The Fan (20 page)

The cop walked up to the driver’s-side door. Boucicaut tucked his bottle under the seat and rolled down the window, but did nothing about the ski mask on his head. He’d had it on since morning, maybe as a joke, maybe to prove the truth of his riddle.

The cop glanced in the window. He had red hair, graying at the sides, wore glasses. “Cold, Len?” he said.

Boucicaut was silent.

“Or just feeling shy?”

“That’s a funny one,” said Boucicaut.

“So’s doing sixty in a forty zone. And those brake lights are a laugh riot.” The cop hunched down a little so he could get a look at Gil. He took his look, straightened, said, “Told you about those brake lights last month, and the month before.”

“Still waiting on that part,” Boucicaut said.

“Where’s it coming from? China?”

“China,” said Boucicaut. “Another funny.”

“Here’s two more.” The cop wrote him up, twice, and drove off. The squad car wasn’t out of sight before Boucicaut tore off the ski mask, tore up the tickets, threw them out the window.

“What an asshole,” Boucicaut said, his voice rising. He pounded the steering wheel once with the flat of his hand, sending a tremor through the cab. “Was he always an asshole like that?”

“Who?”

“Claymore, for Christ’s sake.”

“That was Claymore?”

“The little cunt. He’s doin’ good. Not as good as you, but good.”

Boucicaut felt under the seat for his bottle. They changed places. After a few miles, Gil said: “It’s not right.”

“Don’t be a jerk,” said Boucicaut.

Gil realized that Boucicaut thought he was talking about
what they were about to do. But that wasn’t it. Gil had been thinking about Claymore. It wasn’t that Claymore was a cop, while Boucicaut was whatever he was: it was the way Claymore had talked to him. Claymore was just a supporting player. Boucicaut was a star.

Something had gone wrong.

Gil had no intention of stopping at Cleats. It just happened, the way things seemed to be just happening now that he’d hooked up with Boucicaut. Hadn’t planned to stop at Cleats, hadn’t planned to stop anywhere. He’d meant to drive straight through the city, to put on the red ski mask, to get it over, like a cold call that had to be made. But at the first sight of skyscraper lights on the horizon, Boucicaut had straightened in his seat and said, “Sure could use something wet right about now.”

And Gil had replied, “I know a place.” It had just happened.

They parked outside Cleats. “When was the last time you were here?” Gil asked.

“Never been here.”

“In the city, I meant.”

“Never been in the city,” said Boucicaut.

“You’re joking.”

Boucicaut rested a heavy hand on Gil’s shoulder. “What’s the joke?”

They walked into the bar just as Lanz was striking out on the big-screen TV. Then came a shot of handshaking players. Game over. “He sucks this year,” Gil said.

“Who?” said Boucicaut, looking around, his eyes bright.

The bar was packed, and all the tables taken, except for the two in the alcove. Gil didn’t like the alcove because you couldn’t see the TV.
Sox Wrap
came next, followed by
Baseball Tonight
and
SportsCenter
. He sat down anyway, pointing out the crossed bats of Aaron and Mays.

“I’m thirsty,” Boucicaut said.

They ordered two drafts and two shots of Cuervo Gold. Leon noticed Gil and brought the drinks himself.

“How you doin’, Gil?”

Used his name. Out of the corner of his eye, Gil saw that Boucicaut was watching, was impressed. “Not bad, Leon,” Gil said. “How about you?” Expecting, if anything, a little more chitchat, followed by Leon’s exit. But instead Leon let him down.

“Since you’re asking,” he said, setting the drinks on the table, “you recall that knife you sold me?”

“Knife?”

“The Iwo Jima one.”

“Oh, yeah,” Gil said, half remembering.

“What’s the warranty on it?”

Gil didn’t know, didn’t care. He was no longer in the knife business, and what was more, Leon knew that. Boucicaut, on the other hand, did not. Gil swallowed his annoyance, put on a professional face. “Something wrong, Leon?” he said.

“Blade broke off.”

“There isn’t a knife on the market that’s covered against abusive treatment,” Gil told him. “What were you doing with it?”

“Cutting a bagel in half.”

Boucicaut let loose a burst of laughter, spraying beer across the table. A few droplets arced onto Leon’s white apron. Leon frowned.

“Bring it in sometime,” Gil said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll have it here tomorrow,” Leon said. He went off.

“Another satisfied customer,” said Boucicaut.

