by Gemma Bruce
She snagged Jeff Whitelaw as he came out of his office. Flashed her press card. Watched his eyes roll upward before he caught himself.
“Sure, I’d be glad to answer your questions.” He didn’t move or gesture toward his office door, so they stood in the hallway. She didn’t even bother to take notes. He gave her the same line he’d given Tommy. “Damn teenagers. It’s a problem every small town faces. Not enough jobs to keep them off the streets. Too much time on their hands. And idle hands…”
Yeah, she knew the rest.
As soon as she was on the street again, she put in a call to the mayor’s office. Sorry. He was very busy today. Possibly next week.
J.T. explained that she was a reporter doing a story on progressive towns and would only be in town that day. She was put on hold. When the secretary came back, she had an appointment for one o’clock.
She’d done her research the night before. Charlie Wiggins was forty-four years old. Born and raised in Gilbeytown. Attended the University of Virginia and had been the mayor for three terms. His family had been the owners of Wiggins Steel until the factory shut down in the fifties. As far as J.T. could tell, they’d been living on their investments ever since.
The mayor met her at the door with a handshake and a smile. His hands were small. The rest of him was stocky beneath his Brooks Brothers suit.
He showed J.T. to one of the two leather chairs placed in front of his desk. The office was opulent, unlike the rest of City Hall. The walls were papered in a Waverly pattern. Builtin wooden bookshelves lined one wall and were filled with expensively bound books and photographs of the U Virginia baseball team from the late seventies.
He was glad to be able to give her a few minutes. He had several important meetings this afternoon, but he always tried to accommodate the press. Yes, he had a vision for Gilbeytown.
How many times did politicians use that phrase? J.T. hunkered down to glean the truth from the bullshit.
Had she seen the little league park? “I’m proud of that. Part of our urban renewal. I like to think that we rival even William-sport.”
J.T. nodded. “And what about a ponytail league? Do the Gilbeytown girls get to play?”
The mayor’s eyes flickered, then he seemed to recall that a woman reporter might be interested in girls. “Oh yes,” he said. “We provide opportunity for all children of the township. Regardless of sex, race, or religion.”
“And economic status?”
“Of course. There are plenty opportunities for all children. No child left behind.” He smiled complacently.
J.T. didn’t miss the fact that he hadn’t said the new little league field was open to all children. She bet it was paid for and controlled by the new residents. Even if they did let the local kids in, she wondered what that group dynamic would be like.
“We’re very proud of our ponytail league,” Mayor Wiggins continued. “We have, uh, two or three teams in each of the four age divisions. The high school has its own team.
“We have six boys teams in each age division and it’s growing by leaps and bounds. There are a hundred teams in our region. And the population is mushrooming. You probably saw all the new construction on the edge of town. The housing market in the rest of the country might be in a slump, but here in Gilbeytown new houses are selling like hotcakes.
“We’ve gone a long way to pumping life back into the town. A model for other towns. Why, we’re even going to build a new stadium.”
“Really,” she said, trying to keep the irony from her voice. “For the Beavers?”
“Oh. Not the Beavers. A new stadium will attract a real minor league team. At least double-A, maybe even triple-A. In fact, just between you and me”—he winked—“I’m already talking to several teams about moving here once the stadium is built. Pretty much a fait accompli.”
“And the Beavers will…” She purposely let the sentence trail off, inviting him to finish it.
“The Beavers have outlived their presence. They just couldn’t keep up with the changing times. It happens all the time. They’ll pick up someplace else. It’s the nature of independent ball teams. You know that.” He stopped. “We’re hoping to start construction in the fall.”
He hurried past that slip, but J.T. hadn’t missed it. She hadn’t told them she was a sports reporter, but the mayor knew. News traveled quickly in small towns and instinct told her the mayor had been waiting for her call.
She put that away to think about later.
“Tell me about the new stadium,” she said, her pen poised above her notebook.
