“Yes, Mr. Asa Brainard, that’s all very well.” Champion bent ponderously and picked up the flask. A gold chain drooped below his ample stomach. All he needed to model for the old cartoon figure of Plutocracy, I thought, was a vest with dollar signs. Sniffing the flask, he said ominously, “And whose is this?”
There was silence. Andy stared morosely at the floor. Brainard and Sweasy exchanged a glance. Then, in rough unison, they answered, “His.”
Grinning malevolently, Sweasy pointed at me.
Chapter 2
Champion’s big jaw tightened. Looming over us, he turned slightly, unblocking the lamplight, and I got a good look at him. He was more thick-bodied than fat, probably only in his late thirties, but deep lines edging his eyes and crosshatching his brow made him look older. “Well?” he said, blue eyes boring into mine. “Is that true, sir?” The rumbling voice had a sharp-edged prosecutor’s tone I didn’t care for.
Andy hung his head like a schoolboy caught by the principal. What the hell, I thought, things couldn’t get much crazier.
“It’s mine,” I said, picking up the flask. “They didn’t touch it.”
Andy’s head rose quickly. Sweasy stared. A smile pulled at Brainard’s lips.
“I trust I have your word as a gentleman,” Champion said at length, eyeing the blood caked on my face; then, “Millar!”
The plump journalist squeezed in behind him, face twitching. My own White Rabbit, I thought; he’d ushered me into this topsy-turvy world. Then, like Alice, I’d been left on my own. I glanced around the table: Muttonchops, Meatball, Huck. Who were they? Who was this colossal stuffed shirt, Champion?
“Yes, sir?” Millar piped.
“Is this the man?” Champion demanded.
Millar blinked rapidly behind steel-rimmed lenses. “That’s him.”
Champion swung toward me with almost theatrical quickness. “Sir, would you please account for your presence in this car? And your refusal to return the ticket mistakenly given you?”
Again, the prosecutor’s tone. I sighed and explained that I’d collapsed on the station platform and missed my train.
“After taking spirits?” he said pointedly.
“There’s more to it,” I said, irritated. “But okay, I’d been drinking. Is it a crime?”
He stared at me distastefully.
I felt anger rising. I’d had enough weirdness. I briefly considered hitting something. Very hard.
“I presume you can reimburse us?” he said finally.
“Hell yes!” He seemed to flinch at the words as I stood to reach for my wallet. I must have looked menacing. Champion stepped back with alacrity, looking surprised that I stood as tall as he. The others watched in fascination. He untensed when he saw I wasn’t coming for him, then frowned as he noted my unsteadiness.
“Need sleep,” I muttered. Seeing his gaze on my Visa card in its plastic sheath, I covered it and handed him two twenties. “That’s excessive,” he said, then looked closer. “Federal Reserve Note. What is this?” He shook his head. “I thought I’d seen every variety of greenback since the war, but these take the cake!”
“Those good in Frisco?” asked Brainard.
“Gold, sir!” Champion said, handing the bills back. “This won’t do.”
My anger dissolved in weariness. “I don’t have anything else.” I sat down shakily. “I’m just trying to get back to Cleveland.”
At that point Andy said, “There’s an empty bunk above me. I’ll take it on myself to look out for him.”
“He’s drunk,” Champion said flatly. “I’ll not risk our good reputation—”
“I think he’s had trouble and feels sickly,” Andy said. “He could stand some help.”
“I won’t allow—” Champion began.
“We can’t put him off the train,” Andy persisted. “I’ll make good his fare.”
And that was all I remember. Later I learned that I passed out and pitched face forward from my chair, effectively ending the discussion.
I slept for three days. Andy claimed that my eyes were open when he guided me in and out of train compartments and hotel rooms. But I recall nothing but a succession of vivid dreams. Stephanie figured in a lot of them, as did my girls.
But the best ones were about Grandpa. And me. About things that happened long ago. The dreams took old pictures from my memory and made them live again. . . .
I am beside him on the bleachers at the high school diamond. It is the sun-washed afternoon of my first game. Grandpa wears his khaki windbreaker and his blue legion cap. He has promised me this for weeks. I’m too excited to sit still. Everything before me is wondrous—the grassy field, the infield dirt, the bright uniforms, even the chalked lines of the diamond. I look out at the teenage players warming up as though they are gods. More than anything I want to be one of them, to wear a jersey and spikes, to throw and catch and swing the bat. When they trot past they greet Grandpa respectfully—he supports the team each year—and he introduces me to them. I am shy and enormously proud. “Give a good account of yourselves,” Grandpa tells them. “Do the Post proud.”
The innings pass. I am entranced by the pop of the ball into gloves, the infielders’ chatter, the crack of line drives, the dirt-spilling slides. Already I know that I am in love with the game.
“Will I play for the legion team someday?” I pester Grandpa, wanting his promise that I will be as good, as worthy, as these older boys. Already I sense that certain things will come hard for me. I am moon-faced and hulking, the butt of barbs and jokes at school.
“Could be,” Grandpa says, promising nothing—his stock reply.
But afterward he takes me downtown, grasping my hand—the iron-haired man in his sixties linked with the eager boy of seven—as we cross busy streets. He leads me to a sporting-goods store where he buys me a glove and ball. At home he shows me how to oil and mold the pocket. I can’t believe the glove is mine. I’ve never owned anything so valuable.
At dusk we play catch on the front lawn.
