The Fan (29 page)

“That fucking Primo,” said a fan behind Gil. “What’s he smokin’ this year?”

“Whatever it is, give me some,” said another.

They laughed.

Washington batted third. Gil leaned forward, checked the scoreboard. He swung around. “Where’s Rayburn?”

“Not playin’.”

Gil squinted toward the distant third-base dugout, thought he saw Rayburn sitting deep in the shadows, chin resting in his hands.

Washington struck out, and so did Odell, ending the inning. When the Sox took the field, Simkins, the kid, was in center. Gil stopped watching the game. He just watched Simkins’s back. Simkins wore number thirty-three. Not a number Gil himself would have chosen: Christ’s age when he died. Maybe Simkins thought he was too good to worry about things like that.

Simkins, you asshole
. The words grew louder and louder in Gil’s mind until he had to shout them out: “Simkins, you asshole.”

Simkins didn’t react.

“Simkins, you asshole.”

No reaction from Simkins, but Gil felt eyes on his own back. He shut up, finished his beers. He had to stay cool. And sober. Easier to do if the tint was normal. After a while, he went to the beer counter. Only two more, he told himself. On the way back, he spotted a C-type battery lying on the ramp and pocketed it. When he returned to his seat he gave the beers to the men behind him.

“Hey, thanks, man. We’ll get the next round.”

“Not necessary,” said Gil, feeling strong, purposeful. He stared at Simkins. Stay cool. Stay sober. Just for tonight.

Gil got his chance in the top of the sixth. One out, bases loaded, and the batter popped one up in foul ground, far back of third, possibly out of play. Primo sprinted after it from short, crossed the foul line and dove fully outstretched, almost at the base of the stands. He caught the ball, and just as he did, just as all eyes were on him, Gil rose, as others
were rising, and threw the C-type battery as hard as he could at Simkins.

The battery spun flashing under the lights and caught Simkins in the back of the head, an inch or two below the band of his cap. His hand flew to the spot; as though he’d been stung by a wasp. Then he looked and saw—and Gil saw too—a blood smear on the palm. Slowly Simkins turned his head, and slowly scanned the bleacher seats, his eyes wide. Gil tilted the popcorn box up to his face.

The next batter—the very next batter! on the very next pitch!—hit an easy fly ball to center field that Simkins dropped. Three runs scored, and that was the ball game, barring the kind of miracle comeback the Sox hadn’t pulled off yet this season.

I’m a player
, Gil thought.
I’m a player in the game
.

When it was over, Gil waited with other fans outside the players’ entrance. To a girl wearing a Sox jacket and a lot of makeup, he said: “Know what hotel they stay at?”

“Palacio,” she said, and cracked her gum.

Gil took a cab. He didn’t like taking cabs. He missed the 325i, with its WNSOX vanity plate, its moon roof, its … companionship. Was that the word? He remembered the way he’d had his best ideas in that car.
Without wheels you’re dead
.

Outside, the city stretched from horizon to horizon in grids, lit like the glowing motherboard of a giant computer. It disoriented him, like the rabbit-fur ball and the too-green grass. He realized he was holding his breath, let it out, inhaled, exhaled, deep, slow. He saw the driver glance at him in the rearview mirror; and felt the weight of the thrower on his leg.

The lobby of the Palacio had a waterfall, sparkling lights, soft couches. Gil sat on one with a view of the front doors, reception, the elevator bank. After a while, a waiter appeared: “Something to drink, sir?”

Stay sober
. But he heard himself reply: “Got any tequila?” Maybe it was the
sir
that did it.

“Any special brand, sir?”

“Cuervo Gold.”

The drink came on a silver tray, with a bowl of quartered limes and crusted salt lining the rim of the glass. Gil sipped it slowly, not like a commission rep on the road, but like a CEO unwinding after a hard day. He watched the front doors.

Gil was halfway through his second glass when the team arrived. Odell, Zamora, Boyle, Washington, Lanz, Sanchez, Simkins, Primo; all of them, thought Gil, except Rayburn. They were quiet, surly, grim. Some of them headed toward the bar, the others, including Primo, to the elevators. Young women materialized. They fell in step with the players, were absorbed without fuss into the group, like dancers executing a well-rehearsed routine.