“Ah,” said the mayor expansively. “We’ll raze the old steel mill. It belongs to my family. My mother actually. But don’t you fear that we’re going to gouge the good citizens of Gilbeytown. Our family goes back three generations and we’re going to give them a fair deal. Practically giving it away. Our little boost to progress.”
J.T. nodded.
“The new stadium will be built on the factory grounds, then the old stadium will be torn down along with those slum houses that surround the factory.”
More people to relocate. But she let it pass. She didn’t want to antagonize him. He was pretty enamored by his own dream.
“And how is the town going to pay for the new stadium?”
“We’ll have a referendum for a bond in the fall. But I’m confident that it will pass. Gilbeytown is becoming a popular bedroom community. They want services and they’re willing to pay for them.”
“And the other residents? Doesn’t Gilbeytown have a poverty level of close to twelve percent?”
The mayor frowned. “Yes. And that’s why it’s so necessary to look to the future. The little league field has already created jobs: concessions, groundskeepers, parking attendants. And the new stadium will create even more.”
Right, and create more taxes and a bigger need for affordable housing for the people forced out of their homes. But she had no doubt that if the new residents were as populous as the mayor implied, the referendum would pass by a landslide.
She stood up. “Thank you, Mayor Wiggins. I know you’re a busy man, and I appreciate you taking time to answer my questions.” She couldn’t wait to get away from this slime bucket.
The mayor saw her out. Closed the door behind her, but J.T. didn’t leave immediately. She wanted to see if her visit set off any waves. His secretary had stepped out of her office, so J.T. was still there when the phone lit up. The mayor was making a call.
She sidled back to the closed door. She couldn’t hear what he was saying. He might be calling his next appointment or he could be warning someone that she was asking questions.
She drove back to the Night n Day to change clothes and catch the last few minutes of practice. But before she left for the park, she stopped by the office. She didn’t know any townspeople outside Tommy’s family. She needed a local take on the stadium situation. She just hoped there were no more messages from Tommy.
Harriett was sitting at the desk watching an old movie. “Did you return Tommy’s calls?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Well, he’s been calling here all day. Call him back will you, and put him out of his misery.”
Not likely, thought J.T. She didn’t think he was miserable at all. She’d caught some of the broadcasts last night. He’d looked happy as a pig in shit. The pig he was.
“Next time he calls tell him I checked out.”
“You checking out?”
“Not yet.”
Harriett shook her head. The gesture said she’d seen it all. And maybe she had.
“I just wanted to talk to you and Hank for a minute, if you don’t mind.”
“Hank. Get out here. You’re about to be interviewed.”
Hank appeared in the doorway, a paper opened to the crossword and a smear of mayonnaise over his unshaven chin.
“It’s not really an interview. I just talked with Mayor Wiggins.”
Hank snorted.
Well, that answered one q
uestion.
“I’m just trying to get a take on things, not pry into your politics. But did you vote for the little league park referendum?”
Hank snorted again. This time Harriett joined him.
“Sure did,” Harriett said. “It was supposed to benefit all the kids in town. I bought into it. So did Hank. We’ve got nephews and nieces. They all love baseball.”
“Hell, the whole town bought into it,” said Hank. “Gonna create jobs, spruce up the community, jump-start the local economy. Fooled us good. The only jobs were cutting grass and cleaning up those rich kids’ trash.”
“Yeah,” said Harriett. “I was a showgirl in Vegas about a hundred years ago. I thought I knew all the scams. But I got bit by this one.”
“What kind of scam?”
“Oh, nothing illegal if being a lying, cheating so-and-so isn’t illegal. But none of our kids can afford to play little league. You gotta pay the fees to join. You gotta buy an expensive uniform, then you gotta chip in for a coach and a trainer and a whole bunch of other bells and whistles.
“And the few kids whose parents could afford it ended up quitting. Ain’t no fun if you don’t fit in. Most of ’em quit after a few weeks. And they didn’t even ask for the uniforms back. Go figure.”
