Double Play

by Robert B. Parker

  “Jackie?” a woman’s voice said.

  “Come in,” Burke said softly.

  He knew he didn’t sound like a Negro ballplayer from Pasadena, but neither, in fact, did Robinson. She turned toward him as she came into the dim room.

  “Please,” she said, “be gentle with . . . You aren’t Jackie.”

  Burke closed the door. Burke kept the gun against his right thigh, but she saw it.

  “I’ll scream,” she said.

  “No,” Burke said. “You start to scream and I’ll knock you out flat cold on the floor.”

  “What are you going to do with me?” she said.

  Burke put the chain bolt on the door.

  “We’ll start by talking,” Burke said.

  He pointed at the chair.

  “Sit,” he said.

  The room was small and Burke was big. Millicent had to maneuver around him to sit in the chair.

  “You want a drink?” Burke said.

  “No.”

  She sat on the edge of the chair with her knees together and her hands clasped in her lap. She was wearing white gloves. Her perfume was heavy in the small room. Burke picked up his drink and sat near her on the edge of one of the beds.

  “I, I’m sorry,” she said, “to have seemed so scaredy. It’s just that you startled me, and the gun . . .”

  “Why’d you come here?” Burke said.

  “Jackie invited me.”

  “And gave you his room number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which is why you pulled off that hocus-pocus with the red envelope.”

  “I just wanted to send him a picture so he’d recognize me.”

  “You wanted to follow the bellhop to his room,” Burke said. “That’s why you used a big red envelope, so you could spot it.”

  “Oh dear,” she said.

  Her voice was small and girlish with a husky edge to it.

  “I was in the lobby when you came in,” Burke said.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “Maybe I could have a little teeny drink if you would.”

  Burke poured her a shot in a water glass.

  “Don’t you have any ice or anything?” she said.

  “Nope.”

  She sighed in resignation and took the glass. She drank some scotch delicately. She smiled at Burke over the rim of the glass.

  “I feel so unladylike,” she said, “drinking it straight like this.”

  Burke nodded. The .45 lay on the bed near his right hand.

  “Are you going to do something to me?” Millicent said.

  Burke sipped some scotch.

  “We both know Mr. Robinson didn’t invite you here,” Burke said.

  Millicent was looking around the room.

  “Is this his room?” she said.

  “His and mine.”

  “Yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You room with Jackie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t . . . What is that like?”

  Burke didn’t say anything.

  “Is some of this stuff his?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Which bed is his?”

  “The one near the window,” Burke said.

  Millicent put her hand out and rested it on the bed near the window. Burke wasn’t sure she knew that she was doing it.

  “Does he . . . ah . . . does he wear pajamas.”

  “Pink ones,” Burke said, “with little feet in them.”

  “He doesn’t really, does he?”

  Burke shrugged. More and more she seemed to Burke like a woman eager to have sex with a famous black man.

  “Anyone send you here?” Burke said.

  “Send?”

  “Send you here to get Mr. Robinson in trouble.”

  “I don’t want to get Mr. . . . Jackie in trouble.”

  “Then you came here to fuck Mr. Robinson,” Burke said.

  “Don’t be coarse.”

  “What would be your explanation,” Burke said.

  “I just love him.”

  “You don’t even know him.”

  “But I watch him whenever he’s in Boston and I go to New York to watch him. And I read about him in the papers.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s so . . . beautiful.”

  “Beautiful?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  She sat forward. Her eyes were bright. He face under the makeup looked flushed.

  “Beautiful like a black panther,” she said. “Like a noble black stallion.”

  Jesus Christ, Burke thought. You can’t fake that. Millicent stopped suddenly.

  “If he’s not here,” she said, “where is he?”

  “Down the hall,” Burke said, “playing cards with Clyde Sukeforth and Pee Wee Reese.”

  “Will he come back here, soon?”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Burke said. “You can’t have Mr. Robinson, but you can have the next best thing.”

  “Best thing?”

  “Yeah,” Burke said. “I’ll fuck you on his bed.”

  She stared at him, her face now very definitely red.

  “What a terrible thing to say to me,” she said and began to cry.

  “You have no idea how terrible I can be,” Burke said.

  “I want to go now,” she said.

  “Sure,” Burke said. “But if you come back, I will be really terrible.”

  She stood, sobbing, her makeup already streaked with tears. She walked to the door.

  “I never want to see you again,” she said as she took the chain bolt off.

  “You won’t have to, unless you bother Mr. Robinson again.”

  She took a breath and turned with the door ajar and looked at Burke.

  “You are very cruel,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “Keep it in mind,” Burke said.

  She shook her head and went out the open door without closing it behind her. Burke walked to the doorway and watched her down the hall until the elevator came and took her away.

  24.

  JACKIE LAY ON the bed with his shirt off, reading the Boston American.

  “A black panther,” Burke said. “A beautiful black stallion.”

  “Shut up,” Robinson said.

  He continued to read the tabloid.

  “That happen often?” Burke said.

