by Guy Franks
Papi
Hey, Sweetness, wat up, playa?
(Sings)
‘Rebecca, Lolita, Veshawn and DOLL,
Every time you do the Double Dutch you really turn it on’.
Doll
Glad u-could include me in there.
Papi
Always, Doll, always.
(Pulls her on to his lap and sings.)
‘Come on get on my Double Dutch Bus.’
Hank
Got anythin’ ‘round here ta eat?
Papi
Ur-stoned, Sweetness.
Hank
And ur-fat.
Papi
I am phat. Phat an’ funky. No doubt ’bout it. I’m phat round the world. Jus’ ask Doll.
Doll
He’s fat an’ phat.
Papi
Cause I’m a double dutch bus. Now, chill out, Sweetness. Be a Prince an’ hav-a cold one. We’ll git sumthin ta eat later on.
Busta
Anyone hear from Fo-Five?
Papi
Nah, still in the clink. Unless one-a you-two wants to go bail him out, that’s where he’s gonna stay.
Busta
I still doin get-it. Who called the jakes?
Hank
Doin ask him. He was out cold. When the fight started, Off-cer Warwick jumped inta break it up. Only he was off duty. Ya-know, the Eric Dickerson-lookin’ dude who sits at the end-a the bar. Wid glasses. Works security at Beehive.
Busta
Oh, yeah.
Hank
First name’s Clarence or Clay, I fo-get.
Papi
It’s Off-cer Clarence Warwick, nick-named Clay like Cassius Clay. He’s a persnal friend a’ mine.
Hank
Sho’ he is. So’s the mayor. Anyhow, he jumps in an’ pulls Fo-Five off an’ Fo-Five’s piece falls on the floor. Boom- busted. Fo-Five takes a swing at him and Dickerson puts him in-a choke hold and drags his ass out the door.
Busta
I saw that part.
Hank
Next thing he’s han-cuff’d in back of-a pa-trol car lookin’ like sum sorry ass nigga who’s jus been bust’d fo’ jay-walkin’. An’ that’s the straight dope.
Busta
Mutha-fuckin’ sheet.
Hank
An’ Chief here was playin’ possum the whole time. Weren’t you, Blubba? One punch and ur-down and out like Liston, all curl’d up and smilin’ like sum big, fat kitty cat. But-I know betta—you was playin’ possum. Admit it. It took ten of us to carry-ya inta the back room, an’ u-was smilin’ the whole time.
Papi
I admit nuttin. I got hit from behind. That’s all I know. Next thing I wake up in the arms of Doll and it was like wakin’ up in heaven. But I tell ya one thin, Sweetness, an’ u-can take this ta school. Sum-times discretion’s the betta part of valor. Sum-times it’s betta to stay down, stay low, an’ wait fo’ the ruckus ta pass ov’r head.
Busta
But you start’d the fight.
Papi
That’s a-matta’ of opinion. It wassa question of honor.
Hank
Honor? Wat-u know ’bout honor? You took a dive.
Papi
I said it wassa question of honor—which I answer’d. Honor’s fo’ sucka’s, dawg. Honor’s jus-a word. Thin as air. Honor’s fo’ the dead. U-gotta know when to give it up an’ stay alive. Lisen-ta me, Sweetness. I’m tryin’ to school u-here.
Hank
School me? Only thin I learn’d from you is the name of ev’ry bartender in town.
Papi
And yo richer fo’ it—say, doin u-have a game today?
Hank
Yeah.
Papi
Ur-gonna be late again, foo. U-can’t be hangin’ out here when you’s got’s a game. Aren’t you scared Glover’s gonna put-u back in the dawg-house?
Hank
Nah. I always talk my way outta it.
Papi
Fo’ real? I know’s u-can lay down sum serious smack when u-wanna, but u-been benched, cuzz, an’ fined. That don’t sound like ur-talkin’ ur-way outta anythin’. Come on, u-betta practice on me. I’ll be Glover. Dis is my office. Pretend like I jus’ called u-in.
Doll
This sounds like fun.
Papi
Come on, Sweetness. Let’s see wat kind’a rap u-got. I’ll be Glover.
