by Paul Hina
back around to the side of the house. He ducks down to avoid being spotted at the bedroom window, and turns the front corner of the house to the porch. He tries to keep his limp steady as he climbs the rickety wooden steps to the porch. He moves toward the front door, leans against the wall beside it. The mail box is jamming him in the back, and, when he turns to give it a dirty look, there is a single letter poking out from the top of the box. Clay grabs the letter. The letter is to Kevin, just 'Kevin,' no last name. There is no return address. The handwriting looks to be from a feminine hand.
Clay opens the letter.
Kevin,
Change of plans. Not going to L.A. yet. Started to worry about not having enough money to get by there. So, I panicked and took a job at a diner in the bus station here in Salinas. I figured I'd stay here until we have the money. I still need you to bring the stuff I asked you to get for me. I'm running out of clothes, and there's just no way I can show my face up there. And, don't worry, I have a little place where you can stay while you're here.
Love,
Em
He folds the letter back up, returns it to its envelope, and slides it into his inside jacket pocket. Then he slides the handle of the bat out from his jacket sleeve, takes his jacket off, hangs it over the mailbox, and rolls his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. He turns the doorknob. It's unlocked.
Clay walks into the house, carefully shuts the door behind him. He walks through Kevin's sparsely decorated living room with bat in hand—ready to swing. He moves down the hall toward the bedroom, his body close to the wall that's nearest to the doorway of the bedroom. He looks inside. Kevin's turned sideways, facing the open suitcase on his bed, folding clothes and humming to the music on the radio.
"Going somewhere?" Clay asks.
Kevin jumps at the sound of Clay's voice, but then immediately reaches down and swings the suitcase at Clay. Clay ducks back out of the doorway to avoid it. The case hits the wall by the doorframe, and clothes go flying out into the hall along with Kevin. Kevin runs into the kitchen, and tries to bust through the back door but it opens right into the trash can and the rake handle Clay had planted outside. Kevin immediately falls to the ground and grabs his shoulder.
"You're not getting away so easy this time, pal."
"What in the hell do you want? Why don't you just leave me alone?"
"Where you headed?"
"I was headed out the door."
"No, not that. Where you planning on going?"
"Nowhere."
"Packing a suitcase just for kicks, eh?"
"That's right."
Clay picks up a bra from among the clothes in the hallway with his bat, and tosses it toward Kevin. "Is this how you get your kicks?"
"You're a real funny guy."
"Whose clothes are these?"
"None of your damn business," Kevin says, standing from the floor, his left hand still attached to his right shoulder.
"Are these Emma's clothes?"
Kevin grabs a chair from the small two-person table in his kitchen and holds it up in front of his body. "I think it's time for you to go."
"I'm not going anywhere. And as far as that chair is concerned, you can test it against my swing if you like," Clay says, holding his bat in front of his body with both hands wrapped tight around the handle. "But I should warn you that I hit twenty-seven homers my last season with the Braves, and I think I've still got a pretty good home run swing. The choice is yours."
Kevin charges at Clay with the chair in the air. Clay rears his bat back and swings for the chair. He hits it hard on the legs. The chair, in several pieces, goes flying in one direction, and Kevin stumbles back and falls in the other. Clay grabs his ribs after the swing, tries to hide the pain that he knows is written on his face.
This is about the time that Clay starts to get concerned about the neighbors. He's counting on the probability that they're either at work or too apathetic to get involved.
"I didn't want to do that, kid," Clay says.
"Sure, I'll bet you're heartbroken about it."
Clay grabs the other chair from the little table, sits it down in the doorway between the hallway and the kitchen, and sits. "I'd tell you to have a seat, but it looks like your other chair is broken," he says, looking over at the broken chair by the stove.
"I'm fine where I am," Kevin says, sitting up, sliding toward the wall by the back door, and leaning against it. He's still rubbing his shoulder.
"Shouldn't have slammed so hard against the door."
"I'm fine."
"I didn't ask."
Kevin stares at him. "What do you want?"
"I want to know what you know about Brett's accident."
"Probably about as much as you do. I only know what I read in the papers."
