The Spoiler

by Domenic Stansberry

  “You didn’t ruin anything,” Kelley said. “Brunner had a way out all along. He was just lying low, studying his cards.”

  “What happened? The last you told me Brunner was getting ready to switch sides; at least it looked that way.”

  “He’s got Harrison.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’s got Harrison, or Harrison’s got him, damn it! I had no idea they were hooked up.”

  “He’s involved with your father-in-law? How could that be so?”

  “Forget the specifics. The old man called me this morning. He told me to stop playing games. He told me I had to knuckle under to Brunner.” As Kelley spoke, he made his own knuckles into a fist and placed the fist on the dashboard. He looked down into the valley, at the sinking tractor, and swore.

  “Maybe you can pressure Harrison, too,” Amanti offered.

  “That’s a joke.” Kelley made a noise resembling a laugh. “Nobody in Massachusetts pressures Harrison. It isn’t just this state either; presidents run to wipe his nose when he sneezes.”

  “I thought Harrison supported Sarafis.”

  “He does, in his own way. He mumbles the right words in public, keeps the liberals happy, and it’s what he believes, too. He explained it all to me, gave me a little lecture on democracy. ‘When you get down to it,’ he told me, ‘there are things more important than one man, one election. There are many men, a system, and it has to run smoothly, my personal opinions aside.’” Kelley laughed, then went on, his voice no longer imitating his father-in-law’s. “In other words, Brunner’s got the grease. Harrison and his friends’ve got the palms. A perfect match. And I didn’t even know about it.”

  Kelley seemed genuinely upset. Whether it was because his schemes had gone for nothing, or because he was wearied by the corruption—both his own and that of others—or because he simply didn’t like losing, Amanti didn’t know. His eyes were watering now, and he made no attempt to hide it. She reached to touch his lips with her finger; his lips were soft, like those of a child, and she felt a sharp pain when she kissed him, a pain that she imagined to be his pain as well. She pulled him closer, so both their pains would disappear. When they pulled apart, Kelley’s mouth was red from lipstick; for a brief, crazy second she thought the lipstick was blood.

  “The old man told me if I didn’t go along with Brunner, I’d never be anything but a two-bit representative to the state legislature,” Kelley said. “If it weren’t for his daughter, he’d burn me at the stake himself.”

  Amanti sighed. She reached for the ignition, but Kelley grabbed her hand.

  “You have to help me get rid of the reporter. Brunner wants him off the case. So does Harrison.” Kelley spoke rapidly, urgently, all trace of weakness gone. “Brunner had one of his people give Lofton some money to get lost, but my guess is that he’ll want more. He checked out of the hospital today, and you’re his best connection to us. He’ll be by your house, I’d be willing to bet on it.”

  Amanti thought of telling Kelley he was wrong. Lofton wasn’t interested in the money, or at least she didn’t think he was. “If you don’t help out,” Kelley said, “Brunner’s not going to be happy, with me … or with you.”

  She started the ignition. She didn’t like the idea of dealing with Brunner when he was angry, but she was pretty sure he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. When things settled down, he would come see her at the apartment. His touch would be a little fiercer than before, for a while; he would hold her in the way you held someone who had almost left you, but hadn’t, because you were the one who orchestrated the leaving, and the coming back, and the other one could do nothing without you. That’s the way it would feel for him, except every once in a while there would be the look of dead rage because he suspected she wasn’t paying attention but instead was thinking about Kelley.

  As Amanti drove down the hill, back the same road she had come, Kelley explained what he wanted her to do. When Lofton came to see her, she was to tell Lofton to go to Brunner’s house. Brunner would pay him off and at the same time ask Lofton to write one more story: a piece about the rally that was going to take place the following afternoon at the Hillside Mall.

  “Why doesn’t Brunner just give him the money and let him go?”

  “You know Brunner. He likes to get something for his money,” Kelley said. When they reached the bottom of the hill, Kelley handed her a piece of paper. She saw two lines written in Brunner’s hard, narrow script:

  The old railroad depot.

  Conch Street. 8:00 P.M.

