“It’s me,” she said.
“Oh.” Pause. “It’s kind of late.” In the background, Jewel heard Val-she hoped it was Val-say, “Who is it?” She hoped it was Val? Good God.
“I know the time,” Jewel said, “so obviously it’s important. I just looked up Curly Onis in the Baseball Encyclopedia. ”
“He’s there?”
“On page twelve twenty-six.”
“Christ, he’s really deteriorated.”
“What?”
“He told me he was up for a cup of coffee, but I didn’t believe him. Lots of guys say that.”
In the background, Val said, “What’s going on?”
“I’m not following you, Bobby,” Jewel said.
“Having a cup of coffee. It means playing briefly in the show.”
“I know what having a cup of coffee means, Bobby. I’ve been covering this stupid game since before you put on your very first jock strap. And don’t forget to wear it.” That last part just popped out; she couldn’t help it. Think it, say it-like, see the ball, hit the ball-she was a natural, at running her mouth.
Bobby laughed. In the background, but louder now, and more insistent, Val said, “Who is it? Who’s calling at this hour?” And more, but muffled as he smothered the receiver in his hand.
Then he said, “What was his record? With the Padres, right?”
“The Padres?” said Jewel. “Curly Onis played for the Dodgers in 1935. The Brooklyn Dodgers, Bobby.”
“This is his son, then?” said Bobby. “I don’t get it.”
“I don’t think-” Jewel began, and then came the soft but stress-inducing pulse of her call-waiting. “Hold on.” She hit flash. “What is it?”
“Fred.”
“What?”
“I’m at work.”
“And?”
“You wouldn’t believe this Between Brewskis thing. Guess how many calls we’ve had so far.”
“I don’t give a shit. Was one of them Gil Renard?”
“Three hundred and seventeen,” said Fred, giving her the information anyway. “And one was Gil. He didn’t leave a last name.”
“What did he say?”
“I can play it. Hang on.” Jewel hung on. She heard a high-pitched whir, then: “This is Gil. Tell them thanks, but I stopped caring.” Click.
“That’s it?”
“Yup.”
“When did he call?”
“About three-quarters of an hour ago. But I just got the slip. Things are backed up here tonight. Like I said, three hundred and-”
“Shut up. Did they trace it?”
“That’s why I’m calling at this hour,” Fred replied, offended, “if you’ll give me half a chance.”
“And?”
“This is the strange part. It might be a hoax or something.”
“Why?”
“Because it came from a phone at Bobby Rayburn’s house.”
Jewel hit flash. “Bobby?”
“Still here. Listen, can we continue this another-”
“Lock your door.”
“What?”
“Call the cops. Don’t go near a window.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Gil Renard is in your house.”
“Who’s he?”
“Curly Onis. He killed Primo.”
“Why would he do that?”
“That fight you had with Primo. Gil Renard was there.”
“Fight?”
“Stop it, Bobby. You’ve got to be smart now. Don’t go near him. I’m on my way.”
“But what about Sean?”
“What about him?”
“He’s in his bedroom.”
Jewel had no immediate solution to that, and it had to be immediate, because the next instant she heard the phone drop to the floor of Bobby’s bedroom.
“Bobby?” she said. “Bobby?”
She heard Val: “What’s going on?”
And Bobby: “Get in the bathroom and lock the door.”
“Why? What’s happening?”
“Just do it.”
Then there was silence, except for Val’s whimpers. Call-waiting flashed again. Jewel switched lines.
“I got tired of holding,” Fred said.
“Did you call the cops?”
“Sure. What do you take me for?”
She switched him off again. Now, at Bobby’s house, there was nothing to hear at all, not even whimpering.
Bobby went into his walk-in closet, ripped out the long wooden clothes rail. Then he moved down the hall, crouched, on the balls of his feet, almost running. He entered the playroom, lit by the glow from the space-station console, and stopped at Sean’s closed door. Not a sound came from the other side. That had to be because Sean was tired from the long day, and deep in sleep. Bobby threw open the door, snapped on the lights.
The bed was empty.
And neatly made.
Bobby’s heartbeat rose in two stages, as he absorbed those facts. Something lay on the pillow. An empty bottle. He picked it up. Jose Cuervo Gold, but not quite empty. There was a rolled-up note inside. Bobby upended the bottle, tried to shake it out. It wouldn’t come. He smashed the bottle on the floor, fumbled for the note in the broken glass.
Dear #11:
You’ve got a lot to learn about gratitude. Gone fishin’.
The Fan
P.S. Val and Chaz, sittin’ in a tree.
Bobby ran outside, down to the beach. The moon had risen and he could see quite well. No one was fishing. “Sean,” he called. “Sean.” There was no answer.
Bobby ran around the house to the garage. The landscaping truck was gone. He went up to the apartment. The door was open. There was nothing inside but the fishing pole.
He went back into the house, back to Sean’s room. It was all real: empty bed, neatly made, and shards of glass all over the floor. On the way back to the master suite, he saw the message on the space-console screen: “Nice job, Vice Admiral Sean! Save game (Y/N)?”
He rapped on the bathroom door.
“Bobby?”
“Open up.”
Val opened the door, then stood trembling, arms crossed over her breasts. He handed her the note. She read
