It all happened so fast I doubted anyone noticed us disappearing into the night, except maybe the threesome who had been slowly making their way down the regal staircase. Unfortunately, they looked like they lost so much money in the casino they would view being abducted before making your way inside as a lucky break.
There I was, stuck in the back seat between big Lou and my new friend John. I managed to catch my breath, just enough to say, “Nice sucker punch, Sluggo. I owe you one.”
John offered up another one of his thin smiles, a grin he must have practiced watching old Richard Widmark movies.
Lou said, “All we wanna do is talk, that’s all we wanna do.”
“Sure,” I agreed between gasps, “talking is good. I guess talking out there in the open air would have been against your religion.”
Lou laughed, if you could call it a laugh. It was more like an asthmatic wheeze. “Your cousin always says you’re a funny guy.”
“That’s me all right.”
Donna turned toward me from the front seat, the concern visible in her beautiful blue eyes. “You all right?”
“Ducky,” I told her, still working on getting a deep breath. Turning back to the big man, I said, “Lou, you don’t mind if I ask where we’re going, do you?”
Lou said, “I don’t mind,” waited a couple of seconds, then started that wheeze again. “You get it? I don’t mind if you ask, you get it?”
Lou was a stitch.
We didn’t drive very far—let’s face it, Monaco’s not big enough to drive very far, even if you go from one end to the other. We traveled up a hill to a small park, where the driver pulled the car to a stop.
“Come on,” Lou said to me as he swung his door open. “You and me is gonna have a little walk talk.”
“What about my friend?”
Lou was already climbing out of the car. Once outside, he shrugged his massive shoulders. “She can take a walk on her own, far as I’m concerned. She’s got nothin’ to do with me.”
“Why’d you bring her, then?”
“What was I gonna do? Leave her there to yell for the cops.”
For once, I could not argue with his logic.
“We only need a minute,” Lou told me.
Donna said, “I’m not going anywhere without you.”
I looked at her. “Maybe that’s not such a great idea.”
She opened her door, got out and slammed it shut. I got out too. The driver and Sluggo stayed in the car.
Donna said, “I’ll wait right there,” pointing to a bench nearby.
“Fine with me,” Lou said.
I nodded. “All right. But if I’m gone more than a couple of minutes, head back down the hill to the casino. Okay?”
She didn’t answer, she just gave me a worried nod, then turned and headed toward the bench.
“Come on,” Lou said, and so we began to stroll into the park.
The night was late and dark, but still pleasantly warm. I loosened my tie, then reached down and felt my stomach. I sure wanted some payback from that stubby creep in the car.
After we walked about thirty or forty paces I said, “Look Lou, I’ve had a long day. Why don’t we stop and talk right here?” From where we were standing, I still had a clear view of Donna sitting on the bench, which made it the ideal place to have our discussion.
Lou spun his large ugly head around, really cautious, like a wary cat or a guy who’d seen too many gangster movies. “Good enough,” he agreed. He squared up his massive shoulders to face me, just in case I forgot that he was the size of SubZero.
I asked, “What the hell is this about?” As if I didn’t know.
“Your cousin thinks maybe you didn’t level with him. About this action, I mean. He says he has a piece of it, that he had a deal with your father.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s what he says. He says he thinks you’re cutting him out and he’s very hurt about it.”
Hurt? When he said that, I knew the big oaf was reciting a script written by Frank, something Lou probably struggled to memorize on the plane ride all the way across the Atlantic. I could picture him, jammed into a coach seat, reading from a page of notes, his lips moving as he went through it.
“Hurt? God, I really feel bad that he’s hurt. You tell him that I said so, okay? Is that it?”
Lou scowled at me. “No bullshit now, huh? Where’s the thing?”
“What thing?”
“The thing, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. And I don’t think you know either, do you?”
Lou couldn’t look me in the eyes now. The one thing ignorant people absolutely cannot deal with is being confronted with their ignorance.
“I’ll bet Frank didn’t tell you what this is about, did he?”
He still wasn’t looking right at me as he said, “Hey, it’s a thing, all right? What else do I gotta know?”
“What you gotta know,” I told him, “is that this is bullshit, since my cousin has no idea what he sent you here to look for.”
“Hell he doesn’t,” Lou protested.
I laughed in his face, which provided me immeasurable pleasure. Inebriation is not only a great fortifier of courage, it also does wonders for my sense of humor. “This whole thing is a fairy tale, and you can tell that asshole cousin of mine I said so.” I laughed at him again. “I do hope you’ve had a nice trip to France, you and Sluggo.” Then I turned away, but he grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me back around.