“Just part of doing business.” Gil’s mouth was dry again. He reached for his beer. “Let’s get going,” he said.

“What’s the rush?” said Boucicaut. “I like it here.”

“It’s almost eleven.”

“Relax, businessman. The night is young.”

They had another round.

“You like this shit?” said Boucicaut.

“What shit?”

“Tequila.”

“No one’s forcing it down your throat.”

“Hey. No offense, old pal. It does the job.”

And another round after that. They drank at the same pace. Gil began to feel right again.

“Know any girls?” Boucicaut said.

“Some.”

“How about two, for starters?”

Gil thought right away of Lenore and her sister. A crazy image sprang up in his mind, an image of the four of them in bed together—Lenore, her sister, Boucicaut, himself. He was trying to remember the sister’s name—almost had it, just needed a few more seconds—when Bobby Rayburn walked in and sat at the next table.

Gil’s bodily rhythms and flows—pulse, respiration, perspiration, adrenaline—all sped up, and in his mind the bedroom image vanished at once. In its place rose another: Boucicaut’s red maple, dripping sap from the wound the thrower had made. Gil turned away from Bobby Rayburn, looked at Boucicaut. Boucicaut, wiping froth off his mustache with the back of his hand, didn’t appear to have noticed Rayburn at all, or if he had noticed, had no idea who he was.

Gil, still not looking at Rayburn, picked up his shot glass and emptied it in one swallow. He heard a waitress say, “What can I do for you, Bobby?” glimpsed Leon rubbing his hands in the background, and another man walking past him into the alcove. A copper-skinned man with shining hair whom Gil didn’t recognize at first, out of uniform, and then did: Primo.

Gil heard Rayburn say, “Hey, my man, buy you a drink?”

“No buying here, Bobby,” said Leon, coming forward.

“Huh?” said Primo.

“I mean your money’s no good here. What’ll it be, gentlemen?”

“Heineken,” said Rayburn.

“Coke,” said Primo, sitting down.

Gil felt a kick under the table, turned to Boucicaut. “You gone deaf or something?”

“What?”

“I said you’re right. It’s time to get goin’. Drink up.”

Gil couldn’t quite make sense out of what Boucicaut was saying. His gaze swung back to the other table. The waitress
rushed over with the drinks, a platter of baby back ribs, a bowl of Leon’s special sauce. Gil felt another kick.

“So get the bill from your colored friend over there,” Boucicaut said.

Gil checked his watch, thought: Christ. He gestured at Leon. Leon, hovering over the other table, looked right through him. All at once, a sour cactus taste rose up Gil’s throat and he felt sick. He pushed himself to his feet.

“Where you goin’?”

Gil hurried out of the alcove, past the bar, into the bathroom. On the TV screen over the urinals, Bobby Rayburn was standing bare-chested in front of his locker, fenced in by handheld microphones. Gil started puking right then, finished in and on a toilet in one of the stalls. Then he pictured a cactus growing in his gut and did it all again, bent double at the waist, hands clutching knees, tie decorated with sour bits from inside him.

Gil took deep breaths, straightened. He felt lightheaded for a few seconds, then steadied. He loosened his tie, carefully pulled it over his head, dropped it behind the toilet. Another fucking tie. He started cleaning himself with toilet paper: the lapels of his jacket, the cuffs of his pants, his shoe tops. He was almost finished when footsteps sounded on the bathroom tiles.

A man said: “It’s getting late.”

A second man said: “So?”

The first man said: “So let’s not dick around. Just tell me what you want.”

Gil thought he recognized the voice. He put his eye to the crack between the stall door and the frame, and saw Bobby Rayburn standing with his back to one of the sinks. The man he was talking to was out of sight, but Gil could see his reflection in the mirror; it was Primo. Above their heads, Rayburn’s image continued to field questions on the TV screen.

Primo said, “I want nothing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Rayburn.

“Nothing.
Nada.
”

“You wanted something before.”

“Before?”

“In spring training.”

“What you talking about?”

“A hundred grand. It wasn’t that long ago, amigo.”

Primo’s image stiffened in the mirror. “Watch the way you talk to me.”

“What way?” said Rayburn, looking puzzled.

“Like that.” Primo noticed something about his reflection he didn’t like, patted his hair.

Rayburn sighed. “Let’s start over, my man.”

