Not like that today, of course. At least a thousand fans had beaten him to JRS, even at this hour. They were basking in the late spring sunshine, watching the teams running through their practice routines on the field below. It was only an exhibition game, a preview of the real thing that was still months away, the Orioles and the Indians at that, but it was baseball. Baseball at last.
The field that had never been anything but a football grid before this glittered in the sun, the base paths fresh, the chalklines stretched out toward infinity, and Deal thought he could make out the smell of grass clippings as he found the right seats well down the first base line. This was how Saturdays were meant to be, he mused, as he settled in, arranging everything, amazed at his own ease, then lulled by the crack of batters in the practice cage. Ground balls chewing through the red clay of the infield. Liners drilled to left, to center, to right. Lazy flies that soared toward the fences, and in more than a few cases, into the stands where ushers raced children for the balls. He checked his watch. In ten minutes, the timer he’d installed back at the fourplex should kick on, and his yard work for the day would be done.
He had added flower boxes beneath the windows on the front of the fourplex, had even run a drip watering system up to a set on the second story. If everything worked out, that little switch would flip, and all those geraniums would get watered at once. Plenty of red geraniums against the gray-and-white facade. He’d always liked the medicine-like smell of geraniums. In the fall, when it got cool again, he’d lay in some marigolds along the walkway. Another astringent smell he liked.
A player in the batting cage swung late and launched a foul ball that arced into the stands, over Deal’s head. He stood up, shielding the seat beside him, watched the ball crack down safely, a couple rows above them. He didn’t have the slightest urge to go after the ball. It was fine the way it was. Sitting. Watching. Trying not to think.
He’d grabbed his mail on the way out of the fourplex, stuffed it in his back pocket, along with the sports pages, and now he leaned forward and pulled it out:
A Val-Pak of coupons for the farmacia, the ferreteria, and the supermercado up the street from his place. Deal’s Spanish had been getting better and better.
Also a property tax notice from the county assessor, stamped in red: “IMPORTANT, THIS IS NOT A BILL.”
And a little notecard with a return address in Boca Raton, his address in a feminine hand. That one he opened.
She was doing fine. A nice apartment, not much of a view, doing hostess work at a seafood place on the Intracoastal. Homer had called her. He was a lot boy at a place not so far away, in Jupiter. Had Deal heard? The people were laid-back, the food was good, life was good. She hoped his was, too. Thanks again, Barbara.
He put the note back in its envelope, stuck it away in a pocket of his jeans.
“Why didn’t you go after that?”
Deal turned to see Driscoll making his way slowly down a set of steps behind him, balancing a big box of food and drinks in his meaty hands. Every step sent another splash of beer onto the steps at his feet.
Deal got up to help him, but Driscoll insisted on doing it himself, sloshing beer onto his pant leg as he settled down in the aisle seat. “I saw that ball go right over your head,” Driscoll said. “I was hoping I’d see some of the old Deal in action.”
Deal shrugged, smiling. “It’s a nice day,” he said. “Thanks for the tickets.”
Driscoll shrugged, glancing nervously at the bundle in the seat beside him. “They’re freebies.” He took the wrapping off a hot dog and offered it to Deal, who shook his head. Driscoll took half of it with a bite, studied Deal while he chewed.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he said, finally. “I stopped by your place, see if you wanted a ride.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Deal said.
“Me neither,” Driscoll nodded. He turned back to the field, still chewing. “Guess what they got me for retirement.”
“Retirement?” Deal glanced at him. “I didn’t know you were that old.”
“Next month,” Driscoll said. “Thirty years and it seems like sixty. And the last dozen or so…” he broke off, shaking his head. “I’m kind of happy to go out with a case didn’t have to go to trial, though.” He gave Deal a look.
Deal nodded. Neither one of them spoke for a while. Finally, Driscoll broke the silence. “You going to guess, or not, what they got me.”
Deal turned to him, thought for a moment. “Season tickets. For the Tropics.”
Driscoll laughed. “You should have been the detective,” he said.
Deal smiled.
“’Course they won’t be called the Tropics since Mr. Ter-rell doesn’t like the sound of it,” Driscoll said.
“And you’ll have to drive all the way up here to see the games,” Deal said.
Driscoll gave him a look. “That’s better than what would have happened, if it hadn’t been for you. If Penfield and Alcazar had their way.” Driscoll leaned forward, concerned. “That’s something good happened from all this, son.”
Deal glanced at the seat beside him. “Something more important than that,” he said.
His gaze drifted off into the distance. It seemed so long ago, most days. And still, other days, he’d wake up and wonder where the hell he was.
“You doing okay, Deal?”
Deal came back, gave Driscoll a smile. “Doing fine,” he said. “I spent a while convincing myself it wasn’t my fault, everything that happened…” he trailed off.
“You really believe that?” Driscoll said. “Total assholes kidnap your old lady, put the squeeze on you that way…”
Deal stared at him. “I try not to work as hard these days,” Deal said. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
There was a brief wail from the seat beside him and Deal turned to see that his daughter had awakened at last. She blinked up at him, squinting her tiny eyes against the light, then launched into a full-throated screech.
Driscoll watched Deal gather her up in his arms, maneuver a bottle into her grasping mouth. In moments, she had settled down to serious lunch.
“I gotta hand it to you,” Driscoll said, shaking his head. “Raise a kid at your age, you’re a better man than me.”
Deal laughed then, a good strong laugh. He’d been having more and more of those lately.
He glanced out over the playing field, savoring the precious weight in his arms.
“I get plenty of help, Driscoll.”
He nodded toward the field below. At the lovely woman who was making her way up the steep steps toward them. Janice was still moving with a limp, but as she’d told the doctors, she would beat that too. She was smiling, holding a baseball aloft, was shaking it in triumph.
“I don’t even know the kid’s name who signed it,” she called. Driscoll stood up as she approached, sloshing more beer down the front of himself. She gave the detective a peck on the cheek, then leaned in to give Deal a bigger kiss.
“It was one of the Indians. I told him it was for the first lady Major Leaguer,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “How does that sound?”
“Play ball,” someone shouted, down on the field.
“That sounds fine, Janice,” he said, embracing her with one arm, holding their daughter between them with the other. These days, everything sounded fine.
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Done Deal Page 28
