At that moment, shockingly, a bottle exploded against the brick wall near Johnny. He bent matter-of-factly and swept shards of glass into the dustpan.
Christ, I thought. I pushed my chair back, ignoring Lydia’s clutching fingers.
Johnny saw me coming. He didn’t look happy. “Go away, Sam,” he hissed. “You’ll cost me this job!”
“You didn’t want to be a clown,” I said, “so you work here?”
He didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed over my shoulder. “Oh no, they’re settin’ you up!”
I turned and looked. Lydia was talking urgently to the bartender. His eyes were on me. Suddenly his hand lifted, cracking hard against her face. With startling abruptness she toppled to the floor. The bartender motioned and several men began to move toward us.
“Is there a back way out?” I said.
Johnny pointed to a door in the corner. “Somebody’ll be out there too.”
It couldn’t be worse than here, I figured. I turned, but the bartender already was blocking our way, knife in hand.
Johnny pushed past me. “Wait, he’s my—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish. The knife flashed upward. Johnny leaped sideways barely in time to avoid being impaled.
I ran forward, yanking out the derringer. I aimed it between the bartender’s eyes. He froze and slowly, very slowly, stepped aside. I wrenched open the door. Johnny slid through. I followed him into an alley that smelled like a sewer. Two men holding truncheons barred our way. I kicked one in the balls, swung around and gave the other a close-up of the derringer’s business end. His club thumped to the ground. We sprinted frantically for the corner. Shots ricocheted past us.
We were chased through murderous alleys called China and Dead Man. Finally I turned and squeezed off a shot. It reverberated nicely in the narrow passageway, kicking up a spout in a stagnant pool. Our pursuers took cover, giving us just enough time to lose them in the next series of dark streets.
At length we reached the waterfront and the Blue Anchor.
“Jesus,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “I can’t believe you’d work in that dump.”
“I don’t anymore,” he said shortly. “You fixed that.”
“Am I supposed to feel bad about it?”
He was silent.
“Johnny,” I said. “Tomorrow I’m going to look for a place to rent here. How about sharing with me?”
“You’re staying on?” He looked at me levelly, his face hard to read. “How long?”
I had no real answer.
“A while.”
Monday, October 4, the Stockings’ last full day in the city, was chilly and gusty. I spent the morning looking for a flat and found a beauty on Russian Hill, several doors from an oddly familiar octagonal house on Green Street. Our rooms occupied the upper floor of a small mansion, its picture window overlooking sparsely settled slopes. The squat Montgomery Block loomed in the foreground, Telegraph Hill behind it, and beyond that the bay. The furnishings were cutesy but comfortable. I paid a month’s rent of forty-five dollars and sent a note to Johnny at the Blue Anchor to meet me the next morning at our new digs.
The exhibition game that afternoon was played in a howling sand-laden wind that made each fly a fielder’s nightmare. Sweasy chased one pop-up all the way from second into the crowd behind the foul line. Nonetheless, three thousand were on hand for a final look at the Stockings. The “Wrights,” padded with four Pacifics, defeated the “Brainards,” with four Eagles, 20-7.
That night the city’s baseball clubs, their uniforms brilliant blocks of colors, treated us to a farewell dinner. Over three hundred of us crowded into a hall draped with flowers and banners and bunting. A string orchestra played during the five-course supper.
Then the toasts began: “To the Red Stockings: may they never meet the wash in which they may be bleached.” “Our national game: may we never think it Wright to let our exertions come to a shortstop.” On they went, corny and labored. Toasts to Harry, who blushed and mumbled, to Hatton, to the press, to the government, to the ladies. In a speech of thanks, Champion included a pitch for temperance. Too late. A good many ballists lurched from the hall.
The Cosmopolitan desk clerk informed me that a gentleman had called for me. He’d left no card, but the clerk recalled that he’d called himself a captain.
“O’Donovan?” I said.
“That’s it,” said the clerk. “He insisted that we find you before you departed the city. Grew angry when we couldn’t tell him your whereabouts. Said his mission was urgent.”
I felt the shakiness coming on.
“Yes,” I said. “I imagine it is.”
Pea-soup fog blanketing the Broadway wharf at 6:30 a.m. mirrored my feelings of dislocation.
“Come onto some flush new money game,” Brainard said, “and cut me in.”
I considered the five hundred dollars he owed me. “Okay, if you do the same.”
He laughed and turned away.
“’Luck, Sam,” said Waterman gruffly.
“Get back in time to see us warm the Athletics,” urged George, clapping me on the back, flashing his grin.
Sweasy nodded. Mac asked me to keep an eye on local mining stocks; he was inclined toward speculating. Gould crushed my hand. Allison twanged, “So long, bub.”
“If you’ve a mind to work with us,” Harry said, “I’ll need help with the rink this winter.”
“Thanks.” It felt good to be wanted. “Maybe I can dream up some new wrinkles.”
He smiled. “I have no doubt.”
I hugged Andy hard. We had difficulty finding words. He stepped back and looked at me.
“You’re coming back soon, then?”
I nodded.
“Want me to tell Cait anything?”
“Just that I think of her all the time.”
I watched him follow the others. He turned and waved from the bow, above the riverboat’s name, New World. Loneliness hit me like a fist. I felt an urge to leap for the retreating gangplank. The whistle sounded, steam hissed from the boilers, smoke belched from the stacks, and the great wheel began to turn. The craft inched from the dock. Kids waved and called to the Stockings.
