Left Field

by Elizabeth Sims

  After practice Jackie asked if we could talk. I said, “Why don’t you stop over at my place?” The look on her face was like, I thought you’d never ask.

  I hate clutter, so my design aesthetic was along the lines of a Navy barracks—plain white enamel-metal table in the kitchen, plus chairs of the kind that used to be considered utilitarian, then went away altogether, then came back when some designer in a loft in New York decided the style was incredibly hip. Then it got expensive and all the cool people had to have it. Then they got tired of it, and now you could find the new-old stuff in secondhand stores.

  I’m always suspicious of secondhand upholstery, so I managed to score a brand-new couch and a couple of armchairs on clearance. They were an offbeat zucchini color, but everything else I had was neutral, so it all looked OK. My Aunt Rosalie had made a few throw cushions in a somewhat complementary gold color. Perhaps the old ’70s-era green and gold were poised to make a huge comeback, and I’d be riding the crest of that exciting wave.

  Jackie and I both knew where things were headed.

  I offered her a seat on the couch.

  “What a—nice—place!” she said.

  I caught that hesitation; it was the inflection of a person who was used to calling everybody’s apartment “cute” but who was honest and perceptive enough to realize that my place was not cute. She couldn’t quite come up with another appropriate adjective, so she bailed to “nice.”

  I did appreciate that. I opened the windows, and a sweet night breeze blew in, rattling the venetian blinds slightly.

  “Drink? I have Scotch or Scotch.” I had taken to always keeping a fresh can of mixed cocktail nuts in my pantry. They’re an ever-ready little flourish with drinks.

  “You know what? I think I’ll have a little Scotch,” she said. “Do you have any soda?”

  “No soda. Water.”

  “Good, I despise soda. Just making sure you wouldn’t add any. A little water then.”

  “Coming up.”

  I’m always relieved when somebody I like turns out to be a liquor drinker. My background as a barroom toddler, I guess.

  I used to like introducing new friends to my pet rabbit, Todd. He was such a gentleman: so friendly, inquisitive, polite. And of course soft and cuddly, though he didn’t go in for getting squeezed.

  Raquel was a different matter. Cute as hell, really; her little masked face so neat, her small forepaws so remarkable, her waddling yet astonishingly agile gait so appealing. She’d gotten almost as big as Todd had been. Yet she was…she was…

  “She’s a handful!” said Jackie, brightly, after I released the little raccoon from her crate. Trailing cedar shavings, Raquel instantly clambered to the nearest windowsill and scrabbled against the blinds, seeking to climb their vertical, unstable surfaces.

  “You said it!” I explained Raquel’s provenance as I chased after her.

  I refrained from saying, “Raquel! Stop it!” because vocal commands had zero effect. Only picking her up and redirecting her worked at all.

  She had nipped me a couple of times, barely breaking the skin, which I didn’t panic over, knowing Lou had checked the family for rabies and given shots or whatever. However, those little jaws were growing ever larger and stronger.

  Jackie and I enjoyed watching her try to destroy her yellow toothy-fish squeak toy. Man, she worried that thing like a lion. Suddenly a small explosion occurred, and the toy lay limp. Raquel stood over it, eyeballing it suspiciously.

  Jackie said, “You’re gonna need a bigger chew toy.”

  “And a bigger crate.” I sighed. “I don’t like keeping her locked up.”

  “I know. She reminds me of the tiny tiger cubs on the nature shows. They’re so cute, the way they play and pretend to kill each other, and it’s like you want one. But…pretty soon…”

  “Right.” I grabbed Raquel as she headed for the nut bowl in Jackie’s lap. “Back into your cozy little hideout, dear. I know. Mama loves you too.”

  “Does she snarl like that every time you put her in?”

  “That appears to be a new behavior.” I washed my hands and discovered that Jackie had finished her drink and consumed almost all of the nuts.

  She OK’d my freshening of her drink, and I put out some cheesy crackers.

  The windows of my living room overlooked the street, and the various gleams of the night lights filtered through the blinds. The routine night lights and sounds of the street were familiar; the bright lamp over the intersection a quarter block down; the headlights of cars as they drove past, reflecting off the windows of the parked cars—all of it created a familiar pattern across my ceiling and the room’s far wall.

  As my more sensitive guests do, Jackie expressed an interest in my mandolin, which looked so simple and charming hanging on its peg. Musical instruments have such inherent beauty, don’t they?

