Authors: Peter Abrahams
“It’s worth a lot more than that, Mr. Hale.”
“Gil. You’re in sales. There’s what it’s worth, and what it’s worth to me. You must have learned that by now.” His bleached-out eyes met Gil’s. “Seventeen hundred.”
“Two Gs.”
“Seventeen fifty, Gil. Don’t push it.”
“Eighteen.”
Mr. Hale drained his glass. “Nice seeing you,” he said.
“All right,” Gil said. “Seventeen fifty. What about the thrower?”
“Not interested in throwers, not even his,” said Mr. Hale. “Ugly little buggers. No character.”
He picked up the bowie, moved to the wall opposite the fireplace. It was lined with built-in drawers. He took out a key, unlocked one, opened it. Bowie knives, but not his father’s, gleamed on blue velvet. They were Randalls, Gil decided, just as Mr. Hale said, “Oops,” locked the drawer, unlocked another. In this one lay a dozen of his father’s bowies, all tagged with dates purchased and amounts paid. Gil recognized three he had sold himself. Mr. Hale laid the new one on the velvet, then took out his checkbook.
“Would cash be a possibility?”
Mr. Hale stared at him for a moment before saying, “If you like.” He took down a framed photograph of a long-ago Radcliffe fencing team with an unsmiling and very young-looking Mrs. Hale in the center, and exposed a wall safe. Then, hunching over, he spun the dial and opened it. Gil saw a stack of bills inside, two or three inches high. Mr. Hale glanced back over his shoulder. Gil turned away.
He gazed down into the drawer at his father’s knives. He recognized one, a classic bowie with a curving stag handle, even remembered some hunter’s pickup bumping up their dirt road, and his father hurrying from the forge in his leather apron to examine the deer in the back. Gil picked up the knife, studied the tag. Mr. Hale had bought it from a doctor in Oregon five years before, paying $4,500.
Mr. Hale came forward with a wad of bills in his hand. He smiled at Gil, took the knife. “A beauty, isn’t it?”
“His first one-hundred-dollar knife,” Gil said. His father had drunk a sixpack or two in celebration, while Gil did his homework at the kitchen table in the trailer and a blizzard blew outside.
“You don’t say.” Mr. Hale laid the knife in the drawer, closed it, turned the key. He held out the money.
Gil didn’t take it. “Big spread between forty-five hundred and seventeen fifty,” he said.
Mr. Hale said nothing.
“They’re both mint.”
“There are other factors, as well you know,” said Mr. Hale “Are you welshing on me, Gil?”
Gil wasn’t in a position to. He took the money, and since he had to do something to get back, counted it out in front of Mr. Hale. Seventeen hundred-dollar bills and one fifty.
“All there?” asked Mr. Hale.
Gil nodded.
Mr. Hale moved him toward the door. “Decide to part with something else, you just give me a call.”
Gil stopped, his back to a huge painting of a naval battle. He had nothing left to part with. “Tell me something,” he said.
“If I can.”
“What do people like you make a year?”
“What a question.”
“Millions?”
“People like me? Millions?”
“Five or six million.”
Mr. Hale laughed. “Don’t be silly. Nobody honest makes that kind of money.”
“Bobby Rayburn does.”
“Who’s he?” Beyond Mr. Hale’s picture window, the wind caught a scrap of paper and carried it up, up, and out of sight.
Gil drove back off the Cape and over the bridge. After forty or fifty miles, he stopped by the side of the road for a piss. He was just unzipping when a cop pulled up behind him, got out of his car.
“Some problem?” the cop said.
“No,” Gil told him, trying to remember if Mr. Hale had freshened his drink and, if so, how many times. All the cop had to do was ask for his license, get a whiff of his breath, and then hours of bullshit would follow.
“You’ll find sanitary facilities at the next exit,” the cop said.
Gil got back in the car. The cop glanced inside. The thrower lay on the passenger seat, wrapped in the chamois cloth. Gil drove off at a moderate pace, took the next exit, stopped at a gas station. Inside the men’s room, he strapped the thrower to his right leg.
Just outside the city limits, Gil remembered the ball game. He turned on the radio in time to catch the bottom of the first. Primo singled up the middle and Lanz grounded into a fielder’s choice. Rayburn was stepping into the batter’s box when Gil dipped into the tunnel, losing reception. Traffic in the tunnel was stop and go; when Gil reached daylight, the inning was over.
