Barefoot Boyd smiled sagely. “Right! And on a gin hangover he three-hit Dry River!”
Nightlife Nesbitt was nodding. “And now here he is with another gin hangover, hanging the collar on Kelly’s Corners!” He lapsed into a lengthy brown study before saying, “It is purely a matter of conjecture, you understand, hypothetical at best, but one cannot help but wonder how the matchless Roger Hannistan would perform with a gin hangover.”
Barefoot Boyd’s eyes widened and he turned slowly on the bullpen bench. The two relief pitchers stared wordlessly at each other for the better part of a minute. Then Nightlife Nesbitt broke the silence with a pensive sigh. He said, “It would be extremely difficult to arrange, because when the matchless Roger Hannistan is not lousing up a baseball game, he locks himself in his hotel room where he reads Shakespeare and quaffs foaming flagons of Ovaltine.”
Barefoot Boyd said, “Don’t dwell on it, you could fuck up your mind.”
Nightlife Nesbitt said, “There is no armour against fate.”
Barefoot Boyd said, “Where did you get that bullshit?”
Nightlife Nesbitt said, “From Shirley.”
Barefoot Boyd said, “Well, Shirley oughta know, she got knocked up six times last year.”
Nightlife Nesbitt said, “Not that barmaid in Swamp City—I’m talking about James Shirley. He wrote tragedies.”
Barefoot Boyd said, “He must have seen Roger Hannistan play shortstop.”
Nightlife Nesbitt’s eyes had narrowed to crafty slits. He said, “The prophet hath written, ‘In its very cornerstone exists the flaw that renders vulnerable the mightiest of fortresses.’”
Barefoot Boyd nodded gloomily. “Yeah, they ain’t building fortresses the way they used to.”
Nightlife Nesbitt said, “I refer to Roger Hannistan’s addictions to Shakespeare and Ovaltine.”
Barefoot Boyd said, “Beats hell out of Hustler and pot.”
Nightlife Nesbitt spoke with a sibilant intensity. “Having appraised this matter, I find it worthy of my attention, and I feel a drowsing beast stir within me.”
Barefoot Boyd said, “Did the prophet say that?”
Nightlife Nesbitt said, “No, it was King David.”
Barefoot Boyd said, “When?”
Nightlife Nesbitt said, “Right after he’d seen Bathsheba.”
The game was in the top of the ninth and Grandpa Earlybeam had struck out the first two Kelly’s Corners batters. The third popped harmlessly to Roger Hannistan at shortstop. The ball struck Hannistan’s shoulder and caromed into foul territory and by the time it was tracked down the Kelly’s Corners runner was at second base. Three Ton Throckmorton advanced to the plate and punched a soft looper over Hannistan’s head. The lanky shortstop was off with the crack of the bat, running smoothly, his long, effortless, gazelle-like strides enabling him to overtake the ball easily before he tripped and fell heavily, losing his cap, his glove, one shoe, and the baseball in a wild flurry of arms and legs. Hannistan scrambled to his feet, glancing in all directions, but the ball was nowhere to be seen. The tying run had crossed the plate, and Three Ton Throckmorton was chugging his bulk around first base, headed full-throttle for second. Hannistan went through his pockets. No baseball. He looked under his cap. Still no baseball. With a keening wail of despair, Bucky Kilroy left the dugout to race onto the playing field as Three Ton Throckmorton lumbered around second to make for third. Bucky Kilroy plucked Hannistan’s shoe from the grass of short left field, shaking it viciously. When the ball popped out, Bucky Kilroy caught it, wheeled, and threw hard and low to Strap Jockingstud at third base, the ball arriving on a single skidding ankle-high bounce to nail Three Ton Throckmorton by twenty-five feet. The third base umpire shook his head disapprovingly, calling Throckmorton safe at third and waving Kilroy back to the Grizzly Gulch dugout.
Grandpa Earlybeam stood on the mound, glaring at Roger Hannistan. If looks could have done it, Hannistan would have turned into a pillar of ostrich manure on the spot. Then the old war-horse took a deep breath, exhaled audibly, and turned to face the next Kelly’s Corners Shillelagh, Theodore Rumbolio by name.
