Keller's Designated Hitter

by Lawrence Block

  “It happens all the time,” she said. “Not that we run out of menus, because we never do, but players coming here and our other customers asking for autographs. All the athletes like to come here.”

  “Well, the food’s great,” he said.

  “And it’s free. For the players, I mean. It brings in other customers, so it’s worth it to the owner, plus he just likes having his restaurant full of jocks. About it being free for them, I’m not supposed to tell you that.”

  “It’ll be our little secret.”

  “You can tell the whole world, for all I care. Tonight’s my last night. I mean, what do I need with jerks like Floyd Turnbull? I want a pelvic exam, I’ll go to my gynecologist, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “I noticed he was a little free with his hands.”

  “And close with everything else. They eat and drink free, but most of them at least leave tips. Not good tips, ballplayers are cheap bastards, but they leave something. Turnbull always leaves exactly twenty percent.”

  “Twenty percent’s not that bad, is it?”

  “It is when it’s twenty percent of nothing.”

  “Oh.”

  “He said he got a home run tonight, too.”

  “Number 394 of his career,” Keller said.

  “Well, he’s not getting to first base with me,” she said. “The big jerk.”

  “Night before last,” Keller said, “I was in a German restaurant in Milwaukee.”

  “Milwaukee, Keller?”

  “Well, not exactly in Milwaukee. It was south of the city a few miles, on Lake Michigan.”

  “That’s close enough,” Dot said. “It’s still a long way from Memphis, isn’t it? Although if it’s south of the city, I guess it’s closer to Memphis than if it was actually inside of Milwaukee.”

  “Dot . . .”

  “Before we get too deep into the geography of it,” she said, “aren’t you supposed to be in Memphis? Taking care of business?”

  “As a matter of fact . . .”

  “And don’t tell me you already took care of business, because I would have heard. CNN would have had it, and they wouldn’t even make me wait until Headline Sports at twenty minutes past the hour. You notice how they never say which hour?”

  “That’s because of different time zones.”

  “That’s right, Keller, and what time zone are you in? Or don’t you know?”

  “I’m in Seattle,” he said.

  “That’s Pacific time, isn’t it? Three hours behind New York.”

  “Right.”

  “But ahead of us,” she said, “in coffee. I’ll bet you can explain, can’t you?”

  “They’re on a road trip,” he said. “They play half their games at home in Memphis, and half the time they’re in other cities.”

  “And you’ve been tagging along after them.”

  “That’s right. I want to take my time, pick my spot. If I have to spend a few dollars on airline tickets, I figure that’s my business. Because nobody said anything about being in a hurry on this one.”

  “No,” she admitted. “If time is of the essence, nobody told me about it. I just thought you were gallivanting around, going to stamp dealers and all. Taking your eye off the ball, so to speak.”

  “So to speak,” Keller said.

  “So how can they play ball in Seattle, Keller? Doesn’t it rain all the time? Or is it one of those stadiums with a lid on it?”

  “A dome,” he said.

  “I stand corrected. And here’s another question. What’s Memphis got to do with fish?”

  “Huh?”

  “Tarpons,” she said. “Fish. And there’s Memphis, in the middle of the desert.”

  “Actually, it’s on the Mississippi River.”

  “Spot any tarpons in the Mississippi River, Keller?”

  “No.”

  “And you won’t,” she said, “unless that’s where you stick Turnbull when you finally close the deal. It’s a deep-sea fish, the tarpon, so why pick that name for the Memphis team? Why not call them the Gracelanders?”

  “They moved,” he explained.

  “To Milwaukee,” she said, “and then to Seattle, and God knows where they’ll go next.”

  “No,” he said. “The franchise moved. They started out as an expansion team, the Sarasota Tarpons, but they couldn’t sell enough tickets, so a new owner took over and moved them to Memphis. Look at basketball, the Utah Jazz and the L.A. Lakers. What’s Salt Lake city got to do with jazz, and when did Southern California get to be the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes?”

