Free Retribution by Anderson Harp Page B

door open quietly, as if sneaking into his parents’ house well past midnight. He could have called out to Moncrief, but catching him by surprise would be worth it.
    â€œGoddamn it, the prince was right!”
    The sound of a hotly contested debate came from the small living space just to the right of the front door. There, a man, maybe a hand’s width at most under six feet, spread cream-colored paint on the walls. He was solid, with broad, muscular shoulders that reminded one of a charging bull or linebacker. His shoulders tapered down to a tight waist, giving him a dogged, self-assured bearing. A high-and-tight haircut helped frame the head with a new Yankees baseball cap squarely on top. His garb looked far from spotless—white paint overalls splotched with a variety of colors—but the Yankees hat was spotless. It might have just been issued by the team uniform manager.
    â€œYeah, well, the Astros were fools,” he replied.
    Parker looked around the room and smiled, realizing there was only one voice in this conversation. Yes, maybe two minds, but only one voice. He decided to watch and listen for a while.
    â€œIn the sixth round.”
    Kevin Moncrief actually sounded angry with himself, painting all the while. Parker quietly pulled up the sleeves to his blue denim shirt and leaned against the wall in the hallway, enjoying the show.
    â€œThe kid was drawing pictures of pinstripes in Mrs. Padley’s class! Hell, Newhouser knew what he had. Soft hands. A feel for the game. A natural. A pure, goddamn natural.”
    Parker tried not to laugh, listening to this high-strung conversation between Kevin Moncrief and his good friend, Kevin Moncrief.
    â€œAn American League MVP drives three and a half hours to see a kid play, and then the front office tells him to go to hell.” He kept rolling paint as he continued to talk, his attention focused fully forward the entire time with no clue that anyone else had joined him in the room.
    Moncrief’s debate was over the rejection of Hal Newhouser’s advice to the Houston Astros to sign a kid from Michigan named Derek Jeter. Newhouser told management that this skinny teenager would be the anchor of a winning Major League club. They signed a no-name instead. The teenager went on to have five World Series rings locked up in his safe-deposit box. Newhouser, the man who was always perfectly dressed, quit baseball for good after his advice was rejected.
    â€œNewhouser should have been a Marine.” He sighed and then paused for a split second. “Colonel?” he said suddenly, never once looking back. “Your fancy denim shirt has some Sherwin-Williams Copper Harbor on it now.”
    Should have known . Parker checked his shoulder, only to find a streak of yellow-orange paint. Oh, well . It was worth it.
    â€œGunny Ndee.” Moncrief’s nickname explained much. Only three men on the planet had license to call him by that name. A biker once overheard it being used in a bar in San Diego. He thought it was funny. He made the mistake of expressing that fact. The biker didn’t even get the final syllable out, trying to repeat the word, before he was unconscious on the floor in a pool of blood. Moncrief was one-eighth Chiricahua Apache on his father’s side. Although Apache was the name that their enemies gave them, the warriors called themselves Ndee. And there had been no more determined warriors on earth than the Ndees. The tribe, when necessary, could strike their tents and move—warriors, squaws, barefoot children, the crippled and ill—more than a hundred and fifty miles without stopping and without hesitating once for a drink or rest. Moncrief had that same relentless, strong-willed, pit bull mind-set. And like an Apache warrior, Kevin Moncrief had a sense of perception, especially on the battlefield, that had become legendary in the brotherhood of the few good men.
    â€œWhat are you doing here, boss?”