The Spoiler (32 page)

Sparks came into the next batter hard, hard as he could. The batter hit it deep. Coming to its feet, making a low, collective gasp, the crowd watched as the ball arced down and the Redwings' left fielder, turning, gathered it in at the warning track. The inning was over, the damage minimal; Holyoke still led.

In the Holyoke fourth Elvin Banks was brushed back. A high fastball sent him diving at the ground. Banks got up, screaming.

“I been beaned!”

The ump said no. The Holyoke fans yelled encouragement.

“Come on, Elvin.… Go clobber 'em.… Go kill 'em.”

But Banks watched strike three rush by on the outside corner. The West Haven players jeered and laughed. Banks, the bat still in his hand, turned glowering toward the West Haven bench. Nothing happened. The field changed hands. It was past twilight now, and the clouds were very thick.

Since his fastball had lost its zip, Sparks grew cautious and started throwing his curve. He trailed four pitches too far from the corner, and the leadoff hitter took first.

Pull him, Lofton thought.

Coach Barker did not move. Sitting placidly on the bench, one hand on his stomach, he looked like a small, fat Buddha. Lightning flashed in the sky overhead, and a solitary, fat drop of rain fell on Lofton's sleeve.

A shallow pop, another walk, and there were runners at first and second, one out. The rain came down harder. If Sparks could somehow hold the score and kill the rally before the downpour began—and the umps called the game—Holyoke could walk away with a win.

Sparks played it coy, loping curve after curve, half of them missing the strike zone, half edging over. Finally, he had to come in with the fastball. The West Haven catcher tagged it, a short, powerful swing that sent the ball ricocheting toward the outfield fence. At first Banks seemed to have misjudged the ball. He backpedaled; then, slipping on the wet grass, he changed field, snaked out his glove hand, and came down diving. He held the ball in his glove. The runners returned. There were two outs now, Holyoke still leading by a run, and the West Haven pitcher was coming to bat. He was the same man who had brushed back Banks the inning before, sending a pitch in close to his head. Sparks stepped off the mound, yelled out an insult, and came in with a fastball, tight at the wrist. The pitcher jumped back. He complained to the umpire. Some West Haven players yelled from the dugout, screaming that Sparks was trying to hurt their pitcher.

Sparks ignored them, turning his back and staring out at center field. Then Sparks threw his fastball again. The West Haven pitcher tried to duck, but he could not get away. The ball bounced off his helmet and caromed toward the dugout as the West Haven pitcher fell to the ground. Both benches cleared.

The players ran from all directions toward the mound, the West Haven players leaping toward Sparks, the Redwings jumping to protect their pitcher, bodies slipping helter-skelter on the wet grass, punches flying, hitting, missing, arms flailing in the rain. Barker walked toward the melee, still calm, his arms still folded over his stomach. Around him, in the increasing downpour, the ump tried to settle the players. A group of Redwings grabbed Sparks, trying to pull him out of the fight. Some West Haven players tried to do the same with their pitcher. But just as things seemed to calm down, a West Haven man broke loose, hurtled over the others, and threw a punch at Sparks. The brawl broke out again, the umpires in the middle, Coach Barker milling at the edges. A photographer jumped the fence, and some teenagers followed. Then came the crew from the halfway house. The security guards followed, one hand waving the nightstick, the other on the holster. Somehow they managed to chase away the crowd. Soon it was only a few players fighting. Then it was only Sparks and the West Haven pitcher, rolling in the mud on the mound.

Barker stood over them, arms crossed. On the ground beneath him the two pitchers continued to struggle, though not so fiercely now, until finally Barker reached in and pulled Sparks away. The umpire pointed his finger at Sparks, raised his thumb in the air, crossed his chest, and threw him out of the game. The West Haven pitcher took first base. After Barker had sent Hammer in in relief, the game went to its last out, the bases loaded now, Holyoke still clinging to its lead.

