The Rare Event

by P D Singer

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah.” Ricky cursed his policy of honesty. That turned to a general what-the-fuck? because Jon just continued on his errand, not stopping to see Ricky put his hand in his pocket or insist that he come along.

  Ricky had a limited amount of time, so instead of sitting back in the end seat, he moved one down and dropped the program in his lap.

  “Want me to explain the abbreviations?” Davis drawled.

  Damn him for taking the offensive! Ricky shot back, “What makes you think I need explanations?”

  Davis laughed. “You didn’t get excited about some exciting stuff. You don’t know a thing about baseball, do you?”

  “No, and I really don’t care.” Ricky folded up the program. If he wanted to know, he’d get Jon to teach him.

  “That’s marginally better than being a Mets fan, I suppose.” Davis folded one long leg over the other, taking up more room. “Why are you here?”

  “To find out what your intentions are towards him.” Ricky felt vaguely ridiculous and paternal saying that, but anything else would out Jon, and maybe this guy didn’t know. “You’re a stranger, you haven’t been around in years, you pop up and start hanging with my friend, I get concerned. He meets a lot of gold diggers.”

  “Concerned, huh? Don’t worry; I am the human in his world least likely to be a gold digger.” Davis laughed without humor. “You, now….”

  “Not an issue.” Ricky was stung but knew Davis meant it to sting. “I’m a friend.”

  “Are you more like his boyfriend?” Davis looked unimpressed with Ricky’s concern. “Don’t worry, I know which way he swings.”

  At least the guy kept his voice down, and then the crowd erupted again. Ricky didn’t look away to see who had caused the uproar, though Davis glanced. The noise kept Davis’s question pitched for Ricky’s ears only. “And are you exclusive?”

  So he’d decided to take “boyfriend” as a given from whatever had gone across Ricky’s face, and asked a terrible question. While Ricky worked the lie through his lips, Davis answered it himself. “Took too long. You want to say yes, but the truth is no.” Davis narrowed his eyes. “Say yes now and I’ll ask him.”

  “Ask me what?” Jon stood at the end of the row, waiting rather than sitting down. Ricky took the hint and got out of the seat he’d known he’d be evicted from.

  “If you think the Yanks are going to win the league?” How the hell did Davis manage to come up with that so smoothly?

  “Not if they keep playing the way they’re playing tonight.” Jon planted himself next to Davis. Ricky figured out what had happened during the earlier uproar by glancing at the scoreboard, which read 3-5.

  Good, there was a glossary of abbreviations in the back of the program. Armed now with knowledge, Ricky went back to watching the game fitfully, trying to make sense out of the newly translated categories, which started to tell a picture of the players’ strengths once he knew what he was looking at. The yelling made him look up, and then throw his hands up.

  The baseball rocketed toward him, though it landed in the stands a bit to his left, bouncing off Davis to Jon, who juggled a bit but couldn’t get a grip. The ball rebounded to Ricky. The screaming in the stands drowned out the world, and Ricky could only stare at what he held.

  “Am I supposed to throw it back?” he yelled, trying to be heard over the roar.

  “No!” Davis and Jon yelled together, and Jon explained further. “It’s out of play, keep it. They don’t expect to get it back.”

  It was rather exciting, but 49,999 people in that stadium wanted that ball more than Ricky did. The only one that mattered stood beside him with shining eyes.

  “You stopped it from going anywhere else, it should be yours.” Ricky placed the ball into Jon’s hand, using both of his own to press it into Jon’s palm and wrap his fingers around the leather. Blue eyes went wide with wonder and then narrow with—loss? Calculation?

  “Davis, it hit you first. It really should be yours.” Jon offered the ball to Davis, who sat back down, turning the ball over and over in his hands, running a finger over the red-stitched seam.

  Ricky wanted to scream “Hey! I gave that to you, moron, not him!” but left it at, “Hey!” out loud. Jon flicked a look over his shoulder—Ricky stopped.

  “Thanks, guys.” Davis grinned at them both, though it faltered when it reached Ricky’s face. Good, let him know that he was interfering. Next time Ricky caught a baseball, he’d give it to Davis first, at about seventy miles an hour, overhand.

