The Fan (36 page)

Jewel walked into the cemetery. Moonlight illuminated the names on the tombstones, all nonethnic, unless French counted as ethnic. She hadn’t been in a cemetery since her father’s funeral, a horrible convocation of nosy parkers, almost all of them answering to ethnic names at one time or other in their lives, almost all of them calling her Janie.

Tombstones: Pease, Laporte, Spofford, Cleary, Bouchard. Renard, R. G. A sudden light dazzled her eyes.

“That you?” said a voice. Claymore.

They sat behind the tombstone of Renard, R. G. Claymore shut off his torch. Jewel’s night vision, what was left
of it, returned. A mosquito whined in her ear. She slapped at it.

“They’re not bad this year,” Claymore said. “Pollution’s maybe getting to them at last, thank God.”

Jewel glanced at her watch. “He should have been here by now.”

“Maybe he’s not coming,” Claymore said. “He could be anywhere. People get around these days. Two years ago we busted a guy from Djibouti. I’d never heard of it.”

“They don’t play ball in Djibouti.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” She turned to him. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose. In his other hand, she noticed, he held a gun. “You played ball with him.”

“That’s right.”

She checked her watch again. “What kind of a player was he?”

“The star. I told you. Him and Boucicaut. They were the biggest kids in town back then, and they could both hit a ton. And Gil had a cannon for an arm.”

“And what position did you play, Sergeant Claymore?”

“Shortstop.”

“Batting first, right?” She could picture him, a speedy little red-haired kid with freckles.

“Ninth, actually,” said Claymore. “I could never hit much. Astigmatism in both eyes. And I was too slow to lead off anyway.”

“This was Little League?”

Claymore nodded.

“How far did he go?”

“Go?”

“In baseball.”

“That was it, to my knowledge. The high school had already dropped it a year or two before. This was after they closed the mill. We had baseball again for a while during the Reagan years, but now it’s gone.”

“But you still have Little League?”

“Haven’t had new uniforms in five years, but, yeah, we’ve still got Little League.”

They went silent. Jewel slapped at a few more mosquitos, checked her watch. “Something’s wrong.”

“It’s a big world,” Claymore said.

She was starting not to like him. If he mentioned Djibouti again, there was a danger she would let it show.

He cleared his throat. “Tell me,” he began, “how is it that you, you know, a woman, got so interested in base—”

Jewel held up her hand. “Where’s the field?”

“Field?”

“The Little League field.”

“Amvets.”

“Is that where they’ve always played?”

“Always?”

“You. Gil. Boucicaut. Is that where you played?”

“Yes,” he said. “No need to shout at me.”

She was already on her feet. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t—”

She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up.

“What are you doing?” Sean said.

“Digging for worms,” Gil replied, standing knee-deep in the hole he’d dug under home plate. “Need worms for fishing.”

“Found any yet?” asked the boy, kneeling by the hole and peering in.

“No.” Gil could have done it right then, lifted the spade and just done it, but the hole wasn’t deep enough, and he didn’t want to linger after it was over. Just because it was logical and right didn’t mean it would be easy. He went over the logic: how he’d sacrificed so much—his career, Richie, Primo—that the world was tilting crazily and the balance had to be restored. Plus, Bobby had to be taught a lesson about team play. And what had become of the hop on his fastball? All very clear. But that didn’t make it easy.

“The mosquitos are biting me,” Sean said.

Gil hit a soft layer, began tossing up rapid spadefuls. “Smack ’em,” he said.

Sean smacked his cheek. “Look at the blood, Curly.” He held out his hand. Gil, now up to his waist, looked. There was a streak of blood on the boy’s cheek too. Gil almost puked.

“Can’t you stop interrupting?” he said.

The boy backed away a little. Five more spadefuls, Gil decided. One, two, three, fo—

“When’s my daddy meeting us?”

Gil paused, looked at his watch. Dirt covered the face. “Soon,” he said.

“And my mommy?”

“She’s not coming. Your mother’s a whore.”

The boy started crying.

“What are you crying about? You don’t even know what it means.”

“I do. Like on MTV.” He cried harder. The sound was unbearable. It was hard to think of him as a potential big-league star when he was carrying on like that. “I want to go home.”

