Fred, the engineer, played the tape for Jewel:
Hi, guys.
Where you calling from, Gil? Sounds like Siberia or somewhere.
No place special.
What’s on your mind?
Lots of things.
It’s a lousy line, like I said, Gil. Make it quick.
This… thing.
You’re talking about the Primo tragedy?
I was wondering.
Wondering what?
If they’ll give Rayburn back his old number now.
Not sure I’m following you, Gil.
Onsay.
Excuse me?
Eleven. What he used to wear his whole career. Not that stupid forty-one.
That’s kind of a strange question, Gil.
“Play that last part again,” Jewel said.
Onsay.
Excuse me?
Eleven. What he used to-
“That’s enough,” Jewel said.
Fred stopped the tape, said something Jewel didn’t catch because his mouth was full.
“He’s a regular, isn’t he?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Fred replied. “I never listen to any of them.”
“I want to hear all his calls.”
“All his calls?”
“We tape everything, don’t we?”
“Sure. But how are you going to find this guy’s calls? It’d be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“I hate that expression,” Jewel said.
She spent the rest of the day in her office, fast-forwarding through cassettes. She found Gil a few times:
I’ve been waiting a long time.
What kind of numbers is he going to put up in the bandbox, and with that sweet swing of his?
I heard what you said about Primo. It won’t last. He’s a hot dog. Hot dogs always fold in the end.
Just get this, Bernie. I’m sick and tired of you taking shots at him all the time. When’s it going to stop?
I know what disillusion means.
After that, Jewel called the Times editor and asked for another extension.
“Having problems?” he said.
“It’s not that. The story keeps changing on me.” She wished immediately she’d put it another way.
“It happens. You’d still be entitled to a kill fee, if that’s what’s worrying you,” said the editor.
“It’s a developing story, that’s all I meant.”
“Developing in what way? I thought it was just your basic jock puff piece.”
“Did you?” said Jewel. “There’s the Primo murder, for starters.”
“Who’s Primo?”
“Don’t you read your own damn paper?”
“Not the sports.”
“I’m impressed.” She hung up on him. Five minutes later, she was trying without success to think of some nonhumiliating way to make amends.
She called Sergeant Claymore in his little town up north.
“Anything new?” she said.
“Yes and no.”
“I hate that expression.”
“Sorry,” said Claymore. “Renard’s disappeared without a trace, if that’s what you want to know, but now it looks like he may have only been a witness to the Boucicaut killing. Which turns out to be self-defense, in any case. Two guys in ski masks broke into a house on the Cape a while back, and one of them got stabbed with a sword. A rapier, which we’ve got now. The medical examiner says it fits Boucicaut’s wound.”
“And the other guy was Gil Renard?”
“We don’t know, because of the ski masks. But it all fits-turns out it was the day before the break-in when I stopped them for speeding, and Boucicaut was wearing his.”
“Wearing his what?”
“Ski mask.”
“How did he explain that?”
Claymore laughed an embarrassed laugh. “He didn’t, really.”
Jewel was silent.
“That probably sounds a little strange to an outsider. Me not asking him, I mean.”
“Nothing sounds strange to me anymore, Sergeant Claymore. I’m immune. Are you still looking for him?”
“Sure. He’s a suspect in this break-in now, as well as in the murder of Boucicaut’s old lady.”
“Then I suggest you try to find out if he flew to Los Angeles around the time of the Primo murder.”
“Why?”
“Because your first instinct was right. This is all about baseball.”
Jewel sat in front of her terminal, typed some copy, printed it, found Bernie, said, “Read this.”
Bernie read: “JOC-Radio is putting together a panel drawn from our regular callers for a new weekly feature called Between Brewskis. Participation will involve a nominal payment, but much more than that, a chance to shoot off your mouth on a regular basis. Would the following callers please get in touch on the station’s office phone during business hours: Manny from Allston, Donnie from Saugus, Ken from Brighton, Vin from the Back Bay, and Gil, who’s usually on his car phone.”
Bernie looked up. “Great idea. But you left out Randy from Milton. And they’ll never let you call it Between Brewskis ”
“For Christ’s sake, Bernie. It’s a ruse. We’ll get the cops to put a tap on the line, and when this guy Gil calls we’ll have him.”
“Have him for what?”
Jewel explained. Later she explained it again to the station manager, and once more to some cop from the Primo investigation. The cop said, “I’ve heard your station. He’s not the only nut you’ve got calling.” Jewel had him speak to Claymore. Then he said, “Still don’t see what this has to do with Primo, but if they’re looking for him up north, why not?”
After he left, the station manager said, “Let’s go with it, Jewel.”
“Go with what?”
“Between Brewskis. For real. But with just one change.”
“What’s that?”
“I think we can do without that nominal payment.”
Gil awoke before dawn, took the money left from the sale of the 325i, and went by cab to the nearest town. By noon he had bought a truck with two hundred and forty thousand miles on the odometer, a lawn mower, a rake, a spade, hedge clippers. He picked up a can of paint, stenciled Onis Landscaping on the side, and drove back.
Gil unloaded the lawn mower, rolled it around the house, and started mowing. First he cut along the borders of Bobby’s property, down one line of cedars, along the beach, up the other row, outlining a rectangle in the grass. Then he followed the inside of the swathe he’d cut, overlapping one wheel width to make sure he left no tufts showing. He wanted to do a good job for Bobby. The sun was hot, the lawn huge, but Gil didn’t even stop for a drink. Like grave digging, not a bad job.
