Peter Abrahams - The Fan

“Soon, soon.” Four, five. Gil stopped digging. “Here’s a big fat one,” he said. “Have a look.”

The boy didn’t move. “I don’t want to go fishing. I want to go home.” He glanced around. “It’s night,” he said.

“Best time for fishing, I told you,” Gil said, and grabbed his arm.

“What are you doing to me, Curly?”

“Showing you the big fat worm.” With his free hand, Gil got a good grip on the spade handle, started to raise it.

A light flashed on near the first-base dugout, blinding him. He had to drop the spade to shield his eyes.

A man said: “Let the boy go, Gil.”

Gil tightened his grip. “Claymore? Is that you?”

“Let him go, Gil. I’m aimed right at you.”

Gil tried to see beyond the glare. He picked out one shadow, maybe two. “Did I ever thank you for that play you made at short?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gil. Let him go.”

“A lucky play, but still.” He raised his right foot, found a toehold halfway up the inside of the hole, in easy reach.

“We can reminisce later, Gil. Let him go.”

“Why would I want to reminisce with you?” Gil said. “We both know you couldn’t carry my jock.”

“Never said I could, Gil. I was a big fan of yours. Just let him go.”

Gil let go. Had Claymore really been a fan? He hadn’t known. Perhaps there’d been others. Too late.

Sean stood still, by the edge of the hole.

“Come here, son. I’m a policeman. I won’t hurt you.”

Sean didn’t move.

Somewhere behind the light a woman said, “Sean.”

“Mommy?” He took a step toward the light, then another. The beam wavered off Gil and onto the boy. Gil whipped out the thrower and hurled it at the glaring disc.

The beam changed directions wildly, trying different points of the compass, finally coming to rest pointing straight up at the stars. Pupils dilated, Gil couldn’t see a thing. He felt for the surface of the ground, started clawing out of the hole.

Jewel crouched over Sergeant Claymore, saw a knife stuck deep in his throat, and no life in his eyes. She ran onto the field, grabbed Sean, swung him around, and took off the other way, carrying him in her arms.

She ran, out through the gate Claymore had unlocked in the chain-link fence, onto a path, silvered in the moonlight. As she passed under the arched Amvets sign that led to the road, she heard him coming.

Jewel went right past her parked car. She didn’t trust herself to get them both in and start it in time. She fled down a street lined with dark houses, the boy in her arms. Footsteps pounded closer.

“Put me down,” Sean said. “I’m fast.”

But Jewel wouldn’t put him down. She came to a crossroads, saw the main drag, and a blue light shining a block and a half away. Now she heard nothing but her own panting breath, did nothing but try to go faster. The blue light: POLICE. Jewel banged open the door.

The night man, dozing at his desk, jerked his head up in surprise.

Jewel slammed the door and rammed the bolt home. Rising, the night man wiped drool off his chin.

“Even Mommy runs better than that,” Sean said. But he was in no hurry to be put down.

Gil awoke from a forge dream, drenched in sweat. He looked out the front window of the bus, saw the towers of the city in the distance, and a bright blue sky that hurt his eyes. He went back to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, took stock.

He had the clothes he wore, $217.83, an old Kwikpik lottery ticket he didn’t remember buying, and the thrower, on his leg. He’d lost the knapsack full of knives in the darkness. It didn’t matter. He was all set.

Inside the bus station, Gil bought a cup of coffee and had the clerk check his lottery ticket. The clerk ran it through the machine. “Won a free ticket,” he said. “Want to stick with the same number?”

“Forget it,” Gil told him, and walked out.

He followed downtown streets he’d known for years. They seemed unfamiliar. Not new-there was none of the excitement of being in a new place-just strange. He passed Cleats. A sign in the window read: CLOSED TILL FURTHER NOTICE. SPACE FOR RENT. And suddenly Gil knew what was different. For the first time, the city’s impermanence was laid bare to his eyes. It would all soon be gone.

Gil went into a bar near the ballpark. An old bar, dark and grim. Even now, not long before game time, it was almost empty. Gil was hungry. He had a steak sandwich and a slice of deep-dish apple pie. But he drank nothing, not even the water that came with the meal. He had lost his thirst.

The TV over the bar played soundlessly. Gil watched highlights from an old World Series that he remembered well. But the colors were off, the haircuts ridiculous: almost like a satire of the game. The plays had lost their meaning. Would the games they played now be like that in twenty years-so bleached and blurred, compared to his memories?

A truck commercial appeared on the screen, followed by a beer commercial. After that came a reporter, standing in front of the arched Amvets sign at the old ball field; the path under the arch was now barred by a strip of yellow police tape. Then a still picture of Bobby Rayburn appeared, followed by one of Sean, cutting a birthday cake. After that came footage of a body being loaded into an ambulance, and of Jewel Stern ducking into a squad car and driving off; and then his own picture-his company ID photo-with the words “Gilbert Marcel Renard” in big letters underneath. Gil ate the last bite of deep-dish apple pie, paid his bill, adding a ten-dollar tip-the biggest, as a percentage, he had ever given-and left.

The game had already started by the time Gil reached the ballpark. He wore sunglasses and a Sox cap, carried a clipboard, a large cardboard box taped securely shut, and a ballpoint behind his ear. There were cops at the ticket windows and at every gate, and a sniper on the roof of the press box. A man with a radio to his ear hurried by.

“Some doubt about whether Rayburn would play today, Bernie.”

“He’s out there in center field, Norm. And I’ve never seen security this tight at…”

The sound faded. Gil walked around the corner to the unmarked door and knocked.

“Who is it?” called a voice.

“Package for Socko,” Gil replied.

The door opened. The old red-faced man in the red blazer peered out.

“Urgent,” said Gil. “It’s a new foot.”

The old man reached for the cardboard box.

“He’s got to sign for it,” Gil said.

“I can sign.”

“No way. I almost got canned doing that once.”

“But he’s on the field.”

“I’ll wait. He’ll be taking his break at the end of the third inning, won’t he?”

The old man squinted. “You know him?”

“Sure. He gets all his stuff from us.”

“Thought you looked familiar,” the old man said, and he stepped aside to let Gil pass.

The old man closed the door, made sure it was locked, then led Gil down the corridor. As they came to the door of Socko’s dressing room, Gil said, “I’ll just wait in here.”

“Don’t you want to watch while you’re waiting?”

“Baseball’s not my game,” Gil said.

The old man continued down the hall. Gil went into the dressing room, closed the door, laid the package on the dressing table beside the bottles of mineral water. He heard a distant roar. Socko’s dressing room shook all around him.

Time passed. There were a few more roars, more shaking, then quiet. Gil stood against the wall by the door.

It opened. Socko hurried in, tore off his yellow head, made for the dressing table. He grabbed a bottle of mineral water and drank greedily, head tilted up, face bathed in sweat. He had just noticed the package when Gil stepped forward and cut his throat.