  “We just made a dream come true for him.” Ricky recognized the pleading in Jon’s tone and face, but no, he wasn’t inclined to overlook that Jon had pleased this man using a gift that Ricky had given him. “Davis is a really big fan—he follows the game way more than I do.” Jon twined his fingers through Ricky’s, leaving their hands lying on Ricky’s thigh.

  The scoreboard said 3-7, but even with Jon’s public display of affection, Ricky felt like he’d given up more than a home run.

  The music that had been playing intermittently in the background swelled to overwhelming volume, and the players cleared the field. Voices rose to join the organ, singing “Take me out to the ballgame….” For Ricky, the lyrics came to mind as “Stake me out on an ant hill….” He refrained from singing only because Jon would be annoyed and further convinced he should have left Ricky behind, and then he’d concentrate on that bastard with the baseball in his pocket.

  “Seventh inning stretch, just in time.” Davis uncoiled from the bench and raised his linked fingers high above his head. In other situations, Ricky would have enjoyed that view quite well, but Jon was looking too, and that took all the artistic value right out of it. “I need to hit the head.”

  Jackpot. “Me too. Jon, find me a soda, okay?” Ricky pressed a five into Jon’s palm and squeezed enticingly. “I’m really dry.”

  Whoops, too much detail; now Jon looked puzzled. Time to get out of there before he figured out where the beer went. Ricky followed Davis up the stairs, toward the bathroom.

  They fought their way toward the urinals, Ricky making sure to end up next to Davis, despite the crush. He unzipped and snarled at his equally unzipped captive audience, “I gave that baseball to him.”

  Davis snorted. “And he gave it to me.”

  “Yeah, why?” Ricky was going to lose his aim if he let his anger shake him. Maybe he could spatter this damned interloper.

  “Jon’s always looked out for me. He’s a good guy.”

  “He is.” How good was Jon to this blond Adonis? “But you shouldn’t have taken it.”

  Davis shook and zipped. “You care more that I shouldn’t have it than you care that Jon does have it.”

  “I want him to be happy—that’s why I’m here.” Ricky zipped.

  “Ha. ‘This is Ricky Santeramo, who won’t be joining us tonight’,” Davis quoted. “You’re here because you can’t bear for him to have a good time without you.” He shoved his way out the men’s room. Ricky followed, determined to rub Davis’s face in how wrong he was, but Davis stopped the words in his mouth. “Is ‘not exclusive’ your idea or his?”

  Ricky didn’t speak to that, saying only, “He’s okay with it,” seriously redefining that Jon only went along with it, and not happily. Davis didn’t deserve that information.

  “Really? I wouldn’t have thought he’d changed that much since I saw him last.” Davis strode confidently through the crowd milling around in the corridor.

  Ricky matched him stride for stride, forcing the crowd to move aside. Still, he felt as if he were chasing after Davis on levels he couldn’t identify. “How long have you known Jon, anyway?”

  “Practically forever.”

  Wrong question—Jon had already claimed a long friendship, but before Ricky could demand to know how Davis knew him, they were back in the stands, and Jon would give him grief for interrogating.

  When Jon handed him the cup of soda, Ricky wanted to thank him with a kiss,
but Jon only slid back into his seat after letting Davis by, and the careful look he gave the other man made Ricky angry all over again. No, he hadn’t beaten up Davis in the bathroom! What was Jon thinking?

  “Is there some reason we have to watch this to the bitter end?” It was the bottom of the eighth inning, and the Yankees were still down by four. The late summer light was fading and making the numbers in the program hard to distinguish, and the antics in the bleachers had begun to remind Ricky of monkeys in a cage. “We could miss the crowd on the way out.”

  “And we could miss some excitement—it’s not over.” Jon cast a crushing glance Ricky’s way, which meant more clearly than words, “Quit whining.” Also, “My first major league game since I started seeing you: shut up and let me enjoy it.” “You could go. Davis and I can finish watching the game.”

  Wild horses couldn’t have dragged Ricky out of the ballpark after that.

