Five Classic Spenser Mysteries (94 page)

“I know, you’ve got to work undercover. Even if you proved him innocent the damage would be done.”

“There’s another question there too. What if he’s guilty?”

“If he’s guilty I’ll hound him out of baseball. The minute people don’t trust the integrity of the final score, the whole system goes right down the tube. But I’ve got to know first, and
I’m betting there’s nothing to it. I’ve got to have absolute proof. And it’s got to be confidential.”

“I’ve got to talk to people. I’ve got to be around the club. I can’t find out the truth without asking questions and watching.”

“I know. We’ll have to come up with a story to cover that. I don’t suppose you play ball?”

“I was the second leading hitter on the Vine Street Hawks in nineteen forty-six.”

“Yeah, you ever stood up at the plate and had someone throw you a major-league curve ball?”

I shook my head.

“I have. Nineteen fifty-two I went to spring training with the Dodgers and Clem Labine threw about ten of them at me the first inter-squad game. It helped get me into the front office. Besides you’re too old.”

“I didn’t think it showed,” I said.

“Well, I mean, for a ballplayer, starting out.”

“How about a writer?” I said.

“The guys know all the writers.”

“Not a sports reporter, a writer. A guy doing a book on baseball—you know,
The Boys of Summer, The Summer Game
, that stuff.”

Erskine thought about it. “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad. You don’t look much like a writer,
but hell, what’s a writer look like? Right? Why not? I’ll take you down, tell them you’re doing a book and you’re going to be hanging around the club and asking questions. It’s perfect. You know anything about writing?”

“I’ve read some,” I said.

“I mean, can you sound like a writer? You look like the bouncer at a health club.”

“I can keep from sounding as stupid as I look,” I said.

“Yeah, okay, it sounds good to me. I see no problem. But you gotta be, for crissake, discreet. I mean dis-goddamn-creet. Right?”

“I am, as we writers say, the very soul of discretion. I’ll need a press pass or whatever credentials you people issue. And it is probably smart if you take me down and introduce me around.”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of that.” He looked at me and started working on his lip again. “This is between you and me,” he said. “No one else knows. Not the manager, not the owners, not the players, nobody.”

“How about your lawyer?” I asked.

“He is my own lawyer, not the club’s. He thinks I wanted you for personal business.”

“Okay, when do I meet the team?”

Erskine looked at his watch. “Too late today,
half of them are showered and gone. How about tomorrow? We’ll go in before the game and I’ll introduce you around.”

“I’ll show up here about noon tomorrow then.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’ll be good. You got a title for this book you’re supposed to be writing?”

“I’m looking for sales appeal,” I said. “How about
The Sensuous Baseball?
”

Erskine said he didn’t like that title. I went home to think of another one.

I got up early the next morning and jogged along the river. There were sparrows and grackles mixed in among the pigeons on the esplanade, and I saw two chickadees in the sandpit of one of the play areas. A couple of rowers were on the river, a girl in jeans tucked into high brown boots was walking two Welsh corgis, and there were some other joggers.

Near the lagoon, past the concert shell, a bum in an old blue sharkskin suit was sleeping on a newspaper, and along Storrow Drive the commuter traffic was just beginning. I was still living at the bottom of Marlborough Street and the run up to the BU footbridge took about ten minutes. I crossed the footbridge over Storrow Drive and went in the side door of the BU gym. I knew a guy in the athletic department and they let me use the weight room. I spent forty-five minutes on the irons and another half hour on the heavy bag. By that time some
coeds were passing by on their way to class and I finished up with a big flourish on the speed bag. They didn’t seem impressed.

I jogged back downriver with the sun much warmer now and the dew gone from the grass and the commuter traffic in full cry. I was back in my apartment at five of nine, glistening with sweat, and reeking of good circulation, and throbbing with appetite.

I squeezed some orange juice and drank it, plugged in the coffee, and went for a shower. At quarter past nine I was back in the kitchen again in my red and white terry-cloth robe that Susan Silverman had given me on my last birthday. It had short sleeves and a golf umbrella on the breast pocket and the label said
JACK NICKLAUS
. Every time I put it on I wanted to yell “Fore.”