Lou was a whole lot bigger than I am, but goddamnit if I wasn’t getting tired of people grabbing me by the shoulder. I was also full of wine, full of stories about my father and full of an overwhelming sense that it was time for me to take charge of my life. In more ways than one. As I completed the half-pirouette Lou had yanked me into, I came up with my right foot and kicked him square in the balls, hard enough to launch a punt sixty yards. Big Lou let out a groan as he began to fall to his knees, but before he could hit the ground I sent my knee up into his face, which caused some part of his nose or mouth to give way, blood spurting out all over the place. Then I tried to grab his hair with my left hand, having some idea of finishing him off with a right uppercut, but I forgot who I was dealing with and found myself holding a handful of wig as my punch grazed the side of his temple. Even so, the kick, the knee and the de-wigging created enough physical and psychic pain to cause Lou to crumple to the ground.
Then the real action began.
Sluggo and the driver saw what happened and came racing out of the car. Donna jumped to her feet and started in my direction, but the driver reached her, clutched hold of her arm and dragged her across the hill. Sluggo came directly at me with fire in his eyes, but when I saw Donna being pulled along, I ignored him and took off toward her.
I was running as fast as I could and, coming just a couple of steps from the driver, when I took a flying leap at his head, miscalculating by just a tad, and ending up with a tackle around his knees. He, Donna and I all tumbled to the ground.
The three of us wrestled around as Sluggo got there. I took a punch to the side of my face from the driver, but managed to land a couple of solid shots of my own, then scrambled to my feet. Sluggo took a wild swing, which I ducked, then I drove forward with my head into his midsection, taking the two of us down.
That was the moment when a series of searchlights went on and a booming voice with a familiar French accent spoke through a loudspeaker, ordering everyone not to move. “We are the authorities,” Inspector Durand announced in clear English. “Stop where you are.”
Blackie always believed in the importance of friends. He was fond of the old adage about being able to pick your friends but not your relatives, which seemed particularly apt that evening. He also liked the one about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer.
Nicky would have loved those clichés, but I don’t think I need to bother with any others, at least not right now.
The point is, Gilles was my father’s friend, which meant he was a friend of mine. He made sure that the Inspector arranged for my safety during our visit to the Riviera, which Durand, being a good friend of Gilles, undertook personally.
Frank, of course, was one of those relatives I never would have chosen.
We all ended up in the Inspector’s headquarters, where the three men who had abducted us were placed in a holding cell while Donna and I sat with Durand in his office and talked things through. After reviewing our options, Donna and I decided not to press charges against Lou and his cohorts. On certain levels, some of which involved how this might affect Gilles and his reputation, the Inspector was relieved. Instead of pressing the criminal case, we made an agreement that, in exchange for us not prosecuting them for kidnapping, assault and whatever else they could have thrown at them, the three thugs would consent to the entry of an international protective order of non-disturbance, or something like that. They also had to immediately return to the States.
Prior to their bon voyage, Big Lou, Inspector Durand and I had a private discussion.
Lou didn’t look so hot, what with his nose busted up, his eye turning purple and his wig an awful mess. All the same, he was grateful he would not be facing ten years or more in a French prison.
I asked him to tell us what Frank had told him.
“He told me you were after this thing, this thing that was really his, or that he had a piece of or something.”
The Inspector and I shared a look of amazement at the combination of Frank’s gall and Lou’s stupidity.
“And this ‘thing,’ do you have any idea what it is?” the Inspector inquired politely.
Lou slowly shook his large head, then looked at me. “That’s why I hadda come talk to you, you see? I hadda find out where you were with this thing, right?”
“Right,” I said. “That’s why you had to grab the girl and me and take us for a midnight walk through the park. So you could find out what the hell my cousin sent you here to find, since you didn’t even know.”
“Hey,” Lou said with a shrug of his massive shoulders, “when you put it like that it sounds pretty bad, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said, “pretty bad.”
Lou told us what little else he knew from Frank. He said that my cousin told him about a large deal, claiming that my father had taken him into his confidence years ago, and how the missing piece of the puzzle might have finally been supplied by a letter I found, which was supposed to provide the clue to where the money was hidden.
I laughed.
