The rows of bleachers in center field ended just beneath the dark green scoreboard, which towered over the ballpark. The upper half of the scoreboard showed the status of other games around both leagues. On the left side, under the word NATIONAL, there were rows of metal slots for the inning-by-inning scores of the National League games; the right side—AMERICAN—had slots for the American League games. The only game underway in either league that weekday afternoon was the one they were at.
In the scoreboard’s middle panel were the sections where the balls, strikes, and outs were flashed, along with the number of the player at bat. Atop the scoreboard was a clock, and above it a T-shaped flagpole with team flags fluttering in the breeze.
To true baseball fans, Lou mused, the Wrigley Field scoreboard was a comforting sight—as reassuring to fans as the Statue of Liberty was to immigrants. In a sport awash with retro-nostalgia—Ye Olde Ballparks—the Wrigley Field scoreboard was the real thing, a genuine relic from an era when all scoreboards were operated by men moving around inside them. Indeed, it was THE scoreboard from every boy’s childhood—whether the games you attended back then were at Forbes Field, Connie Mack, Tiger Stadium or, for Lou, the old Busch Stadium (aka Sportsmen’s Park) along Grand Avenue across from the Carter Carburetor factory.
He could still remember his first Cardinals game, his first sight of the playing field. He was nine years old. As he stepped through the passageway holding his father’s hand, there it was, spread out before him—the magic carpet of bright green, the sparking white bases, the smooth brown infield, the pitching mound with the white rubber and the rosin bag, the bright yellow foul lines that seemed to shoot out from home plate and hit the outfield walls with such momentum that they leapt to the top of the foul poles.
In the second inning of that very first game, his hero Ken Boyer, number 14, smashed a two-run homer into the left field bleachers. As Boyer trotted into the dugout after circling the bases, Lou looked out toward the scoreboard in time to see the blank metal plate in the second inning slot removed and replaced with a yellow “2,” which in turn was replaced with a white “2” when the inning ended.
And now, as he gazed up at the Wrigley Field scoreboard, one of the keepers slid a green metal plate with a white zero into the visitors’ slot for the fourth inning.
“How many people work inside that thing?” Gordie asked.
Ray said, “Guy working the beer concession said two guys for day games, three for nights.”
Lou shaded his eyes as he studied the scoreboard. “How big is it?”
Gordie squinted. “Three stories?”
Ray took a sip of beer as he appraised the structure with the savvy eyes of a real estate developer. “I’d say thirty feet from top to bottom. Double that from side to side.”
“Hard to believe she’s in there,” Lou said.
“Is?” Gordie shook his head. “We don’t even know about was. And even assuming she ever was, what are the odds she still is?”
“Pretty good,” Lou said.
“Come on, man,” Gordie said. “Thirty-five years is a lot of years.”
“I don’t think that matters,” Lou said. “Assuming we’re right about the sultan, that means that of all the possible hiding places in the world—in the whole world—he selected this one. You can be sure he didn’t pick it casually. Not for hiding something that important. He had to be convinced that it was a safe hiding place. Right?”
Gordie shrugged. “I guess.”
“Don’t forget,” Lou said, “this scoreboard is private property. Back in 1959, the Wrigley family owned Wrigley Field. That’s an important fact. Think of who Graham Marshall was: a well-connected Chicago lawyer in a well-connected Chicago law firm. Guy like Marshall would have known important people within that organization. I’d bet he knew a Wrigley. I bet he cleared the whole thing in advance and got a commitment from them before he stashed her in there.”
“Maybe,” Gordie said. “But the Wrigleys don’t own the Cubs anymore. They sold them to the Tribune.”
“I know,” Lou said. “I thought about that. It’s still okay. The dates are key. Marshall’s will is dated in October of 1984. That was after the Tribune bought the Cubs. What’s that tell you? He must have gotten assurances from someone at the Tribune. Otherwise, he would have moved the statue out of the scoreboard before the Tribune bought the Cubs and he would have changed his will.”
They were all silent, gazing up at the scoreboard.
“Makes sense,” Ray finally said.
“Let’s hope so,” Gordie said.
