Wiley Cash - This Dark Road to Mercy

“Have you ever heard of a guy named Bobby Pruitt?”

“Robert Pruitt?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”

“Old baseball player?”

“That’s him.”

“Shit, man,” he said, “that’s the dude who took Wade down. That’s the one I was telling you about.”

“The guy he hit?”

“Yeah, man, and I’d stay away from that dude if I was you.”

“I think he’s looking for Wade and those girls.”

“Well, you’d better find Wade before he does.”

I took the keys out of my pocket and nodded toward my car. “That’s what I’m hoping to do tomorrow.”

“Where you off to?”

“St. Louis,” I said.

“For what?” he asked, smiling.

“A baseball game.”

He laughed. “Shit, you got tickets?”

I held up the folded bills he’d just given me. “I do now.”

Pruitt

All that money, and you’re calling me collect,” the Boss said.

“You should’ve paid it in quarters.”

“Where are you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You’d better have good news,” he said.

“He’s been found.”

“Then why don’t I have what I want?”

“Because it’s not time yet.”

“When will it be time?”

“Monday. In St. Louis.”

“Why St. Louis?”

“That’s where he’s headed. And that’s where this will end.”

“It’s Thursday. Why should I have to wait that long?”

“Because the terms of the deal have changed.”

“What the hell makes you think that?”

“Because the cards aren’t in your hands anymore.”

“What do you want?”

“A hundred thousand.”

The other end of the phone was silent. “No way. That wasn’t the deal.”

“The deal has changed.”

“No. It hasn’t.”

“He’s going to be found, and what belongs to you is going to be found with him. It’s up to you if you want it back. Getting it back means the terms have changed.”

“I’m cutting you loose. We’re done. This is over.”

“No, it’s not. Not for me.”

The forty-dollar lot at Busch Stadium was already slam full of people an hour before the first pitch: college kids, families, hundreds of people wearing T-shirts and hats with “61” on them, carrying posters and signs with McGwire’s name and face on them. Outside the lot, scalpers littered the sidewalk, holding signs, looking into car windows, walking back and forth in the street during red lights.

A group of scalpers stood on the corner of Clark and Eighth, and a tall skinny black guy stepped away from them and waved me over. “What do you need, man?” he asked. “Whatever it is, I got it: dugout, left field, right field, everything but the box.”

“Just a ticket to get in. Doesn’t matter where.”

“Get in where you fit in, right?” he said, smiling, looking around like he expected somebody to be following me or trying to get close enough to hear what we were saying.

“What’s the cheapest you got?”

“You a cop?”

My eyes turned toward the group of guys still standing behind him. “Do they ask questions, or do they sell tickets?”

“Hold up, now,” he said. He looked around again, and then he nodded his head toward the parking deck behind him. “Follow me.” He turned and walked into a parking deck on the corner of Clark and Eighth Street, stopping in between a van and a pickup truck. “A grand,” he said, holding up a ticket. “A grand gets you standing room.”

The garage was full of cars but near empty of the sounds of people, everyone already headed toward the ballpark. The only sound was that of me peeling crisp bills off the stack. His eyes stayed on me while the money was counted.

“Fifteen,” he said

“Fifteen what?”

“Fifteen hundred. The price goes up this close to game time.”

The bills were folded and slid back into my pocket. “Okay.” But by the time he heard it the Glock had already been pulled from the waistband of my shorts and the tip of its barrel slammed down on top of his head. His knees buckled, and he fell at my feet.

“Do you want to play?” The barrel pushed down on his head until it felt like it could be forced through his skull. “Do you?”

“No,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. Take it.” He lifted the ticket up toward me, and my free hand closed around it before the sole of my shoe kicked him in the sternum, knocking him back against the concrete wall. He laid there looking up at me, tears in his eyes, his chest heaving like he’d been running as fast as he could. I pulled the grand back out of my pocket and balled it up and threw it at his face. He winced as the money fell all around him.

Easter Quillby

Wade had parked under an overpass and left us in the car while he went to look for tickets. All the parking lots had signs up saying they were full, and we drove away from the stadium, looking for a place to park. The streets were empty because everybody was already inside. Other cars were parked around us under the overpass, and me and Ruby rolled down the windows and watched a family climb out of a minivan. Both boys were younger than me, and they both had on baseball gloves and McGwire jerseys, and their little sister stood behind their minivan and stared up at the overpass, sniffing and wiping her eyes like she’d been crying. The man and the woman were fussing at each other.

“It’s not like I meant to leave it,” the man said. He was tall and brown-headed just like the boys, and he had on a Cardinals ball cap and a T-shirt with a picture of McGwire on it.

“You’d just better hope it doesn’t rain,” the woman said. She had the back of the minivan open, and she was stuffing things inside a bag. She looked back at the little girl, and then she looked at the man. “Where are her damn snacks?” The man sighed loud enough for everybody to hear it. “Really, Marty?” she said. She slammed the back of the minivan and grabbed the little girl’s hand and started walking toward the ballpark. The man and the two boys followed her. Me and Ruby watched them go.

Wade had promised us he wouldn’t be gone long, but now we were the only ones still sitting under the overpass. The game was going to start soon, and I couldn’t help but worry while the parking lot got quieter and quieter as everybody headed inside for the game. Soon you couldn’t hear nothing but the cars driving on the interstate above us and the music and announcements coming from far away inside the ballpark.

Ruby had rolled her window down all the way, and she stuck out her arm like she was trying to feel if there was any breeze. “You think we’ll see Big Mac break the record?” she asked.

Sweat ran down my forehead, and I wiped it with my T-shirt. “I don’t know,” I said. “I bet he’ll tie it at least.” My legs were sweating too, and I grabbed a handful of napkins we’d left on the dash and wiped my legs, and then I balled up the napkins and threw them on the floorboard. “There’s another game tomorrow,” I said. “Maybe Wade will bring us to that one too.”

“Where is he?”

“He went to get tickets,” I said. “Remember? You have to have tickets to get inside.”

Ruby picked at something on her shirt, and then she sighed. “Think we’ll stay in another place tonight that has a pool?” She’d been asking that same question ever since we’d left Myrtle Beach, and I’d told her the same thing every time.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Ask Wade.”

“He never says nothing when I ask him,” she said.

“It might be because you talk all the time,” I said. “You’re like background music.”