Night Game

by Alison Gordon

  She drained her beer.

  “But it won’t be the first time, and it probably won’t be the last.”

  Another silence.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I know you mean well. But, like I told you, I’m a survivor. I’ll be fine. Not happy, maybe, but I’ll be fine.”

  She stood up.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d like to be alone for a while.”

  I apologized and gathered up my things.

  “One more thing,” I said, hating to drag the words out. “Could I borrow a picture of Lucy, for the article? I’d get it back to you.”

  She turned, without a word, and came back with a colour photo in a silver frame, a head and shoulder shot of Lucy, smiling mischievously.

  “That’s a really nice picture,” I said.

  “It’s my favourite one,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “You take good care of it.”

  I took it out of the frame and handed the frame back.

  “I’ll return this tomorrow or the next day,” I said. “Also, the paper wants our photographer to take some pictures of you and Ringo, maybe. Would you be willing?”

  She looked blankly at me.

  “I don’t mind, but I don’t know when he’s getting back.”

  “Not today, necessarily. I’ll call you later in the afternoon and we can set it up, okay?”

  “Fine,” she said, and walked me to the door. On an impulse, I hugged her. She hugged me back.

  “I’ll call and see how you’re doing,” I said. “Maybe we’ll get together.”

  “I’d like that,” she said. “I really would.”

  When I got into my car, which was parked three or four houses away, I caught sight of another car in my rearview mirror, turning into her driveway. Curious, I waited before starting the car, long enough to see Cal Jagger walk up to her front door and ring the bell.

  Chapter 31

  I didn’t feel like going back to the hotel to write. It was too nice a day. I’d be spending the first few hours staring at my screen and waiting for inspiration anyway. I could do that just as well in the sunshine. Besides, I hadn’t seen any baseball for close to a week. I headed to the training complex. If I was lucky, there would even be some lunch left.

  The players were heading back out to the practice fields when I got there. I went into the media room and made myself a couple of sandwiches and took them out to the stands behind home plate. I was alone, mercifully. The fans aren’t allowed inside until the exhibition season starts, and the rest of the reporters were off doing other things. Trying to find something new to write about, no doubt. Poor buggers.

  So it was just me and the sunshine, and the sights, sounds, and smells of the game I love. The strong young men hitting and running and fielding and throwing against the green of the grass and blue of the sky; the chatter around the batting cage, shouted insults and laughter, calls of encouragement, the sweet crack of bat on ball; the air flavoured with red-clay dust, a hint of pine tar, and traces in olfactory memory of last season’s hot dogs and popcorn.

  Horkins Field, or more correctly the Dwight G. Horkins baseball complex, was named after the former mayor of Sunland who convinced the Titans that his little corner of paradise was just what they needed for their spring-training camp.

  The stadium proper, which is surrounded by practice fields, had originally been the town’s high-school showcase, and still has a cozy amateur feeling to it, despite the money the town and the Titans have spent upgrading it. The field itself is in great shape, but the stands, at field level only from foul pole to foul pole, still feel like bleachers. The right-field seating is on benches with lines painted on them to delineate assigned places, and on busy afternoons the public address announcer asks patrons to “smoosh over so we can fit a few more folks in.”

  The outfield fences are painted with advertisements for local businesses: among them the Hiram Wesley Insurance Company, the Bicentennial Savings and Loan, The El Rancho Roadhouse, the All-Globe Travel Agency, Betty’s Dress Shoppe (“Gently Used Clothing for the Fuller Figure”), the good old A-1 Veteran’s Buy and Sell Gun Shop and Practice Range, and, in deepest centre field, Morley the Jeweler, who offers a diamond ring to the lucky player who hits a home run through a circle about ten inches in diameter. At last report, Morley hadn’t yet had to part with any of the merchandise. All the signs, although newly painted, had a fifties feeling to them. But then, so does baseball.

  During the summer, the stadium is the home of the rookie-league Titans, at the low end of the minor-league ladder. The practice fields are used by little league, school, and other amateur community teams. It is a good deal for everyone, even though both sides grumble every year during contract renewal.

  I slumped happily with my feet on the seat in front of me, enjoying the moment totally. There were six players involved in the current round of batting practice with Sugar Jenkins, the batting coach: Stinger Swain, Kid Cooper, David Sloane, Eddie Carter, Joe Kelsey, and Jack Asher.

  They were playing a game Asher brought with him from the Padres, his former team. It was a variation of the simulated games most teams play during batting practice. The Padres variation involved demerits as well as points awarded for each type of hit. The outfielders were competing against the infielders, with Asher qualifying for the second team by virtue of being a terrible first baseman before he moved to the American League and hung up his glove for good.

  There was an extra edge to the competition, because they were facing what they call live pitching. Instead of the usual coach serving up soft tosses, the hitters were facing Bony Costello, the left-handed ace of the Titan staff. He wasn’t exactly in mid-season form, but he was hard to hit nevertheless.

