Mortal Stakes

CHAPTER EIGHT

I WENT OVER to Fenway and watched the Sox get ready for an afternoon game. I talked for a half hour with Holly West and a half hour with Alex Montoya to keep up my investigative-writer image, but I wondered how long that would last. Doerr knew I was there, which meant probably that someone there knew I was not a writer. Which also meant that there was a connection between Doerr and the Sox, a connection Doerr wanted to protect. He’d made an error coming to see me. But it’s the kind of error guys like Doerr are always making. They get so used to having everyone say yes to them that they forget about the chance that someone will say no. People with a lot of power get like that. They think they’re omnipotent.

They screw up. Doerr was so surprised that I told him and Wally to take a walk that he didn’t know what else to do, so he took a walk. But the cat was now out of the valise. I had a feeling I might hear from Doerr again. It was not a soothing feeling.

I was leaning against the railing of the box seats by the Red Sox dugout, watching batting practice, when Billy Carter said, “Hey, Spenser, want to take a few cuts?”

I did, but I couldn’t take my coat off and show the gun.

And I didn’t want to swing with my coat on. I didn’t need any handicaps. I shook my head.

“Why not? Sully’s just lobbing them up,” Carter said.

“I promised my mom when I took up the violin I’d never play baseball again.”

“Violin? Are you shitting? You don’t look like no violinist to me. How much you weigh?”

“One ninety-five, one ninety-seven, around there.”

“Yeah? You work out or anything?”

“I lift a little. Run some.”

“Yeah. I thought you did something. You didn’t get that neck from playing no fiddle. What can you bench?”

“Two fifty.”

“How many reps?”

“Fifteen.”

“Hey, man, we oughta set up an arm wrestle between you and Holly. Wouldn’t that be hot shit if you beat him?

Man, Holly would turn blue if a goddamned writer beat him arm wrestling.”

“Who’s pitching today?” I asked.

“Marty,” Carter said. “Who busted up your nose?”

“It’s a long list,” I said. “I used to fight once. How’s Marty to catch?”

“A tit,” Carter said. One of the coaches was hitting fungoes to the outfield from a circle to the right of the batting cage. The ball parabolaed out in what seemed slow motion against the high tangible sky. “A real tit. You just sit back there and put your glove on the back of the plate and Marty hits it. And you can call the game. You give a sign, Marty nods, and the pitch comes right there. He never shakes you off.”

“Everything works, huh?”

“Yeah, I mean he’s got the fast ball, slider, a big curve, and a change off all of them. And he can put them all up a gnat’s ass at sixty feet six, you know. I mean, he’s a tit to catch. If I could catch him every day, and the other guys didn’t throw curves, I could be Hall of Fame, baby. Cooperstown.”

“When do you think you’ll catch a game, Billy?”

“Soon as Holly gets so he can’t walk. Around there.

Whoops… here comes the song of the South, old hush puppy.

Bucky Maynard had come out from under the stands and was behind the batting cage. With him was Lester, resplendent in a buckskin hunting shirt and a black cowboy hat with big silver conches on the band around the crown. Maynard had swapped his red-checked shirt for a white one with green ferns on it. His arms in the short sleeves were pink with sunburn. He had the look of someone who didn’t tan.

”You don’t seem too fond of Maynard,“ I said.

”Me? I love every ounce of his cuddly little lard-assed self.“

”Okay to quote you?“ I wanted to see Carter’s reaction.

”Jesus, no. If sowbelly gets on your ass, you’ll find yourself warming up relievers in the Sally League. No shit, Spenser, I think he’s got more influence around here than Farrell.“

”How come?“

”I don’t know. I mean, the freakin’ fans love him. They think he’s giving them the real scoop, you know, all the hot gossip about the big-league stars, facts you don’t get on the bubble-gum card.“

”Is he?“

”No, not really. He’s just nasty. If he hears any gossip, he spreads it. The goddamned yahoos eat it up. Tell-it-like-it-is Bucky. Shit.“

”What’s the real story on the lizard that trails behind him?“

”Lester?“

”Yeah.“

Carter shrugged. ”I dunno, he drives Bucky around.