Primo’s image stiffened again, but he said nothing. The seed of another sour cactus ball sprouted in Gil’s stomach. He took a deep but silent breath to make it go away, to drown it in clean air. The cactus ball stopped growing, but didn’t go away. Gil peered through the crack.

“Maybe,” said Bobby Rayburn, “you just don’t understand the way things work here.”

“How is that?” said Primo. “I’ve been here for five years. You just came.”

“I don’t mean this team,” Rayburn said. “I’m talking about the whole country. It’s different than down where you come from.”

Gil, in the stall a few feet away, knew only that something was being negotiated, and that Rayburn knew nothing about negotiation. He took another deep breath.

“Different?” Primo said.

Rayburn smiled, as though they were getting somewhere at last. “Up here there’s a kind of pecking order. Someone like me, coming to a new team, things get worked out, that’s all.”

“Worked out?”

“Sure. We can think up something if we try.”

Primo’s eyes were hooded. “I already know what I think.”

“Yeah,” said Rayburn, “but we got to be flexible, right? It’s a long season.”

“Not so long.”

“Hundred and sixty-two games isn’t long?”

“Not for us. We play winter ball when this is over.”

Rayburn had an idea. Gil could almost see it forming
in his mind. “What kind of uniforms have you got down there?”

Primo frowned. “Uniforms.”

“Nice?”

“Just uniforms.”

“What color?”

“Green and white. What difference—”

“And what’s on the back of yours?”

Primo paused.
“Once.
”

“Onsay?” said Rayburn.

“Like this.” Primo held up his index fingers, side by side. “So forget it.” Held those fingers close to Rayburn, almost in his face. Rayburn didn’t like that. He closed his fist around Primo’s index fingers and squeezed.

“Name your price, you little greaseball,” he said.

Primo tried to pull away, but couldn’t.

“No price,” Primo said.

With the back of his free hand, Rayburn smacked Primo’s face. Not particularly hard, thought Gil, but then saw blood dripping from Primo’s nose.

“The price,” Rayburn said. “It’s my fucking number.”

“No price,” Primo repeated, glaring up at Rayburn; puzzling Gil, because he didn’t seem afraid. “The pecking order has changed.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning check the averages in the morning.”

Rayburn blushed. Then he straightened his back and took another swing, this one much harder than the first. It knocked Primo against the wall, half into the sink, and made more blood flow. Rayburn, fist cocked, took a step toward him. The next instant, Primo was halfway across the room, crouching, a blade in his hand. He’d done it so quickly that Gil hadn’t seen where the blade—a stiletto, pearl-handled, double-edged; exactly the kind of knife Gil would have expected him to have, if he hadn’t been a ballplayer—had come from. He only saw Rayburn, backing away; Primo, half smiling now; and that blade. The sight of the blade excited Gil, killed the cactus in his stomach, made him feel
good. He bent down, reached under his pant leg for the thrower.

The bathroom door opened. Boucicaut came in. Primo glanced back at him over his shoulder; the knife disappeared. Boucicaut moved to the urinals, unzipped. Primo, the half smile still on his face, backed out the door. Bobby Rayburn said, “Shit,” not loudly. Boucicaut, pissing, looked sideways at him. Rayburn walked out.

Boucicaut shook off, zipped up. Gil stepped out of the stall. Boucicaut saw him in the mirror. “There you are,” he said. “Ready to boogaloo?”

There were a few red drops on the mirror. Above them, on
Sox Wrap
, Bobby Rayburn laid down a bunt that started sweet and rolled just foul.

“
H
ave you done this kind of thing before?” asked Gil.

“For Christ’s sake—you were with me,” said Boucicaut.

They stood side by side at a rest stop just south of the bridge, pissing. No cars went by. There was nothing to hear but the sibilance of their piss in the tall grass, and the tide flowing through the canal, also a liquid sound, but deeper, and infinitely more powerful. It was late, dark, quiet. Above, the stars were bright and beyond count. How could whatever you did down here mean anything at all, one way or the other? The boys who held the whip hand knew that from birth.

“I meant with people inside,” Gil said.

“Lots of times,” Boucicaut told him.

“Lots?”

“Some.”

“And what’s it like?”

“Like?”

“What happens?”

“Nothing happens. They sleep like babies. The whole country’s doped to the eyeballs every night.” Again Gil felt Boucicaut’s heavy hand on his shoulder. It reassured him. “This is going to be cake,” Boucicaut said.