The Fan

28

Fred, the engineer, played the tape for Jewel:

Hi, guys.

Where you calling from, Gil? Sounds like Siberia or somewhere.

No place special.

What’s on your mind?

Lots of things.

It’s a lousy line, like I said, Gil. Make it quick.

This… thing.

You’re talking about the Primo tragedy?

I was wondering.

Wondering what?

If they’ll give Rayburn back his old number now.

Not sure I’m following you, Gil.

Onsay.

Excuse me?

Eleven. What he used to wear his whole career. Not that stupid forty-one.

That’s kind of a strange question, Gil.

“Play that last part again,” Jewel said.

Onsay.

Excuse me?

Eleven. What he used to-

“That’s enough,” Jewel said.

Fred stopped the tape, said something Jewel didn’t catch because his mouth was full.

“He’s a regular, isn’t he?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Fred replied. “I never listen to any of them.”

“I want to hear all his calls.”

“All his calls?”

“We tape everything, don’t we?”

“Sure. But how are you going to find this guy’s calls? It’d be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“I hate that expression,” Jewel said.

She spent the rest of the day in her office, fast-forwarding through cassettes. She found Gil a few times:

I’ve been waiting a long time.

What kind of numbers is he going to put up in the bandbox, and with that sweet swing of his?

I heard what you said about Primo. It won’t last. He’s a hot dog. Hot dogs always fold in the end.

Just get this, Bernie. I’m sick and tired of you taking shots at him all the time. When’s it going to stop?

I know what disillusion means.

After that, Jewel called the Times editor and asked for another extension.

“Having problems?” he said.

“It’s not that. The story keeps changing on me.” She wished immediately she’d put it another way.

“It happens. You’d still be entitled to a kill fee, if that’s what’s worrying you,” said the editor.

“It’s a developing story, that’s all I meant.”

“Developing in what way? I thought it was just your basic jock puff piece.”

“Did you?” said Jewel. “There’s the Primo murder, for starters.”

“Who’s Primo?”

“Don’t you read your own damn paper?”

“Not the sports.”

“I’m impressed.” She hung up on him. Five minutes later, she was trying without success to think of some nonhumiliating way to make amends.

She called Sergeant Claymore in his little town up north.

“Anything new?” she said.

“Yes and no.”

“I hate that expression.”

“Sorry,” said Claymore. “Renard’s disappeared without a trace, if that’s what you want to know, but now it looks like he may have only been a witness to the Boucicaut killing. Which turns out to be self-defense, in any case. Two guys in ski masks broke into a house on the Cape a while back, and one of them got stabbed with a sword. A rapier, which we’ve got now. The medical examiner says it fits Boucicaut’s wound.”

“And the other guy was Gil Renard?”

“We don’t know, because of the ski masks. But it all fits-turns out it was the day before the break-in when I stopped them for speeding, and Boucicaut was wearing his.”

“Wearing his what?”

“Ski mask.”

“How did he explain that?”

Claymore laughed an embarrassed laugh. “He didn’t, really.”

Jewel was silent.

“That probably sounds a little strange to an outsider. Me not asking him, I mean.”

“Nothing sounds strange to me anymore, Sergeant Claymore. I’m immune. Are you still looking for him?”

“Sure. He’s a suspect in this break-in now, as well as in the murder of Boucicaut’s old lady.”

“Then I suggest you try to find out if he flew to Los Angeles around the time of the Primo murder.”

“Why?”

“Because your first instinct was right. This is all about baseball.”

Jewel sat in front of her terminal, typed some copy, printed it, found Bernie, said, “Read this.”

Bernie read: “JOC-Radio is putting together a panel drawn from our regular callers for a new weekly feature called Between Brewskis. Participation will involve a nominal payment, but much more than that, a chance to shoot off your mouth on a regular basis. Would the following callers please get in touch on the station’s office phone during business hours: Manny from Allston, Donnie from Saugus, Ken from Brighton, Vin from the Back Bay, and Gil, who’s usually on his car phone.”

