The House of Daniel (4 page)

Two umps, just like in the little pro leagues that pop up in these parts and then die like your crops in a drought. Guy behind the plate was local; guy on the bases drove up from Enid. They'd switch when the Greasemen called on us. I'd seen both of them often enough before. They mostly didn't screw the team from the other side too hard.

“Batter up!” yelled the plate umpire. He was already sweating in his black suit and mask and protector. The crowd whooped and stomped. They were rooting for the Greasemen, except for the few who'd come over from Enid.

Ponca City pitcher was a big redheaded right-hander named Walt Edwards. He'd played pro ball till a sore soupbone sent him back to the oil works. Though he couldn't throw hard any more, he knew what he was doing out there. His fastball might not break a windowpane, but he could drive nails with his curve.

Our leadoff man hit back to the box. Then Mudfoot touched Edwards for a single to left, but he didn't get any farther. Don Patterson took the hill for the bottom of the first. He was the opposite of Walt every which way 'cept they were both tall. He was a lefty, and he could fire the pill through a brick wall. Trouble was, about one game in three he couldn't hit a brick wall with the damn thing.

Conoco Ball Park's got a center field like they say the Cricket Grounds does—it goes on and on. I played deep, too. I knew I might have to cut across. Our guys in left and right weren't what you'd call swift. Even from way out there, the ball went
pop!
every time it slammed Lightning Bug's mitt.

Don walked their second hitter, and the next guy blooped a Texas League single in front of me. But we turned a slick double play on their cleanup man—told you Rod's smooth—so we got out of it.

I was up second in the second. I waited on one knee in the on-deck circle, watching Edwards work. It would've been a pleasure if he hadn't been pitching against us. You need to think on the mound. If you can't blow it by somebody, you need it twice as much. He could do it. Oh, couldn't he just!

Our first man up grounded to short. I stepped into the batter's box. Ponca City fans booed me. They booed everybody in an Enid uniform, so I didn't think anything of it. Edwards threw me a curve just off the outside corner—I thought. The plate ump's hand went up. “Stee-rike!”

“You missed that one,” I said. I didn't turn my head toward him. The crowd would've got on me, and he would've thought I was showing him up. Then my strike zone would've been as wide as Big Stu the rest of the day.

“You hit. I'll umpire,” he said, which didn't leave me much of a comeback. So I dug in and waited for the next one.

I guessed right. It was another slow curve, only inside this time. I bunted it down the third-base line and beat it out easy. “That's crap,” said their first basemen as I took my lead. His name was Mort Milligan. He had arms and shoulders like a blacksmith and he looked mean, so I didn't sass him back. I just grinned.

Lightning Bug swung from the heels and popped up. Our next guy struck out and left me stranded. I trotted to center, picked up my glove—you leave 'em out there when your side hits—and I was ready.

This frame, Don walked their first guy. Then that hulking first baseman came up. Milligan batted left, so I slid a step or two into right-center, just in case. He swung through the first pitch. The next one was a foot off the plate—he let it go by. Don looked in at Lightning Bug, nodded, rared back, and let fly again. This time, the Greaseman connected.

You hear that
crack!
off the bat like a rifle, you start running. You worry about how far later.
As far as you can
is a pretty good bet. You hear that
crack!
, even
as far as you can
may not come close to far enough.

If I hadn't shifted those couple of steps toward right, I never would've had a prayer. I didn't think I had one, anyway. I was running hard as I knew how, but the ball roared out there like a freight on a long downgrade. If it got by me, the man on first would score for sure. Only thing that might hold Milligan to a triple was him being strong and slow. Might. You put a ball over the center fielder's head in that park, you can run for days.

At the last possible second, I threw out my arm. I will be damned if the ball didn't land square in the pocket and stick. They tell you not to catch one-handed, 'cause it's too likely to pop out. You want to say I got lucky, I won't argue with you.

By that time, Mort Milligan was past first. The runner on first was halfway to third—he'd taken off at the crack of the bat. My throw in hit the second baseman. He'd gone out to short right, figuring I'd be flinging from the fence. His relay doubled off the runner easy as you please.