  “The reason I don’t follow sports,” she said, “is it’s too damn confusing. Isn’t there a team called the Miami Heat? I hope they stay put. Imagine if they move to Buffalo.”

  Why had he called in the first place? Oh, right. “Dot,” he said, “I was in the Tarpons’ hotel earlier today, and I saw a guy.”

  “So?”

  “A little guy,” he said, “with a big nose, and one of those narrow heads that look as though somebody put it in a vise.”

  “I heard about a guy once who used to do that to people.”

  “Well, I doubt that’s what happened to this fellow, but that’s the kind of face he had. He was sitting in the lobby reading a newspaper.”

  “Suspicious behavior like that, it’s no wonder you noticed him.”

  “No, that’s the thing,” he said. “He’s distinctive looking, and he looked wrong. And I saw him just a couple of nights before in Milwaukee at this German restaurant.”

  “The famous German restaurant.”

  “I gather it is pretty famous, but that’s not the point. He was in both places, and he was alone both times. I noticed him in Milwaukee because I was eating by myself, and feeling a little conspicuous about it, and I saw I wasn’t the only lone diner, because there he was.”

  “You could have asked him to join you.”

  “He looked wrong there, too. He looked like a Broadway sharpie, out of an old movie. Looked like a weasel, wore a fedora. He could have been in Guys and Dolls, saying he’s got the horse right here.”

  “I think I see where this is going.”

  “And what I think,” he said, “is I’m not the only DH in the lineup . . . Hello? Dot?”

  “I’m here,” she said. “Just taking it all in. I don’t know who the client is, the contract came through a broker, but what I do know is nobody seems to be getting antsy. So why would they hire somebody else? You’re sure this guy’s a hitter? Maybe he’s a big fan, hates to miss a game, follows ’em all over the country.”

  “He looks wrong for the part, Dot.”

  “Could he be a private eye? Ballplayers cheat on their wives, don’t they?”

  “Everybody does, Dot.”

  “So some wife hired him, he’s gathering divorce evidence.”

  “He looks too shady to be a private eye.”

  “I didn’t know that was possible.”

  “He doesn’t have that crooked-cop look private eyes have. He looks more like the kind of guy they used to arrest, and he’d bribe them to cut him loose. I think he’s a hired gun, and not one from the A-list, either.”

  “Or he wouldn’t look like that.”

  “Part of the job description,” he said, “is you have to be able to pass in a crowd. And he’s a real sore thumb.”

  “Maybe there’s more than one person who wants our guy dead.”

  “Occurred to me.”

  “And maybe a second client hired a second hit man. You know, maybe taking your time’s a good idea.”

  “Just what I was thinking.”

  “Because you could do something and find yourself in a mess because of the heat this ferret-faced joker stirs up. And if he’s there with a job to do, and you stay in the background and let him do it, where’s the harm? We collect no matter who pulls the trigger.”

  “So I’ll bide my time.”

  “Why not? Drink some of that famous coffee. Get rained on by some of that famous rain.
They have any stamp dealers in Seattle, Keller?”

  “There must be. I know there’s one in Tacoma.”

  “So go see him,” she said. “Buy some stamps. Enjoy yourself.”

  “I collect worldwide, 1840 to 1949, and up to 1952 for British Commonwealth.”

  “In other words, the classics,” said the dealer, a square-faced man who was wearing a striped tie with a plaid shirt. “The good stuff.”

  “But I’ve been thinking of adding a topic. Baseball.”

  “Good topic,” the man said. “Most topics, you get bogged down in all these phony Olympics issues every little stamp-crazy country prints up to sell to collectors. Soccer’s even worse, with the World cup and all. There’s less of that crap with baseball, on account of it’s not an Olympic sport. I mean, what do they know about baseball in Guinea-Bissau?”

  “I was at the game last night,” Keller said.

  “Mariners win for a change?”

  “Beat the Tarpons.”

  “About time.”

  “Turnbull went two for four.”