  Praying for a quick resolution to his boredom, Ricky watched the Yankee batter adjust his stance, though unfortunately not his groin, and five pitches later, the man walked to first base. Big deal. Three pitches got the next man out; Ricky turned his wrist very stealthily to check his watch. This could be over fast. The next batter connected, sending fielders scurrying and throwing, but not apparently very well—Jon and Davis were shrieking now about, “That could have been a double play! What a rotten throw!”

  Okay, one out, two guys on base—this could get more interesting. Ricky set the program down, watching the next batter whiff twice before sailing the ball into right field. There was no fielder there, and now each base had a runner. This Ricky understood without coaching, although the screaming crowd provided a clue.

  “Pinch-hitter time,” Davis commented. “This guy’s got a better chance of a hit than the scheduled batter.”

  Thanks a lot, Davis. Remind me to embarrass you sometime. Ricky could have figured out the why just from the what.

  “Left-handed too. More likely to put it into right field,” Jon said. Okay, made sense, no shortstop over there. Ricky started to have a bit more appreciation for the nuances—more factors than hitting the ball mattered here. When all three runners touched bases, and one found home, Ricky cheered with his companions and meant it. 4-7!

  The next batter smashed the ball to the left and stopped at first base, though everyone else kept going, and two of them got home. Perhaps Ricky’s hearing would come back later that night, though if Jon kept shrieking at him, maybe not.

  “This is what you would have missed, Ricky!” Jon wrapped an arm around Ricky’s waist, though his face stayed turned toward the pitcher’s mound. All around them fans cheered and flailed, and if it wouldn’t mean a damned thing in ten years, or ten hours, it was fun now. Ricky squeezed Jon’s shoulders. That lasted until they sat down, and when they did, Davis’s face was a study. Too bad; he could find his own boyfriend.

  “Six to seven, it’s a race now!” Jon studied the next batter, who hit deep into center field, only to have a fielder catch it neatly, and he moaned with the crowd. Ricky surprised himself by groaning with him.

  “This next batter’s good.” Jon nodded hard at Davis’s words, grating on Ricky that he could agree with that jerk on anything, but even Ricky was forced to agree when he got to second, driving another runner home to tie the score.

  Jon fretted about strategy in spite of any reassurance from Ricky’s clasping hand while the count went to 0-2. “Come on, A-Rod!” The next pitch went wide, and the following pitch made the batter suck in his gut to let the ball past; 2-2. Ricky squeezed fingers and held his breath with Jon.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” Jon urged softly. “Do it, do it….” Davis chanted with him. Ricky added his own soft encouragement.

  A-Rod did it—he drove the ball to the left, and the runners blazed around the diamond, Jeter getting to home before the ball bounced in the grass and a fielder hurled it to third.

  “They did it!” Jon shrieked in Ricky’s ear, and Ricky thumped his back, not wanting to let go, but the exulting got spread around—Davis got a huge hug too, damn him.

  “Yeah, they pulled it off! Eight to seven!”

  “Oh man, yeah! Hey, let’s get out of here before the rest of the thundering herd finds the exit!” Ricky let Jon shoo him out. Escape had been high on his priority list for the past hour, though the ninth inning was certainly more interesting than watching paint dry.

  Once out of the stadium, they made good time toward the subway station, not outstripping the entire horde. The neighborhood was a little too dicey to be caught alone. Still, they managed to not only get on the first train headed back to Manhattan, they got seats.

  “That was a great game, Jon,” Davis said again, and the entire ride was spent recapping the game and the greatness of the Yankees, a conversation Ricky again had no real part in, though he did perplex the statisticians.

  “What are the odds of a streak of five batters, five hits, five runs?”

  “Assuming batting average of .310 and an SLOB of .500, then….” Jon’s lips started to move silently with his math.

  Davis disagreed. “Don’t use SLOB, use SLG, we’re not talking walks here, and .500 is high for that.”

  “Okay, with a lower figure….”

