Peter Abrahams - The Fan

Bobby found a glass in a box in the pantry, turned on the tap. No water came out.

“Christ.”

“Never mind,” the reporter said. She put the pills in her mouth and swallowed them. A little color returned to her face almost at once. He could still get rid of her, invent some other excuse; but he was no longer pissed off.

She glanced around the room. “What sort of house did you have in California?”

“Nicer than this.”

The reporter looked surprised.

Bobby hadn’t considered his answer; it had just popped out. Was this part of the interview? He began to see ways it could be used to make him look like a spoiled asshole. “Not fancier,” he explained. “Nicer.”

“In what way?” She took a legal pad and a mini tape recorder from her bag. “Mind if this is on?” Bobby did mind-that was one of the things he hated about reporters-but before he could say anything, she added, “Just so I don’t misquote you,” and he said nothing. “Nicer in what way?” she asked.

“In every way,” he said, wondering for a moment what this had to do with baseball. But now that he was started on this subject, he found that he wanted to finish the thought. “See those tiles?” he said, pointing to the unfinished pink-and-green checkerboard. “They’re from Italy. You wouldn’t believe how much they cost.”

“How much?”

Bobby couldn’t remember. Perhaps he hadn’t been told. He just knew no one would believe their cost.

“Probably worth every penny,” the reporter said. “They look like something out of Tiepolo.”

“I don’t know what town in Italy.”

The reporter smiled. “I’m ready for that tour now,” she said.

Bobby had forgotten about the tour. He began to get pissed off again.

“You need me,” she said.

“Why is that?” Bobby asked, thinking of Wald’s four pillars.

“Because I did a lot of baby-sitting in high school.”

Bobby looked at her: an older woman, yes, but good-looking. And smart. He smiled too. “Where do you want to start?”

“Wherever you want,” she said. She rose. A nice body, but not very strong-looking. And was it his imagination, or did she sway just a little as she stood up?

“Are you all right?” he asked, surprising himself. He couldn’t remember ever expressing, or feeling, concern for a reporter.

“Never better,” she said.

What the hell was her name? Jewel? That couldn’t be right.

They started downstairs. Bobby led her from room to room.

She said: “What did you pay for this place?”

Bobby remembered standing by the pool, remembered Wald bullying the real-estate agent, but he couldn’t remember the price.

“Off the record,” the reporter said.

“You’ll have to ask Wald.”

She took out her pad, made a note. They were in one of the bathrooms. It had a black-marble floor, matching Jacuzzi, mirrored walls.

“Tell me about Wald,” she said.

“He’s smart,” Bobby replied, conscious of her many reflections on the walls. It was a big bathroom and she was small, but he felt surrounded by her. For a moment or two it was unpleasant. Then not.

“Can you give me an example?”

“He’s got it all worked out. Mentally.”

“How so?”

“The whole game. It’s like a house with four pillars. Knock one down and everything collapses.”

“What are the pillars?”

Bobby counted them off on his fingers. “Owners, agents, players, media.”

Her head tilted slightly, as though she were lining up a target; the movement was reflected simultaneously in mirrored distances. “Didn’t he forget something?”

“What?”

“Or maybe it’s not a pillar, but more the ground the others stand on.”

“What’s that?” asked Bobby.

“The fans,” she replied.

They went into Sean’s room. “This is Sean. Sean, say hi to…”

“Jewel Stern,” the reporter said immediately, not giving him time to squirm, or showing the slightest embarrassment. Not bad looking, smart, and tough as well.

“Hi,” said Sean, eyes on the screen, fingers on the mouse.

“Negative,” said the computer voice.

Jewel stepped up to the console, glanced at the screen. “Caught in the Arcturian Web?” she said.

“Yeah.”

“How long till they spray the Sorgon B?”

“Five minutes.”

“Did you try Alt F4?”

“No.”

“Try it.”

Sean pressed Alt F4. Bobby moved closer. A new menu flashed on the screen.

“Click on Trade Goods,” Jewel said.

Sean clicked on Trade Goods.

“Two minutes, thirty seconds,” said the computer voice.

“Click on Tobacco.”

Sean clicked on Tobacco. A message appeared on the screen: “Offer Arcturians Earth’s entire tobacco supply in perpetuity and at no cost? Y/N?”

“Y,” said Jewel.

Sean pressed the Y key. New message: “Offer accepted by Arcturian Grand Council. Web withdrawn to Galaxy 41-B in the Crab Nebula. Earth saved.”

The computer played a trumpet fanfare. “Congratulations, Captain Sean,” said the computer voice. “The Federation hereby authorizes me to promote you to commodore, effective immediately.”

“Hey,” said Sean, turning to Jewel. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, Commodore.”

“How did you know?” Bobby said.

“That’s all they ever want,” Jewel answered. “They’re completely addicted.”

Sean went to bed a few minutes later. He asked to say good night to the nice lady. Bobby showed her into his room.

“Sweet dreams,” she said.

“I don’t have dreams.”

“Be polite,” Bobby said.

“That’s all right,” said Jewel. “If he doesn’t have dreams, he doesn’t have them.”

Sean nodded. He gave her a long look, one Bobby didn’t recall seeing from him before. “Do you like Bradley?” he asked her.

“Bradley who?”

“It’s my middle name. Instead of Sean. Daddy likes it better.”

Bobby felt Jewel’s gaze on him. He shrugged, as if at some childish fantasy.

“I’m sure your father wants you to be called whatever you want.”

“Even if it’s bad luck?”

Bobby saw Jewel tilt her head again at that measuring angle, but all she said was, “Sleep well.”

They sat in the entertainment center, Jewel with the legal pad on her knee, the tape recorder on the couch between them. Much more than fifteen minutes had passed. She’d asked him a lot of questions he’d been asked before, but for some reason Bobby wasn’t bored yet.

“A beer, or something?” he said.

“No, thanks.”

“Wine?”

“Not for me.”

She flipped through the pages of the legal pad, sighed. “What kind of ballplayer do you think Sean will be?”

That was a new one. He looked at her. She was waiting, her head tilted again. Bobby imagined he was seeing deep inside her, to some essence beyond the fact of her being a woman. That had never happened to him before either.

“No idea,” he said. “But I wouldn’t want him to be a ballplayer.”

“Why not?”

“I just wouldn’t.”

“Do you think you’re just saying that because of the slump?”

Bobby’s guard was down. He almost said yes, almost told the truth, because it was the truth, although he hadn’t known it until she’d spoken. But he got a grip on himself and said: “I’m not in a slump.”

“You’re a lifetime. 316 hitter, Bobby, and as of today you’re batting. 153.”

“They’re just not falling in, that’s all.”

There was a long pause. Bobby could hear the tape recorder whirring. “Do you feel any pressure because of the big contract?”

“How many times do I have to answer that? No.”

“Never again. I promise.” She scanned her notes. “What about your new teammates?”