The Fan

10

“-as in the case of John Paciorek, to give you a for-instance.”

“You don’t mean Tom?”

“I said what I meant, Bernie. John Paciorek. September 29, 1963. First major-league game. Houston Colt. 45s.”

“Remember that uniform, Jewel? A collector’s item now.”

“Before my time, Bernie, as you know. Back to Paciorek, John. First game in the bigs. Goes three for three with three ribbies and four runs scored against the Mets, and never plays again. Never plays again, Bernie. True story. What do you think it means?”

“Beats me, Jewel.”

“That baseball’s like a European movie, Bernie. That’s what it means.”

“European movies aren’t exactly my forte, Jewel. I can’t even think of any off hand, except maybe The Crying Game. ”

“That’s close enough.”

April 9, second Wednesday of the month. 7:59. Ding. Fifth floor: linoleum still sticky, Prime National Mortgage still vacant. Gil: all showered and shaved, decked out in a clean shirt and a sober suit fresh out of dry-cleaner’s plastic carrying his order book and sample case and a jumbo takeout black coffee; and on time. He also had a new tie-red and black, nothing like his old lucky one-and a plan for breaking the Everest news gently, even with an optimistic spin. He now knew, at last, that yellow was a lousy color for a tie. Red and black, so much better: stand-up, optimistic, take no prisoners. The face of the rep is an optimistic face-he’d read that in a memo from Cincinnati-and wasn’t the tie the face of the suit? He liked that idea, would have to try it out on someone-Lenore? Ellen? Gil couldn’t think of the right person. He put on a sunny smile to go with his crisp clean freshness. The thrower felt light and warm against his leg.

“Morning, Bridgid. How’s Figgy doing with the fishing-rod thing?”

Bridgid didn’t look up from her keyboard. “It’s over.”

“Probably just as well. Once a city boy, always a city boy, right?”

Now she glanced at him, then quickly turned away. “Right.”

But if the fishing-rod thing was over, where were the fifty bucks going to come from? Gil, staying optimistic, pushed the thought from his mind and opened the conference-room door. Garrity and the eleven other Northeast reps were already sitting around the table. Twelve, actually: the eight veterans, plus the three brought in by O’Meara last month, plus one more: Figgy. He was passing Lifesavers to Verrucci, the new rep from Texas. Garrity saw Gil, held up his index finger, hurried to the door.

“Got a second?”

“If you do,” said Gil. “It’s eight o’clock.”

Garrity backed him into the hall, closing the door with Gil halfway through a recount. They went down the hall, into Garrity’s office. “Sit down, Gil,” Garrity said, indicating the couch that he had brought in after his divorce a few years ago. Much too soft and homey for an office couch: Gil had never seen anyone using it.

He sat, sinking down too deep for comfort. Garrity perched on a corner of his desk. His pant leg slid up, revealing his shiny, pink, hairless shin: an old man’s leg. Gil’s father wouldn’t have been much older than Garrity, if he’d lived.

“Figgy’s back?” Gil said.

“Nothing I could do about it,” Garrity said. “Cincinnati.”

Garrity’s attitude surprised him. “Figgy’s not so bad.”

“Nice of you to say so,” Garrity said, “under the circumstances.”

Circumstances? Did Garrity somehow know about the fifty? It wasn’t that big a deal. “What do you mean?”

Garrity took a deep breath, blew it out through pursed lips. “Gil,” he said.

“What?”

“Do I have to spell it out?”

“Spell what out?”

“O’Meara’s been on the phone with the Everest people.” Garrity waited for Gil to say something. Gil, trying to remember the spin plan, trying to stay optimistic, was quiet. Garrity continued, “The long and the short of it, and I wish to God it wasn’t me having to say this, is that you’re-”

Gil found his voice. “I can explain all about the Everest thing.” But not sitting down on this stupid couch with my knees in the air. Gil rose. He had the order book, sample case, and jumbo black coffee in his hands. Too much: the coffee spilled, mostly on his pants, some on the couch. Scalding pain, but he ignored it. He also ignored the fact that for the second day in a row, he’d ruined his clean crisp freshness, wet himself. This realization was harder to ignore than the pain; it made him want to rip his clothes off, to go into a frenzy. Instead he found himself talking a mile a minute. “I can explain the Everest reconfiguration. First of all, I don’t know what you heard from O’Meara, or what Everest told him, except it couldn’t have been Chuckie, he’s in Chicago, but I can promise you it’s not nearly as bad as it-”

Garrity was shaking his head. “Save it, Gil. The word’s come down from Cincinnati.”

“What word?”

“Aw, Gil, don’t make me. The word that you’re… you know.”

