its most disconcerting aspect. No one discussed or even acknowledged the man’s existence much less his death. There was nothing in the papers, no locker room gossip, no more meetings with Bob Tyler, no additional questioning by the police.
My curiosity was becoming overpowering, and I knew I would end up violating Tyler’s warnings about talking. I would have thought that it should be the easiest thing in the world to just keep my mouth shut—one assignment that wouldn’t strain the limits of my abilities. But it was becoming increasingly difficult. Questions pounded at the inside of my mouth struggling to be let out, my ears ached to hear answers. Who was the dead man? Has the killer been found? Am I still the leading suspect?
And more perplexing: what was the relation of the dead man to Red Corriden? Was the connection Fenway Park? Would there be more killings? Was I next on the list—is that what the bat on my bed meant? Who put it there?
In everything I did while awake, and every night when I tried to sleep, the nagging fears and questions tugged and grabbed at my thoughts and dreams.
These worries no longer affected my play on the ball field, but that was no consolation. I had no chance to play, because Jake Stahl still had me benched.
After the move he made in Tuesday’s contest, I started to wonder if Stahl had given up on me. We were down three runs in the bottom of the ninth, when our third baseman Larry Gardner doubled. He hurt himself sliding into second, and looked like he’d have to come out of the game. I stretched my legs, assuming I would pinch run for him. I almost fell down when Stahl sent in Clyde Fletcher instead. Sure, I’d started to take a liking to Fletch, and didn’t begrudge him a chance for some playing time, but how the hell could Stahl put in a guy who’s fat and slow instead of me? Fletcher didn’t get beyond second base (he’d have been thrown out had he tried to steal third), and Charlie Strickler took the loss for the Sox.
Feeling stymied in my desire to learn what had really happened in the tunnels of Fenway Park, and worried about a baseball future that was looking increasingly bleak, I decided to try the one thing I was sure would help: a moving picture show.
Less meticulous this time about my appearance, I again headed to the Comique Theatre in Scollay Square. I didn’t know what movies were playing, and it didn’t matter. I intended to be fully caught up by whatever stories appeared on the screen.
Half a block from the theater, I slowed and looked behind me. Anybody from the Sox around?
I wasn’t sure, but I thought somebody ducked into a doorway. A man, but an unidentifiable one—he’d lowered his head so his cap blocked his face.
I backed behind the protective bulk of a cigar store Indian and waited, watching. Nobody came out. What the hell, it could have been my imagination—the square was pretty crowded.
I scooted out from behind the wood statue. I quickly walked to the Comique as if I was going to pass by, then took a sharp turn inside.
When I entered the theater, I suddenly wished that I had paid more attention to my attire. At the ticket booth were the same hair and eyes that had appeared so regularly in this past winter’s dreams. I was at first indecisive, torn between my eagerness to be near her and the need I felt to go home and put on a cleaner collar. I saw that she spotted me, too, so the choice was made for me, and I slowly approached her.
I drank in the sight of her, working my eyes from the ticket counter upward. Peggy’s blouse was sparkling white, with a ruffled front and sleeves puffed at the shoulders. Around her throat, setting off her fair skin, was a black ribbon choker with a small silver and black cameo on the front. Her honey-blond hair was piled into a high wide bun. Long wisps of it had come loose at her temples and waved down, framing her slender face. A fine spray of freckles, not much darker than her hair, dotted the bridge
My curiosity was becoming overpowering, and I knew I would end up violating Tyler’s warnings about talking. I would have thought that it should be the easiest thing in the world to just keep my mouth shut—one assignment that wouldn’t strain the limits of my abilities. But it was becoming increasingly difficult. Questions pounded at the inside of my mouth struggling to be let out, my ears ached to hear answers. Who was the dead man? Has the killer been found? Am I still the leading suspect?
And more perplexing: what was the relation of the dead man to Red Corriden? Was the connection Fenway Park? Would there be more killings? Was I next on the list—is that what the bat on my bed meant? Who put it there?
In everything I did while awake, and every night when I tried to sleep, the nagging fears and questions tugged and grabbed at my thoughts and dreams.
These worries no longer affected my play on the ball field, but that was no consolation. I had no chance to play, because Jake Stahl still had me benched.
After the move he made in Tuesday’s contest, I started to wonder if Stahl had given up on me. We were down three runs in the bottom of the ninth, when our third baseman Larry Gardner doubled. He hurt himself sliding into second, and looked like he’d have to come out of the game. I stretched my legs, assuming I would pinch run for him. I almost fell down when Stahl sent in Clyde Fletcher instead. Sure, I’d started to take a liking to Fletch, and didn’t begrudge him a chance for some playing time, but how the hell could Stahl put in a guy who’s fat and slow instead of me? Fletcher didn’t get beyond second base (he’d have been thrown out had he tried to steal third), and Charlie Strickler took the loss for the Sox.
Feeling stymied in my desire to learn what had really happened in the tunnels of Fenway Park, and worried about a baseball future that was looking increasingly bleak, I decided to try the one thing I was sure would help: a moving picture show.
Less meticulous this time about my appearance, I again headed to the Comique Theatre in Scollay Square. I didn’t know what movies were playing, and it didn’t matter. I intended to be fully caught up by whatever stories appeared on the screen.
Half a block from the theater, I slowed and looked behind me. Anybody from the Sox around?
I wasn’t sure, but I thought somebody ducked into a doorway. A man, but an unidentifiable one—he’d lowered his head so his cap blocked his face.
I backed behind the protective bulk of a cigar store Indian and waited, watching. Nobody came out. What the hell, it could have been my imagination—the square was pretty crowded.
I scooted out from behind the wood statue. I quickly walked to the Comique as if I was going to pass by, then took a sharp turn inside.
When I entered the theater, I suddenly wished that I had paid more attention to my attire. At the ticket booth were the same hair and eyes that had appeared so regularly in this past winter’s dreams. I was at first indecisive, torn between my eagerness to be near her and the need I felt to go home and put on a cleaner collar. I saw that she spotted me, too, so the choice was made for me, and I slowly approached her.
I drank in the sight of her, working my eyes from the ticket counter upward. Peggy’s blouse was sparkling white, with a ruffled front and sleeves puffed at the shoulders. Around her throat, setting off her fair skin, was a black ribbon choker with a small silver and black cameo on the front. Her honey-blond hair was piled into a high wide bun. Long wisps of it had come loose at her temples and waved down, framing her slender face. A fine spray of freckles, not much darker than her hair, dotted the bridge
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