ABANDONED WAREHOUSE, QUEENS, NY – NIGHT

It’s damp and dirty and dark. The only illumination is from slivers of moonlight sneaking through the gaps in the boards on the windows. Frank Martinez struggles against the ropes that bind his wrists and ankles to the steel chair. It’s no use.

FRANK: Where am I?! Will someone please answer me?

A giant metal door groans open behind him. Calm, deliberate footsteps echo off the concrete, inching closer. Frank tenses up.

FRANK: Who…who is that?

VOICE: Don’t you worry about who I am Frank.

FRANK: How do you know my name? What do you want?

VOICE: Why did you do it Frank?

FRANK: Do what?

A matchstick sparks to life right beside Frank’s face. He jerks his head with a nervous gasp.

FRANK: I was just screwing around, alright?

The shadowy figure lights his cigarette and shakes the match out.

VOICE: No one put you up to it then? You sure about that?

FRANK: Yes. I mean no. I mean, I thought it would be funny you know, and I had a few beers and, you know…

VOICE: I think you’re lying to me.

The shadowy figure jerks a chain next to a naked light bulb suspended from the ceiling. As it flickers to life, Frank gets a look at his interrogator’s face. He thinks he recognizes him.

FRANK: Do I know you?

VOICE: Um, no.

The interrogator sheepishly looks away. He’s younger than Frank imagined – barely into his 20s. He doesn’t look all that menacing either.

FRANK: Holy crap! You’re Jeffrey Maier.

MAIER: Actually, I go by Jeff now.

FRANK: Wow, I’ll never forget that game! What were you, 12 years old? When you reached over the right field wall at Yankee Stadium and grabbed that ball out of Tarasco’s mitt to give Jeter a homerun – oh man! – That was incredible.

MAIER: You’re in big trouble Frank.

FRANK: I know. I could get fined five grand.

Maier shakes his head with a chuckle.

MAIER: That’s the least of your worries.

FRANK: You’re not a cop.

MAIER: No.

FRANK: What, do you work for the league or something?

MAIER: Absolutely not. I work for the same guy I worked for when I was 12. The guy who helped me change history.

FRANK: What do you mean? You were just an excited kid caught up in the spirit of a playoff game. The right place at the right time.

MAIER: That was no accident. I had those seats all year – and quite a few chances to reach over and grab a ball.

FRANK: I never heard that part.

MAIER: No kidding. That’s because I didn’t blow a full season of work for some cheap thrills when it didn’t count. See, your nonsense has caused some major problems.

FRANK: How? I didn’t impact the game. It was 7-0 in the 8th.

MAIER: Exactly. You wasted a game-changing maneuver at a completely irrelevant time. Now people are on to it. We had a guy planted in your section for two years. He was going to put the flashlight bit to good use when it counted. Now security personnel and officials are going to be looking out for it. Can you imagine if I reached over that wall in a 10-0 July blowout? They would have put that railing up in rightfield before the playoffs even started.

FRANK: So.

MAIER: So, then I wouldn’t have had the chance to impact the game when my boss really needed it.

FRANK: Oh. So you work for a gambler?

A brooding Man in a long trench coat storms in.

MAN: Don’t tell him one more thing. You’ve said too much already.

MAIER: Sorry Steve.

The Man rolls his eyes.

MAN: What did I just say?

Frank looks him over.

FRANK: Steve Bartman?

BARTMAN: And why is this light on?

Maier shrugs.

FRANK: Bartman. I don’t believe it.

Bartman glares at Maier.

FRANK: No, not you. You couldn’t have screwed up that catch for Alou on purpose. You’re a die hard Cubs fan.

Bartman scoffs.

MAIER: Yeah, and six years ago a little white dove “accidentally” flew in front of a 98 mile an hour Randy Johnson fastball.

FRANK: That was planned?

BARTMAN: Would you shut…

MAIER: Of course it was. We’ve got a guy who trains birds, squirrels – you name it. We’ve got people set up at every sporting venue around the country. We’ve got things in development that you would never dream of. But they only work once. And every time some amateur moron like you tries to get involved we lose valuable options.

FRANK: I’m sorry.

BARTMAN: It’s a little too late for that isn’t it?

MAIER: They’ll be checking for those mini-flashlights now. Man, did you blow this for us. Just like Fan Man ruined outdoor boxing and some overanxious honeymooners completely wasted a gimme opportunity at SkyDome.

BARTMAN: Jeff!

MAIER: Sorry. I know. It’s the Rogers Centre now.

Bartman shakes his head in frustration.

MAIER: The bottom line is because of thoughtless jerks like you, if we really need it, we can’t sneak a streaker on the field during the Super Bowl and we can’t help a crazy celebrity onto the floor of the Garden to disrupt a big Knicks game.

FRANK: So Calvin Klein wasn’t one of…?

MAIER: Hell no! Thanks to his drug induced haze, poor Spike Lee watched a decade of undercover work go right down the drain.

BARTMAN: Well now he knows everything, doesn’t he?

MAIER: Crap.

FRANK: Look, I’m sorry, alright? It won’t happen again.

BARTMAN: That, I believe.

A busty older woman saunters in.

WOMAN: Yoo-hoo, are you boys through yet?

She kisses both Maier and Bartman on the cheek.

FRANK: Morganna the Kissing Bandit?

MORGANNA: So, was he on to us?

BARTMAN: No, he’s just an idiot. But Jeffy here managed to tell him everything.

MAIER: Oh, come on…

Bartman holds up an angry finger for Maier to stifle himself.

FRANK: I’m sorry Mr. Bartman. I had no idea you were so powerful. I’ll never do anything like that again.

Morganna smiles at Bartman.

MORGANNA: You don’t need any help then?

BARTMAN: No, we’ve got it.

FRANK: Got what? I mean, come on, I’ve learned my lesson, right? Leave the game to the players. Just sit back and enjoy – don’t cause any problems. I get it! Please Mr. Bartman.

BARTMAN: It’s not my call.

FRANK: But who…?

Morganna smiles warmly.

FRANK: Oh my God.

MORGANNA: You don’t think I first ran out on a field 35 years ago and kissed him because I liked his haircut, do you? It was his idea. His first of many brilliant ideas.

Frank drops his head as Morganna sashays out.

MORGANNA: Keep up the good work boys. Pete loves riding a hot streak.