Bernie looked up. “Great idea. But you left out Randy from Milton. And they’ll never let you call it Between Brewskis ”

“For Christ’s sake, Bernie. It’s a ruse. We’ll get the cops to put a tap on the line, and when this guy Gil calls we’ll have him.”

“Have him for what?”

Jewel explained. Later she explained it again to the station manager, and once more to some cop from the Primo investigation. The cop said, “I’ve heard your station. He’s not the only nut you’ve got calling.” Jewel had him speak to Claymore. Then he said, “Still don’t see what this has to do with Primo, but if they’re looking for him up north, why not?”

After he left, the station manager said, “Let’s go with it, Jewel.”

“Go with what?”

“Between Brewskis. For real. But with just one change.”

“What’s that?”

“I think we can do without that nominal payment.”

Gil awoke before dawn, took the money left from the sale of the 325i, and went by cab to the nearest town. By noon he had bought a truck with two hundred and forty thousand miles on the odometer, a lawn mower, a rake, a spade, hedge clippers. He picked up a can of paint, stenciled Onis Landscaping on the side, and drove back.

Gil unloaded the lawn mower, rolled it around the house, and started mowing. First he cut along the borders of Bobby’s property, down one line of cedars, along the beach, up the other row, outlining a rectangle in the grass. Then he followed the inside of the swathe he’d cut, overlapping one wheel width to make sure he left no tufts showing. He wanted to do a good job for Bobby. The sun was hot, the lawn huge, but Gil didn’t even stop for a drink. Like grave digging, not a bad job.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

He wheeled around. Chaz.

Chaz spoke. Gil put a hand to his ear. Chaz reached down and shut off the machine. Gil didn’t like that.

“My name’s Wald,” he said, not offering his hand. “I manage things around here.”

“Onis,” said Gil. “My friends call me Curly.”

Wald made a short slashing gesture with the side of his hand. “Nice about the boy and everything. But I do all the hiring. No particular objection to hiring you, but it’s got to be done in the proper way.”

“What’s proper, Mr. Wald?”

“Three recent references, the name of your bank, your landlord if any, and your authorization to run a credit check.” He glanced around. “You’ll be paid for the work you’ve done already, and there’ll be something for the business yesterday as well.”

“Are you asking me to leave?”

“Telling. Until you complete the application process, that is. Then, if I hire you, you’ll be welcomed right back. The place needs a lot of work.”

Gil stared at him, stared, that is, into his sunglasses.

“Your name’s Chaz?”

“Mr. Wald.”

“And you manage things.”

“Didn’t I just say that?”

“Then I should probably tell you something, just so you’re in possession of the facts.”

“Shoot.”

“I was fishing off your beach yesterday.”

“I know that. Perfectly legal in this state.”

“The thing is, I was out here twice. The second time was when I heard the boy.” Something flickered behind Wald’s dark lenses. “The first time was a bit earlier. That’s when I saw you doing some managing on Mrs. Rayburn.”

There was a silence. Gil examined his reflection in Wald’s glasses: a big guy in a sweaty T-shirt, with a big smile on his face. The big guy moved his lips. “Nice meeting you,” he said. “But the grass is growing under my feet.” Gil cranked up the mower and pushed off toward the beach, not looking back. By the time he made the turn, Wald was gone.

The whip hand, even over an operator like Wald! He’d come into his own at last. How? It had something to do with Curly Onis, something to do with getting back his trophy, something to do with strapping the thrower on his leg. But Gil finished mowing the whole lawn without really figuring it out. All he knew was that he was finally on the move, and moving fast.

Gil was raking when Sean appeared. He was carrying a baseball and two gloves.

“Hi, Curly.”

“Hi.”

“We’re friends, so I can call you Curly.”

“Right.”

“Play catch?”

“Sure.”

Sean put on the smaller glove, handed Gil the adult-sized one. Gil examined it: a Rawlings Gold Glove, soft and oiled, with “Rayburn 11” branded on the strap. One of Bobby’s old gloves. Gil slipped it on: a perfect fit.