  He was still sipping Vat 69.

  “You run into it,” Jackie said. “Or you hear about it.”

  “Happen to you before?”

  “Yes.”

  Jackie turned a page.

  “The black stallion thing?” Burke said.

  “All of us are supposed to be hung,” Jackie said. “Some white women like that idea.”

  Burke was silent for a moment. Then he took another small swallow of scotch.

  “Got a lot of you killed,” Burke said.

  Robinson put the paper down on his chest and looked at Burke.

  “For looking at a white woman,” Robinson said. “For smiling. For brushing her arm in a doorway. It’s the big crime. Every Negro man knows it.”

  “How about the white women?” Burke said.

  “The ones want to crawl in bed with us? They got to know.”

  “Maybe that’s part of the fun,” Burke said.

  “ ’Course it is,” Robinson said. “They like the thrill, you know? They’re not just being bad, they’re being bad with a nigger.”

  “And they can get the nigger killed,” Burke said. “How’s that for being bad.”

  Robinson nodded.

  “It’s a kind of a power, too,” he said. “White woman with a black man . . . all she got to do is say he raped her.”

  “She could do that to a white man,” Burke said.

  Robinson smiled and didn’t answer. Burke began to nod his head slowly.

  “Not the same thing,” Burke said.

  “Who’s the last white man,” Robinson said, “you can think of got lynched for rape?”

 
“Pretty sick,” Burke said.

  “It is.”

  “Easy way to set you up, too,” Burke said.

  “I know. Why I was playing cards with two reputable white men when she came to my room.”

  “I don’t think this was a setup,” Burke said. “I think Millicent was genuine.”

  “She good-looking?” Robinson said.

  “Yes.”

  “Too bad. It’s easier when they’re not.”

  Burke smiled a little.

  “I offered on your behalf,” Burke said. “But she wasn’t interested.”

  “The real thing or no thing,” Robinson said and picked up his newspaper again.

  Burke was quiet sipping his scotch, looking out the window at Kenmore Square.

  “Blackwell won another one,” Robinson said. “Three-hitter against the Pirates.”

  “I could throw a three-hitter against the Pirates,” Burke said.

  “No you couldn’t,” Robinson said.

  They were quiet again. Robinson with the evening tabloid, Burke with his drink.

  “It’s not just white girls and Negroes,” Burke said after a time.

  “No?”

  “No. There are girls who go for men because they are . . .”

  “Forbidden?”

  “Something like that. They want the sex to be, dirty or something like that.”

  “Like it would be with a big bad black Negro?”

  “Or a bad sick white guy.”

  “Puts us in nice company,” Robinson said.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do.”

  Jackie smiled and lowered the paper enough so he could look at Burke over it.

  “You got some personal experience?”

  Burke was looking out the window, holding the water glass of scotch with both hands.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I think so.”

  Robinson kept looking at him with the paper lowered again to his chest, but Burke had nothing else to say and after a while Robinson returned to the newspaper.

  Box Score 5

  Bobby

  One of my most vivid memories is of my mother screaming for my father. His name was Gus and when she needed him she would elongate that single syllable in a way hard to describe. The emergency was rarely dire. She would scream for my father if there was a mouse, or if the dog threw up, or if something started to boil over on the stove, or the car wouldn’t start, or a zipper got stuck, or a window wouldn’t close, or a door wouldn’t open. He was always calm when he responded and always able to correct the thing and allow my mother to go right back to being what she was most of the time, which is to say bossy and full of herself. Often wrong, my father would sometimes remark, but never uncertain.

  I always enjoyed these moments of my father’s domestic heroism, because so much of the time my mother was everywhere telling everyone what to do. And he was letting her as if he didn’t mind.

  They had been married sixteen years in 1947 and I don’t recall ever seeing them fight. They would annoy one another occasionally. She would raise her finger and speak forcefully. He would turn and walk away with no expression. But the door would close very firmly behind him. It was unwise to make my mother mad. She didn’t get over it easily and would sulk and sigh for days.

  My father went to work each morning in his suit and came home each evening. He would take off his suit jacket and his tie, roll back his cuffs, and have a drink while supper was cooking. We would eat at the kitchen table and both of them were attentive to what I had to say.

  When I was small, and they went out together on Saturday nights, and my mother came home, bubbling with laughter and smelling deliciously of perfume and cocktails, she would sit on my bed, while my father took the babysitter home, and tell me what they’d done. At those moments she seemed unutterably glamorous and I felt deeply lucky that she was my mother.

  By the time I was fifteen, I believe I knew one person who had been divorced, the mother of a friend, who I felt must feel deeply ashamed. I was always startled to hear any reference to it. Divorce happened in Hollywood. And it didn’t seem to matter. Filtered through the gossip prism, no hint of genuine feeling was attached to it. I knew nothing of adultery. I knew it existed because there was a commandment against it. But in practical terms it was impossible that someone’s wife, or mother, would have sexual intercourse with another man outside of marriage. Married sex was difficult enough.

