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Hoffmann looked at me with an Arnold Schwarzenegger grin. Stanley stood off to my right, adjusted his glasses, and stood at ease, military at ease.

“You like baseball,” Hoffmann said, looking at my Cubs cap.

“I like the Cubs,” I said.

“Right,” he said. “You’re from Chicago. Process server now. Used to work for the state attorney’s office in Cook County. Lost your wife in an accident. Sorry about that. I lost my wife about the same time.”

I wondered how much more he had learned about me in the time since I had called. I knew he wanted me to wonder.

“Come with me,” Hoffmann said, motioning with his right hand.

I followed. Stanley didn’t. We moved into a dark room beyond the tasteful Southern plush furniture in the living room. He flicked a switch and motioned for me to step in.

The room was an office with an antique desk and chair in the middle with a phone on it. No computer. There was a window on one wall, facing the water across a wide stretch of grass and sand. There was a small dock but no boat that I could see. The walls of the room were covered ceiling to floor with glassed-in cabinets. Inside the cabinets were hundreds of baseballs, and in one corner were four racks of baseball bats.

Over my shoulder I sensed Stanley standing in the doorway.

“All autographed,” Hoffmann said, bouncing athletically on his heels and looking around. “All fully authenticated. I’ve got Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, Ted Williams, DiMaggio, Hank Aaron, Clemente, Sandy Koufax, even a Carl Hubbell. Cubs corner is on the lower shelf over there. Banks, Dawson, Pafko, Sandburg, Sosa, Hank Sauer, Frankie Baumholtz, thirty Cubs. Almost two hundred Yankees. Take a look.”

I moved forward, holding the small box I had brought, and looked at the baseballs Hoffmann was pointing to. I was impressed.

“And the bats,” he said, picking one out of the rack. “Brooks Robinson. And I’ve got a Willie Mays, Roberto Clemente, Orlando Cepeda, a Mark McGwire, and a Pie Traynor.”

Hoffmann took a cut through the air with Brooks Robinson’s bat. It swished about three feet in front of my face.

“I still play,” Hoffmann said. “Senior softball league out on Seventeenth Street. Had a doubleheader this morning. A few of the players were in the majors, a lot played college ball or minor league. Of course we use aluminum bats. I keep mine in the back of my car.

“Want to handle one of these?” he asked, shouldering the big bat.

“Some other time,” I said. “Let’s talk about William Trasker.”

I looked back at Stanley in the doorway.

“Let’s,” Hoffmann said. “A great man. Lots of people don’t like him, but I admire him. He lets people know what he wants and he lets them know he plans to take it. We’ve had business dealings together for years. I’ve learned a lot from Bill Trasker.”

“You know where he might be?”

“I know where he is,” said Hoffmann with a smile. “Like something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” I said.

Hoffmann looked around the room.

“I don’t just collect these things,” Hoffmann said. “I told you I play. Two leagues. All year around. One of the great things about Florida. One of many reasons I moved here when I was younger.”

“Twenty years ago,” I said.

He nodded, holding the bat in front of him and examining Brooks Robinson’s autograph.

“Something like that. You play baseball, softball, Fonesca?”

“Used to, a little. Babe Ruth League. Good field. No hit. I got to the point where I just waited for walks and hoped the pitcher didn’t hit me with a fastball. Gave up the game after one season.”

“I’m a first baseman,” he said. “I make a good target on the field and at the plate and I didn’t give up when I was a kid. What position did you play?”

“Outfield. Babe Ruth League. I wouldn’t make a good target at first base.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” he said, pointing the bat at me as if it were a rifle. “You’d make an adequate target.”

“Trasker,” I said.

He shook his head and carefully placed the bat back in the rack.

“Upstairs, in bed. My dear friend is gravely ill. Can’t be moved. Doctor’s orders. Bill is in the terminal stages of cancer. He’s comfortable, well, as comfortable as modern medicine can make a dying man with cancer. He is watched over twenty-four hours a day.”

“Shouldn’t he be in a hospital?”

“Can’t be moved. If you like, you can talk to Dr. Obermeyer. That is if Mrs. Trasker says it is all right.”

He moved behind the desk and sat in the leather swivel chair.

“I love this room,” he said, looking around.

“Mrs. Trasker doesn’t know her husband’s here,” I said.

“Of course she does,” Hoffmann said. “Stanley called her when we brought poor Bill here, didn’t you, Stanley?”

We both looked at Stanley, who adjusted his glasses and said, “I forgot.”

Hoffmann looked at me with another shake of his head.

“Stanley is normally the most reliable of my employees,” he said confidentially but not so confidentially that Stanley couldn’t hear. “Stanley is bright and he has the virtue of complete loyalty. But he has many duties and sometimes little things and, yes, even big ones slip past him.”

“That speaks well of Stanley,” I said. “Then I can see Mr. Trasker?”

“I’ll call Mrs. Trasker right away, but I’m afraid Dr. Obermeyer means it when he says no visitors,” Hoffmann said, closing his eyes and nodding sadly.

“Mrs. Trasker’s going to want to see him,” I said. “She’s going to ask him if he wants to go to a hospital, maybe make the decision herself if he’s not up to it. Bring in another doctor or two to examine her husband.”

“Mr. Trasker has stated quite clearly that he wishes to remain here,” Hoffmann said, smiling up at me.

“Mrs. Trasker might want to ask him herself with a policeman or two at her side,” I said.

“She is welcome to proceed with any legal action she wishes,” he said. “I’ve sworn to my old friend that I will follow his wishes, and that I will do until the law orders me to do otherwise.”

“Which means warrants, lawyers, Dr. Obermeyer.”

“At the very least,” Hoffmann said amiably. “And that will take several days, perhaps a week.”

“At least till after Friday’s County Commission meeting?” I said.

Hoffmann looked as if this were something he hadn’t considered.

“I suppose that’s true,” he said. “But even if it weren’t, Bill is definitely in no condition to attend any meetings.”

“You’re a true friend,” I said.

Hoffmann made a fist with his right hand, put it up to his chest, and said, “I try to be. I want nothing more than to follow the wishes of my friend and mentor and let him exit this world, if he wishes, in the bed upstairs. He’s getting the best medical attention money can buy. I only wish that money could buy him more time and a return of his health.”

“I’m deeply moved,” I said.

“I can see that. But you plan to pursue this?”

“Yep.”

“I’m willing to go to great lengths to protect William Trasker,” he said, looking at the rack of bats.

“I’m moved even more deeply,” I said.

Hoffmann scratched his cheek.

“You are being threatened, Mr. Fonesca,” Hoffmann said. “I’ll be blunt. If I asked him to, Stanley could make you disappear. Is that right, Stanley?”

“That’s right,” Stanley said.

I think I smiled, a small smile.

“Are you suicidal, Mr. Fonesca?” Hoffmann said, puzzled.

“Someone asked me that yesterday. I’m not sure about the answer. It’s one of my problems,” I said. “But I’m working on it and I’m not going to take my own life. I’ve got a good shrink.”

Hoffmann looked genuinely interested.

“You mean what you’re saying, don’t you?” he said.

“I mean it.”

“Ah, a good Italian Catholic,” Hoffmann said. “You won’t take your own life but if someone else kills you…”

“I’m not a Catholic,” I said. “None of my family is.”

“What are they?”