“—join us,” Brainard finished smoothly. “Care for a stogie?” He opened a silver case and displayed a row of fat cigars. “Genuine Conestogas . . . the cash article.”
“Don’t smoke,” I said. “But I could use a drink.”
“Very good.” With small scissors Brainard snipped the ends from two cigars and turned to Sweasy. “Your phossies handy?”
Sweasy grunted and flexed as he worked a brass match safe from his tight pants. He extracted a wooden match and struck it against the bottom of the cylinder. It was about twice the thickness of a kitchen match and emitted a powerful sulphur odor. Drawing on his cigar, Brainard produced a flask from his jacket and passed it to me. “Not exactly store-bought,” he said, “but the finest readily had in Mansfield—although it mayn’t do for you.”
Sweasy snorted. “Hell, Acey, I saw you buy it off them tramps down at the railroad. Ain’t nothin’ but forty-rod poison!”
I took a healthy swallow. It bucked and burned down my throat. “What is this?” I asked, eyes watering.
“Rye.” Brainard grinned. “Gets smoother with practice.” He tipped the flask and a gurgling sound followed. Sweasy did the same. Andy hesitated, then followed suit, giggling afterward.
“Now, Sam,” said Brainard tentatively, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask about your garb. I’m a clothes fancier—”
“That’s equal to saying Grant’s an army fancier,” Sweasy said, emitting another nasal snort.
“—and I’m curious as to where you got your outfit. Can’t place it. Ain’t exactly a sack cut, though it bears a resemblance. Don’t look full enough to take a waistcoat.”
“My clothes are fascinating lately,” I said. “Which is something, considering what you guys have on.”
“Guys?” said Andy Leonard.
“Andy’s from Jersey,” said Brainard, winking. “Thinks everybody oughta talk like him.”
“What’s at fault with Jersey?” demanded Sweasy.
“Why, not a single blessed thing,” Brainard said, his ironic tone lost on Sweasy, who sat back, mollified. Brainard turned to me. “You were about to say where you came by that suit—and also them hard slippers with no buttons?”
Whatever Muttonchop’s act was, he had it down pat. I wondered where it went. “Well, the suit’s Brooks Brothers and the loafers are imitation Italian—”
“Eye-talian?” said Sweasy, tensing again.
“Sam’s trying to come a dodge on us,” said Brainard, shooting me a sly glance. “I was in to Brooks Brothers last winter. They don’t make coats with them little lapels or pants with them crimps you got down the front. You claim them duds was cut for you in New York?”
“They’re off the rack,” I said. “In San Francisco, where I’m from.”
“Frisco?” said Brainard. “Brooks Brothers?”
“Right. Say, how’s the whiskey?” The second slug went down easier. “Thanks,” I said. “Now, exactly what in hell are you guys up to?”
“Hey, now, we didn’t mean to rile you,” Andy broke in, looking worriedly at Sweasy. “We shouldn’t even be here. Harry, our captain, wouldn’t like it one bit. But we’re not up to nothin’, honest. We’re just ballists headin’ to the next town.”
“You’re what?”
“Ballists,” Andy said. “Base ballists.”
“Baseball players?”
He nodded. “First nine of the Cincinnati club. Acey pitches, Sweaze fortifies second, I’m generally in left—except today I had to handle Acey’s swift ones. The club made a starring tour to the East last year, just like now. Maybe you heard of us.” He paused and reflected. “Well, maybe not, out on the Pacific Slope.”
“You’re pros?” In my weariness I felt a quickening of interest. In earlier, sweeter years, baseball had been my first love.
“Professionals, you mean?” said Brainard.
I nodded.
“You talk funny out in Frisco.” Andy grinned at me. “Yep, we’re signed on for the whole season. First time it’s happened anywhere. Some folks think it ain’t right, though, so we don’t generally go around puffing ourselves.”
“Whose chain are you in again?”
“What?” Sweasy frowned.
“You’re minor leaguers, right?”
“What’s that?” Sweasy snapped. “Juniors?”
“Don’t sound like us,” Brainard said wryly.
“But the only pro Cincinnati club I know of,” I said, “is the Reds.”
“Right,” said Andy proudly, “we’re the ones. Ain’t nothin’ in the shape of a ball club can lay over us.”
“You guys play for the Reds?”
“Guys,” Andy repeated. “That’s a dinger!” He laughed. “Some call us Reds, or Red Legs. Most say Red Stockings, though. So you have heard about us?”
I shook my head, beginning to wonder if I’d blundered into a carload of loonies. “Look, what’s today?”
Sweasy muttered. Brainard’s spaniel eyes regarded me brightly, as though I’d introduced a fun guessing game.
“That’s easy,” said Andy. “June first—my birthday.”
“When were you born?”
“’Forty-six.”
Which was loony. It would make the kid more than forty, not twenty-three.
“Just what year do you think this is?” I demanded.
He looked at me strangely. “’Sixty-nine.”
My brain seemed to sputter and stop.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Eighteen sixty-nine. Something wrong with that?”
Eighteen sixty-nine. I looked at their clothes, the kerosene lamp, the spittoons. “Very wrong,” I muttered, starting to rise. “Either with me . . . or . . .”
Footsteps sounded outside the door. “All right, Millar, all right,” rumbled a deep voice, drawing near. “I’ll take care of it. Enough of your pestering.”
Andy’s face went pale. “Land alive, it’s Champion! The game’s up! I’m off the nine!”
Brainard reached for the flask on the table, then snatched his hand back as a man’s large figure filled the doorway. Stooping, the figure moved purposefully into the compartment and stood before us, blocking the lamplight. I squinted upward. Above the dark suit blazed a pair of pale blue eyes. A Roman nose of impressive proportions was trained upon us. Thick black hair blended into the ceiling shadows. A black goatee looked pasted to the pale skin of the lantern jaw.
“Why are you men here?” he rumbled. The blue eyes flashed past me to fix upon the others. “You were to retire by now.”
Slowly, with elaborate nonchalance, Brainard produced a watch. “Why, how the time got away, Mr. Champion,” he said blandly. “Sweaze and I were extending Andy our personal felicitations, and then we set to congratulating
