Henry “call me Hank” Thompson used to play California baseball. Now he tends to a bar on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. When two Russians in tracksuits beat Hank to a pulp, he gets the clue: someone wants something from him. He just doesn’t know what it is, where it is, or how to make them understand he doesn’t have it.

Within twenty-four hours, Hank is running over rooftops, playing hide-and-seek with the NYPD, riding the subway with a dead man at his side, and counting a whole lot of cash on a concrete floor. All because of some Russian hoods and a flat-out freakshow of goons. All because once, in another life, the only thing Hank wanted to steal was third base—without getting caught.