“Now?”
“Why not?”
“It’s night, for one thing.”
“So turn on the floods.”
“And I don’t even know what equipment I’ve got out here.”
“Sounds to me like you’re looking for excuses,” Gil said.
Bobby drained his bottle, tossed it away. He rose too. “Sounds to me like you’re calling me chicken.”
They stared at each other. Yes, Gil thought: I’ve found the man inside, gotten to him, and he’s like any other guy.
“Batter up,” Gil said.
He went to the apartment over the garage to get Bobby’s old glove, which he’d put under the bed. When he returned the floodlights were shining behind the house, and Bobby was standing on the lawn below the terrace, a bat in one hand, a bucket of balls in the other. They were at the foot of the slope; from there the lawn stretched flat to the beach.
Bobby handed him the bucket, motioned him toward the beach. “Pace off sixty feet,” he said. “If any get by me, they’ll just roll up the hill.”
Gil paced off sixty feet, thinking: if any get by you. He turned, took a ball from the basket, toed an imaginary rubber. Bobby took his stance over an imaginary plate. The floods were on, but it wasn’t like playing under big- league lights. The lawn was dark and shadowy. An advantage, Gil thought, that would compensate for his rustiness.
“All set?” Gil said.
“You’ve got the ball, Slugger.”
Gil rotated the ball in his hand, got his grip, went into his windup. Smooth and strong, everything just right, the way his father had taught him. If only Boucicaut were catching. Hip turn, high leg kick, back bent, step, drive- and he whipped that four-seamer in exactly where he wanted it, high and tight.
At first, because of the way Bobby just stood there, Gil thought he was going to let it go by. Then, at the last instant, after the last instant, Bobby swung. So fast. Then came a crack like the trunk of an oak splitting, then a sizzling sound, then a long silence. And finally a distant splash, in the sea. Gil never saw the ball.
He looked at Bobby. Bobby was in his stance over the imaginary plate, silent, waiting, bat cocked. Gil picked up another ball. He remembered some of the great pitches he had thrown, fastballs over the outside corner, curves that made batters bail out before ducking over the plate, that wonderful knuckler he’d fed Pease with the game on the line. And with all that to back him up, he went into his windup, smoother and stronger now, if anything, and threw another fastball, a blazing fastball, surely the hardest he had ever thrown, this one low and outside-but too low and too outside to be a strike. And again, despite having seen what he’d just seen, Gil was sure Bobby was going to let it go by, possibly didn’t even see it. And again, when it was too late, Bobby swung. And again, that terrifying crack, that sizzle, then the long silence, even longer this time, and the splash, even fainter.
He looked in at the batter. The batter was in his stance, bat cocked, absolutely still. Gil reached into the bucket, tried his curve, pulled the shade, broke off the sharpest curve he’d ever thrown, starting it right at Bobby’s head. Crack. Sizzle. Silence. Splash.
Bobby, back in his stance, spoke. “That one had a little wiggle on it,” he said.
The remark infuriated Gil. He dipped into the bucket, went into his motion-a big strong guy made all the stronger by his fury, and the Cuervo Gold-and threw the ball with all the force in his body straight at Bobby’s head. Bobby leaned back a little, somehow swinging at the same time. Crack, and a sizzle that came much closer, an inch or two from Gil’s ear; Gil felt his ear redden just from the sound.
Bobby was back in his stance before the splash, expressionless.
Gil, breathing hard although he’d only thrown four pitches, looked in the bucket. “No balls left,” he said.
Bobby lowered his bat, came forward. “That was kind of fun,” he said, extending his hand.
Gil ignored it. “Get more.”
“There are no more. No hard feelings, huh, Curly? I’m a pro. It would be like us having a lawn-mower race or something, I wouldn’t stand a chance.” He put his hand on Gil’s shoulder.
Gil shook free. “You’re saying I don’t stand a chance?”
“C’mon, Curly. It’s over. Shake hands.”
Gil shook, but kept his hand limp. Limp, like three limp generations: his father, him, Richie; versus Rayburn’s father, Rayburn, Sean.
“What was your father like?” Gil just blurted it.
“My old man?” said Bobby in surprise. “He’s a high-school guidance counselor in San Jose.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Nothing makes much sense at this hour, Curly. Let’s get some sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
Bobby laughed. “You sound just like Sean.”
“I’m not at all like Sean. I’m like Richie.”
“Who’s Richie?”
“Nobody.”
“C’mon, Curly. It’s late, and tomorrow’s a day game.” Bobby put his arm around him. They walked up the slope toward the terrace. “Kind of fun though,” Bobby said. “Listening for the splash. Lanz’ll get a kick out of it.”
Gil felt nothing but the thrower on his leg.
29
All the Sterns were poor sleepers, and Jewel was the worst. She left the ballpark at eleven-thirty, was home in bed by midnight, and then just lay there, eyes wide open. She thought about Bobby, and Sean, and Val, and Bobby again. She got up, had a glass of water and two Tylenol, in case the pressure behind her eyes blew up into a headache, and, while she was at it, swallowed a Vitamin E, in case some cell in one of her breasts was planning to mutate later that night. Then she went back to bed, rolled over, closed her eyes, and stayed awake.
Mr. Curly Onis. The name rang a bell, of course, but so distant. In her work she met a lot of people, heard a lot of names. Jewel had a good memory. She searched it now. The media rep in Chicago? The head groundskeeper in Oakland? That lawyer who worked with the umpires’ union? All had names with Cs and Os in them, but none was Curly Onis. Maybe the name didn’t ring a bell at all, maybe it was a case of deja vu. She found her eyes were open, closed them, rolled over.
Or maybe he was a ballplayer somewhere, a minor-leaguer. There were a lot of wonderful ballplayer names- hadn’t someone written a song composed of nothing but? Sure: “Van Lingle Mungo,” by Dave Frishberg. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, she opened the Baseball Encyclopedia, which lay on the floor by her bed, and leafed through it, just reading the names.
Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep.
Jewel snapped on the light, grabbed the encyclopedia, whipped through the pages. And there he was, on page 1226 right above Edward Joseph Onslow, lifetime B.A.. 232: Manuel Dominguez “Curly” Onis. One big-league at bat, a single, for the 1935 Brooklyn Dodgers. Batted 1.000. Jewel thought right away of John Paciorek, her favorite example of this kind of thing, and recalled the shtick she and Bernie had done about European movies. Curly Onis’s case was even purer.
But having thought that, she didn’t know what to think next. She switched off the light, lay down, monitored her systems. They were all humming away at midmorning speed. She got up, went back to the bathroom, drank another glass of water, swallowed another Vitamin E. Jewel had a phone in her bathroom, dating from a long-ago decision to live a little. She stared at it for a while. Then she picked it up and dialed Bobby Rayburn’s home number.
One ring and a microsecond of the next. Then Bobby said: “Hello?”
His voice was thick and sleepy, and very near. The sound did something to her.
