His attention to Cooper was typical of Tiny. He had known full well that his career was winding down, as he had known who his successor would be. But that didn’t stop him from spending time with Cooper, giving him batting and fielding tips, and helping him get used to the big league life.
I was pleased with the piece when I was finished. For all the help Tiny had been to me, I wanted to do him justice, and I thought I had. I went back over his career as a Titan, their first real star after expansion, and recalled what he had meant to the team over the years. It read like an obituary. I’d look like a right chump if Cooper didn’t work out and Tiny was back at first base in a week.
I got home at about 10:00. I fed Elwy, checked my machine for nonexistent messages, changed into jeans, grabbed the bottle of bubbly out of the fridge, and went downstairs and knocked on Sally’s door.
“Hi, neighbour. Care to take part in a scientific experiment?” I explained about the silver spoon theory of champagne.
“Come on in. You’re just in time to say good night to T.C. He’s dying to see you.”
Her eleven-year-old son is one of my favourite people of any age, the closest I’m likely to get to having a kid of my own. He came to the door with a grin on his face, dressed in his usual gear—jeans and a Titan sweatshirt, his running shoes unlaced and flopping. His big glasses give him an owlish look. He hugged me—a real bonus. Lately he’s been getting too big for such foolishness, but I guess a two-month separation is worth an exception.
“What’s new, aside from the foot you’ve grown since I saw you last?”
T.C. looked at his sneakers.
“What do you mean? I’ve still just got two.”
“Ha ha ha.”
“How’s Tiny? Did you see that home run he hit today?”
I winced. Tiny was T.C.’s hero. He had taken a great interest in the boy since they first met. I think T.C. sleeps with a home-run bat Tiny gave him during the pennant stretch, and having a friend like Tiny gives him some needed status in the schoolyard.
“He’s not great, T.C. They’re bringing Cooper up to play first base tomorrow.”
“Oh, shit,” he said, with a combination of embarrassment and defiance over his choice of words. “That’s not fair. He’s started to hit again. They can’t bench him.”
“He won’t be going anywhere. They’re going to DH him until they see what Cooper can do. I talked to Tiny. He said it will give him a chance to concentrate on hitting, so maybe it’s not too bad. Besides, Cooper’s a nice guy, too.”
“I still think it stinks.”
“So do I, kid. So do I.”
“If I write him a letter, will you take it to him?”
“Sure, but isn’t it a bit late?”
“Can I, Mum?” An ogre with a stone for a heart couldn’t have refused him.
“Make it quick,” she said.
He ran to his bedroom and I followed Sally to the kitchen, the most comfortable room in her apartment. While she got out the wine glasses, I hunted up her only ashtray in a cluttered cupboard and shifted a stack of books, mail, and tools to the shelf behind the table.
“Wait, I need that screwdriver,” Sally said. “And the wrench. I’m fixing this tap.”
Sally’s a great tenant, because she’s a crack handywoman. She’s not always prompt, mind you, but she knows how to do things once she gets around to them. The kitchen tap had leaked before I went to Florida.
“Can I help?”
She laughed.
Having made the offer, I sat down and poured the wine. This silver spoon trick actually worked. There was some fizz left twenty-four hours after it had been opened. Sally worked efficiently, muttering to herself, and occasionally to me. I smoked and watched the performance, while giving her the news of my time in Florida and my aborted reunion with Andy.
“My life would be a whole lot less complicated if I didn’t share it with a cop.”
“Are you and Andy fighting again? You shouldn’t do that,” said T.C., who had come into the kitchen, shaking his head disapprovingly. Sometimes this kid acted like my older brother.
“Nothing serious, you precocious little creep.”
“You’re not going to break up with him, are you?”
“No such luck. Is that the letter?”
He handed me a sealed envelope.
“I marked it ‘Personal,’” he said.
“And Kate and I are going to steam it open the minute you go to bed,” said Sally, from under the sink. “Which is right now, sport.”
“Aw, Mum. Can’t I just talk to Kate for a while?”
“Not on a school night, with a test tomorrow.”
“Wait, wait, let me just tell her about Thursday.”
He didn’t pause for permission.
“My class is going on a field trip to the Planet.”
“Your tour will go right behind my desk, then. I’ve got schoolkids breathing down my neck half the time I’m in there. Don’t throw spitballs at me, okay?”
“Can I introduce you to some of my friends?”
“If I’m there when you get there. I don’t spend a lot of time at the office.”
He looked disappointed.
“All right, all right. Are you coming in the morning or afternoon?”
“Morning.”
“I’ll try to be there.”
“You promise?”
“I promise,” I sighed. “Of course, you won’t mind if I call you Toodles in front of your friends.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Not if you mind your P’s and Q’s until then, buster.”
“Like going to bed tout de suite,” Sally said.
“Give me a smooch first, handsome.”
He pecked me on the cheek, then patted his mother’s bum, which was the only part of her available, and wished us good night. He winked at me as he left the room.
