Double Wide

by Leo W. Banks

  “I take it you did what you were told,” I said, “like a good boy?”

  Wilson swung his legs off the desk and leaned forward, face flushed. “Fuck Max Mayflower. That’s the first thing. Second, I already had it copied on a flash.” Wilson reached into his pocket and held up a flash drive. “I’ll show it to you or anybody wants to see it. Rox, you want to put it on TV tonight? Go ahead. I’m done doing what Max Mayflower wants.”

  “It’s easy now, Danny,” I said. “With the Fausto project falling apart, you have nothing to lose anymore.”

  Wilson popped the flash into his computer and glared at me. “I’m showing you the video, Whip. Just what the fuck is it you want me to do?”

  He breathed heavily and said, “I’m working my tail off to keep the lights on here. We drew one thousand, seven hundred, and twenty-three people tonight. Is HBO running some hot new series on girls in jail? Who doesn’t want to come to the ballpark? Dollar beer night and we pull in one thousand, seven hundred, and twenty-three people. Tell me what I’m supposed to do, give it away? Let people belly up to the taps for free? Swear to God, this country is done!”

  He went back to looking at his computer screen. “You want a drink while you watch?”

  Roxy got herself a Snapple from Wilson’s minifridge. He began the video. I watched it carefully, Wilson less so. He’d probably seen it a thousand times already.

  Fausto was a tall righty with long legs, strong thighs, and a lean build. He had a straight-out front-leg kick that almost put his knee in his mouth and brought the leg down in a long, falling stride driven mainly by his thighs.

  The delivery ended with his weight carrying him toward the plate, the fingers of his right hand nearly touching the ground and his rear leg bent at the knee and high in the air. He threw a first-pitch strike for the setup.

  Then he delivered one inside and one outside to establish both sides of the plate, and with two strikes he dropped the bomb, El Bailador.

  After that Gumby windup, the ball stayed hidden for a long time, making it hard for the batter to pick up before it exploded out of his hand. It looked like a fastball until it was too late. The batter got steak-dinner eyes before the pitch dropped like a stone.

  “I understand why you love this kid,” I said. “Tell me what you see, Danny?”

  “Asses in the seats.”

  “I mean from Fausto.”

  “What I’m saying. A dominating seventeen-year-old with that stuff, a handsome kid—you kidding me? He’d sell lots of tickets.”

  “Steps off the mound a lot, right? Licks his fingers?”

  Wilson gave me a fast look. “What of it? It’s legal.”

  “Have you ever seen a baseball move like El Bailador?”

  “Pedro Martinez. His slider was lights out.” Wilson wrinkled his face to help round up more names. “Today you’ve got Clayton Kershaw. Kershaw’s an animal. I could see this kid right up there with Kershaw and so could Mayflower. That’s why he was all over him.”

  “That’s one reason.”

  Wilson folded his hands in his lap. He knew I knew El Bailador was a spitball, a doctored pitch. But he was going to string out the revelation, I suppose out of self-respect or simple stubbornness. Knowing Danny, I voted for the latter.

  He climbed slowly out of his chair and went to his little refrigerator and pulled out a can of Diet Coke. He splashed it open, hurried to suck up the volcano of foam, took a long sip as he stood beside his desk, let out an equally long “Ahhhh,” and sat down again.

  Wilson put his fist against his lips, burped silently and said, “I get the distinct impression something’s on your mind, Whip. Let’s get to it.”

  SIXTY

  I pulled Dr. Melody’s gum out of my pocket and dropped it on his desk. Wilson stared at it, his face smoothing and relaxing as the tension ran out of it. He looked happy that the project was exposed. He sat with his palms flat on his desk for a moment, and then grabbed the brick.

  “This the stuff Fausto was using?” Wilson snorted, frowned, and shook his head.

  “Danny, man, how could you not suspect something?”

  He put the brick down and sipped his Coke. “I knew they had a project going. Mayflower kept coming here wanting to use the field. Had a pitcher with him, a Golden League washout named Will Evers.”

  “What about a guy in his sixties, looks like he should be loading up at the buffet at Furr’s?”

  “Him too.”