“Soon, soon.” Four, five. Gil stopped digging. “Here’s a big fat one,” he said. “Have a look.”

The boy didn’t move. “I don’t want to go fishing. I want to go home.” He glanced around. “It’s night,” he said.

“Best time for fishing, I told you,” Gil said, and grabbed his arm.

“What are you doing to me, Curly?”

“Showing you the big fat worm.” With his free hand, Gil got a good grip on the spade handle, started to raise it.

A light flashed on near the first-base dugout, blinding him. He had to drop the spade to shield his eyes.

A man said: “Let the boy go, Gil.”

Gil tightened his grip. “Claymore? Is that you?”

“Let him go, Gil. I’m aimed right at you.”

Gil tried to see beyond the glare. He picked out one shadow, maybe two. “Did I ever thank you for that play you made at short?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gil. Let him go.”

“A lucky play, but still.” He raised his right foot, found a toehold halfway up the inside of the hole, in easy reach.

“We can reminisce later, Gil. Let him go.”

“Why would I want to reminisce with you?” Gil said. “We both know you couldn’t carry my jock.”

“Never said I could, Gil. I was a big fan of yours. Just let him go.”

Gil let go. Had Claymore really been a fan? He hadn’t known. Perhaps there’d been others. Too late.

Sean stood still, by the edge of the hole.

“Come here, son. I’m a policeman. I won’t hurt you.”

Sean didn’t move.

Somewhere behind the light a woman said, “Sean.”

“Mommy?” He took a step toward the light, then another. The beam wavered off Gil and onto the boy. Gil whipped out the thrower and hurled it at the glaring disc.

The beam changed directions wildly, trying different points of the compass, finally coming to rest pointing straight up at the stars. Pupils dilated, Gil couldn’t see a thing. He felt for the surface of the ground, started clawing out of the hole.

Jewel crouched over Sergeant Claymore, saw a knife stuck deep in his throat, and no life in his eyes. She ran onto the field, grabbed Sean, swung him around, and took off the other way, carrying him in her arms.

She ran, out through the gate Claymore had unlocked in the chain-link fence, onto a path, silvered in the moonlight. As she passed under the arched Amvets sign that led to the road, she heard him coming.

Jewel went right past her parked car. She didn’t trust herself to get them both in and start it in time. She fled down a street lined with dark houses, the boy in her arms. Footsteps pounded closer.

“Put me down,” Sean said. “I’m fast.”

But Jewel wouldn’t put him down. She came to a crossroads, saw the main drag, and a blue light shining a block
and a half away. Now she heard nothing but her own panting breath, did nothing but try to go faster. The blue light: POLICE. Jewel banged open the door.

The night man, dozing at his desk, jerked his head up in surprise.

Jewel slammed the door and rammed the bolt home. Rising, the night man wiped drool off his chin.

“Even Mommy runs better than that,” Sean said. But he was in no hurry to be put down.

G
il awoke from a forge dream, drenched in sweat. He looked out the front window of the bus, saw the towers of the city in the distance, and a bright blue sky that hurt his eyes. He went back to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, took stock.

He had the clothes he wore, $217.83, an old Kwikpik lottery ticket he didn’t remember buying, and the thrower, on his leg. He’d lost the knapsack full of knives in the darkness. It didn’t matter. He was all set.

Inside the bus station, Gil bought a cup of coffee and had the clerk check his lottery ticket. The clerk ran it through the machine. “Won a free ticket,” he said. “Want to stick with the same number?”

“Forget it,” Gil told him, and walked out.

He followed downtown streets he’d known for years. They seemed unfamiliar. Not new—there was none of the excitement of being in a new place—just strange. He passed Cleats. A sign in the window read:
CLOSED TILL FURTHER NOTICE. SPACE FOR RENT
. And suddenly Gil knew what was
different. For the first time, the city’s impermanence was laid bare to his eyes. It would all soon be gone.

Gil went into a bar near the ballpark. An old bar, dark and grim. Even now, not long before game time, it was almost empty. Gil was hungry. He had a steak sandwich and a slice of deep-dish apple pie. But he drank nothing, not even the water that came with the meal. He had lost his thirst.

The TV over the bar played soundlessly. Gil watched highlights from an old World Series that he remembered well. But the colors were off, the haircuts ridiculous: almost like a satire of the game. The plays had lost their meaning. Would the games they played now be like that in twenty years—so bleached and blurred, compared to his memories?

