Роберт Паркер - Double Play

“We will have to work hard.”

“We can do that,” Burke said.

It was full day outside Burke’s window, with the rain steady.

“I love you,” Lauren said.

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me you love me?” Lauren said.

“I already did.”

“Do it again.”

“I love you,” Burke said.

She put her cigarette in the ashtray and left it there still smoking. She turned her face up toward him and put her arms around him.

“I want us to make love,” she said. “I don’t want us to fuck. I want us to make love.”

“Now?” Burke said.

“Right now,” she said. “And hurry.”

Burke reached across her with his free hand and stubbed out her smoldering cigarette butt. Then he said, “Sure,” and put his face down to hers. Several times as they made love she gasped, “Hold on to me. Hold on to me.” He wasn’t sure if she was crying.

I had gone to New York once before with my father. We took the train down, and stayed at the Commodore, and took the subway to Ebbets field. This time, just turned fifteen, I went alone.

I was visiting in Lynbrook, and took the Long Island Railroad into Penn Station. I lingered in Penn Station for a while, feeling the size and space. Feeling as if I were at the center of civilization with the throb of great engines animating the space. I smelled it: the steam, the peanuts, the energy. Underneath the vast high ceiling of the central room, I was enclosed and free, and small, and adult, and overwhelmed with confidence. Alone, fifteen, in New York City.

I was visiting alone. I’m not sure my parents ever knew.

I took the subway to Broadway and went downtown, reading the maps. I knew I probably didn’t have to come into Manhattan at all. I knew I was going a long way round, but it was the way I remembered going with my father, and my newly evolving self wouldn’t let me ask directions. The names of the stations were exciting. I’d heard them on WHN. I read about them in The New York Times: Astor Place, Bleeker Street, Bowery. This was New York. I was in its heart.

I can no longer remember how I went. I probably couldn’t go there now. Somewhere around Canal Street I changed trains, and somewhere around Prospect Park I got off and followed the crowd. Brooklyn wasn’t as tall as New York. But it was no less urban. It was late afternoon, before a night game with the Braves. The people were on the street selling programs and peanuts and hot dogs. And the crowd was already gathering. Fathers and sons. The fathers often wearing felt hats, dressed in suit and tie. The sons often with baseball gloves, often with baseball hats. There were women in the crowd and rarely, little girls. There was also a large mix of Negroes. I stood at the intersection of McKeever Place and Sullivan Place in front of the field. I could see the light towers above the stadium. The name EBBETS FIELD in white lettering built into the front at the top. The arches, the Palladian windows, the brick façade, the awning-striped canopy over the entrance. I went into the rotunda and bought my ticket and walked up the stairs and out into the interior grass, red clay infield, blue sky above, some white clouds, the players in their uniforms. The Dodgers in home white, blue lettering, blue hats; the Braves in road gray, red lettering, navy hats with red bills, on their chests a tomahawk.

I bought some peanuts and a program and found my seat on the third-base side. I watched batting practice. I watched infield practice, and the long lazy fungoes being hit to the outfielders. I watched some of the players run sprints in the outfield, and as the sky darkened and the lights took hold, I watched the two pitchers go to the bullpens and begin their warmups. Ralph Branca for the Dodgers. Warren Spahn for the Braves.

I was sitting among Negroes, between two heavy black women. I was alone, a slender white boy too young to shave. They asked me where I was from. I said Boston. They asked me what I was doing there. I said I was a Dodgers fan and wanted to see Jackie. One of the women announced this loudly to the group.

“This boy done come all the way from Boston to see our Jackie.”

She made Boston a long word. Everyone applauded. Some cheered. I imagined that Red Barber, high up in the catbird’s seat, might notice and remark that they’re tearing up the pea patch over there in the stands behind third. The world exfoliated around me. The Dodger Sym-Phony was marching back and forth. Hilda Chester was ringing her cowbell. Eddie Bettan was blowing his whistle. I was here, unaccompanied, unsupervised, alone, limitless and free, under the lights, in Ebbets Field, watching the Dodgers, applauded by the fans.

It was a night game with the Braves. Burke was where he always sat near the dugout. Barber and Desmond were in the broadcast booth. The Dodger Sym-Phony was marching back and forth. Hilda Chester was ringing her cowbell. Eddie Bettan was blowing his whistle. Everything’s in place, Burke thought, all the way it should be.

The Braves went down in order in the top of the first. Stanky led off for the Dodgers in the bottom of the first and singled to left against Johnny Sain. Robinson was up next. Cash slipped into the seat next to Burke.

“Where’s the girl?” Cash said.

“My place,” Burke said.

“She all right?”

Burke nodded.

“She gonna stay with you?” Cash said.

Burke nodded again. Cash was silent.

“I’m leaving town,” Cash said.

“Where you going?” Burke said.

“L.A.,” Cash said. “Lotta work out there.”

“Your kind of work,” Burke said.

“Yeah.”

They both watched Robinson foul off a curve ball.

“You turned out to be a pretty good guy,” Burke said.

“Funny how that happens,” Cash said.

Robinson took ball one.

“Good luck in L.A.,” Burke said.

Cash nodded.

Robinson swung and missed for strike two.

“Good luck with the girl,” Cash said.

Burke nodded.

Sain came inside to Robinson with a curveball that didn’t break the way it was supposed to. It hit Robinson in the rib cage. Burke knew it wasn’t intentional. You didn’t hit somebody with a pitch when you had them down in the count 1–2. Without glancing at Sain he trotted down to first. He showed no sign that it hurt.

“I left you a little going-away present,” Cash said.

He handed Burke the next day’s early edition of The Daily News. Burke looked at him silently for a moment.

“Page three,” Cash said.

“I’ll take a look,” Burke said.

Reese came to the plate with two on and no outs. The excitement at Ebbets Field was palpable. Cash stood.

“See you around,” Cash said.

“Yeah,” Burke said. “You ever need anything...”

“Sure,” Cash said.

He paused for a moment, then nodded his head at Burke and turned and walked up the steps and into the runway. On the first pitch from Sain, Reese hit into a double play. Carl Furillo fouled out to Bama Rowell in left.

Burke opened the tabloid to page 3. The headline read MURDER ON THE WEST SIDE. There was a picture of a man lying facedown on a flat surface. The lead paragraph began, “Alleged West Side mobster Gennaro Paglia was found shot to death last night, in the men’s room of a midtown restaurant.” Burke glanced back at the runway. But Cash was gone. Burke looked at the empty runway for a long minute, then folded the paper without reading further. Bob Elliott led off the top of the second.