  “You’re going to come to the rally with us, but afterward that’s where you meet Lofton. At the old depot. After the rally. I don’t care how you do it, but make sure he meets you. Then leave town. When you’ve got him far away from here, in a month or two you can come back. I’ll take care of you.”

  “That’s sweet,” Amanti said, but she didn’t buy it. The whole thing was too canned, too detailed. If they wanted her and Lofton to leave town together, there was no sense in arranging every detail so precisely, down to the place and the time. And there was no reason to keep her occupied every minute until it was time to meet him. Unless they had other things planned.

  “You’re not going to let me meet him at the depot,” she said. “That’s not why you want him there. You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”

  Kelley shook his head. He told her no, Lofton wasn’t going to die, but as he spoke, she sensed the weariness in him, the weariness in herself, and knew that he was lying.

  Lofton took his duffel into the stands and watched the practice. After talking to Golden, he had bought a small bottle of women’s makeup. He had removed his bandages, then put the makeup on thickly, clumsily. The makeup had become dry and crusted on his skin, but at least he would not call quite so much attention to his bruises.

  The Redwings looked tired. They had been on the road since the last time he’d seen them, the day Dazzy Vance had been in town, and they had played ten games in the last week. Now they were back home, under a grizzled sky that blew gusts of infield dirt across the playing field. The breeze sent whirlwinds of trash skittering across the field—an erratic, jiglike dance of beer cups and paper wrappers.

  The Redwings had played well on the road, winning seven out of ten and pulling within four games of first-place West Haven, but only five games remained in the season. The Redwings would have to sweep this series against West Haven, then beat the Sailors twice in Lynn, all the while hoping that West Haven would lose again in its last game at home. The scenario seemed unlikely, but at least the team had a chance, and that had not seemed possible a month before.

  He walked to the outfield fence, where Sparks paced the warning track. Sparks had been around the night Gutierrez told Amanti about the arsons, and Lofton still had not talked to him about it.

  Sparks saw him coming, spat in the outfield grass, and walked briskly the other way. Lofton followed. He knew that a lot of players, particularly pitchers, were superstitious about talking before a game, especially to a reporter. Lofton, however, wondered if something other than superstition lay beneath Sparks’s reluctance.

  Lofton caught up, but Sparks was in no mood to talk. He kept his eyes to the ground and kept pacing, chewing his tobacco and spitting every few steps, ignoring Lofton beside him. Lofton started out talking baseball.

  “Pitching rotation’s a lot stronger now, what with you and Kubachek and that new kid up from A ball. That must make you feel pretty good.”

  Sparks sighed as if he realized the question were a ruse. “Kubachek’s gone,” he said, and kept walking.

  “Gone?”

  “Yeah, gone. Cowboy pulled him back to California for the Blues’ big pennant drive. What’s the matter, don’t you read the papers?” Sparks started to brush Lofton away. Then he caught sight of the reporter’s face.

  “What are you made up for? Halloween?”

  Lofton touched his face. The makeup came off in small flakes. “No, I got in an a
ccident. The makeup looks better than the bruises.”

  Sparks shook his head. “Yeah,” he said, and resumed pacing.

  “You think you guys can do it without him?”

  “Without who?”

  “Kubachek.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We would be where we are with him or without. And that’s in a hole. We haven’t won five in a row all season, let alone against these guys. They’ve clobbered us all year. And if by some chance we slip them now, they’ll be out to fuck us in the play-offs.… So you got what you need. You got your quote. Now let me pace. Alone.”

  “I need to talk to you about something else.”

  “Surprise.”

  “It’s about Gutierrez.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I need more information.”

  “He’s dead. What else is there to know?”

  “Listen, this is serious stuff, Sparks.” Lofton heard the anger in his voice. “I’m trying to figure out what happened. You knew him. Tell me, flat out: What was Gutierrez fooling with? Why was he killed?”

  “No sé, señor.”

  “Don’t crap me, Sparks. Or is that just the way it goes? Gutierrez is your friend for a while, up to a limit, then you worry about yourself?”

