CHAPTER FOUR
STEAM FROM THE SHOWERS drifted into the locker room and made the air moist. The final score was 14 to 3 and no one was pouring champagne on anyone. I sat down beside Marty Rabb. He was bent over, unlacing his spikes. When he straightened, I said, “My name’s Spenser, I’m writing a book about the Sox, and I guess I oughta start with you.”
Rabb smiled and put out his hand. “Hi, glad to help.
How about you don’t mention today, though, huh?” He shook his head. He was well above my six feet one—all flat planes and sharp angles. His short brown hair grew down over his forehead in a wedge. His head was square and long, like a square-bladed garden spade. His cheekbones were high and prominent, making the cheeks slightly hollow beneath them.
I said, “Bucky Maynard tells me Stabile’s too fat and that’s why he’s having trouble.”
“You ever see Lolich or Wilbur Wood?” Rabb said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve seen Maynard too.”
Rabb smiled. “Ricky doesn’t pitch with his stomach.
The ball wasn’t moving for him today, that’s all.”
“It was moving for you yesterday.”
“Yeah, I had it grooved yesterday.” Rabb undressed as he talked. He was long-muscled and bony, his body pale in contrast to the dark tan on his face, neck, and arms.
“Well,” I said, “I’m really more interested in the human side of the game, Marty. Could we get together tonight and talk a little?”
Rabb was naked now, standing with a towel over his shoulder. In fact, most of the people in the dressing room were naked. I felt like a streaker in a nudist colony.
“Yeah, sure. Ah, lemme see, no, we’re not doing anything tonight that I know of. Why don’t you come over to the apartment, meet my wife, maybe have a drink? That okay with you?”
“Fine, what time?”
“Well, the kid goes to bed about seven—about seven thirty. Wanna do that?”
“Yes. Where?”
“Church Park. You know where that is?”
“Yeah.”
“Apartment six twelve.”
I looked at my watch: 4:35. “That’s fine. I’ll be there.
Thanks very much.”
“See you.” Rabb headed for the showers. His body high and narrow, the left trapezius muscle overdeveloped, swelling out along the left side of his spine.
I left. Outside the dressing room there were two people sweeping. Other than that the place was empty. I walked up the ramp under the stands and looked out at the field. It was empty. I went down and hopped the railing of the box seats.
There was no sound. I walked over to home plate. The wall in left seemed an arm’s length away and 300 cubits high. The sun was still bright and at that time of day slanted in over the third-base stands, and the shadows of the light towers looked like giant renderings by Dali. A pigeon flew down from the center-field bleachers and pecked at the warning track. I walked out to the pitcher’s mound and stood with my right foot on the rubber, looking down into home plate. Traffic sounds drifted in from the city, but muffled. I put my right hand behind me and let it rest against my butt. Left hand relaxed on my left thigh. I squinted in toward the plate. Last of the ninth, two out, three on, Spenser checks the sign. One of the men who’d been sweeping came out of the passageway and yelled, “Hey, what the hell are you doing out there?”
“Striking out Tommy Henrich, you dumb bastard.
Don’t you know anything?”
“You ain’t supposed to be out there.”
“I know,” I said. “I never was.”
I walked back in through the stands and on out of the ball park. I looked at my watch. It was nearly five. I walked back down the Commonwealth Avenue mall to Massachusetts Avenue. If Commonwealth Ave is yin, then Mass Ave is yang.
Steak houses that no one you knew had gone to, office buildings with dirty windows, fast food, a palm reader, a massage parlor. I crossed Mass Ave and went into the Yorktown Tavern. It had plate glass windows and brown linoleum, a high tin ceiling painted white, booths along the left, a bar along the right. In the back corner was a color TV carrying a bowling game called Duckpins for Dollars. No one was watching.
All the barstools were taken, and most of the booths. No one was wearing a tie. No one was drinking a Harvey Wallbanger.
The house special was a shot and a beer.
In the last booth on the left, alone, was a guy named Seltzer who always reminded me of a seal. He was sleek and plumpish, thin through the chest, thicker through the hips.
His hair was shiny black, parted in the middle and slicked tight against his head. He had a thin mustache, a pointed nose, and a dark pinstriped suit that cost at least $300. His white shirt gleamed in contrast to the darkness of the suit and the dinginess of the bar. He was reading the Herald American. As I slid in opposite him, he turned