  Ricky understood ROI and EBITDA just fine—he could learn the math for baseball if he could give a rat’s ass about the underlying data, not nearly as intriguing as money. Hearing Jon burble on, happily crunching numbers, and Davis crunching with him, Ricky concluded that developing an interest would be the best way to keep Jon’s mind off irritating “old friends” who asked questions he didn’t like answering. A more immediately useful way was to drape his arm over Jon’s shoulder.

  “You coming home with me?” Ricky kept his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the train noise and everyone else’s opinion of the game, interrupting some math about the streak. “You can use my calculator….” Davis looked across Jon at Ricky, and his eyes said that he knew what that invitation was, and that he’d planned to make one like it. Jon shrugged Ricky’s arm away, discomfort all over him and apology on his face. Was that for “not here in public”? Or “not here, in front of Davis”?

  “Need to get Davis home—he’s staying with my parents, and I’ll run upstairs to say hi. So, not tonight. Maybe we’ll finally get that Cuban food tomorrow?” Jon stopped muttering his calculations for the moment.

  “All right.” No, it wasn’t all right; taking Davis home, even to an apartment that contained Jon’s parents, was anything but all right. Ricky consoled himself that Jon had never quite dared more than kisses with him under their roof.

  “See you tomorrow.” Ricky tried to kiss Jon goodnight, but he’d jumped up too quickly, leaving Ricky with an unplanted smooch. Davis smiled unpleasantly before the train doors closed behind him, and Ricky’s last glimpse of his companions was Davis putting a hand on Jon’s shoulder.

  He seethed all the way home and late into the night, cursing Davis Willingham and all things baseball.

  Chapter Twelve

  EDGAR had sneaked in on their seduction yesterday much too late for Jon to have gotten the least bit of use out of it. He wouldn’t rat Ricky out to their boss unless he’d exhausted all other avenues, and he’d try to pick up where he’d left off yesterday, this time with the door shut. Since Ricky had parked his butt at Logan’s desk and his pen scratched over a legal pad, there’d be touchy personal issues to get past before Jon could bring up the touchy professional topic. He leaned against Dwight’s desk and plotted his arguments.

  “A lot of upward movement already in both Lasker Builders and WideWest Financial, but a lot of synergy there, should be good for more,” Ricky said, concluding his announcement of new positions. He went back to doodling the cartoon du jour, probably something mean and baseball-related. Jon both wanted to see and didn’t want to.

  Edgar didn’t even ask about the downside potential, which could only mean that he’d missed the negotiations about the stop-loss orders. O
r had he and Ricky had a meeting already, and it was dealt with? Jon could hope, but Ricky hadn’t bitched about interference with his trades.

  “We’re looking at the mortgage industry,” Jon reluctantly announced when Edgar called upon him and pressed for details on “more research.” “We’re concerned about some questionable fundamentals and trying to locate the shakiest players for short positions.”

  “That had better not include your WideWest.” Edgar’s beady eye went back to Ricky, who shook his head and drew on without looking up, but Logan, sitting on the desk next to the artwork, went pale. “Check with Jon and Dwight, or— What have you found so far, Jon?”

  “The momentum is for the upside on Lasker and WideWest.” At least until the third-quarter earnings figures came out. Momentum investors tended to make a lot of money until the market turned on them, and the turn could be fast and hard. That was a discussion Jon wanted to have with Ricky in private.

  “Well?” Edgar prodded. “Getting information out of you is like pulling teeth today. What about longer term?”

  “The long term isn’t.” There’d be hell to pay for that later—no matter how diplomatically he’d phrased that, he’d all but called Ricky and Logan fools for buying.

  “Two of my senior traders are on opposite sides of the argument?” Jowls quivered—Edgar glared from one side of the room to the other. “Hash it out, boys; you can’t both be right.”

  “Ricky could make a pile of dough in the short term.” It was true, but would that keep the peace? “He’ll get out with the cash, and I’ll make the bucks on the other side of the roller coaster. We all win.” They would, too, if Ricky could take his profits in time. Could Jon convince him? Or if not, protect him?

  “Sounds good. Trade wisely, boys and girls. Pramiti?” The inevitable summons brought the pretty young woman to her feet, but her eyes stayed on the floor.