The Fan (25 page)

“How much?”

Bobby couldn’t remember. Perhaps he hadn’t been told. He just knew no one would believe their cost.

“Probably worth every penny,” the reporter said. “They look like something out of Tiepolo.”

“I don’t know what
town
in Italy.”

The reporter smiled. “I’m ready for that tour now,” she said.

Bobby had forgotten about the tour. He began to get pissed off again.

“You need me,” she said.

“Why is that?” Bobby asked, thinking of Wald’s four pillars.

“Because I did a lot of baby-sitting in high school.”

Bobby looked at her: an older woman, yes, but good-looking. And smart. He smiled too. “Where do you want to start?”

“Wherever you want,” she said. She rose. A nice body, but not very strong-looking. And was it his imagination, or did she sway just a little as she stood up?

“Are you all right?” he asked, surprising himself. He couldn’t remember ever expressing, or feeling, concern for a reporter.

“Never better,” she said.

What the hell was her name? Jewel? That couldn’t be right.

They started downstairs. Bobby led her from room to room.

She said: “What did you pay for this place?”

Bobby remembered standing by the pool, remembered Wald bullying the real-estate agent, but he couldn’t remember the price.

“Off the record,” the reporter said.

“You’ll have to ask Wald.”

She took out her pad, made a note. They were in one of the bathrooms. It had a black-marble floor, matching Jacuzzi, mirrored walls.

“Tell me about Wald,” she said.

“He’s smart,” Bobby replied, conscious of her many reflections on the walls. It was a big bathroom and she was small, but he felt surrounded by her. For a moment or two it was unpleasant. Then not.

“Can you give me an example?”

“He’s got it all worked out. Mentally.”

“How so?”

“The whole game. It’s like a house with four pillars. Knock one down and everything collapses.”

“What are the pillars?”

Bobby counted them off on his fingers. “Owners, agents, players, media.”

Her head tilted slightly, as though she were lining up a target; the movement was reflected simultaneously in mirrored distances. “Didn’t he forget something?”

“What?”

“Or maybe it’s not a pillar, but more the ground the others stand on.”

“What’s that?” asked Bobby.

“The fans,” she replied.

They went into Sean’s room. “This is Sean. Sean, say hi to …”

“Jewel Stern,” the reporter said immediately, not giving him time to squirm, or showing the slightest embarrassment. Not bad looking, smart, and tough as well.

“Hi,” said Sean, eyes on the screen, fingers on the mouse.

“Negative,” said the computer voice.

Jewel stepped up to the console, glanced at the screen. “Caught in the Arcturian Web?” she said.

“Yeah.”

“How long till they spray the Sorgon B?”

“Five minutes.”

“Did you try Alt F4?”

“No.”

“Try it.”

Sean pressed Alt F4. Bobby moved closer. A new menu flashed on the screen.

“Click on Trade Goods,” Jewel said.

Sean clicked on Trade Goods.

“Two minutes, thirty seconds,” said the computer voice.

“Click on Tobacco.”

Sean clicked on Tobacco. A message appeared on the screen: “Offer Arcturians Earth’s entire tobacco supply in perpetuity and at no cost? Y/N?”

“Y,” said Jewel.

Sean pressed the Y key. New message: “Offer accepted by Arcturian Grand Council. Web withdrawn to Galaxy 41-B in the Crab Nebula. Earth saved.”

The computer played a trumpet fanfare. “Congratulations, Captain Sean,” said the computer voice. “The Federation hereby authorizes me to promote you to commodore, effective immediately.”

“Hey,” said Sean, turning to Jewel. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, Commodore.”

“How did you know?” Bobby said.

“That’s all they ever want,” Jewel answered. “They’re completely addicted.”

Sean went to bed a few minutes later. He asked to say good night to the nice lady. Bobby showed her into his room.

“Sweet dreams,” she said.

“I don’t have dreams.”

“Be polite,” Bobby said.

“That’s all right,” said Jewel. “If he doesn’t have dreams, he doesn’t have them.”

Sean nodded. He gave her a long look, one Bobby didn’t recall seeing from him before. “Do you like Bradley?” he asked her.

“Bradley who?”

“It’s my middle name. Instead of Sean. Daddy likes it better.”

