Steam from the showers drifted into the locker room and made the air moist. The final score was 14 to 3 and no one was pouring champagne on anyone. I sat down beside Marty Rabb. He was bent over, unlacing his spikes. When he straightened, I said, “My name’s Spenser, I’m writing a book about the Sox, and I guess I oughta start with you.”
Rabb smiled and put out his hand. “Hi, glad to help. How about you don’t mention today, though, huh?” He shook his head. He was well above my six feet one—all flat planes and sharp angles. His short brown hair grew down over his forehead in a wedge. His head was square and long, like a square-bladed garden spade. His cheekbones were high and prominent, making the cheeks slightly hollow beneath them.
I said, “Bucky Maynard tells me Stabile’s too fat and that’s why he’s having trouble.”
“You ever see Lolich or Wilbur Wood?” Rabb said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve seen Maynard too.”
Rabb smiled. “Ricky doesn’t pitch with his stomach. The ball wasn’t moving for him today, that’s all.”
“It was moving for you yesterday.”
“Yeah, I had it grooved yesterday.” Rabb undressed as he talked. He was long-muscled and bony, his body pale in contrast to the dark tan on his face, neck, and arms.
“Well,” I said, “I’m really more interested in the human side of the game, Marty. Could we get together tonight and talk a little?”
Rabb was naked now, standing with a towel over his shoulder. In fact, most of the people in the dressing room were naked. I felt like a streaker in a nudist colony.
“Yeah, sure. Ah, lemme see, no, we’re not doing anything tonight that I know of. Why don’t you come over to the apartment, meet my wife, maybe have a drink? That okay with you?”
“Fine, what time?”
“Well, the kid goes to bed about seven—about seven thirty. Wanna do that?”
“Yes. Where?”
“Church Park. You know where that is?”
“Apartment six twelve.”
I looked at my watch: 4:35. “That’s fine. I’ll be there. Thanks very much.”
“See you.” Rabb headed for the showers. His body high and narrow, the left trapezius muscle overdeveloped, swelling out along the left side of his spine.
I left. Outside the dressing room there were two people sweeping. Other than that the place was empty. I walked up the ramp under the stands and looked out at the field. It was empty. I went down and hopped the railing of the box seats. There was no sound. I walked over to home plate. The wall in left seemed arm’s length away and 300 cubits high. The sun was still bright and at that time of day slanted in over the third-base stands, and the shadows of the light towers looked like giant renderings by Dali. A pigeon flew down from the center-field bleachers and pecked at the warning track. I walked out to the pitcher’s mound and stood with my right foot on the rubber, looking down into home plate. Traffic sounds drifted in from the city, but muffled. I put my right hand behind me and let it rest against my butt. Left hand relaxed on my left thigh. I squinted in toward the plate. Last of the ninth, two out, three on, Spenser checks the sign. One of the men who’d been sweeping came out of the passageway and yelled, “Hey, what the hell are you doing out there?”
“Striking out Tommy Henrich, you dumb bastard. Don’t you know anything?”
“You ain’t supposed to be out there.”
“I know,” I said. “I never was.”
I walked back in through the stands and on out of the ball park. I looked at my watch. It was nearly five. I walked back down the Commonwealth Avenue mall to Massachusetts Avenue. If Commonwealth Ave is yin, then Mass Ave is yang. Steak houses that no one you knew had gone to, office buildings with dirty windows, fast food, a palm reader, a massage parlor. I crossed Mass Ave and went into the Yorktown Tavern. It had plate glass windows and brown linoleum, a high tin ceiling painted white, booths along the left, a bar along the right. In the back corner was a color TV carrying a bowling game called Duckpins for Dollars. No one was watching. All the barstools were taken, and most of the booths. No one was wearing a tie. No one was drinking a Harvey Wallbanger. The house special was a shot and a beer.
In the last booth on the left, alone, was a guy named Seltzer who always reminded me of a seal. He was sleek and plumpish, thin through the chest, thicker through the hips. His hair was shiny black, parted in the middle and slicked tight against his head. He had a thin mustache, a pointed nose, and a dark pinstriped suit that cost at least $300. His white shirt gleamed in contrast to the darkness of the suit and the dinginess of the bar. He was reading the Herald American. As I slid in opposite him, he turned the page and folded it neatly back. I could see the big diamond ring on his little finger and the diamond chips set in the massive silver cuff links. He smelled of cologne, and when he looked up at me and smiled, his white teeth were even, cap perfect in his small mouth.
I said, “Evening, Lennie.”
He said, “You know, Spenser, little things break your balls. You ever notice that? I mean I used to read the Record American, right? Nice little tabloid size, easy to handle. Then they buy up the Herald and go the big format and it’s like reading a freakin’ road map. Now that busts my nuts, trying to fold this thing right. That kinda stuff bother you ever?”
“On slow days,” I said.
“Want a drink?”
“Yeah, I’ll have a brandy Alexander,” I said.
Seltzer laughed. “Hey, Frank.” He raised a finger at the bartender. “A shot and a beer, okay?”
The bartender brought them over, put the beer on a little paper coaster, and went back behind the bar. I drank the shot.
“Well,” I said, “if I had worms, I guess they’re taken care of.”
“Yeah, Frank don’t age that stuff all that long, does he?”
I sipped the beer. It was better than the whiskey. “Lennie, I need to know something without letting it get around that I’m asking.” His skin was remarkable. Smooth and pale and unlined. The sun had rarely shone upon it. It made him look a lot younger than I knew he was.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sure, kid. I never saw any advantage talking about things for no good reason. What do you want to know?” He sipped some beer, holding the glass in the tips of his fingers with the little finger sticking out. When he put the glass down, he took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his mouth carefully.
“I want to know if you’ve heard anything about Marty Rabb.”
Seltzer was very careful putting the handkerchief back in his pocket. He got the three points arranged and stood half up in the booth to look across the bar into the mirror and make sure they were right.
“Like what?” he said.
“Like anything at all.”
“You mean, does he occasionally place a wager? That kind of thing?”
“That, or anything else.”
“Well, he never placed a bet with me,” Seltzer said, “but I heard something peculiar about him. The odds seem to shift a little when he pitches. I mean, there’s some funny money placed when he’s scheduled to go. Nothing big, nothing I’d even think about if somebody like you didn’t come around and ask about him.”
“You think he’s in the satchel?”
“Rabb? Hell, no, Spenser. Nothing that strong. There’s just a whisper, just a ruffle, that not everything is entirely jake. I wouldn’t hesitate taking money when Rabb’s pitching. I don’t know anyone that would. It’s just …” He shrugged and spread his hands out palms up. “Want another drink?”
I shook my head. “The last one took the enamel off my front teeth,” I said.
“Aw, Spenser.” Seltzer shook his head. “You’re going soft. I remember twenty years ago you was fighting prelims in the Arena, you thought that stuff was imported from France.”
“In those days I don’t remember you dressing like George Brent either,” I said.
Seltzer nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “things change. Now instead of a newspaper, they give you a freaking road map. You know?”
I left him refolding his paper and went to get something to eat. The bar whiskey was thrashing about in my stomach, and I thought maybe I could smother it with something.