The crowd went nuts. They don't often cheer the visitors, but I got a heck of a hand if I do say so myself. Mort Milligan pointed out at me like I'd picked his pocket. “You
son
of a bitch!” he shouted. I just stood there, waiting to see if we'd get the third out.

We did. I came into the dugout. They clapped for me again. One guy tossed me half a buck, and another a silver cartwheel. I touched the brim of my cap to both of 'em. I always needed money, and right then more than usual.

Well, I won't give you the whole game like a radio fellow. We beat 'em—the final was 5-3. I didn't get any more hits. I did catch the last out. It was a can of corn, as high and lazy a fly ball as you'd ever want to see. Your granny could've put it away without a glove. I caught it with both hands just the same.

When I brought in the ball, Milligan shook his head at me and said, “You wouldn't make that play again in a year of Sundays.”

“I made it this time,” I answered. Then, because we'd won, I needled him back: “You won't hit it that hard any time soon, either.” He gave me a dirty look, but he turned away.

One of the men in the crowd, an old fellow with store-bought teeth, threw me another silver dollar, which I didn't even slightly expect. He said, “I've been playing and watching since before they wore gloves, and that's as good a catch as I ever seen.”

“Obliged, friend,” I told him, and I meant it more ways than he knew. I felt pretty darn proud—as proud as a guy can feel when he doesn't dare go home with the rest of the team after the game.

Rod Graver was under the grandstand with the Ponca City manager, splitting up the take. More stacks of quarters than you can shake a stick at. Once everything got figured out, my share would be somewhere north of ten bucks—it
had
been a good house. I'd be glad to have it. I would've been gladder yet if it'd been more.

Most of the Eagles didn't know I had things on my mind. Don Patterson pounded me on the back—almost knocked me over—and said, “Thanks, Jack. You saved my bacon out there.”

I wondered who would save mine. I wondered if anybody would, or could. All I said was, “Any old time. Part of the service.” Don laughed and laughed. His only worry was slathering liniment on his arm once he went back to the roominghouse.

We got paid at the ballpark. Rod gave everybody a roll of quarters and then a dozen more besides. “Thirteen dollars,” he said, in case we couldn't work it out for ourselves. That was about what I thought, all right. He kept some extra for himself, on account of he was the manager and did more for the team than just play ball. I don't know exactly how much of a bonus he took. I do know you couldn't've paid me enough to try to keep a bunch of roughnecks like us all heading the same way.

We felt proud of ourselves when we rode back to the roominghouse. You always do when you win, and especially when you win on the road. Win on the road and even 3.2 beer tastes good.

*   *   *

My roomies joined the crowd at the end of the hall to take their turns in the bathtub. Pretty soon, they'd have the choice between dirty bathwater and cold. Since I'd gone in there that morning, I figured I could let it slip. I got out of my uniform and into my street clothes.

Silver clinked, all nice and sweet, when I moved it from the back pocket of my baseball pants to the front pocket of my regular trousers. The quarters, the half, the heavy dollars … I smiled. Money does make things better.

I hefted the roll of quarters Rod gave me. It made almost as good a fist-packer as the brass knucks I hadn't used. Then I frowned and hefted it again. I know what a roll of quarters weighs. I'd better—I've got 'em at enough different ballparks. This one didn't feel quite right. I peeled off some of the orange paper wrapper.

Slugs spilled into the palm of my other hand.

“Well, shit,” I muttered, there where nobody could hear me. So it had started already. Ten bucks can take you a ways. Not having it would be bad. Not having it when I thought I did would've been worse.

I went next door to Rod's room. When I knocked, he opened it himself. Made things simpler. “Need to talk to you a minute,” I said.

“Sure,” he answered, like nothing was wrong. I told you before—Rod's smooth. “What's going on?”

I jerked my head toward the front door. He came with me, easy as you please. When we got outside, I flipped him one of the slugs. “Pay me for the game,” I said.

It didn't faze him a bit. He caught the slug—he has good hands—and stuck it in his own pocket. “You told me you'd give back the ten you got out of Big Stu,” he said.