  For all of us, though some of us must have seen evidence to the contrary, it was assumed that marriage was a happy condition that lasted a lifetime.

  And I never knew anyone who wasn’t eager to have his turn at it.

  25.

  ROBINSON AND BURKE ate breakfast in midtown Manhattan at a restaurant called the Virginian, which featured omelets cooked in the front window. A few people were gathered on the sidewalk to watch.

  “Who the Giants pitching today?” Burke said.

  “Koslo.”

  “You hit him?”

  “I hit him good,” Robinson said.

  As they were eating two men came in and stopped inside the door one on either side. The one to the left wore a blue seersucker suit that didn’t fit him well. The one on the right had on a well-tailored tan Palm Beach suit. He wore a low crowned straw fedora with a snap brim and a big colorful band. The door opened again and a tall graceful man with white hair and a strong nose came in and walked to the table where Robinson and Burke were sitting.

  “May I join you?” the man said.

  Robinson looked up and didn’t answer.

  Burke said, “Why?”

  “My name is Frank Boucicault. I’d like to speak to you about my son.”

  “Mr. Robinson and I are having breakfast,” Burke said.

  “If you’d prefer he not hear what I have to say, we might ask him to step outside,” Boucicault said.

  “We won’t do that,” Burke said.

  “What I have to say involves Lauren Roach,” Boucicault said.

  “Burke,” Jackie said. “Be okay, you want me to step out.”

  Burke shook his head.

  “What about her,” he said to Boucicault.

  Boucicault looked at Robinson for a moment, then at Burke. He rubbed his hands gently together.

  “She is engaged to my son,” he said.

  Burke didn’t speak.

  “I know she was with you for a time. I know you’ve had trouble with my son about it.”

  “Not much trouble,” Burke said.

  “No. My son is not a tough guy. He thinks he is. But he isn’t.”

  Boucicault was quiet again. He kept rubbing his hands. Robinson was quiet, his dark eyes fixed on Boucicault. No one was eating.

  “On the other hand,” he said, “I am.”

  “Me too,” Burke said.

  “I know. You killed two of my people.”

  “I did.”

  “But you did not kill my son. That buys you something.”

  “But not everything,” Burke said.

  Boucicault smiled.

  “No,” he said. “Not everything.”

  He stopped rubbing his hands and pressed them together and rested the fingertips against the point of his chin.

  “My son, Mr. Burke, is not what I had in mind when he was born. But that makes him no less my son. I love him, and I will see to it that he has in life what he wants from it. That includes the Roach girl.”

  “Unless she doesn’t want him,” Burke said.

  “I don’t care what she wants,” Boucicault said. “And you shouldn’t either. Maybe you’re good. The men you killed were pretty good. Doesn’t matter. I could send a hundred better.”

  Burke drank some coffee.

  “I don’t want the Roach girl,” Burke said.

  “Good,” Boucicault said. “The other thing is for you to stay away from Louis.”

  “I got no interest in Louis,” Burke said.

  Robinson had finished his breakfast. He was sipping a second cup
of coffee, his eyes shifting from one speaker to the other.

  “I’ll try to keep him away from you,” Boucicault said.

  “Be a good thing,” Burke said.

  “I care about appearances,” Boucicault said. “I started in a garbage heap, and I crawled out of it, and over the years I have learned to speak well, and dress properly, and carry myself with dignity.”

  Burke didn’t speak.

  “But you should not be fooled. My resources are great, and I have no more scruples than a cannibal.”

  “Sure,” Burke said.

  The two men looked at each other.

  “You’re not scared of me,” Boucicault said. “You should be, but you’re not.”

  Burke shrugged again.

  “Why aren’t you?” Boucicault said.

  Burke finished the last of his eggs, and wiped his mouth carefully with a napkin.

  “Things don’t matter much to me,” he said.

  Boucicault looked at Robinson.

  “You got any thoughts on this, boy?”

  Robinson’s face went blank. His gaze flattened.

  “No thoughts,” he said.

  “Keep it just that way,” Boucicault said.

  He looked at Burke.

  “We clear?” he said.

  Burke nodded slowly.

  “Your kid is sick,” Burke said.

  The lines at the corners of Boucicault’s mouth deepened.

  “I know that,” he said.

  “Something wrong with the girl,” Burke said.

  “I know that, too.”

  “They probably make each other sicker,” Burke said.

  “I do what I can,” Boucicault said. “I just want you to stay clear.”

  “Glad to,” Burke said.

  26.

  BURKE DROVE ROBINSON to the Polo Grounds. He liked to go up the West Side, along the Hudson River, and then east to the top of Manhattan, where the ballpark stood, under Coogan’s Bluff, across the Harlem River from Yankee Stadium.

  “He called you boy,” Burke said.

  Robinson nodded.

  “And you took it,” Burke said.

  “Got to take it,” Robinson said.

  “I know.”

  Across the Hudson River, the Palisades rose implacably.

  “Is it worth it?” Burke said.

  “What’s ‘it’?”