Due Diligence Read Online Free PDF

body seeming to coil just a bit. And then, like an eastern diamondback striking, he attacked.
    ***
    Benny looked around the table with a big grin. “I’ve got it. We’ll name ourselves the House of David.”
    David chuckled and shook his head as he put down his mug of root beer and picked up another fried onion ring. “My playing days are over.”
    â€œOver?” Benny said as he lifted his bottle of Budweiser. “Rebbe, you hit the living shit out of that ball.” He took a swig of beer. “We’re talking tape measure city. You cranked it, man.” He sat back and belched.
    â€œOh, Benny,” I said, grossed out.
    â€œExcuse me, Daisy,” he said in a lilting voice.
    â€œDrop the Daisy, Goldberg,” I said.
    Benny Goldberg was fat and crude and gluttonous and vulgar. He was also brilliant and funny and thoughtful and savagely loyal. I loved him like the brother I never had, although I must admit that he in no way resembled the brother of my childhood daydreams.
    David’s towering home run had ended the game in classic style, and the three of us went out for an early dinner at Seamus McDaniel’s, a terrific Irish pub on Tamm Avenue in Dogtown. Benny had pressed David for details on his baseball background, since it was clear that he’d played some serious ball in his past. David was reluctant to talk about it, but finally admitted that he had played at San Diego State, had been drafted by the Reds, and had worked his way up to their Triple A team before his career ended in a terrible automobile crash that permanently crippled his right leg. Up until then, baseball had been his sole obsession. Severed from his moorings by the accident, he had drifted for years, holding various jobs, until he decided to study for the rabbinate. I knew there was much more to the post-baseball, pre-rabbi part of the story, but David was clearly uncomfortable talking about it, especially in a rowdy tavern. We didn’t press him.
    The waitress brought our dinners and set down another round of drinks—a longneck bottle of Bud for Benny, a Bass Ale on tap for me, a mug of root beer for David. As I thought back to our night at the Cardinals game, I realized that David had ordered only soft drinks that evening, too.
    â€œBruce Rosenthal’s funeral is tomorrow,” David said, poking at his salad.
    â€œWhere?” I asked.
    â€œColumbus, Ohio. That’s his hometown.”
    â€œAre you going?” I asked.
    David shook his head.
    â€œWho are you guys talking about?” Benny asked.
    I explained.
    â€œA trash compactor?” Benny said. “Jesus, who the hell did that to him?”
    â€œWe don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “According to David, he was awfully nervous about something he was working on. I assume that’s what he wanted to talk to me about.”
    â€œI did some snooping around on Friday,” David said.
    â€œOh?” I said, surprised. “Find anything?”
    â€œNot really,” he answered. “I spoke with the homicide detective on the case. The St. Louis one, that is. There’s apparently a jurisdictional dispute—the crime was committed in St. Louis, but the body was found in Illinois, so both have opened an investigation. Anyway, the St. Louis homicide investigation is still in the early stages. They’ve talked to Bruce’s mother and sister in Columbus, but neither knows a thing. Bruce wasn’t close to his family.”
    â€œDid he have a girlfriend?” I asked.
    David shook his head. “I don’t think so. From what I’ve been able to gather, Bruce’s sexual preferences went in other directions.”
    â€œGay?” I asked.
    â€œMore than just gay,” David said. “Apparently, Bruce frequented leather bars. He liked it rough. The detective said that, according to a few of Bruce’s coworkers, he occasionally showed up at work with some pretty