I brought one hand to my mouth. How was it that Jeremiah struck an antagonistic tone with the smart one, but was fast becoming friends with the frat boy? They laughed, making plans to talk later about going to a game. Finally Molly saw her chance, charging back into the interview.
“What do you say to people who insist that you are a fake?”
“Pardon me?”
“A hoax, a sham. There are many, many skeptics out there.”
“Hm.” Jeremiah looked off for a moment, thinking, the silent airtime weighing tons. “I suppose there would be, yes.”
“What do you say to these people, who think you are little more than an elaborate publicity stunt?”
Jeremiah turned so that his knees were nearly touching hers. “There have always been people for whom cynicism is a reflex. Perhaps disbelieving feels safer. Either way, there is little to be gained by insisting to them that something is so, when they do not wish to believe it. The rather, therefore, we must let our deeds be our ambassadors. Our challenge is to live with all the sincerity that is in our hearts, and hope that those who doubt will come to see the truth.”
“Right,” Tom said, chortling. “Good luck with that, fella.”
In that moment I felt the secret thrill of a teacher who sees her student surpass her. Jeremiah no longer needed me to navigate this world. He was ready to shape it to his will.
“That’s all we have time for,” Molly said. “Thanks for joining us, Judge Rice, Boston’s own time traveler. Headline news is next, plus the results of a new survey: how often does the average married couple have sex? The answer may surprise you.”
“Uh-oh,” Tom said. “Is my wife going to want to know this?”
Molly made an openmouthed smile. “We’ll be right back.”
The theme music began playing again. “Camera two,” the director said. “Snug on his mug till we cut away.”
Jeremiah’s face filled the screen. The soundman on my right removed his headset. “Looky looky, what a prince.”
Alex stood on my other side. “Prince of what?” she said.
“Prince of the world that is going to eat him alive.”
CHAPTER 28
Play Ball
(Daniel Dixon)
No question, my first mistake is wearing shorts. All those months inside the four walls of the project, without a break to report on a single desert expedition or tour the Everglades in an airboat, my legs have become pasty white. Gams of a dead guy, I swear.
But I don’t know where our seats will be. If we’re parked out in the freaking bleachers somewhere, full sun for the whole afternoon, I have no intention of roasting in long pants.
Partly I still can’t believe I am going. How our old Frank scored three seats for a Saturday-afternoon game against the Yanks, I still don’t entirely understand. Something about agreeing with a TV show to be filmed during the game and interviewed after, is what it was, but I didn’t pay attention to details. The chance to watch the Bronx Bombers spank the Sox at home was too good to pass up. I have loved the Yankees about since I could walk, and couldn’t care less who they beat on any particular day.
The only disappointment is that Dr. Kate has some research thing to finish for Carthage today. I’d been drooling at the notion of seeing her in shorts. Then, out of the whole remaining lab staff, only Gerber wants to see the game, which proves what a pack of nerds that crew is, but which therefore left seat number three available for yours truly. Ka-chingg.
As a result I’m not carrying a camera, or notebook, or much besides a wallet and phone, when I hit the project offices. As any reporter with ten minutes’ experience will tell you, this is always when the biggest news happens.
After muscling my way through the shouters and oddballs outside the building’s front door, I come bopping off the elevator feeling like the original Mr. “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” when a line of guys in suits strolls out of the private conference room. I pull back for a second. Carthage shakes each one’s hand, thanking them for coming in on a weekend. He’s smiling but these guys are as dour as undertakers. Each one has a green binder tucked under his arm. Thomas swipes his security badge and presses the elevator call button for them, a signal of their importance as obvious as a fire alarm.
I duck behind a door and whip out my phone. Only a cheapo camera but it will do. The suits are not talking, not a word. There are enough of them that some have to wait after the elevator fills up. Smile fellas, I think, snapshotting. You’ll catch the next one. No need for introductions just now.
After the second elevator loads, the doors whispering closed, Carthage turns to Thomas. “What’s your take?”