Hank
Sho-nuf? Okay, homie. Busta, give-em yo Kingsmen hat… There now. That’s betta. If’n ur-gonna act the part, u-gotta look the part.
Papi
Back like this, right? There… ‘To be or not to be.’
Doll
What’s that mean?
Papi
That’s Shakespeare, as in Shake Glover. Git on board, Doll… Now, where was we? I call’d u-inta my office, Sweetness. Wat u-gonna say?
Hank
You have-ta start.
Papi
Awright… U-late again, Sweetness… er, Prince. Take a seat. You amaze me, son. We got’s rules an’ you don’t wanna follow them. Yo wastin’ your potential, your god-given talents, an’ it hurts me to see it. Yo cavitatin’—
Busta
‘Cavitatin’?
Papi
When a ship’s propella’s goin’ ‘round but it ain’t movin’—jus’ stayin’ in one spot. Cavitatin’. Doin interrupt… Yo cavitatin, son. An’ people are startin’ to point fingers at you. Here you are, heir-apparent to the centerfielder job and all u-wanna do is get high and run ‘round town. If you ass-me, it’s the company you keep. You heard’a muck, right? Well, they’re the muck and mire of society, an’ if’n you keep hangin’ out with them your gonna get that muck and mire on yo-self. You need betta company. There is one man I’ve seen you with—a big, stately man. I’ve heard he’s gotta heart of gold. Wat’s his name?
Hank
Wat’s he look like, sir?
Papi
Stout, maybe a little fat, butta cheerful sort. He’s handsome, noble-lookin’, maybe in his fifties though he looks younger. I ‘member now. His name’s Stallworth. I see goodness in him. If he’s not good then there’s no good left in the world. Stay with him an’ he’ll steer you on the right course. Now, tell me, son, where you been? Why you late again?
Hank
Nah, nah, nah. That’s not how he talks. Gimme the hat. I’ll be Glover an’ you be me.
Papi
Fired awready? Well, give it yo best shot, Sweetness, but it won’t be as good as me.
Hank
Now, Hank, where you been?
Papi
Charity work, sir.
Hank
I’ve been getting’ serious complaints ’bout you. Serious complaints.
Papi
Those are mutha-fuckin’ lies, sir.
Hank
Don’t you use that kinda language with me—an’ sit up. Now I’m gonna tell you wat’s wrong with you. You got a devil after you and that devil looks jus’ like a fat old man. An’ the question is—why do you associate with a tub of lard like that? Wat’s he good for other than to lead you into temptation? He’s a stuffed chicken, a gob a’ fat, an old pus-gut. Line up all the fat people in town and he’d be three of them. All’s he’s good for is eatin’, drinkin’ and gettin’ high. That’s all that’s ever on his mind—other than screwin’ and findin’ ways to take your money. He’s a bad influence. Get rid of him.
Papi
I’m not followin’ you, sir. Who you talkin’ ’bout?
Hank
Stallworth—the drug dealer. Papi Stallworth. You know him.
Papi
I do, but yo sellin’ him short, sir. I know him to be fine
, upstandin’ gentleman. Yes, he’s old—but wise, like one-a dem three wise men that found our Lord an’ Savior Jesus Christ in the manger. Yes, he’s fat—but jolly like Saint Nick. If fat’s a crime, whadda we gonna do, lock up John Candy? Put Aretha Franklin in jail? An’ yes he eats and drinks and gets high, but if all that stuff’s a crime then we’re all goin’ to hell. So, no, sir, doin get rid of Stallworth. Get rid of Busta or Fo-Five but doin get rid of old Papi. If’n you get rid a’ him, you get rid of the whole world.
Hank
But I will.
Just then La-Ron entered and told them that the cops were there and looking for Papi. “Wat fo?” Papi wanted to know but La-Ron didn’t know. All he knew was that they were on their way. The fat man jumped up with surprising quickness and looked around the room for a hiding place. He turned to Hank. “Sheet! Sweetness—Hank, help yo friend out here,” he pleaded.
Hank told him to go hide in the stock room and they would all cover for him. Papi nodded, grabbed his King Cobra, and shuffled nimbly into the back store room. In another moment, Officer Warwick and another officer entered.