“He’s turning into a smartass,” Sally said, crawling out from her cave, but the affection in her eyes betrayed her. She stood up and turned the water on, then off, with satisfaction. No drip.
I applauded and she curtsied, a fairly ludicrous gesture from one dressed in a leopard-print jumpsuit, then plopped herself down at the table and reached for her glass.
“Adolescence is looming,” she said. “I can feel us sinking into a decade of turmoil.”
“He’s not even twelve yet,” I laughed.
“They start early now,” she said. “It’s their diet or something.”
“I don’t think you have to worry.”
“I wish I could believe you,” she said, suddenly serious. “He got caught shoplifting while you were away.”
“You’re kidding!”
“He and a bunch of kids from school went down to Gerrard Square and hit one of the jeans stores. Luckily the cops called the parents rather than lay charges. I hope T.C. had his criminal streak scared right out of him. I thought maybe Andy could talk to him.”
“I’ll ask. But I don’t think it’s anything to get bent out of shape over. Every kid does it sometime. Didn’t you?”
“Never.”
“Gee, I was part of a gang of desperados who used to steal a candy bar every day on the way home from school for a while. One of us would buy something as a diversion and the rest would help ourselves. I feel guilty about it to this day.”
“But your father was a minister,” she gasped.
“That’s why I had to prove that I could be as naughty as the next kid.”
“I’m shocked!”
“But I didn’t end up a crook for life, and neither will T.C. He was probably lucky he got caught.”
“I guess.”
“Lucky he encountered a decent cop. Or lucky he’s a nice, white, middle-class kid the cops call parents about.
Anyway, I’ll see what Andy has to say.”
“Speaking of which, where is he tonight?”
“Working. He’s on these child murders. I don’t think I’ll be seeing much of him until they’re solved.”
“I hope he gets the guy soon, for my sake as well as yours. These kids are T.C.’s age. This whole thing is giving me nightmares.”
“You don’t have to worry about T.C.” I reassured her. “He’s smart and he’s street-proofed.”
“I hope so.”
“Are they talking about it at his school?”
“Sure, they had a policeman in talking to the assembly after the second murder.”
“And you’ve talked about it at home.”
“Of course. But I’m still worried about him. I can’t be here all the time. I’m even thinking about taking a leave from the gallery to look after him.”
“As your landlady, I wouldn’t advise it,” I laughed. “Besides, whether you’re here or not, T.C. is too smart to go off with some fast-talking stranger.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a stranger. We don’t know.”
“For God’s sake, stop worrying about it. He’s a solid, level-headed kid.”
“Sure, a level-headed kid who runs around with hoodlums after school.”
“Relax. Have another glass of bubbly.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
I poured.
“So, what else is new?” I asked.
“A man.”
“Another starving artist?”
Sally was notorious for choosing losers. Her last one had done very bizarre performance art and neglected to return money he borrowed.
“No, this one is pretty straight. His name is David Pelham, he’s forty-two, and he’s been divorced for five years. No children or other encumbrances. I met him at a fundraiser for the African National Congress.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a social worker. He counsels troubled kids. He’s really nice.”
“So maybe he can help straighten around your wayward son.”
“I don’t think T.C. is quite ready to take David’s advice.”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it? A little bit of jealousy from your pre-pubescent son?”
“Just a touch.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Do you realize that you are sounding more and more like my mother every day?”
“Yes, dear. And by the way, what does his father do?”
“He’s a Mountie.”
“Gack!”
“I told you he was straight,” Sally laughed. “But, mercifully, not as straight as his dad. And I’ve been seeing him for a month.”
“Well, here’s to you, then,” I said, hoisting my glass. “I hope I get to meet him soon. I’ll want to give my blessing before it goes too far. Or am I too late for that?”
“Actually, no,” she said. “It’s a little strange, but we haven’t actually done it yet.”
“Done it? As in capital-Done, capital-It?”
“He says he doesn’t want to rush into anything. I guess he’s old-fashioned.”
“Or not as straight as you think,” I said.
“I’m not worried about that,” Sally said, somewhat demurely. “He is definitely heterosexual.”
“Oh, you have progressed to heavy petting then.”
“Kate, you are terrible.”
“The state my sex life is in these days, I have to get my kicks vicariously.”
Chapter 8
The phone was ringing when I got upstairs. I picked it up as the machine answered and yelled into it over my own recorded voice. The machine was attached to the phone in my study on the third floor and wasn’t affected when I picked up the kitchen extension.
“I’ll talk after the beep,” I said. “Don’t hang up. I’m really here.”
I was laughing by the time the message finished and the beep sounded.
“All right, you bum,” I said. “What’s your excuse this time?”
“Kate?”
The voice wasn’t Andy’s.
“It’s Joe Kelsey.”
“Joe, what’s up?”
“I need to talk to you.”
I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight.
“Now?”