I drank my first cup of coffee while I made a mushroom omelet with sherry, and my second cup of coffee while I ate the omelet, along with a warm loaf of unleavened Arab bread, and read the morning
Globe
. When I finished, I put the dishes in the dishwasher, made the bed, and got dressed. Gray socks, gray slacks, black loafers, and an eggshell-colored stretch knit shirt with small red hexagons all over it. I clipped my holster on over the belt on my right
hip. The blue steel revolver was nicely color-coordinated with the black holster and the gray slacks. It clashed badly when I wore brown. To cover the gun I wore a gray denim jacket with red stitching along the pockets and lapels. I checked myself in the mirror. Adorable. Lucky it wasn’t ladies’ day. I’d get molested at the park.

The temperature was in the mid-eighties and the sun was bright when I got out onto Marl-borough Street. I walked a block over to Commonwealth and strolled up the mall toward Fenway Park. It was still too early for the crowd to start gathering, but the early signs of a game were there. The old guy that sells peanuts from a pushcart was pushing it along toward Kenmore Square, an old canvas over the peanuts. A middle-aged couple had parked a maroon Chevy by a hydrant near Kenmore Square and were setting up to sell balloons from the trunk. The trunk lid was up, an air tank leaned against the rear bumper, and the husband, wearing a blue and red tennis visor, was opening a large cardboard box in the trunk. Near the corner of Brookline Ave, outside the subway kiosk, a young man with shoulder-length blond hair was selling small pennants that said RED sox in red script against
a blue background. I looked at my watch: 11:40. You couldn’t see the park from Kenmore Square, but the light standards loomed up over the buildings and you knew it was close. As I turned down Brookline Ave toward the park I felt the old feeling. My father and I used to go this early to watch the teams take infield.

I walked the two blocks down Brookline Ave, turned the corner at Jersey Street, and went up the stairs to Erskine’s office. He was in, reading what looked like a legal document, his chair tilted back and one foot on the open bottom drawer. I closed the door.

“You think of a new title for that book yet, Spenser?” he said.

An air conditioner set in one of the side windows was humming.

“How about
Valley of the Bat Boys?
”

“Goddamn it, Spenser, this isn’t funny. You gotta have some kind of answer if someone asks you.”

“The Balls of Summer?”

Erskine took a deep breath, let it out, shook his head, as if there were a horsefly on it, kicked the drawer shut, and stood up. “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s go.”

As we went down the stairs, he handed me a
press pass. “Keep it in your wallet,” he said. “It’ll let you in anywhere.”

A blue-capped usher at Gate A said, “How’s it going, Harold?” as we went past him. Vendors were starting to set up. A man in a green twill work uniform was unloading cases of beer onto a dolly. We went into the locker room.

My first reaction was disappointment. It looked like most other locker rooms. Open lockers with a shelf at the top, stools in front of them, nameplates above. To the right the training area with whirlpool, rubbing table, medical-looking cabinet with an assortment of tape and liniment behind the glass doors at the top. A man in a white T-shirt and white cotton pants was taping the left ankle of a burly black man who sat on the table in his shorts, smoking a cigar.

The players were dressing. One of them, a squat red-haired kid, was yelling to someone out of sight behind the lockers.

“Hey, Ray, can I be in the pen again today? There’s a broad out there gives me a beaver shot every time we’re home.”

A voice from behind the lockers said, “Were you looking for her in Detroit last week when you dropped that foul?”

“Ah come on, Ray, Bill Dickey used to drop them once in a while. I seen you drop one once when I was a little kid and you was my idol.”

A tall, lean man came around the lockers with his hands in his back pockets. He was maybe forty-five, with black hair cut short and parted on the left. There were no sideburns, and you knew he went to a barber who did most of his work with the electric clippers. His face was dark-tanned, and a sprinkle of gray showed in his hair. He wore no sweat shirt under his uniform blouse, and the veins were prominent in his arms. Erskine gestured him toward us. “Ray,” he said, “I want you to meet Mr. Spenser. Spenser, Ray Farrell, the manager.” We shook hands. “Spenser’s a writer, doing a book on baseball, and I’ve arranged for him to be around the club for a while, interview some players, that sort of thing.”

Farrell nodded. “What’s the name of the book, Spenser?” he said.

“The Summer Season,”
I said. Erskine looked relieved.

