Peter caught him as he slumped sideways in the seat.
Waites was out cold.
Customer appreciation being rare in his line of work, Grayson had no objection—while Waites lay unconscious—to sharing a few trade secrets with Peter. He refused to say whether Dessinger had anything to do with the breakdown of the first-class air-conditioners way back in Secunderabad. But he took obvious pleasure in explaining how he’d created and worked the mob of “Muslim vigilantes” at Aurangabad station. “There is no sports fanatic,” his discourse began, “quite like an Indian cricket fanatic …”
Strolling through the station a half hour or so before Peter and T Bar’s train arrived, Grayson had simply mentioned to a few idle Aurangabadsmen that he’d caught a broadcast on his radio (which was really a long-range walkie-talkie) saying that the All-India cricket team had just been in a serious bus crash on the way to their test match with Australia. “A little cruel,” Grayson admitted. “But within minutes it gave me my frantic throng.” He’d kept his throng’s interest up by grinding static into his ear and pretending to hear bits of reports as to which players had been injured, how seriously, and so forth. He then led his captive mob across the two sets of tracks so that the “White Train” would later separate the Westerners from their own. When the “static trick” got old and some of them began to talk about telephoning the Times of India, Grayson told them that the Westerners he’d come to meet, being cricket fanatics themselves, would be certain to have a world-band radio, and the most up-to-date news of the All-India team’s condition. This was why the “vigilantes” had scanned the train for white faces the instant it rolled into the station. As for the language barrier, Grayson guessed that there had probably been more Marathi than Urdu speakers in the crowd, so Peter’s Marathi had presented “an interesting technical problem.” In fact, Dessinger, during one of their early communiqués on the walkie-talkies, had wanted to cull Peter from the group. But Grayson hit on the idea of telling his sports-loving mob that one Westerner—the blond-braided one, and the real cricket expert, unfortunately—would speak only to whites, and that if they crowded him he might not speak at all. This stroke served two crucial purposes: first, it convinced the mob to let Grayson alone address the Westerners; and second, it created some genuine antipathy toward the person most likely to see through the con—i.e., Peter.
After the second train’s arrival and the surprise radio broadcast (which had really been Dessinger spouting gibberish into his walkie-talkie not thirty yards away), Grayson had whipped his poor cricket-lovers into an even greater frenzy by saying that the radio report said nothing new, but that T Bar was an Australian journalist, that he had a wire service bulletin right in his pocket listing the Indian players’ injuries, but that he was so absurdly nationalistic that he refused to share the information with his country’s opponent. Even then the poor Indians managed to contain their ire. But when Akasha and Kwester suddenly left the group and the “White Train” began to roll out of the station, one frustrated fan finally shouted out a demand to hear the bulletin. “Then step forward,” Grayson had shouted back, “and I’ll read it to you myself!” Only then did the “mob” advance. And that was when Grayson turned to Peter and Waites in apparent desperation and cried, “Now! The White Train!”
The things people lug through life are seldom as valuable to others as they are to those who lug them. For this reason Grayson and Dessinger were not thieves, strictly speaking: they were luggage-nappers. Their preferred game, in other words, was to separate travelers from their possessions, then return everything in perfect condition—for “a modest price.”
The ransom negotiations began with a beep from the walkie-talkie: Dessinger calling. And to judge by the background noise, or lack of it, he was no longer on a train or anywhere near the noisy station. The first step was to itemize the take and guess its value to each “client”—and T Bar Waites, needless to say, looked to be an ideal customer. In addition to his “Global Village” fly-tying gear and much-missed asthma medicine he’d been toting two more pairs of deluxe cowboy boots, two new suits, a pile of Indian curios and jewelry, his Bombay/Kuwait/Paris/New York/Chicago/Bozeman return plane ticket, two fifths of Teacher’s scotch, a Rolex watch, his passport, and twelve hundred bucks in Barclay’s traveler’s checks. But when Grayson tried to soothe him by saying that he could have everything back within two hours by simply signing over the traveler’s checks, then wiring the States for another thousand dollars, Waites surprised Grayson and Peter both by snapping, “Go fuck yourself.”