A truck commercial appeared on the screen, followed by a beer commercial. After that came a reporter, standing in front of the arched Amvets sign at the old ball field; the path under the arch was now barred by a strip of yellow police tape. Then a still picture of Bobby Rayburn appeared, followed by one of Sean, cutting a birthday cake. After that came footage of a body being loaded into an ambulance, and of Jewel Stern ducking into a squad car and driving off; and then his own picture—his company ID photo—with the words “Gilbert Marcel Renard” in big letters underneath. Gil ate the last bite of deep-dish apple pie, paid his bill, adding a ten-dollar tip—the biggest, as a percentage, he had ever given—and left.

The game had already started by the time Gil reached the ballpark. He wore sunglasses and a Sox cap, carried a clipboard, a large cardboard box taped securely shut, and a ballpoint behind his ear. There were cops at the ticket windows and at every gate, and a sniper on the roof of the press box. A man with a radio to his ear hurried by.

“Some doubt about whether Rayburn would play today, Bernie.”

“He’s out there in center field, Norm. And I’ve never seen security this tight at …”

The sound faded. Gil walked around the corner to the unmarked door and knocked.

“Who is it?” called a voice.

“Package for Socko,” Gil replied.

The door opened. The old red-faced man in the red blazer peered out.

“Urgent,” said Gil. “It’s a new foot.”

The old man reached for the cardboard box.

“He’s got to sign for it,” Gil said.

“I can sign.”

“No way. I almost got canned doing that once.”

“But he’s on the field.”

“I’ll wait. He’ll be taking his break at the end of the third inning, won’t he?”

The old man squinted. “You know him?”

“Sure. He gets all his stuff from us.”

“Thought you looked familiar,” the old man said, and he stepped aside to let Gil pass.

The old man closed the door, made sure it was locked, then led Gil down the corridor. As they came to the door of Socko’s dressing room, Gil said, “I’ll just wait in here.”

“Don’t you want to watch while you’re waiting?”

“Baseball’s not my game,” Gil said.

The old man continued down the hall. Gil went into the dressing room, closed the door, laid the package on the dressing table beside the bottles of mineral water. He heard a distant roar. Socko’s dressing room shook all around him.

Time passed. There were a few more roars, more shaking, then quiet. Gil stood against the wall by the door.

It opened. Socko hurried in, tore off his yellow head, made for the dressing table. He grabbed a bottle of mineral water and drank greedily, head tilted up, face bathed in sweat. He had just noticed the package when Gil stepped forward and cut his throat.

Everything took much longer than Gil had imagined: stripping off the Socko costume; getting the body to stay hidden under the dressing table, with no hands or feet slipping out; putting on the costume. Once inside the costume, he strapped the sheath around his right wrist, stuck the thrower inside, and donned the huge three-fingered hand.
Then he pulled on the grinning yellow head and went out, almost stumbling over his clodhopper feet.

The old man in the blazer was coming down the corridor. “What’s the matter?” said the old man. “It don’t fit?”

“Fits fine,” Gil said, his voice muffled by the mask.

“Where’s the delivery guy?”

“Gone,” Gil said, pointing a cartoon hand toward the exit.

“I’ll just make sure it’s locked,” the old man said, and he kept going.

Gil walked to the end of the corridor, turned up a ramp, and suddenly emerged into blazing daylight, standing in the aisle behind the box seats that fronted the home dugout. It was all perfect, perfect as the first time he’d ever seen it: the red dirt, the green grass, the white lines, the tiny cloud of powder rising from the back of the mound, where the pitcher had just dropped the rosin bag. And the uniformed players, dazzling, like perfect knights. Gil felt dizzy.

“Hey, there’s Socko. Wave to Socko, honey.”

Gil moved down the steps toward the dugout.

“I waved, Ma. Why didn’t Socko wave back?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s working to rule,” said someone else.

And a beery voice from high in the stands called, “Hey, Socko, sit on this.”

Of course, it wasn’t perfect, he had to remember that. It was all fake, the players the most fake of all. Gil climbed onto the dugout, as he had seen Socko do many times. “Hey, Socko, do the jerk.”