“One and one.”
“Two away, a man on second, the tieing run at the plate,” Mr. Majestyk said. “How would you pitch this guy?”
“Probably something breaking. Low and away from him.” Ryan watched the Boston hitter foul off the next pitch, a tapper down to the third base coaching box.
“He’s not going to hit it,” Mr. Majestyk said.
Ryan kept his eyes on the set. “I don’t know. That short left field wall, you lay a fly ball up there, you got two bases.”
And George Kell, a voice coming out of the TV set, said, “You got to pitch to everybody in this ballpark.”
“In tight on the hands,” Mr. Majestyk said. “Back the son of a bitch away. If he swings, he hits it on the handle.”
“He better keep it low,” Ryan said.
When the batter bounced out to the second baseman, Mr. Majestyk said, “I told you.”
George Kell said, “Going into the sixth with a two-run lead, let’s see if the Tigers can put some hits together and get something going. I imagine Denny McLain wouldn’t mind that about now.”
“He’s good,” Mr. Majestyk said. “You know?”
“Kell,” Ryan said. “He was a good ballplayer.”
“You know, he got over two thousand base hits while he was in the Majors?”
“Two thousand fifty-two,” Ryan said.
“Did you know they had a sign outside his hometown? Swifton, Arkansas. You’re coming in the sign says ‘Swifton, Arkansas-The Home of George Kell.’ “
Ryan took a sip of beer. “I don’t know if I’d want a sign like that. Some guy comes along, he knows you’re away playing ball, nobody home, he goes in takes anything he wants. Or you’re in a slump and some nut fan throws rocks at your windows.”
“That could happen,” Mr. Majestyk said. “But when a guy is good, like Kell, you got to be able to take a lot of crap and not let it bother you. So a guy throws a rock. So you get the window fixed. Listen, you hit three thirty, three forty like Kell, the pitchers are throwing crap and junk at you all the time and it’s worse than any rocks because it’s your living, it’s what you
“Or wait them out,” Ryan said.
“Sure, or wait them out. But either way you got to stand in there. Maybe if you’d stayed in,” Mr. Majestyk said then, “I mean, in baseball, maybe they’d be putting a sign up for you one of these days.”
“Sure.”
“I mean if you didn’t have the bad back.”
“You want to know something?” Ryan said. “Even if I didn’t have it, I never could hit a goddamn curve ball.”
Nancy saw the movement at the far end of the lawn: the figure briefly in the orange light and out of it, out of sight for a moment, now moving across the yard to the deep shadows of the pines, and her finger continued to stroke the edge of her hair, down across her brow. She sat comfortably with her feet on the inside edge of the ottoman, her knees up in front of her. She didn’t move. She wondered momentarily why he was being so sneaky about it. All he had to do was walk across the yard to the house. When she saw him again near the swimming pool, her right hand came away from her face.
The hand dropped to the side table and, without groping, curved around the hard, smooth handle of her target pistol.
Nancy waited. She began to wonder if he had circled to the back of the house. There was no reason he would, unless he wanted to look at the garage or the street, just to be sure. There were no sounds, inside or out.
She waited, because she knew he would appear again. She also knew-sitting, facing the sliding glass door that was sixteen feet from the front edge of her chair, her eyes on the glass now and not moving from it-exactly what she was going to do.
There were no sounds. Then a faint sound. A scraping sound on the wooden stairs. She saw his head appear, a dark shape against the sundeck, his shoulders, his body. He stood for a moment looking down at the yard. As he turned to the door Nancy brought the pistol up in front of her and laid the barrel on her raised knees. As he opened the door, sliding the glass gently, and started to come inside, Nancy said, “Hi, Jackie.”
She heard him say, “Is-” or something that sounded like that but no more. With the pistol held straight in front of her at eye level, held on him dead center, she fired four times and continued to fire as he stumbled back to the sundeck and went down, and she would have sworn she heard the sound of glass breaking on the patio, as if someone had dropped a glass or a bottle.
Nancy pulled herself out of the chair she had been sitting in for over an hour. She walked out to the sundeck wondering if his eyes would be open or closed.
“What’re they taking McLain out for? Jesus Christ, a couple of hits and they pull him.”
“They were hard-hit balls,” Ryan said. “Both of them.”
“So they get a hold of a couple.”
“The leading run on second,” Ryan said, “they got to be careful. Say, you know what time it is?”
Mr. Majestyk looked at his watch. “Quarter of ten. I’d leave him in. How many hits they got off him?”
“About six.”
“Six hits. What-all singles? You don’t hit this guy solid.”
They watched the manager walk back to the dugout. McLain remained on the mound, throwing the ball into the pocket of his glove.
George Kell said, “Well, it looks like Denny’s staying in. He’s got his work cut out for him now. Two on, the potential leading run on second.”
Mr. Majestyk was pulling himself out of his reclining chair. “The best part,” he said, “and I got to take a leak. You need a beer while I’m up?”
“I’m all set.”
“You want a highball? Whatever you want.”
“I was supposed to meet somebody at nine thirty,” Ryan said.
Mr. Majestyk swung his feet down. “I thought you already met her.”
“No, I was going to. Then I thought I’d see a couple of innings first.”
“Is she going to be sore at you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you care?”
“Well, I ought to talk to her sometime.”
“It’s up to you.”
“I better do it,” Ryan said. “Get it over with.”
Someone, Nancy decided, should do a piece on Jack Ryan for the
At first, looking down at Frank Pizarro, she was startled, disappointed, and finally angry. But, she decided, as she dragged Frank into the living room and slid the door closed, it wasn’t all bad. This one deserved it as much as Ryan. She had to be philosophical, accept minor disappointments like a big girl. She didn’t have Ryan, but she had his buddy, and the buddy should serve the purpose just as well. He was dead and she had killed him.
The trouble was, she wasn’t sure if windows weren’t more fun after all.
She turned on every light in the living room, then the kitchen light and the desk lamp in the den. She picked up the telephone, then put it down and moved quickly to the table next to the big chair. She had almost forgotten the props. She took her wallet, a watch, a pearl necklace, and several pins from the table drawer and stuffed them into Frank’s pockets. In her mind she heard a policeman or someone say, “He was in your room?” And her own voice answering, “I heard him, but I didn’t make a sound. I waited. I didn’t go downstairs until I thought he’d gone. I don’t know what made me take the gun. I’d bought it and I was going to give it to my boss as a present. Mr. Ritchie.” She smiled at this touch. Great. Especially if it got in the papers word for word. “My boss.” Or “Uncle Ray.” That might be better.
