by Guy Franks
“Not again?”
“What?”
“Where is she now?”
“She probably went home—to Hartford.”
“Let’s go find her,” said Shake as though speaking from the Mount. “Right this minute. Are you good to drive?”
“Yeah,” replied Steve, hope blossoming on his face. He wiped his cheeks dry with the flat of his hand and started the car. “I can drive.”
“All right. Swing by the Ramada first. I have to leave a message with someone.”
The Nissan sped out of the parking lot and pulled into the Ramada Inn five minutes later. Shake got out and knocked on one of the doors and Mimi answered.
“Shake?” she said, surprised to see him. “Why you still in your uniform?”
Their hands came together. Since reuniting, they were unable to keep their hands off the other as though, by touching, they kept this sweet dream alive. They had spent an all too brief hour alone together in this very motel room lying in bed, fully clothed, talking.
Shake explained the situation, and as he spoke and she listened, an ancient bell echoed in their psyches. They knew this story, knew it all too well, and when Shake finished Mimi simply said, “You must go.”
They kissed and Shake jumped back in the car and it peeled out. The driver was in a hurry and on a mission from God. It was only a fifteen minute drive to Hartford and Shake spent it thinking and not talking. He thought about the miracle of Mimi, about whether they’d find Gwen (they had to!), and about the fragility of love. Why do lovers always believe the worst, he wondered. But he knew the answer to that: it was a weakness in man to lose faith so easily.
They found Gwen at home. They could hear her sobbing through her apartment door. She refused to respond to Steve’s voice so Shake took over. “It’s Shake Glover. Steve’s manager. Open up, sweetheart. We need to talk.” The sobbing quieted and they could hear her gathering herself up. The door opened tentatively and she looked out at them. Her face was puffy but beautiful, her eyes filled with hurt. “Let us in, sweetheart,” said Shake in a fatherly tone. “You’ll want to hear this.”
They sat down and Shake told his tale. Steve sat at the edge of his chair, penitent, hopeful, closely watching Gwen’s face. She sat with her hands in her lap, her attention fully on Shake, and listened with a thin reluctance. To Shake she was a locked safe, but as he spoke and explained and revealed the awful truth, he could see the tumblers fall one by one. When the safe opened, Shake could see by her face that she understood completely—they were victims, they’d been played—and she saw it clearly as an act of evil. She looked over now at Steve. He held her chain and locket out in his open hand. They came together like the wind and the rain, blustering their apologies, pouring out their love, swearing their allegiance and thanking God.
In an earlier time of his life Shake would have found this scene maudlin, almost cornball, but now, at this moment, it touched him deeply. A sense of joy and of a mission accomplished welled up inside him and it inspired him to say to the both of them “The course of true love never did run smooth.” They both looked up at him, wrapped in each other’s arms, and laughed happily.
“Now, who’s going to give me a ride back to the park?”
The next morning in his office, Shake and Rick spent a minute talking before the three players were due in. The coaching staff, Rick included, wanted Luis Santiago suspended for the rest of the season and the playoffs. They’d all been ball-players and appreciated better than any the elements that went into the living organism that is a team. There was common cause, camaraderie, and a thing they would have called “got your back,” and they held these things as sacred. Teammates didn’t need to like each other, but when the shit went down they’d better have your back, and if they didn’t then that “teammate” was no better than a cancerous virus. In an earlier age, they would have voted to put Santiago to the rack.
Shake knew all that, too, and felt all that, too, but as usual his Negative Capability got in the way. He’d talked to the front office, giving only enough detail to make his point, and they trusted his judgement and left the punishment up to his discretion. The jury in his head was still out.
Chuck came in and sat down. “Where’s the other two?” asked Rick.
“I have a favor to ask,” said Chuck. “Let us take care of this. Let the team take care of this in our own way.”
“How?” asked Shake.
“Kangaroo court.”
“That’s played out for fun,” said Rick.
“This won’t be.”
