Parker Field

by Howard Owen

  SUNDAY

  If God gives mulligans, and you only have three for your entire life, I’ll take one of mine for last night. Failing that, I’m praying that Cindy Peroni gives them.

  When I called at Rand’s apartment, I got a recording. When I got back to the Prestwould, I took the elevator up to the ninth floor and knocked, but nobody answered.

  It was time then to go over to Peggy’s and be of some use to my mother. The place was almost as full of people as it had been on Thursday night, and now the guests, instead of bringing food, were eating it. I suppose it’s a good idea to bring something to the bereaved that you yourself wouldn’t mind chowing down on a couple of days later. By the time the post-funeral crowd gets through on Monday, Peggy’s fridge will be as empty as it was before Les died.

  My mother’s never been much of a hostess. She never did big holiday family dinners, mainly because most of her family had abandoned her. She and I spent most of our Christmas days in the company of each other. We were fond of the whole barbecued chicken Peggy’s employer for most of my tween and teen years gave out in lieu of actual money. We’d feast on it for a couple of days, then go back to frozen dinners and whatever I could manage not to ruin. My repertoire was somewhat small, but Peggy was too busy earning a living to really learn how to cook, and even before I reached the age of reason (if, indeed, I have reached it yet), I knew that it wasn’t really a good idea to let my mother loose in the kitchen after she’d had her post-work smoke. Stoned, she was certainly better company than the hard drinkers some of my friends got stuck with for parents, but she was something of a fire hazard.

  As far as parties, whatever Oregon Hill soirees occurred at our rental house of the moment mostly consisted of people bringing their own beer or jug wine, with Peggy supplying the Fritos and onion dip. If things got really fancy, she’d have me grill hot dogs.

  Last night, though, Andi and Cindy took over. My daughter is a pro at serving the public, having spent as much of the last three years dispensing food and drink as she has pursuing that ever-elusive VCU diploma. With her degree destination somewhere in the neighborhood of psychology, sociology or English, I suppose it’s good that she has marketable skills. She worked her way through the crowd with whatever she and Cindy could stuff into those little dinner rolls everybody in town buys at the grocery store. And Cindy showed an amazing dexterity in slicing the country ham someone donated into razor thin slices. I believe she could have fed the five thousand with this one damn piece of pork, as long as the rolls didn’t run out, and they sent me out for more.

  Why, in the worst week of your life, do you have to serve and entertain?

  Some people brought their own liquor or beer and braved the chill on the porch to take the edge off somebody else’s loss. Peggy disappeared every hour or so. She has gotten pretty good at self-medicating, managing to stave off the grief without becoming a dope zombie.

  I tried Rand’s number again. No luck.

  By nine thirty, the crowd was starting to break up. Most of the really good food was gone by then, anyhow. The crowd didn’t seem to be pacing itself well; most of the tasty stuff had disappeared, and a lot of Jell-O salads and cold, store-bought fried chicken littered Peggy’s dining room table. Cindy whispered to me that we might have to buy more food for the Sunday and Monday moochers, er, mourners.

  “God,” Peggy said as she tripped and nearly knocked me over, “won’t these assholes ever leave?”

  I know she appreciates the company, but she could use some rest.

  Cindy takes her back to the bedroom, perhaps to lie down rather than toke up this time.

  Awesome Dude came in the house sometime after nine from Lord knows where. Awesome is hurting. Les was one of those rare creatures who treated everyone like equals, and Awesome hasn’t had a lot of that in his life. My hope is that he and my mother can keep their addled, jerry-built little family standing without Les around as the support beam.

  Awesome tried to help us clean up, and we appreciated the effort if not the results. Guys who are used to scooping pork and beans out of a can with their fingers aren’t very fussy about removing food particles from dishes.

  Sometime before eleven, the last of the guests left. Peggy was asleep, with some help from the little magic pill Cindy gave her. Andi said she had to get back to her apartment, where Thomas Jefferson Blandford V, a.k.a. Quint, no doubt awaited, probably in his smoking jacket. I still haven’t met His Highness.