“That I’m what?” He took a step closer to Garrity, loomed over him.

Garrity’s face hardened. “I’ll need your order book, Gil. And your sample case. Outstanding commission checks will be forwarded.”

“That I’m what? That I’m what? That I’m what?”

Garrity didn’t answer, although Gil’s face was now inches from his own.

Gil still had the order book and sample case in his hands. He pictured himself raising them high and bringing them down on Garrity’s head, even felt the beginning of the rush of hot pleasure that would accompany the act. But he didn’t do it. He just let go, dropping them on the floor.

Garrity didn’t move, didn’t raise his voice. “You’ve got to get your life under control, boyo. As an old friend of your father I’m saying that.”

Gil glanced down at that pink leg. He could probably snap it in two with his bare hands. Would Garrity raise his voice then? Again he felt an incipient wave of hot pleasure, glimpsed a jumbled future of confused possibilities, disturbing and exciting; and again stifled the act. “As an old friend you keep your mouth shut about my father,” he said. “He started this business.”

Garrity shook his head. “Your father made beautiful knives. Cincinnati made it a business.”

“By ripping him off.”

“He was happy with the deal at the time.”

“He was dying at the time, you stupid shit.”

“He wasn’t a businessman, Gil. Bottom line.”

It hit Gil then for some reason, the Figgy part. “You gave Figgy my area?”

“Not me personally. O’Meara.”

Gil spun away, bursting out of Garrity’s office, down the hall, to Bridgid’s desk. She was bent over the keyboard, glasses slipped down to the end of her nose.

“How many dicks did you have to suck to get Figgy back on the payroll?” he said.

Her head jerked up, eyes widening.

“Garrity, O’Meara, who else?”

Bridgid’s face went red, just like a swelling dick, in fact: guilty as charged, he thought. Then she burst into tears. But he got no pleasure out of that; too easy, like pressing a button. Gil needed action.

He started for the conference room. A man in a windbreaker rose from one of the waiting-room chairs and stepped into his path, not quite blocking it.

“Mr. Renard?” he said with a smile.

“Yeah?”

“Have a nice day.” He handed Gil a long white envelope and left the office.

Stuffing it in his pocket, Gil strode to the conference room, banged the door open. In a moment he took in the essentials of a boisterous scene: the reps’ mouths open wide in laughter, all eyes on Figgy; Figgy balancing a wavering tower of cherry Lifesavers on his nose.

Then came silence, except for the Lifesavers skittering across the floor, and all eyes were on him. Gil had no plan; he wanted action, that was all. He walked around the table to Figgy. Figgy got out of his chair, backing up a little. Gil smiled-smiling was a simple baring of teeth, right? — and held out his hand. Reluctantly, as though fearing a bone crusher, or some other trick, Figgy extended his; but he couldn’t refuse-he was a rep. They shook, Gil hardly squeezing at all, just smiling this new smile he couldn’t remember smiling before, but that seemed so right.

“Congratulations, Figgy,” he said. “And continued success in your new endeavors.”

He released Figgy’s damp hand.

“That’s really nice of you, Gil,” Figgy said. He lowered his voice: “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that money.”

That’s what he’d picked to feel ashamed about. “Money?” said Gil.

Figgy lowered his voice some more. “That money I owe you.”

Gil laughed, a new laugh that went nicely with his new smile. “Forget it. What’s fifty bucks between amigos? Buy a little something for old Bridgid out there. Be a sport.”

Then he turned and walked out, past Garrity who was hovering over Bridgid, still crying at her desk, and down to the street. Out. Free.

He got into the 325i, started it, drove a few blocks before the scraping sound bothered him. He stopped in the middle of the street, walked around to the back of the car. There was a big dent behind the left-rear wheel, and the tailpipe was dragging. He bent down and tore it off. The muffler came with it. Then he overcame an impulse to tear the whole car apart right there, piece by piece; and drove to Cleats.

Gil ordered a draft with a shot of Jose Cuervo Gold on the side.

“Your son enjoy the game?” Leon said, setting the drinks on the bar.

Gil looked at him.

“Richie. That’s his name, isn’t it?”

“How did you know that?”

“You’ve mentioned it a few times,” said Leon, his voice rising a little in surprise.

Ease up, Gil said to himself. Leon was a pal, right? He smiled at Leon, hoping it was his old smile, not the new one, but unsure. “Yeah, he enjoyed it. What kid wouldn’t?”

“Opening Day,” said Leon. “Some game.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you were right about Rayburn.”

“I was?”

“Hard to argue with a poke like that.” Leon drew someone a pint.

