Bang The Drum Slowly (20 page)

“No doubt you are right,” I said.

“There is nothing illegal in it,” she said. “You are only doing what your customer asks you.”

“He is more than only a customer,” I said. “He is my friend.”

“And what does your friend wish? He wishes to marry me. Do you wish to help him have his wish? Then get them goddam Change of Beneficiary forms down here from Boston. I will tell you another thing, Author, which I been saving for the dessert.” The waiter brung the dessert and she told him close the curtain behind him again on the way out and disappear unless she rung, and she leaned forwards a little and she said, “Author, the day those forms are signed and sealed and sitting in the palm of my hand you are the lucky owner of a golden lifetime pass to 66 Street, summer and winter where the game is never called because of rain and where every day is a doubleheader for any young man with red blood. I got a girl 7 feet tall for you, Author, and another only half your size, never the same girl twice, girls just off the boat from Honolulu. Give a glance at a map of the world and tell me where you want a girl from and what language she should speak, girls that kings could not buy out there in them Arabian countries, girls that already turned Hollywood down, girls that will make you think you are being struck by lightning, and girls that will make you say, “Never mind Heaven because it can not match 66 Street,” girls every color of the rainbow, you name it, brown girls, yellow girls, white girls, black girls, red girls, brown hair, black hair, blonde hair, red hair, girls that already forgot more tricks than they know, all ages from 16 to 60, all sizes and shapes, and never the same one twice.”

“I already got a girl,” I said.

“Buy your girl a tinkler for her arm,” she said. “I noticed her arm was bare,” and she went back in her purse again and pulled out a check for $2,500, made out to The Green Cow. “I will ring for the waiter,” she said.

“Put it back,” said I, and she put it back and pulled out another, $5,000, and rung the bell, and the waiter come.

“Cash,” she said, and he took the check and went and brung back cash, 50 bills, 100 each, and she laid them on my plate, where my pie was but was no more, for I ate it, and I looked down at it, and I rung the bell, and the waiter come again.

“I rather have more pie,” I said, and I handed him the plate, and he looked at me, admiring me, and he give Katie back the cash and went and brung another hunk of pie. She stuffed it in her purse and got up in a hurry. “You will be hearing from me,” she said, and out she went.

TALK ABOUT crazy coincidences, I was writing along in my book, still only the first chapter, and hit the part where I called Joe from the airport in Chicago when right that minute he shoved in opposite, and he said, “Should we not send flowers?”

I said I sent them, me and some of the boys.

“Like who?” he said.

“Me and Goose and Horse,” I said, and I folded up my papers and stuck them in my pocket. “The club also sent some.”

“You writing another book, Author?” said Joe, and he laughed. He hadn’t spoke a nice word to me in weeks.

“No,” I said.

“About you and Pearson?” he said.

“What makes you think so?” said I.

“Nothing,” he said. He looked out the window. “Do not write another book until I read the first one. I can not keep up with you. I ain’t even bought a copy yet. I am a little strapped this year.”

“$3.50 is all it takes,” said I, “or 35¢ in the quarter books. That ain’t very steep, Joe.”

“Who else sent flowers?” he said.

“Nobody else I know of,” said I.

“That ain’t enough,” he said, and up he got and crossed the isle and collared Roberto Diego and told him tell George fork over $3. George give only one. Joe said, “3, George, I said 3,” and he held up 3 fingers, and George dug back in and come up with the other 2, and then he spoke a lot of Spanish to Diego, probably swearing. I do not know more than 6 words in Spanish that I learned playing winter ball in Cuba, but I believe I know swearing when I hear it, and Joe moved on down the isle, and every seat he stopped at he held out his hand, and somebody put a dollar in it, and he looked at the dollar and said, “Is this all you can part with? I pity you. You can no doubt part with 4 for a silk necktie, or drop 5 at poker, or fill up your gas tank and think nothing of it, but ask a fellow for a few dollars for flowers for a fellow’s mother and suddenly their pocket is locked and the key is in the river,” and the boys all went back in their pocket again and brung out more, and Joe went down in the other car and cornered the boys at cards, and after awhile he come back and give me $60 about, and the next time the train stopped I sent the flowers. I did not know what type to send. I do not know too damn much about flowers. The telegraph girl said, “Never mind, I will send the right type. How do you wish to sign the card?” and I signed it “From the boys, with deepest regrets and sympathy,” and I wrote down all their names, and she copied them off, all but “Piss.” She got all red and said we could not send such a word on the wire, and we changed it to “Sterling.”

