Knecht told me a lot of the guys were meeting at the workout room in the stadium. I wanted to stop by to say goodbye. I hadn’t known them long, but we’d been through the bus crash, horror and hell. Most likely I’d never see them again, but you don’t just leave after sharing something such as we’d gone through. All the guys were staying with the team. Their season would resume Tuesday. Careers would go on, a few would take a while to recover from the crash, their dreams of a big league career would work their tentacles into their lives.
A few exercised, most gathered in clumps and talked in low voices.
Saldovi’s career was over. Smith had been fired. That would probably be the least of their troubles. The strongest player reactions were being pissed about possibly dying, mystified that people would be involved in this convoluted conspiracy, and feeling foolish for taking drugs that didn’t enhance their performance.
I got congratulated on solving the case and thanked for helping to save lives.
On the way out after saying my goodbyes, I heard Dowley saying to McDaniels, “All our wives talked. They’ve got some big deal plan for the memorial service for Henry tomorrow.”
“Your wife coming?”
“She’s meeting up with Donny’s wife in Chicago and they’re driving up from there.”
Married.
“All the wives?”
“All that I know of. Donny’s wife, Irma, can you imagine a name like Irma? But she’s great. They’ve got a kid’s gonna have a birthday in a few weeks. Gonna be three.”
A kid.
I was pissed.