Peter Abrahams - The Fan

“What about motive?” Jewel said. “Were they enemies?”

“As kids? Far from it. In fact-”

“Boucicaut was on the team too.”

“How did you know that?”

I know boys and their games, Jewel thought, but she didn’t say it. “Were you the star, Sergeant?”

“They were the stars, the two of them. Gil was the pitcher, Boucicaut was the catcher. They took us all the way to the regionals.”

“That means you won the state.”

“We won the state.” Claymore looked inward for a moment, and seemed about to say something more, but did not.

The fly returned, buzzed Jewel. She swatted at it, missed. It was hot in Gil Renard’s old room, and airless. No motive, no connection; she was getting nowhere. “This man you saw in Boucicaut’s car-”

“Truck,” he said.

Connection. “A red pickup?”

“That’s right. How-”

“Was he a big man?”

“Yes.”

“Round face? Long black hair? Black beard?”

Sergeant Claymore got off the bed.

“Is that Gil?” she asked.

“Not Gil,” he told her. “Boucicaut. Where did you see him?”

Jewel went to the window, pointed down into the alley. “Right there.” She told him what had happened. Even as she spoke, he was inching toward the door. “Where are you going?” she said.

“No more guessing. I’ll put him on the computer right away.” Almost across the threshold, he turned, came back, shook her hand. “Thanks,” he said. Then his eyes narrowed, just the slightest bit this time. “The story you’re working on,” he said, “any murder in it?”

“Oh, no,” Jewel said. “Nothing like that.”

Sergeant Claymore left. Jewel stayed for a few minutes, opened every drawer, peered under the bed, saw nothing. She left Gil Renard’s room, went back down the corridor. At the base of the stairs leading to the top floor, she heard something from above. It sounded like a woman crying.

Jewel felt the personality of the house around her. She got out as fast as she could.

On the flight west, Jewel Stern, in business class, telephoned the Times Magazine editor in New York and got a one-week extension on the Rayburn piece. After that, she took out her laptop and her notes and tried to find a beginning.

Why wouldn’t Bobby Rayburn, one of the brightest stars in the major leagues over the past decade, she wrote, want his only son to be a ballplayer too? She read the sentence over and hit DELETE.

In a world where 35 is geriatric, middle-aged doubt comes early. Jewel deleted that too.

The hands are what you notice first. DELETE.

Sometimes even All-American boys get the blues. Jewel read that over a few times and went on to the next sentence. If the phrase “All-American boy” still has any meaning at this late date, it surely applies to Bobby Rayburn, probably the best center fielder in baseball for the past decade.

The hands are what you…

Jewel worked straight through, eating nothing, drinking nothing, not letting her eye be caught by the man in silver-filigree cowboy boots across the aisle, who didn’t stop trying to catch it until the movie began. She had fifteen-hundred words by shutoff time for all electronic devices.

At the back of economy, Gil Renard slept the whole way.

Gil took a taxi to the stadium, bought a bleacher ticket, was in his seat in the first row behind the center-field fence with two beers and a box of popcorn in time for the first pitch; knapsack at his feet, thrower strapped to his leg. He couldn’t tell what the first pitch was from that distance; all he could see was Primo slapping at it, and the ball looping over the second baseman and hopping over the grass. Under the lights, the ball looked too white, white as rabbit fur, and the grass too green; as though someone had messed with the tint control. Maybe it was jet lag. Gil rubbed his eyes, took a big swallow of beer, gazed again at the field. Nothing had changed.

Primo stole second on the next pitch; he had such a big jump the catcher didn’t bother to throw down. Then Zamora flied to right; not deep, but Primo tagged and went to third anyway, surprising the right fielder and just beating the throw.

“That fucking Primo,” said a fan behind Gil. “What’s he smokin’ this year?”

“Whatever it is, give me some,” said another.

They laughed.

Washington batted third. Gil leaned forward, checked the scoreboard. He swung around. “Where’s Rayburn?”

“Not playin’.”

Gil squinted toward the distant third-base dugout, thought he saw Rayburn sitting deep in the shadows, chin resting in his hands.

Washington struck out, and so did Odell, ending the inning. When the Sox took the field, Simkins, the kid, was in center. Gil stopped watching the game. He just watched Simkins’s back. Simkins wore number thirty-three. Not a number Gil himself would have chosen: Christ’s age when he died. Maybe Simkins thought he was too good to worry about things like that.

Simkins, you asshole. The words grew louder and louder in Gil’s mind until he had to shout them out: “Simkins, you asshole.”

Simkins didn’t react.

“Simkins, you asshole.”

No reaction from Simkins, but Gil felt eyes on his own back. He shut up, finished his beers. He had to stay cool. And sober. Easier to do if the tint was normal. After a while, he went to the beer counter. Only two more, he told himself. On the way back, he spotted a C-type battery lying on the ramp and pocketed it. When he returned to his seat he gave the beers to the men behind him.

“Hey, thanks, man. We’ll get the next round.”

“Not necessary,” said Gil, feeling strong, purposeful. He stared at Simkins. Stay cool. Stay sober. Just for tonight.

Gil got his chance in the top of the sixth. One out, bases loaded, and the batter popped one up in foul ground, far back of third, possibly out of play. Primo sprinted after it from short, crossed the foul line and dove fully outstretched, almost at the base of the stands. He caught the ball, and just as he did, just as all eyes were on him, Gil rose, as others were rising, and threw the C-type battery as hard as he could at Simkins.

The battery spun flashing under the lights and caught Simkins in the back of the head, an inch or two below the band of his cap. His hand flew to the spot; as though he’d been stung by a wasp. Then he looked and saw-and Gil saw too-a blood smear on the palm. Slowly Simkins turned his head, and slowly scanned the bleacher seats, his eyes wide. Gil tilted the popcorn box up to his face.

The next batter-the very next batter! on the very next pitch! — hit an easy fly ball to center field that Simkins dropped. Three runs scored, and that was the ball game, barring the kind of miracle comeback the Sox hadn’t pulled off yet this season.

I’m a player, Gil thought. I’m a player in the game.

When it was over, Gil waited with other fans outside the players’ entrance. To a girl wearing a Sox jacket and a lot of makeup, he said: “Know what hotel they stay at?”

“Palacio,” she said, and cracked her gum.

Gil took a cab. He didn’t like taking cabs. He missed the 325i, with its WNSOX vanity plate, its moon roof, its… companionship. Was that the word? He remembered the way he’d had his best ideas in that car. Without wheels you’re dead.

Outside, the city stretched from horizon to horizon in grids, lit like the glowing motherboard of a giant computer. It disoriented him, like the rabbit-fur ball and the too-green grass. He realized he was holding his breath, let it out, inhaled, exhaled, deep, slow. He saw the driver glance at him in the rearview mirror; and felt the weight of the thrower on his leg.

The lobby of the Palacio had a waterfall, sparkling lights, soft couches. Gil sat on one with a view of the front doors, reception, the elevator bank. After a while, a waiter appeared: “Something to drink, sir?”