Stuart Kaminsky - Midnight Pass

“‘In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor sewing a shroud for a journey,’” Stanley said.

“Shakespeare?” Hoffmann guessed, a distinctly slightly alcoholic smile on his face.

“Dylan Thomas,” said Stanley, gun in hand, standing next to the dazed Trasker.

“I can give you the best of Casey Stengel, Bill Veeck, and Yogi Berra, and tell you the real ones from the ones the reporters made up, but poetry and literature…Stanley can’t be beat. Right, Stanley?”

Stanley didn’t answer. Hoffmann drank.

“Any of this getting through to you, Bill?” Hoffmann asked his brother-in-law.

“You know, after tonight and a few more little bases on balls, Stanley is going to be very rich. Not as rich as you and me, Bill, not as rich as me particularly when you quietly pass away and I inherit your total earthly assets.”

Hoffmann turned his head toward me.

“You understand what I’m telling you, Fonesca? You’re reasonably smart. Dumb too, but reasonably smart.”

“No,” I said. “Mr. Trasker here dies and his money which would go to his wife if she were alive goes to his kids.”

“My nieces and nephews,” Hoffmann concurred. “Not a ballplayer in the lot. They don’t even like the game. Bill and my sister believed their children have been ungrateful and should make it on their own. They made me the beneficiary of the Trasker millions, about twenty-two million including the house here and the apartment in New York. In fairness, I made them the beneficiary of my not inconsiderable holdings,” said Hoffmann.

“You got anything to eat?” asked Snickers.

“Baby Ruth candy bars, the little ones they give out on Halloween along with little packets of Cracker Jacks,” said Hoffmann. “In the bowl over there. Stanley?”

Stanley reached for the bowl and passed it to Snickers.

Bill Trasker blinked his eyes and tried not to keel over. He said something I couldn’t make out.

“Sorry?” I said.

“He killed Roberta,” Trasker said, more clearly looking at his brother-in-law.

“No,” said Hoffmann, taking another drink. “I did not. Bill, I did not kill my sister. I loved only three people in the world. My sister, Lou Gehrig, and Joe DiMaggio. I wouldn’t kill them. Disease got Gehrig. Age got Joe and Stanley’s greed got my sister. He was afraid she would give Fonesca here permission to bring in a doctor to look at you. And knowing my sister, if she decided to go that way, she’d bring in Drs. Shelbourne and Kauffman who would have you out of here in two heartbeats. A Shelbourne and a Kauffman are good for a double play when the batter is an alcoholic quack like Jim Obermeyer.”

“He speaks highly of you too,” I said. “He says you have no backstroke.”

“Backhand,” Hoffmann corrected. “Baseball’s my game, not tennis.”

“So you told Stanley to kill her,” Trasker managed with a cough.

“No,” said Hoffmann, finishing his drink. “I expressly told him not to touch her. Killing her was his idea. He’s a very good shot. I didn’t ask for details but I’ll bet he shot her between the eyes. I, on the other hand, am only a fair shot, so to be safe I’d fire at the stomach and chest from a close distance like this.”

Hoffmann raised the gun in his lap toward Trasker, who didn’t seem to notice.

Ames sat forward, hand moving quickly toward his belt. Stanley turned his weapon toward Ames as Hoffmann fired.

The first bullet tore into Stanley’s chest. The second hit him low in the stomach. Stanley’s gun dropped to the floor. Stanley went to his knees and fell forward on his face. Hoffmann fired twice more. The first shot missed and broke the glass on a trophy case. A baseball came rolling out along the floor. The next shot went into the top of Stanley’s head.

Snickers sat frozen with a tiny candy bar in his hand.

Trasker blinked down at the body.

Ames was up, a small pistol in his hand aimed at Hoffmann.

I was a spectator.

Before Ames could issue a warning or fire, Hoffmann dropped his gun to the floor.

“Can I pick up the gun again?” he asked me. “I forgot to shoot myself.”

“No,” I said, getting up on shaky legs and moving forward to kick the weapon across the room out of his reach.

The baseball that had come out of the broken trophy case rolled past Stanley’s bloody body, over shards of glass, and stopped a few feet in front of Hoffmann.

Ames kept his gun leveled at Hoffmann while I moved to Trasker. I handed him the three pills Obermeyer had given me.

“Can you swallow these?” I asked.

“Need water,” he mumbled.

“Water,” Snickers said, running toward the kitchen.

Hoffmann reached over to pick up the baseball.

“Bobby Shantz,” he said looking at the ball. “Little man could pitch. Remember him, Bill?”

Trasker tried to focus.

“Shove all your baseballs up your ass with your goddamned Babe Ruth bat for a battering ram,” Trasker managed. “I’ll be happy to help you find the hole.”

There was hope for Trasker. I checked the clock. It was a little before ten. Snickers was back with a glass of water.

Trasker downed the pills with the water and coughed.

“Watch him,” I told Snickers, and ran up the stairs to the room where Trasker had been held.

I found neatly pressed dark slacks, a slightly starched white shirt, and a pair of Bally woven leather loafers on the floor. In the drawer of the dresser I found dark socks and underwear. There was also a wallet and a ring of keys. I put the wallet in the pants pocket along with the keys and hurried them down to the trophy room, where Hoffmann was still looking at his Bobby Shantz ball. I helped Trasker out of his robe and slippers. He looked as if he had spent a couple of years in a Turkish prison. Dressing him was hard. He tried to help.

“Ready,” I said.

“What about him?” Ames asked, nodding at Hoffmann.

“Leave him,” said Trasker. “Let him blow his goddamn brains out or wait for me to tell the police what happened. Either way I don’t give a shit.”

The eyes of the two men met. I’d say that they were about even in awareness of the world about now, but that wasn’t saying much.

There was a phone on the desk behind Hoffmann. I picked it up and dialed 911. Then I handed the phone to Hoffmann.

“It’s the police,” I said.

“There’s been an accident,” Hoffmann said. “No, not an accident. I just shot an employee of mine who was about to kill me. My name? I’ve got so many. Let me…Hoffmann, Kevin Hoffmann.”

He handed the phone back to me and I hung it up.

We went out through the front door. Snickers and I held Trasker’s arms to help him walk. Ames backed away behind us, shotgun back in his hands, aimed at the door in case Hoffmann changed his mind and opted for assisted suicide.

We made it through the gate, leaving it open, and got Trasker into the front seat of my car. Snickers and Ames sat in back. Snickers had a handful of candy bars and was munching one furiously.

“If he talks his way out of this, I think I’m gonna have the son of a bitch killed,” said Trasker.

“Hey, I know a guy…” Snickers began.

“Forget it,” I said. “No hits. No runs. No errors.”

Trasker needed a shave. There was no time.

“How are you doing?” I asked him.

“You mean can I make it through the meeting?” said Trasker. “I can make it through the meeting and more, but not a hell of a lot more. I’m dying.”

“I know. We all are.”

“I’m just doing it a lot faster than you,” Trasker said, with a touch of bite in his words that made me think Obermeyer’s pills were kicking in.

There was silence as we drove except for Snickers munching. About a block from the town hall, I let Snickers and Ames out. We got the scooter from the trunk.