I told Lou that there was no letter with clues to a buried treasure, that in fact there was no buried treasure, and that my cousin had lied to him, which was something he might want to take up with Frank when he returned home. Durand, still knowing nothing of my father’s letter, was happy to confirm the truth of what I was saying. There was no reason to mention the legend of the Monet since big Lou had no idea about a painting and the Inspector and I weren’t about to educate the big oaf.
I also warned Lou that none of them, not him or Sluggo or Frank, had better ever darken my doorstep again, unless they wanted to face an arrest warrant from Interpol. The Inspector vouched for my statement.
He told Lou, “If so much as a hair on Monsieur Rinaldi’s head is mussed, every law enforcement agency in the world will be looking for you.”
“Hey, loud and clear,” Lou said with as much sincerity as he could muster, shaking his head and moving his hands all around. Turning back to me, he added, “I even understand you hadda kick me in the nuts when you did. It’s okay. I mean bygones are bygones, right?”
I almost told him I was sorry for yanking his wig off, then thought better of it. Instead, I said, “All of this goes for Benny, too.”
Lou’s response was a blank look and, coming from a guy who specializes in blank looks, it was hard to tell if I was being played or not.
“Spare me the eyes of the innocent, Lou. Who visited Benny out in Las Vegas over the last couple of days?”
He looked sincerely baffled. “I thought you did.”
I decided to let it go.
To this day, Lou never realized he was looking for a Monet. I wondered if he would know what a Monet was if he saw one.
Before we wrapped up the proceedings, I asked Durand if I might have an opportunity to see old Sluggo and give him a smack or two, a little payback for the sucker punch on the street, but the Inspector regretfully informed me it was not within Interpol regulations.
Instead, Durand’s men escorted all three thugs to the airport in Nice. They were left there to spend the remainder of the night enjoying the hospitality of the local gendarmes until they were led onto the first flight home the next day. As promised by the Inspector, each of them was also treated to entry into the files of Interpol and the FBI, which can be a major inconvenience if you’re ever stopped for jaywalking or want to visit anywhere outside the United States.
It was well after midnight when Donna, Durand and I returned to the Monte Carlo Casino. Gilles was waiting for us in the bar.
“I required a brief rest,” he offered as an apology for not accompanying the Inspector during the evening’s excitement. Then he smiled at me. “I knew you were in the best of hands.”
“That’s for sure,” I told him.
We sat in the corner of the room, at a small, round table with a black lacquer top so shiny you could see your reflection in it.
The room was beyond ornate, with a ceiling so high you couldn’t hit it if they gave you a softball and twenty throws. Each of the crystal chandeliers was the size of a truck, and they were everywhere. The walls were covered with velvet and the windows decorated with brocade fabrics that appeared to be three inches thick. There were sculptures on pedestals, small marble fountains, and oil paintings set on free standing brass easels, all of which were highlighted by directional beams that came from somewhere above. And this was just the bar.
I said I needed a drink, and Gilles suggested we order a bottle of champagne. I felt like I needed something stronger but agreed. We sat there, the same unlikely foursome waiting to see what might happen next.
Donna had cleaned up at headquarters and looked none the worse for rolling around on the ground in the park. I had tried to straighten myself out, but still felt a little disheveled. I excused myself, went into the hugest marble restroom I have ever seen, and washed up. The cold water I splashed on my face felt great, even if I did not.
When I returned to the table, Gilles looked at me inquiringly, to see if I was all right. Then he turned to Donna. “You have gotten more than you bargained for on this trip, eh?”
Donna forced a smile.
“It seems you and my young friend have some talking to do, am I right?”
Donna looked at each of us in turn, then said to Gilles, “We were sort of introduced by Benny.”
Gilles nodded and said, “I know.”
I felt a thousand-pound weight disappear from my shoulders. That only left about five hundred pounds to go.
“You knew?” Donna asked him.
“Oui. Benny told me this when we spoke a couple of days ago, when he called to say our friend’s son might be visiting.” Monsieur de la Houssay turned to me. “Benny told me there was a fine young woman he wanted you to meet, and I see you have.”
“You are lucky in many ways,” the Inspector told me.
“What am I missing?” I asked as I stared at Donna, her deep blue eyes clear and smiling now. “Am I the only one who didn’t know?”
“That night you were at Caesar’s,” she began. “I saw you, but you never noticed me. After you left, Benny came by—he and my father are great friends and Benny got me my job at the hotel. He knew I was about to take a trip back home, to New York, and asked if I’d get on your flight if he could arrange the ticket. He has a friend at American, got me the seat across the aisle from you, and I was the one who started our conversation, if you recall.”