“We’re lookin’ for Stallworth,” Officer Warwick said loudly. “Is he back here?” He noticed Hank and did a double-take. Warwick worked security at Beehive Stadium and knew all the ball-players. “Hank, what you doing here? Don’t you have a game?”
“Yes, sir,” replied
“Then what you doing here?”
Hank was calm and polite: “Jus’ droppin’ a friend off. I’m on my way now. But I haven’t seen Stallworth all day.” The others around Hank nodded in agreement.
Officer Warwick ignored Hank’s excuse. He was skeptical that none of them had seen Papi all day. He looked past Hank’s shoulder and glanced around the room suspiciously. As he made a step for the back room, Hank swore that Stallworth wasn’t around—that if he was here he couldn’t have missed him since Papi took up a lot of space. Officer Warwick stopped in his tracks, snorted a laugh, and agreed that was true.
“His Harley’s parked out back,” said the other officer.
Busta jumped in and claimed he’d seen Papi drive off last night in a black caddy. That’s the last anyone had seen of him. The other officer considered this for a moment, then quickly asked, “Did it have chrome rims?” Busta was sure it did and everyone agreed. The officer turned to Warwick and said, “I think I saw it over on East Main.”
“All right,” replied Warwick. “We’ll go check it out.” He turned his attention back to Hank and looked him up and down in a paternal manner. Warwick was a tall man and looked formidable in his blue uniform. “You need to get over to Beehive. Now,” he said to Hank. “And one piece of advice: stay outta this place.”
“Yes, sir.”
Satisfied at this answer, Officer Warwick and his partner left. Hank and his homies breathed a sigh of relief, and he and Busta went back to the stock room to let Papi know the coast was clear. They found him curled up like a fat cat and snoring loudly.
Busta
Sum-bitch. Look at ’em. He’s sleepin’.
Hank
Shh! Doin wake him. Let’s see wat he’s got on-’em.
(They go through his pockets and Hank finds his wallet.)
Got it. Shh, let’s go. When he wakes up he’ll figure he’s been ganked and scream bloody murder. I’d love to be here. I’ll come by afta’ the game and give it back to ’em.
Busta
Sho-nuff. He’ll ’cuse everyone here of rippin’ him off.
Hank
Awright. Later, bro. Here’s yo hat, I gotta run and play ball, if’n I’m late it’ll be my downfall.
16
CHAPTER
Baseball is the belly-button of our society. Straighten out baseball, and you straighten out the rest of the world.
Bill Lee
It was after the All-Star break and the Kingsmen were at home against the Reds for a short series before taking off to New York for seven games against the Tigers and Yankees. Dane sat at his locker listening to his transistor radio. His latest concern for the world was Mad Cow Disease but at the moment his thoughts were on other things. He was thinking about the upcoming road trip. At their stop in Albany he planned to visit his father’s grave.
It was time, thought Dane. His father died sixteen years ago and he had not visited his grave site once. He remembered the funeral like it was yesterday—the open casket (jarring to a youth of ten who loved his dad) and the pictures of his dad set up around the room, many of them taken when he was young and happy. But most of all he remembered the cold shoulders and looks of recrimination from his dad’s side of the family towards his mom. They blamed her for his death. His mom took him home early and she drove the three hours back to Ithaca listening to the Yankees game and crying. She never took him back to visit the cemetery and he never had an urge to go himself.
But over the last year the urge had grown, and lately it had grown particularly strong. He couldn’t intellectualize it or explain it; he just needed to visit his father’s grave. He knew it was part of the process. For most of his teenage life he had been mad at his dad—mad at him for killing himself and leaving his wife and son alone in the world, mad at him for not saying goodbye, mad at him for not even leaving a note of explanation. As he got older and understood better the machinations of men and women, he wondered why his father—if he was so damned unhappy—didn’t just divorce his mom or cheat on her or get psychiatric help. Of all the options available to him he chose to off himself and that made Dane even angrier. But over the last year, and especially now for some inexplicable reason, the anger had receded, leaving him with a desire to make peace with the past.
On the other side of the locker room from Dane, Luis Santiago was slowly getting undressed. Steve Basset walked up to his locker, which sat next to Luis’, and placed his bible on the top shelf.