Shake considered this for a moment while studying Chuck from behind his desk. He trusted his veteran. He was a good teammate and usually always had the best interests of the team at heart.
“This’ll be done right. I promise,” insisted Chuck. “Everyone knows what happened and they’re sick and tired of Santiago. Just let us handle it.”
Rick was about to object but Shake cut him off. “All right,” he said. “We’ll let the team take care of this. But it needs to be done quickly, understood. It can’t fester.”
“It won’t. I promise.”
“All right. Go on then.”
Chuck got up, said “Thanks, Skip”, and headed out the door.
Rick called out after him, “Make sure to clean up the blood when you’re done.” He glanced over at his buddy Shake for a reaction but his buddy merely rubbed his chin in thought. But how was Rick to know: from lies had come pain, from evil heartbreak, but harmony prevailed thanks to Shake.
26
CHAPTER
No game in the world is as tidy and dramatically neat as baseball, with cause and effect, crime and punishment, motive and result, so cleanly defined.
Paul Gallico
During Sunday’s game Orson made his way up to the owner’s box and sat down next to Corey to watch the game. A five foot partition separated them from the press box where Balt Porter sat with two other reporters. Orson ignored him. He’d been avoiding Balt ever since he showed up at the stadium last Friday night. Orson knew he would have to talk to him eventually—confront the truth about The Kiss and tell him the newer truth about his feelings for his sister—but he was in no hurry to do so.
He was also afraid of something else and this something else plagued him like an itch that wouldn’t go away. Yes, he and Rose were an item. They were more than that—they were lovers. They’d had sex, more than once, and gone was the letdown and that old feeling of coming up short. Sex had turned into love-making and it was hardy and intense and lasting. And, yes, he loved her and told her so. She said she loved him and had plans for their future, and he didn’t argue with that. But what if… what if he confronted Balt and the old feelings returned. What would he do then? His head just spun to think about it.
In the third inning, Orson got up to use the restroom. There was a small unisex bathroom that served the owner, the press box, as well as the P.A. Announcer, and it locked from the inside. Orson found it unlocked and went in. Suddenly he felt a body push in from behind. It was Balt, and he locked the door behind him and stood in front of Orson.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said to Orson in a playful tone.
“What? No… Just been busy. It’s great to see you. How was L.A.?”
“You’re fibbing,” said Balt with a glint in his eye. He stepped closer to Orson and Orson backed up. “You’ve been avoiding me. Admit it.” He stepped closer, backing Orson against the wall, and placed his hands on Orson’s shoulders. “Didn’t you miss me? I missed you. Admit it.”
Balt’s face was right in Orson’s and he could smell Balt’s aftershave—“English Leather”—and feel his hands gently squeeze his shoulders. He put his hand against Balt’s chest to push him back but there was no strength in it. Balt’s face came even closer.
“You missed me, didn’t you? Say you missed me.”
Orson
closed his eyes and surrendered. “Yes, I missed you,” he whispered heavily.
In the next moment Balt’s lips were on his and they were passionately making out and tearing at each other’s clothes. Balt’s hand slipped down and grabbed Orson’s crotch. He already had a hard-on. At the same time, Orson unbuckled Balt’s belt, unzipped his fly, and hungrily stuck his hand down and found—
Nothing.
“What the hell!” cried Orson in shock, pulling his hand out as though stung by a bee. Balt still had his hand on Orson’s crotch so he pushed Balt back. “You’re a… woman!” accused Orson. “A woman!”
“Of course, silly,” she said in a voice that was now Rose’s. She laughed and took her black-rimmed glasses off and pealed one of her sideburns off. “I thought you knew.”
“Rose?”
“Who else?”
“But… I thought… you were…”
“You thought I was my make-believe brother? Now that’s funny.” She put both hands in her hair and shook it all loose, revealing Rose in full flower. “I’m Balt. I’m Rose. I’m both. You okay with that?”
