The Fan (35 page)

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.

A
ll the Sterns were poor sleepers, and Jewel was the worst. She left the ballpark at eleven-thirty, was home in bed by midnight, and then just lay there, eyes wide open. She thought about Bobby, and Sean, and Val, and Bobby again. She got up, had a glass of water and two Tylenol, in case the pressure behind her eyes blew up into a headache, and, while she was at it, swallowed a Vitamin E, in case some cell in one of her breasts was planning to mutate later that night. Then she went back to bed, rolled over, closed her eyes, and stayed awake.

Mr. Curly Onis. The name rang a bell, of course, but so distant. In her work she met a lot of people, heard a lot of names. Jewel had a good memory. She searched it now. The media rep in Chicago? The head groundskeeper in Oakland? That lawyer who worked with the umpires’ union? All had names with Cs and Os in them, but none was Curly Onis. Maybe the name didn’t ring a bell at all, maybe it was a case of déjà vu. She found her eyes were open, closed them, rolled over.

Or maybe he was a ballplayer somewhere, a minor-leaguer. There were a lot of wonderful ballplayer names—hadn’t someone written a song composed of nothing but?
Sure: “Van Lingle Mungo,” by Dave Frishberg. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, she opened the
Baseball Encyclopedia
, which lay on the floor by her bed, and leafed through it, just reading the names.

Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep.

Jewel snapped on the light, grabbed the encyclopedia, whipped through the pages. And there he was, on page 1226 right above Edward Joseph Onslow, lifetime B.A. .232: Manuel Dominguez “Curly” Onis. One big-league at bat, a single, for the 1935 Brooklyn Dodgers. Batted 1.000. Jewel thought right away of John Paciorek, her favorite example of this kind of thing, and recalled the shtick she and Bernie had done about European movies. Curly Onis’s case was even purer.

But having thought that, she didn’t know what to think next. She switched off the light, lay down, monitored her systems. They were all humming away at midmorning speed. She got up, went back to the bathroom, drank another glass of water, swallowed another Vitamin E. Jewel had a phone in her bathroom, dating from a long-ago decision to live a little. She stared at it for a while. Then she picked it up and dialed Bobby Rayburn’s home number.

One ring and a microsecond of the next. Then Bobby said: “Hello?”

His voice was thick and sleepy, and very near. The sound did something to her.

“It’s me,” she said.

“Oh.” Pause. “It’s kind of late.” In the background, Jewel heard Val—she hoped it was Val—say, “Who is it?” She hoped it was Val? Good God.

“I know the time,” Jewel said, “so obviously it’s important. I just looked up Curly Onis in the
Baseball Encyclopedia.
”

“He’s there?”

“On page twelve twenty-six.”

“Christ, he’s really deteriorated.”

“What?”

“He told me he was up for a cup of coffee, but I didn’t believe him. Lots of guys say that.”

In the background, Val said, “What’s going on?”

“I’m not following you, Bobby,” Jewel said.

“Having a cup of coffee. It means playing briefly in the show.”

“I know what having a cup of coffee means, Bobby. I’ve been covering this stupid game since before you put on your very first jock strap. And don’t forget to wear it.” That last part just popped out; she couldn’t help it. Think it, say it—like, see the ball, hit the ball—she was a natural, at running her mouth.

Bobby laughed. In the background, but louder now, and more insistent, Val said, “Who is it? Who’s calling at this hour?” And more, but muffled as he smothered the receiver in his hand.

Then he said, “What was his record? With the Padres, right?”

“The Padres?” said Jewel. “Curly Onis played for the Dodgers in 1935. The Brooklyn Dodgers, Bobby.”

“This is his son, then?” said Bobby. “I don’t get it.”

“I don’t think—” Jewel began, and then came the soft but stress-inducing pulse of her call-waiting. “Hold on.” She hit
flash
. “What is it?”

“Fred.”

“What?”

“I’m at work.”

“And?”

“You wouldn’t believe this
Between Brewskis
thing. Guess how many calls we’ve had so far.”

“I don’t give a shit. Was one of them Gil Renard?”

“Three hundred and seventeen,” said Fred, giving her the information anyway. “And one was Gil. He didn’t leave a last name.”

“What did he say?”

“I can play it. Hang on.” Jewel hung on. She heard a high-pitched whir, then: “This is Gil. Tell them thanks, but I stopped caring.” Click.

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

“When did he call?”

“About three-quarters of an hour ago. But I just got the slip. Things are backed up here tonight. Like I said, three hundred and—”

“Shut up. Did they trace it?”

“That’s why I’m calling at this hour,” Fred replied, offended, “if you’ll give me half a chance.”

“And?”

“This is the strange part. It might be a hoax or something.”

“Why?”

