“Well,” Ray said suspiciously. “I guess if he ain’t one of those social-climbing Jackie Robinson kinfolk.” He glared at Roberto. “You ain’t, are you, boy?”
“Oh, no señor,” Roberto said, shamming a thick accent. “I am in the Minors long enough to make a few American dollars, then return to Cooba to buy my family a small cotton farm.”
“All right, then. I guess it’s okay.” Ray placed two cans of Jax on the counter. He punched one small and one large triangular hole in the top of each. “But Bobby,” he said, looking up. “Could you do me a favor?”
“You know it,” Bobby said, taking his beer.
“Would you mind sitting towards the back?”
“That’s just where we were heading. Thanks, Ray. Keep the change.”
They weaved around small square tables on their way to a three-top wedged near the back corner. Roberto scanned the mural covering the wall from the chair molding to the ceiling: hundreds of mosquito hawks hovered over a marsh of lily pads and cattails burdened with redwing blackbirds. Bobby took the chair facing the door.
When Roberto hoisted his beer, he saw them over Bobby’s left shoulder—two bullfrogs the size of footballs sitting on opposite ends of an enormous lily pad. Their pink tongues, stretching two feet out of their mouths, had captured the same mosquito hawk, and neither would let go. They sat, stubbornly frowning at each other, while hordes of insects flitted about them.
Roberto laughed. “This is so true, is it not, Mr. Bobby?”
Bobby lifted the Jax to his lips and took a long swallow, the foamy explosion closing his eyes.
“Yep,” Bobby said without moving his head. “You pay attention, there’s no telling what you could learn from a coupla frogs.”
“You sound like some of those in my country. ‘Baseball is the opiate of the people.’ These frogs are capitalists, no?”
“Careful,” Bobby said, leaning over and whispering loudly. “Senator McCarthy might have this table bugged.”
“This McCarthy. What position does he play?”
Bobby smiled. “He’s a senator from Wisconsin.” Roberto shook his head slightly, like a pitcher calling off a sign. “In the government,” Bobby said. “In Washington.”
“Ah, yes,” Roberto said. “Washington, D.C., where the Senators play baseball. It sometimes is confusing to me.”
Bobby looked over Roberto’s shoulder toward the door. Roberto swiveled around.
“You see somebody you know and want to sit with us, Mr. Bobby?”
“I know almost everyone here. I’m looking for someone I don’t know.”
“You are always a speaker of riddles, Mr. Bobby. The wise old men of Cuba are this way.”
Bobby reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes. He held the box toward Roberto and signaled with his eyebrows. Roberto waved it off. Bobby extracted a cigarette, planted it between his thin lips, and returned the pack to his pocket. He extended his left leg out from the table and reached in his slacks for his lighter. He flipped the silver top of the Zippo and stroked the wheel with his thumb. Bobby let the flame burn for a second, started to touch his cigarette with it, then stopped and looked at Roberto over the flame. “You like to win?” Bobby lit his cigarette, clapped the lid shut with his right palm and returned the lighter to his pocket like a treasure.
Roberto brightened up. “Without winning, there is no point to pitch, Mr. Bobby.”
Bobby drew on his cigarette and blew a smoke ring away from Roberto. “What do you do after you win?”
“Try to win again, of course.”
Bobby nodded. “Let’s say you win a Double-A pennant. Why would that matter? There must be dozens of Double-A leagues around the country.”
“You could go to Triple-A or maybe the Majors.”
“So you win a Major League pennant. Then what?”
“You go to the World Series.” In Roberto’s mind, the mention of the World Series called forth images of cheering spectators waving thousands of white pennants. Entering heaven, he imagined, would be something like this.
“So you win the World Series? Then what?”
Roberto wondered what manner of idiot was sitting across from him.
“You are the world champion, Mr. Bobby.”
Bobby set his cigarette in the green-glass, frog-shaped ashtray.
“What about the losers?”
“I guess it is too bad for them.”
“And this is a good thing, to make someone feel bad so you can feel good?”
Roberto did not know what to say. He was deep in thought, and Bobby decided it was time.
“Ricardo,” Bobby said.
“I am Roberto.”
The response was quick. Too quick, Bobby thought.
“Sorry,” Bobby said. “My mistake.” It was as if Roberto had trained himself to react immediately to such a trick.
Bobby decided that Roberto was the original person and became Ricardo when necessary. A calm, intelligent person could act like a stupid, nervous one, but not the other way around. Ricardo had a case of what Bobby’s mother called the heebie-jeebies. There was no way Ricardo, if he were the original, could have stood as still as Roberto had stood at the entrance of The Green Frog. Not for two minutes, not for two seconds.
“Roberto, you’ve played enough baseball to know that fans are unhappy with their own team most of the way through a season. Even when they’re winning, the fans always have it out for two or three players. So and so’s not giving it all he’s got. That sort of thing.”
Roberto nodded agreement.
