by Elley Arden
He sighed. “Can I at least give you a hand cleaning up?”
She looked at him, surprised. “Well, yeah, sure. Just come in the little side door.”
He walked in and surveyed the chaos.
“Got an extra broom?” he asked. She handed him the broom, and he began sweeping, whistling some unrecognizable song. She giggled.
“What?” he asked.
“You sound like one of the seven dwarfs, whistling while you work.”
He laughed and continued sweeping and whistling.
With the two of them working in tandem, the place was spick and span within twenty minutes.
“I really appreciate your help, Rob,” Trish said, wiping her hands on a towel. “I’d hate for Gran to walk into this mess again.”
“Do you think she really contacted Lefty?”
Trish hesitated. “I don’t want to sound like a superstitious fool. I don’t believe in all that mumbo jumbo, but Gran has played around with psychic stuff for years. I thought she’d given it up.” She laughed. “Guess I was wrong. My grandfather said she was an ancient Celt, descended from the seventh son of the seventh son, born with a caul. Some crap like that. But that Lefty business took me by surprise. Gran never mentioned him. Ever.”
Rob shrugged. “My curiosity was aroused, and I went into the archives. Lefty killed himself fifty years ago this week.” He hesitated, like he was debating whether to say more.
“And?”
“There was a scandal. The Attorney General’s office was looking into claims of Mafia ties to the team.”
“And Lefty was involved? Is that why he killed himself?”
“No one knows for sure. But it seems someone on the team was feeding inside information to the mob.”
“I don’t understand,” Trish said. “What kind of information would the mob be interested in?”
“Oh, you know, who won’t be playing because they have a stomach virus, who has a drinking problem. Who’s cheating on his wife or vice versa. The kind of information that only an insider would have access to.”
“You’ll excuse me for sounding dense, but why would the mob be interested in stuff like that?”
“Think about it, Trish. Say, for example, your star batter was throwing up all night. Maybe he’ll be feeling well enough to play, maybe he won’t. Okay? So that’s gonna effect the betting odds. It becomes a lot more lucrative to bet against the team when you know they’re having problems. But there are all kinds of ways an insider can influence the spread.”
“I don’t gamble that much,” she said. “So when you say spread, I think of … oh … mayonnaise.”
He laughed. “Anyway, the Attorney General was beginning to snoop around, ask questions. Maybe it was Lefty, and he knew they were closing in on him. Maybe his reputation would be ruined, and he couldn’t live with that. I really don’t know. It all happened a long time ago. Then, when Lefty shot himself, the team manager — a guy named Ray Whitman — went into Lefty’s locker and found a metal box loaded with cash. Pretty compelling evidence of guilt. So the State confiscated the money, closed the case and moved on to the next scandal.”
Trish shivered. Impossible as it seemed, she felt an icy blast of air. “Why is it turning so cold in here?”
There was a crash, and they both whirled around. The metal straw holder lay on the floor, its contents strewn helter-skelter. Trish stared wide-eyed. “Oh, my God. Do you think — ”
“No,” Rob interrupted. “I probably set it too close to the edge when I was wiping down the counter.”
He didn’t sound convinced, but Trish nodded. “Of course that’s what happened,” she said, with a forced smile. She grabbed a broom and began sweeping up the straws.
Rob knelt and held the dustpan, glancing up at her.
“You know, Trish, I never forgot you. And since I saw you again, there’s been only one thing on my mind.”
He got to his feet, and before she knew what was happening, he grabbed her shoulders and planted a kiss on her lips. For a moment, she relaxed against him. The last five years seemed to melt away, and she felt eighteen years old again in the arms of her soulmate. It just felt so right, so perfect. Then she came to her senses and shoved him away.
“Hey! What the hell was that?”
“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” he said sheepishly. “I’ve been waiting a lot of years to kiss the Prom Queen.”