Theodore Rumbolio swung at a slow curve off the outside corner, missing the pitch by two feet. He took a healthy cut at a sharp-breaking screwball on the inside corner, fouling it off the handle into the backstop screen. He hacked feebly at a fluttering knuckle ball and topped it, sending a brisk one-hopper directly to Roger Hannistan. Hannistan knocked it down, picked it up, dropped it, retrieved it, dropped it, and stepped on it with both feet. Clutched by sheer panic, Hannistan leaped backwards and kicked the baseball to Nitro Droofik at first base but Theodore Rumbolio beat the kick by an eyelash, Three Ton Throckmorton had waddled the ninety feet to home plate, and Kelly’s Corners led Grizzly Gulch 2-1.
That was the final score. In the last of the ninth, the No Sox loaded the bases with two away, but Roger Hannistan struck out on three pitches.
In the Grizzly Gulch dugout, Grandpa Earlybeam rose slowly to his feet, stretching and yawning before sauntering nonchalantly to the bat rack to locate Nitro Droofik’s 38-ounce black Louisville Slugger. He hefted the bat for feel and balance, raised it high over his head, yelled, “AAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEE!” and lit out after Roger Hannistan, displaying remarkable agility and speed of foot for a man of his advancing years.
Bucky Kilroy sat smilingly serene in the dugout, legs crossed, munching a half-pack of Red Man chewing tobacco, watching Grandpa Earlybeam pursue a terror-galvanized Roger Hannistan around and around and around.
Nightlife Nesbitt and Barefoot Boyd leaned on the bullpen fence. Nightlife Nesbitt said, “Twenty gets you a hundred if he catches him.”
Barefoot Boyd said, “What if he does? Grandpa Earlybeam couldn’t hit a bull in the balls with a banjo.”
Nineteen
We run out of time, all of us—we’re old before we realize it, and very old when we do. Age is a stealthy thing, as silent as it is certain, advancing by inches, an intriguing visitor at first, then an overbearing curmudgeon who won’t move out, and Kirby was already on a first-name basis with the sonofabitch. His stamina was fading in and out of bed, his reflexes were dull, his memory was scrambled—he could remember vividly the events of twenty-five years earlier, but his days before yesterday were elusive wraiths, hovering just beyond his reach, baiting him, and for every one he caught, a hundred ran free. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is within earshot, is there a sound—and if a man can’t remember the events of a day, was there a day? Kirby wondered about that—he wondered about a lot of things, and he spent a great deal of his time looking back, rummaging in the musty attic of nostalgia, reliable signs that, at fewer than forty years, Birch Kirby had topped the ridge and was on his way down the shady side of the hill.
He showered and dressed slowly, the last to leave the No Sox clubhouse, waving a listless goodnight to the pudgy night watchman, hearing the chain-link gate clang shut behind him, walking toward the Grizzly Gulch Hotel at death march cadence, awash in a frothing black sea of pessimism. Life was a card game, Kirby was sure of it, and somebody up there had dealt him a fistful of jokers. This Grizzly Gulch business was a wild goose chase if he’d ever seen one and he’d chased his share of wild geese. The Central Intelligence Agency was tearing up the wrong pea patch, tilting at windmills, searching for a radio station that probably didn’t exist. He entertained very few doubts that Pentagon Radio was intercepting a smidgen of the Tibetan daily stock market-report—something to do with goats being up and long-haired camels being down. He reasoned that atmospherics and shortwave harmonics had conspired to create the illusion that the signals hailed from this dismal one-horse cornbelt village; then a pack of paranoids had assembled to get roaring drunk and multiply ‘SAMD + 23’ by infinity, and so had come the Great Grizzly Gulch CIA Convention—some thirty overpaid government flunkies blundering around like bears in a broom closet, gaining seniority and a certain amount of training, perhaps, but not a helluva lot more. He thought of the two char
acters who’d appeared at the pin-oak tree earlier in the day—CIA men, he assumed, CIA men in frantic search of imaginary Soviet operatives, eager to make mountains out of molehills. He’d been trespassing, no maybes about it, and the woman with the Gratz & McFarland shotgun had elected to protect her property from an intruder, it was just that simple. The amber lights of the Grizzly Gulch Hotel glimmered half-a-block ahead, and Kirby shrugged. All right, fifteen hundred a week was fifteen hundred a week, phantom radio station or no phantom radio station, cataclysmic Soviet Union plot or no cataclysmic Soviet Union plot. He’d take orders, he’d carry them out to the best of his ability, and for that kind of money he’d sit in the Grizzly Gulch No Sox bullpen until the fucking millennium. What the hell, the whole damned world was cadging off of Uncle Sam, so why shouldn’t Birch Kirby pick up a few stray shekels?
