The Spoiler (40 page)

“Your doctor called,” she said.

“What did he want?”

“Money, I guess. He didn't say.”

“I have one last thing left to do here in Massachusetts; then I'm leaving.”

She said nothing, and then they began to talk of small things: her job; the weather; a hailstorm so bad it killed a small child in a Colorado parking lot. The longer they talked, the more Lofton began to feel as if he'd hardly known Maureen, as if his time with her had been something that had happened to someone else, something he'd read in a book. He was about to tell her the feeling, how the sudden remoteness was bothering him, when she switched the subject.

“Legally we're still married. If you don't sign the papers I sent, I'll have to file for desertion.”

“The papers are lost.”

She sighed, exasperated.

“It wasn't my fault. Someone ransacked my room.”

He listened to the empty sound of the long-distance wires and wondered if he should tell her about the money. The idea of taking the money, and building his life with it, suddenly filled him with disgust—as if he really had accepted Brunner's bribe.

“I have a boyfriend,” Maureen said.

“Fantastic,” he said, and hung up the phone fast, without thinking. He stared at the receiver a long time before realizing it wouldn't ring back.

Lofton drove his car to Golden's house and parked in the street. He did not get out. Golden's car was not in the driveway. From his place on the street he could see Mrs. Golden's head at the front window. Though he thought of going to her, of asking if her husband had been in, he still didn't move. She was looking out at the street, Lofton could see that. He imagined how he must look to her: the long car; his head behind the steering wheel; a shadow in the smoke gray windshield. My husband's murderer, she would think, and perhaps she would be afraid for herself. It had been a long, weary night. She could not move. She could not defend herself, but this was not unusual for her. Fear was an everyday thing. At first brutish, slow, overpowering, but after a while it settled, and you got to know it well, meaningless, shapeless, like a gray fog in your lungs.

Lofton drove away. He wondered what to do with the money. After what had happened in the tunnel, he was not going to give it to the Latinos; they were as bad as Mendoza, as bad as Brunner. And Amanti had fended for herself so far; he was sure she would manage. He could always give the money to Mrs. Golden.

It took him awhile to work his way across town. After crossing the canal into the warehouse district, he drove down Commercial, parallel to the white business district just the other side of the tracks; down here English names were scattered among the Spanish,
LOS PESCADORES FISH MARKET
.
MEDINA PACKAGE
.
THE GOLDENHORSE
.
LA JUSTICE PRINTING
.
JUBINVILLE PACKAGE
.
RAMERIZ
5 & 10. The Street had a changing face to it: one building restored, the next crumbling, the next a pile of ash and cinder. Sometimes a single building would have a new glass storefront, scrubbed red bricks; to the side, the same brick would be half-scrubbed, alternating colors in dirty disarray; up above, the brick would be crumbling, the top stories boarded up, abandoned.

The streets smelled like smoke. He could see American Paper again, closer now. The building's frame had fallen in on itself. What still stood was blackened and soot-covered. Fire fighters formed in long lines around the building, holding the hoses and streaming water onto the fallen bricks. Steam gushed into the air. The bricks would be hot for days, and nothing could be salvaged. The men kept pouring, sweating, alternating places on the line. Some workers dug trenches; others sandbagged the perimeters. All around him people wandered in the streets, shouting and laughing, the men and women flirting with each other, as always: the men standing with their forearms exposed, shirts torn at the sleeves, and the women gathering in groups, their skirts tight, their blouses bright and colorful as blood.

Finally Lofton made it to the old depot, down where the Connecticut River fed the Lower Canal. A dirt road ran into the railyard. When he stopped the car, the dust raised around him in the heat. The cops were here, coming back from the tunnel where Lofton had been last night. Two of them carried a stretcher, a figure draped in a white sheet. Mendoza, Lofton thought, or Golden. Either way, it didn't seem a good time for him to go down there looking for the money. Instead, he drove up to MacKenzie Field.

In the lot behind the stadium, not far from a big pile of gravel and soot from some buildings that had been torn down a few weeks before, he found Golden's car. Its windows were open. There was a ticket under the wipers.

