Zelda squeezed his hand. “I never saw anyone on board except us. And you authorized my passage.”
The Captain sighed at Diego’s forged signature. “You really like that kid.”
She sighed. “Yeah. A lot.”
Lee tipped his cap, about to leave, then stopped. “The Coast Guard never got a report from that ship.”
Strange, she shorthanded.
19
Two DV teens in baggy suits and glistening shoes falling off at the heels waited patiently by Gate Six. With a knowing paternal air, Frecklie introduced Aito and Estes to Puppy, the famous baseball historian. Frecklie shorthanded so quickly that Puppy missed a couple words, though he was pretty sure he was referenced as a genius at handling mothers.
That greatly relieved Aito and Estes, who evidently also had mothers ruining their lives. The kids eagerly rushed inside the stadium, eyes popping wonderingly. Frecklie assumed the role of tour guide, this mural was hit by machine gun fire and over there was a store selling souvenirs, camel brain they’re items you buy to remember the game, and over there was a restaurant named Planet Hollywood specializing in real meat hamburgers.
Who are they? Puppy pulled Frecklie aside.
Hard workers.
For what?
With a big wave, Frecklie happily embraced the entire crumbling ballpark. Everywhere.
The boy found a broom for Aito, who danced along the floor merrily attacking dirt as if it were the 22nd Arab Legion outside Prague. The other new janitor Paquette approached from the north and together they surrounded piles of dirt in a masterful flanking maneuver. If only the Allahs had been so cooperative. The helpless Arial stood with head bowed before his dusty barren stand, glumly rolling a bag of chips back and forth, fearing he’d been fired before he started. To the rescue came Mrs. Balinksi, the other big surprise of the morning.
Lugging a rickety shopping cart bulging with trays and pots, Balinski stopped tentatively, making sure she was in the right place because there were oh so many baseball stadiums clustered along River Avenue.
Once she saw the famous baseball historian, Balinski rushed over, the shopping cart tipping dangerously, and babbled on about her food stall and how wonderful Puppy was to give her this opportunity. Determined to find his place alongside these titans of sports culinary wizardry, Estes offered his services with a polite bow, his skills at cleaning forks seconded by Frecklie, and soon an ancient folding table was dug up, literally, under part of a wall.
Balinski and Paquette scrubbed the table while Aito swept away the excess soap; it looked like they were trying to row a boat. When the pierogis and kielbasis came steaming out of the containers, Puppy felt it was safe to hurry off to the Hawks clubhouse.
A very quiet clubhouse. Except for Mick’s snores.
Eyes collectively downcast, the team followed Ty’s clomping spikes around the bare concrete floor. If you watched just the feet, you could see Ty’s foot grinding down threateningly micro-inches from toes and heels.
“I ain’t never seen such crap in my life.” Ty circled warily, the players pressing into their lockers. “You are the worst pieces of dog shit players ever. Ever.”
Puppy cleared his throat. The team looked up gratefully as if his harrumph were the sound of a hammer being laid down near their half-finished gallows.
“We have kielbasa for sale today.”
The players jumped up, believing breakfast was on the way. Cobb threw a ball against a locker and it ricocheted crazily around the room, settling in the corner, split open.
“No one moves. No one eats. We got a goddamn game today at this goddamn ungodly hour.” His scowl heaped blame on Puppy for disrupting his sleep patterns. “But you ain’t going anywhere until I see some sense of understanding how badly you sucked.”
The team lowered their collective eyes, eyelashes grazing the floor. Of course they sucked.
Cobb slammed a bat by Jackson’s foot. The catcher jumped a few inches. “Have you ever caught a goddamn game?”
Vernon shook his head.
“So I got a catcher who can’t catch. Fielders who don’t know how to put their gloves on and throw like this.” Ty made mincing steps. “What are you pieces of shit going to do about it?”
Shannon raised her hand. “Practice more.”
Ty raised his hands skyward. “Finally. Of all of you, the colored girl’s the only one with sense.”
Shannon smiled, unsure how complimented she should be.
“Yes. Practice. Practice until your goddamn feet swell like balloons in the desert.” Ty stepped on Dmitri’s foot and he howled. “Practice until you got callouses ten inches thick. Bleeding, infected, disgusting callouses.” Ty held out his hands for a glimpse of their future. “Practice until you don’t think and then practice some more until you can. Do all of you get me?”
Mick snored louder. Ty kicked the stool from under him and he landed, awake and retching, on the floor.
“These are wonderful words, don’t you think?” Puppy asked the clubhouse. Ty’s furious glare sent him back a foot. Puppy cowered next to Vernon. His presence gave Jackson courage. The catcher raised his hand.
“But we won.”
Vernon had said something so profound that Ty was speechless. He leaned over, his nose rubbing between Vernon’s eyes.
“Say that again, fatso,” he said hoarsely.
The team averted Jackson’s helpless stare. “We won. Isn’t that good?”
Ty’s nose pressed deeper into Vernon’s face. “Is that what you think?”
Vern wasn’t sure what he thought. He wasn’t sure of his name.
“Is that what you all think, you sniveling, whining useless lumps of crap?” Ty swung the bat and they ducked. “You won because the other team sucks worse than you. Not because you’re good. You’re not even good enough to be shit. You’re beneath shit. I wouldn’t feed you to a hog.”
Ty considered making Vernon an exception. The catcher gulped.
“Now we’re going out there today and you’re going to hustle. You’re not going to run across the mound on your way to third base. You’re going to touch second base first. You’re gonna learn left and right field. Which are on the sides of center