“Yeah well, you missed your chance, considering you didn’t actually ask her to prom.” The words came out bitterly. Even though years had passed, Trish would never forget that interminable night. Having to watch Rob — her Rob — holding another girl, laughing with her, while Trish fought back her tears.
“Better late than never,” he said. “Guess I’m trying to make up for missing it.”
Trish blinked, startled to hear him acknowledge it. “Why didn’t you just ask me at the time? Yeah, we were fighting about college, but we were still together … and it was prom.”
“I was angry,” he admitted. “I guess you’ve forgotten that letter to the editor you sent to the school paper? The one that compared jocks to eunuchs? Always trying to replace our lost balls.”
“I never said that,” she tried to hide the wide grin as she remembered the article she’d written. “I said jocks were little boys looking for their misplaced manhood. Although, come to think of it, I like your version better. And I wrote that when I was really mad at you.” She tried to suppress the laugh that was bubbling up in her throat, but try as she might, there was no stopping it.
“It isn’t funny. I was the laughing stock of the whole team,” Rob said, trying to maintain his composure, then bursting into loud laughter.
“I apologize,” she managed to say, struggling to catch her breath. It really did seem silly all these years later.
“Apology accepted.” He paused. “Trish, it really seems like old times, laughing together, enjoying each other. I’ve never found that with anyone else.”
She lowered her eyes. She couldn’t allow herself to open herself to the pain. If she hadn’t completely forgotten in five years, at least the memory had been dulled by time. When she didn’t respond, Rob steered the conversation back to a safer topic.
“So this ghost story … it might be just the thing I’ve been looking for.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, when I read through the archives, I got really excited. I’ve always wanted to write a book.”
“Doesn’t every reporter?” Trish quipped.
He grinned. “It’s got a great hook. Talented young ballplayer, great future, succumbs to temptation, puts it all on the line for a quick buck. Why did it happen? What was his backstory? And why is he haunting two very nice ladies fifty years later?”
“Sounds like a bestseller,” she joked, “but we’ll have to talk later. The gate will be opening in a few minutes.”
“I know. But there’s a couple of things you can help me with.” He offered up his most winning smile. “I’ll even dedicate the book to you.”
She laughed. “Never mind the dedication; I want a percentage.” Then, turning serious, she said, “Go ahead. I don’t know how I can help, but I’ll try.”
“How long has this vandalism been going on?”
“I don’t know exactly,” she said. “For a while. Almost a year maybe?”
“Did anything unusual happen about the time this started?”
She shrugged. “Not that I can recall, no. Oh, wait! After my grandfather died, Gran was really lost, so I convinced her to help out at the stand. It was right about then that all this vandalism began. Wow! I never made the connection before.”
She felt a shiver run up her spine as she looked around the small space. “What is going on? It’s freezing in here again!”
“Lefty?” Rob teased.
“Yeah, right,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Think of what you could save on air conditioning if Lefty would move in permanently,”
Rob laughed as he exited the booth.
• • •
Peg arrived just as the gates opened. The crowds flooded in, and before long they had quite a line at the counter. There was no time to think about Lefty, as Trish had her hands full handing out hotdogs, fries and popcorn.
“Thank God you’re here, Gran,” she said. “There’s a big turnout today.”
“Yeah, it’s always that way when they play the Yankees,” she said. She pitched right in, and the two women, working side by side, had things moving along nicely. Finally, when the game started, the crowd thinned out, and Trish began cleaning up.
Rather than helping, Peg walked in circles around the tiny space, touching her fingertips here and there on the various surfaces.
“He was here,” she intoned.
“What? Who was — ” Trish started to ask, when Peg cut her off, her voice raised.
“Lefty, darlin’, what is it you want?” She froze in a listening position. Trish stared at her wide-eyed.
“Gran?” she hissed, looking around to see if anyone was noticing this display.