“Sure,” he said without thinking. The shock was wearing off and he was finding, quickly, and to his delight, that he was okay with it. He felt like he’d just found a secret room in his house, one that made it bigger and more complete. “But… why the deception?”
‘Now that’s a long story,” she said as she put the toilet seat down and sat upon it. “But I’ll make it short.” And with that she quickly and succinctly explained everything to him like a good reporter should: she was breaking down barriers in sports reporting. In a scheme concocted with her college editor, she dressed up as a male reporter to cover the Kingsmen, getting access to the players and coaches that she would never get as a woman. Next year, as a senior, she planned to appear on the job as herself and, by comparison, reveal the hypocrisy and sexism rampant in the male-dominated world of sports journalism. She already had a book deal with Simon and Schuster for her expose once she completed it.
The only hitch in her whole plot, she confessed, was Orson. Once on the Kingsmen beat, she ran into him all the time and couldn’t help but find him attractive. She soon realized she was falling in love with him, so she amended her plan, got rid of Balt for a while, and introduced his twin sister Rose. She wasn’t sorry about it—all was fair in love and war—and she hoped this didn’t make a difference.
“Still love me?” she asked with a leering grin (because she knew the answer).
“Of course I do.”
“Still confused?”
“No.”
“Good… Now where were we?”
After the game the players convened a private meeting in the locker room. No one but players were allowed in, not even the coaches, and Mike Goff was tasked with checking all the doors to make sure they were locked and no one could listen in. The kangaroo court was in session. Luis Santiago was on trial for crimes against the state, a serious offense. Phil Cappadona also stood trial on a lesser charge of stupidity. Normally, Chuck Davis presided over kangaroo courts in the Kingsmen clubhouse, but given he was a key witness for the prosecution he had to recuse himself. The fourteen year veteran Ron Deer took up the gavel in his stead.
Many wanted to be the prosecuting attorney but the job fell by consensus to the “professor” Dane Hamilton. Given his education and cynicism, it was decided he had the best tools for the job. Matt Horn, currently on injured reserve, was assigned to defend Cappadona and he prepared diligently for the case by talking at length to all the key parties. No one wanted to defend Santiago so the unpleasant task was finally assigned to Kid Curry, a fellow pitcher, despite his objections. The muscle-bound Jose Estrella was the bailiff and stood behind the sitting Santiago throughout the trial to make sure he didn’t try to flee.
Court was gaveled into session and Judge Deer read the charge against Cappadona: “That on a night back in April, at the Lyon’s picnic, Mr. Cappadona did knowingly and willingly enter into a wager with Luis Santiago. Said wager being—that Mr. Santiago, known womanizer and Lothario, could not bed the fiancé of fellow teammate Mr. Basset before the All-Star break. The bet was for one hundred dollars to be paid either way depending on Mr. Santiago’s ability to produce or not produce a gold locket worn around the neck of said fiancé. The charge is terminal stupidity. How does the defendant plead?”
Matt Horn rose gingerly (he had a bad hamstring) and said, “The defendant pleads guilty—with special circumstances.”
“What special circumstances?” asked the judge.
“My client has a serious gambling addiction. It’s a well-known fact that he’ll bet on anything—that new coke tastes better than old coke, that Adrian Adonis is going to beat Junkyard dog.” He waited for the jeers to die down before finishing: “He bets on the jousting match in the third inning. And if that’s not bad enough, he even bet once that Tito’s drool, while he was sleeping on the bus, would drip on his shirt before we hit Glens Falls. It’s a disease, your honor.”
“Fuck ju guys. Pendejos,” said Tito.
“I object, your honor,” said Dane. “Where’s the diagnosis from a qualified psychiatrist? None has been introduced into evidence. This is just hearsay.”
“Good point,” agreed Judge Deer. “Objection sustained. The defendant is found guilty. Before we move into the punishment phase, is there anything the defendant would like to say to the court?”
“I just want to point out one thing,” said Phil, rising to his feet. “I bet against him. I bet that he wouldn’t do this thing. That should count for something.”
