Immediately after that, the cellular phone he
carried rang. He let it ring four times before he answered it.
Only one person had the number. He knows I hate to be
disturbed on weekends, he thought angrily.
Reluctantly, he lifted the antenna, pressed a button,
and spoke into the mouthpiece. "Hello?"
The voice at the other end spoke quietly for several
minutes. Daddy listened, nodding from time to time. Finally
he said, "Yes. I understand. I'll take care of it." He put the
phone away.
"Is everything all right, darling?" his wife asked.
"No. I'm afraid it isn't. They want me to work over the
weekend. I was planning a nice barbecue for us tomorrow."
His wife took his hand and said lovingly, "Don't worry
about it. Your work is more important."
Not as important as my family, he thought stubbornly.
David Smith would understand. His hand began to itch
fiercely and he scratched it. Why must he do that? He
wondered. I'll have to see a dermatologist one of these
days.
John Blackburn was the assistant manager at the local
supermarket. A burly man in his fifties, he had agreed to
manage the little League team because his son was a
ballplayer. His team had lost that afternoon because of
young Bob. The supermarket had closed, and John
Blackburn was in the parking lot, walking toward his car,
when a stranger approached him, carries a package.
"Excuse me, Mr. Blackburn."
"Yes?"
"I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment."
"The store is closed."
"Oh, it's not that. I wanted to talk to you about my son.
Bob is very upset that you took him out of the game and
told him he couldn't play again."
"Bob is your son? I'm sorry he was even in the game.
He'll never be a ballplayer."
Bob's father said earnestly, "You're not being fair, Mr.
Blackburn. I know Bob. He's really a fine ballplayer. You'll
see. When he plays next Saturday..."
"He isn't going to play next Saturday. He's out."
"But ..."
"No but's. That's it. Now, if there's nothing else ..."
"Oh, there is." Bob's father had unwrapped the package in
his hand, revealing a baseball bat. He said pleadingly,
"This is the bat that Bob used. You can see that it's chipped,
so it isn't fair to punish him because..."
"Look, mister, I don't give a damn about the bat. Your
son is out!"
Bob's father sighed unhappily. "You're sure you won't
change your mind?"
"No way."
As Blackburn reached for the door handle of his car,
Bob's father swung the bat against the rear window and
smashing it. Blackburn stared at him in shock. "What ...
what the hell are you doing?"
"Warming up," Daddy explained. He raised the bat and
swung it again, smashing it against Blackburn's kneecap.
John Blackburn screamed and fell to the ground, writhing in
pain.
"You're crazy!" He yelled. "Help!"
Bob's father knelt beside him and said softly, "Make one
more sound, and I'll break your other kneecap."
Blackburn stared up at him in agony, terrified.
"If my son isn't in the game next Saturday, I'll kill you
and I'll kill your son. Do I make myself clear?"
Blackburn looked into the man's eyes and nodded,
fighting to keep from screaming with pain.
"Good. Oh, and I wouldn't want this to get out. I've got
friends." He looked at his watch. He had just enough time
to catch the next flight to Los Angeles. His hand began to
itch again.
At seven o'clock Sunday morning, dressed in a vested
suit and carrying an expensive leather briefcase, he took the
subway to the downtown Los Angeles. He approached the
Trust Building entrance. With dozens of tenants in this huge
building, there would be no way the guard at the reception
desk could identify him.
"Good morning," the man said.
"Good morning, sir. May I help you?"
He sighed. "Even God can't help me. They think I have
nothing to do but spend my Sundays doing the work that
someone else should have done."
The guard said, sympathetically, "I know the feeling." He
pushed a log book forward. "Would you sign in, please?"
He signed in and walked over to the bank of elevators.
The office he was looking for was on the fifth floor. He took
the elevator to the sixth floor, walked down a flight, and
moved down the corridor. The legend on the door read,
REYNOLDS & FRANK HAROLD, ATTORNEYS AT
LAW. He looked around to make certain the corridor was
deserted, then opened his briefcase and took out a
small pick and a tension tool. It took him five seconds to
open the locked door. He stepped inside and closed the
door behind him. The reception room was furnished in old-
fashioned conservative taste, as befitted one of Los
Angeles’s top law firms. The man stood there a moment,
orienting himself, and then moved toward the back, to a
filing room where records were kept. Inside the room was a
bank of steel cabinets with alphabetical labels on the
front. He tried the cabinet Divided R-S. It was locked. From
his briefcase, he removed a blank key, a file, and a pair of
pliers. He pushed the blank key inside the small cabinet
lock, gently turning it from side to side. After a moment, he
withdrew it and examined the black markings on it. Holding
the key with the pair