“It would be easier just saying “From all the boys”,” she said.

“No,” said I, “send it like I wrote it,” and that was how it went.

I kept the list. I have it yet. You start saving everything once you start writing a book, and every little thing brings back memories all their own, like in the song.

I don’t know how Joe knew. I never asked. Goose or Horse must of told him, and I was quite mad at them for a minute, and then it passed. Who told Goose after all but me? And then when he knew he could only carry it around so long until he had to tell somebody else, like carrying heavy bags that you have either got to change them around from hand to hand or stop and sit on them awhile or else finally break down and pay a redskin to help you, or if you don’t tell somebody you might start writing it down and get it off your chest that way, telling paper.

Wednesday they hit Chicago, Bruce and his father between the doubleheader, and they walked in the clubhouse and the boys all stood up, for the old man if not Bruce, and Bruce said “Howdy boys” and started getting dressed.

“Do you feel like playing ball right away?” said Dutch.

“Yes, sir,” said he. “I do.”

“Good,” said Dutch. “Boys, we lost 2—ball games to a club we should fat up on every time if Mr. Pearson will pardon the expression. I do not generally use such an expression except under unusual circumstances.”

“That is all right,” said Mr. Pearson. “I heard them once or twice down home.” He took off his coat and sat down on a pile of towels. His suspender kept drooping down over his shoulder.

“I guess you did at that,” said Dutch. “I am suppose to be responsible for the character of these young men and do not wish you to think I ever forget it for a minute. But you come at a bad time, sir, these son of a bitches with their nose up my rear when they should of been shook by June. Leave me introduce you around,” and he introduced Mr. Pearson to the coaches and the boys, and he went up and down the line and shook their hand. Every time he shook it his suspender flopped down again, and he snapped it back up, shake, flop, snap, shake, flop, snap. Him and Dutch moved down towards the colored boys, and I held my breath a little, not knowing if he would shake their hand or not, but he done so, and then he went back and sat on the towels. “I am going to bat right-hand power and see if we can not beat this wind,” said Dutch. “What a place to build a park! You might as well build it uphill. Hanging is too good for the—built this ball park. Longabucco will play in left and hit for Vincent Carucci. Pasquale, you hit 8 and Goldman 7, Smith hit in the 4 spot and Roguski 3. Who does that leave open?”

“That leaves Pearson in the 5 spot if that is the way you wish it,” said Egg. “Probably you made a mistake in your thinking.”

“I guess I know what I wish,” said Dutch.

“He batted in the 5 spot in the Alabama State Amateur Baseball League down there,” said Mr. Pearson, “and also when he was with the Cowboys. He will live up to your faith, for one thing that keeps him sitting on top of the world is your faith in him.”

Clint and Egg shook their head “No.”

“I hope he has got a better grip on the top of the world than we have got on the goddam pennant race,” said Dutch. “I am probably out of my mind batting him 5, but a man must take a desperate gamble when God himself is against you, blowing a wind in like that against your left-hand power. No! I will bat him 6 and move Longabucco up to 5. How does that look?”

Clint and Egg shook their head “No” some more. “Why not shove Goldman in there in the 6 spot?” said Egg.

“And follow Pasquale right after,” said Clint.

“A catcher works hard,” said Joe. “You should not bat him too high in the order.”

“He is fast,” said Mr. Pearson, “and young, and great in his faith in you.”

