Lifeguard by James Patterson Page B

thought I’d have to tip my hat to you, Neddie-boy. I spent my whole life slowly sliding down the pole of life’s opportunities. And look at you! You knock it out of the park on your very first try.”
    “Guess I was always holding back a bit.” I shrugged. “Always knew I had greatness in me.”
    “Well, it breaks my heart, Neddie.” Frank curled a wistful smile. “Wasn’t it that Senator Moynihan who called it the plight of the Irish to have our hearts continually broken by life?”
    “I think he was talking about the Kennedys, Pop. Or the Sox.”
    “Well, it breaks an old man’s heart anyway,” my old man said. “Whatever’s left of it.”
    I looked into his light blue, almost transparent eyes. Not at the wasting old man I hadn’t seen for four years. But at the lifelong con man, who I knew was conning me again. “It breaks mine, too, Pop. Who’s Gachet?”
    My father kept his gaze trained on the field. “Who’s
who?
”
    “Come off it, Pop. You lived your life how you wanted, but now I’m caught up in it. I need you to get me out. Who’s Gachet?”
    “I have no idea who or what you’re talking about, son. I swear to God, Ned.”
    It always amazed me how my father could take a bald-faced lie and feed it back just like the truth. “Georgie slipped up,” I said.
    “Yeah?” My father shrugged. “How is that?”
    “He mentioned a Jackson Pollock that was stolen. I don’t think that’s ever come out.”
    Frank smiled. He tapped me on the shoulder with the program. “You missed your calling, Ned. You should’ve been a detective, not a lifeguard.”
    I ignored the dig. “Please, Pop, who’s Gachet? Don’t play me. We both know Mickey would never have made a move without running it by you.”
    I heard the crack of the bat. The crowd rose and gasped with expectation. A line-drive double off the wall by Nomar, two runs home. Neither of us was really paying attention.
    “I’m gonna die, Ned,” my father said. “I don’t have the strength, or the time.”
    “Not if you get yourself a kidney.”
    “Kidney?” For the first time he turned to me, anger flaring in his pupils. “You think I could
live
with setting up those kids, Neddie?”
    “I don’t know. I wouldn’t think you’d set up your own son to take a murder rap, and you manage to live with that. You already lost one son, Pop. He was doing a job for you, right? Right?”
    Frank took a short breath, then coughed. I couldn’t tell what was going on inside his head. Remorse; more likely, denial. He just sat there, his eyes following the game. He pointed to the Wall. “You know, they got seats up there now.”
    “Pop,” I said, turning to him. “Please… cut the shit! I’m wanted for
murder.
”
    Frank gritted his teeth, as though he were the one suffering. He squeezed the program firmly in his spidery hands. “Nobody was supposed to get hurt,” he finally said. “That’s all I have to say.”
    “But people did, Pop. Mickey. Bobby. Barney. Dee. They’re all dead. You know how it makes me feel, that the only person I can come to for help is you. Help me find their killers, Pop. Help me avenge my friends.”
    He turned to me. For a second I thought he was going to break down. “Georgie gave you good advice, Ned. Get yourself a good lawyer. Then turn yourself in. Anyone with a head on their shoulders knows you didn’t kill those kids. I don’t know any more.”
    “You don’t know any more?” I said, my eyes growing hot with tears.
    “Get yourself out of this, Neddie.” Frank turned and glared at me.
    I don’t think I ever felt any lower than at that moment, knowing my old man was going to let me get up and walk out, without doing a thing to help. My blood was boiling. I stood up and stared him down.
    “I’m gonna find him, Pop. And when I do, I’m gonna find out about you, too. Isn’t that right?”
    A couple of Yanks had reached base. The Sox had made a pitching change. Suddenly, A-Rod unloaded a shot over the