Gil took the ball. “Here you go,” he said, backing up a step or two and lobbing a gentle toss. Gentle, but a bit off line. Gil was all set to say, “Sorry, bad throw,” when the boy reached out and snatched the ball out of the air, as though he couldn’t wait for it to get there.

“Move back, Curly,” he said.

Gil backed up a little more. Sean wound up and threw. Gil had no time to get his glove up; the ball hit him in the chest, hard enough to hurt, especially since he wasn’t quite healed yet. The boy looked up at him, puzzled. “Daddy catches those,” he said.

“I wasn’t ready,” Gil said. He lobbed another underhand toss. Sean caught it easily.

“Overhand,” the boy said, moving farther away before he threw it back, harder than the first one. Threw it on a line, chest-high, perfect. The ball smacked into Bobby’s glove. Gil tossed it back, still gentle, but overhand.

“Harder next time,” said Sean. And he zinged Gil another. Was it his imagination, or did the ball have some movement on it? Gil threw back harder, much harder. Sean caught it as effortlessly as he had the others.

“A grounder.”

Gil threw him a grounder. The boy got his butt down, got his glove in the grass, scooped it up, whipped it back.

“Another one.”

Gil tried one on his backhand this time, but Sean got to it so quickly he didn’t have to go to the backhand. Down. Scoop. Throw, on the money.

Gil tried another to the backhand, but the ball got away from him a little, bouncing across the new-cut grass so far to Sean’s right that it was unplayable. Except that Sean took one step, so swift, and dove, fully outstretched through the air, eyes on the ball the whole time, fierce eyes, and the ball disappeared in the pocket of his toy glove just as he hit the ground. An instant later, he was up on his knees and throwing, throwing from his knees: another rope, right at Gil’s chest.

He had soft hands.

He had a gun for an arm.

He had textbook form for every move he made.

Goddamn you, Richie. It wasn’t fair.

“Another diver,” Sean said. “Throw me another diver.”

But Gil didn’t want to throw him another diver. He didn’t want to play at all anymore. “Got to get back to work,” he said.

“Just one more.”

The boy pounded his fist in the pocket of his glove. Was there a baseball gene that a few had and most did not? It wasn’t fair. Well, Gil had that gene, didn’t he? It was Ellen who had screwed things up. He thought of her and hurled the ball at Sean as hard as he could, a throw that would have killed Richie, or that fucking Jason Pellegrini, or any of the others. But Sean caught it, showing no consternation, no surprise, nothing.

“Thanks, Curly,” he said. “For playing with me.” And he ran off. He was fast too.

Gil had knocked off for the day and was lying on his bed, naked except for the thrower, when the phone rang. He answered. It was Val.

“You did a great job on the lawn.”

“Thanks.”

“And Sean had such a good time playing ball with you.” Gil said nothing.

“Would you like to go to the game tonight?”

“Game?”

“Bobby’s game. Sean’s never been to a night game and he really wants to go. The problem is the architect’s coming tonight and I’ve got to be here. I can drive you there though, and Bobby can drive you back.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Wonderful.”

At the ballpark, Val double-parked in front of an unmarked door. They got out, Val, Gil, Sean. She knocked at the door. An old man in a red blazer opened it; Gil remembered him right away-his veiny red face was the same, but his personality had changed. He was all smiles.

“Hey, big guy,” he said to Sean, “now the game’s in the bag.”

“This is Mr. Onis,” Val said.

“How do you do, sir?” said the man in the blazer, pumping Gil’s hand.

Val went off. The door closed. The man in the blazer made sure it was locked, then led them up a corridor.

“Want some popcorn or something?” the man said to Sean.

“I want to see Socko.”

Socko the mascot was a red, pear-shaped creature, with yellow clodhopper feet and a grinning yellow face. Gil hated mascots.

“Sure thing,” said the man in the blazer, knocking on the next door they came to.

“What is it?” came a voice.

“Visitors,” replied the old man. “Are you decent?”

