The Fan (22 page)

“I’m not sure that’s the right thing. We should go to the hospital.”

“You’re out-jokin’ me again, old pal. Not the time.”

Gil dropped the flashlight, slipped his hand into the basket handle. “Get ready for a gusher,” Boucicaut said, his eyes still bright.

Gil pulled. The blade slid free without resistance. There was no gusher, hardly any blood at all, no more than from a shaving cut.

“Well, well,” said Boucicaut. “She missed me.” He got his feet beneath him. Gil held out his hand. Boucicaut ignored it, gathered himself, rose. A little blood flowed out then, but not much.

“Need a hand with the pants though,” Boucicaut said. That’s when they realized that the maid was gone.

Gil ran from the library, into the front hall. “Kill her,” Boucicaut called behind him.

The front door was open. Gil ran out. The sensors had triggered the lights and he could see the maid running, not very fast, across the lawn. Gil tackled her before she reached the road. She went down hard, the breath knocked from her in a little grunt. Gil slung her over his shoulder and carried her up to the garage.

There were three cars inside—Volvo wagon, Mercedes sedan, Saab convertible—and a golf cart. Gil opened the
door of the Mercedes, popped the trunk, dumped the woman inside, banged it shut. The keys to the golf cart were in the ignition. Gil drove it out of the garage, up the lawn to the front door. Boucicaut stepped out.

“Get her?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Do what I said?”

Gil nodded.

Boucicaut handed him the backpack, about one-quarter full. “Emptied out that one drawer,” he said. “They valuable?”

“Should be.”

“Sure as fuck hope so,” Boucicaut said, and climbed onto the cart.

Gil drove across the lawn, onto the road, down the hill, past the other houses, past the golf course, stopped when he saw the blue light from the guardhouse.

“You up to walking?” he said.

“Why not?”

They walked, into the woods, beyond the guardhouse, back onto the road, all the way to the restaurant parking lot. Boucicaut had a little trouble climbing up to the passenger seat. Gil gave him a push, then took the wheel. “Got the keys?” he said.

“In my pocket.”

“Give them to me.”

Boucicaut tried, but for some reason couldn’t get his hand in his pocket. Gil reached in, couldn’t help feel the quivering in the huge thigh.

“Sure as fuck hope so,” Boucicaut said again.

They drove in silence, until Gil saw a blue road sign with a white
H
and flashed the directional signal. Boucicaut reached for the wheel, held it straight until they’d passed the turn. “For a successful guy, Gilly, you can be pretty dumb.”

Clouds had rolled in, hiding the stars. No traffic. Gil drove past the rest stop, over the bridge. They were silent again. Now and then, Gil glanced at Boucicaut. At first Boucicaut’s eyes were open. Then they were closed.

“You asleep?” Gil said.

“Nope.”

Then silence again, until Gil couldn’t stand it any longer, and spoke once more. “Remember that season?” he said.

“What season?”

“What season. When we won the state. The championship season.”

“So?”

“You ever think about it?”

“Think what?”

“I don’t know. That things could have been different.”

Gil waited for an answer. None came. He glanced over. Boucicaut’s eyes were closed again.

“You sleeping?”

No answer.

Gil pulled to the side of the road. Boucicaut fell against him. Gil twisted free, opened Boucicaut’s jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, examined the shoulder. Only a little blood, now sticky.

“No blood, Co,” he said. “You’re going to be all right.”

Boucicaut opened his eyes. “That’s good,” he said. Then came a gurgling sound, and blood, shiny green in the dashboard light, poured from his mouth.

“Oh, God,” Gil said, fighting to get free, fighting to get his hands on the wheel, to get to that hospital. But Boucicaut’s heavy arms were around him and he couldn’t move. He’d been in that embrace before, more than once but long ago, halfway between the plate and the mound, pitcher and catcher in victory. He put his arms around Boucicaut now, their masked heads touching, side by side.

“The catcher is the father,” Gil said aloud.

Boucicaut’s blood ran onto Gil’s jacket and down his back.

“Hang on, Co. I’ll get you there.”

But there was no answer, just the warm wet flow.

Gil began to cry. “Oh, Co, you were the greatest. You could have played in the bigs.”

Then Boucicaut spoke his last words. His voice was soft
and thick, but right in Gil’s ear. “You’re an asshole, Gilly, you know that? It was Little League. We were twelve years old.”

