to the skin and stepped into the shower stall, where he enjoyed himself for ten minutes, soaping and resoaping his bony body under warm water. But then a trainman happened to come through and after sniffing around Sam’s clothes yelled in to him, “Hey, bud, come outa there.”
Sam stopped off the shower and poked out his head. “What’s that?”
“I said come outa there, that’s only for the train crew.”
“Excuse me,” Sam said, and he began quickly to rub himself dry.
“You don’t have to hurry. Just wanted you to know you made a mistake.”
“Thought it went with the ticket.”
“Not in the coaches it don’t.”
Sam sat on a metal stool and laced up his high brown shoes. Pointing to the cracked mirror on the wall, he said, “Mind if I use your glass?”
“Go ahead.”
He parted his sandy hair, combed behind the ears, and managed to work in a shave and brushing of his yellow teeth before he apologized again to the trainman and Jeft.
Going up a few cars to the lounge, he ordered a cup of hot coffee and a sandwich, ate quickly, and made for the club car. It was semi-officially out of bounds for coach travelers but Sam had told the passenger agent last night that he had a nephew riding on a sleeper, and the passenger agent had mentioned to the conductor not to bother him.
When he entered the club car, after making sure Roy was elsewhere Sam headed for the bar, already in a fluid state for the train was moving through wet territory, but then he changed his mind and sat down to size up the congregation over a newspaper and spot who looked particularly amiable. The headlines caught his eye at the same time as they did this short, somewhat popeyed gent’s sitting next to him, who had just been greedily questioning the husky, massive-shouldered man on his right, who was wearing sun glasses. Popeyes nudged the big one and they all three stared at Sam’s paper.
The article went on to relate that both of these men had been shot under mysterious circumstances with silver bullets from a.22 caliber pistol by an unknown woman that police were on the hunt for.
“That makes the second sucker,” the short man said.
“But why with silver bullets, Max?”
“Beats me. Maybe she set out after a ghost but couldn’t find him.”
The other fingered his tie knot. “Why do you suppose she goes around pickin’ on atheletes for?”
“Not only athletes but also the cream of the crop. She’s knocked off a crack football boy, and now an Olympic runner. Better watch out, Whammer, she may be heading for a baseball player for the third victim.” Max chuckled.
Sam looked up and almost hopped out of his seat as he recognized them both.
Hiding his hesitation, he touched the short one on the arm. “Excuse me, mister, but ain’t you Max Mercy, the sportswriter? I know your face from your photo in the articles you write.”
But the sportswriter, who wore a comical mustache and dressed in stripes that crisscrossed three ways — suit, shirt, and tie — a nervous man with voracious eyes, also had a sharp sense of smell and despite Sam’s shower and toothbrushing nosed Out an alcoholic fragrance that slowed his usual speedy response in acknowledging the spread of his fame.
“That’s right,” he finally said.
“Well, I’m happy to have the chance to say a few words to you. You’re maybe a little after my time, but I am Sam Simpson — Bub Simpson, that is — who played for the St. Louis Browns in the seasons of 1919 to 1921.”
Sam spoke with a grin though his insides were afry at the mention of his professional baseball career.
“Believe I’ve heard the name,” Mercy said nervously. After a minute he nodded toward the man Sam knew all along as the leading hitter of the American League, three times winner of the Most Valuable Player award, and announced, “This is Walter (the Whammer) Wambold.” It had been in the papers that he was a holdout for $75,000 and was coming East to squeeze it out of his boss.
“Howdy,” Sam said. “You sure look different in street clothes.”
The Whammer, whose yellow hair was slicked flat, with tie and socks to match, grunted.
Sam’s ears reddened. He laughed embarrassedly and then remarked sideways to Mercy that he was traveling with a slambang young pitcher who’d soon be laying them low in the big leagues. “Spoke to you because I thought you might want to know about him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Roy Hobbs.”
“Where’d he play?”
“Well, he’s not exactly been in organized baseball.”
“Where’d he learn to pitch?”
“His daddy taught him years ago — he was once a semipro — and I have been polishin’ him up.”
“Where’s he been pitching?”
“Well, like I said, he’s young, but he certainly mowed them down in the Northwest High School League last year. Thought you might of heard of his eight no-hitters.”
“Class D is as far down as I go,” Mercy laughed. He lit one of the cigars Sam had been looking at in his breast pocket.
“I’m personally taking him to Clarence Mulligan of the Cubs for a tryout. They will probably pay me a few grand for uncovering the coming pitcher of the century but the condition is — and Roy is backing me on this because he is more devoted to me than a son — that I am to go back as a regular scout, like I was in 1925.”
Roy popped his head into the car and searched around for the girl with the black hat box (Miss Harriet Bird, Eddie had gratuitously told him, making a black fluttering of wings), and seeing her seated near the card tables restlessly thumbing through a magazine, popped out.
“That’s him,” said Sam. “Wait’ll I bring him back.” He got up and chased after Roy.
“Who’s the gabber?” said the Whammer.
“Guy named Simpson who once caught for the Brownies. Funny thing, last night I was doing a Sunday piece on drunks in baseball and I had occasion to look up his record. He was in the game three years, batted.340, 260, and.198, but his catching was terrific — not one error listed.”
“Get rid of him, he jaws too much.”
“Sh, here he comes.”
Sam returned with Roy in tow, gazing uncomfortably ahead.
“Max,” said Sam, “this is Roy Hobbs that I mentioned to you. Say hello to Max Mercy, the syndicated sportswriter, kiddo.”
“Hello,” Roy nodded.
“This is the Whammer,” Max said.
Roy extended his hand but the Whammer looked through him with no expression whatsoever. Seeing he had his eye hooked on Harriet, Roy conceived a Strong dislike for the guy.
The Whammer got up. “Come on, Max, I wanna play cards.”
Max rose. “Well, hang onto the water wagon, Bub,” he said to Sam.
Sam turned red.
Roy shot the sportswriter a dirty look.
“Keep up with the no-hitters, kid,” Max laughed.
Roy didn’t answer. He took the Whammer’s chair and Sam sat where he was, brooding.
“What’ll it be?” they heard Mercy ask as he shuffled the cards. They had joined two men at one of the card tables.
The Whammer, who looked to Sam like an overgrown side of beef wrapped in gabardine, said, “Hearts.” He stared at Harriet until she looked up from her magazine, and after a moment of doubt, smiled.
The Whammer fingered his necktie knot. As he scooped up the cards his diamond ring glinted in the