“That's between me and him. It's got nothing to do with you,” I answered. “Pay me for the goddamn game. Pay me for the catch. Pay me or I'll go back in there and show the guys what you tried to pay me with.”

That hit him like one of Don's fastballs in the ribs. If the Eagles found out he'd stiffed me, most of 'em—maybe all of 'em—would be on my side. Semipro teams break up all the time. Something like that could be plenty to break up the one he ran.

He was smart enough to see as much. He never was a fool, Rod Graver. “Okay, Jack. Keep your shirt on,” he said, which couldn't mean anything but
Keep your trap shut
. He hauled out his billfold and gave me two fives. “Here you go. You happy?”

“Happy like snow is black,” I said. Little old Jew ran the hockshop in Enid I knew too well. I got that one from him.

Rod just looked at me. I bet he was never in a hockshop in all his born days. He said, “If you think ten bucks'll keep you away from Big Stu longer'n ten minutes, you better do some more thinkin'.”

“Nuts to that.” I didn't want him to see he'd hit a nerve. “I sweat for that money out at the ballyard. I ran for it. It's mine.”

“It's yours now,” he allowed, “but you better keep runnin'.”

“Don't worry about me. Worry about how you're gonna find another center fielder. The guys you got now, they'd have to play it on a bicycle.”

He smiled then, just a hair's worth. “Bicycles,” he muttered. “Luck to you, you dumb bastard. Anybody who gets in bad with Big Stu is a dumb bastard, but luck to you anyways. You'll need it.”

I wanted to ask him how come he was doing Big Stu's bidding. But you don't need to ask a question like that. You only need to think of it, and it answers itself. Rod did things for Big Stu 'cause he knew which side his bread was buttered on, that was how come.

*   *   *

We walked back into the roominghouse together, like nothing was wrong. A little while later, most of the Eagles went out to dinner. Ponca City may not've had a good diner, but it had a chop-suey house, which Enid didn't. Me, I ate another roominghouse supper at the widow woman's sorry table. I didn't want to spend a quarter or half a dollar, not when I was about to pull up stakes. And I wouldn't've been good company for the other fellas, either. They wanted to celebrate beating the Greasemen. I didn't have anything to celebrate about.

All three of the guys I shared the room with went out to eat. When I said I didn't feel like it, Don offered to buy for me. “Least I can do after you went ballhawking for me like that,” he said.

“It's not the money,” I lied—it was, some. “I don't feel like it, is all.”

He could tell I wasn't saying everything I might have. Lightning Bug and Mudfoot dragged him out before he had the chance to get snoopy, though. After I had my supper, such as it was, I went out for a walk. It was heading toward dark, but it hadn't quite got there yet. Maybe the folks at the roominghouse thought I wanted a constitutional to settle myself after the game. That's just my guess—I didn't ask 'em, since I didn't much care. Any which way, I went, and I was glad to be gone.

I wasn't going back to Enid; I knew that much. A mouse doesn't turn around and run straight into the cat's mouth. All I had in Ponca City was in my pockets or in my suitcase or in my head. I could do 'most any kind of odd job, if anybody'd hire me. But things in Ponca City were as rough as they were in Enid or anywhere else. I was a stranger in town, too. Nobody knew me from a hole in the ground.

I chuckled under my breath while I walked along. That wasn't so. The Greasemen knew me, all right, and better than they wanted to. About the only thing I could do better than most fellows my age was play center field. I couldn't do it that much better than the fellow they already had, though. They wouldn't cut him loose so they could take me on.

The one thing I was good at, I wasn't good enough at to do anything with it. Sure looked that way to me then, anyhow. You never know what's comin' round the corner till it smacks you in the chops.

Me, I came round the corner and found myself on Palm Street, a block and a half from the boarding house where Mich Carstairs had been staying. My feet knew where they were going even if my head hadn't a clue. Or maybe my head did know, but decided not to say anything for a while.

When I got to the boarding house, I paused in front of the door, listening. I didn't want to go in if they were still eating in there. Then I wondered why the devil not. What difference did it make tonight? I wasn't going to do anything bad. That had been the night before, and look what it got me.