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Authors: R. D. Rosen
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pants?”
“That’s Randy’s wife, Karen.”
“How odd of me,” she said, pressing a finger to her lips. “I thought you were married. Oh, well, what do you say we go over and try the poached salmon?”
That had been three months ago. Now, as he bent over the dugout water cooler, he heard her say, “Hello, Harvey.”
He wiped his mouth. “Hello. How are you?”
She stroked her nail furiously with the emery board. “How would you expect me to be?”
“Yeah, I guess that didn’t come out right.”
“Felix and I were up all night.” She didn’t look it. “We racked our brains to make sense of it. It’s frightening. And the publicity—it’s not the kind we need.”
“To say nothing of the effect this’ll have on the team.”
“By which you mean?” she said crisply, raising her eyebrows. She had the capacity to make you feel as if you hadn’t brushed your teeth.
“By which I mean no one seems to have any clue, and for all we know, someone on the team may’ve been mixed up in this, and everyone’s going to be eyeing everyone else, as if enough of that doesn’t always go on around here.”
“I don’t know why you say someone on the team may have been involved. But I suppose anything’s possible. It just doesn’t make sense. That detective was here again this morning. Maybe they’ll find some fingerprints or something. You roomed with him. Do you have any ideas?”
“No, not unless Rudy was mixed up with gambling. Is that guy Ronnie Mateo a bookie or something?”
“You mean that tacky fellow who comes to all the games?”
“Yeah. In fact, he’s here right now.”
“He looks absolutely harmless.”
“Who is he?” Harvey said. “What’s he doing at a team practice?”
Frances shrugged. “Let me know if you find out. By the way, Harvey, I’m having Marshall set up a scholarship in Rudy’s name for a deserving Providence orphan. I just wanted you to know.”
“That’s nice,” he said and trotted out to the field to shag some flies. Steve Wilton was standing about twenty yards away in right center with his cap turned around, the better to tan his face. At the plate, Les lofted a fly ball that landed fifteen feet away from Wilton and rolled toward the wall. Steve didn’t make a move to get the ball, and Charlie Penzenik had to run over from farther away in right to retrieve it. It was just like Wilton. The Cubs had always considered him a head case, a good athlete only from the neck down. In a couple seasons, he’d wake up and find himself back in Bessemer, Alabama, uncrating produce at his daddy’s supermarket and wondering what went wrong.
“They can’t always hit ’em right at you, Steve,” Harvey hollered at him.
Steve turned his head slowly, like a lizard. “Mind your own fucking business,” he said.
A FTER PRACTICE ON THURSDAY afternoon, Harvey drove down the redeveloped section of South Main Street in the direction of Rudy’s rented town house. He picked up a Journal-Bulletin at the corner drugstore on a block of boutiques and hair salons with names like the Opulent Owl, Nature’s Comfort, and Diego’s. A front-page story about the murder told him the little he already knew and none of the things he wanted to find out. Detective Linderman was quoted as saying that despite the recent city budget cuts that had trimmed back even the homicide division, the Rudy Furth case was of course being accorded top priority. In search of more reassuring news, Harvey turned to the sports pages and found the box containing the American League’s top ten batters. Mark Gaffney of the Texas Rangers had moved ahead of him into eighth place with two hits the night before in Seattle. He checked the standings: Providence was still in sixth place in the eight-team division. If he had a choice in the matter, he would gladly trade in his .309 batting average for the chance to play for a winner again.
He tucked the newspaper under his arm and crossed the street, to Rudy’s
“That’s Randy’s wife, Karen.”
“How odd of me,” she said, pressing a finger to her lips. “I thought you were married. Oh, well, what do you say we go over and try the poached salmon?”
That had been three months ago. Now, as he bent over the dugout water cooler, he heard her say, “Hello, Harvey.”
He wiped his mouth. “Hello. How are you?”
She stroked her nail furiously with the emery board. “How would you expect me to be?”
“Yeah, I guess that didn’t come out right.”
“Felix and I were up all night.” She didn’t look it. “We racked our brains to make sense of it. It’s frightening. And the publicity—it’s not the kind we need.”
“To say nothing of the effect this’ll have on the team.”
“By which you mean?” she said crisply, raising her eyebrows. She had the capacity to make you feel as if you hadn’t brushed your teeth.
“By which I mean no one seems to have any clue, and for all we know, someone on the team may’ve been mixed up in this, and everyone’s going to be eyeing everyone else, as if enough of that doesn’t always go on around here.”
“I don’t know why you say someone on the team may have been involved. But I suppose anything’s possible. It just doesn’t make sense. That detective was here again this morning. Maybe they’ll find some fingerprints or something. You roomed with him. Do you have any ideas?”
“No, not unless Rudy was mixed up with gambling. Is that guy Ronnie Mateo a bookie or something?”
“You mean that tacky fellow who comes to all the games?”
“Yeah. In fact, he’s here right now.”
“He looks absolutely harmless.”
“Who is he?” Harvey said. “What’s he doing at a team practice?”
Frances shrugged. “Let me know if you find out. By the way, Harvey, I’m having Marshall set up a scholarship in Rudy’s name for a deserving Providence orphan. I just wanted you to know.”
“That’s nice,” he said and trotted out to the field to shag some flies. Steve Wilton was standing about twenty yards away in right center with his cap turned around, the better to tan his face. At the plate, Les lofted a fly ball that landed fifteen feet away from Wilton and rolled toward the wall. Steve didn’t make a move to get the ball, and Charlie Penzenik had to run over from farther away in right to retrieve it. It was just like Wilton. The Cubs had always considered him a head case, a good athlete only from the neck down. In a couple seasons, he’d wake up and find himself back in Bessemer, Alabama, uncrating produce at his daddy’s supermarket and wondering what went wrong.
“They can’t always hit ’em right at you, Steve,” Harvey hollered at him.
Steve turned his head slowly, like a lizard. “Mind your own fucking business,” he said.
A FTER PRACTICE ON THURSDAY afternoon, Harvey drove down the redeveloped section of South Main Street in the direction of Rudy’s rented town house. He picked up a Journal-Bulletin at the corner drugstore on a block of boutiques and hair salons with names like the Opulent Owl, Nature’s Comfort, and Diego’s. A front-page story about the murder told him the little he already knew and none of the things he wanted to find out. Detective Linderman was quoted as saying that despite the recent city budget cuts that had trimmed back even the homicide division, the Rudy Furth case was of course being accorded top priority. In search of more reassuring news, Harvey turned to the sports pages and found the box containing the American League’s top ten batters. Mark Gaffney of the Texas Rangers had moved ahead of him into eighth place with two hits the night before in Seattle. He checked the standings: Providence was still in sixth place in the eight-team division. If he had a choice in the matter, he would gladly trade in his .309 batting average for the chance to play for a winner again.
He tucked the newspaper under his arm and crossed the street, to Rudy’s
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