"Baloney!" Clay yells, exploding from his chair, and standing only a few feet from Kevin with the bat firmly grasped in front of his body. "Honest to God, kid, if you don't cut the crap, I'm going to knock you around somethin' awful."
"Okay, okay. Calm down," Kevin says, holding his hands up at Clay.
"Start talking," Clay says.
"I'll tell you what I know. But if you tell the police anything I say, I'll just deny it."
"I don't think it's me you have to worry about."
"What's that mean? Who do I have to worry about?"
"Not now," Clay says, clearly losing his patience. "Tell me how you got mixed up with Ramsey."
"How do you know I was mixed up with Ramsey?"
"If you didn't want me to know you were connected with Ramsey, why'd you rat me out to him yesterday."
"Are you crazy? Why would I rat you out to Ramsey?"
"You didn't tell him that I was asking you questions about the accident?"
"No. I haven't had anything to do with Ramsey in weeks."
Clay turns away from Kevin for a second. He's trying to wrap his head around who might have tipped Ramsey off if it wasn't Kevin, but he's coming up empty.
"What's wrong?" Kevin asks. "What'd I say?"
"Nothing," Clay says, turning his attention back to Kevin. "You and Brett used to go up to Fremont to play cards at Ramsey's place, right?"
"We did."
"And you started getting yourself into a financial hole."
"That's right."
"How big a hole? Hundreds? Thousands?"
"Thousands."
"And how were you planning on digging yourself out of that hole?"
"I was trying."
"You were trying, but you just kept digging, huh?"
"I suppose you could say that."
"You get anywhere with that strategy?"
"Nope."
"And Ramsey and his crew aren't very patient people."
"Sounds like you've met them."
"I've had the pleasure."
"They the ones that did that to your face?"
"We're not talking about me."
"Right," Kevin says. "I owed them money, and they were threatening me about paying it back, but every time I went up to Fremont, Ramsey's boys would front me more cash to sit in on that night's game."
"How much?"
"A hundred bucks or so, depending on the night."
"Why would they do that?"
"Because I was with Brett, and Brett was a big spender."
"And they never hurt you?"
"No, just threats. But it was clear they were going easy on me because I was with Brett," Kevin says. "But that all changed once Brett fell out of favor with Ramsey."
"How'd he do that?"
"A girl."
"Crystal?"
"Yep."
"Tell me about her."
"What's to say? She was one of Ramsey's girls."
"What's that mean, one of his girls?"
"He always has a couple girls milling around the tables, getting drinks and cigarettes for the players, flirting with everyone. They're there to try and make sure everyone's having a good time. Even when guys are losing, the girls are there to keep
them in a spending mood, offering encouragement in all the ways you might expect," Kevin says. "But Crystal was different from the other girls."
"How was she different?"
"Some guys seem to come just as much to see her as they did to play cards. She was the kind of girl that everybody falls in love with, and she was good at making you believe she loved you back. She just had a way about her, you know what I mean?"
"I have an idea."
"She was everyone's favorite, even Ramsey's."
"She was Ramsey's girl?"
"No, she wasn't his girl. She just worked for him. But it was clear he wanted her to be his girl. Before Crystal, he never came to Fremont. I'd never even seen him before. But once Crystal started working the tables, Ramsey was in Fremont every night. And he made no secret of how he felt about her either. He would buy her things, nice things. And he was always trying to keep her near him at all times. It was like he was forgetting that she was there to juice the other players with confidence. He wanted her all to himself. It was kind of pathetic actually, and she really didn't seem very interested in his advances. And whenever she showed another guy the least bit of attention, he let guys know he didn't like it."
"How would he do that?"
"He would glare at you, or shake his head. Sometimes, if she was spending a lot of time with one guy, he would call one of his guys over, whisper in his ear, and they would pass along the message. Not in a rough way, but guys knew what was what."
"And Brett started getting her attention."
"Oh, yeah. And Brett was giving it right back to her too."
"What'd Ramsey do?"
"Well, last time I was there, he blew up," Kevin says. "Crystal had gone over to Brett and sat on his lap during a hand. At first, Ramsey seemed to be laughing it off, though you could tell he was getting hot about it. It was obvious. I don't know if Brett and Crystal noticed, or if they just didn't care, but, if they did notice, they weren't being