“Six interested, three eager. Too bad Bronsky didn’t show.”
“Maybe four. How many will break the confidentiality contract?”
“You saw how readily they signed, sir. I think we’re secure in that department.”
“Let’s do a full review and debrief.”
“Yes, sir.”
They march off toward Carthage’s office. Funny, I have never seen Carthage consult anyone before, much less his lackey. Anyway I can’t help snooping in the conference room, and yes, they’ve left two goodies behind. One is a list of names, which I photograph in a heartbeat. The other is one of those green binders. Score.
Of course I don’t have a briefcase or anywhere to hide the damn thing. I hustle out to the hallway and swipe my badge to enter the control room.
“Dixon.”
It’s Thomas. I turn, holding the binder behind my back. “What’s up?”
“What brings you in on a Saturday?”
“The ballgame, remember?”
“Right.” He thinks for a second. “When did you get here?”
“Dunno.” I shrug. “How long does it take to walk down this hallway?”
Thomas makes some kind of internal calculation, then heads for the conference room. “Have fun at the game.”
I open the control room door. “You bet.”
But he’s already gone. In the control room, I snoop through the glass as he hustles out with that list of names. He must have forgotten that Mr. Bronsky had a binder coming too.
Gerber is rocking out at his desk, headphones clomped on his ears, a grin of bliss on his face, and I can just imagine where that came from. I look around for someplace to stash the binder, but every place seems too obvious. Then I see it: the out-box-type basket where Gerber puts old Perv du Jours after posting a new one. Not much chance of discovery there. I stuff the binder underneath the pile, scrambling the papers over it to look naturally messy.
Gerber is in shorts, too. And if my hams look strange, his are downright comical. He’s wearing these plaid Bermudas like something out of 1949, legs as pale as a salamander. We are such lab rats in here, I swear. The Lazarus Project menagerie.
I goose him with my thumb. “Our hero awake yet?”
“Yes indeed,” Gerber says, removing the headphones and straightening in his chair. “Already up when I got here at six.”
I scan the closed chamber curtains. “He’s that stoked to see the game?”
“Or something,” Gerber answers. Before I ask what he means by that, he points at the clock. “We ought to get rolling, since they want us there so early.”
“On the case,” I say, starting around the corner. “What’s the pass code again?”
“Two-six-six-seven,” he calls, without a thought. But I’m thinking: Bingo. Finally got it.
I’ve never liked the lockdown part of this place, as if somebody must be doing something illegal. Or old Frank is somehow a prisoner. Punching in 2667, I notice the letters above each number like on a phone. It hits me: maybe the pass code is actually a word. The door slides back and the judge is sitting reading. He’s wearing a suit and a bright yellow tie. You’d have thought we were going to a debutante ball.
Which only shows that I forgot what a freak fest life is whenever the judge is involved. I mean if Gerber and I look weird, old Frank takes
the blue ribbon. “What’s with the getup?”
“I’ll need to purchase a hat somewhere,” he says. “A tall one that befits the grandstand. Do you know of a good place we might stop along the way?”
Look, I know better than to indulge the guy, no matter how much everyone else makes a habit of kissing his 140-year-old behind. But the fact is, he’s going to roast in that outfit, not to mention how popular a tall hat would be in the snug of Fenway Park. He’ll be pissing people off four rows back. Which amuses me to consider, until an idea comes along that’s so much better, it might as well be whistling a happy tune.
“I know just the lid for you,” I say. “And a perfect spot we can get one.”
“Excellent,” he says, setting his book on the bed as carefully as if it was the Bible. I snoop and it’s Great Expectations. I remember ninth-grade agony wading through that doorstop, dull as a raining Sunday. The only thing I liked was how the crazy rich lady faked everyone into thinking she would leave a wad to the kid, but the money turned out to be from a criminal he’d helped years before. Didn’t see that one coming.
Our Frank jumps to his feet, tugging his vest sharp. “Shall we be off?”
I notice that lately he has more spark to him, and not just about a baseball game. He’s faster to learn things, quicker to answer questions, less likely to need a nap. It’s like he’s finally all the way awake.
