But it wasn’t Richie. “Been trying to reach you.” Garrity. “How’d it go?”
“How did what go?”
“Everest. What else? Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?”
“You sound funny.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Gil said. His tongue found the jagged tooth edge and rubbed hard.
“Meaning what, in dollars and cents?”
“Can’t go into it now. I’m on a call.”
Pause. “See you tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Second Wednesday.”
“Sales conference?”
“You got it, boyo.”
Clouds rolled in from the north, grew heavier, sank over the downtown buildings. On the road, where the best ideas were supposed to happen, Gil waited for one, about Richie, about the sales conference, his tooth, anything. None came. He listened to something scraping under the car, squeezed the steering wheel until his hands cramped. He didn’t reach the ballpark until 5:18.
Gil sprang out of the car, ran to the nearest gate. It was locked. Beyond the chain link, unlit ramps curved away into the shadows. No one was around.
“Hey!” Gil called. “Hey!”
A veiny-faced old man in a red blazer appeared on the other side.
“Yeah?” he said.
“My boy’s in there.”
“Huh?”
“I was supposed to meet him. He hasn’t come out.”
“No way,” the old man said. “We do a sweep. There’s nobody.”
Gil glanced around, saw a few people on the street, but no kids. “Then where is he?” The question echoed through the concrete spaces under the stands, and Gil realized he’d been shouting. He lowered his voice. “Let me in.”
The old man disappeared. He returned a few minutes later. “Checked security. No lost kids. You must have missed him in the crush.”
Gil’s voice rose again. “He’s in there.”
The man went away, came back with a second man, much younger, wearing a suit and the air of authority. “What’s the problem?”
Gil explained.
“Let him in,” said the man in the suit.
“But there’s no kid in here,” said the old man.
“He’ll see that for himself.”
The old man unlocked the gate. Gil went in, walked with them up the ramp and out into the stands. Every seat empty. Fans, players, marine color guard, president of the United States, even the Opening Day bunting-all gone. He made his way down to section BB, seats 3 and 4, just the same, in case Richie had left a note. He hadn’t, or if he had it had been swept up with the popcorn, beer cups, scorecards, icecream wrappers.
“Richie,” Gil called, down the left-field line, out to center, down the right-field line. “Richie, Richie.” The ballpark was silent. The first drops of rain made the infield tarp quiver here and there. Gil turned to find the two men watching him from the walkway above. He mounted the steps, felt their eyes on him all the way.
“Maybe he’s in the can,” Gil said.
“We do a sweep,” replied the man in the suit. “Didn’t you tell him?”
“Sure I told him,” said the oldest man. “You think I don’t know my job after fifty-six years?”
Gil just stood there. The man in the suit glanced down at Gil’s torn pant leg. “That it, then?” he said.
Gil didn’t say anything. The old man said, “That’s it,” for him.
The man in the suit said, “Then show this gentleman out.”
The old man walked Gil to the gate. His mood improved as he swung it open. “Nothing to get stressed about,” he said.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You know-uptight,” said the old man. “Happens all the time. Probably went home on his own.”
Would Richie know how? Gil wasn’t sure.
“Or he’s waiting in a burger joint,” the old man said, locking the gate.
That was a thought. Gil stepped quickly into the street, without looking. A big Jeep swerved to avoid him. Gil caught a glimpse of Bobby Rayburn at the wheel, laughing into a car phone.
Gil tried all the restaurants and coffee shops within three blocks of the ballpark. He described Richie to a hot-dog vendor, a street cop, and a woman who might have been a hooker. Then he got into his car and drove up and down the streets around the ballpark. Night fell. Probably went home on his own. Gil turned toward the expressway and Ellen’s. Something dragging under the car scraped pavement all the way.
It was raining hard by the time Gil pulled up at the South Shore triplex. Light shining over the front door, no anxious faces peering from the windows: Gil saw nothing unusual except the big Mercedes parked behind Ellen’s car in the driveway.
He knocked on the door. Footsteps. The door opened. Tim.
Gil blurted it out. “Have you got Richie?”
Tim licked his lips. “Ellen?” he called.
Ellen appeared. Her cheeks flushed at the sight of him. That meant she had Richie-thank God, Gil said to himself, he really thanked God-but he asked anyway.
“Richie here?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Don’t start.”
“Don’t you start. Or do you think you’re the injured party? That would be just your style-feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Where is he?”
“Safely asleep in his bed, no thanks to you.”
“I can explain, Ellen.”
“No one wants to hear it.”
“Richie will.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I owe it to him anyway.”
“No one could repay what you owe. And I said he was asleep.”
“Isn’t it a little early?”
“Not for an exhausted nine-year-old boy. Physically and emotionally exhausted.”
“Then I’ll just go up and have a peek at him.”
“You will not,” Ellen said.
“He’s my son.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“What do you mean by that?” No reply. Gil stepped into the hall. Did Tim really move to block him? Gil brushed past him, brushed past Ellen too.
“Stop,” Ellen said.
Did she really grab his arm, dig her fingernails through his jacket? That wasn’t her at all. What was going on? He shook her off, kept going toward the stairs. As he went past the entrance to the living room, a woman said, “That’s him.”
He glanced in, saw an old couple sitting on the couch, cups and saucers on their laps. Gil recognized the woman: she was still wearing her Harvard cap.
“Just a minute,” the man said, rising. He was tall, square-shouldered, well but modestly dressed: the picture