  “Back off. No wonder you got bruises.”

  “You were there, with Amanti, when he told her about the fires, about Golden.”

  “I wasn’t in the room.” Sparks curled his lip. “I was out driving my car, I think. Or maybe I was asleep.”

  “Sure. Dreaming about Los Angeles.”

  “Screw yourself, Lofton. I been here three years, and I don’t want to be here any longer. I want my chance. I can’t help what Gutierrez got himself mixed up in. This town was here before I came, and it will be here when I’m gone. I’m not around to give some reporter his big break. I got my own breaks to worry about.”

  While Sparks talked, Lofton felt himself getting angrier, the same sort of anger, maybe, that Golden had felt. He decided to push Sparks, to find out if there was something the pitcher was hiding. “You want to hear how I got it figured?” he asked.

  Sparks didn’t answer. The pitcher was getting angry, too, his face red. When they reached the left field foul line, Sparks spun on his heels and headed back the other way. Lofton kept pace. Then Coach Barker appeared on the field. He started out toward them in a huff. Lofton knew he didn’t have much time.

  “This is how I put it together: Amanti confided in you, and you went straight to Brunner. You told him about Gutierrez; you told him I was on the story. Later, after Gutierrez was fixed, you talked to Golden and set me up for this bruising—a little something to get me out of the picture.”

  Sparks hesitated. He was vacillating, it seemed, torn between answering Lofton’s accusations and lashing back. He clenched his right fist, but he had enough control over himself to realize that if he struck out at Lofton, he might hurt his own hand as well, and that would hurt his performance on the mound.

  “What are you saying?”

  “You set Gutierrez up. You told Brunner. You’re the reason he’s dead.”

  Sparks’s eyes widened. Losing his restraint, he grabbed Lofton by the collar.

  “Hey, what’s going on here?” Coach Barker shouted. Barker was almost on them now. He waved his hands. Sparks loosened his grip, but he did not let go.

  “You stool to Brunner, your friend dies, and you get your shot at the majors. Big cock on the block.”

  Sparks pulled back his fist now, as if he were ready to hit Lofton. Nonetheless, he hesitated again, deliberately, it seemed, giving Coach Barker time to push between them.

  “What are you two doing?” Coach Barker turned to Sparks. “Do you want to pitch tonight or should I send you to an early shower?”

  “He called me a murderer,” Sparks said.

  Coach Barker, gumming up his chaw of tobacco, spat in the direction of Lofton’s feet. He shook his head at Lofton. “You out of your mind? Get away from my pitcher, goddamn you. Are you trying to lose me a game?”

  “I’m a Redwings’ fan,” Lofton said. “I wouldn’t do anything to make you lose.”

  Sparks put on another show of temper. “Keep this bastard away from me, will you? He’s trying to ruin my game.”

  “Shut up, Sparks,” said Coach Barker. “And you, Lofton, it’s time to get lost. If you’re not off the playing field in two seconds, I’m calling security.”

  When the game started, Sparks was almost unhittable. If anything, the angry conversation had helped more than it had hurt. He struck out five of the first nine batters. Only one man reached base, and that was on a Japanese liner, a cheap squib over Carpenter’s outstretched glove. Behind Sparks, the team played cleanly and crisply. They scored two runs, scrabbling and clawing: in the first, Tim Carpenter walked, stole second, scoring on Elvin Banks’s single; then, in the next inning, Singleton doubled, advanced on a grounder, and raced home when Lumpy sacrificed to the warning track. It was baseball with a razor edge, and Lofton—despite everything else that had been happening—enjoyed it.

  In the fourth Sparks weakened. He was never meant to be a starter, Lofton thought. A reliever, yes. A couple of quick innings and out. Surely Coach Barker must realize this as well. Sparks was good through three innings, mediocre through five, horrible after that. Chances were, however, that the Blues’ management would see only the combined stats, unless someone bothered to point out the distinctions. If that had happened, if the Blues were going to call him up, even if it was just for a cup of coffee, it would have to happen soon.