“Decent as the next guy.”

The old man opened the door. They entered a little dressing room. Socko sat on a chair, wearing everything but his yellow head. He was in his early twenties, with long hair and several rings in each ear.

“Hi, Sean. How’s it going?”

“Can I put on the head?”

“Sure,” said Socko, giving it to him.

Sean put on the yellow head, looked in the mirror. “Oooo oooo,” he said in a scary voice.

Socko raised his enormous yellow hands; each with three fingers, like a cartoon character’s. “Don’t hurt me.”

“Oooo oooo,” said Sean.

Everyone laughed. Gil joined in.

Sean took off the head. “It’s hot in there.”

“No kidding,” said Socko. “I take water breaks every three innings.” Bottles of mineral water sat on the dressing table.

They went to their seats, in a glass-faced box high over first base. A waiter in a bow tie hurried to them. Sean ordered a hot dog, a pretzel, popcorn, and a Coke.

“Anything for you, sir?”

“Milk, if you’ve got it.”

“Whole, two percent, or skim?”

“Whole,” said Gil.

The game began. Bobby doubled down the right-field line in the first inning, driving in two runs. Socko danced on the first-base dugout. There was a lot of noise in the box. “See what your daddy did?” said a man with a highball glass.

“RBIs forty-nine and fifty,” said Sean.

Everyone laughed. Gil joined in.

In the third inning, a woman appeared, knelt in the aisle beside Sean.

“Heard you were here,” she said. “Any more trouble from the Arcturians?”

“Nope,” said Sean. “This is Mr. Curly Onis. That’s what his friends call him. He mows the lawn.”

The woman looked at Gil. She seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place her.

“Curly lives over the garage,” Sean added.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, offering her hand. “Jewel Stern.”

At that moment, the moment he learned who she was, Gil also placed her, standing by Boucicaut’s pickup in the alley behind the three-decker. A shudder went through him; her hand was still in his, but there was nothing he could do about it.

She let go, but tilted her head slightly, as though drawing a bead on something. “Enjoy the game,” she said. She tousled Sean’s hair, and then she was gone.

The Sox won nine-zip. Bobby Rayburn went 2 for 3 with two doubles, three RBIs, and a base on balls. After, the old man in the red blazer took them down to the clubhouse. It was a fan’s dream come true.

“Hey, there,” said Washington, spotting Sean. Soon he had the boy on his lap, was making a quarter disappear in his belly button and come out his ear. They were all there, Boyle, Lanz, Zamora, Odell, Simkins; loose and noisy, grabbing food from the buffet, drinks from the cooler: a fan’s dream come true.

Why do you think you ’re winning, assholes? Gil stood by the door and didn’t say a word. He just watched.

Bobby drove the Jeep, Gil sat in the passenger seat, Sean, in back, fell asleep right away. Bobby yawned. “Have a good time?” he said.

“You were sitting on the fastball both times, weren’t you?” Gil replied.

“Sure, with Zamora on. He’s a threat to go anytime.” After a minute or two, Bobby added, “I thought you didn’t know anything about baseball.”

Safe from observation in the darkness, Gil felt himself redden with pride. How much prouder he would have felt to have heard those words from Bobby in some earlier time, even a month ago! But now everything was complicated by what he’d done for the team, by, yes, the sacrifice he’d made. And suddenly he understood, in sharpest possible focus, what he had done, and his role on the team. He’d given himself up, laid one down to advance the runner, sacrificed himself. The sacrifice: a subtlety of baseball that came with a stingy reward-it didn’t count against your average, that was all.

“I just said I didn’t follow it,” Gil replied. “I played at one time.”

There was a silence, the meaning of which Gil knew immediately: Bobby was waiting for Gil to place himself on the ladder.

“Drafted out of high school, as a matter of fact,” Gil said.

“What organization?”

“The Padres,” said Gil, because they were far away.

“Yeah? Were they around back then?”

Back then? What was that supposed to mean? He was only three years older than Bobby, and looked younger, if anything, didn’t he? Gil remained silent until he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Had a cup of coffee, as they say.”