  Usually I’m enthusiastic playing for my company. Raquel, however, was a factor. I took the instrument down and played a little—“Old Joe Clark,” and I even gave “Wildwood Flower” a try—and Jackie enjoyed the warm, happy songs, but Raquel most decidedly did not. Her growls and scufflings sounded like a soccer hooligan trying to break into a beer store.

  “Um, Jackie,” I said, hanging up the instrument, “you said you wanted to talk. Was there something specific you wanted to—touch on?”

  “Just…I wonder what else you’ve found out about Abby’s case.”

  Sitting side by side on the couch we talked about it, though there wasn’t a heck of a lot new to tell her.

  It wasn’t hard to direct the conversation to things like books, movies, cars. I found that Jackie’s favorite book was Valparaiso Farewell, one of the Calico Jones books. It made me really happy that she liked Calico Jones but secretly disappointed that she didn’t love something a bit more literary besides.

  We talked and she relaxed, slipping off her socks and stretching her feet and ankles. Casually she picked up a shred of Raquel’s scattered cedar with her toes then set it aside and folded her socks neatly, also with her toes.

  “That’s amazing,” I said. Her feet were nicely shaped. “Can you, like, write with them too?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  I fetched a pencil and a tablet and tossed them onto the rug. She picked up the pencil between the toes of one foot, adjusted her writing surface with the other, and wrote, “I have monkey feet” in perfectly legible script.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “You try.”

  Never one to turn down a senseless challenge, I stripped off my socks and tried my foot at it but could barely hold the pencil.

  “You should go barefoot more often,” she said. “It’s strengthening.”

  I kicked aside the writing materials and rejoined her on the couch. It didn’t seem a bad time to try to, you know, capitalize on the situation.

  I “accidentally” brushed her toes with mine, and it was as if I’d plugged her into some higher-voltage state. Something seemed pent up in this beauty who was sitting on my couch.

  Going into as receptive and quiet a state as possible, I said, “Jackie, you know, I like you.”

  She moaned, very softly, just a hint at the maelstrom of emotions that were surely swirling madly within her. I waited, confidently. I swear I’m no beauty, but confidence goes a long way.

  She said, after a moment, “I care for you, Lillian. I care for you!” Her hand floated to my neck.

  I practically fainted from the contact. Her fingertips were like feathers on my throat, my ears, my cheek.

  In case you’re wondering, I don’t require some kind of life oath before I go to bed with someone; if I’m stirred, I’m stirred, so what the hey. Things always sort themselves out.

  “Well, that’s wonderful,” I said, and kissed her.

  My goodness, she was ready.

  Base hit.

  We spent some time exploring each other, there on the couch. I had determined that one of Aunt Rosalie’s cushions was the perfect thickness to
support someone’s neck as she lay faceup. I more or less stole second, then, slipping my hands under her shirt.

  “Oh,” she murmured. “Touch me. Yes, touch me.”

  As Jackie and I got to know each other better, I became aware of a car slowing down in front of the house. My flat occupied the upper floor; my landlords, the McVitties, were away at their son’s place up by Gaylord.

  I heard the engine slow down then idle at the curb. The car stayed there for a few minutes then pulled away.

  The two of us were still in our ball-practice clothes, matching red Grinders T-shirts. Jackie wore her ball pants; I had on my ratty cargo shorts.

  Our bodies fitted together perfectly. I was really enjoying exploring her face, especially that wonderful mouth. After a while of such pleasantness, Jackie murmured, “I’m kind of sweaty.”

  “Me too.” After a minute I said, “Want to…freshen up? In the shower?” which was the next logical step in the process.

  “Ah,” she replied. “That’s inspired. But—I might get lonely in there.”

  “Wouldn’t want that.”

  And so we progressed agreeably along the base path to third.

  This base is my favorite. I could hit triples all year long and not be unhappy, frankly. The physicality, the extra aliveness you feel when you’re naked with another naked compatible individual. Just so damn sweet, you know? So much to explore, so much to enjoy. And yet so much to look forward to!

  I’d tidied my bathroom to spotlessness as soon as I’d come home, in the few minutes before Jackie arrived. You can do pretty much everything with a microfiber scrub cloth and a bottle of Windex. Then a key finishing touch is to light a candle in a safe container; then the finishing touch after that is to wash the Windex smell off your hands with almond-scented soap—few people are allergic to that mild fragrance—and rub in some lotion.