Primo was second-last to board the middle elevator. Gil was last. He wedged himself into the only space left, in front of the control buttons.

“Floors, anybody?” he said; thrilled by his composure, his creativity.

“Sixteen,” said someone, and “nine,” someone else, and right behind him, “fourteen,” with a faint Hispanic accent: Primo. Gil pressed the buttons.

At fourteen, Primo got off, alone. “Another Nintendo party tonight?” someone called from the elevator. Boyle, perhaps; Gil thought he recognized the voice from interviews.

Primo stiffened but said nothing, and started down the hall.

“What’s that all about?” asked a woman.

“He’s married,” Boyle explained.

“Ain’t we all?” said another man. Lanz.

The woman laughed. They all laughed. Gil stepped through the closing doors.

Primo was standing at a door near the end of the hall, sticking his key card in its slot. He went in. Gil walked down the hall, paused outside the door. He put his ear to it, heard nothing.

Gil stood motionless outside Primo’s room, considering various strategies. He still hadn’t picked one, when his right
hand made a fist and poised itself for knocking, as though it were making the decisions now. At that moment, Gil heard footsteps on the other side of the door.

He backed away, so quickly he staggered, then wheeled and headed toward the end of the hall, forcing himself to slow down, weary CEO on the way to his room. But even as he did, he knew that he shouldn’t have moved at all, should have reached for the thrower, done it there and then. Or didn’t he have the guts? Was that it?

Gil heard the door open, heard Primo going the other way. He risked a glance, and saw him stepping into an elevator, wearing a terry-cloth robe and flip-flops. His mind tore through images from his past, looking for the answer to the question: Did he have the guts?

The health club was on the lowest subfloor, three stops below the lobby. Looking through the glass door, Gil saw a man sitting behind a desk stacked with towels, a lone swimmer in the pool beyond him, and in the background an unoccupied exercise room. As he watched, the swimmer climbed out, toweled off, put on a terry-cloth robe like Primo’s and approached the desk. She dropped her towel in a basket; the man handed her a key card. She came out, passing Gil without a glance.

The water in the pool grew still. The pool man glanced at the sole key card remaining on his desk, checked his watch, yawned; then rose and entered a door behind him marked STAFF. Gil stepped inside.

He walked the length of the bright blue pool; too bright, too blue, and the reflected ceiling lights on its surface too dazzling. He was suddenly dizzy, and almost lost his balance, just walking.
Forget it
, he thought.
You’re in no shape to do this
. But the same mind that could think that could also counter it:
Haven’t got the guts?
and
Are you a player, or are you not a player?
Gil kept going.

Beyond the pool, he followed an arrow to the men’s locker room. First came the lockers, then the urinals, then
the showers, then the sauna; finally the steam room, red light glowing on the control panel outside. There was a small round window in the door, like a porthole. Gil looked through.

The steam room was small and not very steamy. There was a dim recessed light in the ceiling, a nozzle for the steam in one corner, and a double row of tile benches on three sides. Primo lay prone on the top row at the back, wearing nothing but a gold chain. His head was turned toward the door, but his eyes were closed. The cross on the end of the chain rested on the tile near his chin; one of those crosses bearing a twisted figure of Jesus.

This was perfect. No need for all those moves he’d practiced long ago with his father: hitting the ground, rolling, springing up from behind with a slash-slash at the back of the knees. Primo was laid out like a lamb for the slaughter. Gil raised his pant leg and pulled the thrower from its sheath. This was perfect; but he just stood there, watching. Then the control panel clicked, and steam began hissing from the nozzle in the corner. Gil opened the door and went in.

Into the heat and the noise. Not hissing, much louder than hissing; the steam roared from the nozzle like a violent storm. That was perfect too; no way that Primo could hear him. He fixed his eyes on one of those sinewy, copper-colored legs; just one, the near one, the right one: he would do no unnecessary damage. He would be a pro. Steam billowed around him as he moved closer, and sweat seeped into his clothes. Cut deep, but clean—the surgeons would probably have him fixed well enough for golf by next spring. He had plenty of money, was set for life; it was a slightly premature retirement, that was all. He raised the knife.

Primo opened one eye.

Slash: at the back of that coppery right leg, just above the knee.

