Two Hot Dogs With Everything

by Paul Haven

  Diamond Bob scowled into the darkness of the empty room. It didn't seem possible.

  The billionaire pressed a button on the intercom:

  “Truffaut, Hickock, get in here,” he said.

  A moment later, Calamity Truffaut, the larger of the two men, and Mortimer Hickock, who bore an unfortunate resemblance to a ferret, strode into the room. They had been summoned back to Texas just for this meeting and were booked on a flight leaving an hour later to get right back on the Gurkin case. The men had been working for Diamond Bob for years, but this was the first time they had been called on to judge the skills of an eleven-year-old.

  “Are you telling me he hasn't stepped on a single crack in the sidewalk the entire time you've been watching him?” Diamond Bob asked incredulously.

  “Not one,” Truffaut insisted.

  “He can hold a pencil under his nose for three straight innings?” Diamond Bob marveled.

  “I'm afraid it's true, sir,” Truffaut replied. “We've got pictures.”

  “And the hot dogs … ?” said the oil tycoon, glancing down at the pages and waving his hands in disbelief.

  “Before every single game,” Hickock piped up. “I've never seen anything like it, boss. Frankly, he frightens me.”

  This was not at all what Diamond Bob wanted to hear.

  But other than a few burrito stains on some of the inside pages, it was a flawless bit of scouting, the kind that had kept the Texas Tornadoes in front of teams like the Sluggers for decades. Diamond Bob slammed the report down on the table and picked up the phone.

  It was time to break the bank.

  Danny Strikes Out

  Danny stood in the batter's box and concentrated as hard as he could on the pitch from Briny Anderson. He swung softly, just to make contact, but the ball whistled past his bat and crashed into the metal fence behind. It was the tenth time in a row that had happened.

  “What's the problem, Danny?” Briny shouted from the dirt patch that served as a mound at the ball field at Quincy Park. “I'm just tossing it in there so you can hit it. There's nothing on these pitches at all.”

  Baseball season didn't start at John J. Barnibus until the spring, but Briny figured it would be good to get Danny some practice in early, seeing as he wasn't exactly famous around the neighborhood for his athletic ability. Briny only wanted him on the team as a good-luck charm, but school rules meant every player had to bat at least one time each game. Danny was definitely going to need some help.

  Danny and Briny had been practicing for more than an hour, and things weren't going very well.

  “Sorry, Briny,” Danny said, slamming the bat into his sneaker in frustration. “Throw me one more.”

  “All right,” Briny said. “But you've got to concentrate. Be the ball!”

  Briny went into his windup and released again, the baseball shooting out of his hand much faster than Danny thought possible.

  “Just make contact! Just make contact!” Danny thought as he swung, eyes focused on the white blur coming toward him.

  Whiff!

  The ball slammed into the backstop again. Danny's body was twisted around, the bat behind his left shoulder and his legs jutting out in awkward directions.

  As he spun around, Danny noticed two figures leaning against the screen behind him. It was Molly and Lucas.

  “Hey, guys. You want to play?” He smiled. “I kind of suck at this.”

  Molly and Lucas looked at each other, then turned back to Danny, who was busy looking for the ball.

  “Maybe another time,” Molly said.

  “Yeah, we're meeting the Triptiki twins for a game of two-on-two,” Lucas added, kicking the dirt at his feet.

  “Oh,” said Danny. “That's cool.”

  “Throw the ball back already,” Briny shouted. “You're hopeless, man!”

  As Danny picked up the ball, Molly and Lucas turned on their heels and walked off toward the courts. Danny stood and stared after them until he had to get into position for the pitch.

  This time Briny flung the ball even faster, and Danny didn't even have time to get his bat off his shoulder before he heard it clank into the screen.

  “Hey, Danny, let's call it a day,” Briny said impatiently. “You couldn't hit water if I threw you off a boat!”

  Briny ran over to give Danny a high five. Then he picked up his gear and sloped off with a backward wave, leaving Danny standing alone in the batter's box.