“I do,” I said.
“Benny made me promise not to tell you. He thought it would be better, without you knowing.”
I shook my head. “Why?”
“He was worried you’d be upset if you thought he had me spying on you. I know I made some mistakes along the way, like mentioning the letter he told me about, but you hadn’t. I saw the look in your eyes when I said it, and I wanted to tell you then, but—”
“What about this trip?”
“He just wanted me to see you in New York, have dinner, find out what you were up to. He told me you’d probably want to visit someone here, and I called him after our dinner in Manhattan, told him what was happening, that you’d invited me to come with you to France. I told him I wanted to go.”
I was speechless.
Mercifully, our champagne arrived, giving me a moment to regroup. The cork was popped, glasses filled and Gilles lifted his flute for a toast.
He said, “To friendships, old and new. To adventures, real and imagined. And to love, eh?”
Who could argue with any of that? We all touched glasses and drank. Then I decided it was time to tell Donna the legend of the Monet.
“Have I explained it accurately?” I asked Gilles.
“Parfaitement,” he replied.
Donna turned to the Inspector. “I heard you say earlier that this was all some sort of myth, what we might call an urban legend. Now that I understand the story, I’m not sure why you don’t believe it. If so many other paintings were stolen and moved around during the war—and the ownership papers were changed—I mean, why not this particular painting?”
Durand placed his glass on the shiny black top of the round table. “As I have said, there are so many reasons. First, I have come to know Gilles over these many years. There are certain judgments we make about our fellow men. In his case, the pursuit of great wealth was never important.”
“But you never knew my father,” I pointed out. “Or Benny, for that matter.”
“Ah, oui. But if they were in possession of such an artifact, why has it been kept secret for so long? What benefit did they derive? This was more than thirty years ago. There is what they call a statute of limitations, I am sure you understand.”
Statute of limitations? That had not occurred to me. “You’re saying that enough time passed to make them immune from prosecution?”
“Not necessarily. War crimes are a special matter. As you know, artifacts are still being recovered and returned to their rightful owners. But let us say the painting was passed to another, a dealer let us say, who claimed to have bought the Monet at some art fair or whatever you like, and there is no provenance, no one claiming a right to it, then what would anyone be able to do? You see?”
“I think so.”
“You hear stories all the time of valuable paintings being found in attics and sold for a mere pittance. If the Monet were real, something like that might have been done to cover up the theft.”
Donna and I looked at each other, then at Gilles, but none of us spoke.
The old man smiled. “As it happens, Benny and I have no children. You are the only heir to the legend.”
“Legend is right,” I said.
Inspector Frederique Durand studied me with an amused look in his eyes. “Belief is a matter of the soul, as are friendship and love. Each is a rare and beautiful thing.”
***
THERE’S JUST ONE MORE STORY about Blackie I need you to know. It happened a couple of years before he died, after he had his first heart attack.
The doctor said it wasn’t a bad coronary. The bad ones kill you. But it was serious enough for him to spend a few days in the hospital.
It was summer, and I was involved in a weekend baseball league with a bunch of high school and college kids who played hard ball at Van Cortland Park in the Bronx. My father, who had been released from the hospital the week before, came by to see us play.
The team I played on was pretty good. Our pitcher was left-handed, a cocky guy who had just finished his first year at Farleigh Dickinson as the number two pitcher in their junior varsity rotation. We had other solid players, including my cousin Nicky. He didn’t run well because of a bum knee, but he could crush the ball from the left side of the plate. I was an all-field no-hit shortstop, as I may have mentioned already, but my dedication to the game earned me the role as captain.
Our team expected to be competitive in our division, at least until our pitcher broke his ankle in a freak accident as we began warming up that day. He twisted his leg shagging a fly ball, and ended up on the ground, writhing in pain.
After his mother helped him in the car and drove off to the hospital, we had no idea we were about to lose him for the season. Our concerns were more immediate. First, we had lost our pitcher for that day’s game. Second, we only had eight players.
In softball, anyone can pitch the ball underhand. In hardball, the pitcher is the key player on the field. In softball you can also make adjustments and field eight guys, but in a hardball game you need all nine positions covered.
We had a problem.
As I stood on the sideline facing the possibly of a forfeit, Blackie saw what was going on and walked over to me, saying he had an idea.
“I’ll pitch,” he said.