OVERNIGHT PARKING NOT ALLOWED
.

$15.00 FINE PER NIGHT
.

CAR TOWED AFTER 48 HOURS
.

The ticket had been dated, the time initialed: August 28, 2:30
A.M
. So Golden had left his car here and walked to the dropoff, Lofton guessed, and the kid had followed him.

Lofton walked over to MacKenzie Field. Though the gates were unlocked, no one was here yet; practice had not started. He walked back to his car and curled up in the driver's seat. Closing his eyes, he had an image of Golden back in his glory days, young and tall, standing out on the mound and feeling all the power the world had to offer right there in his hand, where his fingertips touched the ball. He imagined Golden scanning the stands as he went into his windup, catching a glimpse of his wife, the flaming blur of her dress, as he let loose and threw, hard as he could, toward home.

Maybe Golden will still show up, Lofton thought. Maybe all the evidence is wrong. Maybe he's still alive. Maybe the car's battery is dead, and Golden's at home. Maybe he'll be at the park later. Then Lofton, knowing it wasn't true, knowing he'd better leave town himself, nodded off into a sweet black sleep with no dreams at all.

It was twilight, and the lights were on over MacKenzie Field. A gang of kids hung out near the right field gate, the same kids who had hung out there all year, fighting with one another and jiving the ticket taker.

The security guard, an old black man, asked Lofton for his ticket. Lofton flashed his press pass. The black man nodded, his yellow eyes flickering, then went back to talking with the kids. The guard had to know, Lofton guessed, that while these kids distracted him, their friends sneaked in behind the bleachers.

Lofton had gotten about four hours' sleep. He felt tired, sore, but no worse, physically, than he had felt for weeks, and his head was clear. When he had woken up, Golden's car had still been there, the ticket still under the wiper. He imagined Golden inside the stadium, wandering the stands, counting the gate, staring out at the field. Lofton thought of Golden's dedication: The man had taken a stand against the war; he had stayed with his wife despite her disease. But was it commitment that had inspired Golden, or cowardice? He remembered how Golden was, friendly one minute, surly the next. The second he walked into the park, Lofton scanned the seats for Amanti.

Her seat was empty; Brunner was not there either. The crowd was small. The Scoreboard read 3–0, Holyoke trailing in the third. The Carib took the mound for West Haven. He threw hard. He looked better, if possible, than the time Lofton had first seen him, the night after Gutierrez's death.

When Lofton reached the other side of the field, he approached the old gateman who worked the glass booth near the clubhouse.

“I'm wondering, by any chance, if you've seen Dick Golden around here today.”

“Nope, he ain't come in yet,” said the old man, his expression unreadable as stone.

Golden's dead, Lofton thought, convinced, though he did not want to be. He did not want to let it drop. It still bothered him; he still hoped maybe the kid had been wrong about whom he'd seen in the tunnel. There was also the money under the railroad tracks. He questioned whether he could give the money to Golden's wife, even if he wanted to. It would be complicated: retrieving the money, taking it to her house, maybe even helping her get it into the bank. Worse, something told him she would not even take it. The thought evoked a dull resentment against her.

The people in the stands did not seem to be paying much attention to the game: Holyoke had lost last night, there was no chance for the play-offs, and besides, this was the last home game of the season. The diehards chattered constantly, many would not see each other again until next season, and there was a lot to talk about now—the fire mostly. His heart quickened. A dark-haired woman, wearing a white blouse, stood not far away toward the press box. Amanti. No, she was joined a second later by another woman, a blonde, who carried a baseball bat under her arm. The brunette turned. She was not Amanti. She was much younger. As Lofton passed, headed a last time for the press box, the blonde gave him a smile.

“Jesus Christ, the fucking devil himself,” said Tenace. He turned toward Lofton, and as he did so, he made a clumsy movement with his hand, taking something off the yellow bench board, next to his scorer's pad, and maneuvering it into his back pocket. Lofton did not catch what it was, but he didn't ask; Tenace was always playing games.

“Where do you think our friend here's been?” Tenace said to Rhiner, the Springfield reporter.

“I been in Bermuda,” Lofton said.