The Globe sports section lay on the bar. Gil picked it up and started reading. He read about the grand slam, hunted up all the details of the game, studied the box score, then all the box scores; downed the beer and the shot, ordered another round. Feeling pretty good now, and, yes, even optimistic. Of course he’d been right about Rayburn. He knew the game, knew the team, knew the man. He checked his red-and-black tie in the mirror behind the bar. Nice.

Then he came to a sidebar on Bobby Rayburn-“Paying Early Dividends”-that included the breakdown of his contract. Gil went over them-$2.5 million signing bonus, $5.05 million the first year, $5.45 million the next, $5.85 million the year after that, $6.05 million in the option year, the separate $1 million deferred-payment fund. The reporter estimated Rayburn’s endorsement income at $750,000 a year. Well, why not? One swing of the bat. He was going to take them all the way, as Gil had foreseen. He tore out the article, folded it, and put it in his wallet.

A few minutes later he took it out to read again the part about the deferred payments. They began in 2007, $50,000 a year for as long as he lived. That was the part Gil liked best of all: Rayburn knew right now where his money was coming from in 2007. Gil didn’t know where his money was coming from next week. He examined his face in the mirror for signs of optimism. It was dark and swollen, as though gorged with blood.

He had one more round. His pants were almost dry.

“Guess who stopped in last night?” Leon said.

“Figgy.”

“Yeah, Figgy was here. With that girlfriend of his. Drinking champagne. But that’s not who I meant.”

“Who did you mean?”

“Ball players. They usually go to Bluebeard’s. Maybe they’re going to start coming here-I know they liked the buffalo wings. I brought them two helpings each.”

“What ball players?”

“Primo. Sanchez. Zamora. Couple of others.”

“Where’d they sit?”

Leon pointed to a table in the back alcove, under the autographed Louisville Sluggers of Aaron and Mays, crossed like a device on a medieval shield.

“What were they talking about?”

Leon shrugged. “They spoke Spanish.” He thought. “Is there some guy called Onsay in baseball?”

“Not that I’ve heard of.”

“They kept joking about him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Primo’d say Onsay, and the others would crack up.”

“Got the encyclopedia?”

Leon pulled the Baseball Encyclopedia from under the bar. There was no one between Manuel Dominguez “Curly” Onis, who’d gone to the plate once for the 1935 Brooklyn Dodgers and singled, and Edward Joseph Onslow, who’d hit. 232 in 207 at bats spread over four years between 1912 and 1927.

Gil returned to Curly Onis’s meager line. “What’s The Crying Game? ” he said.

“Some movie.”

“About baseball?”

“I don’t think so,” Leon replied. He ran his finger down the page. “Maybe Onsay’s a rookie.”

“I’d have heard of him,” Gil said. He had a hit of tequila, drained his beer, and was considering another round or two, just to sit at the bar, poring over the small print, when Leon said:

“Day off?”

“Naw.” That ruined it. Gil closed the book and asked for his bill.

“That’s okay,” Leon said.

“What’s okay?”

“This one’s on the house.”

Meaning that Leon knew what Figgy’d been celebrating.

Gil drove north, out of the city, into the mountains. At first the car smelled of the ammonia soap he’d scrubbed it with in the middle of the night; later, with the heat on, he detected pissy smells. Everything was brown, except for the artificial snow on the trails of the ski resorts. Gil listened to the ball game, heard them lose three-zip, with Rayburn going 0 for 4. Meant nothing. After, on the JOC, a caller wondered about Rayburn’s rib cage and Bernie said the story had been blown out of proportion, Rayburn was fine, and Burrows had handled it fine.

“Bullshit,” Gil said; and then, at the top of his lungs, all alone in the car, “Bullshit.” Burrows had jeopardized Rayburn’s career and the team’s entire season, and the media were covering it up. The rib cage was obviously killing Rayburn-why else would he have been short with him in front of the dugout? He called the JOC to blast Bernie, but couldn’t get through.

Gil left the interstate, followed secondary roads. From time to time he stopped for a drink, the last one in a crummy sports bar-nothing like Cleats-in a crummy town.

It was dark, and Gil hadn’t eaten. Sitting at the bar, he drank a beer and a shot while he looked at the menu. Then he ordered another beer and another shot.

“And something to eat?”

Gil shook his head.

Sometime later, he found that this bar too had a copy of the Baseball Encyclopedia. Gil, hunched alone in the far corner of the bar, lost himself in it.

Much later, he looked up Onsay again. Then Boucicaut. And Claymore. And himself. Renard, Gilbert Marcel. None of them were there. He left at closing time, walking out to a cold and silent street. Main Street, he saw, in his old hometown.