“It comes down to the big picture,” Brunner said, throwing a glance in Amanti’s direction, as if she were the arbiter. “There’s a governorship at stake now, too, you know, and I’m afraid Kelley here’s supporting the wrong man.”
It was an old conflict, this argument over which Democrat—Sarafis or Wells—should be governor. Amanti had realized instinctively, even at that first meeting, that Brunner and Kelley’s disagreement had more to do with the clashing of their personalities than it had to do with politics or even self-interest. There was a natural antipathy between the two men. Uncle Liuzza worked to patch it over. “You don’t have to agree on the governorship issue to support him as our local representative. I don’t agree with him either, but he’s going to make some changes that’ll never be made otherwise.… After all, you’re in construction yourself, aren’t you?”
Brunner agreed, though somewhat reluctantly. During dinner the issue was dropped. A red-haired woman with features as fine and fragile as porcelain sat next to Kelley. She wore very bright, colorful clothes; she smiled constantly, nervously, though at no one in particular. She hardly spoke and her hand fluttered nervously over her soup. She was Kelley’s fiancée, Amanti learned, the daughter of a powerful politician. There was a tenuousness about her, a sort of loose hysteria under the surface that seemed as if it might actually break her apart, and Amanti noticed the way Kelley occasionally reached out to touch the woman, as if to see that she was still in one piece.
Amanti found herself sitting next to Brunner. She ignored him at first, until she saw Kelley was watching. Then she changed her behavior. She talked to Brunner throughout dinner in a way she thought to be both flattering and clever, occasionally grazing the man’s shoulder with her hand and cutting her eyes toward Kelley, to see if he was watching. He was. For a second Brunner rested his hand in her lap. Though it was gone just as quickly, she still wondered why she hadn’t moved to take it away.
After dinner, when everyone else was in the front room drinking, Kelley caught Amanti alone in the kitchen. He leaned up against the counter beside her. Amanti could still remember the moment in great detail: Kelley’s aggressive slouch; the calm way his hands rested against the counter; his clear voice as he asked her where she lived, where she went to school, how old she was.
As they stood there like that, Brunner walked in. Though Brunner was married himself, you could see the jealousy in his eyes, not necessarily because he wanted her, she realized, but because he did not want Kelley to have his way in everything; Kelley leaned back and smiled. The air was charged with an exotic excitement that she could not put a name to but that she still remembered.
“That night, when your uncle first introduced me to Brunner,” Kelley told her later, “I could tell it bothered him how easy I sat there in Liuzza’s house. He didn’t like it. And he didn’t like the way I smiled when I shook his hand.”
She got together with Kelley that very next weekend in Boston. That’s when the affair started. For a while it had seemed Kelley would break off with his fiancée, but he never did. Perhaps it was because he loved the woman. Kelley had said that himself several times. Or perhaps it was because he needed the political support of her powerful father. Kelley had said that, too. Either way he went ahead with the marriage, and went on seeing Amanti.
The times when she had been with Kelley were intense, and the times when she was not with him—which were sometimes brief and sometimes long, depending on his social schedule and political commitments—she carried that same intensity within her, so that it gave special drama to the simplest moments, to the mere fact of walking down the Boston streets and feeling the wind in her face. She felt as if her life were propelled in a way that the strangers on the street around her could never know. Other times she felt as if the core of her life had rotted away and all she had left were the individual moments, instants when she almost hated Kelley, when the gap between her everyday life and her secret life was accentuated too painfully. Despite herself, she enjoyed the tumult of her emotion and did nothing to change the way things were.
Then the affair was discovered. Uncle Liuzza found out. So did the red-haired woman’s powerful father. Uncle Liuzza put pressure on her, the father-in-law put pressure on Kelley, and the whole thing was complicated by the fact that Kelley was up for reelection, and complicated further, twisted into knots, by a foolish, unnecessary kickback scheme the only intention of which, it seemed, had been to irritate his father-in-law, who in turn promised to forget the whole thing, to wash it away and help Kelley with his reelection, so long as Kelley didn’t do anything to hurt his daughter. Kelley agreed. He promised not to see Amanti. So she started up with Brunner, to rile Kelley’s jealousy. Though that had worked for a while, it had not worked quite well enough, and gradually—in a way that sometimes confounded her and sometimes seemed inevitable—she had become enmeshed with Brunner.