B
obby Rayburn, sitting at the space console in Sean’s room, was still a prisoner of the Arcturian Web. He’d done everything: offered to trade the uranium planet Bluton for his freedom, revealed the secret hidden at the core of the Cloud Nebula in Orion, read the software manual from cover to cover. “When dealing with the Arcturian Web,” it said under Troubleshooting, “remember that the first error is never fatal. If caught, use creative thinking. (Press F4 for complete creative-thinking menu.)”

Bobby tapped at the keys. Outside it was morning; inside, with Sean’s heavy curtains drawn, dark as night. After ten or fifteen minutes of frustration, his hands grew still, his mind began to wander.
The first error is never fatal
. What was the first error? That was easy: losing his number. Wald’s fault. And the second error? He could identify it as well: the second error was getting mixed up with Chemo Sean. That was the community-relations guy’s fault. Fatal? Or correctable, through creative thinking? Bobby pressed F4 and scrolled through the headings of the creative-thinking menu: Analogies, Making Connections, Brainstorming Trees, Beginning at the End, Redefining the Problem. He clicked on Redefining the Problem, clicked again on the subcategory Naming and Renaming, read what came up on the screen. Then he closed the files, saved the game, and went down the hall to the entertainment center.

Sean, in pajamas, was watching cartoons on the big screen, an enormous teddy bear beside him. Bobby put it on the floor and sat down.

“Hi, Sean.”

“Hi.”

“How’s it goin’?”

“Good.”

“What’re you watching?”

“Bullwinkle.”

“I’ve been thinking about something.”

“He’s a moose.”

“What?”

“Bullwinkle. Rocky’s the squirrel.”

“Did you ever notice how many—”

“With the goggles. ’Cause he’s a flying squirrel.”

“Would you shut up for a minute?”

Sean turned to him for the first time; his lower lip quivered, but he stuck out his jaw at the same time.

“Sorry. I just meant pay attention. Okay?”

Sean nodded.

“I was wondering something, that’s all.”

Sean didn’t respond. He watched Bullwinkle step onto a diving board.

“Do you want to know what it is?”

“What?”

“I’ve been wondering if you ever noticed how many Seans there are.”

“No.” Sean rubbed the teddy bear’s head with his foot.

“I mean what a popular name it is. All the other kids around named Sean.”

“I don’t know any Seans.”

“A dime a dozen. Take my word for it. You’ll see when you get older.”

“I know Corey. And Tyler.”

“I said take my word for it.”

Sean nodded. “Got a game today?”

“Yeah. The thing is—”

“Can I come?”

“Not today. What I’m saying is that maybe your mother and I made a—”

“Is it on TV?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The game.”

“Hell, I don’t know. Aren’t they all? The point is, Sean’s a lousy name.”

Sean’s lower lip quivered again, but a little less this time. And his jaw stuck out more.

“I don’t mean lousy. I just mean … dime a dozen. Like I said before.”

“Dime a dozen?”

“All over the place. Not like Bradley.”

“Bradley?”

“Your middle name. Didn’t you know that?”

“I know my name.”

“There you go, then.”

“I don’t like it.”

“What don’t you like?”

“Bradley.”

“Bradley’s a fine name. It’s Grandpa’s name.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Would Grandpa want to hear you say that?”

“And Mommy doesn’t like it either.”

“Don’t make up stories.”

“I’m not. She told me.”

“But it was her idea, for Christ’s sake.”

“She told me.”

On the screen, Bullwinkle sprang off the diving board and saw that the pool was empty. Freeze frame. Commercial. “You could be Brad for short.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Why the hell not? Brad’s a cool name.”

“I like Sean.”

“Well, I don’t. So think about it.” Bobby rose and headed for the door. The commercial ended. Bullwinkle resumed his fall. His antlers caught in the cords of Boris Badanov’s descending parachute and he wafted safely down.

.  .  .

On the way to the ballpark, Bobby tried to picture a perfect white baseball with red-stitched seams, tried to feel the feeling of hitting it on the sweet spot of the bat. As hard as he tried, all he could visualize was a blurred, generic baseball, not even that, more the idea of a baseball; and he could feel nothing at all. He gave up. At that moment, another image rose in his mind, complete to the finest detail: the painted farmhouse on the hypnotist’s wall, with the glow of the hearth fire just visible through the window with the deep-crimson shutters.