Jimmy Jefferson, West Haven's leadoff hitter—on his way to the As in Oakland at the end of the week—went after the first pitch. He hit a grounder that the Redwings' first baseman, Lynch, had a hard time grabbing. The wet ball slipped from his hands, but it did not matter. Jefferson slipped coming out of the box, and Lynch, fumbling and stumbling, beat him to the bag. Holyoke had sloshed out a victory in the rain.

The rain came down harder, but Lofton took his time. He was on his way to Barena's. He felt the rain slick his hair, soak through his shirt. There was no hurry; he was already wet clean through. You were safe in a hard rain, he thought. At the top of the hill Barena's neon flashed off and on, casting an orange shadow on the brick. Once inside, he called Amanti. Again she didn't answer. So he got himself something to eat, then sat by the window, where he could watch the rain coming down against the darkening sky.

Who had told Golden where to find him? From Lofton's conversation with Sparks, he was still no wiser. The pitcher had blown up when Lofton suggested he was involved with Brunner. That could just be an act, but chances were that Sparks was just what he seemed: a guy who wanted his chance, who would push hard to get it but would stay away from anything that looked like real trouble.

Lofton heard someone call his name. He looked up and saw the woman who worked the bar, a beer in one hand, the telephone in the other. She seemed to have lost her patience after barking his name out just once and was now ready to hang up if someone didn't come quickly. Lofton identified himself and took the phone. He was taken aback. It was Golden on the other end, and he wanted Lofton to meet him at the clubhouse. “In half an hour. When this place is good and cleared out and I don't have to worry about somebody coming back because he forgot his shoes,” Golden said, and hung up. So Lofton had no choice but to go back and sit down at his table and stare at the orange shadow of Barena's neon on the sidewalk rippled by the rain. When twenty minutes had passed, he left. He walked down to the main gate at MacKenzie Field. The stands were dark and empty in the rain. Ahead of him the clubhouse door was open, but the lights inside were off. Lofton stepped in quietly. He found Golden in the next room, straddling a bench that ran in front of a row of lockers.

“I saw you walking up the hill after the game. I figured you were on your way to Barena's,” Golden said. “I'm taking a chance talking to you.” The room smelled of cigarette smoke and steam and sweat and dirty clothes. An ashtray sat on the bench beside Golden. The general manager wore a Redwings' cap on his head. “I talked to Brunner today. You were right about the papers in your car. They were there, but I didn't know it, I had no idea. The police gave them back to Brunner.… I think Brunner's going to have you killed.”

Lofton could think of nothing to say. His silence seemed to agitate Golden.

“Look, I'm trying to do you a favor. This has gotten way out of control. I had no idea things were going to get like this. When I went after you, I was frustrated, I was cracking. You should be careful. Brunner has friends on the force.”

“What about you, you his friend, too?”

“Listen.” Golden gave him a dim look, then went on. “The bastard set me up. He has buildings all over town, most of them garbage. Going to turn them into parking lots, I don't know, I didn't ask. He gave me money, five, ten grand sometimes, to pay one of the community people there, to sort of spread the money around and get the rest of the Ricans out before the building was demolished. That's all that I thought I was doing: helping clear out the buildings. But this last time the fucking building burned with people still inside. Five people died. That's when I started thinking about what was really going on.”

Golden lit another cigarette. Seemingly he was calm, but there was always the look about him as if he could snap any moment. He would move his hands suddenly, cast a black glance at the concrete floor, his voice rising as he talked. Then he would look at Lofton, his face as calm as the water of the Dead Sea.

“Have you been paying the torch?” Lofton asked.

“I didn't put it together. I didn't know what I was doing.” Golden studied the locker beside him. It belonged to one of the ballplayers and was decorated with pictures of the guy's family, a bunch of blonds in front of a ranch home in the dry hills of what was probably California. “Buildings go up all the time. Coincidence, I thought. I didn't know I was paying the torch. I didn't know he was a torch.”

“Who did you think you were paying?”

“Community people, that's what Brunner called them. They were supposed to pass the money around, help vacate buildings, stuff like that.”

“What community people?”

“Okay, gang leaders. Whatever word you like. You're the writer. I really didn't know what was going on. Or I told myself I didn't know. I need the money. Disease is expensive.”

