Lester gave a single upward jerk of his head, raised one finger without releasing the magazine, and kept reading.
I said, “What’s he do, sing ‘Flamingo’ at the station breaks?”
The kid looked up then. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the amber lenses of his aviator shades. He blew a large pink bubble, popped it with his teeth, and slowly chewed it back into his mouth.
Little said, “Lester is Bucky’s driver, Spenser. Spenser’s going to be doing a book on the Sox and on Bucky, Lester.”
Lester blew another big bubble and chewed it back in.
“He’s gonna be looking up his own asshole if he gets smart with me,” he said. There was a red flush on his cheekbones.
“Guess he doesn’t sing ‘Flamingo,”’ I said to Wilson.
“Aw now, Lester, Mr. Spenser’s just kidding around.”
Little did a small nervous shuffle step. Wilson was staring out at the diamond. Lester was working harder on the gum.
“And I’m telling him not to,” Lester said.
“Never mind, Lester.” The voice came from behind me.
It was Maynard. “Ah invited Mr. Spenser up here to listen to mah broadcast. He’s mah guest.”
“He said something smart about me singing, Bucky. I don’t like that sorta talk.”
“Ah know, Lester, ah don’t blame you. Mr. Spenser, Ah’d appreciate it if you was to apologize to Lester here. He’s a good boy, but he’s very emotional. He’s also got a black belt in tae kwon do. And ah wouldn’t want to get your writing hand all messed up before you even start.”
Waltzing with Lester in the broadcast booth wasn’t going to tell me anything about Marty Rabb. If he was any good, it might tell me something about me, but that wasn’t what I was getting paid for. Besides, I knew about me. And if I was a writer, I wasn’t supposed to be roughing it up with black belts. Maybe box with Jose Torres on a talk show, but brawling at a ball game… ? “I’m sorry, Lester,” I said. “Sometimes I try too hard to be funny.”
Lester popped his gum at me again and went back to the National Star. Maynard smiled with his mouth only and moved to a big upholstered swivel chair at the broadcast table. He sat down, put on big padded earphones, and spoke into the mike. The small monitor built into the table to his right had flickered into life and displayed a picture of the batter’s box below. There was a long mimeographed list in front of him on a clipboard, and he checked off the first two items as he spoke.
“Burt, ah want to open on Stabile warming up. Doc and me will do some business about the knuckler and how it flutters. Right?… Yup, soon’s you run the opening cartridge.”
Wilson looked over and said to me, “He’s talking to the people outside in the truck.” I nodded. Lester licked his thumb again and turned another page.
Little leaned over and whispered to me. “Gotta run, anything you need just let me know.” I nodded again, and Little tiptoed out like a man leaving church early.
Maynard said to the people in the truck, “Ah got nothing to do live up here, right?… well, ah don’t see nothing on the sheet… no, goddamn it, ah taped that yesterday afternoon… okay, well get it straight, boy.”
A cartoon picture of a slightly loutish-looking baseball player in a Red Sox uniform appeared on the monitor. Maynard said, “Twenty seconds,” to Wilson. Below and to our right along the first-base line a portly right-handed pitcher named Rick Stabile was warming up. He threw without effort, lobbing the ball toward the catcher.
Wilson said into his mike, “Good afternoon, everyone, from Fenway Park in Boston, where today the Red Sox go against the Yankees in the rubber game of a three-game series. This is Doc Wilson along with Bucky Maynard standing by to bring you all the action.”
A beer commercial appeared on the monitor screen, and Wilson leaned back. “You gonna pick it up on Stabile, Buck?”
Maynard said, “Check.” Wilson handed him the stat sheet and leaned forward as the beer company logo filled the monitor screen. Lester was finished with the tabloid and settled down into his chair and apparently went to sleep. He looked like a peaceful serpent. Tae kwon do? Never tried somebody that did that. I gave him a hard look. He was motionless; the breath from his nostrils ruffled his mustache gently. He was probably paralyzed with fear. Maynard said, “Howdy, all you Red Soxers, this is the old Buckaroo and you’re looking at Rick Stabile’s butterfly…”
By the sixth inning the game was gone for Boston.
Stabile’s knuckler had apparently deked when it should have dived, and the Yankees led 11 to 1. I made two trips, one for beer and hot dogs and one for peanuts. Lester slept, and Maynard and Wilson tried to talk some excitement into a laugher.
“Stabile’s got to get some of the lard off from around his middle, Doc.”
“Well, he’s a fine boy, Bucky, but he’s been playing a little heavy this year.”
“Tell it like it is, Doc. He came into spring training hog fat and he hasn’t lost it. He’s got the tools, but he’s gotta learn to back off from the table or he’ll eat himself right out of the league.” Maynard checked off an item on his log sheet.
“Here’s Graig Nettles, two for two today, including the downtowner in the first with Gotham on all the corners.”
I got up and headed out of the booth. Wilson winked at me as I left.
I stopped by at Little’s office to pick up the press kit on Marty Rabb and four others. Little’s gal had dentures.