“That’s nice.” Farrell turned toward the locker room. “Okay, listen up. This guy’s name is Spenser. He’s writing a book and he’ll be around talking with you and probably taking some notes. I want everyone to cooperate.” He
turned back toward me. “Nice meeting you, Spenser. You want me to have someone introduce you around?”

“No, that’s okay, I’ll introduce myself as we go,” I said.

“Okay, nice meeting you. Anything I can do, feel free.” He walked away.

Erskine said, “Well, you’re on your own now. Keep in touch,” and left me.

The black man on the training table yelled over to the redhead, “Hey, Billy, you better start watching your mouth about beaver. This guy’ll be writing you up in a book, and Sally will have your ass when she reads it.” His voice was high and squeaky.

“Naw, she wouldn’t believe it anyway.” The redhead came over and put out his hand. “Billy Carter,” he said. “I catch when Fats has got a hangover.” He nodded at the black man who had climbed off the table and started toward us. He was short and very wide and the smooth tan coating of fat over his body didn’t conceal the thick elastic muscles underneath.

I shook hands with Carter. “Collect all your bubble-gum cards,” I said. I turned toward the black man. “You’re West, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “You seen me play?” he said.

“No,” I said, “I remember you from a Brut commercial.”

He laughed, a high giggle. “Never without, man, put it on between innings.” He did a small Flip Wilson impression and snapped his fingers.

From down the line of lockers a voice said, “Hey, Holly, everybody in the league says you smell like a fairy.”

“Not to my face,” West squeaked.

Most of the players were dressed and heading out to the field. A short, thin man in a pale blue seersucker suit and dark horn-rimmed glasses came into the locker room. He spotted me and came over. “Spenser?” he said. I nodded. “Jack Little,” he said. “I do PR for the Sox. Hal Erskine told me I’d find you here.”

I said, “Glad to meet you.”

He said, “Anything I can do to help, I’d be delighted. That’s my job.”

“Do you have biog sheets on the players?” I said.

“You bet. I’ve got a press book on every player. Stop by my office and I’ll have my gal give you the whole packet.”

“How old is your gal?” I said.

“Millie? Oh, Christ, I don’t know. She’s been with the club a long time. I don’t ask a
lady her age, Spenser. Get in trouble that way. Am I right?”

“Right,” I said. “You’re right.”

“C’mon,” he said, “I’ll take you out to the dugout, point out some of the players, get you what you might call acclimated, okay?”

I nodded. “Acclimated,” I said.

I sat in the dugout and watched the players take batting practice. Little sat beside me and chain-smoked Chesterfield Kings.

“That’s Montoya,” he said. “Alex Montoya was the player of the year at Pawtucket in ’sixty-eight. Hit two ninety-three last year, twenty-five homers.”

I nodded. Marty Rabb was shagging in the outfield. Catching fly balls vest-pocket style like Willie Mays and lobbing the ball back to the infield underhanded.

“That’s Johnny Tabor. He switch-hits. Look at the size of him, huh? Doesn’t look like he could get the bat around. Am I right or wrong?”

“Thin,” I said. “Doesn’t look like he could get the bat around.”

“Well, you know. We pay him for his glove. Strong up the middle, that’s what Ray’s always said. And Tabor’s got the leather. Right?”

“Right.”

The crowd was beginning to fill the stands and the noise level rose. The Yankees came out and took infield in their gray road uniforms. Most of them were kids. Long hair under the caps, bubble gum. Much younger than I was. Whatever happened to Johnny Lindell?

Rabb came into the dugout, wearing his warm-up jacket.

“That’s Marty Rabb, with the clipboard,” Little said. “He pitched yesterday, so today he charts the pitches.”

I nodded. “He’s a great one,” Little said. “Nicest kid you ever want to see. No temperament, you know, no ego. Loves the game. I mean a lot of these kids nowadays are in it for the big buck, you know, but Marty. Nicest kid you ever want to meet. Loves the game.”

A man with several chins came out of the alleyway to the clubhouse and stood on the top step of the dugout, looking over the diamond. His fading blond hair was long and very contemporary. It showed the touch of a ten-dollar barber. He was fat, with a sharp, beaked nose jutting from the red dumpling face. A red-checked shirt, the top two buttons open, hung over the mass of his stomach like the flag of his appetite. His slacks were textured navy
blue with a wide flare, and he had on shiny white shoes with brass buckles on them.