He lit a cigarette and entered the hotel lobby where he skidded to a stop. There was an enormous dark-brown and white bird perched on the back of an overstuffed chair. It had fierce, tawny eyes, a great hooked beak, and savage, scythe-like talons. Its feathers were in a state of total disarray and a great many were missing. The bird stared unblinkingly at Kirby, and Kirby stared back, waving for the desk clerk’s attention. He said, “What the hell kind of big bird is this?”
The desk clerk yawned. “It’s an eagle.”
“A bald eagle?”
“Damned near—I think he must of got hit by a truck—he come fluttering in here around eight o’clock and he’s been parked on that chair ever since.”
“Maybe you oughta call the cops.”
“I did, but the Chief says he don’t want to get involved on account of bald eagles is our national symbol.”
Kirby shrugged and headed for the staircase where he bumped into Bucky Kilroy. He said, “There’s an eagle in the lobby.”
Bucky Kilroy said, “If he can play shortstop I will have him in uniform by daybreak.”
Kirby said, “Well, he won’t need spikes because he already got ’em.”
Bucky Kilroy didn’t laugh, he didn’t even smile, and this told Kirby that baseball managers probably aren’t much on humor.
He sagged dejectedly onto the edge of his bed and he was kicking off his shoes when the telephone rang. Dixie Benton’s voice floated from the receiver. “Kirby, I have just one thing to say.”
Kirby said, “That’s nice because I’m too damned tired to listen to two.”
Dixie said, “Jim Gallagher certainly knew how to pick men!”
“He did?”
“Birch Kirby, you’re the answer to a prayer!”
“Yeah, well, that was forty-eight hours ago. My performance level has a tendency to fluctuate.”
“Aw, Kirby, why don’t you just junk that act? You hamstrung them this afternoon! That antenna in the tree didn’t get us the transmitter we’re looking for, but we found their receiver in that little boarded-up house! He’d been in there for weeks, operating their listening station!”
“He?”
“Yes, Kisarze! Two down, and two to go! That female get-up didn’t fool you for a minute, did it?”
Kirby cleared his throat. “Did they get anything out of him?”
“Not yet, but they’re sweating him, and I believe he’ll crack because he’s terrified of you! He said that you ate him up, that you gave every impression of being a birdbrain, but that you have a mind like a bear trap! He said that he never wants to tangle with you again!”
“Those guys with the artillery—who were they?”
“The Amadio brothers—they were tagging you just in case you got your tit in the wringer, but there was no need for them, you handled Kisarze alone! Tom Amadio said that he’s never seen such a physical feat—leaping from that height and taking out a man with a loaded double-barreled shotgun before he could pull the trigger! A fantastic job! Kirby, I salute your prowess!”
“So where does this leave us?”
“One step closer but two miles short. However, you may have spooked them into doing something rash”
“Like what?”
“No telling just yet, but tall oaks from little acorns grow! You’ll remember that Jimmy Doolittle’s 1942 raid on Tokyo was militarily inconsequential, but its psychological impact was tremendous! It panicked Yamamoto into swerving from a sound strategy to an attack on Midway. He lost his ass and Japan lost the war. Who can say that something similar won’t come of this?”
“My God, you’re saying that the Russians may attack Midway?”
There was a lengthy pause from Dixie Benton’s end of the line. This was followed by another lengthy pause. Then Dixie said, “Now, look, Kirby, you’re good, you established that fact this afternoon! You’re so God damned good that you’re probably the best fucking undercover man in this whole fucking world, but, so help me, one of these days, your sly, supercilious, tongue-in-cheek bullshit is going to…”
“Wait a minute, Dixie—what ever gave you the idea that…”
“What ever gave us the idea that we’re in your league? No, Kirby, we aren’t in your league, that’s obvious—you’re head and shoulders above us, but…”
“Dixie, for Christ’s sake, hold it, will you?”
“Hold it, my ass! If this assignment is tinker-toy stuff for the great Birch Kirby, maybe it’s just a bit difficult for us ordinary human beings!” She was puffing like a steam locomotive. “Somebody may get killed before we get out of here, but we aren’t dogging it—we’re hanging in there, doing the best we can with what we have! We’re trying to do a job for the United States of America, and there isn’t one of us who’s dragging down fifteen hundred dollars a week—try to remember that, big shot!”