  “That’s Dr. Arthur Melody, the inventor. You never asked what they were doing?”

  “Not one time,” Wilson said, and stared into space.

  “How about when you watched Fausto pitch in Mexico? Didn’t you pick up anything?”

  “Mayflower told me to forget it. I had my suspicions—don’t think I didn’t have my suspicions, Whip. But I can look the other way when I need to. Nothing’s obvious on that tape. That tape’s from Mexico when I was there. Can you tell he’s throwing a spitter? I can’t.”

  He had a point. Even knowing what he was doing, it was almost impossible to pick up.

  “I watched it again and again,” he said. “Fausto’s chewing gum, and before he throws El Bailador, he steps off the mound and licks his fingers three times, wipes them on his pants and throws. The ball’s falling out of the sky. That’s the only thing funny, the way it moves.”

  I said, “The gum’s got a sap in it that makes the ball drop like that. I just talked to a chemist.”

  Wilson stared at the brick on the table. “Long as he wipes his fingers after licking them, it’s legal. Beautiful, beautiful.” He pronounced it “beauty-full.” “The umps go out and practically undress him and can’t find a thing. They can’t see it, I can’t see it, so why make an issue out of it? I’m not the kid’s rabbi.”

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, like a man fresh out of the desert and badly in need of water. “Do you know how many pitchers I’ve seen try stuff with the baseball? Over thirty-odd years? I’ll tell you how many, every single one.”

  He pointed at me accusingly. “You did it too, Whip. I know you did, you and Rolando.”

  “Pine tar at first.”

  “It worked, right?”

  “A dab on the middle finger, and my breaking ball had a twelve-six bite.”

  “You did more than that. You worked on a spitter of your own.”

  “At the end when I was trying to hang on,” I said. “Rolando taught me how to throw it with Vaseline. He kept it on his shin guard and swiped a little off throwing the ball back to me. I got real good at it. I might’ve made it back if Mazatlán didn’t happen.”

  Wilson said, “I knew a guy had a thumbtack in his glove and he’d cut the ball to get extra run on it. You can’t rely on that trick today because the umps toss out balls all the time. Like every five seconds. It’d be like doing carpentry out there.”

  “I saw a guy use sandpaper taped to the heel of his hand.”

  “Same problem,” he said. “They toss out the ball and you do it all over again. I’ve seen baby oil, turpentine, shaving cream. I know a guy used vaginal cream. Called him Dr. Johnson. Swore by it.”

  Wilson laughed quietly to himself and looked past me, lost in thought. “I want to make one point here,” he said slowly. “The spitball’s been dead in the big leagues for, what, three decades? Too many cameras seeing every damn thing, from every angle. No place to hide nothing. Plus, why get suspended for a spitball when the split-fingered fastball has almost the same action? But still. But still.”

  Wilson stopped. His eyes became intense, and his breathing quickened. I knew the look. For athletes, the love of competition never wanes. It’s a drug.

  “I’m telling you, Whip, this kid was going to bring the spitball back single handed. Fausto was going to change the game the way steroids changed the game. He was masterful using this stuff. Never seen it done better. Ask Rolando what this kid could’ve done.”

  Roxy threw me a side look, eyes full of surprise. Wilson had
no idea Rolando was dead.

  I said, “But sooner or later, you knew this scheme had to go public.”

  “Even if it did and I looked stupid to the brass, the whole world, I didn’t care.”

  Wilson was excited, gathering himself in his chair to mount his argument. “You understand what I’m saying, Whip. Every pitcher wants to do this. Guys like Gaylord Perry? Gaylord Perry couldn’t match Fausto Molina using this stuff, and I wasn’t going to stop him. No, sir. I had to see how far he could push it.”

  Wilson had unloaded everything, put it all on the record, and there was relief on his face. “What went wrong, anyways? All of a sudden Fausto can’t get anybody out.”

  “He ran out of his holy grail,” I said, and told him the story.

  “You mean people got killed over this?”

  I sat there and said nothing.

  He said, “Wait a minute. Last time you said Rolando was missing.” The realization hit him, and he looked at us with dread on his face.

  “He’s not missing, Danny,” I said. “He’s dead.”

