-

seven-mile-an-hour fastball, but who knows? Most of those

guys were full of themselves. That was before radar, so it is all

speculation.”

“You are the science guy. You should know.”

“Since modern speed guns came around, there has been a few

clocked at one hundred and four, and in 2010 Aroldis Chapmin

was officially measured at one hundred and five. But it’s hard to

say. Feller thought Satchel Paige was the fastest pitcher alive.

So, could he throw faster than one hundred and seven?”

“What were you in college?”

“Fastest was ninety-one.”

“Then that confirms it—you are all screwed up my friend.

A forty-four-year-old man can’t throw like that, not without a

whole lotta dope.”

“No drugs, man. You’re just getting old. Bad eyesight and

soft hands. Still getting those manicures?”

“Hey, the last time was with you. Come on Gil. Let’s be

honest here. This is crazy stuff. Those balls I pulled out of the

fence—the leather was completely torn through. Let’s try one

more, just as a sanity check. Let me have it. Get really pissed off.

Imagine you are throwing at that lawyer’s face.”

Peck backpedaled to the plate and pounded his fist into his

glove. “Give me all you’ve got.”

This time the ball whizzed into Peck’s glove with the same

familiar smack. Peck removed his hand from the glove. The

palm was red.

“I think that confirms it,” he said, shaking his head.

“Tomorrow I am going to make a few calls.”