But Peg shook her head after a few seconds, looking disappointed. “Too much noise and commotion right now,” she said. “And if I know Lefty, he’s sitting down on the bench right now, enjoying the game.”
“Gran, what happened to him? Rob said there were rumors that he was working with the mob, betting against the team. And they found cash in his locker.”
“Honey, I never did understand it. He had a future. Everybody loved him. People would line up outside the stadium wanting his autograph. He was a star.” She sighed. “And handsome? Oh my. They broke the mold when they made him.”
“You’re avoiding my question.”
“I don’t know what he did or didn’t do. But I’ll tell you one thing for sure. He was a good man. Went to church every Sunday. No matter what town they played in, he’d find a church on Sunday.”
“He wouldn’t be the first guy that was a saint on Sunday and a devil the rest of the week. What do you really think? Was he placing bets with the mob?”
“That’s what the evidence pointed to, but you know, Trish, somehow in my heart, I never believed it.”
“Then why kill himself? It’s almost like a signed confession.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t know.”
There didn’t seem to be much more to say after that. The next several hours passed in a flash as they served hungry customers.
“Bottom of the ninth,” the announcer’s overexcited voice yelled, and they turned their attention to the jumbo television suspended across from their stand. “Sharks have the bases loaded, with the Yanks leading by two.”
“Strike two! Hit that ball,” Peg shouted at the television. “At least take a swing at it. Now watch this joker, honey. The pitcher’s gonna give him a fastball, and it’s three strikes, you’re out!”
True to her prediction, the pitcher let loose a ball that zoomed toward the batter at ninety-eight miles per hour. The batter raised his bat and swung. He gave it his all. Unfortunately, his all wasn’t good enough.
“Strike three!” the umpire cried. The batter, shoulders slumped, slouched back to the dugout.
“Told you,” Peg said, shaking her head with disgust.
“I’m glad it’s over,” Trish said. “If it went into overtime, we’d be here until God knows when.”
Gran looked at her with surprise. “I thought you were a baseball fan.”
“I am when a team plays like they know what they’re doing. But the Sharks are a bunch of clowns.”
Suddenly, a yellow blob of mustard flew through the air and landed on her white sneakers. She stared in disbelief.
“Lefty, that’s not nice,” Peg said. “It’s not her fault. He should have swung at that second pitch.”
“Gran, stop it,” Trish said. “That’s crazy. You’re talking to the thin air.”
Still, she backed away from the mustard dispenser.
Peg ignored her. “Lefty, tell ya what. We’ll have another séance tomorrow. If you tell me what you want, maybe you’ll be able to rest in peace. And in the meantime, stop bothering my poor granddaughter.”
“Count me out,” Trish said.
“You’re not gonna come?” Gran’s eyes widened with disbelief.
“I told you, I don’t want any part of these ridiculous goings on.”
Peg looked downcast. “It’ll be just me and Rob, I guess. I wanted you to be a part of this, but I can’t force you, even though it would mean so much to me.” Her voice dwindled away.
“Gran, stop with the guilt trip.”
Peg sighed, a deep, heavy sound from deep in the chest. “Did I say Rob will be here?”
“Sweetening the pot, are you?” Trish laughed.
“Just saying.”
“Gran, Rob broke my heart.”
Peg sighed again. “I know, darlin’. I do. But didn’t it go both ways?”
“I suppose so, but I don’t want to open that Pandora’s box again.”
“I really need you to be there. Can’t you just for this one time let bygones be bygones? For my sake?”
Trish caved in. “Okay, you win.”
Gran beamed at her.
“Tomorrow, then.”
• • •
The following night, the stadium was dark and deserted. The Sharks had flown out for the start of a three-game series in Detroit. The security guard waved Trish and Peg in. Peg had expanded her outfit to include several strands of colorful beads, as well as a floor-length multi-striped skirt. If the guard found anything peculiar in Peg’s gypsy getup, he managed to keep a straight face.
“Evenin’ ladies.”
