The Fan (33 page)

Bobby held up his hand. “I couldn’t have it any other way.” He paused, and for a moment Gil imagined the unimaginable: that Bobby was about to cry. Then he said: “It’s a miracle.”

Gil didn’t know what to say to that. He laid down the fishing pole and knapsack.

“Maybe you can show Sean a little about fishing,” Bobby said. “Haven’t had much time for him lately.”

“What is it you do, Mr. Rayburn, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Bobby laughed. “I’m a ballplayer.”

“Baseball?”

“With the Sox.”

Gil nodded. “Sorry,” he said. “Don’t follow it much.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” said Bobby. “There’re lots of worlds outside baseball.”

F
red, 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.