  “Whip, man, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I know how close you guys were. Goddamn. What happened?”

  I told him we’d get into details later.

  Roxy spoke up. “I’m going to need you to go on camera, Daniel. We’re going to take down Max Mayflower and get the man who killed Rolando Molina.”

  “On air? Talking about this?” Wilson exhaled, flapping his lips. “I’ll look like a fool.”

  “Not if you tell the truth,” Roxy said. “But if you ‘no comment’ me, I’ll chase you around the parking lot with a camera. Remember, Daniel—I always get the story.”

  Wilson looked across the desk at Roxy. For a second I thought he might get up and run away. But gradually his manner eased, and he nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it. But only if you’ve got Fausto too, both of us on camera together.”

  “He’s on his way to Tucson as we speak,” Roxy said.

  “Taking down Max Mayflower…it’ll be my pleasure,” Wilson said.

  We didn’t get out of his office until after midnight. Roxy was on fire thinking she’d nailed down the piece. Fausto was the indispensable part, but Wilson added the weight of a respected GM. She wanted them in front of the camera as soon as he arrived in Tucson.

  With Fausto and Wilson on the record, and Arthur Melody if we could find him, all the “no comments” in the world from Mayflower’s side wouldn’t make any difference.

  SIXTY-ONE

  When I arrived home, Opal was standing in the open front door of the Airstream. Charlie had picked her up at the Arizona Inn. Her face had that familiar look of trouble.

  “Charlie found him outside his trailer,” she said. “He was almost dead.”

  “Almost dead. Who’s almost dead?”

  “Somebody’s hunting him. They’re going to murder him!” Opal’s face had lost its color, and her voice was filled with air.

  I walked past her into the Airstream. “Who’s going to get murdered?”

  She craned her neck out the door and peered down the street. “Cash is keeping watch in case he tries any funny business.” She closed the door and turned to face me. “He’s back!”

  “Opal, it’s late, and I don’t want to play guessing games. Who’s back?”

  “Angel. He ain’t dead, just like I told you. What do you think about that, Mr. Whip?” She folded her arms on her chest and stared at me as if we both had ten minutes to live.

  I was shocked but tried not to show it. Opal’s panic didn’t need encouragement. I spent the next half hour trying to get her calm as we went through a normal night’s routine. She brushed her teeth and got the foldout ready.

  After feeding Chico, I went through a box of mementos and retrieved a small tobacco tin that had belonged to my grandfather. It was blue and had on it the logo of Dexter Cigars. I put the tequila gum inside, snapped it shut, and stuck it in my pocket.

  I sat with Opal and talked to her about small matters until she fell asleep and then grabbed my flashlight and walked down to Cashmere Miller’s trailer. He sat on the front porch with his dirty bare feet up on the railing. Beside him on the table was a .45-caliber Ruger automatic.

  “It’s after midnight, Cash.”

  “I don’t sleep good. Night’s my time to ponder and such.” He sipped from a can of Red Bull. “The kid’s in the open trailer. I’m keeping an eye on him.”

  “Opal says he’s in bad shape.”

  “He was beat to hell when Charlie found him drinking at his garden hose. Doctored him up.” Cash held up the can for me to see. “I got extras Bulls in the fridge.”

  “No, thanks. I can’t believe he lived through that flood.”

  “Says he grabbed a cottonwood branch and held on.” Cash leaned over and spat and rubbed his palm over his face. “He’s got hair coming back here after leading us into that canyon the way he done. Says he knew nothing about what was going down.”

  “You believe him?”

  “I got a hole in my head answers that question. He says he’s waiting for his friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “Search me. Says he’s going hunting rabbits to feed his friend. Meantime, he wants us to protect him here at Double Wide.” Cash snorted. “Know what I say? Run his ass off. Let Roscoe Rincon have him.”

  “Until the kid tells me where Rolando is, he stays.”

  Cash bunched his lips and sniffed the night air. “The way it dopes out, you’re betting the whole pot of beans on the kid knowing stuff maybe he don’t know.”

  “He knows.”

