she told herself.
In the distance lay the coast highway, traffic crawling along it like glow-worms. Then came a white fringe of surf, and beyond that the sea. Jewel felt Bobby’s eyes on her.
“Black as night,” she said,
“My heart,
Black as coal
Black as the ace of spades
Black as the blackest cliche,
Heart of my heartest heart,
Come give me a love.”
There was a silence. Then Bobby said: “What’s that?”
“The beginning of my poem,” Jewel replied. “The prize-winning poem.”
“You’re scaring me,” Bobby said.
Jewel laughed. “There’s nothing to be scared of,” she said, although she was trembling when she said it. Then she put her arm around him and kissed him on the mouth. He kissed her back, but tentative, almost shy. That surprised her.
And it surprised her when he said: “Are you making up for high school?”
“You’re very smart, for a ballplayer,” Jewel said. She kissed him again. She felt the strength of his body, the night all around, soft and warm, the abyss so close; everything conspiring with the mood she was in. “Take off your clothes,” she said.
He did.
His body was beautiful, as beautiful as the most beautiful cliche. She must have known that already, of course, having seen him many times in locker rooms, but she hadn’t let it register: that was the rule.
She put her lips to his chest, then started slowly down; going down on him, as so many women, or girls, did every season. She didn’t want to be one of them-did they have sex as infrequently as she, once in the last year, not at all in the two years before that? — but she wanted to go down on him anyway. She was close to coming already, and that wasn’t like her either.
Bobby stopped her. He drew her head up, level with his. The look in his eyes was complex; she would parse it later. Her own eyes, she supposed, were wide black holes of lust.
“You too,” he said.
“Me too, what?”
“Your clothes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He helped her. She didn’t resist.
“Not bad, for an old lady,” he said.
“There’s an endorsement.”
“Here’s another.”
Then they were in the back seat; starry sky, soft night, abyss. And Jewel was having sex unlike any she had known; or so she thought. She fell under the illusion-did it have to be an illusion? — that something had clicked into place, and her whole life suddenly made sense. She came and came.
After, when they were dressed and sitting in their proper places in the front of the Hertz convertible, Bobby surprised her once more: “Will I see you again?”
A surprise, and a nice one, but she didn’t want to think about all the problems-how could they see each other, as long as they did what they did? Also, she didn’t want moony talk: she wanted to stay in this mood. She swigged from the bottle, then shook it and sprayed champagne into the night. “Here’s to singles up the middle and doubles in the gap, to round-trippers and grand slams.”
“Double entendre, right?” said Bobby.
“As double as it gets,” said Jewel, thinking it might not be a mismatch after all. She hurled the bottle over the edge.
26
4:15 A.M., but Bobby Rayburn didn’t feel at all tired as he opened the door to his room at the Palacio. He felt light and quick and cheerful. It didn’t last. A man was sitting at the desk, wearing a dark suit and a dark tie, a half- eaten Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup in one hairy hand.
“Mr. Rayburn?” he said. “I’m Detective”-Bobby missed the name-“of the LAPD. Mind telling me where you’ve been?”
Bobby tried to remember if the Sox had a curfew. Had Wald mentioned something about that? He couldn’t recall. But sending a cop to enforce it was way out of line.
“Yeah,” Bobby said. “I do mind. And what gives you the right to come in here without my permission?”
With his free hand, the detective removed an envelope from his jacket pocket. “This warrant, signed by an honest-to-goodness judge.” He held it out, but Bobby made no move to take it. The detective popped the rest of the Reese’s Cup into his mouth, licked his fingers, and rose. He was short and round, with a day-old beard and purple bruises under his eyes. “I’ll give you a lift to the station,” he said.
“The station?”
“We can talk better there.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Bobby said.
The detective blinked. “Why not?”
“Are you stupid or something? The whole point of curfew is to make sure the players get a good night’s sleep, right? So here I am, ready to go to bed. And now you want me to go someplace else. Why don’t you just clear out of here, tell Burrows I’ve been a bad boy, and let them fine me whatever the hell they want to fine me?”
The detective sat back down. He was silent for a few moments. “Mr. Rayburn?”
“What is it?”
“Did you take a steam bath tonight, by any chance?”
Bobby was getting angry. “What now? No steam baths after the game? Are you going to ask me if I said my prayers too?”
The detective blinked again. “Let’s start over.”
“Fine.”
“When was the last time you saw Primo?”
“That asshole? Who the hell knows?” Then Bobby remembered he did know: in the clubhouse, after the game. And he also remembered Stook telling Primo to take a steam bath for his shoulder or something. He changed his tone a little. “In the clubhouse, I guess,” he said. “Why?”
“The why of it brings us back to my first question, Mr. Rayburn.”
“What was that?”
“First question: where have you been?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Bobby. “And it’s still none of your business.”
The detective rose again. “Let’s get going,” he said. “Where?”
“To the station, like I said before.”
“Why? Has something happened?”
“Something’s happened,” said the detective, “if you think Primo getting himself knifed counts as something happening.”
“Oh, my God,” said Bobby. “Is he going to be all right?”
The detective shook his head.
“What does that mean?” Bobby said.
“Means he’s dead, Mr. Rayburn.”
