power get like that. They think they’re omnipotent.
They screw up. Doerr was so surprised that I told him and Wally to take a walk that he didn’t know what else to do, so he took a walk. But the cat was now out of the valise. I had a feeling I might hear from Doerr again. It was not a soothing feeling.
I was leaning against the railing of the box seats by the Red Sox dugout, watching batting practice, when Billy Carter said, “Hey, Spenser, want to take a few cuts?”
I did, but I couldn’t take my coat off and show the gun.
And I didn’t want to swing with my coat on. I didn’t need any handicaps. I shook my head.
“Why not? Sully’s just lobbing them up,” Carter said.
“I promised my mom when I took up the violin I’d never play baseball again.”
“Violin? Are you shitting? You don’t look like no violinist to me. How much you weigh?”
“One ninety-five, one ninety-seven, around there.”
“Yeah? You work out or anything?”
“I lift a little. Run some.”
“Yeah. I thought you did something. You didn’t get that neck from playing no fiddle. What can you bench?”
“Two fifty.”
“How many reps?”
“Fifteen.”
“Hey, man, we oughta set up an arm wrestle between you and Holly. Wouldn’t that be hot shit if you beat him?
Man, Holly would turn blue if a goddamned writer beat him arm wrestling.”
“Who’s pitching today?” I asked.
“Marty,” Carter said. “Who busted up your nose?”
“It’s a long list,” I said. “I used to fight once. How’s Marty to catch?”
“A tit,” Carter said. One of the coaches was hitting fungoes to the outfield from a circle to the right of the batting cage. The ball parabolaed out in what seemed slow motion against the high tangible sky. “A real tit. You just sit back there and put your glove on the back of the plate and Marty hits it. And you can call the game. You give a sign, Marty nods, and the pitch comes right there. He never shakes you off.”
“Everything works, huh?”
“Yeah, I mean he’s got the fast ball, slider, a big curve, and a change off all of them. And he can put them all up a gnat’s ass at sixty feet six, you know. I mean, he’s a tit to catch. If I could catch him every day, and the other guys didn’t throw curves, I could be Hall of Fame, baby. Cooperstown.”
“When do you think you’ll catch a game, Billy?”
“Soon as Holly gets so he can’t walk. Around there.
Whoops… here comes the song of the South, old hush puppy.
Bucky Maynard had come out from under the stands and was behind the batting cage. With him was Lester, resplendent in a buckskin hunting shirt and a black cowboy hat with big silver conches on the band around the crown. Maynard had swapped his red-checked shirt for a white one with green ferns on it. His arms in the short sleeves were pink with sunburn. He had the look of someone who didn’t tan.
”You don’t seem too fond of Maynard,“ I said.
”Me? I love every ounce of his cuddly little lard-assed self.“
”Okay to quote you?“ I wanted to see Carter’s reaction.
”Jesus, no. If sowbelly gets on your ass, you’ll find yourself warming up relievers in the Sally League. No shit, Spenser, I think he’s got more influence around here than Farrell.“
”How come?“
”I don’t know. I mean, the freakin’ fans love him. They think he’s giving them the real scoop, you know, all the hot gossip about the big-league stars, facts you don’t get on the bubble-gum card.“
”Is he?“
”No, not really. He’s just nasty. If he hears any gossip, he spreads it. The goddamned yahoos eat it up. Tell-it- like-it-is Bucky. Shit.“
”What’s the real story on the lizard that trails behind him?“
”Lester?“
”Yeah.“
Carter shrugged. ”I dunno, he drives Bucky around.
He keeps people away from him. He’s some kind of karate freak or whatever.“
”Tae kwon do,“ I said. ”It’s Korean karate.“
”Yeah, whatever. I wouldn’t mess much with him either. I guess he’s a real bastard. I hear he did a real tune on some guy out in Anaheim. The guy was giving Maynard some crap in the hotel bar out there and Lester the
