Greasing the Piñata by Tim Maleeny Page A

many.”
    “What about that flick with the guy, builds a baseball diamond in a cornfield? You seen that?”
    Cape had seen the movie but had no desire to bond. His kidney felt like it had torn loose and was floating around inside his gut.
    “Never.”
    “Never saw it?” Cyrano turned, and for a moment Cape thought he was going to get tasered. “A fucking classic—guy builds a baseball field on his farm ‘cause he hears this voice.” Cyrano forced his nasal twang down an octave. “
If you build it, they will come.
”
    “Then what happens?”
    “These great baseball players, they all come to play on the guy’s field…only…
they’re dead
.” Cyrano shook his head over the sadness of it all.
    “The guy who built the field dies?”
    “No, the players,” said Cyrano impatiently. “They’re all dead, but they come back to play anyway.”
    “So they’re zombies,” said Cape, hoping to touch a nerve. “There are zombie baseball players in this movie.”
    “They’re not zombies!” sputtered Cyrano. “They’re—”
    “So it’s science fiction.” Cape looked out the window, a bored expression on his face.
    “It’s
baseball
,” said Cyrano. “And they’re ghosts, OK?” He huffed a minute before adding, “Not fucking zombies.”
    “Got any unicorns in it?”
    “Up yours.”
    “Mm-hm.” Cape closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest.
    Mustache drove like a man who knew the way by heart. Half an hour into the journey the car’s tires crunched on a gravel drive. Cape opened his eyes as they stopped at a wrought-iron gate fifteen feet high flanked by two stone columns. The fence ran out of sight on either side, each twenty foot section supported by stone pillars identical to the ones bracing the gate. Two men with submachine guns slung conspicuously over their shoulders stepped forward to glance inside the car.
    The house looked like a fortress, two stories high and made entirely of fieldstone. It was set back from the road about thirty yards, the front facing a large circular driveway. The back overlooked the bay and the town far below. Aging willow and oak trees dominated the lawn, their boughs hanging across the fence, the driveway, and the house itself.
    Two men stood by the nearest tree, smoking. The one closest to the house restrained two Dobermans as Cape got out of the car. He held them on a single leash, the muscles of his forearm straining. The dogs didn’t bark but growled deep in their throats, a subsonic tremor that reverberated deep in Cape’s chest. Mustache climbed from behind the wheel and walked over to join them, gesturing for the man nearest the tree to give him a smoke. Cape quickly scanned the rest of the yard but didn’t see anyone else before Cyrano jabbed him in the side, making him flinch and stumble toward the front door.
    Cape turned to watch the gate close behind them and realized how easy it would be to find this place again. No sharp turns, no unpaved roads or secret entrances. Even with his eyes closed he was able to track the progress of the car.
    As he walked stiffly toward the house Cape wondered if he’d made a horrible mistake about his captors. Maybe whomever was waiting inside the house didn’t intend for this trip to have a return ticket. Three men had left the hotel with no signs of a struggle. Cyrano wasn’t even local, so he could disappear if anyone asked questions about a missing guest. So could Mustache, no doubt.
    Cape was ten feet from the door when he felt rather than heard the Dobermans’ guttural cry, and despite his efforts to stay cool, his palms began to sweat. The moon grazed the treeline beyond the mansion. Cape imagined the yellow orb as a jaundiced eye tracking his progress as he took a reluctant step forward, away from the gate and any reasonable hope of escape.

Chapter Nineteen
    Joe Drabyak hated waiting.
    He’d stood on the pier for almost an hour, watching the deck hands scurry around the yacht like carpenter ants.