Into the grinder, I thought.
And I had a sudden and very clear realization that there was nowhere else I’d rather be.
The Haymakers were not in evidence. We spread over the diamond to warm up. George and the others began their flashy routine, but here it brought jeers. George pirouetted and tipped his cap. His cockiness buoyed me. The hotter things were, the happier he looked. He was a truly joyous competitor—or just plain crazy.
Andy tossed blades of grass to assess the wind. He asked me to throw balls over his head for him to take going away. His accurate return throws bounced in gently, away from my sore hand. Nearby, in the shade of a large wooden grandstand, a cluster of canvas-topped booths lent a carnival touch. Near some I recognized pool sellers from their pads of wager slips and unceasing cries of odds—which currently favored the Haymakers at better than two to one. I asked Andy who operated the others.
“Thimbleriggers,” he said scornfully. “Punchboard operators, three-card monte sharps.” With visions of quick wealth they systematically separated factory workers and farmhands from their meager coins and bills.
The gambling element sported gaudy outfits, twinkled with diamond stickpins, twirled ivory-handled canes and umbrellas, and showed off an array of ultrafashionable headwear from stovepipe “plugs” and fedoras to derbies and boaters. Among them prowled bejeweled women in satins, silks, and velvets. Their faces were white with powder, their lips blood red, their eyes predatory.
A momentary hush descended on the booths. People fell back as a cream-colored barouche drawn by matched white mares approached. A man stepped out looming powerful and dark, his jaw shadowed blue though smooth shaven, his eyes deep and probing beneath thick brows. His tan suit was elegant and he carried a gold-knobbed walking stick.
He offered his arm and a woman stepped out, skirts bunched, boots gliding down the coach’s steps. I stopped breathing as I tried to memorize her. Ringlets of ash-blond hair peeked from a scarlet cap, glinting pale gold in the sunlight and framing her oval face. A gray satin dress with scarlet trim set off alabaster skin and large blue-violet eyes. Her mouth was wide and sensual, her lips full. She smiled. The afternoon took on even more radiance.
“Who are they?” I asked Andy.
“Congressman Morrissey,” he said. “I’ve never laid eyes on even the half of her before.”
I resolved on the spot to find out about Morrissey and his companion. Especially the companion. As they promenaded to the grandstand she looked toward the diamond. For an electric instant my gaze touched hers. I stared, transfixed. She glanced away, then to my surprise tilted her chin and turned back to meet my eyes. Some spark of intense blue-violet energy flashed. I wanted her desperately—and was sure she knew. She tossed her head and laughed—a glimpse of white teeth and pink tongue—but I couldn’t tell whether at me or in response to Morrissey.
“My lord,” Andy whispered. “Ain’t she some dry goods? Did you see her lookin’ at me?”
“At you?”
“Sure as sin she was sparkin’ Mrs. Leonard’s boy. Ain’t she some belle? Ain’t she . . . darling?”
It sounded almost sacred. I glanced at him. He looked goofy. No matter that she was light-years out of his league. No matter that she was on the arm of one of the state’s most powerful men. No matter that she’d actually been looking at me. Poor deluded Andy.
“Here, what’s this!” Harry yelled.
We threw with guilty haste. Then a loud voice sounded nearby. “So he’s a damned revolver!” Red Jim McDermott stood pointing at me with grim satisfaction. “For a fact we’ll be investigatin’ this, have no fear!”
Harry moved over quickly. “Investigate what?”
“Faith, an’ you needn’t play-act, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou Wright. Fleshin’ out your nine with a revolver, is it? You’ll get what you deserve!” He strode after Morrissey.
Harry frowned at me. “You came from another club?”
“Are you kidding? Do I look like I’ve been playing?”
“Yale,” Andy reminded me.
“You’re wearing our colors now,” Harry said. “Yale is no concern to me, but if you were affiliated with any but a college club during the past sixty days, the Haymakers can claim this match by forfeit.”
“No problem,” I said. “McDermott could scour the globe for fifty years and find no trace of me playing ball.” Or anything else about me, I thought.
“Given Red Jim’s temperament,” Harry said, “that’s a good thing. Very well, I believe you.”
A roar burst forth as the Haymakers careened on the field in carriages decked with bunting and streamers. In the grandstand a brass band began to play. Girls in farm dresses held pitchforks to form an archway through which the Haymakers ran to home plate. They wore long brown corduroy pants, black spiked boots, and white jerseys. I didn’t like their looks: a burly, hard-eyed lot, bigger than us.
A man with a megaphone stepped forward to announce them one by one. Hurley accompanied the introductions with sketches of those likely to cause us trouble.
“STEVE BELLAN, CENTER FIELD.” An olive-skinned, black-haired athlete who smiled calmly as he sized us up.
“Esteban Enrique Bellan,” reported Hurley. “Comes from a rich Havana family. Played at Fordham when I was with Columbia. He’s a safe hitter, not heavy. Quick on the base paths. He’ll rip you if you don’t watch his spikes.” Hurley spat a stream of tobacco. “Course all the Haymakers’ll do that.”
“They will?”
He nodded judiciously. “Especially if they’re playing to win—like today.”
Great, I thought.
“WILLIAM ‘CHEROKEE’ FISHER, PITCHER.” A dour bullet-headed individual with gimlet eyes, close-cropped blond hair, and droopy mustache.
“They say he can split a board with his tosses. He pitched for the Buckeyes in Cincinnati last year and hates the