Gil drove to the box office. The man in the watch cap was at his post, leaning against the brick wall under the
GATE B
sign. Gil got out of the car.
“Lookin’ for tickets?” the man said, not appearing to recognize him.
“The two behind home plate, Opening Day.”
“One fifty,” said the man. “Each.”
“You were down to two seventy-five for the pair yesterday.”
“I wasn’t even here yesterday.”
They looked at each other. Gil realized he was tired of everyone else having the whip hand—O’Meara, Garrity, the VP at Everest, pink-faced patricians like Hale, blotch-faced scum like this scalper: they all knew how to cut a piece off him. Gil felt the weight of the thrower on his leg. It was comforting.
“A’right, a’right,” said the scalper. “You got the two seventy-five?”
“I’ve got two fifty,” Gil said. “That’s what I’ll pay.”
“You jerkin’ me around? Two seventy-five, and it’s your lucky day.”
They looked at each other some more. Gil remembered a little of what he knew about knife fighting. The thrower could be used for stabbing, but stabbing wasn’t so easy if an opponent knew what he was doing. Slashing was better. Even a piece of junk like the Iwo Jima Survivor would do: hit the pavement, roll, come up slashing through the sinews at the back of the knees. Never done it for real, although he’d practiced for years with his father, using rubber knives in the clearing behind the forge, and his father had done it for real, more than once, with the Rangers.
“You in a coma, buddy, or what?” said the scalper.
“Let’s see the tickets.” Gil examined them. Right section—BB, seats 3 and 4; right game—Game 1, Opening Day, April 8, 1:00
P.M
. He handed over the $275 and walked away, checking the tickets once more. The printed price was $18.50 each.
Gil had a baconburger and fries at Cleats. Figgy was already there. He’d had a few. Gil had a few with him. They watched a spring-training game from Arizona on the big screen.
“Gil?”
“Yeah?”
“Do me a favor?”
“Like what?”
“I could use a couple hundred, tide me over. Going out to Connecticut this weekend to check things out.”
“What things?”
“Friend of a friend of mine makes fishing rods out there. Looking for a rep. I’ll be able to pay you back in a week, two weeks tops.”
“You’re a city boy. What do you know about fishing rods?”
“I’ll know enough by the weekend. I’ve been reading up. Besides, selling is selling.”
They ordered another round. Gil watched some kid stretch a single into a double, slanting into the bag with a perfect hook slide. A memory came to him, of a game long ago, maybe against the Indians. He’d been on first base, taking his lead, when—
“So how about it?” said Figgy.
“How about what?”
“Couple hundred.”
On the screen the pitcher spun around and fired to the shortstop, sneaking in behind the kid at second base. The umpire made a hammering motion with his fist. The kid jogged off the field, head down.
“It’s not like I’ve got any job security myself,” Gil said.
“You kidding? Your name’s on the catalogue. They’ll never can you.”
“My father’s name,” Gil said. “And don’t be so sure.”
Figgy took a deep breath, blew it out. “How about a hundred and fifty?”
Gil realized that for once he had the whip hand.
“What are you smiling about?” Figgy asked.
“Nothing.” Gil was all set to say no to Figgy when he remembered the Lifesavers. “I can spare fifty. That’s it.”
Figgy took it, and left soon after. Gil stayed until the game was over, then watched
Baseball Tonight
and
SportsCenter
before driving home.
Gil lay naked on his bed, except for the thrower, still strapped to his leg. He listened for Lenore upstairs. Once he thought he heard her moan. It gave him an erection. He wondered if she was up there with another man, then decided he had imagined the whole thing. She was sleeping, or working the late shift, or at her sister’s. He considered a quiet trip upstairs, a quiet knock on her door. He stayed where he was. He didn’t like to go to her.
Gil turned off the light. The last thing he saw was Richie’s picture, on the dresser.
Time passed. He drifted in a dark and pleasant fog, close to sleep, playing a little catch with Bobby Rayburn. Bobby was impressed; he could tell.
All at once, Gil sat up, snapped on the light. He got out of bed, picked his jacket off the floor, fumbled for the tickets.
Game 1. April 8. 1:00
P.M
. His appointment with the VP at Everest and Co. was for two-thirty, the same day.
T
his one’s name was Dawna. Bobby didn’t have to remember because she wore a necklace with the word spelled out in fourteen-carat-gold letters, like a name tag. When he awoke in his room at the Flamingo Bay Motor Inn and Spa, she was lying on her side, gazing at him.