Kirby stared at the receiver, looking for smoke. He didn’t know what the hell to say. He mentioned this to Dixie. He said, “Dixie, I don’t know what the hell to say.”
There was heavy silence before Dixie said, “Aw, shit, Kirby, I’m sorry! You were just needling me and I blew my top. I’m wound pretty damned tight, I guess.”
“Forget it.”
“No, dammit, I won’t forget it I had no right to eat you out like that! All right, I’ll make it up to you in bed, first chance I get, I promise!”
“Shucks, Dixie, that won’t be necessary!”
“No, sir, I insist! I’ll do a number on you, honest to God, I will—hell, belly dancing isn’t all I learned in Istanbul!”
“But…”
“No ‘buts’ about it, Kirby, it’s settled! How did the No Sox do tonight?”
“Roger Hannistan blew the game in the ninth.”
“How?”
“How much time you got?”
“Well, Hannistan’s just a kid and he needs encouragement. Maybe someone should talk with him.”
“That wouldn’t be easy. The last I saw of Hannistan, he was on top of the scoreboard and Grandpa Earlybeam was waiting below with a baseball bat.”
Dixie giggled. Her stridency had faded and she was all peaches and cream. “So what else is new, Kirby?”
“There’s an eagle in the lobby.”
“You don’t mean it!”
“Yep, he’s lost most of his feathers.”
“I see.”
“He’s a bald eagle.”
“Well, I should say! He has to be bald if he’s lost most of his feathers, wouldn’t you think?”
“He looks sort of pissed off.”
“Most eagles do. Now, tell me about the unicorn in the lounge.”
“I haven’t been in the lounge.”
“Kirby?”
“Yeah, Dixie?”
“Kirby, you popped my cork once tonight, and, by God, you aren’t about to do it again! Goodnight, love—sleep tight and dream of Istanbul!” She made a low, throaty, growling sound, and the line went dead.
Kirby’s door flew open with a bang. Matilda Richwell entered the room and Kirby stared transfixed. She wore black-net stockings, lace-trimmed red garters, four inch-heeled red pumps, and that was all. She kicked the door shut, lo
cked it, secured the night-chain, and sat close beside Kirby on the bed. Her breasts hung to her navel like deflated balloons, and her ribs jutted like canary cages. She studied Kirby, the tip of her tongue patroling the withered surface of her lower lip. She said, “What do you wish to report?”
Kirby said, “Well, let’s see—oh, yes, I wish to report that Grandpa Earlybeam has Roger Hannistan trapped on top of the scoreboard, that there is an eagle in the lobby, and that you have forgotten to get dressed.”
She threw her bony arms around Kirby. Her eyes were pools of molten lava and her perfume cascaded over him, an engulfing wave of sassafras. Kirby was unfamiliar with sassafras perfume. She said, “You may omit the trivialities! What is your opinion of kinky sex?”
Kirby said, “I also wish to report that I have just noticed flames to the south, possibly in the vicinity of the Grizzly Gulch ball park.”
She had the speed and limber dexterity of an orangutan. She clamped a scissors-hold on Kirby’s neck. She hissed, “You handsome devil, I will do anything you ask of me! Your basest desire shall be my command! I will perform your every bidding without question, without protest!”
Kirby said, “Well, I am indeed very glad to hear that, and for openers you might try letting up on my windpipe, because I am experiencing considerable difficulty with my inhalation, not to mention my exhalation.”
She whipped off one of her lace-trimmed red garters, slipped it around Kirby’s head, and squealed, “Ooooooh, there we are!” She leaned back to admire the effect. “Would you believe that sex with an Indian chief has always been one of my very favorite fantasies?”
Kirby scowled. “Don’t you think we’ve done enough to the poor fucking Indians?”
“Oh, darn, if only we had a feather for that headband, we could get this show on the road!”
“There are a few feathers in the lobby, but there is an eagle attached to them.”
She pushed him down on the bed, straddling his chest. Pound for pound, she was stronger than a bull brontosaurus. She said, “Tell me, Big Chief, have you ever had an unusual sexual experience?”
Kirby's Last Circus Page 9