The roar of the crowd turned them back to the playing field just in time to see a Cubs player round first base and dig for second. Everyone in the bleachers stood. Lou located the ball in the gap between center and right field. The Pirates’ Andy Van Slyke grabbed it barehanded off the ivy and in one motion spun toward third base and threw. The ball reached the third baseman on one bounce and he slapped the tag on the sliding Cub. The umpire didn’t hesitate.
“Out!”
The stadium erupted in boos and catcalls. The runner jumped up and started jawing with the umpire, who turned his back and walked away.
As the bleacher crowd settled down, two hot blondes in tight jeans and halter tops sashayed up the aisle. Several guys whistled. The girls smiled and kept moving. The beer man came by, followed by the peanut man. Someone sailed a red Frisbee overhead.
Lou turned to Gordie. “I love this game.”
***
During a pitching change two innings later, Gordie said, “Did you know I started shaving in sixth grade?”
Said it just like that. Out of the blue.
Ray and Lou exchanged puzzled looks over his head.
“Shaving what?” Ray said.
“My face.”
Gordie had his arms crossed over his chest. He was staring at his half-empty beer cup on the ground in front of him. “I started shaving in sixth grade.”
The Pirates’ pitcher walked off the mound, head down, to a polite round of applause.
“That’s young,” Lou finally said, for want of anything better.
Gordie turned to him. “You’re damn right.”
Gordie reached for his beer, finished it in one gulp, and crumpled the cup. “Sixth grade. Started shaving and stopped growing.”
“No shit,” Ray said. “What are you, five seven?”
“Five six.”
“You were five six back then?”
“Yeah.”
Ray nodded. “You were once a big motherfucker.”
“Sure was. I played center on the basketball team. Batted clean-up on the baseball team. I was the Jim Thorpe of sixth grade—picked first in every sport. When I used to come down here during junior high, I just assumed—and all my buddies just assumed—that I’d be playing here myself one day.”
“I hear you on that,” Ray said, smiling. “I used to dream of driving in the Daytona 500.”
“No, Ray,” Gordie said, “you don’t understand. I was a superstar back then. A real superstar. You have no idea what that’s like. You get the girls. You even get an entourage. I had a seventh-grade entourage. But then one day you wake up and realize you aren’t the biggest and strongest kid anymore. Even worse, you realize you aren’t growing out of your clothes or your shoes anymore. By eighth grade, I was barely average. By tenth, I was cut from the basketball team. My senior year, one of the kids who used to idolize me—Ronny Goldenberg—was out there on the court playing varsity basketball while I was up in the stands sitting on my butt.”
He stared down at his hands. Lou and Ray exchanged glances.
Gordie shook his head. “How do you think that felt? To know in high school that your days of glory are already six years past.”
“Jesus, Gordie,” Ray said, “lighten the fuck up. Sounds like your mind got stuck in sixth grade,
too.”
“Ray, you have no conception of what I’m talking about.”
“Bullshit, Gordie. I have a total conception of what you’re bitching about. It’s the same whiny bullshit I heard from you freshman year, man. Since when does being big and strong qualify you for anything more than pulling a fucking farm plow?”
“I’m not talking about plows,” Gordie said.
“Ah, you’re talking about them?” Ray made a sweeping gesture toward the field. “That herd of cattle grazing down there in the pasture?”
“Yes, Ray,” Gordie said, his voice fierce. “Down there.”
“Come on, man, you think those bozos are somehow tuned into the music of the spheres? Give me a break. Talk about dumb luck. You’re looking at guys one major league fastball from pumping unleaded at Bud’s Amoco or stocking paint thinner at Sears.” Ray shook his head. “So you’re not big enough to play down there. So what? Who says playing down there has anything to do with anything?”
“You’re missing the point.”
“No, Gordie,” Ray said, “you’re missing the whole goddamned boat. Size and speed don’t mean shit in the real world. What counts is brains and savvy, baby. Moreover, you got no grounds to bitch. You had exactly what these ballplayers have now. You were once king of the hill, right? Now they are. So what if your turn came in sixth grade? Most people never get a turn. Most people aren’t king of diddly. I was never picked first for any sport. I never batted fourth. I never played center. Shit, man, I can barely dribble a fucking basketball.”