Nicky and a couple of the other guys were nearby. I didn’t want to embarrass my father, so I said nothing. My cousin, who knew that Blackie just had a heart attack, said, “Hey Unc, you’re still on the mend. I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”
The rest of my teammates weren’t as kind. After a look at my father’s stocky frame and flabby stomach, one of them even laughed. “Come on, Mr. Rinaldi,” another one of them said, “knock it off.”
My father wasn’t insulted. “Tell you what,” he said, “how about I pitch batting practice? You’re short a man anyway. I’ll throw a few, then you decide. Meantime, maybe one of your other friends will show up.” He reached out and took the ball Nicky was holding. “I think the old man’s got a few innings left in him,” he told us.
I’d heard stories about what a great ballplayer Blackie was in his youth, most of which were told by Blackie himself. That day he was determined to show us.
My cousin and I looked at each other, then turned to my father. “I agree with Nicky. I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
Blackie slapped himself on the chest, hard. “Fit as a fiddle,” he said, then started walking to the mound.
Blackie threw pretty well in batting practice. At least he was getting the ball over the plate, and his basic pitching motion looked like he knew what he was doing.
A little while later the umpire arrived and told us to start the game. As my team finished practice and left the field, we were still short a man.
My father strolled toward the bench and gave me a wink.
“I was just warming up,” he assured me. “The fastball’s still got some zip to it, you’ll see.”
My teammates did not want to forfeit, we were there to play, and we were out of options. I went to speak with the captain of the other team, to see if it would be all right with them if my father replaced our injured pitcher. For Blackie’s sake, I was hoping they would say no, which would have ended the debate. Once my father got an idea like this, I was never going to be the one to change his mind.
As you can imagine, after the other team looked over at our paunchy, middle-aged replacement player, they said sure, go for it.
I trudged back across the field and told my team it was a go.
We were home team for this game, so the other side was up first. Someone from their team loaned Blackie a glove. Obviously we had no uniform for him. He played in his gray slacks and black short sleeved knit shirt. He didn’t even change shoes, wearing his signature Lloyd & Haig black tassel loafers. It was clear he didn’t intend to do a lot of running. We took the field and, as I stood at the shortstop position and watched him take his final warm-up tosses, I could see he was beginning to throw harder. I trotted over to the mound.
“You sure you want to do this?” I asked one last time.
He offered a grin in response. “Take your position, fella,” he told me. Then he went to work.
He threw mostly fastballs, best as I could tell, with an occasional curve or change-up. He set their team down in order in the first.
As we came off the field, my teammates were slapping him on the back.
“Good job, Mr. Rinaldi.”
“Nice throwing, Mr. Rinaldi.”
He tossed the glove to the player on the other team, then turned back to us. “Hey guys,” he told them, “just call me Blackie.”
It was a hot, humid, summer day, and I was more worried about my father collapsing in a heap than about winning the game. He was already sweating quite a bit, and we were only in the bottom of the first. Nicky came over and put his arm around my shoulder.
“Don’t worry. He’s okay.”
I nodded. Then I watched our team go down, one, two, three.
Back on the mound, Blackie began to look vulnerable. He walked the first batter on five pitches, then went behind two and nothing on the next guy. But he bore down, and his fastball seemed to have a little extra pop. The hitter fouled off the next two pitches, then took a called strike three, a curveball on the outside corner. The next guy popped out to second. Blackie struck out the last batter of the inning, stranding the baserunner at first.
In the third he struck out the side.
I led off our bottom half of the third, fearing I would have trouble concentrating, but to everyone’s surprise I lined a single to center. I batted eighth, so that brought my father to the plate.
I called time out, which I could do as captain, then ran toward home plate to have a chat with Blackie.
“We need the run,” I said, “so bunt me over to second.”
I was sure he’d ignore me. How many more chances was he going to have to drive a ball over an outfielder’s head? But he laid it down the third base line on the first pitch, they threw him out easily when he only trotted halfway to first, and I advanced to second. Our leadoff man struck out, but the next batter singled me home.
We were up one zip.
Blackie continued to mow them down, even though this was their second time through the line-up and they had each had a look at his pitches. In the fifth, when he came to bat again, he took a couple of rips before grounding out to second. By the time he shut them down in the top of the sixth inning, it seemed everyone was rooting for him, even the parents of the players on the other team.