  I suggested to Cindy that we get out for a little while. The night is still young, I told her, meaning I haven’t had nearly enough to drink.

  She said she was tired, meaning she probably knew what I meant. I should have been zonked, too, but nervous energy was keeping me going.

  Cindy didn’t want me to be, or drink, alone, I guess, and she finally agreed to come along. She suggested O’Toole’s, over on Forest Hill, a place I remember fondly from my earlier newspaper years.

  Last night did not add to those fond memories.

  It is almost always a bad idea on my part to come into a bar late. There is a sense, as the clock ticks toward closing time, that one has to catch up with the lucky bastards who’ve been there all night. This can cause problems.

  I ran into an old high school buddy who left a long time ago and wanted to wax nostalgic about the Hill. I suppose I kind of lost touch with Cindy, who ran into Becky somebody and Susan somebody from her married past. Consequently, she wasn’t there to gently suggest that I slow the fuck down.

  There was a sense of entitlement. My almost-dad is going to be buried on Monday, I’m so sad. Boo-hoo-hoo. Pour me another. My little brain, the one in charge of things like sex, smoking and drinking, is very good at whispering the magic words into my receptive ears. You’ve had a tough day. You need to unwind.

  By one thirty, I was shit-faced. I went looking for Cindy, who I realized I hadn’t seen in about an hour and a half. I found her dancing with some guy. He wasn’t doing much, I guess, but it was a slow dance, and he seemed to have his arm far enough below her waist to warrant a cut-in.

  When I made my move, the guy made a slight mistake. He told me to fuck off. This would not have sat well with me if, theoretically, I were in a bar and had been drinking Coca-Colas all night.

  After six or seven bourbons on the rocks, the little warning light governing proper etiquette when your date is getting her ass felt up had long since burned out.

  The guy wasn’t much bigger than me, but he probably was ten or fifteen years younger, and I’m lucky that it was a one-punch fight.

  Cindy pushed me away, and the guy’s buddy held him back (it didn’t take too much effort, I have to say). I was lucky that there were no cops on the premises. O’Toole’s, like most bars, can do without the free publicity you get when the blue lights come charging in like the cavalry around closing time.

  But that’s pretty much where my luck ran out. In my cluelessness, I figured that it was time to take Cindy home, and that she’d think it was kind of gallant of me to deck the guy who was taking liberties with her.

  She showed me the error of my ways.

  “You asshole,” she explained when we were outside and headed for my car. “That was Becky’s brother-in-law. We were just dancing. What’s wrong with you?”

  “He had his hand on your ass.”

  “So what? Willie, I’m past forty, I’m divorced and I’ve spent the last two hours being ignored by the guy who brought me here. It’s my ass, and he can grab it if he wants to. And he wasn’t grabbing it, he was fondling it. And I was letting him.”

  I realize, in morning’s cruel light, that an apology of some sort might have been in order on my part. What probably wasn’t in order was calling Cindy Peroni a bad name.

  She looked like she wanted to hit me. She might have, if I hadn’t turned sideways at the last minute and thrown up on the side of my car.

  A slap would have hurt less than what she said. She said it sober and sorrowful.

  “This is what
I was talking about, Willie. Life’s too short.” And she turned and walked off, calling after one of her old friends—or maybe it was the guy I punched—to take her to somebody’s home while I tried to clean off the side of my car and then fell on the asphalt as I tried to go after her.

  I somehow managed to get myself back to the Prestwould without picking up another DUI. One piece of good luck on a hard-luck night.

  THIS IS one of those mornings when you want to take down the mirrors. I haven’t told Custalow everything that happened last night. By the look he gives me, though, he gets the gist of it: Willie fucked up again.

  One thing I’ve always prided myself on: I can separate the train wreck of my civilian life from work. Work has sustained me, really, in the times after I screwed up marriages one, two and three, in the days when I failed so miserably as a father, when I’ve awakened the next morning with almost enough remorse to swear off drinking.

  And there is work to do.