“Fast as a dear,” said Dutch, “and that is a fact, and my faith in him is greater than ever. I believe this might be his year at last, but the truth of it is I must trust in the word of my staff, and I will move him back to the 8 spot after all. There is nothing personal in that.”

“That will keep you from having too many right-hand hitters in a row anyhow,” said Joe. “It will prove your faith in him.”

“Yes it will,” said Dutch.

“I guess it will at that,” said Mr. Pearson, though I suppose he might of wondered how. I myself wondered but said nothing, never speaking unless spoke to after pitching a bad ball game, which I just got done doing in the first game, though actually not too bad of a job now that I look back at the clips but one Coker and Perry threw away behind me, messing up a double play at a poor time, plus some better umpiring might of helped, plus also the wind. Perry said if I stopped thinking so damn much about the bonus clause I might of been more effective, which was a lie and I said so, and Goose said if I threw anything stupid a-tall it was Jonah’s fault, and Jonah said one more remark like that out of Goose he would start separating somebody’s head from their shoulder if it wasn’t against the law to murder old men, and there would of been some really nasty things said except it was right about then Mr. Pearson walked in.

Bruce caught the second game, and we won, which I was glad for, his father sitting up behind the dugout watching. He only seen Bruce play for the Mammoths once before, coming north for the 52 Series when Bruce pinch-run for Swanee Wilks in the fourth game, Swanee now managing the Mammoth farm in Appalachia in the IndO-Kent League, Class C, where Bruce broke into the organization. We won with the power off but the right-hand hitting putting singles together, Blondie Biggs going good for 7 innings until needing relief, Horse finishing up, Horse very effective all during that swing which if he hadn’t of been would of meant “Curtains.”

That night we sight-seen around town, me and Bruce and his father and Horse and Goose and Joe in Joe’s car, Michigan Boulevard and the stockyards and Soldier’s Field where General McCarthy pinned the medal on Goose, and State and Madison, the busiest corner in the world, and we circled around the other ball park, where I myself never played. They say the wind is better there. We drove through the South Side, blocks and blocks of colored houses, everybody hanging out the window for a breath of air. Mr. Pearson was very impressed with the whole town and said he wished his wife ever seen it, and Horse said, “Well, you will tell her about it when you see her again, for we all must die.”

“I will,” he said. “I been keeping a track of things to tell her.”

“No sense keeping a track,” said Joe. “You will have millions of years to think back, all the time in the world up there out of the hustle and the bustle and the heat. It will be a better place than Chicago.”

“Lay it on thin, boys,” said I to myself, and we went to Joe’s and drunk beer, or at least they did, for I do not drink, and Joe’s Mrs. waited hand and mouth on Bruce, running back and forth like a madman every time he needed a refill or even only looked like he needed one, and I knew she knew but never give it a thought, though in the end she was the one left the cat out of the barn and blew the roof off things.

Me and Bruce and his father and Horse went back to the hotel, and we gassed a long time, the 4 of us, and the old man slept in the room with Bruce, and I spent the night with Horse. The last thing Horse done before bed he fished out this little pencil about an inch long and a hunk of hotel paper, and he sat writing in his shorts, probably a half an hour or more, and I said, “I hope you are not writing a book, for a club has got room for only one Author at a time.”

“No,” said he, “I am writing a letter home, but I am a slow writer,” which he certainly was because in a half an hour he only done 9 lines or less. “To tell you the truth,” said he, “I am out of practice and anyhow can never think of a thing to say. What in hell is there to say? All my life I double-timed her, and all I can say is I will try and see if I can stop for once. She will not even believe me.” He licked the flap closed and stuck it in the door of the medicine chest.

“She might,” I said, “if you sound sincere enough.”

“Sincere?” he said. “Goddam it, that is a good word,” and he went and got the envelope again and ripped it open and squeezed another sentence in and wrote a new envelope and licked it and stuck it back in the medicine chest and turned out the light and got in bed, and we talked some, and first time in 4 years up that I ever really talked to the fellow, and he is not a bad fellow a-tall when he tries.