  They were having fun, something they forget to do sometimes in the heat of the season. They could have been kids in the schoolyard instead of the multinational sport conglomerates they really are. I was having fun watching them, too, which is something I also forget from time to time under the pressure of deadlines and scrambling for scoops.

  When Costello was done, Flakey Patterson took his place on the mound. There were loud protests from the hitters, who wanted to face a right-hander this time. After a few pitches, they were howling. Patterson was trying out his large repertoire of junk pitches, knuckle balls, and tantalizing floaters. The hitters couldn’t touch them.

  “Stop throwing shit,” Swain yelled. His team was behind in the make-believe game. “Pitch like a man, not a pussy.”

  Flakey floated another one in. Swain swung mightily and missed.

  “What do you call that swing, Stinger?” asked Eddie Carter.

  “A pussy swing,” said Patterson. “You ready for a fastball?”

  Swain stood in and swung his bat back and forth slowly, finally pointing it into centre field. Patterson wound up and threw the fastball, high and inside. Swain ended up in the dirt, to general hilarity all around. Even Sugar Jenkins joined in.

  “They better not let the skipper catch them having fun,” said Tiny Washington, dropping into the seat two away from mine. “He’ll fine their asses.”

  “For having fun?”

  “Not allowed in this camp.”

  “I guess you retired just in time,” I said.

  “Guess I did,” he said, taking the lid off a Styrofoam coffee cup.

  “Do you miss it?”

  He looked at the players around the batting cage.

  “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said. “Maybe I should have got right out of the game, so I wouldn’t have to be around it all the time.”

  “What would you do?”

  “Spend some time with my family. Start a business. My brother wants to open a restaurant with me back home.”

  “Tiny, you’d go
nuts without baseball. Besides, you’re going to be a good broadcaster.”

  He shrugged and drank his coffee. I’d never seen him so down.

  “Wow, it’s like a big black cloud just moved in,” I said.

  “Two out of three ain’t bad,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’m not a cloud.”

  That lightened the mood a bit.

  “Have you been doing any talking to the players about the night Lucy was shot?”

  “A little. I found out what Stinger got so hot at Lucy for.”

  “Really?”

  “She was asking Tracy about the baby, remember? Well, it was last spring training she had that baby, and that’s when Stinger and Lucy were getting it on.”

  “Which is why she remembered so clearly when it was born.”

  “Uh huh. And there’s more. The same time Tracy got the baby, Stinger got something else.”

  “This wouldn’t be a social disease that starts with the letter H, would it?”

  “You got it.”

  “No, as a matter a fact, I haven’t,” I said.

  “But Stinger does, and so does Mrs. Stinger, and she wasn’t too happy about it.”

  “You would think Stinger would know better. Condoms aren’t exactly a new invention. But he’s probably one of those guys who thinks real men don’t wear them.”

  “That’s all changed now,” Tiny said.

  “Did you find out anything else?”

  “Not really. What have you heard about Dommy?”

  “I’m seeing his lawyer tonight. Maybe she’ll have some news. She says he’s okay.”

  “Hope so,” Tiny said. “I hate to think about him in that jail.”

  “Me, too. But they got him taken out of the general population into some sort of protective custody.”

  “What time is it?”

  I looked at my watch.

  “Two-thirty.”

  “I’m interviewing Olliphant at three. Big deal thing for the weekend special. Got any ideas?”

  “You want me to do your job for you?”

  “Come on, Kate. This is all new to me. I never know what questions to ask.”

  “Well, you could take it position by position and ask him to evaluate the team. You could ask him which rookies are looking good so far. You could ask him about his starting rotation for the Grapefruit League next week.”

  “Don’t go so fast,” Tiny said. He was writing it all down.

  “Ask him about the American League, how long it’s going to take him to catch up on it, what he’s doing to learn the players on the other teams.”

  “Good, good.”

  “You could ask him why he never holds a job for more than a couple of years. Is it because he’s a pig-headed jerk.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I just said you could ask him, not that you should ask him.”

  “You’re trying to get me in trouble, woman.”

  “You’re lucky you were always nice to me all those years you were playing. I wouldn’t do this for just any rookie.”

  “Well, I’m much obliged,” he said, heaving his bulk out of the seat. “Now I’d better go get ready.”

  “Don’t forget to powder your nose.”

  He grunted ruefully and left. I decided my holiday was over, too. I wanted to get a start on the Lucy piece before I went to Esther’s for dinner.

  I went down the aisle and climbed over the barrier between the stands and the field. Gloves waved at me from the batting cage, so I went over.

  “Were you telling Tiny any news?” he asked.

  “Nothing too interesting,” I said. “Have you got anything?”

  He looked at Stinger, who was on the other side of the cage, staring at us. When I caught his eye, he looked quickly away.

  “Not that I want to talk about now,” Gloves said. “I think Karin’s been asking around about some things. Maybe you should call her.”