  “Turnbull. He on the Mariners?”

  “He’s the Tarpons’ DH.”

  “They brought in the DH,” the man said, “I lost interest in the game. He went two for four, huh? Am I missing something here? Is that significant?”

  “Well, I don’t know that it’s significant,” Keller said, “but that puts him just five hits shy of four thousand, and he needs three home runs to reach the four hundred mark.”

  “You never know,” the dealer said. “One of these days, St. Vincent-Grenadines may put his picture on a stamp. Well, what do you say? Do you want to see some baseball topicals?”

  Keller shook his head. “I’ll have to give it some more thought,” he said, “before I start a whole new collection. How about Turkey? There’s page after page of early issues where I’ve got nothing but spaces.”

  “You sit down,” the dealer said, “and we’ll see if we can’t fill some of them for you.”

  From Seattle the Tarpons flew to Cleveland for three games at Jacobs Field, then down to Baltimore for four games in three days with the division-leading Orioles. Keller missed the last game against the Mariners and flew to Cleveland ahead of them, getting settled in and buying tickets for all three games. Jacobs Field was one of the new parks and an evident source of pride to the local fans, and the previous year they’d filled the stands more often than not, but this year the Indians weren’t doing as well and Keller had no trouble getting good seats.

  Floyd Turnbull managed only one hit against the Indians, a scratch single in the first game. He went 0-for-3 with a walk in game two, and rode the bench in the third game, the only one the Tarpons won. His replacement, a skinny kid just up from the minors, had two hits and drove in three runs.

  “New kid beat us,” said Keller’s conversational partner du jour. He was a Cleveland fan, and assumed Keller was, too. Keller, who’d bought an Indians cap for the series, had encouraged him in this belief. “Wish they’d stick with old Turnbull,” the man went on.

  “Close to three thousand hits,” Keller said.

  “Lots of hits and homers, but he never seems to beat you like this kid just did. Hits for the record book, not for the game—that’s Floyd for you.”

  “Excuse me,” Keller said. “I see somebody I better go say hello to.”

  It was the Broadway sharpie, wearing a Panama fedora with a bright red hatband. That made him easy to spot, but even without it he was hard to miss. Keller had picked him out of the crowd back in the third inning, checked now and then to make sure he was still in the same seat. But now the guy was in conversation with a woman, their heads close together, and she didn’t look right for the part. The instant camaraderie of the baseball notwithstanding, a woman who looked like her didn’t figure to be discussing the subtleties of the double steal with a guy who looked like him.

  She was tall and slender, and she bore herself regally. She was wearing a suit, and at first glance you thought she’d come from the office, and then you decided she probably owned the company. If she belonged at a ballpark at all, it was in the sky boxes, not the general-admission seats.

  What were they discussing with such urgency? Whatever it was, they were done talking about it before Keller could get close enough to listen in. They separated and headed off in different directions, and Keller tossed a mental coin and set out after the woman. He already knew where the man was staying, and what name he was using.

  He tagged the woman to the Ritz-Carlton, which sort of figured. He’d gotten rid of his Indians cap en route, but he still wasn’t dressed for the lobby of a five-star hotel, not in the khakis and polo shirt that were just fine for Jacobs Field.

  Couldn’t be helped. He went in, hoping to spot her in the lobby, but she wasn’t there. Well, he could have a drink at the bar. Unless they had a dress code, he could nurse a beer and maybe keep an eye on the lobby without looking out of place. If she was settled in for the night he was out of luck, but maybe she’d just gone to her room to change, maybe she hadn’t had dinner yet.

  Better than that, as it turned out. He walked into the bar and there she was, all by herself at a corner table, smoking a cigarette in a holder—you didn’t see that much anymore—and drinking what looked like a rust-colored cocktail in a stemmed glass. A Manhattan or a Rob Roy, he figured. Something like that. Classy, like the woman herself, and slightly out-of-date.

