“Jesus,” someone nearby muttered.
Longarm sighed, then reached out and pulled the cards into a pile. “My deal, I believe,” he observed to no one in particular.
Chapter 9
Longarm felt … silly. Dumb. On display. He suspected he now knew what it would feel like to show up for the party wearing a clown suit only to discover too late that it wasn’t a masquerade ball after all but a formal sit-down dinner.
That is pretty much what it felt like to him to be out on the street in public, in broad daylight, wearing a tight—and damnably hot—flannel baseball costume.
He’d have covered the thing over with a duster or a slicker except the heat would’ve melted him into a puddle of rancid sweat before he got halfway to the playing field. As it was he was forced to walk the whole distance with people staring at him every step of the way, never mind that there were more than a dozen other idiots dressed in equally stupid uniforms walking alongside him. Every eye was on him and him alone. He believed that. And he really did somewhere at gut level even if he knew better in his conscious mind. He really did feel like a showoff asshole wearing what he personally regarded as children’s clothes out where the grown-ups could see.
It was all part of the job though so the best he could do was grit his teeth and go along with it.
He dropped back in the pack to where the coach, who for some reason was called the manager and not coach, was speaking with the equipment boy, a kid with a club foot named Jerry something-or-other.
“Mr. McWhortle?”
“Douglas,” the manager corrected, “What is it, Short?”
For a moment Longarm couldn’t figure out where the short thing came in. Then he remembered that it was supposed to be his name here. He really was not feeling himself today. Likely, he guessed, the damn heat had cooked his brains and he would be useless ever after.
“Well?” McWhortle prodded.
“Oh, yeah. Now I remember. Why is it we had t’ wait until afternoon to go out and do this practice stuff? I mean, why couldn’t we do it in the morning before it got so stinking hot?”
McWhortle grunted and said, “Get used to it. The home team always uses the field in the mornings, wherever we go. For exactly the reason you bring up. It’s more comfortable. That is, unless the weather pattern is rain in the mornings and sun in the afternoons. Then we’d have the honor of first practice.”
“There’s no room on one field for two clubs?” Longarm asked.
“Not for practices,” McWhortle said, “unless you want fist-fights and broken heads before the games. It’s best to keep the locals and visitors apart. Count on it. Now if you’d excuse me …?”
Longarm increased his stride, leaving McWhortle in deep conversation with Jerry, who was hopping along for all he was worth in the effort to keep up.
Off to the left in the shade of a front porch there was a gaggle of young women sitting in rocking chairs with a pitcher of what looked like lemonade between them.
They stopped rocking and leaned forward, hiding their mouths behind their hands but twittering like so many sparrows while the ball players walked by.
Longarm knew good and well those girls would be commenting about how stupid grown men looked when they were dressed up like idiots. How stupid and how very much out of place. He was sure of it, and he could feel his ears commence to burn as he hurried on down the street among his new “team mates.”
He wished to hell he could get this over with.
Soon!
Chapter 10
“I got it. I got it.” Longarm ran left, back-pedaled two steps, moved left again shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun, inched forward a bit, left again, stuck his padded leather glove out in front of him … and felt the lousy little SOB of a ball tick the tips of his fingers on its way to thump onto the ground at his feet.
“Shit,” he grumbled with a stamp of his boot—which was something he was going to have to take care of first chance he got as he’d not thought to pack shoes to bring along on the trip—and a grimace.
“Jesus, Short, just how stupid are you? Pick the ball up and throw it, the runner’s still running.”
Longarm remembered then. They were only practicing but supposed to be pretending it was like real. He looked around until he found the ball, picked it up and flung it toward the nearest Caps player.
“No, Short, not to the first baseman. The runner’s already rounding second. You’re supposed to throw to the cutoff man.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“The second … never mind what he’s called. That one. That guy standing there.” The center fielder pointed.
“Him. Right. Thanks.”
The center fielder gave him a decidedly ugly look, and Longarm thought most of the others were, too. Fortunately they were too far away to see clearly. Especially if a man didn’t really want to see all that clearly.
“Sorry,” Longarm mumbled but not so loudly that anyone else could hear.
“Man, I hope to hell you’re as good a pitcher as Douglas was told you are.”
“Soon as this shoulder gets t’ feeling better you’ll see for yourself,” Longarm responded, silently adding, which won’t be in your lifetime nor mine, ol’ son.
The man, a third baseman named Esau, took a deep drink of water and wiped his mouth, then tossed the towel to Jerry. Esau shook his head. “I swear, Short, you play like you never saw this game before. You have seen a damn game before today, haven’t you?”
“Three of ‘em,” Longarm said with a deadpan expression and hint of sarcasm in his voice. He was, however, telling the literal truth.
The players quickly drank up, toweled off, and trotted back out into the heat for more punishment.
Longarm dragged along behind them with all the enthusiasm of a man on his way to a dentist’s chair.
No, no, no, no, NO!!!”
Longarm blinked. Looked. Wondered what the hell he’d done wrong. This time.
He didn’t have a clue. Not the first wee inkling.
But he knew he’d screwed up. Again. Oh, he was real sure of that.
He could tell by the way everybody else was glaring at him.
He sighed. And went into a crouch waiting for the guy with the stick to hit the ball again.
“Jeez, Short, catch the ball, will ya? Don’t just stand there!”
“Catch … the ball,” Longarm wheezed. “Yes, sir. First thing. Catch the ball. I will … most definitely … keep that in mind. Sir.”
He considered keeling over sideways just for the relief of being able to lie down. Except he would still be in the stinking sun. God, it was hot. There wasn’t a dry patch on him anyplace, not skin nor cloth nor the roots of his hair. He was drenched from one end to the aching other, and he was beginning to believe that this was a never-ending form of torture. He’d been deluded, that’s what it was. He wasn’t really on assignment in Kansas. The truth was that he’d died and been sentenced to perdition. And this right here was for damn sure it.
“Break time. Break, everybody. There’s lemonade and sweet buns courtesy of the ladies over there, but everybody mind your language. We don’t wanta shock anyone. Fifteen minutes, boys, then we’ll take batting practice. Short, you’ll be in the outfield running down balls and throwing them back in. You need the practice.”
“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.” Running down balls. Jesus. That was all he needed now. “I hope you’ll let me take some, uh”—he had to think hard for a moment to recall the term McWhortle had used—“batting practice too.” He grinned, pretending to give a shit. The truth was that the fellow with the stick got to stand in one place, and that sounded pretty fine to Longarm right then. It would beat hell out of chasing balls and throwing them back anyway. Almost anything would. Longarm grinned and bobbed his head and tried to look just eager as all hell to take that practice at bat.