“You quit our prayer group,” he said to Luis without reproach and simply as a statement of fact.
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” he replied quickly. “I’m in another prayer group with my girlfriend. It’s kind of serious.”
“You’re serious about a girl?” said Steve with a slight smile. “That’s nice to hear.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” answered Luis playing the string out on his small lie. Steve nodded at him, accepting the lie like some innocent child, and quietly went about rummaging through his locker. Luis couldn’t help but notice Steve’s subdued manner. Usually after his prayer meeting, Steve was ebullient and talkative but now he was seriously intent on finding something in his locker. Luis was slightly curious to know why.
“What you looking for?”
“Gwen’s locket,” he responded, not pulling his head out of his locker.
“The one you bought her that she wears all the time?”
“Yeah,” he said as he pulled his head out and looked at Luis. “That one. She said she lost it.”
“Why would it be in your locker?”
“Who knows… Maybe… I don’t know. Just covering all the bases. We had a fight last night about it.”
“You two? Nothing serious, I hope.”
“No, but I don’t get how she could lose it. Really. She never went anywhere without it, then all of sudden she loses it. How does that happen? It’s careless.
“Ahh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’ll turn up.
“I hope so.”
“But you’re welcome to look in my locker—just clean it up while you’re at it.”
Steve smiled at the joke and said, “No need, my friend.”
Luis walked out onto the field and found Chuck Davis and told him about the conversation concerning the locket. Why hadn’t Chuck found a way to get it back to her, he asked.
“I’m not buddies with them like you are,” answered Chuck. “I haven’t seen her or had a chance to slip it in her purse. I was thinking abou
t sticking it somewhere in his locker but now that’s out. I was also thinking about paying off one of the ushers to say he found it under her seat in the stands—but that would make another person who’s in on this mess. But I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about it.”
“Not worried,” said Luis aloofly as he walked away to go shag flies in the outfield.
Shake welcomed Ron Deer into office and had him sit down. Ron had been in professional baseball going on fourteen years. Early in his career he had bounced between Triple-A and the big leagues but now, older and slower, he was still hanging in there in Single-A baseball. The Kingsmen needed a back-up infielder and a reliable pinch-hitter, and Shake had made a few calls and brought Ron out from Fresno to fill the need.
“How was the trip?” asked Shake.
“Fine,” replied Ron. “Had to change planes in Chicago but made it.”
“Well, you know the deal here. Horn’s still hurt and I need another first baseman and a good bat, so I thought of you. I made a few calls and here you are.”
“Appreciate that.”
“You’re not gonna start. Right now we got this kid Rosecrans filling in at first and he’s lookin’ pretty good, but you’ll get some starts here and there. Double-headers. Four game series, night to day games. You know the drill.”
“Sure.”
“But I brought you up here for your bat. Someone I can rely on late in games to give us a solid at bat. You fill that bill to a ‘T’.”
“Understood. Glad to be back in Double-A. It smells better all ready,” he said with a laugh. Shake laughed as well because he knew it was true (Double-A did smell better than Single-A).
“Just as long as I get some at bats, I’ll be happy,” added Ron.
“Two things I never promise—wins and the weather. But I can promise you at-bats.”
“Cool.”
“How’s Tim doing?” asked Shake, referring to the Fresno manager. Shake already knew the answer to that question since he had talked to Tim at length the other day, but Ron’s lengthy reply gave him a chance to thoughtfully regard the veteran.
In his prime, Ron Deer was a 4A player—someone who habitually tore up Triple-A pitching but could never make it in the big leagues. As the years went by he lost his legs and went from outfielder, where he could truly run like a deer, to first base where dead legs went to rest. In time the call-ups ceased and Ron slowly but surely began to sink down through the layers of minor league baseball until he ended up as a thirty-five year old first baseman in Single-A. Now he was back in Double-A looking bright and chipper. Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance, thought Shake. But one thing the guy could always do was hit. Shake had both played with him and managed him and he knew that to be a fact—that the guy could hit—as well as he knew that the sun would come up in the morning. Deer was like one of those veteran basketball-players who could no longer drive or post up but still had that deadly jump shot from twenty feet out. And you could take that to the bank.