Bobby nodded, as though he’d heard it many times.

“Hurt my arm.”

“You pitched?”

“Some.”

Bobby yawned again. “Val says you did a nice job on the lawn. Worked things out with Wald yet?”

“What things?”

Bobby shrugged. “I don’t know. Salary? Duties?”

“There won’t be a problem,” Gil said.

More silence. Gil’s mind drifted back to the sacrifice he’d made in the steam bath of the Palacio Hotel. Bobby switched on the radio.

“Before we go to Jewel for the postgame, you’ve got an announcement for us, Norm.”

“Right, Bernie. JOC-Radio is putting together a panel drawn from our regular callers for a new weekly feature called Between Brewskis. ”

“Between Brewskis? ”

“That’s what it says here. This’ll give some lucky listeners what they’ve always wanted-the chance to shoot off their mouths on a regular basis.”

“Just like us.”

“Or even more trenchant.”

“Trenchant?”

“Something to do with bad breath. So listen up-would the following callers please get in touch on the JOC business number during office hours: Manny from Allston, Donnie from Saugus, Ken from Brighton, Vin from the Back Bay, and Gil, who’s usually on his car phone.”

Gil jumped at the sound of his name. He checked Bobby out of the corner of his eye. Bobby was yawning again and didn’t seem to have noticed anything. How could he have missed it?

“So what have you got for us, Jewel?”

“Just another dominating performance by this team, Bernie. They’ve got it all going now-pitching, hitting, defense. Turned things around completely, as though the horrible events out West were some sort of wake-up call. They could have fallen apart instead, written this season off, and everyone would have understood, but for some reason they didn’t.”

“What could that reason be, Jewel?”

“I’ve given that a lot of thought, Norm, and I just can’t tell you. Part of it has to do with Bobby Rayburn, of course. I’ve never seen a hitter stay this hot this long. He simply picked up this team after Primo’s death and carried them on his back.”

“But he was in a slump all year, Jewel. How did he get himself out of it?”

“How do you get out of slumps, is that the question? If I knew the answer to that, Bernie, I’d-”

“-own the team, right?”

“I was going to say I’d start my own religion.”

Bobby laughed. Gil looked at him. He was leaning forward, face rapt. A glory hound, Gil realized. Rayburn was a glory hound: after all the years and years of hearing himself praised, he still couldn’t get enough. The problem was that this time the glory didn’t belong to Bobby-it belonged to him. Gil almost blurted the whole thing, right then.

“Let’s go to the phones. Here’s-”

Bobby switched it off. He was smiling to himself, as though thinking about something pleasant, maybe those two doubles.

Casually, like someone making conversation, Gil said: “How did you get yourself out of the slump, Bobby?”

“Who the hell knows?”

I do. “There must be some explanation.”

“Oh, I’ve got an explanation, all right, but it doesn’t make much sense.”

“Try me.”

“I stopped caring.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I said it didn’t make sense.”

“You stopped caring?”

“About the game, how we did, how I did, everything. Especially that, how I did.”

“You think that’s how you got out of it-you stopped caring?”

“Until a better explanation comes along.”

“You stopped caring.”

“Right.”

“But how could you do a thing like that? You’ve got a chance to make the Hall of Fame.”

Bobby burst out laughing, as though Gil had surprised him with a witty observation. “Let’s just say I found religion.” He chuckled a few more times, then stopped abruptly. “I thought you didn’t follow the game.”

“Everyone knows about the Hall of Fame,” Gil said.

Bobby looked as though he was about to say more, but at that moment a Porsche whizzed by in the night, going the other way, and he said, “What’s Wald doing out here?”

“Managing things,” Gil said.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what he told me he did-managed things.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way, Bobby glancing at him once or twice.

Bobby carried Sean into the house. Val met them at the door.

“That was a quick game,” she said, taking the boy and starting up the stairs.

“Just a second,” Bobby said. “What was Wald doing here? He’s supposed to be in New York.”