He keeps people away from him. He’s some kind of karate freak or whatever.“

”Tae kwon do,“ I said. ”It’s Korean karate.“

”Yeah, whatever. I wouldn’t mess much with him either. I guess he’s a real bastard. I hear he did a real tune on some guy out in Anaheim. The guy was giving Maynard some crap in the hotel bar out there and Lester the Fester damn near killed him. Hey, I gotta take some swings. Catch you later.“

Carter headed for the batting cage. Clyde Sullivan, the pitching coach, was pitching batting practice, and when Carter stepped in, he turned and waved the outfielders in.

”Up yours, Sully,“ Carter said. Maynard left the batting cage and strolled over toward me. Lester moved along bonelessly behind him.

”How you doing, Mr. Spenser?“ Maynard said.

”Fine,“ I said. ”And yourself?“

”Oh, passable, for an older gentleman. That Carter’s funny as a crutch, ain’t he?“

I nodded ”Ah just wish his arm was as good as his mouth,“ Maynard said. ”He can’t throw past the pitcher’s mound.“

”How’s his bat?“

Maynard smiled. It was not a radiant smile; the lips pulled down over the teeth so that the smile was a toothless crescent in his red face with neither warmth nor humor suggested. ”He’s all right if the ball comes straight. Except the ball don’t never come straight a course.“

”Nice kid, though,“ I said. Lester had hooked both elbows over the railings and was standing with one booted foot against the wall and one foot flat on the ground. Gary Cooper. He spit a large amount of brown saliva toward the batter’s cage, and I realized he was chewing tobacco. When he got into an outfit, he went all the way.

”Maybe,“ Maynard said, ”but ah wouldn’t pay much mind to what he says. He likes to run his mouth.“

”Don’t we all,“ I said. ”Hell, writers and broadcasters get paid for it.“

”Ah get paid for reporting what happens, Carter tends to make stuff up. There’s a difference.“

Maynard looked quite steadily at me, and I had the feeling we were talking about serious stuff. Lester spit another dollop of tobacco juice.

”Okay by me,“ I said. ”I’m just here listening and thinking. I’m not making any judgments yet.“

”What might you be making judgments about, Spenser?“

”What to include, what to leave out, what seems to be the truth, what seems to be fertilizer. Why do you ask?“

”Just interested. Ah like to know a man, and one way is to know how he does his job. Ah’m just lookin‘ into how you do yours.“

”Fair enough,“ I said. ”I’ll be looking into how you do yours in a bit.“ Veiled innuendo, that’s the ticket, Spenser.

Subtle.

”Long as you don’t interfere, ah’ll be happy to help.

Who’d you say was your publisher?“

”Subsidy,“ I said. ”Subsidy Press, in New York.“

Maynard looked at his watch. It was one of those that you press a button and the time is given as a digital readout.

”Well, time for the Old Buckaroo to get on up to the booth.

Nice talking to you, Spenser.“

He waddled off, his feet splayed, the toes pointing out at forty-five-degree angles. Lester unhinged and slouched after him, eyes alert under the hatbrim for lurking rustlers.

There never was a man like Shane. Tomorrow he’d probably be D’Artagnan.

There’d been some fencing going on there, more than there should have been. It was nearly one. I went down into the locker room and used the phone on Farrell’s desk to call Brenda Loring at work.

”I have for you, my dear, a proposition,“ I said.

”I know,“ she said. ”You make it every time I see you.“

”Not that proposition,“ I said. ”I have an additional one, though that previously referred to above should not be considered thereby inoperative.“

”I beg your pardon?“

”I didn’t understand that either,“ I said. ”Look, here’s my plan. If you can get the afternoon off, I will escort you to the baseball game, buy you some peanuts and Cracker Jacks, and you won’t care if you ever come back.“

”Do I get dinner afterwards?“

”Certainly and afterwards we can go to an all-night movie and neck. What do you say?“

”Oh, be still my heart,“ she said. ”Shall I meet you at the park?“

”Yeah, Jersey Street entrance. You’ll recognize me at once by the cluster of teenyboppers trying to get me to autograph their bras.“

”I’ll hurry,“ she said.