Ray pointed to one of the outfielders. “Look at that bozo in left field. King of the hill? Not for long, dude, He’ll be washed up by forty. You think it’s tough reinventing yourself at fourteen? Wait ’til that yutz gets his wake-up call. Christ Almighty, Gordie, you’re sitting here moaning about—”
Ray stopped in mid-sentence.
“Well, well, well,” he said, craning back his head. “Look what the goddamned cat dragged in.”
Chapter Twenty-four
“Hello, chums.”
It was Reggie Pelham. Standing next to him in the aisle was Frank Burke.
They’re here, Lou said to himself as he looked up at them. At last.
“Louis.” Reggie leaned over to shake Lou’s hand. “I said to Frank, good God, man, isn’t that Raymond and the other fellows over there?”
Frank nodded at them. “Boys.”
A beer man came by. Reggie stopped him. “Think I may wet the whistle. Anyone else?”
“Sure,” Lou said, reaching for his wallet.
“Frank?” Reggie said.
Frank shook his head.
Ray said nothing. He was sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, studying Frank.
“I’ll take one,” Gordie said.
“Put away your money, fellas,” Reggie said. “This round’s on me.”
Reginald Harrison Pelham was short and plump. He was dressed today for a round of golf: bright yellow Polo shirt (collar up), iridescent green slacks (pleated and cuffed), and cordovan loafers (with tassels). He’d grown up on Park Avenue, prepped at Choate, and returned to Manhattan after college to join Pelham Bros Ltd., the family merchant banking firm. He’d been a late-night poker player in college, Lou recalled, and a high roller today—comped at major casinos around the world, according to the Class of ’74 ramblings of their goofy class secretary, Bryce Wharton.
After the beer man departed, Reggie kneeled in the aisle by Ray. “What brings you chaps to Chicago?”
“Gordie and Bronco Billy live here,” Ray answered. “I’m wending my way back to Barrett for the reunion. I stopped in St. Louis to spend a few days with Lou and his kids. Then it was on to the Chi-Town to catch the sights.”
Reggie nodded enthusiastically. “Excellent.”
Ray paused, the hint of a smile on his lips. “And what about you, Reg? What’s a nice rich boy from New York doing out here?”
Reggie grinned and leaned toward Ray. “Frank and I are in the hunt for Sirena.”
“Really?” Gordie said, acting surprised. “You think she’s in Chicago?”
Lou winced. Gordie was overdoing the naiveté bit.
Reggie shrugged. “Just might be. Afraid I can’t reveal more than that, you know.” He gave them a wink. “The bleachers have ears, eh?”
Lou smiled. Even though Reggie was a consummate snob, there was a hale-fellow quality about him that Lou had always found endearing.
He remembered the time freshman year that Reggie had called out to him as he passed his open dormitory door. “Louis, old boy. Can I inveigle you to join me in a stogie and some hootch?”
They’d passed a pleasant half-hour puffing on Cuban cigars, sipping single malt whiskey, and searching with sporadic success for conversational common ground.
“Excellent fun,” Reggie had announced as Lou got up to leave. An amused chortle, a comradely pat on the back, and Lou was ushered out the door, his head still buzzing from the whiskey.
It was only much later that Lou wondered whether Reggie’s bonhomie was just a practice session to sharpen his skills. After all, a merchant banker these days had to deal with all types, even Hebes from the sticks. Then again, Lou conceded, it was always possible that Reggie’s performance wasn’t a performance.
Lou took a sip of beer and asked Reggie, “Have you run into anyone else looking for her?”
“Not in Chicago, Louis. But there are most assuredly several searching parties out there. Indeed, do you fellows remember a chap named Dan Broussard?”
“Tall guy?” Gordie asked. “A year behind us?”
Reggie nodded. “That’s the one.” He turned to Frank. “A fellow Blue, eh?”
Frank nodded.
Reggie turned to Gordie. “They both went to Hill School.”