  Keller stopped at the bar for a bottle of Tuborg, carried it to the woman’s table. Her eyes widened briefly at his approach, but otherwise nothing much showed on her face. Keller drew a chair for himself and sat down as if there was no question that he was welcome.

  “I’m with the guy,” he said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No names, all right? Straw hat with a red band on it. You were talking to him, what, twenty minutes ago? You want to pretend I’m talking Greek, or do you want to come with me?”

  “Where?”

  “He needs to see you.”

  “But he just saw me!”

  “Look, there’s a lot I don’t understand here,” Keller said, not untruthfully. “I’m just an errand boy. He coulda come himself, but is that what you want? To be seen in public in your own hotel with Slansky?”

  “Slansky?”

  “I made a mistake there,” Keller said, “using that name, which you wouldn’t know him by. Forget I said that, will you?”

  “But . . .”

  “Far as that goes, we shouldn’t spend too much time together. I’m going to walk out, and you finish your drink and sign the tab and then follow me. I’ll be waiting out front in a blue Honda Accord.”

  “But . . .”

  “Five minutes,” he told her, and left.

  It took her more than five minutes, but under ten, and she got into the front seat of Honda without any hesitation. He pulled out of the hotel lot and hit the button to lock her door.

  While they drove around, ostensibly heading for a meeting with the man in the Panama hat (whose name wasn’t Slansky, but so what?) Keller learned that Floyd Turnbull, who’d had an affair with this woman, had sweet-talked her into investing in a real estate venture of his. The way it was set up, she couldn’t get her money out without a lengthy and expensive lawsuit—unless Turnbull died, in which case the partnership was automatically dissolved. Keller didn’t try to follow the legal part. He got the gist of it, and that was enough. The way she spoke about Turnbull, he got the feeling she’d pay a lot to see him dead, even if there was nothing in it for her.

  Funny how people tended not to like the guy.

  And now Slansky had all the money in advance, and in return for that she had his sworn promise that Turnbull wouldn’t have a pulse by the time the team got back to Memphis. She’d been after him to get it done in Cleveland, but he’d stalled until he’d gotten her to pay him the entire fee up front, and it looked as though he wouldn’t do it until they were in Baltimore, but it really
better happen in Baltimore, because that was the last stop before the Tarpons returned to Memphis for a long home stand, and—

  Jesus, suppose the guy tried to save himself a trip to Baltimore?

  “Here we go,” he said, and turned into a strip mall. All the stores were closed for the night, and the parking area was empty except for a delivery van and a Chevy that wouldn’t go anywhere until somebody changed its right rear tire. Keller parked next to the Chevy and cut the engine.

  “Around the back,” he said, and opened the door for her and helped her out. He led her so that the Chevy screened them from the street. “It gets tricky here,” he said, and took her arm.

  The man he’d called Slansky was staying at a budget motel off an interchange of I-71, where he’d registered as John Carpenter. Keller went and knocked on his door, but that would have been too easy.

  Hell.

  The Tarpons were staying at a Marriott again, unless they were already on their way to Baltimore. But they’d just finished a night game, and they had a night game tomorrow, so maybe they’d stay over and fly out in the morning. He drove over to the Marriott and walked through the lobby to the bar, and on his way he spotted the shortstop and a middle reliever. So they were staying over, unless someone in the front office had cut those two players, and that seemed unlikely, as they didn’t look depressed.

  He found two more Tarpons in the bar, where he stayed long enough to drink a beer. One of the pair, the second-string catcher, gave Keller a nod of recognition, and that gave him a turn. Had he been hanging around enough for the players to think of him as a familiar face?

  He finished his beer and left. As he was on his way out of the lobby, Floyd Turnbull was on his way in, and not looking very happy. And what did he have to be happy about? A stringbean named Anliot had taken his job away from him for the evening, and had won the game for the Tarpons in the process. No wonder Turnbull looked like he wanted to kick somebody’s ass, and preferably Anliot’s. He also looked to be headed for his room, and Keller figured the man was ready to call it a night.