checks will be forwarded.”
“That I’m what? That I’m what? That I’m what?”
Garrity didn’t answer, although Gil’s face was now inches from his own.
Gil still had the order book and sample case in his hands. He pictured himself raising them high and bringing them down on Garrity’s head, even felt the beginning of the rush of hot pleasure that would accompany the act. But he didn’t do it. He just let go, dropping them on the floor.
Garrity didn’t move, didn’t raise his voice. “You’ve got to get your life under control, boyo. As an old friend of your father I’m saying that.”
Gil glanced down at that pink leg. He could probably snap it in two with his bare hands. Would Garrity raise his voice then? Again he felt an incipient wave of hot pleasure, glimpsed a jumbled future of confused possibilities, disturbing and exciting; and again stifled the act. “As an old friend you keep your mouth shut about my father,” he said. “He started this business.”
Garrity shook his head. “Your father made beautiful knives. Cincinnati made it a business.”
“By ripping him off.”
“He was happy with the deal at the time.”
“He was dying at the time, you stupid shit.”
“He wasn’t a businessman, Gil. Bottom line.”
It hit Gil then for some reason, the Figgy part. “You gave Figgy my area?”
“Not me personally. O’Meara.”
Gil spun away, bursting out of Garrity’s office, down the hall, to Bridgid’s desk. She was bent over the keyboard, glasses slipped down to the end of her nose.
“How many dicks did you have to suck to get Figgy back on the payroll?” he said.
Her head jerked up, eyes widening.
“Garrity, O’Meara, who else?”
Bridgid’s face went red, just like a swelling dick, in fact: guilty as charged, he thought. Then she burst into tears. But he got no pleasure out of that; too easy, like pressing a button. Gil needed action.
He started for the conference room. A man in a windbreaker rose from one of the waiting-room chairs and stepped into his path, not quite blocking it.
“Mr. Renard?” he said with a smile.
“Yeah?”
“Have a nice day.” He handed Gil a long white envelope and left the office.
Stuffing it in his pocket, Gil strode to the conference room, banged the door open. In a moment he took in the essentials of a boisterous scene: the reps’ mouths open wide in laughter, all eyes on Figgy; Figgy balancing a wavering tower of cherry Lifesavers on his nose.
Then came silence, except for the Lifesavers skittering across the floor, and all eyes were on him. Gil had no plan; he wanted action, that was all. He walked around the table to Figgy. Figgy got out of his chair, backing up a little. Gil smiled-smiling was a simple baring of teeth, right? — and held out his hand. Reluctantly, as though fearing a bone crusher, or some other trick, Figgy extended his; but he couldn’t refuse-he was a rep. They shook, Gil hardly squeezing at all, just smiling this new smile he couldn’t remember smiling before, but that seemed so right.
“Congratulations, Figgy,” he said. “And continued success in your new endeavors.”
He released Figgy’s damp hand.
“That’s really nice of you, Gil,” Figgy said. He lowered his voice: “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that money.”
That’s what he’d picked to feel ashamed about. “Money?” said Gil.
Figgy lowered his voice some more. “That money I owe you.”
Gil laughed, a new laugh that went nicely with his new smile. “Forget it. What’s fifty bucks between amigos? Buy a little something for old Bridgid out there. Be a sport.”
Then he turned and walked out, past Garrity who was hovering over Bridgid, still crying at her desk, and down to the street. Out. Free.
He got into the 325i, started it, drove a few blocks before the scraping sound bothered him. He stopped in the middle of the street, walked around to the back of the car. There was a big dent behind the left-rear wheel, and the tailpipe was dragging. He bent down and tore it off. The muffler came with it. Then he overcame an impulse to tear the whole car apart right there, piece by piece; and drove to Cleats.
Gil ordered a draft with a shot of Jose Cuervo Gold on the side.
“Your son enjoy the game?” Leon said, setting the drinks on the bar.
Gil looked at him.
“Richie. That’s his name, isn’t it?”
“How did you know that?”
“You’ve mentioned it a few times,” said Leon, his voice rising a little in surprise.
Ease up, Gil said to himself. Leon was a pal, right? He smiled at Leon, hoping it was his old smile, not the new one, but unsure. “Yeah, he enjoyed it. What kid wouldn’t?”
“Opening Day,” said Leon. “Some game.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you were right about Rayburn.”
“I was?”
“Hard to argue with a poke like that.” Leon drew someone a pint.
The Globe sports section lay on the bar. Gil picked it up and started reading. He read about the grand slam, hunted up all the details of the game, studied the box score, then all the box scores; downed the beer and the shot, ordered another round. Feeling pretty good now, and, yes, even optimistic. Of course he’d been right about Rayburn. He knew the game, knew the team, knew the man. He checked his red-and-black tie in the mirror behind the bar. Nice.
Then he came to a sidebar on Bobby Rayburn-“Paying Early Dividends”-that included the breakdown of his contract. Gil went over them-$2.5 million signing bonus, $5.05 million the first year, $5.45 million the next, $5.85 million the year after that, $6.05 million in the option year, the separate $1 million deferred-payment fund. The reporter estimated Rayburn’s endorsement income at $750,000 a year. Well, why not? One swing of the bat. He was going to take them all the way, as Gil had foreseen. He tore out the article, folded it, and put it in his wallet.
A few minutes later he took it out to read again the part about the deferred payments. They began in 2007, $50,000 a year for as long as he lived. That was the part Gil liked best of all: Rayburn knew right now where his money was coming from in 2007. Gil didn’t know where his money was coming from next week. He examined his face in the mirror for signs of optimism. It was dark and swollen, as though gorged with blood.
He had one more round. His pants were almost dry.
“Guess who stopped in last night?” Leon said.
“Figgy.”
“Yeah, Figgy was here. With that girlfriend of his. Drinking champagne. But that’s not who I meant.”
“Who did you mean?”
“Ball players. They usually go to Bluebeard’s. Maybe they’re going to start coming here-I know they liked the buffalo wings. I brought them two helpings each.”
“What ball players?”
“Primo. Sanchez. Zamora. Couple of others.”
“Where’d they sit?”
Leon pointed to a table in the back alcove, under the autographed Louisville Sluggers of Aaron and Mays, crossed like a device on a medieval shield.
“What were they talking about?”
Leon shrugged. “They spoke Spanish.” He thought. “Is there some guy called Onsay in baseball?”
“Not that I’ve heard of.”
“They kept joking about him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Primo’d say Onsay, and the others would crack up.”
“Got the encyclopedia?”
