Keller thought about it, shook his head. “I don’t see why it should,” he said. “It’s what I do.”
“Right,” Dot said. “Same as Turnbull, when you think about it. You’re a designated hitter yourself, aren’t you, Keller?”
“Designated hitter,” Keller said, as Floyd Turnbull took a called second strike. “Whoever thought that one up?”
“Some marketing genius,” his new friend said. “Some dipstick who came up with research to prove that fans wanted to see more hits and home runs. So they lowered the pitching mound and told the umpires to quit calling the high strike, and then they juiced up the baseball and brought in the fences in the new ballparks, and the ballplayers started lifting weights and swinging lighter bats, and now you’ve got baseball games with scores like football games. Last week the Tigers beat the A’s fourteen to thirteen. First thing I thought, Jeez, who missed the extra point?”
“At least the National League still lets pitchers hit.”
“And at least nobody in the pros uses those aluminum bats. They show college baseball on ESPN and I can’t watch it. I can’t stand the sound the ball makes when you hit it. Not to mention it travels too goddam far.”
The next pitch was in the dirt. Posada couldn’t find it, but the third base coach, suspicious, held the runner. The fans booed, though it was hard to tell who they were booing, or why. The two in front of Keller joined in the booing, and Keller and the man next to him exchanged knowing glances.
“Fans,” the man said, and rolled his eyes.
The next pitch was belt-high, and Turnbull connected solidly with it. The stadium held its collective breath and the ball sailed toward the left field corner, hooking foul at the last moment. The crowd heaved a sigh and the runners trotted back to their bases. Turnbull, looking not at all happy, dug in again at the plate.
He swung at the next pitch, which looked like ball four to Keller, and popped to right. O’Neill floated under it and gathered it in and the inning was over.
“Top of the order for the Yanks,” said Keller’s friend. “About time they broke this thing wide open, wouldn’t you say?”
With two out in the Tarpons’ half of the eighth inning, with the Yankees ahead by five runs, Floyd Turnbull got all of a Mike Stanton fastball and hit it into the upper deck. Keller watched as he jogged around the bases, getting a good hand from what remained of the crowd.
“Career home run number 393 for the old warhorse,” said the man on Keller’s left. “And all those people missed it because they had to beat the traffic.”
“Number 393?”
“Leaves him seven shy of four hundred. And, in the hits department, you just saw number 2988.”
“You’ve got those stats at your fingertips?”
“My fingers won’t quite reach,” the fellow said, and pointed to the scoreboard, where the information he’d cited was posted. “Just twelve hits to go before he joins the magic circle, the Three Thousand Hits club. That’s the only thing to be said for the DH rule—it lets a guy like Floyd Turnbull stick around a couple of extra years, long enough to post the kind of numbers that get you into Cooperstown. And he can still do a team some good. He can’t run the bases, he can’t chase after fly balls, but the son of a bitch hasn’t forgotten how to hit a baseball.”
The Yankees got the run back in the top of the ninth on a walk to Jeter and a home run by Bernie Williams, and the Tarpons went in order in the bottom of the ninth, with Rivera striking out the first two batters and getting the third to pop to short.
“Too bad there was nobody on when Turnbull got his homer,” said Keller’s friend, “but that’s usually the way it is. He’s still good with a stick, but he hits ’em with nobody on, and usually when the team’s too far behind or out in front for it to make any difference.”
The two men walked down a succession of ramps and out of the stadium. “I’d like to see old Floyd get the numbers he needs,” the man said, “but I wish he’d get ’em on some other team. What they need for a shot at the flag’s a decent left-handed starter and some help in the bullpen, not an old man with bad knees who hits it out when you don’t need it.”
“You think they should trade him?”
“They’d love to, but who’d trade for him? He can help a team, but not enough to justify paying him the big bucks. He’s got three years left on his contract, three years at six-point-five million a year. There are teams that could use him, but nobody can use him six-point-five worth. And the Tarps can’t release him and go out and buy the pitching they need, not while they’ve got Turnbull’s salary to pay.”
“Tricky business,” Keller said.
“And a business is what it is. Well, I’m parked over on Pentland Avenue, so this is where I get off. Nice talking with you.”
And off the fellow went, while Keller turned and walked off in the opposite direction. He didn’t know the name of the man he had talked to, and would probably never see him again, and that was fine. In fact it was one of the real pleasures of going to a game, the intense conversations you had with strangers whom you then allowed to remain strangers. The man had been good company, and at the end he’d provided some useful information.
Because now Keller had an idea why he’d been hired.
“The Tarpons are stuck with Turnbull,” he told Dot. “He draws this huge salary, and they have to pay it whether they play him or not. And I guess that’s where I come in.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Are you sure about this, Keller? That’s a pretty extreme form of corporate downsizing. All that just to keep from paying a man his salary? How much could it amount to?”
He told her.
“That much,” she said, impressed. “That’s a lot to pay a man to hit a ball with a stick, especially when he doesn’t have to go out and stand around in the hot sun. He just sits on the bench until it’s his turn to bat, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, I think you might be on to something,” she said. “I don’t know who hired us or why, but your guess makes more sense than anything I could come up with off the top of my head. But I feel myself getting a little nervous, Keller.”