  A Flash of Fame

  Mayor Fred Frompovich reached down and grabbed Danny's hand in his big, clammy fist, a dozen camera flashes going off as he did. The mayor kept his hands well manicured for occasions just such as these, and he topped off the effect with a smile that said “I like you” and “I'm in charge” at the same time.

  “The Sluggers' two biggest fans, together just in time for the team's biggest game!” the mayor gushed, his eyes twinkling at the cameras as he gripped Danny's hand. They were standing on the street in front of City Hall, beside a silver limousine that had pulled up to take Danny and the mayor to Winning Streak Stadium.

  It was a big night.

  With just four games left in the season, the Sluggers could clinch a wild-card spot and the team's first playoff appearance in 108 years if they beat the Oakland Ogres. Frompovich had waited until this game for his photo op with Danny because his strategists told him everyone in town would be watching, and he'd be more likely to get a bump in the polls.

  Inside the limousine, Harold Gurkin rubbed his forehead. It had taken him days to get the courage up to ask his wife about the mayor's campaign idea, and when he finally did, she hadn't liked it one bit.

  “It's bad enough that we've lost you to that blasted campaign, Harold,” she said. “Now you want to get Danny mixed up in all of this? He's only eleven years old!”

  “But, sweetie, it won't be anything like that,” Harold pleaded.

  “That guy is such a phony,” Lydia said. “I wouldn't even vote for him myself if he weren't your boss.”

  “Look, Lydia, I'm under a bit of pressure here,” Harold snapped. “We're neck and neck in the polls, and we really need to win this one. Frompovich is the only guy with a real plan to move the city forward. I can't believe I'm saying this, but Danny's a hot commodity right now. He might really help the campaign.”

  “He's not a commodity, Harold,” Lydia shot back. “He's your son.”

  “Oh, you know exactly what I mean,” Danny's father replied. “It's just one night. It's not like I'm asking for the moon.”

  “It's your conscience,” Lydia said.

  “It's my job too,” Harold mumbled.

  The City Hall handshakes finished, the mayor and Danny joined Danny's father in the back of the limousine. It was the first time Danny had ever been in such a fancy car, and he looked around in amazement. The limo had a stereo and a bar and a small table in the middle with peanuts and potato chips laid out on it.

  “Cool!” Danny said.

  The minute the doors closed and the news cameras were out of sight, Mayor Frompovich reached into his jacket pocket and fished out a pack of Machismo cigarettes. He deftly tapped the pack against his knee so that just one cigarette popped out, then pulled it out the rest of the way with his teeth.

  “You got yourself one heck of a good kid here, Harry,” the mayor said, lighting the cigarette and taking a long drag. “One heck of a good kid.”

  The mayor put a hand on Danny's shoulder and fixed a million-dollar smile on Harold Gurkin.

  “We might even have a spot for him in the administration after we win in November. Honorary commissioner of good fortune or something like that,” Frompovich said.

  “I think Danny will probably be too busy with the sixth grade for that, Mr. Mayor,” Harold said quickly. “But it's very kind of you to offer.”

  As the limousine screeched down the concrete driveway to a VIP parking lot under Winning Streak Stadium, the mayor turned to Danny.

  “So how does it work, this luck thing?” he
said, and by the look on his face, it seemed as if he really wanted to know.

  “Well, Mr. Mayor—” Danny began, but the mayor cut him off.

  “Call me Freddie,” he said.

  “Mr. Mayor, really!” Harold protested, but Frompovich dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

  “Well, ah, Freddie,” Danny began slowly, glancing over at his dad. “You just have to want your team to win more than anything else in the world, and then do what your heart tells you. Hold your breath. Eat a hot dog. Whatever.”

  “Fascinating,” said Frompovich, blowing a series of smoke rings into the air.

  “A stash of magic gum doesn't hurt either,” Danny thought with a smile. The thought gave him an idea.

  “You know, Mr. Mayor—uh, I mean, Freddie,” Danny began. “There is one thing you could do that would be very good luck. It might even help you get elected.”

  Elected!

  The mere mention of the word made Mayor Frompovich's ears prick up.