Bobby felt Jewel’s gaze on him. He shrugged, as if at some childish fantasy.

“I’m sure your father wants you to be called whatever you want.”

“Even if it’s bad luck?”

Bobby saw Jewel tilt her head again at that measuring angle, but all she said was, “Sleep well.”

They sat in the entertainment center, Jewel with the legal pad on her knee, the tape recorder on the couch between them. Much more than fifteen minutes had passed. She’d asked him a lot of questions he’d been asked before, but for some reason Bobby wasn’t bored yet.

“A beer, or something?” he said.

“No, thanks.”

“Wine?”

“Not for me.”

She flipped through the pages of the legal pad, sighed. “What kind of ballplayer do you think Sean will be?”

That was a new one. He looked at her. She was waiting, her head tilted again. Bobby imagined he was seeing deep inside her, to some essence beyond the fact of her being a woman. That had never happened to him before either.

“No idea,” he said. “But I wouldn’t want him to be a ballplayer.”

“Why not?”

“I just wouldn’t.”

“Do you think you’re just saying that because of the slump?”

Bobby’s guard was down. He almost said yes, almost told the truth, because it was the truth, although he hadn’t known
it until she’d spoken. But he got a grip on himself and said: “I’m not in a slump.”

“You’re a lifetime .316 hitter, Bobby, and as of today you’re batting .153.”

“They’re just not falling in, that’s all.”

There was a long pause. Bobby could hear the tape recorder whirring. “Do you feel any pressure because of the big contract?”

“How many times do I have to answer that? No.”

“Never again. I promise.” She scanned her notes. “What about your new teammates?”

“What about them?”

“Getting along okay?”

“Sure.”

“No problems?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes there are problems when a big star comes to a new team. You know that. Especially if …”

“If what?”

“If he gets off to a rocky start.”

Bobby rose, crossed the room to the wet bar, got a beer from the small refrigerator beneath it. “There are no problems,” he said.

“Not with any of the players?”

“Correct.”

She opened her mouth as though to say more, stopped herself. They sat in silence, broken only by the whirring of the recorder. He still wasn’t bored.

All at once, she began to pale again. She took a deep breath. “You’ve been generous with your time, Bobby.” She rose, again slightly unsteady. “Just one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Have you ever heard of someone called Gil Renard?”

Bobby thought. “I’m bad with names,” he said.

She laughed, seemed to lose her balance, reached out, touched his forearm. “Don’t I know,” she said.

“Is he in the minors?” Bobby asked.

“No.”

“Why do you ask?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jewel put the legal pad and the tape recorder in her bag.

“That it?” said Bobby.

“I might have a follow-up or two when I pull everything together.”

“Just call.”
I said that?
he thought, and felt a strange thrill that was almost of danger.

She tilted her head again. “Thanks, Bobby.” Then she was gone. Her touch lingered on his forearm.

Jewel walked toward the parking area in front of the four-car garage. She had a sharp pain in her head and a deep, dull one in her jaw, throbbing in some infernal harmony. She got in her car, parked next to Bobby’s Jeep, closed the door, rolled down the window, breathed in the cool night air, hoping for clarity, or simply the strength to drive home. Pull everything together? She didn’t know where to begin.

Jewel was about to turn the key when a car swept into the circular drive and stopped on the other side of Bobby’s Jeep. She sat motionless. The night was quiet, and what breeze there was blew her way. She heard Wald speak, low but clear: “And now the asshole wants to be traded.”

Then came Val’s voice: “For Christ’s sake, where to?”

“It’s a pipe dream,” Wald said. “No one would touch him. That contract makes him a leper.”

“So what’s going to happen?” Val said.

“Who knows?”

“Can’t you do better than that?”

Wald’s voice rose. “You’re complaining?”

“Shh. I’m not. It’s just that I’d like to know what’s going to happen. Is that so awful?”

Wald snorted. “This one’s up to him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s going to have to start hitting. It’s as simple as that.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“He’s through.”

“But he’s only thirty-one.”

“Thirty-two in a few weeks. Almost geriatric in this game, even though he’s still seventeen in real life.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” Val said.

S
hould have been a grave digger
.

