Роберт Паркер - Double Play

“I do too,” he said.

Burke sat silently.

“I’ll have Ellis speak to Johnny,” Jackson said. “That doesn’t end it, let me know.”

“It’ll end it,” Ellis said.

The St. Albans section of Queens was for Negroes with some money. The houses were mostly English Tudor set behind small neat lawns which fronted on clean streets. Burke drove Jackie to one of them.

“Walt Sewell,” Jackie said. “Works for the Amsterdam News. It’s his kid’s birthday.”

“How old?”

“Sixteen.”

“And you’re the surprise package?” Burke said.

“Supposed to be. Some people may be surprised to see you.”

“Wrong color?” Burke said.

“Un huh.”

“Anyone know why I’m with you?”

“Nope.”

“Long as they don’t lynch me,” Burke said.

Jackie smiled and rang the doorbell. An attractive colored woman came to the door wearing a flowered dress with big puffy shoulders. There was a white flower tucked in her hair. She smiled widely at Jackie.

“I’m Jack Robinson, ma’am...”

“For heaven’s sake,” she said, “I know who you are. Everybody knows who you are. I’m Joan Sewell.”

Her eyes shifted to Burke and showed nothing.

“This is my friend,” Robinson said. “Mr. Burke.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Burke,” she said. “Please, come in.”

The room was filled in the center with a buffet table on which there was ham and chicken and roast beef and potato salad and coleslaw and sandwich rolls and a large bowl of pink punch. The people around the table were adolescent girls and boys. Several adults stood in a small group away from the table. One of them came toward Robinson and Burke as they entered.

“Jackie,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

He didn’t make eye contact with Burke.

“Glad I could make it, Walt. This is my friend Burke.”

Walt put out a hand. Burke shook it.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Burke. You with the Dodgers?”

“Yes, I am,” Burke said.

The kids gathered at the buffet tried not to stare, but all of them looked covertly at Robinson. He went to them and shook hands carefully, one at a time, speaking to each of them, pausing longest with the birthday boy. He had brought an autographed baseball.

“There’s punch for the kids,” Walt Sewell said to Burke. “But something a lot harder for the grownups.”

“How else you gonna get through it,” Burke said.

“Brother, you got that right,” Walt said. “Care for a taste?”

“Sure,” Burke said. “Whatever you got.”

“Scotch all right?”

“Sure.”

Jackie was apparently talking hitting with the birthday boy and two friends. With an imaginary bat, he was showing them the grip, with the bat handle up into the fingers, not back in the palm.

“Known Jack long?” Walt said.

“Not so long, but quite well,” Burke said and took a drink of scotch.

The room had beige wallpaper with a darker brown vertical stripe. The wall-to-wall carpeting was caramel-colored. The furniture was white and graceful, with none of the thick mahogany heft that Burke was used to in the furnished apartments of his past. There were French doors at the back of the room that let in a lot of light and appeared to open onto some sort of patio.

“Nice house,” Burke said.

“Thanks,” Walt said. “It’s all Joan. My only contribution is to pay for it.”

He put his arm around Joan’s shoulder and she slipped her arm around his waist. Joan’s hair was smooth, and bobbed. Her makeup was good.

“Probably worth the money,” Burke said.

They were there for an hour. Everyone was trying to act at ease about Robinson being there. No one seemed to pay much attention to Burke being there. Chocolate cake appeared. And ice cream. Burke declined. He had a second drink instead. When they left, Joan gave each of them a piece of cake wrapped in a napkin.

In the car Burke said to Robinson, “You want this cake? It doesn’t go good with scotch.”

“I’ll take it home,” Jackie said. “Give it to Rachel.”

“Pretty much like any other birthday party I’ve seen,” Burke said.

“You seen many?”

“Mostly in the movies,” Burke said.

“Where they was white.”

“ ’Cept for the butler.”

Robinson smiled.

“What kind of party you think we might have?” Robinson said.

Burke shrugged.

“You white folks either think we dancing around in leopard skin skivvies,” Jackie said. “Or we sitting around talking how mean all the white folks is to us.”

“ ‘Nobody knows the trouble I seen...’ ” Burke sang.

“Yeah. That’s sort of it,” Jackie said. “Actually what we do is eat, and drink, and talk about the kids, and how they doing in school and who oughta be president and how taxes are looking, and did you hear Jack Benny last night? Sometimes, we ain’t married, we flirt a little, and try to get laid, if we can.”

Jackie smiled a little.

“Some folks,” he said, “even if they are married.”

“Sounds pretty USA to me,” Burke said.

“It seems to,” Jackie said.

“So why is it that everybody is bullshit about you playing with the white guys?” Burke said.

“Damned if I know,” Jackie said.

Burke was in his usual spot at Ebbets Field. In a box just at the other end of the dugout, Lauren Roach sat with Louis Boucicault and three other men. Lauren and Louis were drinking something from a flask which they passed back and forth. Lauren looked over at him. Burke nodded. Lauren looked away. She put her face next to Louis and whispered something. They both giggled. The flask went back and forth between them. Burke looked at the men sitting in the row behind them. Three, Burke thought, his father has upped the guard detail. Lauren glanced over again at Burke. Her face looked flushed. Boucicault took her face in his hand and turned it back toward him, away from Burke. He held it that way for a moment, staring into her eyes. Then he gave her a long kiss. She responded to it visibly, her body arching forward, her arms around Boucicault. From where he sat Burke could see that her skirt was up over her thighs. He knew she was drunk. When the kiss ended they sat for a time watching the game, her head against his chest, his arm around her shoulders. Boucicault took a long pull at the flask, and, without looking back, handed it over his shoulder, apparently empty, to the man behind him who slipped it into his coat pocket and replaced it with another flask, apparently full.

Burke snapped a wooden match with his thumb and lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply while he carefully broke the match in two and dropped it on the concrete beneath his seat. The Dodgers were playing the Cardinals, and, with the game tied and the bases loaded, and two men out, Stan Musial doubled off the right field screen. Everyone was on their feet. Dixie Walker’s throw was pointless, Jackie cut it off at the pitcher’s mound, and all three runners scored. Stan the Man , Burke thought.

When Burke looked back at Lauren she was kissing Boucicault again. Boucicault’s back was to Burke and Burke could see Lauren’s eyes over Boucicault’s shoulder. They were wide open. And looking at Burke. He looked back without expression. They held the look. Burke took a long drag on his cigarette and dropped it and stepped on it and let the smoke out slowly so that it drifted up in front of his face. Boucicault broke off the kiss and turned with his arm still around Lauren’s waist and looked at Burke. Burke lit another cigarette. Boucicault grinned at him. Burke inhaled more smoke. His face didn’t move. Someone yelled, “Down in front.” Boucicault paid no attention. One of the men with him turned and looked back at the shouter. On the field some of the players were looking into the stands.