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor,” Harold Gurkin said sternly, nudging Danny's foot. “My son sometimes gets a little ahead of himself and doesn't know his place. Danny, this is the mayor. He knows just how to get elected.”

  “No, Harold,” Fred Frompovich said, flicking the rest of the cigarette out the window and leaning in toward Danny. “Let the boy talk.”

  Harold Gurkin slouched down in his seat.

  “Well, Freddie,” Danny said, leaning in himself and putting his arm on the mayor's shoulder. “How would you like to go down in history as the man who saved the Boddlebrooks mansion?”

  The Fall of Skidmore Boddlebrooks

  The Sluggers did not win the pennant in 1934, of course. Nobody did.

  The snow that started falling in August did not let up until the following March, and by then the season had been canceled, along with Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's Eve.

  It was too cold to celebrate.

  Erckle C. Windhammer never came back to West Bubble to build his theme park. What would have been the point?

  Of even more concern to Skidmore Boddlebrooks, the cold spell had nearly put his Twisty-Doughy Pretzel Company out of business. None of the employees could make it in to work through the twenty-foot-high snowdrifts that had turned West and East Bubble into an arctic tundra, and it wouldn't have made any difference if they had. The pretzel machines were too cold to handle, and the dough shattered in your hands when you touched it.

  The Ball-Park Mustard Goo factory lay idle too. Had there been a market for extra-spicy mustard snow cones, Skidmore Boddlebrooks would have had it cornered, but none existed.

  Each week, the bank sent a brave courier to dig through the snow to Skidmore's East Bubble mansion with a sealed envelope that held a card showing his bank-account balance. And with each week, the number got lower and lower. Finally, it was so easy to remember that the courier stopped carrying a letter and simply told Skidmore how much money was left.

  The final knock on the door came shortly before Christmas. Skidmore's mansion still looked grand from the outside, but inside it was empty. Most of the furniture had been sold off or burned as firewood, and Skid-more had taken to sleeping on a small cot.

  It was late in the afternoon by the time the bank courier arrived, but Skidmore greeted his visitor unshaven and in his mustard yellow pajamas.

  “Hey, you got twenty-three dollars and thirteen cents in the bank,” the courier mumbled from behind a thick wool scarf that covered his mouth and most of his face. He was bundled up in a sheepskin jacket, earmuffs, mittens, two pairs of pants, and an enormous fur hat, and he was stomping up and down on a pair of wooden snowshoes to stay warm.

  Back in late August, the bank man had addressed Skidmore as “Mr. Boddlebrooks, sir.” But as the mustard millionaire's savings dwindled, his greeting had changed to simply “Hey, you!” Knowing the man had only $23.13 in the bank, the courier felt no compulsion to honor Skidmore with any title at all.

  “Perhaps the bank could see its way clear to extend me a small loan, just until the spring,” Skidmore said, scratching his head with one hand and clutching a stale pretzel in the other.

  “Fat chance. This place is already mortgaged to the hilt,” said the bank man. “Oh, and Boddlebrooks, I won't be trekking back here again next week.

  “In fact, I imagine you'll soon be hearing from our lawyers,” he added, turning his back on Skidmore and climbing up the white mountain of snow from which he had come. “Assuming we can find any lawyers in this weather, that is.”

  The Roar of the Crowd

  Danny spun around in wonder on the grass behind home plate, blinking up into the glare of the stadium lights. The crowd was enormous, a wall of clapping little dots that rose into the upper decks.

  They were all cheering for him.

  Flashbulbs burst from every corner of the stadium like fireflies in an immense field. The stadium public-address system was so loud it shook Danny's eardrums. It took him a second to realize it was blaring the theme song from Superman.

  “Come on, kid!” Mayor Frompovich shouted, nudging Danny from behind. “It's time to make some news.”

  As they walked toward the mound, Danny looked out at the giant-screen TV behind the center field wall.

  His jaw dropped.

  The television was showing a cartoon of a boy that looked remarkably like him swooping in on a cape, a hot dog firmly clutched in his right hand. The words HOT-DOG HERO! flashed on the bottom of the screen, and the crowd cheered even louder.