The field was mostly dry dirt, especially the infield, and a lot of it was sticking to my father’s damp shirt and slacks. The sweat was really pouring off him, which I mentioned to Nicky, but my cousin told me to find a mirror because I was looking a little soggy myself. I went up to my father as we headed to the bench for the bottom of the seventh and asked him how he felt.
He took a couple of deep breaths, then said, “Old, son. Really old.” Then he paused. “But kind of young too.” Then he managed a smile.
“Let me move you to first, Vinny can cover right and Nicky’ll finish pitching the game. What do you say?”
He didn’t answer at first. We moved me off to the side, where the others couldn’t hear us. “I’m pitching a no hitter,” he confessed in a whisper.
“I know, Dad.”
“If they get a hit I’ll move to first.”
I stood there staring at him. He was huffing and puffing and perspiring, and I was scared. But I knew he would rather die right there than have me take him out. “Sit down,” I told him. “Catch your breath. When you get up to hit this inning, just swing through the ball, like a real pitcher. Strike out, for Chrissakes, will you please?”
Blackie smiled. “It’s not in my blood,” he told me.
I turned away, but he called my name. When I looked back at him, he was about to tell me something, then thought better of it. Instead he asked, “Anybody have a towel around here?”
When he got up to bat, he cut and slashed and wound up popping out to short, which was a blessing as far as I was concerned, since he didn’t have to run out a ground ball or anything.
Then he took the mound for the eighth inning.
He got the first batter on a weak grounder to first. He struck out the second guy. Then, after several foul tips, he gave up a base on balls. I started toward the mound, but he gave me look that stopped me in my tracks. I backed up to my position and hollered out, “Let’s get ‘em.”
Two pitches later I got a sharp bounder to my left, gloved it and flipped to second for the third out.
Our team was positively jubilant as we headed in from the field. It was the bottom of the eighth, we were up three nothing by then, and Blackie was throwing a no hitter.
He walked slowly to the end of the wooden rail that served as our bench and sat there, not speaking with anyone. I let him be.
Nicky came up to me and said, “He’ll be fine. He’s doing great.”
“Sure,” I said. “Just order up the oxygen.”
The top of the ninth came and no one anywhere near the field was sitting down. The foul lines were crowded with players and spectators who’d finished their own games on the other diamonds. The word was out that some old guy was tossing a no-hitter, and everyone wanted to see it. Blackie finished his warmup quickly, then went to work. He reared back and threw one fastball after another. I was amazed at the strength in his arm as pitches whizzed by or were barely tipped. He struck out the first two players, needing one more out to finish it off.
Blackie started with a curve ball that the batter fanned at badly, then followed with heat on the inside for a ball, one and one. He came back with a change up, but the guy didn’t bite as the ball bounced in the dirt in front of the plate, two and one.
The catcher threw him the ball and, as Blackie took off his glove to rub it up in his bare hands, he turned to look at me. He drew a deep breath and managed a weak smile. He must have seen the worried look on my face, so I nodded at him. He nodded back.
“Let’s get him,” I called out above the noise of the cheering and shouting all around the field.
He turned to the plate, set his black tassel loafer on the rubber, wound up and let it fly. The batter guessed fastball and he was right. He swung early enough to get good wood on the ball, sending a screaming one hopper into the hole to my right. The third baseman dove and missed it, but I extended as far as I could on the dead run. The ball skipped into my glove on the backhand side, I spun around to my left and then, getting everything I could on the throw, pegged it to first.
The guy was out by a full step.
Everyone went kind of nuts at that point. Our team was whooping and yelling, the outfielders raced in toward the mound, and people were cheering from the baselines. But Blackie was spent. Our catcher, Eddie, ran out to congratulate him, and for a few moments my father mustered the energy to celebrate. He was all smiles as he shook hands and exchanged high fives. Then I put my arm around him and said, “That was amazing Dad, really. Now let’s go home.”
He nodded, as weary and submissive as I had ever seen him. He got in the car and I drove him home, where he wound up in bed for four days. When his doctor heard the story, he said my father was insane. He wasn’t interested in hearing about the no-hitter. He said Blackie was lucky he survived the day.
I wanted you to know that last story about Blackie and me because, if there was only one moment between the two of us that I could share with you, that would be the one. Not at the end of the game, when everyone was celebrating. Not when he was zipping fastballs by the opposing batters, I don’t mean any of that. I mean that moment in the ninth inning, when he turned to me and nodded, as if he knew his no-hitter was going to depend on me, that the last play in the game was going to come my way, and that somehow he knew I would take care of it for him.