“So you can’t say baseball is important because it makes people happy. And wouldn’t you say the teams that make it the farthest and then lose are the unhappiest?”
Roberto shook his head. “What you say is very true and, I think, very sad.”
Bobby delayed the discussion by smoking his cigarette. He glanced at the door. Real or not, Bobby thought, Ricardo would have to die off soon. If he was real, Chozen wouldn’t tolerate him being constantly late and would chase him out of hiding from his brother. If the two were really one, Bobby would know it soon.
Roberto pushed his chair back from the table. “Mr. Bobby, I will excuse myself for a minute.” When he disappeared into the restroom at the back of the bar, Bobby thought, Surely he’s not going to try that one on me. How stupid does he think I am? Ricardo appears while Roberto’s in the bathroom, then leaves, then Roberto reappears. Fat chance I’d swallow that.
Bobby finished his cigarette and lit another. Lifting his head as he tilted to put the lighter back in his pocket, he saw Ricardo push through the front door, his head jerking around like a hungry blue jay looking for a quick dinner. In disbelief, Bobby raised his hand and waved whoever it was, Ricardo or Roberto, over to the table.
When Ricardo reached the table, breathless, he beamed, “Lucky Strikes!” He glanced around like a wanted man looking for enemies. “For being late, I must apologize, and I thank you for asking me to have this drink with you.”
With his foot, Bobby scooted the third chair away from the table and shot a glance back at the restroom. Ricardo sat with fingers entwined and surveyed the table. He pointed at the second beer. “You have another friend, or perhaps your brother to drink with you this night?”
A waitress passed near the table and Bobby snapped his fingers. “Lorine, could you bring us another beer, please? Jax.”
Ricardo’s eyes jumped from one part of the mural to another as if he might be selecting something for a meal—a frog, a blackbird, or a mosquito hawk.
Out of the corner of Bobby’s eye, Roberto appeared. Bobby’s peripheral vision had been trained by a dozen years of mound work. As Roberto approached the table, Bobby kept his eyes on Ricardo. His instincts told him Ricardo was the one to watch.
Ricardo looked up at the nearby movement. When their eyes met, Ricardo skidded back in his chair and jumped up as if he’d seen a rattlesnake. The chair toppled over and slapped the floor. Ricardo
raised his right hand in a fist. Bobby stood and placed a palm on each man’s chest like Samson pushing the temple pillars apart. Ricardo leaned against him hard, ready to fight, while Roberto stood tall but firm, not backing down. Bobby could feel both of their hearts racing.
Not counting the boyhood fights with his brother, Bobby had fought half a dozen times in his life. He did not swing first in any of them and lost only one, the one that ended his Major League career before it had begun.
Bobby did not want to fight either of the men he was holding at bay, and he did not want them to fight each other.
“Stop it!” Bobby shouted. A wave of silence surrounded them, then rolled towards the door, where it hit and returned as a wave of sound. Out of the general noise, Bobby picked out a single voice.
“Aw, it ain’t nothing but a coupla jigaboos, Bobby. You oughta throw ’em out back and let ’em fight till they kill each other.”
“Now,” Bobby said. A corner of his mind said to another corner, Well, you found out what you wanted to. Now whatcha gonna do?
“Just calm down,” Bobby commanded. He pushed Ricardo back a step, losing contact with Roberto. Staring into Ricardo’s mahogany brown eyes, Bobby pointed blindly behind him and said to Roberto, “Sit right there. I’ll be with you in a minute.” He continued to push Ricardo back until the two of them were swallowed by the crowd.
“It’s all right,” Bobby said. “I just needed to find out which of you was real.”
In a shrill voice, Ricardo said, “What the hell mahn are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” Bobby said. “Forget it. Just head on back to your room. I’m sorry about this.” Ricardo relaxed and turned around to face the exit. “But Ricardo. I’ve got to tell you one thing.”
“What is this you got to tell me?”
“Chozen has a fine waiting for you when you return. He told you never to be late again and you skipped a game the very next day.”
“My ass, it was wore out, Lucky Strikes. I did not have to pitch. What does he want from me?”
“Ricardo. Listen to me. You don’t show up tomorrow, you might be out of a job.”
“My bro-thair,” Ricardo said. “I feel like I must kill him every time I see him.”
“Why? What could he have done to make you feel that way?”
“Lucky,” he said as Bobby ushered him out the door. “How would joo like to see joorself every time joo turn around? It would remind joo that joo are no-thing special.”
Bobby shook his head in disbelief. He was relieved it was nothing worse.
The move from the darkness of the bar to the glare of the late afternoon sun temporarily blinded them. Ricardo was breathing hard, as if he had just finished a fight and was now fighting with himself.
“Look, I’ll talk to Mr. Chozen. We’ll work something out. Maybe y’all can sit on opposite ends of the dugout. But I’m telling you, Ricardo, you have to show tomorrow.”
Bobby finished calming him down and walked back inside.
Roberto was sitting at the table as if nothing had happened. After Bobby took his seat, he discovered he could not hold his eyes on Roberto for long.