“So where do they play?”
Hank shrugged and wiped the mayonnaise off his chin. “The street, vacant lots, the elementary school fields when they aren’t being used for some school function. Can’t even use the little league fields. They’re locked when the little league ain’t playing.”
J.T. nodded. Screw Skinny and his “you’re sitting on your butt and letting the story get away.” Here was the story that should be told. Grassroots baseball, their fans and potential fans, the future players being squeezed out of the game. This was important and if Skinny didn’t think so, then to hell with him.
She was getting into her car when she saw Hank coming out of the motel office with a piece of paper in his hand. She drove past him without slowing down, just waved and left him, hand raised in the air, the paper fluttering in the breeze.
She stopped at the 7-Eleven for a Coke and her usual package of Ding Dongs. She’d treat herself to dinner tonight, but not at the Wendy’s drive-through…. She never wanted to see Tommy Bainbridge or anyone in his family ever again.
Chapter 16
“She told me to tell you she’d checked out.”
Tommy paced the hallway of the Galaxies business office. “But did she?”
“’Course she didn’t. I don’t know what you did to that girl, but she’s mad as hops at you.”
What had he done? Just made love to her and left her without a word. But between Sanchez and the phone call telling him they needed him ASAP, he’d gone a little nuts. He didn’t blame her for being upset. But if she’d just answer his calls, he’d explain. If she even cared. She might just be mad because she hadn’t scooped the story. Maybe he was just an egotistical, hopeful bastard.
“And she’s asking all sorts of questions about little league of all things.”
“Little league?”
“Yeah. Who plays. Who voted for the field. Where the other kids play.”
Hope blossomed. “That’s great. Tell her everything you know. And tell her to call me.”
“I think you’re both nuts. But I’ll tell her. Again.”
Tommy hung up. J.T. was investigating. He was sure of it. He needed to go home.
Bernie snagged her as soon as she got to the field. “Call Tommy. You have his cell number?”
“No.”
“Got a piece of paper? Sure you do. Take this down.”
“I’m not calling Tommy. He’s a jackass.”
Bernie turned away from the field. “Now that’s where you’re wrong. He was just sworn to secrecy. You may be a reporter, but you gotta respect that.”
“Yeah. What time does Mr. Harris arrive?”
“Harris? Why?”
She gave him a look and Bernie sighed. “He’s around somewhere. Spends most of his days as well as nights here. Kinda lives here, I guess you’d call it. He lost his house when they built the little league field. His sister took him in, but a man has his pride. But so help me, if you quote me, I’ll—I’ll—you’ll never work in this town again.”
J.T. smiled for the first time in eons. “Wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me. And besides, who would believe you’re such an old softy.”
“Get out of here. I don’t know what you’re up to but don’t cause any trouble.”
“I’m going to save this piss-poor team if I can.” She mimed swinging a bat and made a popping sound. “Out of the park.” She turned on her heel and went to ferret out Mr. Harris.
He was lugging a heavy trash can out to the Dumpster. Hoping he wouldn’t recognize her, J.T. grabbed one side of it. He looked at her like she was crazy, but kept on dragging. J.T. helped him shovel it over the top of the Dumpster.
“Don’t you have a dolly or something?” she asked.
He looked at her a minute. “Them things on wheels? No. Used ta. Gone like the summertime, just like everything else.” He shook his head. “Thank you, ma’am, for your help.” He started back inside; J.T. ran to catch up.
“Are you on the clock now, Mr. Harris?”
He grinned at her. “The clock went, too.” He kept shuffling along.
“I mean. Could I buy you a cup of coffee at Patsy’s?”
He stopped. “Why would you want to do that?”
“I don’t know if you know that I’m a reporter writing a story on the Beavers.”
“I know you.” J.T. felt herself blush. “I was here the morning after the pipe broke. I’d like to ask you about what happened. The pipe, I mean.”