  The open trailer sat on Opal’s side of Main Street. No lights were on inside, and without a door the entrance was a black hole. I stepped into the living room, a large, stifling space with nothing in it except a torn-up couch with springs showing.

  Angel slept on newspapers spread out over the orange carpet. He lay with his hands between his thighs, his knees by his chin. He wore only one shoe and a pair of white briefs. The shoeless foot was filthy, the ankle swollen to twice its size.

  The bandage had come off the bullet wound in his back, the scar black and ugly. Charlie had put new bandages on his ankle, his thigh, and both arms. A black bruise covered his cheek below his right eye.

  If the flood had killed him, it couldn’t have done much worse.

  I went back to the Airstream, and six hours later, I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling when Oscar called. The phone woke Chico, who bent his neck to look up at me. He didn’t like anything interrupting his sleep, even George Jones.

  My phone said it was 4:32 a.m.

  “Fausto’s gone, Whip. Gone. He’s gone.”

  I sat up and spoke in a tight whisper. I didn’t want to wake up Opal sleeping out on the foldout. “What do you mean? Gone where?”

  “He wasn’t at his apartment, and I banged on the Sultans’ door until the clubhouse boy opened up. He didn’t know anything.”

  “Nobody was hanging around the parking lot, guys that might’ve grabbed him?”

  “The boy didn’t see anything,” Oscar said. “All of Fausto’s stuff was still in his locker, his phone, too. He wouldn’t leave his cell behind. He sleeps with that thing.”

  I listened to my own breathing as I tried to think. Chico stared up at me, tail wagging.

  Oscar said, “I’ve got a bad feeling, Whip.”

  I said maybe Fausto was being smart. He knew the cartel could trace him if he used the cell, so he left it in his locker, hung up from me, and went on the run. Not sure I believed that myself, but best keep it positive. I asked if he had any idea where Fausto might go.

  “We got family in Mexico City. I’m headed there now. Do you think he’s all right, Whip?” Then desperate, scared, pleading: “I can’t lose another boy!”

  SIXTY-TWO

  I started moving around at sunrise, though at reduced speed. I felt as if I’d pitched nine innings and got the loss on a bases-loaded walk. There was nothing to do about it but pour a pot of coff
ee down my throat and hope it passed.

  After breakfast, I told Charlie to roust Angel and bring him to the Airstream for a talk. Charlie cleaned him up and dressed him in one of his palm tree shirts. It hung to the kid’s knees. The uncovered parts of Angel’s body showed ugly bruises and puncture wounds.

  He had information about Rolando, I was sure of that. But he wouldn’t say much. He mumbled disjointed phrases and bobbed his head, his good eye glassy and half-closed above that ugly blue bruise on his cheek.

  The only thing he said with certainty was that Rincon was coming to kill him, and he needed protection. I wasn’t going to get any more out of him and let it go for the time being.

  Charlie kept an eye on Angel the rest of the day, bringing him food and an ice pack for his wounds. I called Roxy at the station and gave her the bad news about Fausto. Her reaction was succinct and well-reasoned.

  “Shit!” she screamed, and said she’d call back.

  Without Fausto to go on camera, she had nothing. Rolando was dead. Carlos Alvarez and Rosa Lopez were dead. Dr. Arthur Melody was missing and unavailable to talk about his gum, and Roxy had no clue to his whereabouts.

  Danny Wilson? Fine, but all he could speak to were suspicions that he kept to himself. Not exactly a source to run to the bank with.

  Roxy had information that baseball’s hottest young agent owned a strip club that laundered heroin money—surely a story. But the corporate setup gave Mayflower room to deny knowing about it, and that would leave viewers with no clear idea whom to believe.

  Without Fausto, she had to fight for some weaker version of the story and I could imagine the screaming, the running of the midmanagement weevils into dark corners where responsibility would never find them.

  At a small station, a big story like that can break careers. The decision would go all the way up to the general manager, a fellow with friends at the chamber who got to be GM precisely by killing stories like this.

  The big secret is that good journalism brings as much trouble as prestige, especially when the subject is an operator like Mayflower. He wouldn’t bother calling the station bosses to complain. He’d go straight to corporate and let the boulders rain down from there, and that’s even before the story aired.