“This meeting, Mr. Bobby. It was planned, no?”
“Yes. I had to find out if y’all were really twins or just one person acting like two in order to pull down a double salary.”
“You thought—.” Roberto didn’t know whether to be angry or not. When the absurdity of the situation hit him, he burst out laughing. “Mr. Bobby, all you had to do was ask. I would have told you anything you wanted to know about my brother. I have not talked with him much in the past five years, but I would tell what I know.”
Bobby detected a movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Bobby.” A hand placed itself lightly on his shoulder. In the semidarkness, Bobby looked up at a vaguely familiar face he could not attach a name to. “I saw in the papers where you won in Beaumont and wanted to congratulate you.”
Bobby offered his hand and the man shook it. “Thanks.” Bobby thought the man was one of the many Lake Charles fans who had become familiar to him. They had probably talked a number of times, maybe even shared a beer with mutual friends last year or the year before. Bobby assumed the ritual had ended and turned back to Roberto.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?”
Bobby looked back at the smiling man and studied his features until they came together and matched an image in his mind.
“Louis Martin.” Bobby was not smiling as the memories flooded in. “How have you been?”
“Good,” the man said. “Fine. Came down from El Dorado in March. Working on the bridge.”
Bobby nodded. “Good,” he said. “I hear it’s good work.” Bobby wanted to ask Louis a question and Louis could see it in his eyes, but Bobby would not have asked the question if Louis had stood there for a year.
“Listen,” Louis said. “Why don’t you stop by on the way out?” He pointed at the door. “I’ll catch you up on the Oilers.” Bobby knew Louis was speaking to him in code and he silently thanked him.
“Sure thing,” Bobby said. “I’ll do that. Good seeing you again.”
Bobby looked at Roberto and felt suddenly stupid at the smallness of wanting to expose the two brothers as one man. Seeing Louis reminded Bobby that there had been a time in his life when the deception would not have mattered, when he would have laughed at it as a clever but impractical joke.
“These Oilers,” Roberto said. “They are a team you played for?”
“Yes.” A feeling of sadness swept over Bobby as he thought, And I’d give everything I have to be playing for them again, Class B or not. Because everything I have is nothing compared to what I lost.
“About my brother, Mr. Bobby.” Bobby nodded. “Ricardo has what we call in Cuba a mañana attitude. It means—.” Roberto worked his hands as if he were rolling a big wad of dough. “It is a desire to put off work. No, not even that. It is a non-thinking of work until it is absolutely necessary. This is a different matter from his attitude toward me. What is between him and me cannot be fixed. Mr. Chozen can fix the mañana attitude by staying firm on him like a child.”
“Thanks,” Bobby said. “I’ll tell him.”
The two pitchers talked baseball for a while: how each gripped his changeup, when to throw a curve, whether the stride foot should land differently on different pitches. Roberto gracefully dropped the subject of what Bobby had done, and Bobby was grateful for Roberto’s unspoken forgiveness.
As they talked, Bobby periodically checked over Roberto’s shoulder to make sure Louis had not left. Roberto finished his beer and picked up his brother’s.
“The thing about pitching,” Bobby said, “is we’re all just one injury away from losing our job.”
“For many, Mr. Bobby, that is true. But me, I have a good, strong arm. I have never in my career had an injury.”
“It doesn’t have to be an injury on the field. Anything. One mistake, and you miss the yellow brick road to the Emerald City.” Bobby offered his left hand as proof. Roberto looked at the crooked fingers.
“Oh,” he said. “I did not know.” He looked at Bobby’s eyes. “You were once a great pitcher of the Major Leagues?”
Bobby felt a sad laugh bubble up and die. “No, but I had my picture on the cover of PIC Baseball for winning twenty-two games at Little Rock.” Not comprehending, Roberto stared at him. “Triple-A,” Bobby explained. “1946.”
Brightening, Ricardo said, “Mr. Griggs told me of this Triple-A. Little Rock is in the farm system of the Boston Braves, no?”
“Yes. You were scouted by Dewey Griggs?”
“Yes,” Roberto said, excited. “You know Mr. Griggs?”
Bobby smiled. He knew Mr. Perini only sent Dewey Griggs after the best prospects and that reminded him that at nineteen he had been considered one of the best.
* * *
Bobby elbowed up to the bar and drank a bourbon and coke with Louis Martin. Louis said he had seen a call f
or welders on the Calcasieu River Bridge. There had been so much in-state corruption and union turmoil that the federal government stepped in and awarded contracts to out-of-state construction companies. Bobby told Louis about the fishing, fresh- and saltwater, the seasons to catch speckled trout and redfish and flounder. He offered to take Louis sometime.
When all the talking was done, they got down to the real issue.
“Bobby,” Louis said, not looking at him. Bobby knew this was it. He hoped it would not be bad. “Irene’s coming down next week.”
His hopes soared. “To visit?”
Switch Pitchers Page 14
