through the window and looked around the warehouse, using his lantern with his fingers spread across the lens to dim the glare.
It was a cavernous place, smelling of damp. But all the cartons and crates were stacked on pallets close to the front entrance, which made his job easier. Even better, one of the top cartons was unsealed, and when Roger lifted the flaps he saw at least fifty white baseballs piled in there.
He slipped one of the balls into his jacket pocket, replaced it with the baseball he had bought that afternoon, then began his withdrawal. Out the window. Lower the sash carefully. Check to make certain he had all his gear. Wiggle out under the fence. He filled in the trench and tamped it down, leaving it 'nice and neat,' just as Lou Falace had instructed.
He was home within an hour, the house silent, family sleeping peacefully. He sat down at the kitchen table and examined the stolen baseball. It looked just like the one he had left in its place: white leather cover, red stitching, printing on the side: 'Official Major League Baseball. Cushioned cork center.'
He found a sharp paring knife and very, very carefully slit open a few of those red stitches. He began squeezing the hardball with both hands, gripping it with all his strength. After a while white powder began to spurt out of the cut and pile up on the tabletop.
He put the ball aside. He licked a forefinger and touched it cautiously to the white powder. He tasted it, made a bitter face.
'Bingo,' he said.
29
Simon Clark considered writing a letter home to his wife, merely to tell her he was alive, well, and living in Fort Lauderdale. But then he thought better of it; she'd have absolutely no interest in his health or whereabouts. Their childless marriage had deteriorated to the point that while they occupied the same domicile, they communicated mostly by notes stuck on the refrigerator door with little magnets in the shape of frogs and bunnies.
This sad state of affairs had existed for several years now, exacerbated by the long hours he had to work and her recent employment at a Michigan Avenue boutique. That resulted in her making many new friends, most of whom seemed to be epicene young men who wore their hair in ponytails.
So rather than write a letter, Simon mailed his wife a garishly colored postcard showing three young women in thong bikinis bending over a ship's rail, their tanned buns flashing in the south Florida sunlight. He wrote: 'Having a fine time; glad you're not here,' and didn't much care if she found it amusing, offensive, or what.
He had a gin and bitters at his hotel bar and decided to drive over to Mortimer Sparco's discount brokerage and check on the status of his investment in the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. It wasn't listed anywhere in The Wall Street Journal, and Clark didn't expect it ever would be.
As he was about to enter the brokerage, a woman was exiting and he held the door open for her. She was a very small woman, hardly five feet tall, he reckoned, and seemed to be in her middle thirties. She swept by him without a glance or a 'Thank you,' and he had the distinct impression that she had been weeping.
Old men in Bermuda shorts were still watching the tape on the TV screen in the waiting room, and there was one geezer, presumably a client, sleeping peacefully in one of the wicker armchairs. His hearing aid had slipped out and was dangling from a black wire.
'Could I see Mr. Sparco, please,' Clark said to the receptionist. 'My name is Simon Clark.'
'Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Clark,' she said warmly. 'But I'm afraid Mr. Sparco is in a meeting. He won't be free for at least an hour.'
'All right,' Simon said. 'Maybe I'll try to catch him this afternoon.'
He went outside, wondering if he should drive to headquarters and work on his weekly report to Anthony Harker. Then, realizing he really had nothing to report, he decided to goof off for a few hours, perhaps have some lunch, and return to the brokerage later.
He left his rented Cutlass where it was parked and crossed Commercial to the Grand Palace. He walked through the empty dining room to the Lounge at the rear. There was a table of four blue-haired women, all laughing loudly and all drinking mai tais, each of which had a plastic orchid floating on top. There was a single woman seated at the bar, the small woman Clark had seen leaving Sparco's brokerage. He stood at the bar, not too close to her, and ordered a gin and bitters.
As he sipped his drink, he examined the woman in the mirror behind the bar. If she had been weeping when he first saw her, she certainly wasn't now. In fact, she was puffing on a cigarette, working on a boiler-maker, and chatting animatedly with the bartender. Simon thought her attractive: a gamine with a helmet of short blond hair.
He waited until the bartender was busy making fresh mai tais. Then he stepped closer to the woman.
'I beg your pardon,' he said, smiling, 'but I believe I saw you at Sparco's brokerage, and I wondered if you're a client.'
She looked at him, expressionless. 'No,' she said, 'I'm not a client. I'm Nancy Sparco, the schnorrer's wife.'
'Oh,' Simon said, startled. 'Sorry to bother you.'
'You're not bothering me. Bring your drink over and talk to me. I hate to booze alone. People will think I'm a lush, which I'm not.'
He took the barstool next to her.
'You've met my husband?' she said.
He nodded.
'A prick,' she said. 'A cheap, no-good, conniving prick. But that's neither here nor there. What's your name?'
'Simon Clark.'
'Where you from, Simon?'
'Chicago.'
'Nice town. Greatest shopping in the world. Married?'
'Yes,' he said, 'but I'm not working at it. Neither is my wife.'
'I know exactly what you mean. My marriage isn't the greatest either.' 'May I buy you a drink?' he asked.
'Why not. Where are you staying, Simon?'
'At a hotel on the Gait Ocean Mile.'
'Good,' she said. 'As long as it's not the YMCA.'
Two hours and two drinks later they were in his hotel room. He thought her the wittiest woman he had ever met: vulgar, raunchy, with a limitless supply of one-liners, some of which went by too fast to catch.
When she undressed and took off her cork wedgies, she was positively tiny.
'My God,' he said, 'this is like going to bed with a Girl Scout.'
'A Brownie,' she corrected. 'You'll notice my collar and cuffs don't match. But the lungs aren't bad-right? The best silicone money can buy. I'll never drown.'
She showed him how they could manage, with her sitting atop him. He was amenable, but she wouldn't stop talking, and he was laughing so much he was afraid he couldn't perform. Finally he told her to shut up, for five minutes at least.
'May I groan?' she asked, but then was reasonably quiet while she rode him like a demented jockey.
When they finished, she took his wrist and lifted his arm into the air. 'The winner and new world champion!' she proclaimed. 'When's the rematch?'
'In about twenty minutes,' he said. 'Shall I call down for drinks?'
'Please,' she said. 'A whiskey IV. Mommy needs plasma.'
Later in the afternoon, when they were just lazing around and sipping sour mash bourbon, she said, 'Don't go back to Chicago, Simon. Not just yet.'
'It depends,' he said.