“Why?”
“Because this is just the kind of thing that could set your milk to curdling, isn’t it?”
“What milk? What are you talking about?”
“I’ve known you a long time, Keller. And I can just see you deciding that this is a hell of a way to treat a faithful employee after long years of service, and how can you allow this to happen, di dah di dah di dah. Am I coming through loud and clear?”
“The di dah part makes more sense than the rest of it,” he said. “Dot, as far as who hired us and why, all I am is curious. Curiosity’s a long way from righteous indignation.”
“Didn’t do much for the cat, as I remember.”
“Well,” he said, “I’m not that curious.”
“So I’ve got nothing to worry about?”
“Not a thing,” he said. “The guy’s a dead man hitting.”
The Tarpons closed out the series with the Yankees—and a twelve-game home stand—the following afternoon. They got a good outing from their ace right-hander, who scattered six hits and held the New Yorkers to one run, a bases-empty homer by Brosius. The Tarps won, 3–1, with no help from their designated hitter, who struck out twice, flied to center, and hit a hard liner right at the first baseman.
Keller watched from a good seat on the third base side, then checked out of his hotel and drove to the airport. He turned in his rental car and flew to Milwaukee, where the Brewers would host the Tarps for a three-game series. He picked up a fresh rental and checked in at a motel half a mile from the Marriott where the Tarpons always stayed.
The Brewers won the first game, 5–2. Floyd Turnbull had a good night at bat, going three for five with two singles and a double, but he didn’t do anything to affect the outcome; there was nobody on base when he got his hits, and nobody behind him in the order could drive him in.
“Why’d he do that?” the bald guy next to Keller wondered. “Two out and he tries for third? Don’t make the third out at third base, isn’t that what they say?”
“When you’re up by nine runs,” Keller said, “I don’t suppose it matters much one way or the other.”
“Still,” the man said, “it’s what’s wrong with that prick. Always for himself his whole career. He wanted one more triple in the record book, that’s what he wanted. And forget about the team.”
After the game Keller went to a German restaurant south of the city on the lake. The place dripped atmosphere, with beer steins hanging from the hand-hewn oak beams, an oompah band in lederhosen, and fifteen different beers on tap. Keller couldn’t tell the waitresses apart, they all looked like grown-up versions of Heidi, and evidently Floyd Turnbull had the same problem; he called them all Gretchen and ran his hand up under their skirts whenever they came within reach.
Keller was there because he’d learned the Tarpons favored the place, but the sauerbraten was reason enough to make the trip. He made his beer last until he’d cleaned his plate, then turned down the waitress’s suggestion of a refill and asked for a cup of coffee instead. By the time she brought it, several more fans had crossed the room to beg autographs from the Tarpons.
“They all want their menus signed,” Keller told the waitress. “You people are going to run out of menus.”
“It happens all the time,” she said. “Not that we run out of menus, because we never do, but players coming here and our other customers asking for autographs. All the athletes like to come here.”
“Well, the food’s great,” he said.
“And it’s free. For the players, I mean. It brings in other customers, so it’s worth it to the owner, plus he just likes having his restaurant full of jocks. About it being free for them, I’m not supposed to tell you that.”
“It’ll be our little secret.”
“You can tell the whole world, for all I care. Tonight’s my last night. I mean, what do I need with jerks like Floyd Turnbull? I want a pelvic exam, I’ll go to my gynecologist, if it’s all the same to you.”
“I noticed he was a little free with his hands.”
“And close with everything else. They eat and drink free, but most of them at least leave tips. Not good tips, ballplayers are cheap bastards, but they leave something. Turnbull always leaves exactly twenty percent.”
“Twenty percent’s not that bad, is it?”
“It is when it’s twenty percent of nothing.”
“Oh.”
“He said he got a home run tonight, too.”
“Number 394 of his career,” Keller said.
“Well, he’s not getting to first base with me,” she said. “The big jerk.”
“Night before last,” Keller said, “I was in a German restaurant in Milwaukee.”
“Milwaukee, Keller?”
“Well, not exactly in Milwaukee. It was south of the city a few miles, on Lake Michigan.”
“That’s close enough,” Dot said. “It’s still a long way from Memphis, isn’t it? Although if it’s south of the city, I guess it’s closer to Memphis than if it was actually inside of Milwaukee.”
“Dot . . .”
“Before we get too deep into the geography of it,” she said, “aren’t you supposed to be in Memphis? Taking care of business?”
“As a matter of fact . . .”
“And don’t tell me you already took care of business, because I would have heard. CNN would have had it, and they wouldn’t even make me wait until Headline Sports at twenty minutes past the hour. You notice how they never say which hour?”
“That’s because of different time zones.”
“That’s right, Keller, and what time zone are you in? Or don’t you know?”
“I’m in Seattle,” he said.
“That’s Pacific time, isn’t it? Three hours behind New York.”
“Right.”