“Rob Hanks will be coming by soon,” Trish said.
“You girls part of one of his baseball stories?”
“Well, you might say that,” Gran said. She seemed on the verge of elaborating, so Trish grabbed her arm. “Come on, Gran.”
Once inside the stand, Gran set out the red candle. To add to the ambience, she lit a stick of incense, filling the air with a darkly sweet aroma. She dug out three snapshots and spread them out on the table, touching each one lightly with her fingertips. Despite her resolve, Trish was excited at the thought of seeing Rob again. Then a small, rapping sound broke the silence. “Tap, tap, tap.”
“Lefty,” Peg breathed.
“No, it’s just Rob,” Trish said, opening the door for him. Their eyes met briefly before she closed the door.
They took their seats at the table. Peg patted each of the pictures that lay in front of her. “This is Lefty, and here we are together.”
She passed them one by one across the table. Trish leaned forward, holding the photos close to the candlelight. The flickering light showed a tall, good-looking young man, smiling, one arm looped over the shoulder of a pretty girl.
Rob moved closer, peering at the pictures. Trish was acutely aware of his shoulder pressing against hers.
“Peg, you were a real knockout. I can see where Trish gets her looks,” Rob said. “I’ve got something for show and tell, too.” He pulled several papers from his briefcase, then paused, looking across at Peg. “These are the original crime scene photos from the police files. They’re pretty graphic. You might not want to look at them.”
“It was a long time ago,” Peg said.
She took the first photograph.
“It’s kinda dim in here,” she reached behind and flicked on the overhead light. She flinched as her eyes adjusted to the light and she stared at the picture. It was a gruesome shot of Lefty, his body slumped in a chair, his face swollen and disfigured from the gaping hole in the left side of his head. His left arm hung down with a handgun lying on the floor nearby. Peg closed her eyes for a moment.
“Ah, poor Lefty. Why’d you go and do that?” She passed the photograph back. “I don’t think I want to see any others,” she said.
“Are you okay, Gran?” Trish reached across the table and placed her han
d over Peg’s.
“Yes,” she said softly. “It’s hard to look at, though. I was with him the night he killed himself.”
“Wait, you were with him?” Trish asked.
“We went to a movie and then grabbed a bite to eat.” She was lost in thought for a moment. “Then we went back to his apartment. Something was bothering him. He wouldn’t say what it was, but I could tell he had something on his mind.”
“Gran, do you think he was planning to kill himself?”
“No!” Her voice was emphatic. “He told me he was looking forward to spring training camp. He talked about the future. People don’t do that when they’re gonna kill themselves. He was fine when I left.”
“There was nothing in the police reports about your being with him the night he died,” Rob said.
“No. I was in such a state of shock at first. Then my father told me not to say anything. He didn’t want me mixed up in any kind of scandal.”
“Peg, something in this picture bothers me. Can you stand to take another look?”
Peg sighed. “Okay,” she said, pulling it toward her. Rob handed her a magnifying glass. He touched his fingertip to a barely visible tiny object in the far corner of the photograph.
“Right here. What’s this?”
She peered through the glass for a moment. “Dear Lord. It’s a bandage and Popsicle sticks,” she said. “The one I put on his finger that night. I’d forgotten all about that. He broke the middle finger on his left hand — his pitching hand,” she explained.
“Hence the name Lefty,” Rob said. “How did he break his finger?”
“We were walking up the steps to his place that night,” she said. “It was dark, and I stumbled. Lefty tried to catch me, but we both went down.”
She leaned over the picture again, passing the magnifier over the makeshift splint. “He didn’t want to go to the ER; he was a tough guy,” she glanced up at them, a little smile passing over her face. “He said he’d go see the team doctor in the morning. So I taped his fingers together, you know, just to keep them immobilized.” A bemused look came over her face. “Now that I think about it, if he was planning to kill himself, why would he talk about going to the doctor the next day?”