Peter Abrahams - The Fan

Gil felt nothing but the thrower on his leg.

All the Sterns were poor sleepers, and Jewel was the worst. She left the ballpark at eleven-thirty, was home in bed by midnight, and then just lay there, eyes wide open. She thought about Bobby, and Sean, and Val, and Bobby again. She got up, had a glass of water and two Tylenol, in case the pressure behind her eyes blew up into a headache, and, while she was at it, swallowed a Vitamin E, in case some cell in one of her breasts was planning to mutate later that night. Then she went back to bed, rolled over, closed her eyes, and stayed awake.

Mr. Curly Onis. The name rang a bell, of course, but so distant. In her work she met a lot of people, heard a lot of names. Jewel had a good memory. She searched it now. The media rep in Chicago? The head groundskeeper in Oakland? That lawyer who worked with the umpires’ union? All had names with Cs and Os in them, but none was Curly Onis. Maybe the name didn’t ring a bell at all, maybe it was a case of deja vu. She found her eyes were open, closed them, rolled over.

Or maybe he was a ballplayer somewhere, a minor-leaguer. There were a lot of wonderful ballplayer names-hadn’t someone written a song composed of nothing but? Sure: “Van Lingle Mungo,” by Dave Frishberg. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, she opened the Baseball Encyclopedia, which lay on the floor by her bed, and leafed through it, just reading the names.

Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep.

Jewel snapped on the light, grabbed the encyclopedia, whipped through the pages. And there he was, on page 1226 right above Edward Joseph Onslow, lifetime B.A.. 232: Manuel Dominguez “Curly” Onis. One big-league at bat, a single, for the 1935 Brooklyn Dodgers. Batted 1.000. Jewel thought right away of John Paciorek, her favorite example of this kind of thing, and recalled the shtick she and Bernie had done about European movies. Curly Onis’s case was even purer.

But having thought that, she didn’t know what to think next. She switched off the light, lay down, monitored her systems. They were all humming away at midmorning speed. She got up, went back to the bathroom, drank another glass of water, swallowed another Vitamin E. Jewel had a phone in her bathroom, dating from a long-ago decision to live a little. She stared at it for a while. Then she picked it up and dialed Bobby Rayburn’s home number.

One ring and a microsecond of the next. Then Bobby said: “Hello?”

His voice was thick and sleepy, and very near. The sound did something to her.

“It’s me,” she said.

“Oh.” Pause. “It’s kind of late.” In the background, Jewel heard Val-she hoped it was Val-say, “Who is it?” She hoped it was Val? Good God.

“I know the time,” Jewel said, “so obviously it’s important. I just looked up Curly Onis in the Baseball Encyclopedia. ”

“He’s there?”

“On page twelve twenty-six.”

“Christ, he’s really deteriorated.”

“What?”

“He told me he was up for a cup of coffee, but I didn’t believe him. Lots of guys say that.”

In the background, Val said, “What’s going on?”

“I’m not following you, Bobby,” Jewel said.

“Having a cup of coffee. It means playing briefly in the show.”

“I know what having a cup of coffee means, Bobby. I’ve been covering this stupid game since before you put on your very first jock strap. And don’t forget to wear it.” That last part just popped out; she couldn’t help it. Think it, say it-like, see the ball, hit the ball-she was a natural, at running her mouth.

Bobby laughed. In the background, but louder now, and more insistent, Val said, “Who is it? Who’s calling at this hour?” And more, but muffled as he smothered the receiver in his hand.

Then he said, “What was his record? With the Padres, right?”

“The Padres?” said Jewel. “Curly Onis played for the Dodgers in 1935. The Brooklyn Dodgers, Bobby.”

“This is his son, then?” said Bobby. “I don’t get it.”

“I don’t think-” Jewel began, and then came the soft but stress-inducing pulse of her call-waiting. “Hold on.” She hit flash. “What is it?”

“Fred.”

“What?”

“I’m at work.”

“And?”

“You wouldn’t believe this Between Brewskis thing. Guess how many calls we’ve had so far.”

“I don’t give a shit. Was one of them Gil Renard?”

“Three hundred and seventeen,” said Fred, giving her the information anyway. “And one was Gil. He didn’t leave a last name.”

“What did he say?”

“I can play it. Hang on.” Jewel hung on. She heard a high-pitched whir, then: “This is Gil. Tell them thanks, but I stopped caring.” Click.

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

“When did he call?”

“About three-quarters of an hour ago. But I just got the slip. Things are backed up here tonight. Like I said, three hundred and-”

“Shut up. Did they trace it?”

“That’s why I’m calling at this hour,” Fred replied, offended, “if you’ll give me half a chance.”

“And?”

“This is the strange part. It might be a hoax or something.”

“Why?”

“Because it came from a phone at Bobby Rayburn’s house.”

Jewel hit flash. “Bobby?”

“Still here. Listen, can we continue this another-”

“Lock your door.”

“What?”

“Call the cops. Don’t go near a window.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Gil Renard is in your house.”

“Who’s he?”

“Curly Onis. He killed Primo.”

“Why would he do that?”

“That fight you had with Primo. Gil Renard was there.”

“Fight?”

“Stop it, Bobby. You’ve got to be smart now. Don’t go near him. I’m on my way.”

“But what about Sean?”

“What about him?”

“He’s in his bedroom.”

Jewel had no immediate solution to that, and it had to be immediate, because the next instant she heard the phone drop to the floor of Bobby’s bedroom.

“Bobby?” she said. “Bobby?”

She heard Val: “What’s going on?”

And Bobby: “Get in the bathroom and lock the door.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

“Just do it.”

Then there was silence, except for Val’s whimpers. Call-waiting flashed again. Jewel switched lines.

“I got tired of holding,” Fred said.

“Did you call the cops?”

“Sure. What do you take me for?”

She switched him off again. Now, at Bobby’s house, there was nothing to hear at all, not even whimpering.

Bobby went into his walk-in closet, ripped out the long wooden clothes rail. Then he moved down the hall, crouched, on the balls of his feet, almost running. He entered the playroom, lit by the glow from the space-station console, and stopped at Sean’s closed door. Not a sound came from the other side. That had to be because Sean was tired from the long day, and deep in sleep. Bobby threw open the door, snapped on the lights.

The bed was empty.

And neatly made.

Bobby’s heartbeat rose in two stages, as he absorbed those facts. Something lay on the pillow. An empty bottle. He picked it up. Jose Cuervo Gold, but not quite empty. There was a rolled-up note inside. Bobby upended the bottle, tried to shake it out. It wouldn’t come. He smashed the bottle on the floor, fumbled for the note in the broken glass.

Dear #11:

You’ve got a lot to learn about gratitude. Gone fishin’.

The Fan

P.S. Val and Chaz, sittin’ in a tree.

Bobby ran outside, down to the beach. The moon had risen and he could see quite well. No one was fishing. “Sean,” he called. “Sean.” There was no answer.

Bobby ran around the house to the garage. The landscaping truck was gone. He went up to the apartment. The door was open. There was nothing inside but the fishing pole.