Бернард Маламуд - The Natural

“Who sent you,” he spoke harshly, “— that bastard Gus?”

She turned flame-faced but answered quietly, “The Judge.”

“Banner?” Somebody inside of him — this nervous character lately hanging around — crashed a glass to the floor. Roy’s pulses banged.

“He said he’d pay you fifteen thousand now and more next season. He says it would depend on you.”

“I thought I smelled skunk.”

“He asked me to deliver the message. I have nothing to do with it.”

“Who else is in on this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Pop?”

“No.”

He lay motionless for an age. She said no more, did not plead or prod. It grew late. An announcement was made for visitors to leave. She rose and tiredly put on her coat.

“I was thinking of all the years you would be out of the game.”

“What does he want me to do?”

“It’s something about the playoff — I don’t know.”

“They want me to drop it?”

She didn’t answer.

“No,” he said out loud.

She shrugged. “I told them you wouldn’t.”

She was thin and haggard-looking. Her shoulders drooped, her hands were bloodless. To refuse her just about broke his heart.

He fell into a deep slumber but had not slept very long before this rat-eyed vulture, black against the ceiling, began to flap around the room and dripping deep fat spiraled down toward his face. Wrestling together, they knocked over the tables and chairs, when the lights went on and waked him. Roy grabbed under the pillow for a gun he thought was there, only it wasn’t. Awake, he saw through the glare that Judge Goodwill Banner, in dark glasses and hairy black fedora, was staring at him from the foot of the bed.

“What the hell do you want here?”

“Don’t be alarmed,” the Judge rumbled. “Miss Paris informed me you were not asleep, and the authorities granted me a few minutes to visit with you.”

“I got nothing to say to you.” The nightmare had weakened him. Not wanting the Judge to see that, he pulled himself into a sitting position.

The Judge, yellow-skinned in the electric light, and rumpled-looking, sat in the armchair with his potlike hat on. He sucked an unwilling flame into his King Oscar and tossed the burnt-out match on the floor.

“How is your health, young man?”

“Skip it. I am all right now.”

The Judge scrutinized him.

“Wanna bet?” Roy said.

The Judge’s rubbery lips tightened around his cigar. After a minute he removed it from his mouth and said cautiously, “I assume that Miss Paris has acquainted you with the terms of a certain proposal?”

“Leave her name out of it.”

“An admirable suggestion — a proposal, you understand, made by persons unknown.”

“Don’t make me laugh. I got a good mind to sick the FBI on you.”

The Judge examined his cigar. “I rely on your honor. You might consider, however, that there is no witness other than Miss Paris, and I assume you would be solicitous of her?”

“I said to leave her name out.”

“Quite so. I believe she erred concerning the emolument offered — fifteen thousand, was it? My understanding is that twenty thousand, payable in cash in one sum, is closer to the correct amount. I’m sure you know the prevailing rate for this sort of thing is ten thousand dollars. We offer twice that. Any larger sum is unqualifiedly out of the question because it will impair the profitableness of the venture. I urge you to consider carefully. You know as well as I that you are in no condition to play.”

“Then what are you offering me twenty thousand smackers for — to show your gratitude for how I have built up your bank account?”

“I see no reason for sarcasm. You were paid for your services as contracted. As for this offer, I frankly confess it is insurance. There is the possibility that you may get into the game and unexpectedly wreck it with a single blow. I personally doubt this will occur, but we prefer to take no chances.”

“Don’t kid yourself that I am too weak to play. You know that the doctor himself said I’ll be in there Monday.”

The Judge hesitated. “Twenty-five thousand,” he finally said. “Absolutely my last offer.”

“I hear the bookies collect ten million a day on baseball bets.”

“Ridiculous.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“It makes no difference, I am not a bookie. What is your answer?”

“I say no.”

The Judge bit his lip.

Roy said, “Ain’t you ashamed that you are selling a club down the river that hasn’t won a pennant in twenty-five years and now they have a chance to?”

“We’ll have substantially the same team next year,” the Judge answered, “and I have no doubt that we will make a better job of the entire season, supported as we shall be by new players and possibly another manager. If we take on the Yankees now — that is, if we are foolish enough to win the playoff match — they will beat us a merciless four in a row, despite your presence. You are not strong enough to withstand the strain of a World Series, and you know it. We’d be ground to pulp, made the laughingstock of organized baseball, and your foolish friend, Pop Fisher, would this time destroy himself in his humiliation.”

“What about all the jack you’d miss out on, even if we only played four Series games and lost every one?”

“I have calculated the amount and am certain I can do better, on the whole, in the way I suggest. I have reason to believe that, although we are considered to be the underdogs, certain gambling interests have been betting heavily on the Knights to win. Now it is my purpose, via the uncontested — so to speak — game, to teach these parasites a lesson they will never forget. After that they will not dare to infest our stands again.”

“Pardon me while I throw up.”

The Judge looked hurt.

“The odds favor us,” Roy said. “I saw it in tonight’s paper.”

“In one only. The others quote odds against us.”

Roy laughed out loud.

The Judge flushed through his yellow skin. “Honi soit qui mal y pense.”

“Double to you,” Roy said.

“Twenty-five thousand,” said the Judge with an angry gesture. “The rest is silence.”

Though Roy had a splitting headache he tried to think the situation out. The way he now felt, he wouldn’t be able to stand at the plate with a feather duster on his shoulder, let alone a bat. Maybe the Judge’s hunch was right, and he might not be able to do a single thing to help the Knights win their game. On the other hand — maybe he’d be himself, his real self. If he helped them win the playoff — no matter if they later dropped the Series four in a row — there would still be all sorts of endorsement offers and maybe even a contract to do a baseball movie. Then he’d have the dough to take care of Memo in proper style. Yet suppose he played and because of his weakness flopped as miserably as he had during his slump? That might sour the endorsements and everything else, and he’d end up with nothing — or very little. His mind went around in drunken circles.

All this time the Judge’s voice was droning on. “I have observed,” he was saying, “how one moral condition may lead to or become its opposite. I recall an occasion on the bench when out of the goodness of my heart and a warm belief in humanity. I resolved to save a boy from serving a prison sentence. Though his guilt was clear, because of his age I suspended sentence and paroled him for a period of five years. That afternoon as I walked down the courthouse steps, I felt I could surely face my maker without a blush. However, not one week later the boy stood before me, arraigned as a most wicked parricide. I asked myself can any action — no matter what its origin or motive — which ends so evilly — can such an action possibly be designated as good?”