“You were down to two seventy-five for the pair yesterday.”
“I wasn’t even here yesterday.”
They looked at each other. Gil realized he was tired of everyone else having the whip hand-O’Meara, Garrity, the VP at Everest, pink-faced patricians like Hale, blotch-faced scum like this scalper: they all knew how to cut a piece off him. Gil felt the weight of the thrower on his leg. It was comforting.
“A’right, a’right,” said the scalper. “You got the two seventy-five?”
“I’ve got two fifty,” Gil said. “That’s what I’ll pay.”
“You jerkin’ me around? Two seventy-five, and it’s your lucky day.”
They looked at each other some more. Gil remembered a little of what he knew about knife fighting. The thrower could be used for stabbing, but stabbing wasn’t so easy if an opponent knew what he was doing. Slashing was better. Even a piece of junk like the Iwo Jima Survivor would do: hit the pavement, roll, come up slashing through the sinews at the back of the knees. Never done it for real, although he’d practiced for years with his father, using rubber knives in the clearing behind the forge, and his father had done it for real, more than once, with the Rangers.
“You in a coma, buddy, or what?” said the scalper.
“Let’s see the tickets.” Gil examined them. Right section-BB, seats 3 and 4; right game-Game 1, Opening Day, April 8, 1:00 P.M. He handed over the $275 and walked away, checking the tickets once more. The printed price was $18.50 each.
Gil had a baconburger and fries at Cleats. Figgy was already there. He’d had a few. Gil had a few with him. They watched a spring-training game from Arizona on the big screen.
“Gil?”
“Yeah?”
“Do me a favor?”
“Like what?”
“I could use a couple hundred, tide me over. Going out to Connecticut this weekend to check things out.”
“What things?”
“Friend of a friend of mine makes fishing rods out there. Looking for a rep. I’ll be able to pay you back in a week, two weeks tops.”
“You’re a city boy. What do you know about fishing rods?”
“I’ll know enough by the weekend. I’ve been reading up. Besides, selling is selling.”
They ordered another round. Gil watched some kid stretch a single into a double, slanting into the bag with a perfect hook slide. A memory came to him, of a game long ago, maybe against the Indians. He’d been on first base, taking his lead, when-
“So how about it?” said Figgy.
“How about what?”
“Couple hundred.”
On the screen the pitcher spun around and fired to the shortstop, sneaking in behind the kid at second base. The umpire made a hammering motion with his fist. The kid jogged off the field, head down.
“It’s not like I’ve got any job security myself,” Gil said.
“You kidding? Your name’s on the catalogue. They’ll never can you.”
“My father’s name,” Gil said. “And don’t be so sure.”
Figgy took a deep breath, blew it out. “How about a hundred and fifty?”
Gil realized that for once he had the whip hand.
“What are you smiling about?” Figgy asked.
“Nothing.” Gil was all set to say no to Figgy when he remembered the Lifesavers. “I can spare fifty. That’s it.”
Figgy took it, and left soon after. Gil stayed until the game was over, then watched Baseball Tonight and SportsCenter before driving home.
Gil lay naked on his bed, except for the thrower, still strapped to his leg. He listened for Lenore upstairs. Once he thought he heard her moan. It gave him an erection. He wondered if she was up there with another man, then decided he had imagined the whole thing. She was sleeping, or working the late shift, or at her sister’s. He considered a quiet trip upstairs, a quiet knock on her door. He stayed where he was. He didn’t like to go to her.
Gil turned off the light. The last thing he saw was Richie’s picture, on the dresser.
Time passed. He drifted in a dark and pleasant fog, close to sleep, playing a little catch with Bobby Rayburn. Bobby was impressed; he could tell.
All at once, Gil sat up, snapped on the light. He got out of bed, picked his jacket off the floor, fumbled for the tickets.
Game 1. April 8. 1:00 P.M. His appointment with the VP at Everest and Co. was for two-thirty, the same day.
5
This one’s name was Dawna. Bobby didn’t have to remember because she wore a necklace with the word spelled out in fourteen-carat-gold letters, like a name tag. When he awoke in his room at the Flamingo Bay Motor Inn and Spa, she was lying on her side, gazing at him.
“You look so peaceful when you’re sleeping,” she said. “And you’ve got the most beautiful hands.”
Bobby had heard that before: both parts, especially the second. The kind of woman who noticed hands always noticed his. Val was that kind of woman too: she’d said exactly the same words when he’d picked up his fork on their first date, dinner at Longhorn Subs and Pizza, two blocks from the athletic dorm. Years later, having gone back to college for her master’s, she put a new twist on it. Now his hands reminded her of something Aristotle Onassis had told Maria Callas: “You’d be nothing without that bird in your throat.” He hadn’t known who Maria Callas was. Wald had explained it to him, explained it was a putdown. But, after some thought, Bobby had decided to take it as a compliment. His hands, his eyes, his body: they were a gift, like Einstein’s brain.
“Thanks,” he said to Dawna.
“And the rest of you’s not so bad, either.” Bobby had heard that segue before as well. Dawna felt for him under the sheets and soon rolled on top, her hands on his shoulders and her necklace swinging lightly against his chin as she began to move. Bobby moved too, although he had intended to sleep alone, had in fact gone to bed alone. But keyed up by the way he’d hit in BP and unable to sleep, he’d gotten out of bed, dressed, and gone to the bar. There she’d been.
The phone rang. Bobby picked it up. “Hello.” Dawna slid under the sheets, went down on him.
“Did I wake you?” Wald said.
“No.”
“Good. Sorry to call so early, but I wanted to get this cleared up before game time. How’re the ribs, by the way?”
“Fine. Get what cleared up?”
“They want fifty grand.”
“Stop it,” Bobby said.
“Huh?”
“I wasn’t talking to you. Who wants fifty grand? For what?”
“Primo’s people. Or else he won’t give up the number.”
“Goddamn it.”
“Right. Your decision. Is it worth fifty Gs?”
“Goddamn it.”
“I know.”
“Can’t you talk them down?”