Kelley came back, of course. Lately she had seen him as much as ever. The changes that took place, in herself and in Brunner and in Kelley, took place slowly, so in some ways she didn’t even notice them. Several months ago she had found out about the arsons. Brunner had told her himself, in an incident that still bewildered her. Even so, the fact of the arsons hadn’t seemed particularly important to her at first, just old buildings burning and the transfer of money from one account to the next, the sort of thing men talked about around tables, the air stale with cigarette smoke and liquor while they debated the legality of some plan, or how to disguise the illegality, then smiled to themselves when the lines seemed sufficiently blurred. Later she read in the paper how some people had died in one of the buildings; then, by coincidence, it seemed, she ended up in the same room with Randy Gutierrez, the Redwings’ shortstop, who told her more about the fires.
When she mentioned what was going on to Kelley, he seized upon it. Kelley came up with a plan to leak the information to the press. They would find a reporter they could control, and they would get him started on the fires. Then Kelley would go to Brunner himself. He would say that he knew about the arsons, that this reporter had told him. He would offer to help Brunner, to put a rag in the reporter’s mouth, so long as Brunner switched sides in the gubernatorial race. Switching sides meant, of course, contributing money. If Sarafis could win, then Kelley would be in good shape to buck his father-in-law, to do as he pleased. The whole scheme depended on finding the right reporter. Someone not already in Brunner’s camp, someone who—when the folding money was on the table—would take a few dollars and keep his mouth shut. Lofton’s arrival in town seemed like perfect timing, though there was always someone like that guy around, Kelley told her, with his kind of history, who had been involved with something just like that business with Senator Hansen in California. Still, it was perfect. “All you have to do is keep the reporter interested, push him in the right direction. I’ll arrange the rest.”
Now Amanti shook her head and wiped her brow. The heat was too much. She found herself staring at one of the black, indecipherable photographs. She went back into the shower to cool herself down.
Last winter she had been in the shower on a day as cold as this one was hot, trying to escape the winter cold as she now tried to escape the heat. Brunner was visiting. He had come across her photo album while she was in the shower. When she got out of the shower, he had been standing in the hall outside the bathroom, holding the book in his hand.
“A lot of pictures in here of Kelley,” he’d said, and then added with a certain pleasure, “From what I hear, he’s got himself another mistress now.”
Amanti had brushed past him into the bedroom, trying to ignore the sudden draft of cold, the sharpness of the air. Now, turning the shower on a little harder, she wondered if what Brunner had said that day was true and figured it probably was.
On Saturday morning Lofton called McCullough to ask him if he would like a story on Randy Gutierrez’s slump for Monday sports, since the Redwings would be back soon. He got Kirpatzke instead, and Kirpatzke agree
d so quickly, so easily, it made Lofton wonder. Kirpatzke did not even ask about the story on Lou Mendoza, but then he hadn’t wanted him to write it in the first place.
“I was thinking …” Lofton paused.
“You were?”
Lofton ignored Kirpatzke’s tone.
“What happened to Einstein?”
“Einstein?”
“Yeah, Einstein, the writer who did the fire stories, the features on the Puerto Rican wards, that stuff.”
“What about him?”
“Have you heard from him yet?”
Kirpatzke was silent.
“No news?” Lofton said.
“He hasn’t been sending me any postcards, if that’s what you mean.”
Now it was Lofton’s turn to be quiet.
“All right?” Kirpatzke asked.
“All right.”
The following day Lofton called Golden to arrange an interview with Randy Gutierrez.