“Mendoza, is he one of the men?” Lofton asked.

Golden nodded. And so the circle closed on itself again. At least for the moment the names connected, intertwined, but when you tried to prove it, when you reached out and grabbed, your hand got snarled, you pulled in people you didn't expect, ruined their lives, and missed whom you were after.

“What happened with Gutierrez? Did you lose your temper with him, too?”

Golden gave him a reckless look, the dark flash of anger. He didn't like Lofton's question, but he was snarled up in guilt, trying to escape, so he answered it anyway.

“Gutierrez was a coke freak. He put things together somehow, but he didn't talk to me about it. He went to the Wanderers and tried to put some pressure on Mendoza, thinking he could pick up some more coke. That's another thing Mendoza's people are into. They used the payoff money to buy coke and sell it, trying to move themselves up in the world. When Gutierrez fooled with him, they blew him away.”

“How do you know that?”

“Mendoza told me. He seemed pretty proud, like he had done us a favor.”

“It wasn't Brunner behind the murder?”

“No. He was mad as hell when he found out about it. He was afraid it would somehow come back on him. He got in touch with his friends at the police and did what he could to kill the investigation.”

Lofton listened to the rain. It still fell pretty hard outside, but there was the sound of water dripping inside, too, back in the shower room. A faucet, maybe, or a leak in the roof. “Tell me one more thing,” Lofton said. “If you didn't know I had Brunner's papers, why did you bother to follow me? How was it you knew I was going to be at Amanti's that night?”

“I didn't know about the papers, but I knew you were investigating me. I wanted you to stop. I still do, but I'm not so worried. You'll never get to them—or to me.”

“How did you know where to find me?” he asked again.

“Let's just say I put a nickel in the jukebox, and the jukebox sang all night. I didn't call you to get other people involved. You don't need to know anything else. I'm just trying to warn you. Forget your story. Just get out, and get out now.”

“What about you? Are you out?”

“I've got one more errand to run. Then that's it. Then I'm free. I'm finished with Brunner.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Golden didn't answer. He lit another cigarette while the old one still burned in the ashtray and straightened the cap on his head.

“How are they planning on killing me?” Lofton asked.

“I don't know the details,” Golden said. “And it wouldn't be safe for me to tell you if I did. I'm not trying to be noble. I'm just giving you fair warning.”

Lofton was wet, cold to the bone. He imagined how he must look—drenched clothes, sunglasses, bruised cheeks—but the cabbie said nothing. It was a good, long fare to Amherst. He still had not been able to get in touch with Amanti; he did not know if he should be worried about her safety or suspicious about what she might be up to now. In the meantime, he wanted to let his thoughts rest in the silence, fade to nothing in the blackness of the cab. Only it wouldn't happen. His chest tightened again, and the darkness was veined with small streaks of red, impressions of blood-colored light left lingering on his retina from passing cars. Lofton found himself sorting through the last few days. Car chases. Hospitals. Revolvers. When the cab reached Amherst, he had the driver let him off at the end of Amanti's street. He paid and walked toward her apartment. The rain had stopped, the asphalt was wet and shining, lights glowed in the houses. He could hear voices drifting out from the porches. He guessed that while he had been standing in the rain at MacKenzie Field, these same people had heard the rain from inside their houses, listened to it thrum on their rooftops, and thought that the world was good. If he had stayed back with Maureen, back in Colorado, then it could have been the same way for him. The world could be good.

Her place was dark except for the light in the bedroom. He knocked and waited. She did not come. After several more tries he walked to the back of the building and looked through the bedroom window. The bed was made, but there was no one there.

“Gina,” he called through the screen. He went to the front of the house again, tried knocking, then returned to the sliding door in the rear. He called her name again, but she did not answer. He decided to go inside. He would look through her papers, and he would see if he found anything unexpected, maybe some clue to her whereabouts. He jimmied the sliding door—an old trick he had learned in high school—turned on a light, and started rummaging.

There was a noise behind him. He turned. Amanti stood in her nightgown, blocking the doorway.
More revolvers
. Lofton laughed. She held a gun pointed at his chest.