  I tell Abe about Dairy Flynn’s name. I show him. He whistles.

  “I’ll be damned. I’ll be damned.”

  Then, the obvious question.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  I tell him that I don’t have a plan yet, but I’m working on one. What I ought to do is call the cops. Surely Peachy Love can find me somebody over there who won’t turn a deaf ear to a career-enhancing tip. Even Gillespie would put down his doughnut and jump on this one.

  Still, I tell myself, there are a couple of loose ends. I want to hand it over to either the cops or our readers or both as signed, sealed and delivered, no postage due.

  Rand doesn’t answer when I call again, and I don’t have time to go up there now anyhow. As usual, I’m late.

  I promised to run by Peggy’s. We have to see the minister about tomorrow’s service. He said he would come by around nine thirty, before the eleven o’clock service at the Baptist church where Peggy and I used to go on Easter and Christmas most years. I may still be the closest thing to a true-blue African-American to have crossed Mount Hebron’s threshold. The “new” minister has been there for six years, but I’m pretty sure he and Peggy had never met until she needed someone to perform a funeral.

  When I get there, Rev. Gladfelter’s car is parked in front and it’s nine thirty-five. Peggy glares at me but doesn’t say anything. There is a fog of air freshener hanging over the living room, in case the reverend is also a narc.

  We talk about Les, giving the minister of our erstwhile church a brief description of a life well lived.

  “And,” he says, clearing his throat, “you and, uh, Les, you were engaged?”

  “Well,” Peggy says, “I guess you could say that.”

  Rev. Gladfelter lets it pass, probably wondering how he’s going to explain it all to the gathering tomorrow, as if everyone on Oregon Hill didn’t know Peggy and Les’s ringless status. Well, either way, the rev gets paid. The newspaper obit, written by yours truly, says Leslie Michael Hacker is survived by his brother and niece, who arrived last night, and his special friend, Margaret Warren Black. Les probably wouldn’t have been pleased to have his whole name revealed to the world, but it seemed like it should be out there at least once, for the record.

  By the time the minister leaves, I’m feeling pretty certain that tomorrow’s service, done by a man Les never met, will go well.

  When he leaves, Peggy dashes off to the bedroom and comes back in a couple of minutes with her eyes somewhat dilated.

  “Thank God,” she says. “Awesome and me were up half the night cleaning this place. Nobody ought have to go through this straight.”

  I remind her that it’s still not ten o’clock.

  “Seems like it’s about four in the afternoon. Oh. Wait here. There’s something I want you to take back with you.”

  She goes into the bedroom again and comes out with a cardboard box. Inside are some old photos and programs, mementos of Les’s baseball days. I pull out a photo that’s marked, “1964 Richmond Vees,” and there’s Les. I can make out most of the other starters from photos I’ve accumulated. Buck McRae is standing on the end, with a space between him and Roy Haas.

  Beneath those is Les’s catcher’s mitt. He said he’d had it since he was in Class-A ball. Kept it through ten years in the minors. It’s a relic, a great big dinosaur of a thing compared to the ones the catchers wear now. Sometimes, especially in recent years when his mind began to take little walkabouts, he would sit watching TV with the mitt on his big left hand. He would carry it with him on his perambulations. Sometimes an acquaintance would find him, several blocks away, standing on a street corner with the mitt on his hand as if he expected God to throw him a high, hard one.

  “He wanted you to have all that,” Peggy says. “I guess he’s left everything else to me.”

  For some reason, the mitt, with its stuffing on the verge of popping out and its leather worn nearly gray, breaks me up. My mom and I have a good cry.

  I promise Peggy, before I leave, that the person who shot Les Hacker is going to pay. I promise her justice.

  On the way out, I meet Jumpin’ Jimmy. He has come over to see if there’s any way he can help. It’s time to bring Jimmy Deacon up to speed.

  The first thing I ask him is whether he’s made any trips to Wells, Vermont, in the recent past.

  “Jumpin’ Jimmy hasn’t been out of the environment of Richmond since my brother and me went to the Outer Banks last fall when the blues was biting,” he says.