“Gutierrez?” Golden asked. Lofton was weary of people responding to him with one-word questions. Even so, he guessed Golden sounded brusque because he thought such formalities unnecessary. It was common practice for sportswriters, especially in the minors, to wander onto the field and talk to the players.
“Will you tell him to hold some time for me?”
Golden said he would. Lofton hoped so. He wanted Randy Gutierrez to know he was coming, to feel the interview was official, something sanctioned by the club.
Of course, there was another side to it, one that said he should just catch Gutierrez by surprise. The shortstop’s situation in Holyoke was precarious. He was having a bad season. His contract died at the end of the summer. He wanted to immigrate, to bring his wife and children up from Managua. He might be superstitious about talking to the press, too, the same way he was superstitious about dressing out in the clubhouse before a game, figuring it would bring him bad luck on the field. If he was concerned about the Immigration and Naturalization Service—with the Sandinista trouble, the INS was looking at all Nicaraguans, even ballplayers, with a suspicious eye—then that might also make him reluctant to talk. Gutierrez might avoid him, say he had to work with the trainer in the locker room, some damned excuse, or, better yet, pretend he spoke no English whatsoever. And if Gutierrez were tied up with Brunner, as Amanti had indicated, then he might disappear from the lineup completely.
But no, Gutierrez couldn’t run, especially if he had something to hide. That would be the worst thing, the most obvious thing he could do. Finally, Lofton felt he had made the right decision. By giving Gutierrez advance warning, he gave him time to think things over, time to get nervous. It was Lofton’s experience that it was best to catch politicians off guard with a quick, direct question at an unexpected time, usually after a defeat. But others, those not used to the press, got more nervous, more apt to stumble, the more time you gave them to think things over.
He expected Gutierrez, like all ballplayers, would talk in clichés: Keep my eye on the ball, do what I can for the club and things will come around, been down before, motivate myself, concentration, control. Somewhere in there, interrupting that steady, predictable stream, Lofton would ask how he liked Holyoke—The fans here are good to me—and then, after asking Gutierrez something about the owners, mentioning Amanti’s name, he would slide toward the question of the fires. If Gutierrez wanted to talk, as Amanti said, it should not be that hard. He would assure him that he wouldn’t print anything sensitive. At least not now. As far as the Dispatch went, he knew what he would give it: Gutierrez’s background, his nervous eye, his slump, his determination.
When Lofton arrived at the park, the Redwings were taking practice. A few diehard fans stood by the sidelines, watching and talking among themselves. Gutierrez was not on the field, nor was he in the locker room. Lofton could not find Golden either, so he asked Coach Barker, the manager, who was gruff and brief as always.
“Gutierrez’ll be here. At least he better be.”
Game time approached, but still Gutierrez did not show up. Lofton talked to Tim Carpenter, the second baseman. He knew Gutierrez as well as anyone. The pair had roomed together for a while. The Redwings’ program compared them to Luis Aparicio and Nellie Fox, the double-play infielders for the old Chicago White Sox.
“Randy had a bad road trip. Lots of errors and no hits. He has some trouble concentrating.”
Tim Carpenter avoided Lofton’s eyes; something in his voice suggested there was more to the matter than a simple slump or some problem in concentration.
“Drugs?” Lofton blundered out with it, regretting it instantly, though he knew such blundering, such clumsiness in interviews, was his strength as a reporter.
Carpenter shot him a dirty look. A moment later, when the national anthem—a scratchy tape played over the public-address system—started, he placed his cap over his heart and turned to the flag. Lofton turned with him. He tried to apologize, but Carpenter did not let him.
“Save it,” Carpenter said. “You guys are all assholes.”
The anthem ended, and Carpenter trotted off to his defensive position.
Lofton felt bad. Tim Carpenter was one of the hustlers on the team, one of the few with real spirit; his position was solid all the way up through the California organization, and it was too bad no other teams had expressed interest in him. Second base had been Lofton’s own position in college, back when he was light on his feet and could pivot quickly. He liked watching Carpenter play. Lofton told himself he would write a story that made Gutierrez look good for the Dispatch, to prove that Carpenter’s opinion was unfair. He had just been doing his job; surely Carpenter could understand that. Still, he wished the interview hadn’t gone sour. If nothing else, he had hoped to get Gutierrez’s Holyoke address from Carpenter. Tenace, over in the press box, might know the name of the family Gutierrez lived with.