Grayson remained calm, for the moment. But a ruthlessness came into his eyes that frightened Peter even more than the conscienceless grin of Natu—especially since Waites didn’t see it. “Come, come,” Grayson said. “No tantrums. Your position is hopeless. We’ll cash your Barclay’s checks on the black market days before you can cancel them. We’ll scalp your plane ticket. You’ll have to return to the States, repurchase all that lovely equipment, and fly all the way back again. You’ll lose weeks of time, spend far more than the thousand we’re asking, and—”
“Fuck you, fuck Dessinger, and fuck Butt-weasel here too!” T Bar blored.
Grayson made no reply. He just grew still, turned cold, and stared at Waites so long that even Waites himself came to see that there was no reason now why he should be allowed to leave the gully alive. At last, Grayson murmured. “Have it your way. Take off your clothes.”
“I’ll pay you the thousand!” T Bar blurted.
“Natu!”
“Okay okay!” Waites began struggling with his boots.
“Faster. Every stitch. Socks and undershorts too.”
Waites did exactly as he was told.
“Now get out of the car on Natu’s side.”
T Bar stepped out into the sunlight. His skin looked blindingly white against the red rocks and dust. “Please,” he said, to no one in particular.
“Sit on the ground, facing the tree. Fold your hands on top of your head.”
“Please,” he kept whispering. “Please …”
Grayson spoke a long sentence in Urdu. Natu laughed. Then, to Waites, Grayson said, “If Natu hears your voice again he’s going to shoot you in the left buttock. If he sees your face, he’ll shoot you in the right. Do you understand?”
Without turning, almost without breathing, T Bar nodded.
Grayson beeped Dessinger on the walkie-talkie. “Peter’s turn,” he said.
“Hmm,” Dessinger began. “Looks like we robbed a monk. We got some Hindu-lookin’ threads, worn sandals, white Jockey shorts, bare-bones shaving kit. Got our passport, our travel diary, mail from the Fulbright Foundation, Harvard, University of New Delhi, Washington State. We got our Buddha statue, and our genuine leaf from the Bo Tree—so says the cellophane wrapper. And of course the shitload of books—dictionaries, lexicons, Indian poetry, mostly. And two typewritten manuscripts by the monk himself. Oh. Here’s his wallet. Empty. His cash must be on him.”
Without being asked Peter emptied his pockets and handed the contents—a money clip with rupees, $120 in traveler’s checks, and change—over to Grayson. He pocketed them without a glance. “Describe the manuscripts,” he told Dessinger.
“One, titled Maharashtran Poet-Saints, looks finished. The other, untitled, looks rough. Both full of translated verse, commentary, footnotes. The second one full of handwritten additions and corrections.”
“A sentence from the finished one,” said Grayson.
“‘It should hardly be necessary to point out that, despite the parallels cited above, our three Vaishnava poets considered worship of the nirguna paramount to—’”
“That’ll do,” Grayson interrupted.
Peter nearly laughed.
“Original manuscripts, I’d wager,” Grayson said, watching Peter closely. “Both one of a kind.”
“Poet-Saints isn’t. But the other one is.”
Grayson reached in his pockets, produced a pink pack of bidis, lit one up. “I’ll b
e frank,” he sighed. “When negotiations break down, my clients become Natu’s. And in his tradition, the dacoit tradition, the aftermath of robbery is death.”
Though he was careful not to speak or turn, T Bar began to wheeze again.
Grayson’s bidi had gone out. Smiling at Waites’ heaving back, he paused to relight it. “Dessinger and I are not dacoits,” he said at last. “So in cases like T Bar’s, we compromise with Natu. ‘Be sure we’re not followed,’ we tell him. Then turn him loose. He administers an excellent beating. Sometimes it’s difficult to make him stop.”
To judge by his gasping, Waites was not much relieved by this upgraded ticket.
“I admire scholarship,” Grayson said to Peter. “And there is no reason whatever for you to join this T Bar gowk. So come with us now, wire the States for five hundred dollars, and this entire episode can become a colorful little tale to share over drinks one day with tenured colleagues.”
Though it frightened him badly, Peter said, “I just can’t do that.”