“Yeah, let’s grab Gerber and get moving. You know you’re throwing the opening pitch?”
“What? I did not know that, no. My goodness, what an honor.”
“Well, just make sure the ball makes it all the way to the plate, okay? Don’t freaking embarrass us all.”
“No, of course not.”
“Come on.” I hook a thumb toward the door. “Let’s make like a baby, and head out.”
He’s shaking his noggin at me, but follows like a pup on a leash.
Carthage had Thomas hire a town car, but there is no way yours truly would go to a ballgame by limo. Germs be damned. If the sneezes, coughing, and handshakes of half of Boston haven’t killed the guy already, riding the T to Fenway Park won’t do any worse. Not to mention our old Frank will get a big helping of true Boston that day, so why not give him the common man’s transportation? We sneak out the back door while the town car idles out front.
For the entire T ride the judge babbles about ballgames in the days of old. Apparently there were these local characters who would carouse beforehand at a bar called Third Base, then pour themselves into the bleachers under a banner that said THE ROYAL ROOTERS. They were so rowdy, sportswriters gave them as much ink as the games.
“Those crazy madcap palookas,” Gerber says, winking at me.
The judge doesn’t notice. He’s just getting warmed up. “There were other fans, equally devoted but with behavior more appropriate to my station. I joined them whenever the press of cases abated and I could hurry away to the Walpole Street grounds. Oh, and now I remember, later they played at Huntington Avenue. Lucy Swift of New Bedford, for example. She never missed a game, always wore a black dress, and kept tallies on batters and pitchers in her own little black score book. Michael Regan, too, he ran a prominent Boston furniture company. A hard worker, but somehow he always found time to watch the Pilgrims play.”
That one gets my attention. “The Pilgrims? Who the hell were they?”
“One of the parent teams for the Red Sox, along with the Cincinnati Red Stockings. This was always a premium baseball town, I’d say. Fifty-cent tickets when the other teams charged twenty-five.”
“What?” Gerber yelps. “Fifty cents? Do you have any idea what today’s tickets cost?”
People up and down the car look at us, then studiously turn away. It’s one of my favorite things about mass transit, how people fake like they aren’t listening. It’s the same in New York subways, BART in San Francisco, the D.C. Metro, everywhere the experts in eavesdropping.
“I can’t imagine. Four dollars? Six?”
I just laugh, I can’t help it. “Not quite, Frank.”
Gerber cackles, too. “Try nine hundred.”
“I beg your pardon? That’s impossible. Why, in my time the players only earned perhaps three thousand a season.”
“Well, bub, now they get a thousand times that much,” I say. “Or more.”
That sets him off again, this time about all the special players in the great season of 1903. “That year was the first World Series, you see, to settle the feud between the American and National leagues. Pittsburgh went ahead of the Red Sox by three games to one. The pitching was amazing, blistering speed, even though the leagues had moved the mound back a few years before because no one could get a hit off Amos Rusie. Oh, it is all coming back to me now.”
“I can tell,” I snore at him. “How wonderful for you.”
There are plenty of buffs out there who dote on dusty baseball lore, but not me. Sure, when yours truly covered the legislature, I knew every committee chairman and which lobbyists bought him the most drinks. When it comes to sports, though, all the numbers wreck it as bad as a rainout. Just tell me who’s in first place, and if it isn’t the Yanks then how many games back are they, and how long till the play-offs. When people carry on about early baseball, I can feel myself growing cobwebs.
We reach the Fenway stop and move with the crowd toward the stairs. Frank’s mouth is running like a lawn mower.
“Buck Freeman, he was first baseman. Jimmy Collins—oh, he was a quick one. He played third, and was also team manager. But the real strength was Bill Dinneen, the pitcher. Of course we had Cy Young, too, the greatest hurler ever, but he was older by then. Also Iron Man McGinnity, who pitched three doubleheaders all by himself that August. At any rate, the Red Sox came back from that three-to-one deficit to win four games straight and take the first World Series.”