“Playing hero, huh?”

“Yeah, that's right. You seen Golden around here?” He asked the question again, though he knew it was hopeless, stupid. Tenace shook his head. Rhiner gave Lofton a dim, silly look. The Carib went to his windup, a strangling overhand that dropped and whipped at the last moment, a movement more like cracking a whip than throwing a ball. This young black pitcher was the best player Lofton had seen down here; no doubt Oakland would lift him up before long.

“I was talking to some guys from the
Dispatch
. I hear they're real shook up down there,” said Rhiner.

“What do you mean?”

“About your story. It's causing trouble. The police been down, all hot. Something about the Gutierrez murder. They're saying you were involved.”

Lofton looked at Rhiner, into the man's milk blue eyes, and grabbed the
Dispatch
. There, on the first page, was his story, the one he had given Kirpatzke the night before.

“Kirpatzke ran it!”

“Yeah, now he's gone. Nobody can find him. He blew town.”

Lofton laughed.

“Lawyers been calling. They're going to make it tough on you, on the paper. McCullough's wording a retraction.”

“So Brunner's putting the pressure on Mac now, huh?” asked Lofton. Behind him a bat cracked against one of the Carib's pitches.

“Rumor is they're going after you. The police, the courts, the paper. Everybody.”

Tenace shook his head. Rhiner, who had been animated as he spoke, stared at the ground. Lofton was excited. He knew he should leave—
will they extradite me?
—but it was such a triumph, Kirpatzke going with the story.
Will Brunner kill me?

“Shame what they did to Sparks.”

Lofton turned. He had a sudden, unexplainable fear. “Is he dead?”

Tenace looked at him in disbelief. “No, he's in Los Angeles, near Disneyland; people don't die there.… Didn't you hear? They flew him out yesterday afternoon, and he got there in time for the second half of a twin bill, a night game. They gave him a big-league uniform, let him sit on the bench. His picture is in the paper—standin' around with some major league hams. Today they pull it out from under. Cut him off at the knees.”

Sparks had played it careful. He had pitched hard, played up to Brunner early on, when he thought it could still help, and, when things got dangerous, he had kept his mouth shut. None of it had done him any good. Chances were Sparks had been a good kid all along. Self-obsessed but still good. If Sparks had been working for Brunner, and if Brunner's influence did extend upward into Cowboy's California office, where the Blues decided whom to cut and whom to save, then it seemed the Blues would have at least let Sparks sit the season out on the bench, rather than cut him so completely. No, it didn't make sense. The only answer was that the Blues had brought him up on their own impetus, then let him go the same way. The more Lofton thought about his own interview with Sparks, the less likely it seemed that the pitcher was working for Brunner.

“Lucky for Tim Carpenter, though,” Tenace went on. “Getting out of here, up to Cleveland. They're taking him up the beginning of next season.”

“The Indians?”

“It's the major leagues, the big show. The women”—Tenace raised his eyebrows—“have bigger vaginas.”

“They traded Tim Carpenter to Cleveland? I didn't know that.”

So Carpenter had made it. Lofton liked the idea. He felt a sudden boyish burst of enthusiasm, partly for Carpenter, but more for himself—pleased that the story had appeared, that all his work hadn't been for nothing. Brunner must be angry as hell, he thought, and the idea pleased him even more. He wondered what Kirpatzke was doing, where the former editor had run to.

“Sparks may not know it,” said Tenace, “but he's a lucky bastard to get out of this hole. His arm's shot, but he's had a good time. At least part of his body's done okay. Ask the girl down there; she knows about a good time.”

Tenace pointed to two girls who sat behind the Holyoke dugout. They were the ones Lofton had seen earlier in the stands, sixteen, maybe seventeen years old, the blonde one small and slender, the other small and dark. Both girls wore their jeans and blouses tight, and the blonde wore so much makeup on her high-boned cheeks that her face looked like a mask. One of the girls held a baseball bat, some sort of souvenir, Lofton guessed; she rested it on her shoulders. “Sparks was making it with blondie there, the one with the bat. She's heartbroken. You and I can help ease her pain after the game.”