battery they’d been. The catcher is the father, the son is the pitcher. Gil was beginning to understand what it meant. Everything felt right.
A sunny afternoon, sprouting green leaves on the trees, mud everywhere else. Boucicaut took the first shift at the wheel. They were a good team and Gil was feeling right, but letting Boucicaut drive was a mistake. Boucicaut still drove like a kid. Flashing blue lights, and they were pulled over, not quite beyond the limits of the town.
The cop walked up to the driver’s-side door. Boucicaut tucked his bottle under the seat and rolled down the window, but did nothing about the ski mask on his head. He’d had it on since morning, maybe as a joke, maybe to prove the truth of his riddle.
The cop glanced in the window. He had red hair, graying at the sides, wore glasses. “Cold, Len?” he said.
Boucicaut was silent.
“Or just feeling shy?”
“That’s a funny one,” said Boucicaut.
“So’s doing sixty in a forty zone. And those brake lights are a laugh riot.” The cop hunched down a little so he could get a look at Gil. He took his look, straightened, said, “Told you about those brake lights last month, and the month before.”
“Still waiting on that part,” Boucicaut said.
“Where’s it coming from? China?”
“China,” said Boucicaut. “Another funny.”
“Here’s two more.” The cop wrote him up, twice, and drove off. The squad car wasn’t out of sight before Boucicaut tore off the ski mask, tore up the tickets, threw them out the window.
“What an asshole,” Boucicaut said, his voice rising. He pounded the steering wheel once with the flat of his hand, sending a tremor through the cab. “Was he always an asshole like that?”
“Who?”
“Claymore, for Christ’s sake.”
“That was Claymore?”
“The little cunt. He’s doin’ good. Not as good as you, but good.”
Boucicaut felt under the seat for his bottle. They changed places. After a few miles, Gil said: “It’s not right.”
“Don’t be a jerk,” said Boucicaut.
Gil realized that Boucicaut thought he was talking about what they were about to do. But that wasn’t it. Gil had been thinking about Claymore. It wasn’t that Claymore was a cop, while Boucicaut was whatever he was: it was the way Claymore had talked to him. Claymore was just a supporting player. Boucicaut was a star.
Something had gone wrong.
Gil had no intention of stopping at Cleats. It just happened, the way things seemed to be just happening now that he’d hooked up with Boucicaut. Hadn’t planned to stop at Cleats, hadn’t planned to stop anywhere. He’d meant to drive straight through the city, to put on the red ski mask, to get it over, like a cold call that had to be made. But at the first sight of skyscraper lights on the horizon, Boucicaut had straightened in his seat and said, “Sure could use something wet right about now.”
And Gil had replied, “I know a place.” It had just happened.
They parked outside Cleats. “When was the last time you were here?” Gil asked.
“Never been here.”
“In the city, I meant.”
“Never been in the city,” said Boucicaut.
“You’re joking.”
Boucicaut rested a heavy hand on Gil’s shoulder. “What’s the joke?”
They walked into the bar just as Lanz was striking out on the big-screen TV. Then came a shot of handshaking players. Game over. “He sucks this year,” Gil said.
“Who?” said Boucicaut, looking around, his eyes bright.
The bar was packed, and all the tables taken, except for the two in the alcove. Gil didn’t like the alcove because you couldn’t see the TV. Sox Wrap came next, followed by Baseball Tonight and SportsCenter. He sat down anyway, pointing out the crossed bats of Aaron and Mays.
“I’m thirsty,” Boucicaut said.
They ordered two drafts and two shots of Cuervo Gold. Leon noticed Gil and brought the drinks himself.
“How you doin’, Gil?”
Used his name. Out of the corner of his eye, Gil saw that Boucicaut was watching, was impressed. “Not bad, Leon,” Gil said. “How about you?” Expecting, if anything, a little more chitchat, followed by Leon’s exit. But instead Leon let him down.
“Since you’re asking,” he said, setting the drinks on the table, “you recall that knife you sold me?”
“Knife?”
“The Iwo Jima one.”
“Oh, yeah,” Gil said, half remembering.
“What’s the warranty on it?”
Gil didn’t know, didn’t care. He was no longer in the knife business, and what was more, Leon knew that. Boucicaut, on the other hand, did not. Gil swallowed his annoyance, put on a professional face. “Something wrong, Leon?” he said.
“Blade broke off.”
“There isn’t a knife on the market that’s covered against abusive treatment,” Gil told him. “What were you doing with it?”
“Cutting a bagel in half.”
Boucicaut let loose a burst of laughter, spraying beer across the table. A few droplets arced onto Leon’s white apron. Leon frowned.
“Bring it in sometime,” Gil said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll have it here tomorrow,” Leon said. He went off.
“Another satisfied customer,” said Boucicaut.
“Just part of doing business.” Gil’s mouth was dry again. He reached for his beer. “Let’s get going,” he said.
“What’s the rush?” said Boucicaut. “I like it here.”
“It’s almost eleven.”
“Relax, businessman. The night is young.”
They had another round.
“You like this shit?” said Boucicaut.
“What shit?”
“Tequila.”
“No one’s forcing it down your throat.”
“Hey. No offense, old pal. It does the job.”
And another round after that. They drank at the same pace. Gil began to feel right again.
“Know any girls?” Boucicaut said.
“Some.”
“How about two, for starters?”
Gil thought right away of Lenore and her sister. A crazy image sprang up in his mind, an image of the four of them in bed together-Lenore, her sister, Boucicaut, himself. He was trying to remember the sister’s name-almost had it, just needed a few more seconds-when Bobby Rayburn walked in and sat at the next table.
Gil’s bodily rhythms and flows-pulse, respiration, perspiration, adrenaline-all sped up, and in his mind the bedroom image vanished at once. In its place rose another: Boucicaut’s red maple, dripping sap from the wound the thrower had made. Gil turned away from Bobby Rayburn, looked at Boucicaut. Boucicaut, wiping froth off his mustache with the back of his hand, didn’t appear to have noticed Rayburn at all, or if he had noticed, had no idea who he was.
Gil, still not looking at Rayburn, picked up his shot glass and emptied it in one swallow. He heard a waitress