At that, an old man next to us turns from climbing the stairs. “And it was big Bill Dinneen pitched three of those four comeback games,” he wheezes. He’s wearing an ancient Sox cap that fits his noggin like a second skin.
“That’s correct,” the judge says, like they’re instant brothers. “Exactly correct.”
One more second of this gung ho gullyrot and I’m going to slap somebody. I bend away toward Yawkey Way, the alley beside the park. I know what will cork him.
Sure enough the vendors are out with their carts, hawking T-shirts and hats. I dicker with one for half a minute, and come back a few bucks poorer but with a nice fresh cap, blue with a red B on the front, and pop it on old Frank’s head.
“Now you’re a legitimate fan,” I say.
Gerber points at him. “Why, look. Isn’t that man a Royal Rooter?”
The judge stops right where he’s standing, takes in all the people wearing ordinary clothes for a game, ball caps and T-shirts and not a top hat in sight. Then he adjusts the lid, and puffs his chest out like an old-time bodybuilder. “I smell victory.”
“Nah,” I say, leading him in. “They’re just boiling the hot dogs.”
The TV crew is waiting, along with a guide from the stadium. We get a complete tour of the downstairs. We meet the team owner, a white-haired guy with a tan so perfect it would make a movie star give up sunblock. The judge shakes hands with everyone, a big sincere “hello there,” I don’t care if it’s a janitor with his mop and bucket. The camera guy leans in constantly to get his angle. Frank and the owner both seem oblivious. I just try to stay out of the lights.
Finally one of the handlers leads us through a maze of halls toward the field, pausing in the last bit of shadowed doorway as if to build suspense. Grass and light beckon from beyond. I’m thinking it’s corny to hesitate there, until a second later when we march into the reality of the park. Now, I don’t care which team you like, dammit, or what century you were born in, coming out of the door onto that giant lawn and the summer sun and the rows of seats rising all around you, I tell you that is something, really something.
“What do you think of that, old Frank?�
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He rotates in a slow circle. “Why do you call me that?”
“No reason,” I say. “It’s an old joke.”
“My name is Jeremiah Rice,” he replies absently, taking in the whole scene. “We might see ten thousand people attending a game, in my time. Today must be three or four times that sum.” He keeps turning. “So much humanity.”
The stands are nearly filled, batboys and old-timers hanging around the dugouts, out-of-towners posing for snapshots, the general excitement before a ballgame. There’s a good half hour of folderol, what with baseball being all about a long windup before the pitch, if you know what I mean. Then the announcer calls forward an a cappella group from Tufts University to sing the national anthem.
“I know that college,” the judge says. “I went there.”
I stir the air with one finger. “Whoopie.”
The kids have decent voices. A tall guy, skinny as an oar, sings incredibly low. One soprano with big red hair has a terrific set of knockers. Attagal.
When they reach “the land of the free,” and hold that note, damn if our Frank doesn’t knuckle at one of his eyes. What the hell? As they finish and the crowd cheers, Gerber leans over. “You all right?”
He nods. “I had forgotten.”
What an odd duck, I swear. Then they announce that a special guest will throw today’s first pitch. At the name Jeremiah Rice, a big cheer goes up. He marches to the mound, an umpire and the team owner at his side. Before he arrives, though, a chorus of boos comes from somewhere, too. There it is, one moment capturing the world’s regard for the judge: fair to partly cloudy.
The ump hands a ball to Frank. He weighs it, feeling the laces. He does the damnedest thing then, shucks off his coat to give his arms more freedom. But he needs somewhere to hang it, and while he’s looking around the whole stadium is waiting. It’s only the opening pitch, pal.
That’s the moment the team owner gives a go-get-’em swing of his fist and says, “Let ’er rip, Jeremiah.” The judge turns, sees the guy’s outstretched arm, and hangs his jacket on it. Half the stadium breaks out laughing. The owner keeps a good friendly smile on. Maybe he’s not oblivious to the camera after all.
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