Francis Ambrose Burke III had an equally snooty pedigree: born into Grosse Point society, prepped at the Hill School, summered at the family compound on Mackinac Island, returned home after Barrett to help manage the family investments, which included timber holdings in Oregon and rubber plantations in South America.
“As I was saying,” Reggie continued, “Dan called last night from Maine. Up near the Canadian border. He’s there with a group of classmates. They thought they’d tracked Sirena down to an abandoned loggers’ camp in northern Maine. Turned out a bust, but he’s got a detective agency that thinks she might be in Gary, Indiana. Great stuff, eh? But we still think the real action might be right here in Chicago, don’t we, Frank?”
Frank nodded.
Lou shifted his gaze to Frank Burke. Nothing soft focus about him, and never any effort to ingratiate himself with the pubes, which was his prep school’s shorthand for public school grads. Back freshman year, he’d seemed to possess all the advantages that wealth and breeding could supply: tall, chiseled good looks, thick brown hair that he wore long and brushed straight back, like a Viking warrior. He’d installed a small refrigerator in his dorm room, and kept it stocked with gourmet cheeses and sausage and bottles of French wine. He and Gordie used to watch in envious disbelief as Frank returned from mixers, from the library, from fraternity parties, from seemingly anywhere, and always escorting a delectable coed into his dorm room.
“So it’s just you and Frank?” Ray asked.
“Just the two of us.” Reggie leaned forward and smiled at Gordie. “Sure you’re not just a bit in the hunt yourself, Gordon?”
“Nope,” Ray said before Gordie could respond. “But if we hear anything promising, Reg, I can sure promise one thing: you and Frank will be the very last to know.”
Reggie chuckled and looked up at Frank. “There’s some pluck, eh?”
Frank didn’t reply.
Lou studied Frank’s face. Something was slightly off, as if the man standing in the bleacher aisle was someone else wearing a Frank Burke latex mask. And then L
ou remembered. Several years ago, according to the Class of ’74 grapevine, Frank had undergone massive plastic surgery after being launched, face first, through the windshield of his Jaguar, which had rammed into a tree late one night on his way home from a topless club in Windsor, Canada. His “restored” features were just a bit too rigid. It gave him an eerie otherworldly aura, as if, in the privacy of his room, Frank might reach beneath his chin and pull back the skin, revealing the head of a space alien.
Reggie stood. “Well, see you chums around.”
When they were out of earshot, Ray grunted. “Good.”
“What?” Lou asked.
“They’re worried.”
“Why do you say that?” Gordie asked.
“For starters,” Ray said, “what the hell are those two preppies doing in the bleachers? They’re following us.”
“You think so?” Gordie said.
“I know so.” Ray scratched his neck pensively. “We have to assume they’ve seen Marshall’s will. But if they’d figured it out, they wouldn’t have given us the time of day, which means we’re still a step or two in front of them. For now, at least. But we’re going to have to move fast.”
“And,” Gordie added, “we’re going to have to start watching our butts.”
Ray leaned back, took a sip of his beer, and shook his head. “What a miserable piece of shit.”
“Reggie?” Gordie asked.
“Reggie?” Ray shook his head. “Reggie’s harmless. You see Frank watching us while Reggie talked. Like a fucking predator. You can be sure it was his idea to come over and pump us for information. He told Reggie exactly what to say, how to play it. Frank’s the dangerous one. Motherfucker’s got ice in his veins.”
“I never liked him,” Gordie said.
Ray took another sip of beer. “You ever hear what he did to those girls senior year?”
“What girls?” Lou asked.
“Two local high school girls. He and one of his pals from Williams picked them up. Took ’em to a motel in New Hampshire, along with plenty of reefer and beer and Quaaludes. Had themselves a twenty-four-hour fuckathon. Next afternoon Frank’s pal is antsy to get back to campus. Problem is, the girls are still stretched out on the bed—’luded up and totally zonked. Frank tells his buddy to get in the car. Ten minutes later, he comes out of the motel, hops in the car, and drives off. Tells his buddy that the girls decided to sleep it off and go home later.”
The Sirena Quest Page 12