“Chaz? What makes you think he was here?”

“I saw his car.”

“That was Philip. He drives one just like it.”

“Philip?”

“The architect, Bobby.” She went up the stairs.

When she was out of sight, Gil said: “Car of choice, for a certain type of guy.”

Bobby turned to him, then laughed. He’d been witty again. “How about a nightcap?” Bobby said. “And don’t say milk. I’m having a beer.”

“Beer’ll be fine,” Gil said. “But what I’d really like is tequila. Cuervo Gold, if you’ve got it.”

They sat by the pool: Bobby and Gil, with a sixpack of Heineken and a bottle of Cuervo Gold. Soft, starry, silent: a beautiful night.

“You married, Curly, or anything like that?” Bobby asked, cracking his second beer.

“Nothing like that,” Gil replied, thinking of Richie. See you, Richie. He was getting that cactus feeling inside again, but he refilled his glass anyway.

Bobby stretched out on a chaise, sighed, feeling good.

“Got a nice place here, Bobby,” Gil said.

“Not bad.”

Gil raised his glass to his mouth, found it was empty, took a hit from the bottle.

“You’re a lucky man,” he said.

“Lucky?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve worked pretty hard, Curly.”

“Taking BP? Shagging flies? Lying in the whirlpool?” Easy, boy, Gil thought.

But Bobby laughed again. “You’ve got a sense of humor, Curly.” He opened another beer, drank, closed his eyes. Gil watched him, and drank from the bottle, feeling the cactus growing inside him, watching. For a moment, he thought Bobby had fallen asleep. Then, without opening his eyes, Bobby spoke: “What kind of a pitcher were you, Curly?”

“First pick, every goddamn time.”

Bobby’s eyes opened. “I missed that.”

“I was good,” Gil said.

Bobby nodded.

“Fucking good.”

“I’m sure you were.”

“I still am. My arm’s stronger than ever, now that the soreness is all gone.”

“Yeah?” said Bobby, and closed his eyes again.

Gil took another hit from the bottle. He remembered how hard he’d thrown to Boucicaut in the woods, too hard even for Boucicaut to catch. And he had a wonderful idea, the kind of idea he never used to have, the kind of idea that accompanied this delayed coming into his own. Simple, daring: he would show Bobby Rayburn, just show him. It was perfect.

“Tell you something,” Gil said.

“What’s that, Curly?”

He took another drink. “Open your eyes.”

Bobby opened his eyes.

Gil looked right into them. “I don’t think you can hit me,” he said.

Gil felt a thrill when he said that. It reminded him of legends he had learned, of songs he had heard, of Steve McQueen movies. It was the kind of simple, daring statement that made America great.

But Bobby didn’t get it, because he said, “Why would I want to hit you? You saved my kid’s life.”

His obtuseness maddened Gil, but he kept it inside. “I meant hit my pitching.”

Bobby laughed out loud; Gil realized he must have been witty again. Bobby quickly stifled the laugh, putting his hand over his mouth, like a girl.

Gil’s own hand was moving down his leg. He stopped it. “What’s so funny?” he said.

“Nothing. Sorry. I’m used to guys challenging me, in bars and stuff, but no one ever challenged me to hit off them.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Gil said.

Bobby shrugged. “Okay, if you really want to, someday.”

Gil rose. “Not someday. Now.”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

“It’s night, for one thing.”

“So turn on the floods.”

“And I don’t even know what equipment I’ve got out here.”

“Sounds to me like you’re looking for excuses,” Gil said.

Bobby drained his bottle, tossed it away. He rose too. “Sounds to me like you’re calling me chicken.”

They stared at each other. Yes, Gil thought: I’ve found the man inside, gotten to him, and he’s like any other guy.

“Batter up,” Gil said.

He went to the apartment over the garage to get Bobby’s old glove, which he’d put under the bed. When he returned the floodlights were shining behind the house, and Bobby was standing on the lawn below the terrace, a bat in one hand, a bucket of balls in the other. They were at the foot of the slope; from there the lawn stretched flat to the beach.

