be third baseman on Spenser’s all-time all-star team. I was leaning toward Schmidt. Of course Billy Cox could pick it with anybody, but Schmidt had the power numbers. On the other hand, so did Eddie Matthews. In front of me the Buick slid into gear and pulled away from the curb. I followed. The Buick turned left at the end of the short street, then a sharp right, slowed at a green light, and then floored it as the light turned. I ran the red light behind him, and stayed with him as he went down an alley behind a Kroger’s supermarket, and kept him in sight as he exceeded the speed limit heading out the County Road.
When we hit Route 20, he headed east, toward Columbia, going around eighty-five. The rental Ford bucked a little, but it hung with him. After ten miles of this, the Buick U-turned in an Official Vehicles Only turnaround, and headed back west, toward Augusta. I did the same. We slowed after a few minutes at a long upgrade. There was a ten-wheeler in the right-hand lane, and a white Cadillac in the left lane, traveling at the same speed as the tractor. They stayed in tandem, at about forty miles an hour. We were stuck behind them. We chased along at that rate for maybe five minutes. The Buick kept honking its horn, but the Cadillac never budged. There was no sign, in the Caddy, of the driver’s head above the front seat. This is not usually a good omen.
At the next exit the Buick turned off, roared down the ramp, turned right toward Eureka. I followed and almost rolled past him. He had pulled in off the highway onto a gravel service road. I actually passed it before I got a flash of blue through a screen of scrubby pine trees. I stopped, backed up, and pulled in behind him. Again we sat.
There was a blue jay flying around from scrub pine to scrub pine, looking at us, and looking, also, at everything else. He would sit for a moment, his head moving, looking in all directions, then, precipitously, for no reason that I could see, he would fly to another tree, or sometimes merely flutter to another branch, and look in all directions again. Semper paratus.
Ahead of us the gravel road wound up toward some power lines that ran at right angles to the highway through a cut in the woods. Behind us, and above, the highway traffic swooshed by, unaware that a little ways ahead was a slow-moving roadblock.
Shortstop on my all-time team had to be Ozzie Smith. I’d seen Marty Marion, but he didn’t hit like Ozzie. Pee Wee Reese, on the other hand, was one of the greatest clutch players I’d ever seen. That was the qualifying rule. This was an all-seen, all-time, all-star team. And Ozzie did things I’d never seen anyone do on a ball field. It had to be Ozzie.
The driver of the Buick came to a decision. The door opened and he got out and started back toward me. He had on a light beige suit and a maroon blouse with a bow at the neck, and medium high heels. He carried a black shoulder bag and he was female. Maybe forty, well built, with a firm jaw and a wide mouth. Her eyes were oval and set wide apart. Her eye makeup emphasized both the ovalness and the spacing in ways I didn’t fully understand. I rolled down my window. Her heels crunched forcefully into the gravel as she walked toward me. She seemed angry.
As she came alongside the car I said, “You ever see Ozzie Smith play?”
“Okay, pal,” she said, “what’s your problem?”
“Well, I’m trying to decide between Ozzie Smith and Pee Wee Reese for my all-time, all-seen team…”
“Never mind the bullshit,” she said. “I asked you a question, I want an answer.”
I smiled at her. She saw the smile, and ignored it. She did not disrobe.
“You wouldn’t want to go dancing or anything, would you?” I said.
She frowned, reached in her pocket, and pulled out a leather folder. She flipped it open.
“Police officer,” she said.
The shield was blue and gold and had Alton County Sheriff on it, around the outside.
“That probably means no dancing,
When we hit Route 20, he headed east, toward Columbia, going around eighty-five. The rental Ford bucked a little, but it hung with him. After ten miles of this, the Buick U-turned in an Official Vehicles Only turnaround, and headed back west, toward Augusta. I did the same. We slowed after a few minutes at a long upgrade. There was a ten-wheeler in the right-hand lane, and a white Cadillac in the left lane, traveling at the same speed as the tractor. They stayed in tandem, at about forty miles an hour. We were stuck behind them. We chased along at that rate for maybe five minutes. The Buick kept honking its horn, but the Cadillac never budged. There was no sign, in the Caddy, of the driver’s head above the front seat. This is not usually a good omen.
At the next exit the Buick turned off, roared down the ramp, turned right toward Eureka. I followed and almost rolled past him. He had pulled in off the highway onto a gravel service road. I actually passed it before I got a flash of blue through a screen of scrubby pine trees. I stopped, backed up, and pulled in behind him. Again we sat.
There was a blue jay flying around from scrub pine to scrub pine, looking at us, and looking, also, at everything else. He would sit for a moment, his head moving, looking in all directions, then, precipitously, for no reason that I could see, he would fly to another tree, or sometimes merely flutter to another branch, and look in all directions again. Semper paratus.
Ahead of us the gravel road wound up toward some power lines that ran at right angles to the highway through a cut in the woods. Behind us, and above, the highway traffic swooshed by, unaware that a little ways ahead was a slow-moving roadblock.
Shortstop on my all-time team had to be Ozzie Smith. I’d seen Marty Marion, but he didn’t hit like Ozzie. Pee Wee Reese, on the other hand, was one of the greatest clutch players I’d ever seen. That was the qualifying rule. This was an all-seen, all-time, all-star team. And Ozzie did things I’d never seen anyone do on a ball field. It had to be Ozzie.
The driver of the Buick came to a decision. The door opened and he got out and started back toward me. He had on a light beige suit and a maroon blouse with a bow at the neck, and medium high heels. He carried a black shoulder bag and he was female. Maybe forty, well built, with a firm jaw and a wide mouth. Her eyes were oval and set wide apart. Her eye makeup emphasized both the ovalness and the spacing in ways I didn’t fully understand. I rolled down my window. Her heels crunched forcefully into the gravel as she walked toward me. She seemed angry.
As she came alongside the car I said, “You ever see Ozzie Smith play?”
“Okay, pal,” she said, “what’s your problem?”
“Well, I’m trying to decide between Ozzie Smith and Pee Wee Reese for my all-time, all-seen team…”
“Never mind the bullshit,” she said. “I asked you a question, I want an answer.”
I smiled at her. She saw the smile, and ignored it. She did not disrobe.
“You wouldn’t want to go dancing or anything, would you?” I said.
She frowned, reached in her pocket, and pulled out a leather folder. She flipped it open.
“Police officer,” she said.
The shield was blue and gold and had Alton County Sheriff on it, around the outside.
“That probably means no dancing,
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