Grayson turned to ice. “Don’t try to bluff me, my young Harvard scholar. Those manuscripts are your life.”
“They were,” Peter said, struggling to steady his voice. “But thanks to you and Dessinger, that life is over.”
“Why is that?”
“If I didn’t speak Marathi, if I hadn’t studied Islam for years, if those poor men at the station had been anything but brokenhearted sports fans, if the train had been any color but white, then maybe I’d want my manuscripts back. But I became a scholar because I wanted truth in my life. And if I buy those manuscripts back, my life becomes a lie.”
“Your choice here,” Grayson said coldly, “is not philosophical. It’s physical. You deal with me now. Or you strip down, join Waites—and deal with Natu.”
T Bar began to sob on top of his asthma. Natu grinned his lizard grin. “What’ll it be?” Grayson murmured.
Peter took a slow, dry swallow of almost nothing but fear—
and began to remove his clothes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Moon People
It’s good to be sensitive in life, but it stinks for baseball.
—Frank Viola, pitcher, New York Mets
1. Lellow
The Pittsburgh Pirates won the National League East in ’70. They would win the World Series in ’71, and four division championships over the next five years. They had great players, decent coaching, fanatical fans, and they were in the process of making a whole lot of money, so naturally it gave the young Portland Tugs a charge to say they played for the top farm club of this mighty baseball machine. It took a seasoned old pro like Papa to recognize just how vicarious this charge was. Minor league teams are like coal-mining country: the only honor a big league city can regularly be depended upon to pay them is to plunder them. You’ve got to pretty much love New York and kiss off Kentucky to admire the way big league baseball operates. And Papa, like his mentor G. Q. Durham, was a lifelong baseball Kentuckian.
But on May 29, 1971, one nonvicarious contributor to the Pirates’ success had managed to trickle his way down to Portland for a visit. His name was Dr. David Hockenberry, or, as he preferred, “plain Doctor Dave,” and he was one of the first men in history to call himself a “sports psychologist”—a discipline which, in those days, was being invented by its practitioners as they went along. But a lot of respectable artists operate in this manner. “Plain Doctor Dave’s” work with the Pirates was said by the players themselves to have been instrumental in creating the “great family feeling” that was now leading the team on to success. So as the team bus rolled down along the Columbia River heading home from Spokane, and Papa drowsed by a window, trying not to think of Irwin, Tug skipper Howie Bowen herded his starting lineup into the front few seats, announced that Doctor Dave of the Pirates was about to generate some great family feeling among them, and added that they’d damn well better not make a joke out of it or he’d fine their butts good. That said, Bowen parked his own butt on the dash to the right of the driver and proceeded to scrutinize his starters for taxable signs of levity. “Okay,” was Doctor Dave’s reaction to this. “I want you guys to relax while I load my rifle, stick the barrel down your throats, and ask you a few playful family questions.”
While some of the players chuckled at this, and Bowen looked confused, Papa opened one eye and peeked out at Hockenberry, wondering whether he might be about to witness a fellow baseball Kentuckian in action. “I’m teasing,” the psychologist told Coach Bowen. “But we are about to play a game the Bucs call Round Table. And it really does have one rule, Howie. No manager or coaches within earshot.”
The glower deepened. “You’re makin’ that up,” Bowen growled.
Doctor Dave looked surprised. “You’re a manager yourself, Howie. You must’ve heard why the Pirates fired Grammas and rehired Danny Murtaugh last year.”
Bowen was not at all happy to have to admit that he hadn’t.
“Well,” said Doctor Dave. “We’d been rained out in Frisco, and had some hours to kill before the plane to LA. So down in the locker room the starters and me got deep into a game of Round Table. And they were just laying their hearts on the table, Howie—honesty like you wouldn’t believe, several men in tears, one unashamedly sucking his thumb—when Willie Stargell stepped out to take a leak. And there was Coach Grammas hiding amongst the urinals, spying on us!”
Bowen snorted in disbelief.
“I know,” said Doctor Dave. “I didn’t think Grammas’d try a wormy stunt like that either.”