Bobby handed him the bucket, motioned him toward the beach. “Pace off sixty feet,” he said. “If any get by me, they’ll just roll up the hill.”

Gil paced off sixty feet, thinking: if any get by you. He turned, took a ball from the basket, toed an imaginary rubber. Bobby took his stance over an imaginary plate. The floods were on, but it wasn’t like playing under big-league lights. The lawn was dark and shadowy. An advantage, Gil thought, that would compensate for his rustiness.

“All set?” Gil said.

“You’ve got the ball, Slugger.”

Gil rotated the ball in his hand, got his grip, went into his windup. Smooth and strong, everything just right, the way his father had taught him. If only Boucicaut were catching. Hip turn, high leg kick, back bent, step, drive-and he whipped that four-seamer in exactly where he wanted it, high and tight.

At first, because of the way Bobby just stood there, Gil thought he was going to let it go by. Then, at the last instant, after the last instant, Bobby swung. So fast. Then came a crack like the trunk of an oak splitting, then a sizzling sound, then a long silence. And finally a distant splash, in the sea. Gil never saw the ball.

He looked at Bobby. Bobby was in his stance over the imaginary plate, silent, waiting, bat cocked. Gil picked up another ball. He remembered some of the great pitches he had thrown, fastballs over the outside corner, curves that made batters bail out before ducking over the plate, that wonderful knuckler he’d fed Pease with the game on the line. And with all that to back him up, he went into his windup, smoother and stronger now, if anything, and threw another fastball, a blazing fastball, surely the hardest he had ever thrown, this one low and outside-but too low and too outside to be a strike. And again, despite having seen what he’d just seen, Gil was sure Bobby was going to let it go by, possibly didn’t even see it. And again, when it was too late, Bobby swung. And again, that terrifying crack, that sizzle, then the long silence, even longer this time, and the splash, even fainter.

He looked in at the batter. The batter was in his stance, bat cocked, absolutely still. Gil reached into the bucket, tried his curve, pulled the shade, broke off the sharpest curve he’d ever thrown, starting it right at Bobby’s head. Crack. Sizzle. Silence. Splash.

Bobby, back in his stance, spoke. “That one had a little wiggle on it,” he said.

The remark infuriated Gil. He dipped into the bucket, went into his motion-a big strong guy made all the stronger by his fury, and the Cuervo Gold-and threw the ball with all the force in his body straight at Bobby’s head. Bobby leaned back a little, somehow swinging at the same time. Crack, and a sizzle that came much closer, an inch or two from Gil’s ear; Gil felt his ear redden just from the sound.

Bobby was back in his stance before the splash, expressionless.

Gil, breathing hard although he’d only thrown four pitches, looked in the bucket. “No balls left,” he said.

Bobby lowered his bat, came forward. “That was kind of fun,” he said, extending his hand.

Gil ignored it. “Get more.”

“There are no more. No hard feelings, huh, Curly? I’m a pro. It would be like us having a lawn-mower race or something, I wouldn’t stand a chance.” He put his hand on Gil’s shoulder.

Gil shook free. “You’re saying I don’t stand a chance?”

“C’mon, Curly. It’s over. Shake hands.”

Gil shook, but kept his hand limp. Limp, like three limp generations: his father, him, Richie; versus Rayburn’s father, Rayburn, Sean.

“What was your father like?” Gil just blurted it.

“My old man?” said Bobby in surprise. “He’s a high-school guidance counselor in San Jose.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Nothing makes much sense at this hour, Curly. Let’s get some sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

Bobby laughed. “You sound just like Sean.”

“I’m not at all like Sean. I’m like Richie.”

“Who’s Richie?”

“Nobody.”

“C’mon, Curly. It’s late, and tomorrow’s a day game.” Bobby put his arm around him. They walked up the slope toward the terrace. “Kind of fun though,” Bobby said. “Listening for the splash. Lanz’ll get a kick out of it.”

Gil felt nothing but the thrower on his leg.