  Sparks loaded the bases with one out. The next man hit the ball weakly, too weakly, and Carpenter, charging hard—twirling, stumbling, throwing: all in one motion—got the runner at second. But the relay for the double play was late, and a run crossed home.

  Sparks came into the next batter hard, hard as he could. The batter hit it deep. Coming to its feet, making a low, collective gasp, the crowd watched as the ball arced down and the Redwings’ left fielder, turning, gathered it in at the warning track. The inning was over, the damage minimal; Holyoke still led.

  In the Holyoke fourth Elvin Banks was brushed back. A high fastball sent him diving at the ground. Banks got up, screaming.

  “I been beaned!”

  The ump said no. The Holyoke fans yelled encouragement.

  “Come on, Elvin.… Go clobber ’em.… Go kill ’em.”

  But Banks watched strike three rush by on the outside corner. The West Haven players jeered and laughed. Banks, the bat still in his hand, turned glowering toward the West Haven bench. Nothing happened. The field changed hands. It was past twilight now, and the clouds were very thick.

  Since his fastball had lost its zip, Sparks grew cautious and started throwing his curve. He trailed four pitches too far from the corner, and the leadoff hitter took first.

  Pull him, Lofton thought.

  Coach Barker did not move. Sitting placidly on the bench, one hand on his stomach, he looked like a small, fat Buddha. Lightning flashed in the sky overhead, and a solitary, fat drop of rain fell on Lofton’s sleeve.

  A shallow pop, another walk, and there were runners at first and second, one out. The rain came down harder. If Sparks could somehow hold the score and kill the rally before the downpour began—and the umps called the game—Holyoke could walk away with a win.

  Sparks played it coy, loping curve after curve, half of them missing the strike zone, half edging over. Finally, he had to come in with the fastball. The West Haven catcher tagged it, a short, powerful swing that sent the ball ricocheting toward the outfield fence. At first Banks seemed to have misjudged the ball. He backpedaled; then, slipping on the wet grass, he changed field, snaked out his glove hand, and came down diving. He held the ball in his glove. The runners returned. There were two outs now, Holyoke still leading by a run, and the West Haven pitcher was coming to bat. He was the same man who had brushed back Banks the inning before, sending a pitch in close to his head. Sparks stepped
off the mound, yelled out an insult, and came in with a fastball, tight at the wrist. The pitcher jumped back. He complained to the umpire. Some West Haven players yelled from the dugout, screaming that Sparks was trying to hurt their pitcher.

  Sparks ignored them, turning his back and staring out at center field. Then Sparks threw his fastball again. The West Haven pitcher tried to duck, but he could not get away. The ball bounced off his helmet and caromed toward the dugout as the West Haven pitcher fell to the ground. Both benches cleared.

  The players ran from all directions toward the mound, the West Haven players leaping toward Sparks, the Redwings jumping to protect their pitcher, bodies slipping helter-skelter on the wet grass, punches flying, hitting, missing, arms flailing in the rain. Barker walked toward the melee, still calm, his arms still folded over his stomach. Around him, in the increasing downpour, the ump tried to settle the players. A group of Redwings grabbed Sparks, trying to pull him out of the fight. Some West Haven players tried to do the same with their pitcher. But just as things seemed to calm down, a West Haven man broke loose, hurtled over the others, and threw a punch at Sparks. The brawl broke out again, the umpires in the middle, Coach Barker milling at the edges. A photographer jumped the fence, and some teenagers followed. Then came the crew from the halfway house. The security guards followed, one hand waving the nightstick, the other on the holster. Somehow they managed to chase away the crowd. Soon it was only a few players fighting. Then it was only Sparks and the West Haven pitcher, rolling in the mud on the mound.

  Barker stood over them, arms crossed. On the ground beneath him the two pitchers continued to struggle, though not so fiercely now, until finally Barker reached in and pulled Sparks away. The umpire pointed his finger at Sparks, raised his thumb in the air, crossed his chest, and threw him out of the game. The West Haven pitcher took first base. After Barker had sent Hammer in in relief, the game went to its last out, the bases loaded now, Holyoke still clinging to its lead.