“It counts for very little,” replied Judge Deer sternly. He pointed his finger at a couple of veterans standing nearby—Burks and Svoboda—and they huddled around him for consultation. They adjourned in apparent agreement and the judge looked over at the defendant. “Mr. Cappadona, you have been found guilty of terminal stupidity. In punishment for your crime you will be required to carry the bags of Misters Burks, Svoboda and myself to and from the bus throughout the duration of the play-offs. You will also be at our beckon call for coffee, beer or late-night snacks. Failure to abide by this punishment will be met with swift reprisal. Do you understand everything I have just said?”
“Yes, your honor. And I thank the court for their leniency.”
Next was the case against Luis and the mood in the mock courtroom changed dramatically. Gone was the light-heartedness and playfulness from before and in its place rose an angry quiet. Some players stared daggers into Luis’s back while others avoided looking at him as one might avoid looking at a pariah. Many of them wanted their pound of flesh and would have preferred to dispense with the kangaroo court and just beat the shit out of him.
Judge Deer somberly read the charges that included “back-stabbing a teammate” and “sowing team dissension” and worst of all “casting dispersions on a young woman who happened to be a fine, upstanding Christian.” The judge asked Dane if he had missed anything and Dane replied, “That about covers it.” All eyes turned to Steve Basset who sat alongside two fellow pitchers. The two were there as guards in case Steve went after Santiago, but the likelihood of that was minimal. Steve was struggling with Christian forgiveness but he’d given Shake his word not to go after Luis and he was a man of his word. He looked up at the judge and said he had nothing to add to the charges.
“How does the defendant plead?”
Kid Curry got up, shrugged, and looked over at his client for help. “What do you want to plead?” he asked him.
“Nothing,” said Luis. “You know what you know. Don’t ask me anymore questions.”
Kid Curry threw his hands up and sat down. “In that case,” said Judge Deer, “the court will enter a plea of ‘not guilty’ on your behalf. Prosecutor, you can call your first witness.”
“I have only one witness, your honor,” replied Dane. “I call the one person who knows t
he entire story—Chuck Davis. Chuck, you’re to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you, God. The floor is yours.”
Chuck told the story from beginning to end—from the bet at the Lyon’s Picnic to the dénouement in Manager Glover’s office—and did not gloss over his own knowledge of the bet. He ended his story by relaying Santiago’s own confession in Glover’s office. There were angry murmurs around the room at this confession. Dane waited for things to quiet down before asking his only question of Chuck.
“What was his motive? If you had to conjecture an opinion, what would it be? Why would a player purposely lie and cheat to cause a fight between two fellow teammates?”
“Other than the fact he’s a fucking jerk? … I’m sure he planted the locket right after we talked about potential call-ups. I offered the opinion that if any pitchers got called up it would probably be Basset and Cap. He disagreed. So you see—he hoped the fight would get them both suspended and get him to the big leagues.”
Nobody disagreed with this conjecture and the angry murmurs got louder. The judge quieted the courtroom. Dane gave a stirring summation. At his turn to speak, Kid Curry threw his hands up in surrender and merely said, “We throw ourselves on the mercy of the court.” Judge Deer conferred with Burks and Svoboda and both verdict and punishment were agreed upon quickly.
“The verdict is guilty,” said Deer loudly. “And since the defendant has waived his right to speak I won’t ask him if he has anything to say before we hand down punishment… There will be no mercy today. The punishment is the ‘Circle of Shame’ which, as I understand it, has never been administered in Kingsmen history. And in case the defendant is under any delusion that this is all for show—that the ‘Circle of Shame’ carries no weight behind it—let me set him straight. Mr. Santiago, don’t ever again expect one of your teammates to bust his ass for you. You need a diving catch to save a shutout? You need one of us to take an extra base or lay down a perfect bunt or go the extra yard to get you a run? Know now it ain’t going to happen. You’ve set yourself apart and there you’ll stay… Gentlemen, let’s line up.”