That wasn’t what Bowen’s snort had meant. But he was bewildered enough by now to shake his head and trudge muttering off down the aisle.
“Howie wants ‘family feeling,’” Doctor Dave said the instant he was out of earshot. “He’s ready to play Dad—if it’ll win him some games. But you guys must know that though some of you will leave here to move up, others of you will be moving sideways, or down, or just plain out. And who decides which way you move?” He jerked a thumb toward the back of the bus. “Ol’ Dad. Now imagine a family with a father who occasionally declares to one of his sons, ‘You’re cut!’ or ‘You’re traded!’ and ships the little guy off forever on the next bus or plane. Imagine it good. Because that, me would-be Buckos, is the only kind of dad Howie or Danny Murtaugh or any other manager will ever be to you. So let me share a Big League Baseball Psychology Secret with you: screw dads! Ballplayers should be like brothers to each other, and that’s it. That’s all the family feeling we’re gonna shoot for. If that seems harsh, if you wanna feel as if you’re working with Dad, Mom or Sis, you better find yourself a different job.”
Seeing the majority of the men staring incredulously, and the rest looking a little glum, Doctor Dave added, “Hey. Don’t you worry. Playing ball with loyal brothers is a very fine thing. Didn’t it give you a brotherly rush of feeling, for instance, when I lied my head off to Howie just now to get his dadly ass outta here?”
Hearing the men roar and wondering what brought it on, Coach Bowen leaned into the aisle to glare up at them. “Family feeling!” Doctor Dave called out, giving him a thumbs-up sign. “It’s already working—Dad!” The men roared again.
Round Table turned out to be nothing but a verbal pepper game, with Doctor Dave firing random questions and the Tugs all answering in turn. The only rule was that the players had to answer quickly, and the only purpose, according to Dave, was to allow the players to prove to one another that they had interesting minds. But this last assertion was greeted with visible skepticism by some of the men, and Round Table was slow to get rolling. If Hockenberry hadn’t been a master at putting people at ease it could have gotten downright grim. As it was, the game soon reminded Papa of something that Bet and Freddy might have enjoyed during their Famous Science days. “What I’d like to know first—and names will slow us down, so permit me to point” (Dave pulled a silver ballpoint from his pocket)—“is where we’re going, where this bus is headed. Your answer can be as simple or as comp
licated as you like, long as it’s quick.” The ballpoint pointed.
Hector Harris, the shortstop and leadoff hitter, didn’t hesitate, but didn’t exactly scintillate either. “We’re headed for Portland, Oregon,” he said.
Doctor Dave’s ballpoint moved. “Same question.”
Jim McGeorge, the second baseman, shrugged. “I’d say ol’ Hector hit the nail smack on the head.”
“Keystone cooperation,” said Dave. “That’s good. But now bunt back some other answer, no matter how nuts. Where are we headed?”
McGeorge glanced out at the Columbia, shrugged again, and said, “Downriver.”
Ty Daniels, the starting pitcher: “Due west.”
Gil Jarrel, the cowboy first baseman: “Down that long lonesome highway.”
B. G. Anderson, the hippie left fielder: “T’find my baby on the magic bus.”
Dwight “No Last Name” Darrel, the center fielder and resident sci-fi buff: “We are heading toward a geometrical configuration of inorganic material called a stadium, with its foundation sunk in an immense globular unit called earth, and its roof sticking up into a more nebulous substance called sky.”
“New question,” said Doctor Dave. “What the hell’s Darrel talkin’ about? Like what does he mean, for starters, by a ‘globular unit called earth’?”
His pen pointed. Jaime Ramos, the Costa Rican rookie third baseman, looked panic-stricken. “Doort?” he piped. Jaime and English weren’t on real close terms.
Gil Jarrel snickered. Dave’s pen jumped. The starting catcher, Wilson “No First Name” Walker, said, “Our planet, Dave. The man meant our planet.”
“Yes,” said Doctor Dave. “Planet Doort. Now quick. Gil. What is suelo?”
Gil Jarrel: “Heck if I know.”
“Basura?”
Gil: “Dunno.”
“How ’bout tierra?”
Gil: “Beats me.”
Doctor Dave: “Jaime?”
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