“I didn’t slip and hit my head. I may be old but I know the difference between falling down and getting pushed.”
“I know you do. That’s why I want to talk to you.”
“Okay then. Patsy’s this way.”
Mr. Harris walked her across the street and into a neighborhood of row houses shingled with what looked like roofing tiles. The mayor’s slums. Toward the middle of the block, he stopped in front of a storefront with a cardboard sign that spelled out PATSY’S.
She had expected some kind of diner or luncheonette. The prospect of food, which had appealed to her a few minutes ago, faded away. She bet a health inspector had never seen the inside of this house.
There were only three tables in a small room that had probably been a dining room in a former incarnation. Two men were sitting at one of them. One was a skinny Caucasian, with paper-white skin and a caved-in mouth where the teeth were missing. The other was a dark-skinned black man missing half of his arm. They both nodded at Mr. Harris, gaped at her.
Mr. Harris gestured J.T. to the empty table and pulled out a chair for her.
“Thank you.” She sat down.
A woman came out of a door covered by a chintz curtain. She had short cropped hair and was rail thin. She was holding two plates of some kind of stew and big squares of corn bread.
“How you doing, Mr. Harris? ’Bout time you got yourself a date.”
The two old men wheezed. Patsy, as the woman turned out to be, laughed and winked at J.T. “Corn bread’s out of the oven. Cut you a couple of pieces?”
It smelled pretty darn good. Mr. Harris didn’t say anything and J.T. wondered if he had the money for coffee, much less corn bread. She said, “Yes please, both of us and coffee. Would you like anything else, Mr. Harris? My treat.”
He started to shake his head.
“I took you away from work so I could interview you; I’m on an expense account.”
“Oo-ee. Mr. Harris has made the big time now,” said one of the old men.
Mr. Harris flapped his hand at them.
“Yessiree. Mr. Grover Cleveland Harris is gonna make the big time.”
Patsy put down the men’s lunch. “Unless you got something of interest to share, Claude. Stop your yapping.”
“Yes, ma’am.” J.T. looked over to their meal. If it was half as good as it smelled, it would be worth a try.
“If there’s more of that, we’ll take a couple of plates.”
“Sure, hon. My pleasure.” Patsy pushed aside the flap of curtain and disappeared behind it only to reappear a minute later with two plates of stew and corn bread.
“Awful good, Patsy,” the black man said.
“Thank you, Jim. Glad you like it.”
Patsy poured coffee all around and the four of them ate in uninterrupted silence. It was delicious. Patsy was one hell of a cook.
When the meal was over, J.T. got out her notebook. “Now, Mr. Harris, if you could just tell me about the events of that night.”
Over a second cup of coffee, he told her about hearing a banging noise. Going to see what it was. “Thought a cat had gotten in the garbage cans. But the door to the boiler room was open and the overhead bulb was on. I could hear water rushing and I went to check it out. Thought maybe the sprinklers had sprung a leak. They’re kinda old.”
He touched his temple. “Didn’t see nothing but the lights go out. Next thing I knew I was lying in water with a headache. Called Jeff Whitelaw and he called the fire department. I didn’t see nobody, but I heard ’em running away.”
“Do you know which way they ran? How did they get in?”
“Nope and I don’t know how they got in. I always make sure everything’s locked up. I take pride in my work. Always did.”
“Have you always been a night watchman, Mr. Harris?”
“Nope. I was foreman of the casing line for forty-two years. Closed the mill four years before my retirement date. Lost my pension. So did a lot of others, so I’m not complaining. Besides. A man needs to work. And I have my pride.”
“You sure do, Mr. Harris,” said Patsy as she topped off their cups. “And everyone’s respect. And that’s better than most men can say.” She gave J.T. a look before she walked away.
The two meals and coffee came to eight dollars and thirty-two cents. J.T. left a twenty on the table. They said good-bye to Claude and Jim and were at the door, when Patsy called out.