“You look so peaceful when you’re sleeping,” she said. “And you’ve got the most beautiful hands.”
Bobby had heard that before: both parts, especially the second. The kind of woman who noticed hands always noticed his. Val was that kind of woman too: she’d said exactly the same words when he’d picked up his fork on their first date, dinner at Longhorn Subs and Pizza, two blocks from the athletic dorm. Years later, having gone back to college for her master’s, she put a new twist on it. Now his hands reminded her of something Aristotle Onassis had told Maria Callas: “You’d be nothing without that bird in your throat.” He hadn’t known who Maria Callas was. Wald had explained it to him, explained it was a putdown. But, after some thought, Bobby had decided to take it as a compliment. His hands, his eyes, his body: they were a gift, like Einstein’s brain.
“Thanks,” he said to Dawna.
“And the rest of you’s not so bad, either.” Bobby had heard that segue before as well. Dawna felt for him under the sheets and soon rolled on top, her hands on his shoulders and her necklace swinging lightly against his chin as she began to move. Bobby moved too, although he had intended to sleep alone, had in fact gone to bed alone. But keyed up
by the way he’d hit in BP and unable to sleep, he’d gotten out of bed, dressed, and gone to the bar. There she’d been.
The phone rang. Bobby picked it up. “Hello.” Dawna slid under the sheets, went down on him.
“Did I wake you?” Wald said.
“No.”
“Good. Sorry to call so early, but I wanted to get this cleared up before game time. How’re the ribs, by the way?”
“Fine. Get what cleared up?”
“They want fifty grand.”
“Stop it,” Bobby said.
“Huh?”
“I wasn’t talking to you. Who wants fifty grand? For what?”
“Primo’s people. Or else he won’t give up the number.”
“Goddamn it.”
“Right. Your decision. Is it worth fifty Gs?”
“Goddamn it.”
“I know.”
“Can’t you talk them down?”
“They started at a hundred, Bobby.”
Bobby sat up. The girl didn’t stop what she was doing. “Who’s behind it—him or them?”
“Very astute, Bobby. I thought of that—whether they were shaking you down, all on their own—so I spoke to Primo himself. It’s him.”
“Why?”
“He says it’s his lucky number. He speaks good English, incidentally.”
“It’s my lucky number too.”
“Then it’s going to cost.”
Bobby couldn’t think. He pushed the girl away with his foot.
“Bobby?”
“Yeah?”
“You thinking?”
“Yeah.” He thought
fifty grand
and
that asshole Primo
, but didn’t get further than that.
“Thirty-three and forty-one are still available,” Wald said.
“So’s fifty-one, according to Stook. That’s got a one in it too.”
“You told Stook about this?”
“The money? Nobody knows about the money, except Primo, his people, you and me.”
“But word’ll get out, won’t it, especially if I pay? And I’ll look dumb.”
“Could be, Bobby. Astute of you—again. You should be doing my job.”
Bobby had never considered doing anyone else’s job. The idea appalled him. “Do I have to decide now?”
“Soon,” Wald said. “Game’s at two-oh-five.”
The girl came up from under the covers, looking hurt. Bobby patted her on the leg. “I’ve decided,” he told Wald.
“Yeah?”
“The hell with it.” Allowing himself to get jerked around by a Jheri-curled punk like Primo was no way to start off with a new team. The number on his back didn’t matter; all that mattered was to keep swinging the bat the way he had yesterday, to keep seeing the ball with coffee-table book clarity.
Bobby hung up. The girl said, “What’s wrong?”
Bobby reached for her. “Just business.”
“Business?” the girl replied, as though struck by the possibility she’d made a horrid mistake. “Aren’t you a ballplayer?”
Bobby left in a taxi for Soxtown. Halfway there he spotted a car dealer’s. “Pull in,” he said. He was tired of the driver’s glances in the rearview mirror, didn’t want to take taxis for the next three weeks, getting glanced at. Besides, he was going to need a car on the East Coast, probably two, maybe three. Bobby went inside.
“I don’t want anything flashy,” he said. “Just a solid, family vehicle.”
He chose a Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited. V8, ABS, 4WD, AM-FM CD, $35,991, with the gold hubcaps. Bobby wrote a check. An insurance agent arrived, called Bobby’s insurance company in California, collected another check.
Someone else took the papers to the registry, returned with the license plate: 983 KRZ. Bobby didn’t want a K on his plate. They went back and got him another one. It all took about an hour. Bobby signed a few autographs and drove off.