  “I’ll do that as soon as I get home. Thanks. Who’s winning?”

  “Outfielders,” he said. But we’ll get to them once Flakey’s out of there.”

  He turned and shouted towards the mound.

  “Hey, Flakey. You don’t want to be overdoing it now. You don’t want to blow out your shoulder before the exhibition season starts.”

  “Man, if the other teams’ hitters are as lame as you guys, I’m gonna get me a Cy Young this year,” he answered. His cap sat strangely on his head, which was covered with fine stubble.

  “You win anything, it’s going to be the Cy Old,” said Eddie Carter, who was at bat. “You pitch like my Grandpa.”

  “Who’s your Grandpaw, Satchel Paige?” Flakey hollered back.

  There was only one player not laughing. Stinger Swain hadn’t even been listening. He was looking at me with icy hatred in his eyes, swinging his bat towards me. I got out of there.

  Chapter 32

  I put on the kettle when I got home and called Karin. She sounded harried when she answered the phone, and there was the sound of a baby screaming in the background.

  “I’m babysitting,” she explained. “I’ve got Justin and Ashley. He just bopped her on the head with a ninja stick. Let me just go try and straighten it out.”

  I held, listening to the sound of Karin simultaneously soothing the little girl and laying down the law to her brother. The crying stopped, but the whining didn’t. Then I heard the sound of the television playing cartoons.

  “I don’t let my kids watch in the afternoon, but that’s what these two are used to,” she said, a little defensively, once she came back to the phone.

  “Where is their mother?”

  “She’s at some church thing, then getting her hair done.”

  “So you got to be the lucky one.”

  “Yeah, but now she owes me.”

  “Big, from the sound of it.”

  “She doesn’t know how big.”

  “Gloves said you’d been asking some questions around the complex,” I said. “Did you find out anything that might help Dommy at all?”

  “Not really. I’ve been trying to figure out how that gun got switched, but I can’t find out who was alone in Alex and Dommy’s place that night. The super was in on Saturday, but that was legitimate. He was repairing a cupboard door that got broken Friday night.”

  “A legitimate reason, maybe, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t do something else while he was there.”

  “No, except that someone would have seen him carrying the gun.”

  “Not necessarily. Doesn’t he carry a toolbox?”

  “Well, yeah. But how would he know on Friday night that he would be able to make the switch?”

  “True.”

  “And I found someone else who was awake when Goober was throwing up in the garden.”

  “Who?”

  “Clarice Carter. And she remembers the time. It was quarter of two.”

  “So that’s about half an hour before the murder. Did Clarice see anything else?”

  “She says Goober went into his place then. She also says there was a light on at Alex and Dommy’s place when she looked out and saw Goober. When she looked again five minutes later it was off.”

  “Did she see anybody leaving the apartment?”

  “No, just the light going out.”

  “Do you have her number?”

  “She’s just outside. Do you want me to get her?”

  “Thanks.”

  A few minutes later, Clarice was on the line with her breathless, little-girl voice. She couldn’t add anything to what Karin had already told me.

  “I didn’t see anything else. Just the light go off. What do you think it means?”

  “If Lucy was with Dommy that night, it could be that’s when she left. But yo
u’re sure you didn’t see anyone else, or hear anything? A car or something?”

  “No. There was nothing.”

  “Was it quiet?”

  “Yes. I heard a baby crying, but that was later.”

  “How much later?”

  “I was almost asleep again. I didn’t see the time. But it was maybe fifteen minutes?”

  “Could you tell where it was coming from?”

  “No, but there are only a few families with babies in the complex. The Ashers, the Sloanes, and the Swains.”

  “How long did the crying go on?”

  “A long time, it seemed like. I wondered about that. But I guess I fell asleep.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “I don’t know yet, but it might be important.”

  “I hope it helps.”

  “Me too,” I said. “I’ve got to go now. Thanks a lot.”

  The kettle was boiling ferociously. I made a pot of tea, poured a mug, and took it back to my desk. I plugged in my tape recorder and began to transcribe the relevant parts of my interview with June Hoving.

  It took a couple of hours. It’s the most tedious part of my job, and I hate it. Some reporters use tape recorders all the time, but I avoid them except for difficult interviews like the one I did with June, when scribbling notes can be threatening and destroy rapport. Athletes are used to talking to people who are looking at their notepads, but normal people need to feel like they are having a conversation.

  Anyway, as usual, I winced listening to my stupid questions, and transcribed more than I could possibly use in my story. The part of my mind that wasn’t engaged in the boring process was working over the information I’d learned in the past few days.

  I thought I had known Lucy before she was killed. I was wrong. I didn’t know anything of her talent, her aspirations, or the battles she had fought and won. I hadn’t liked her or given her any of the respect she was due. I had been as blinded as any sexist jerk by the Lucy on the surface; her clothes, her hair, her fingernails.