Primo stole second on the next pitch; he had such a big jump the catcher didn’t bother to throw down. Then Zamora flied to right; not deep, but Primo tagged and went to third anyway, surprising the right fielder and just beating the throw.
“That fucking Primo,” said a fan behind Gil. “What’s he smokin’ this year?”
“Whatever it is, give me some,” said another.
They laughed.
Washington batted third. Gil leaned forward, checked the scoreboard. He swung around. “Where’s Rayburn?”
“Not playin’.”
Gil squinted toward the distant third-base dugout, thought he saw Rayburn sitting deep in the shadows, chin resting in his hands.
Washington struck out, and so did Odell, ending the inning. When the Sox took the field, Simkins, the kid, was in center. Gil stopped watching the game. He just watched Simkins’s back. Simkins wore number thirty-three. Not a number Gil himself would have chosen: Christ’s age when he died. Maybe Simkins thought he was too good to worry about things like that.
Simkins, you asshole. The words grew louder and louder in Gil’s mind until he had to shout them out: “Simkins, you asshole.”
Simkins didn’t react.
“Simkins, you asshole.”
No reaction from Simkins, but Gil felt eyes on his own back. He shut up, finished his beers. He had to stay cool. And sober. Easier to do if the tint was normal. After a while, he went to the beer counter. Only two more, he told himself. On the way back, he spotted a C-type battery lying on the ramp and pocketed it. When he returned to his seat he gave the beers to the men behind him.
“Hey, thanks, man. We’ll get the next round.”
“Not necessary,” said Gil, feeling strong, purposeful. He stared at Simkins. Stay cool. Stay sober. Just for tonight.
Gil got his chance in the top of the sixth. One out, bases loaded, and the batter popped one up in foul ground, far back of third, possibly out of play. Primo sprinted after it from short, crossed the foul line and dove fully outstretched, almost at the base of the stands. He caught the ball, and just as he did, just as all eyes were on him, Gil rose, as others were rising, and threw the C-type battery as hard as he could at Simkins.
The battery spun flashing under the lights and caught Simkins in the back of the head, an inch or two below the band of his cap. His hand flew to the spot; as though he’d been stung by a wasp. Then he looked and saw-and Gil saw too-a blood smear on the palm. Slowly Simkins turned his head, and slowly scanned the bleacher seats, his eyes wide. Gil tilted the popcorn box up to his face.
The next batter-the very next batter! on the very next pitch! — hit an easy fly ball to center field that Simkins dropped. Three runs scored, and that was the ball game, barring the kind of miracle comeback the Sox hadn’t pulled off yet this season.
I’m a player, Gil thought. I’m a player in the game.
When it was over, Gil waited with other fans outside the players’ entrance. To a girl wearing a Sox jacket and a lot of makeup, he said: “Know what hotel they stay at?”
“Palacio,” she said, and cracked her gum.
Gil took a cab. He didn’t like taking cabs. He missed the 325i, with its WNSOX vanity plate, its moon roof, its… companionship. Was that the word? He remembered the way he’d had his best ideas in that car. Without wheels you’re dead.
Outside, the city stretched from horizon to horizon in grids, lit like the glowing motherboard of a giant computer. It disoriented him, like the rabbit-fur ball and the too-green grass. He realized he was holding his breath, let it out, inhaled, exhaled, deep, slow. He saw the driver glance at him in the rearview mirror; and felt the weight of the thrower on his leg.
The lobby of the Palacio had a waterfall, sparkling lights, soft couches. Gil sat on one with a view of the front doors, reception, the elevator bank. After a while, a waiter appeared: “Something to drink, sir?”
Stay sober. But he heard himself reply: “Got any tequila?” Maybe it was the sir that did it.
“Any special brand, sir?”
“Cuervo Gold.”
The drink came on a silver tray, with a bowl of quartered limes and crusted salt lining the rim of the glass. Gil sipped it slowly, not like a commission rep on the road, but like a CEO unwinding after a hard day. He watched the front doors.
Gil was halfway through his second glass when the team arrived. Odell, Zamora, Boyle, Washington, Lanz, Sanchez, Simkins, Primo; all of them, thought Gil, except Rayburn. They were quiet, surly, grim. Some of them headed toward the bar, the others, including Primo, to the elevators. Young women materialized. They fell in step with the players, were absorbed without fuss into the group, like dancers executing a well-rehearsed routine.
Primo was second-last to board the middle elevator. Gil was last. He wedged himself into the only space left, in front of the control buttons.
“Floors, anybody?” he said; thrilled by his composure, his creativity.
“Sixteen,” said someone, and “nine,” someone else, and right behind him, “fourteen,” with a faint Hispanic accent: Primo. Gil pressed the buttons.
At fourteen, Primo got off, alone. “Another Nintendo party tonight?” someone called from the elevator. Boyle, perhaps; Gil thought he recognized the voice from interviews.
Primo stiffened but said nothing, and started down the hall.
“What’s that all about?” asked a woman.
“He’s married,” Boyle explained.
“Ain’t we all?” said another man. Lanz.
The woman laughed. They all laughed. Gil stepped through the closing doors.
Primo was standing at a door near the end of the hall, sticking his key card in its slot. He went in. Gil walked down the hall, paused outside the door. He put his ear to it, heard nothing.
Gil stood motionless outside Primo’s room, considering various strategies. He still hadn’t picked one, when his right hand made a fist and poised itself for knocking, as though it were making the decisions now. At that moment, Gil heard footsteps on the other side of the door.
He backed away, so quickly he staggered, then wheeled and headed toward the end of the hall, forcing himself to slow down, weary CEO on the way to his room. But even as he did, he knew that he shouldn’t have moved at all, should have reached for the thrower, done it there and then. Or didn’t he have the guts? Was that it?
Gil heard the door open, heard Primo going the other way. He risked a glance, and saw him stepping into an elevator, wearing a terry-cloth robe and flip-flops. His mind tore through images from his past, looking for the answer to the question: Did he have the guts?
The health club was on the lowest subfloor, three stops below the lobby. Looking through the glass door, Gil saw a man sitting behind a desk stacked with towels, a lone swimmer in the pool beyond him, and in the background an unoccupied exercise room. As he watched, the swimmer climbed out, toweled off, put on a terry-cloth robe like Primo’s and approached the desk. She dropped her towel in a basket; the man handed her a key card. She came out, passing Gil without a glance.
The water in the pool grew still. The pool man glanced at the sole key card remaining on his desk, checked his watch, yawned; then rose and entered a door behind him marked STAFF. Gil stepped inside.
He walked the length of the bright blue pool; too bright, too blue, and the reflected ceiling lights on its surface too dazzling. He was suddenly dizzy, and almost lost his balance, just walking. Forget it, he thought. You’re in no shape to do this. But the same mind that could think that could also counter it: Haven’t got the guts? and Are you a player, or are you not a player? Gil kept going.