“I want some advice,” Joe said.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just have a story for you. It’s a scoop, I guess you call it.”
He laughed.
“Joe, what is this about?”
“I’ve decided I want to tell a story, and you’re the one I want to tell it to.”
His voice was interrupted by the beep signalling another call on the line. I apologized to Joe, and switched lines. It was Andy, still at work. I told him I adored him and would see him the next day, and got back to Joe.
“Sorry. What’s the story, Joe?”
“Td rather tell it to your face. Can we come over?”
“Who is we?”
“There’s a friend I want you to meet.”
“I take it this can’t wait until tomorrow?”
“We can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Hey, what else have I got to do? Just go to bed and get a decent night’s sleep for a change. Sure. Come on over. But it had better be good.”
Maybe I was going to find out what had been on Joe’s mind all spring. I just hoped it wasn’t going to be a repeat of one bizarre occasion in Cleveland when Joe tried to save my soul. Oh, Lord, what if he was bringing another Holy Roller with him for a spot of sharing of scripture? I wasn’t in the mood. I doubted it, though. I hadn’t been very receptive the last time, after all, and we’d stayed friends. Who knows? He might just want to dump all over his teammates, or demand a trade, or something else that would be good copy.
I did a quick tidy of the parts of the place that my visitors were likely to see, throwing debris into the bedroom. Elwy grumped at me when I moved the pile of newspapers he’d been lying on, then waddled to the kitchen to sniff at his food dish. I got a notebook from my study and put a fresh cassette in the recorder I use for long interviews. When Joe knocked on the door, the kettle was just coming to the boil.
He looked more relaxed than I’d seen him in weeks. With him was a good-looking man in his thirties, well-dressed and fit, his hair brown with just a hint of grey. They dropped their jackets on a chair in the hall, then followed me to the kitchen. We decided upon tea, and made small talk while I brewed it. Joe’s friend, Sandy Montgomery turned out to be a lawyer from San Francisco, across the bay from Joe’s home town, Oakland. He was making his first visit to Toronto.
“I hope you’re enjoying it,” I said, as we settled in at the kitchen table.
“I’m having a great time,” he said, smiling broadly.
“Maybe I’d better explain,” Joe said, looking a little nervous. “Sandy’s not just a friend. He’s my lover.”
I only spilled a bit of the tea I was pouring. I looked from Joe to his friend, who watched me with some amusement in his eyes. It was he who broke the silence. I wasn’t about to.
“I guess you’re surprised because I’m white,” he said.
Joe began to laugh, and the two of them slapped palms, exchanging fives. I had to laugh too, albeit a little nervously.
“And where do I come in?”
“We want you to write about it,” Joe said.
“We’re sick of hiding,” Sandy explained, a little belligerently. “Joe and I think the world is ready for a gay baseball player. You don’t?”
“I don’t have a lot of problem with it, personally,” I said, carefully, “but I’m not your average baseball-type person. In a word, no, I don’t think that world is ready.”
“Will it ever be?” Sandy asked.
“It wasn’t that long ago that baseball wasn’t ready for a black player either.”
“True enough, but does Joe want to be the Jackie Robinson of this particular cause? Have you really thought this through, Joe? If you go through with it, you’d better consider the consequences.”
“I’ve hardly done anything else for the past few months,” Joe said. “I know that it won’t be easy but it’s something I have to do. You should understand that better than anyone. You know that Sultan Sanchez was blackmailing me. Every time I paid him, I thought about what would happen if the word got out.”
Kelsey had been a suspect in Sanchez’s murder because of the blackmail material the Dominican had left behind, including a clipping which listed Joe as a found-in in a bathhouse raid in Knoxville. Charges were eventually dropped, but Sultan, not a particularly nice person, found out, and hit Joe for a couple of grand a month. Joe didn’t have much choice.
Even though I had known about Joe’s past through my involvement in the Titan murders—the blackmail material had been sent to me—I was surprised by his visit for a couple of reasons. Preacher came by his nickname honestly. He was the most devout of the born-again Christians on the team, not the most sexually enlightened group around. I always assumed that he had embraced his faith so fervently to slay his homosexual demons.
But even if he had managed to come to terms with himself, I was amazed that he was ready to go public. His peers were going to despise him. As for the fans, who could know, but it wasn’t going to be easy.
“I think you’re nuts,” I said.
“Since I’ve been with Sandy, I’ve decided that I can handle any kind of abuse, as long as we’re together.”
They smiled at each other. I looked away.
“It’s going to come from everywhere, Preacher. Can you imagine the fans in Yankee Stadium?”
“I’m looking forward to Detroit, myself,” Sandy chuckled. “The bleacher creatures are going to be freaked.”
The guy was beginning to get on my nerves. It wasn’t him they were going to be throwing things at.
“What about your own teammates, then? You have a hard enough time with some of them just because you’re black. Have you thought about Stinger Swain’s reaction?”
Safe at Home Page 4