  He gets it after a few seconds.

  “You mean, where Frannie came from?”

  I explain my recent trip up there, and I tell him more than I mean to about the fate of Les’s teammates.

  When I tell him that, no, I haven’t gone to the cops yet, even Jimmy can see that this is not necessarily the smartest move.

  I tell him that I’m not famous for being smart.

  BACK AT the Prestwould, Feldman is holding court there as usual. I swear, sometimes I think McGrumpy has sold his unit and lives in the lobby. Custalow says he saw him eating lunch the other day in one of the chairs by the guard’s desk.

  Clara Westbrook seems relieved to have an excuse to break away from our resident pest.

  “Is intrigue afoot?” Feldman asks, his eyebrows rising and falling like a couple of caterpillars on his aged brow.

  I tell him there’s an ax murderer on the loose, and that he’s looking for snoopy old men.

  Upstairs, I call again and finally am able to rouse the man who has seemed so anxious to bend my ear of late.

  “Yes,” Finlay Rand says, “how may I help you?”

  I identify myself and tell him that he can help me, perhaps, by telling me why he cut his recent vacation short and returned to the Prestwould two days before his apartment was broken into.

  He’s silent while I explain about the camera that caught him coming into the building via the basement two days before Les was plugged.

  “That’s impossible,” he says. “I was lying on a hammock on Virgin Gorda at the time your mother’s boyfriend was shot. I didn’t get back here until the Tuesday afterward.”

  I tell him that I have some more information that I’ve dug up, things he might be interested in knowing about the 1964 Richmond Vees. He doesn’t say anything for what seems like half a minute. I wonder if he’s hung up.

  “There’s something you need to know,” he says, at last. “It’s about those calls I’ve been getting. But I need you to come up here. Be here in one hour.”

  I tell him that I can be there right now, but he says that won’t work.

  “One hour.”

  Custalow says he should go up with me, but Rand made it clear that it had to be just the two of us, one on one.

  “You know where I am,” I tell him. “If he shoots me, you’ll know who did it.”

  I wait an hour, then tell Abe that, if I’m not back in forty-five minutes, to come get me. He shakes his head and calls me a dumb ass.

  At my appointed hour, I walk
up the three flights to Rand’s unit. I could use the exercise. It is somewhat disappointing that I have to stop to catch my breath between the seventh and eighth floors. Geez, Peggy would say, you think maybe you should quit smoking?

  I knock on the door and wait. I knock again. I put my ear to the doorframe, and I don’t hear anything or anybody inside.

  I turn the knob. The door opens.

  I call to Finlay Rand. No one answers.

  Inside, I walk down the foyer, past all of Rand’s art collection and the second and third bedrooms, to the living room, dining room and kitchen. I call again. There’s nobody home.

  I think for a moment that Mr. Rand has taken it on the lam. Then I turn around and look back in the direction I came from. Beside the entrance is the doorway leading to the rest of Rand’s unit. In my place, which is twice the size of the place where Peggy raised me, the door leads to a big-ass master bedroom back there. Rand’s apartment, though, has something extra. Sometime in the distant past, a Prestwould resident must have bought the bedroom in the unit that backs up to this one and claimed it as his own. I can barely see all the way to the other end of Rand’s digs, because past the master bedroom at the other end of the foyer there’s another room, just as big. There’s a light on back there.

  When I call Rand’s name again, there’s no answer, but I think I hear something off in the distance.

  Nothing to do but go back there.

  Past the foyer, where Rand’s art is highlighted by wall lights, the bedroom is pitch dark. He must have put up blackout curtains. I trip over something and go toward the light, which offers just enough illumination to get me to the back room.

  I walk through the open door and call Rand’s name again.

  Then, the lights go out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When I come to, I have a flashback to my Great Aunt Celia’s. She was the only member of Peggy’s unforgiving family to offer my mother sustenance after it became obvious that she had shamed the Black family by having sex at least once with an African-American who was somewhat lackadaisical about birth control (as, apparently, was Peggy).