Just then, however, Lofton spotted Dick Golden. The general manager was coming in from the street with the young, retarded-looking kid Lofton had seen at the library. The boy still wore a Redwings’ cap, twisted backward on his head. When the kid got Golden’s attention, he fidgeted in front of him, his eyes downward, his feet jittering, his hand moving up and down as if it belonged to another person. The kid had a habit of following the players around, and recently he’d taken to Golden. Lofton guessed that the kid knew Dick Golden had been a star once, a big-league pitcher in California. As Lofton approached, Golden handed the kid some money, and the kid ran off.
“Paying him off?” Lofton asked.
Golden gave Lofton a sharp look. “No. He’s getting me a Coke. The kid’s always around. He likes to do things for us. Better he’s here than out on the street somewhere.”
“Sure,” Lofton said. “Small crowd tonight, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” Golden said. Then he added impatiently, “You want something?”
“Gutierrez’s address.”
“It’s against policy,” Golden said, and turned his back on Lofton.
“If I find him, I’ll send him out to the park.”
“Just mind your business.” Golden was suddenly angry, his voice sharp and bitter. “I don’t need you people pestering me.”
Lofton headed to the press box. He wasn’t having much luck. What he had heard about Golden was true. The man was moody, even nasty. Settling down between the other reporters, he mentioned it to Tenace.
“Oh, Golden, he’s always like that,” said Tenace, entering a mark on his scorecard. “One minute he’s an angel. Paint wings on him, and he’d float to heaven. Next minute he’s a son of a bitch. Can’t blame him, though. His wife’s stuck in that wheelchair.”
When the field changed hands, Holyoke coming to bat, Lofton tried to edge Tenace into telling him what he needed to know. Tenace always loved to talk.
“The family Gutierrez rooms with, haven’t they put up players before?”
Tenace squinted up at him, then away. For once he seemed at a loss for words. After waiting for a few minutes, Lofto
n repeated his question. Tenace turned nervously and squinted up at him again.
“Hey,” he said, “what happened to your face?”
Lofton reached a hand to his cheek and remembered the other night, how he slipped while running the bases. “I slipped in the parking lot.” Lofton shrugged awkwardly.
“Chasing that Puerto Rican pussy again, huh, boy?”
Down on the field Carpenter, the leadoff batter, singled sharply to right. Tenace made a mark on his scorecard and turned back to Lofton. He could not leave the joke alone. “Our star reporter here, he fell drunk on his face last night while trying to stick it to some Puerto Rican gash.”
Lofton laughed, trying to go along with the joke. Again he asked Tenace where Gutierrez lived. This time Tenace acted as if he hadn’t heard the question.
Suddenly Lofton thought of something. “Hey, did you come looking for me at the library the other day? Was that you?”
“No, not me. I don’t go anywhere near those places. Not my style, not ever.” The scorer shook his head and turned back to the field.
Annoyed, Lofton watched Tim Carpenter increase his lead off first. Carpenter jumped with the pitch, stirred up some dust, and slid headfirst into second, the throw coming in high and late behind him. The crowd stood and cheered.
“You doing a feature?” asked Rhiner, sounding amused.
“Yes,” said Lofton. “That’s what I’m doing.”
Carpenter was advancing to third on a slow grounder; he scored on the next play, on Banks’s deep fly. With two outs Lofton figured the scoring was over for the inning. Sitting in the press box—still trying to think of a way to coax the information from Tenace—he watched the Glens Falls pitcher, a jittery youngster just up from Single A, throw four balls in a row to Lumpy, the Redwings’ catcher. As the pitcher waited for a new batter, Lofton felt someone tap him on the shoulder. It was Rhiner.
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