Fester damn near killed him. Hey, I gotta take some swings. Catch you later.“
Carter headed for the batting cage. Clyde Sullivan, the pitching coach, was pitching batting practice, and when Carter stepped in, he turned and waved the outfielders in.
”Up yours, Sully,“ Carter said. Maynard left the batting cage and strolled over toward me. Lester moved along bonelessly behind him.
”How you doing, Mr. Spenser?“ Maynard said.
”Fine,“ I said. ”And yourself?“
”Oh, passable, for an older gentleman. That Carter’s funny as a crutch, ain’t he?“
I nodded ”Ah just wish his arm was as good as his mouth,“ Maynard said. ”He can’t throw past the pitcher’s mound.“
”How’s his bat?“
Maynard smiled. It was not a radiant smile; the lips pulled down over the teeth so that the smile was a toothless crescent in his red face with neither warmth nor humor suggested. ”He’s all right if the ball comes straight. Except the ball don’t never come straight a course.“
”Nice kid, though,“ I said. Lester had hooked both elbows over the railings and was standing with one booted foot against the wall and one foot flat on the ground. Gary Cooper. He spit a large amount of brown saliva toward the batter’s cage, and I realized he was chewing tobacco. When he got into an outfit, he went all the way.
”Maybe,“ Maynard said, ”but ah wouldn’t pay much mind to what he says. He likes to run his mouth.“
”Don’t we all,“ I said. ”Hell, writers and broadcasters get paid for it.“
”Ah get paid for reporting what happens, Carter tends to make stuff up. There’s a difference.“
Maynard looked quite steadily at me, and I had the feeling we were talking about serious stuff. Lester spit another dollop of tobacco juice.
”Okay by me,“ I said. ”I’m just here listening and thinking. I’m not making any judgments yet.“
”What might you be making judgments about, Spenser?“
”What to include, what to leave out, what seems to be the truth, what seems to be fertilizer. Why do you ask?“
”Just interested. Ah like to know a man, and one way is to know how he does his job. Ah’m just lookin‘ into how you do yours.“
”Fair enough,“ I said. ”I’ll be looking into how you do yours in a bit.“ Veiled innuendo, that’s the ticket, Spenser.
Subtle.
”Long as you don’t interfere, ah’ll be happy to help.
Who’d you say was your publisher?“
”Subsidy,“ I said. ”Subsidy Press, in New York.“
Maynard looked at his watch. It was one of those that you press a button and the time is given as a digital readout.
”Well, time for the Old Buckaroo to get on up to the booth.
Nice talking to you, Spenser.“
He waddled off, his feet splayed, the toes pointing out at forty-five-degree angles. Lester unhinged and slouched after him, eyes alert under the hatbrim for lurking rustlers.
There never was a man like Shane. Tomorrow he’d probably be D’Artagnan.
There’d been some fencing going on there, more than there should have been. It was nearly one. I went down into the locker room and used the phone on Farrell’s desk to call Brenda Loring at work.
”I have for you, my dear, a proposition,“ I said.
”I know,“ she said. ”You make it every time I see you.“
”Not that proposition,“ I said. ”I have an additional one, though that previously referred to above should not be considered thereby inoperative.“
”I beg your pardon?“
”I didn’t understand that either,“ I said. ”Look, here’s my plan. If you can get the afternoon off, I will escort you to the baseball game, buy you some peanuts and Cracker Jacks, and you won’t care if you ever come back.“
”Do I get dinner afterwards?“
”Certainly and afterwards we can go to an all-night movie and neck. What do you say?“
”Oh, be still my heart,“ she said. ”Shall I meet you at the park?“
”Yeah, Jersey Street entrance. You’ll recognize me at once by the cluster of teenyboppers trying to get me to autograph their bras.“
”I’ll hurry,“ she said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