Another black night, moonless and starry, but now the air was warm, and alive with soft breezes. Surrounded once more by the old town names, written in stone—Pease, Laporte, Spofford, Cleary, Bouchard—Gil toppled the marker that read Renard, R. G., and dug again his father’s grave. This time the once-turned, unfrozen soil had lost its resistance. The earth felt weightless, and Gil very strong, stronger than he could ever remember. He was a big man, he reminded himself, bigger than Bobby Rayburn, as he had discovered when they stood so close at the ballpark; and much bigger than Primo. He pictured the knife flashing into Primo’s hand in the men’s room at Cleats, and his insides stirred with a feeling he hadn’t known since the last time he had faced some dangerous hitter: butterflies.

In what seemed like moments, Gil was down in the earth to shoulder level. The shovel blade struck the pine box. Recalling the jagged holes he had made in the wood, Gil knelt and cleared the rest of the dirt by hand. Then he climbed out of the pit and walked to the shed at the end of the dirt track crossing the cemetery. The pickup was parked behind it. Gil opened the door, reached inside, bent his knees, and hoisted Boucicaut’s body onto his shoulders.

A heavy and unbalanceable load: Gil carried Boucicaut
half the distance, dragged him the rest of the way by his belt, bumping him over rocks and tree roots. Gil knew he couldn’t hurt Boucicaut anymore but still was crying by the time he got him to the grave. Boucicaut: a knight in the Crusades, according to some college girl; a real one, not like Robin Hood. He smoothed Boucicaut’s hair a little, plucked a twig from his beard. Bent over the body, Gil was conscious of the stars above, the vast black spaces between them, the infinite blackness beyond. He knew he should say something, eulogize Boucicaut in some way.

“Len Boucicaut,” he said. “Catcher.”

Then he rolled him into the hole. Boucicaut landed with a heavy thump, facedown.

Beside the shovel lay Gil’s MVP trophy, the brass-plated baseball on the hardwood stand. Gil picked it up. He had brought it with the intention of placing it in Boucicaut’s arms. Boucicaut was the MVP, always had been, always would be. It was the right thing to do, but how was it feasible, now that Boucicaut had landed facedown like that? He could climb down into the pit, wrestle the body into position; that was one way. Gil stood at the edge, picturing himself doing it. But he didn’t do it. In the end, he shoveled the earth back in, working faster and faster, hurling and flinging the last clods of it, then tilted his father’s headstone back in place, and hurried off, shovel in one hand, trophy in the other.

Gil drove to the trailer in the woods. The 325i was still parked in the junk-strewn yard, but that wasn’t what first caught his eye. What first caught his eye was the light glowing in the trailer.

He got out of the pickup and closed the door softly. Had they left a light on? Possible, but still he moved as quietly as he could toward the trailer. Now he heard voices, realized as he drew closer that they were TV voices. Could they have left the TV on too?

Gil found a window where the plastic curtains were only half drawn, knelt, and peered over the sill. He saw no one except the figures on the TV screen. Black-and-white figures in some old movie: a man in a tuxedo breathed smoke
from his nose and asked a woman in a strapless gown to dance. She breathed smoke from her nose and said her feet were tired.

Then Gil felt something hard in the small of his back, and a real woman said: “Hands way up.”

He didn’t move.

“This is a twelve-gauge, peeping boy, and my finger’s wrapped around the trigger.”

Gil considered the thrower on his leg, tried and failed to imagine reaching it before she could pull the trigger; and raised his hands.

“Now, kneeling down just like that, turn around so I can see your pretty face.”

Gil started to turn. She prodded him with the gun muzzle. “Did I say anything about lowering them?”

Gil raised his hands higher, twisted around, still on his knees. He looked up at the woman. She had painted eyebrows, frosted hair, upside-down Cupid’s-bow lips.

“How to keep men the way you are right now,” she said. “That’s the problem.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Gil said. “I was only returning the truck.”

She didn’t turn to look. “What were you doing with it?”

No smooth lie came to mind. But he did remember something:
She’s in the pen
. “Returning it, like I said,” Gil told her. “I didn’t expect to see anyone here, that’s all. You weren’t supposed to be back till August.”

A guess, but not a wild one: her eyes wavered, and so did the gun. At that moment, the mongrel came bounding out of the darkness.