  Suddenly, a man in a metal mask with a lobster red chest protector strode toward him from the Sluggers' dugout. He was enormous, like a redwood tree with legs.

  “Kid, I've been wanting to meet you,” said the man, thrusting an official big-league baseball into Danny's hand.

  Danny gasped as the man pushed back his mask. It was Chico Medley, the Sluggers' catcher, and he was trailed by Chuck Sidewinder, Boom-Boom Bigersley, and Sid Canova. They all looked so much bigger than on television.

  “You, uh, you have?” Danny said, gripping the ball with both hands, his fingers rubbing the curved red seams.

  “Hey, my friend,” said Sidewinder, holding out his fist for Danny to tap. “You're good luck!”

  “Could you kiss my bat?” asked Bigersley, bending down and holding out his thirty-eight-ounce Louisville Slugger. “I'm in a bit of a slump.”

  Sid Canova gave Danny a high five.

  “I'm not going to wash that hand for a week,” the rookie pitcher said.

  “Me neither,” said Danny.

  Mayor Frompovich was already standing behind a microphone set up next to the pitching mound, waving his arms above his head.

  “How about a big hand for my close friend Danny Gurkin!” boomed the mayor, gesturing for Danny to join him.

  With Danny at his side, the mayor shushed the crowd and began to speak, his wide, sympathetic eyes slowly scanning the stands, trying to make contact with all fifty-five thousand fans.

  “For one hundred and eight long years, this city has been waiting for a night like tonight, waiting to get back to the play-offs,” Frompovich began, his voice echoing through the stadium. “For one hundred and eight long years, we and our forefathers have brought our hopes and dreams to this field, and we have left it with only one thing.”

  The mayor shook his head sadly.

  “That's right, people, I'm talking about pain,” the mayor said.

  “A century of pain. Five score and eight years of pain. According to my office assistant, who figured it out on his computer this morning, we're talking about nearly fifty-seven million minutes of pain.”

  The crowd sat and contemplated what a long, hard wait it had been.

  “If pain could be harnessed into power, none of us in this city would get electricity bills,” Frompovich went on.

  The mayor raised his fist in the air defiantly.

  “Well, my friends, somebody has turned that pain into power. Somebody standing right next to me.
A boy named Danny Gurkin.”

  The PA system cranked up again, and the crowd began to cheer. Mayor Frompovich milked the moment for everything he could.

  “I don't want to hold up the game,” the mayor went on. “But I do have one important announcement to make.

  “Just five minutes ago, I placed an urgent call to my dear friend Clyde Ramrod, the chairman of the West Bubble Town Council,” the mayor said. “Ladies and gentlemen, I put it to him straight in a way my opponent never would, and Mr. Ramrod has given me his word. “He says to tell you that plans to demolish Manchester Boddlebrooks's bubble-gum mansion have been scrapped! In fact, he has promised to start renovations immediately, and it will reopen to the public soon. That building will stand forever as a monument to our delivery from pain!” Frompovich shouted, his voice echoing through the stadium.

  The crowd began to murmur. People nodded as they realized what the mayor was talking about. Most had only been faintly aware the bubble-gum building still existed, and even fewer knew it was about to be demolished.

  A few fans began to clap. In moments, the entire stadium was on its feet.

  Danny looked at the mayor quizzically. Five minutes earlier, Frompovich had been smoking a cigarette in the back of his limousine. When had he had a chance to call Clyde Ramrod, whoever that was, and get him to promise not to tear down the mansion?

  It was time for Danny to deliver the first pitch and his palms were sweating. Chico Medley squatted down behind home plate and held out his mitt.

  “Whatever you do, don't bounce the ball!” Danny told himself.

  Danny put his foot on the pitching rubber and went into a windup.

  Zing!

  The ball zipped into Medley's mitt as straight as a dart, a strike down the middle of the plate!

  “Nice toss, kid,” Medley said, running out to the mound to return the ball to Danny. “You make sure and stay on our side!”

  The crowd cheered as Danny held up the ball and waved. He was starting to like this fame thing.