“But ahead of us,” she said, “in coffee. I’ll bet you can explain, can’t you?”
“They’re on a road trip,” he said. “They play half their games at home in Memphis, and half the time they’re in other cities.”
“And you’ve been tagging along after them.”
“That’s right. I want to take my time, pick my spot. If I have to spend a few dollars on airline tickets, I figure that’s my business. Because nobody said anything about being in a hurry on this one.”
“No,” she admitted. “If time is of the essence, nobody told me about it. I just thought you were gallivanting around, going to stamp dealers and all. Taking your eye off the ball, so to speak.”
“So to speak,” Keller said.
“So how can they play ball in Seattle, Keller? Doesn’t it rain all the time? Or is it one of those stadiums with a lid on it?”
“A dome,” he said.
“I stand corrected. And here’s another question. What’s Memphis got to do with fish?”
“Huh?”
“Tarpons,” she said. “Fish. And there’s Memphis, in the middle of the desert.”
“Actually, it’s on the Mississippi River.”
“Spot any tarpons in the Mississippi River, Keller?”
“No.”
“And you won’t,” she said, “unless that’s where you stick Turnbull when you finally close the deal. It’s a saltwater fish, the tarpon, so why pick that name for the Memphis team? Why not call them the Gracelanders?”
“They moved,” he explained.
“To Milwaukee,” she said, “and then to Seattle, and God knows where they’ll go next.”
“No,” he said. “The franchise moved. They started out as an expansion team, the Sarasota Tarpons, but they couldn’t sell enough tickets, so a new owner took over and moved them to Memphis. Look at basketball, the Utah Jazz and the L.A. Lakers. What’s Salt Lake City got to do with jazz, and when did Southern California get to be the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes?”
“The reason I don’t follow sports,” she said, “is it’s too damn confusing. Isn’t there a team called the Miami Heat? I hope they stay put. Imagine if they move to Buffalo.”
Why had he called in the first place? Oh, right. “Dot,” he said, “I was in the Tarpons’ hotel earlier today, and I saw a guy.”
“So?”
“A little guy,” he said, “with a big nose, and one of those heads that look as though somebody put it in a vise.”
“I heard about a guy once who used to do that to people.”
“Well, I doubt that’s what happened to this fellow, but that’s the kind of face he had. He was sitting in the lobby reading a newspaper.”
“Suspicious behavior like that, it’s no wonder you noticed him.”
“No, that’s the thing,” he said. “He’s distinctive-looking, and he looked wrong. And I saw him just a couple of nights before in Milwaukee at this German restaurant.”
“The famous German restaurant.”
“I gather it is pretty famous, but that’s not the point. He was in both places, and he was alone both times. I noticed him in Milwaukee because I was eating by myself, and feeling a little conspicuous about it, and I saw I wasn’t the only lone diner, because there he was.”
“You could have asked him to join you.”
“He looked wrong there, too. He looked like a Broadway sharpie, out of an old movie. Looked like a weasel, wore a fedora. He could have been in Guys and Dolls, saying he’s got the horse right here.”
“I think I see where this is going.”
“And what I think,” he said, “is I’m not the only DH in the lineup . . . Hello? Dot?”
“I’m here,” s
he said. “Just taking it all in. I don’t know who the client is, the contract came through a broker, but what I do know is nobody seems to be getting antsy. So why would they hire somebody else? You’re sure this guy’s a hitter? Maybe he’s a big fan, hates to miss a game, follows ’em all over the country.”
“He looks wrong for the part, Dot.”
“Could he be a private eye? Ballplayers cheat on their wives, don’t they?”
“Everybody does, Dot.”
“So some wife hired him, he’s gathering divorce evidence.”
“He looks too shady to be a private eye.”
“I didn’t know that was possible.”
“He doesn’t have that crooked-cop look private eyes have. He looks more like the kind of guy they used to arrest, and he’d bribe them to cut him loose. I think he’s a hired gun, and not one from the A-list, either.”
“Or he wouldn’t look like that.”
“Part of the job description,” he said, “is you have to be able to pass in a crowd. And he’s a real sore thumb.”
“Maybe there’s more than one person who wants our guy dead.”
“Occurred to me.”
“And maybe a second client hired a second hit man. You know, maybe taking your time’s a good idea.”
“Just what I was thinking.”
“Because you could do something and find yourself in a mess because of the heat this ferret-faced joker stirs up. And if he’s there with a job to do, and you stay in the background and let him do it, where’s the harm? We collect no matter who pulls the trigger.”
“So I’ll bide my time.”
“Why not? Drink some of that famous coffee, Keller. Get rained on by some of that famous rain. They have any stamp dealers in Seattle, Keller?”
“There must be. I know there’s one in Tacoma.”
“So go see him,” she said. “Buy some stamps. Enjoy yourself.”
“I collect worldwide, 1840 to 1949, and up to 1952 for British Commonwealth.”
“In other words, the classics,” said the dealer, a square-faced man who was wearing a striped tie with a plaid shirt. “The good stuff.”
Enough Rope Page 92