“Because it came from a phone at Bobby Rayburn’s house.”

Jewel hit
flash
. “Bobby?”

“Still here. Listen, can we continue this another—”

“Lock your door.”

“What?”

“Call the cops. Don’t go near a window.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Gil Renard is in your house.”

“Who’s he?”

“Curly Onis. He killed Primo.”

“Why would he do that?”

“That fight you had with Primo. Gil Renard was there.”

“Fight?”

“Stop it, Bobby. You’ve got to be smart now. Don’t go near him. I’m on my way.”

“But what about Sean?”

“What about him?”

“He’s in his bedroom.”

Jewel had no immediate solution to that, and it had to be immediate, because the next instant she heard the phone drop to the floor of Bobby’s bedroom.

“Bobby?” she said. “Bobby?”

She heard Val: “What’s going on?”

And Bobby: “Get in the bathroom and lock the door.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

“Just do it.”

Then there was silence, except for Val’s whimpers. Call-waiting flashed again. Jewel switched lines.

“I got tired of holding,” Fred said.

“Did you call the cops?”

“Sure. What do you take me for?”

She switched him off again. Now, at Bobby’s house, there was nothing to hear at all, not even whimpering.

Bobby went into his walk-in closet, ripped out the long wooden clothes rail. Then he moved down the hall, crouched, on the balls of his feet, almost running. He entered the playroom, lit by the glow from the space-station console, and stopped at Sean’s closed door. Not a sound came from the other side. That had to be because Sean was tired from the long day, and deep in sleep. Bobby threw open the door, snapped on the lights.

The bed was empty.

And neatly made.

Bobby’s heartbeat rose in two stages, as he absorbed those facts. Something lay on the pillow. An empty bottle. He picked it up. Jose Cuervo Gold, but not quite empty. There was a rolled-up note inside. Bobby upended the bottle, tried to shake it out. It wouldn’t come. He smashed the bottle on the floor, fumbled for the note in the broken glass.

Bobby ran outside, down to the beach. The moon had risen and he could see quite well. No one was fishing. “Sean,” he called. “Sean.” There was no answer.

Bobby ran around the house to the garage. The landscaping truck was gone. He went up to the apartment. The door was open. There was nothing inside but the fishing pole.

He went back into the house, back to Sean’s room. It was all real: empty bed, neatly made, and shards of glass all over the floor. On the way back to the master suite, he saw the message on the space-console screen: “Nice job, Vice Admiral Sean! Save game (Y/N)?”

He rapped on the bathroom door.

“Bobby?”

“Open up.”

Val opened the door, then stood trembling, arms crossed over her breasts. He handed her the note. She read it, looked up, and said: “What did you expect, after all those years you’ve been screwing around?”

A moment passed before he understood what she was talking about. “I couldn’t care less,” he said.

“Clearly.”

“About you and Wald, I mean. Do what you like. The point is he’s taken Sean.”

“Curly has?” She looked down at the note. “But we couldn’t have been more grateful,” she said. “We gave him a job.”

“It has nothing to do with that.”

“Then what?”

“I knew this was going to happen,” Bobby said. “I just knew it.”

“What have you done?” she said.

He reached out to touch her shoulder. She flinched away.

Bobby went into the bedroom and saw the phone, lying on the floor. He picked it up. “Jewel?”

“Let’s have it.”

“He’s taken Sean.”

“Goddamn it.”

“I knew something bad was going to happen to him,” Bobby said. “I’ve known since day one.”

“Grow up,” Jewel said, and then came a click and a dial tone. Bobby saw blue lights flashing through the trees. He hurried outside.

Hanging up on people left and right, thought Jewel as she threw on some clothes: wielding the phone like a goddamn
club, in midseason form. She took the elevator down to the underground garage, got into her car, and started driving north. She came to the exit that would lead her to Bobby’s, and kept going.

The needle quivered at ninety, crept higher. Jewel sat on the edge of her seat and clutched the wheel, hanging on more than controlling the car, but she didn’t slow down. There was little traffic; she examined every car she passed. What model was she looking for? She didn’t know. She eased off the pedal to call Bobby for the information, and got a busy signal.

After that she tried Claymore. It took her some time to bully his home number out of the night man at his station. Claymore answered, not as quickly as Bobby had, but just as throatily. This time it did nothing for her.

“Jewel Stern,” she said. “Gil Renard’s on the loose. You’d better get out to that cemetery.”

“How do you know he’s going there?”

“That’s where he does his burying, isn’t it?”

He gave her directions.

It was still night when Jewel drove into the little town, found the cemetery, stopped the car. She stepped out, into what she thought at first was complete silence. Then she heard a breeze in the treetops, an animal scurring on dried leaves, a mosquito’s tiny whine. It bit her on the neck.