“Goddamn it,” he said aloud. “I’m not centered.” The back of his hand began to tingle, where he’d hit Primo.

Bobby parked in the players’ lot, got out of the car, put on the headphones, pressed
PLAY
. The music was just a jumble of unconnected noise. He pressed STOP.

“See you a minute, Bobby?” said Burrows as Bobby entered the clubhouse.

They went into Burrows’s office. Burrows sat at his desk, a metal one with nothing on it, and lit a cigarette. Bobby took a card-table chair on the other side.

“How’s the rib cage, big guy?”

“Fine. Jesus.”

“Hey. Gotta ask. Valuable commodity.”

“What’s up?”

“Not much,” said Burrows. He gazed into the distance, although there was no distance in the windowless room. “Thinkin’ about restin’ you today, is all.”

“Forget it. I’m not tired.”

Burrows took a deep drag on his cigarette, let the smoke drift slowly from his nostrils. His eyes grew dreamy, just for a moment.

“There’s tired and there’s tired,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I got to take care of my players. That’s what managing’s all about nowadays. Protecting the investment. It’s a long season. Don’t need to tell you that, Bobby.”

“The rib cage is fine,” Bobby said. “Never was anything wrong with it. And I’m not tired, in any meaning of the word.”

“You’re a tiger, Bobby. That’s one of the reasons you’re … what you are. Why we’re so doggone glad to have you here. But sometimes even tigers got to rest.” He dropped the cigarette on the floor and ground it under his heel. “Just for the day, big guy. Take some of the pressure off.”

“I’m not feeling any pressure.”

“ ’Course not.” Burrows rose. “Just for today, then.”

And who’s going to start in my place? That was the question in Bobby’s mind, but he didn’t ask it.

He dressed: the number-eleven T-shirt first, then sleeves, jock, sanitaries, stirrups, pants, cleats, warm-up jersey—and walked down the tunnel to the dugout. The lineup was already taped to the wall.
Rayburn
was at the bottom, with the rest of the reserves. Someone named Simkins was playing center field and batting seventh. The name meant nothing to Bobby. He scanned the field, found the newcomer in the batting cage, recognized him after some thought: the kid from spring training, the phenom with the all-arm swing and the too-quick feet, who hadn’t even made it to the final cut. Now he was back. Bobby watched him rattle three balls off the center-field fence, then rocket a few more onto the street. In a few months the kid had turned into Ted Williams.

When Bobby’s turn came, he didn’t think about picturing baseballs or feeling feelings. He just swung as hard as he could, and the ball started taking off all over the yard. The most vicious drive of all tore past Primo’s head in shallow left. Primo didn’t flinch, didn’t move at all, just stood there relaxed and arrogant, like a matador. Bobby went into the dugout, part way down the tunnel, then swung his bat as hard as he could at the cement wall. It splintered in his hands. He felt a little better.

The feeling lasted until the fourth inning. Bobby sat in the dugout beside Boyle, chewing gum. The Yankees on a sunny Saturday afternoon. S.R.O. Zero-zero. Then, with two out and nobody on, the kid jerked one down the line in left, fair
by five or six feet, and gone. He ran quickly around the bases, head down, keeping the smile off his face. The crowd rose, the way crowds do for someone’s first big-league home run.

“Why do they do that?” Bobby said.

“Why do they do anything?” said Boyle, spitting a thin jet of tobacco juice between his feet.

That helped, but not enough. The cleansed feeling that had come from smashing the bat kept slipping away. Then, in the top of the fifth, the kid made a good, not great, over-the-shoulder catch in the triangle to save a run, and got another standing O as he ran off. The cleansed feeling vanished completely, replaced by an internal stew of bottled-up energy, adrenaline, aggression. On the outside Bobby was perfectly still. The tension between the two states was unbearable, made him want to smash again, and shout, and tear onto the field.

In the ninth the bullpen broke down, and they fell behind, three to one. Simkins led off the bottom of the inning, went to a full count, and walked on a close pitch.
Where was that, ump?
thought Bobby, or perhaps he’d said it aloud: Boyle’s eyes shifted his way for a moment. Lanz struck out and Zamora flied to right. The aisles clogged with fans trying to beat the traffic. Then Primo doubled off the wall in right center. They held the kid at third.