But the coppery leg was no longer there. The blade cracked against the tiles, sending a jolt up Gil’s arm, down his spine. And Primo was no longer prone on the bench: he
was behind Gil, almost at the door already. Gil had never seen a man move like that. He lunged across the room, knife out, aimed low, at the back of those legs. But Primo lived in a fast-forward world—they all did, goddamn them—and before Gil could react, or even realize what was happening, he had whirled around and kicked Gil hard, inside the elbow. Everything went wrong at an unreal speed. The knife flew out of Gil’s hand. Primo caught it, caught it by the handle, right out of the air, and slashed Gil across the chest, opening him up from nipple to nipple. Gil fell to the tile floor, shrank toward the benches.

Something hard and lumpy pressed into his back. The knapsack. He reached over his shoulder, struggled with the flap, got his hand inside. Primo stepped toward him, sweat running down his body, sinewy muscles popping in his chest, face all jaw and cheekbones, eyes burning. And Gil, fumbling over his shoulder to free a knife from its sheath, knew that he was no match for this man. This man was harder, tougher, quicker, blessed.

Primo came forward, crouched, Gil’s father’s blade out in front. Gil slid a knife free and threw; a wild throw, jerky and aimed nowhere. But lucky. It caught Primo high up one leg, sticking at a funny angle in the inner thigh. Not deep; it couldn’t be deep, because at least six inches of blade were showing.

Primo stopped, looked down, then yanked the knife out in fury. He held it high over his head, an enormous bowie, twelve inches at least, and advanced on Gil. Gil cowered on the steam-room floor. Something warm and sticky sprayed him in the face, blinding him. He waited to die.

But nothing happened. He wiped at his eyes, looked up. Primo had stopped again, was again looking down. Blood—too bright, too red—was gushing from the hole in his thigh, and arcing onto Gil. Primo frowned. Then he sat down, hard. Down there on the floor, his eyes met Gil’s.

“Get Stook,” he said.

He gazed expectantly at Gil. Then the expectant look
faded from his eyes and was replaced by nothing. He sank back and didn’t move again.

Gil rose. He gathered up the knives, put them in the knapsack, stepped over Primo. A cloud of red mist followed him out the door.

B
obby Rayburn sat very still on a stool in the visitor’s clubhouse. He checked the urge to move because he knew that any movement he made would lead to breaking things, and he didn’t want to do that with the press around. He glared at the back of Burrows’s head, bobbing over a microphone. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten a hit—maybe he would never hit again—but he would never have dropped that fly ball. From long ago came a memory of kids’ teams he’d played on—how the subs would roll in the dirt and slide on the grass, just to get their uniforms dirty too. The memory maddened him: they were subs, and he was who he was. In his spotless road uniform, he glared again, uselessly, at the back of Burrows’s head. Maybe he would never hit again.

A few stools away sat Primo, shirt off and sweaty, surrounded by Spanish-speaking reporters, some from Mexico or God knows where; it was always like that when they played on the coast. Stook stood behind him, massaging his shoulders.

“Just a little sore,” Bobby heard Stook say, “from when you made that catch.”

“Be on the highlights, for sure,” said someone else.

“Take a sauna when you get back,” Stook said.

“Don’t like saunas,” Primo said.

“A steam, then,” Stook replied. “It doesn’t matter.”

Enough of that, Bobby thought; enough of watching Primo get treated like a superstar instead of the slap hitter he was. He began unbuttoning his shirt, a little roughly perhaps. The last button snapped off and flew across the room. A woman coming through the door picked it up and handed it to him.

“Jewel,” he said.

She nodded. “Got it in one,” she said. “I thought you were supposed to be bad with names.”

Bobby didn’t like that. “What do you want?”

“I mentioned I might have a few follow-up questions, and you said—”

Just call
. “I know what I said. But I didn’t expect to see you out here.”

“I’m a reporter, Bobby. Whither thou goest I shall go.”

Bobby felt a smile coming, despite how angry and pent-up he was. He took a close look at her face, and in it caught a glimpse, no more than that, of the world beyond baseball. Many people said there was such a world—Wald said so all the time—but it had never penetrated. A world beyond baseball, and this woman had a foot in it. “Let’s have ’em,” he said.

“Let’s have what?”

“Your questions.”

She glanced around. Primo said something in Spanish and the reporters laughed. “Why don’t we go somewhere?” Jewel said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”