Peter Abrahams - The Fan

Roger, reading over Bobby’s shoulder, said: “Wow, isn’t that something?”

Wald glanced around. “What’s all this?” he said.

“We’re just looking,” Bobby told him.

“Like it, Chaz?” Val asked.

“How much?” Wald said.

“The owners are asking one point six,” Roger said. “That includes appliances, all the built-ins, the security, the sound, the-”

“That’s not what I asked,” Wald interrupted, “what they’re asking. I asked how much.”

Roger blinked.

“Who are these owners?” Wald said.

“They died in a private plane crash,” Val told him.

“Invitation only?” Wald said.

Val laughed. That surprised Bobby. Wald turned to Roger. “So it’s an estate sale.”

“Something like that.” Roger unfastened one of the buttons on the cuff of his double-breasted jacket, fastened it again.

“Something like that.” Wald looked at Bobby and Val standing by the edge of the empty pool. “Well? You like it?”

“I do,” said Val.

“We’d have to talk,” said Bobby.

“So talk.”

Bobby and Val walked down toward the sea. The lawn sloped sharply, then leveled out all the way to the beach, flat as a ball field. It was gray under a gray sky. A red sail cut through the water far away, like a shark fin. “Why not?” Val said. “We have to live somewhere. Unless you want me to stay in California. Me and Sean.”

“Why would I want that? I just signed a three-year deal here, for Christ’s sake.”

Val didn’t answer. She and Sean? Bobby tried to picture Sean’s face; the only face that appeared belonged to the other Sean, yellow and drawn on the hospital pillow. That was bad.

She was watching him. “You like it?” Bobby said.

“Don’t you?”

Bobby shrugged. “Isn’t it a bit… too much?”

“The money?”

“The place.”

“Too much in what way?”

Bobby couldn’t put it into words.

“It’s in the best of taste, Bobby,” Val said. “So much… tonier than California.”

“Tonier?”

“You know what I mean. Roger says Architectural Digest did a piece on it a few years ago.”

“Who are they?”

Val sighed.

Bobby looked up at the pool. Wald and Roger were both still standing there, talking on cellular phones.

“Why not?” Val said again.

Why not? Bobby had no answer. Besides, there was the whiffle-ball bat: a good sign.

“Okay,” Bobby said. Val leaned across the space between them, kissed him on the cheek. Bobby thought of his Aunt Greta. She’d been a cheerleader too, he recalled.

They walked back up to the pool. Wald and Roger said good-bye into their phones and pocketed them.

“I guess we like it,” said Bobby.

Wald nodded. “Spill it,” he said to Roger.

“Spill it?”

“The number.”

“As I mentioned, they’re asking-”

Wald held up his hand. “We haven’t got time for all the bullshit. Bobby’s got to be at BP in less than an hour. What’ll they take, absolute bottom figure?”

Roger brushed a hand through his beautifully cut hair. “I couldn’t really say with any accuracy. I mean, it’s not my-”

“Knock it off. You’re in the business. What’s your best guess?”

“One three.”

“We’ll go to nine and a quarter. Period. Finito.”

“I don’t really think that’s a realistic-”

“Offer good until midnight tonight. Subject to inspections, etcetera. You and I’ll go draw up the papers, Bobby doesn’t have to hang around for that, then I’ll drop Valerie at the hotel.”

“Chaz?” said Bobby.

“Yes?”

“Can we talk?”

“You’re the boss.”

Bobby walked down toward the sea again, this time with Wald. He couldn’t find the red sail. “Nine and a quarter,” he said. “Can I afford that?”

“Had a look at your contract, Bobby? Hell, yes, you can afford it. What’s more, anything under one one would be a steal for this spread-checked into it before I came over.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I do my job, just like you do yours. If you let me.”

“A steal?”

“On the water, Bobby. That’s what it’s all about for these old-money putzes.”

Bobby looked around. He couldn’t see any other houses. “That’s who lives here-old-money putzes?”

Wald clapped him on the back. “They won’t bother you, Bobby. No one’s going to bother you in a place like this.”

Bobby stared out to sea. Now he spotted the red sail, on the edge of the horizon, a red drop on a gray wall. “Can you see that?”

“See what?”

“The red sail.” Bobby pointed.

Wald squinted. “Don’t see anything.”

“All right,” Bobby said. “Do it.”

“Jawohl.”

Bobby drove himself to the ballpark. It was raining lightly so there was no BP. He sat in the clubhouse, pressed PLAY, read the paper, signed balls; all the while avoiding Primo, who sat on his stool, playing Nintendo.

At 12:50 Bobby put on his game shirt, number forty-one. He wasn’t getting used to it. It was like a bad haircut, or too-tight shoes, something that made you look and feel stupid. He shot a glance at Primo, crossing himself in front of his locker, wearing eleven.

At 1:05 they took to the field. Primo went three for three with a walk. Bobby forced him at second twice, grounding into two double plays. He also flied out and struck out. Ofer. They lost in the rain, three-zip.

After, there was a girl waiting outside the players’ lot. Bobby didn’t catch her name; maybe she didn’t mention it. He took her to a hotel, not his, and banged her pitilessly.

“Oh, Bobby, I’ve never felt like this, ever.”

“What do you mean?”

“The orgasm you gave me. It was just so…”

Later, he returned alone to his own hotel, entered the suite. Val wasn’t there. Bobby lay in the Jacuzzi, drinking a beer. Relaxing. He counted the rings holding up the shower curtain. Eleven. He stopped relaxing.

Bobby got out of the Jacuzzi, went to bed. He awoke in the night, feeling someone beside him. He forgot where he was, thought it was the girl from the players’ lot, started getting hard.

“Bobby?”

It was Val.

“What?”

“It’s done.”

“What is?”

“The house. Nine and a half. Chaz is amazing. We can move in next week.”

Bobby didn’t say anything. Val reached for him. They hadn’t had sex in a long time. They had it now. Nothing special. Val had that great body, much nicer than the parking-lot girl’s, but in bed she was nothing special.

After, they lay side by side, not quite touching. “Things are working out, aren’t they?” Val said. “Wait till Sean gets a load of that space station.”

Bobby wondered what had become of the unidentified object, zooming in at sixteen thousand miles per hour. Then he tried to picture Sean’s face, and again got the other Sean, wide-eyed on his pillow. He went back to sleep.

Bobby woke up once during the night. He couldn’t remember where he’d put the lucky whiffle-ball bat.

“-as in the case of John Paciorek, to give you a for-instance.”

“You don’t mean Tom?”

“I said what I meant, Bernie. John Paciorek. September 29, 1963. First major-league game. Houston Colt. 45s.”

“Remember that uniform, Jewel? A collector’s item now.”

“Before my time, Bernie, as you know. Back to Paciorek, John. First game in the bigs. Goes three for three with three ribbies and four runs scored against the Mets, and never plays again. Never plays again, Bernie. True story. What do you think it means?”

“Beats me, Jewel.”

“That baseball’s like a European movie, Bernie. That’s what it means.”