Read Online Death at Charity's Point by William G. Tapply - Free Book Online

first time.
    “Say, Brother,” he said to Binh.
    “Hi, Token,” replied Binh. They touched palms up in front of their faces and grinned at each other. “This is Mr. Coyne. He’s George Gresham’s lawyer. Got a minute?”
    Baker handed the fungo bat to Binh. “Do the infield for me. And don’t baby them.”
    Alexander Binh allowed his eyes to smile quickly. He laid his corduroy jacket on the ground and rolled his shirt cuffs up his forearms, which I noticed, were corded and thickly veined.
    Baker held out his hand to me, and we shook. “What can I do for you?”
    I gave him what had become for me a set speech. “And so,” I concluded, “I guess I’m just trying to get a sense of what George had been feeling and thinking during the last few days of his life. To try to understand his suicide.”
    Baker led me away from the baseball field toward a small tier of bleachers. We sat on the bottom bench. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pack of Camels. He offered me one, and I shook my head and lit a Winston of my own.
    “George was a tough man,” Baker began, exhaling a long plume of smoke. “Exacting teacher. Demanded a little bit more of each of his students than they were capable of, if you understand me. Always pushed them to increase their limits. Would’ve made a hell of a coach.”
    I squinted at him. “How does that relate to his death, Mr. Baker? I don’t get it.”
    “Well, hell—he was the same way with himself, you know. That’s all. Maybe he discovered his own limits. Like the ballplayer who spends lots of years in the minors and finally finds himself twenty-eight, thirty years old and a two-fifty hitter and not good for much of anything. That could have been George. Would’ve been just like him. George couldn’t have lived with the idea of being a two-fifty minor-league hitter.”
    Baker tilted his cap back to look intently at me.
    “Would that lead him to commit suicide, do you think?” I asked.
    “Shit, I don’t know. Who can answer a question like that? You wanted to know what he was like, that’s what he was like. Two-fifty hitters don’t necessarily kill themselves.” He dragged on his Camel and looked out over the baseball diamond. “Some do, I expect.”
    I nodded. “Were you aware of anything particular in his life that might have been different lately? A love affair, a gambling debt, illness—something like that?”
    “Nah. I don’t think so.” Baker yanked the beak of his cap back down over his eyes. “Look,” he said. “I really gotta get back to my team. My Asian friend’ll have them thinking that all grounders come on three easy little hops. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more.”
    “It’s okay. I appreciate your time,” I said. We stomped on our cigarette butts and walked back to the diamond.
    “Okay, you guys,” Baker yelled, taking the bat from Binh. “Mr. Binh has given you a nice little rest. See if you remember anything. Knees bent, up on the balls of your feet, heads up, gloves down…”
    Binh picked up his jacket and tossed it over his shoulder. We began to walk back toward the school buildings. “Warren Baker,” said Binh. “You never heard of him?”
    “No,” I said. “Should I?”
    “Halfback, West Point, class of sixty-three. Everyone said he could’ve made it in the pros. Football or baseball. But he owed Uncle Sam five years, and he spent one of them in Vietnam. Left two toes from his left foot over there. End of athletic career.” Binh looked at me. His eyes seemed warmer to me. “Baker’s a hell of a guy. We kid each other a lot, him a Vietnam veteran and me half Vietnamese. And he’s spent more time in the country of my origin than I have.”
    I nodded, encouraging him to continue.
    “I was born in Paris and educated here.” It took me a moment to realize that “here” meant The Ruggles School. “So I’m the token Oriental, and he’s the token black. At least, that’s what we tell each other, though the