"Oh, Sister Barbara, some days you are a saint just waiting for a halo. I can almost see it now. Praise the Lord!"
She looked down modestly.
Estelle squinted at the list, wishing the light was a little bit better but determined not to pull out her reading glasses and thus give Ruby Bee the opportunity to make catty remarks. "Okay, we got Saralee Chewink, Jackie Sattering, Raimundo Mandozes, Lissie and Martin Milvin, both of Elsie McMay's grandchildren, and the Nookim boy."
Ruby Bee leaned over Estelle's shoulder and carefully counted the names. "We only got eight players. Didn't Arly say we needed nine?"
"Maybe. I used to watch games on television when there wasn't anything else on. You've got your pitcher and your catcher, three base guards, and three outfielders."
"That's just eight," Ruby Bee said, nobody's fool. "We don't supply the referee, do we? Even if we do, one of us could do that part. In fact, it seems real silly to have a child out there telling people what the rules are."
"Hush for a minute and let me think," Estelle muttered.
Ruby Bee went over to the corner booth to make sure the fellow from number four didn't want dessert (he didn't), inquired if he'd enjoyed his lunch (he had), and left him alone to read his important-looking papers.
"Well," she said once she was back behind the bar, "have you solved the mystery of the ninth player? Are you going to tell me now or shall I wait to read it in the newspaper? Is it gonna be a mystery novel?"
"Aren't we full of ourselves today? I happened to have remembered another position, but if you're more inclined to listen to your jaw flap, then I sure don't want to interrupt you. Go ahead, flap your jaw. It makes a nice breeze."
Ruby Bee stalked into the kitchen, rattled the pots and pans on the stove, ran water in the stainless-steel sink, opened and closed the refrigerator door, and gnawed on her lower lip until it began to smart. None of this took more than a minute, and when she came back out, Estelle was still on the stool, nibbling on a pencil and pretending to study the list.
Ruby Bee grabbed a washrag and began to wipe the spotless countertop. "What other position is there?"
"I beg your pardon. Are you speaking to me?"
"What other position is there?" Ruby Bee repeated, trying not to envision the washrag in Estelle's mouth, which was big enough to hold it without cracking her lipstick.
"Stop short. It's between second and third base."
"Stop short? I've never heard of any position called stop short. You've got it wrong, Estelle. That's downright crazy."
"I do not, Miss Walking Baseball Bible. The stop short is the fellow that hops around between second and third base. He's almost as important as the pitcher."
"How can he be as important as the pitcher? If the pitcher didn't pitch, then the batter wouldn't have anything to try to bat. I suppose now you're going to say this stop short is as important as the batter. I swear, Estelle, you've been sniffing the perm solution too long. As important as the pitcher!"
The fellow from number four came to the register and took out his wallet. "Lunch certainly is a bargain," he murmured.
Ruby Bee glared at Estelle, then managed a pinched smile for the fellow whose name she didn't recall right offhand. "I hope this conversation didn't disturb you."
"Of course not," Lamont lied smoothly, having had more than a little practice in his day. "I couldn't help overhearing bits and pieces, however. I gather you're both baseball fans?"
Estelle glared at Ruby Bee, then fluttered her eyelashes for the fellow, who had attractive silverish hair, a nice face, and drove a late-model black Cadillac. "Perhaps you could settle a small bone of contention for us," she said, still fluttering like crazy to make her request sound more friendly. "You're the fellow in number four, ain't you?"
"Lamont Petrel, and at your service."
Ruby Bee figured Estelle had a gnat in her eye, so she decided to butt in before she made a total fool of herself, which was destined to happen any second. "We were discussing the name of the player what stands between second and third base," she said.
Lamont was watching both of them warily, since neither seemed real stable. "Which team are you interested in? I don't follow baseball religiously, but I might be able to remember a few of the shortstops."
There was a moment of silence. "Never mind," Estelle said in a funny voice.
Ruby Bee considered saying something right there in front of the fellow, but changed her mind after a quick peek at Estelle's face. "Don't let us detain you from your work, Mr. Petrel."
"Whatever you say," Lamont said, puzzled. "Have a nice day."
"You, too," they said in unison.
Estelle waited until the door closed, then leaned forward and said, "Isn't he opening the supermarket with Jim Bob?"
"Yeah, he stays out back two or three nights a week so he can meet with Jim Bob or go across the street and look at blueprints with those foulmouthed hard hats. The very first day they started that job, there must have been a dozen of them strutted right in here like they owned the place. Let me tell you, I straightened them out quicker than a snake can spit. They don't even look over here when they drive up to work every morning. It's bad enough being driven out of business without having to serve beer and lunch to the people who're twisting the screw in your back. Mr. Petrel's quiet, so I put up with him, and he's real good about paying for any long-distance calls he makes from the room."
"Does his wife ever come with him?"
"Not to my knowledge, Miss Snoopy Bloomers-but that don't mean she isn't home playing bridge or painting her fingernails. Or having her hair done at a fancy salon with one entire wall of sinks and another of hair dryers."
"I was merely inquiring."
"So I heard." The conversation went on in this vein for a while, but there wasn't really anyplace for it to go, and after a few minutes Estelle picked up the list. "So we got to find one more player. I can't think of anyone, Ruby Bee. We pretty much got every single child in town who was willing to play and wasn't already signed up for the supermarket team. Did you hear they even bought spangely little outfits for the cheerleaders? Red-and-white-striped miniskirts and blue leotards with stars on 'em. Joyce said they were real cute."
"Cheerleaders!" Ruby Bee sniffed at that nonsense. "What featherbrained girls agreed to do that?"
"Some of the high-school girls, I heard. Jim Bob told the boys who're going to work at the supermarket that he'd get them free beer if they could talk their girlfriends into it. Ten minutes later, he had them lined up at the front door for interviews. The front door of his private office, I might add."
"No?" Ruby Bee said, shocked.
"It's the gospel truth. Heather Riley told Lottie Estes, in the strictest confidence, of course, so this is just between you and me, that Jim Bob made her stick out her chest and prance around the room like an ostrich. Then he had her sit down right next to him on the cot in his office and asked her questions that had nothing to do with cheerleading-unless that's what they call what goes on in the backseats of cars these days. Heather finally burst into tears and ran out of the room, and now her boyfriend won't even talk to her."
There was a period of relative quiet while the two humphed and snorted. Ruby Bee finally gave up expressing her disgust and said, "So he's got all the players he needs, a coach, uniforms, cheerleaders, miniskirts, equipment, and heaven knows what else. You know what we got, Estelle? We got eight players." She stuck eight fingers under Estelle's nose to emphasize her point. "We got no coach, no uniforms, no smarmy high-school girls in miniskirts, no equipment, no nothing. We don't have diddly squat."
"I can't argue that one," Estelle said with a morose sigh. "We may have to call those little children and tell them they can't play after all."