  Jackie’s sturdy build was a pleasure to get to know. Well-muscled thighs and butt, strong sculpted trunk like in a Greek frieze, every part of her alive and responsive.

  Soaping, washing, drying, sighing, lotion—my bedroom door ajar, another few candles flickering invitingly there—yes, we were happily prepared to skip hand in hand to home plate, where we arrived safe and sound.

  You just need nights like this from time to time, you know?

  If that car came back and idled in front of the house later that night, I didn’t hear it.

  16

  Mornings after can be dicey unless you anticipate. With a little forethought, however, any morning after can be memorable, even if everybody has to rush off to work.

  I was extremely impressed that Jackie had packed a small bag with fresh clothes for work.

  “Do you always carry such in your trunk?”

  Her eyes smiled at me over the rim of her coffee mug. She sipped the brewed medium roast. “I just had a…feeling before practice.”

  “A feeling?”

  “A desire.”

  “That’s better.”

  There you go: intuition.

  Even though I drink my coffee black, I keep a small can of evaporated milk on hand for guests. In the morning I popped up first, washed up our drink glasses and snack bowls from last night, and got out the bread, butter, and eggs.

  The concept is the aromas. You want her to wake to the aroma of coffee—if she is indeed a coffee drinker, which you’ve ascertained—then the sounds of competence: the dishwashing.

  Once everything’s tidy in the kitchen, you deliver the first mug of coffee—and a kiss—to your stirring princess; then you dash through your bathroom routine so she, after her first hit of caffeine, can go in next.

  You dress and start the toast and a quick egg scramble.

  If you’re really over the top on her, you grab a knife and run downstairs and outside, and cut a couple of the nearest blossoms, shake the bugs off, and throw them into a water glass on the table.

  You do all this for your beloved. You give her these gifts, and she dashes off to work, and because of your simple, effective morning engineering, she thinks of nothing but you all day.

  That’s the strategy.

  ----

  After our pleasant parting, I jotted some notes and decided to look into DeMedHo next. Abigail Rawson had been, it seems, on to something there.

  Ideally I would enlist a sixteen-year-old Russian hacker I’d met in an underground Internet café to get me into the computer files of DeMedHo, where I would find clear evidence of nefarious business, expose it in the Motor City Journal, and receive a Pulitzer or at least a medal from the governor.

  The Russian-hacker idea sounded better and better the more I thought about it, but lacking that resource, I thought I’d try to learn what I could via my own little low-tech means.

  I put on my uniform of blue jeans, white linen blouse (unironed but line dried for that insouciant look, or so I imagined), penny loafers, and simple leather purse, and drove to the City-County Building downtown. That building was now called the Coleman A. Young Municipal Center, but I stubbornly still called it the City-County Building.

  I scoured the directories but didn’t see DeMedHo. I stood in front of the lobby guard for ten minutes until he finished his conversation with whomever he was discussing the Tigers’ relief pitchers on his cell phone—“All I’m saying is, his stats don’t come close to Aurelio López, back in eighty-four”—then waited while he grudgingly looked up DeMedHo’s location in a thick black binder that lived under his desk.

  “Twelfth floor, Penobscot.”

  “The Penobscot Building? Over yonder?”

  “That’s what I just said.”

  “Well, thank you so much.”

  As I turned to leave, I had to step back for the mayor and his coterie to sweep through the lobby and into a series of waiting SUVs. Somebody said into a radio, “No, he’s got that lunch at the Chamber first, then we’re getting him to the airport for Mackinac. He should be there by three-thirty.”

  For a while the Penobscot Building’s name got changed to the City National Bank Building, but dyed-in-the-wool Detroiters always called it the Penobscot. It’s one of the coolest, oldest buildings in the city, with Native American motifs going up the sides, looking handsome, organic, totemic.

  It was unusual, I thought, for a city department to be housed at one of the tonier addresses downtown, but hey, maybe they’d gotten some special deal that actually was saving the taxpayers money. Given the condition of Detroit, you’d expect office space anywhere to be going for a relative song.

  I walked the two blocks to the Griswold entrance, paused to admire the building, then heaved my weight into one of the bronze revolving doors. Going through such a door in such a stylish, venerable building makes me feel a little more important than I did a minute ago. Passing through the art deco–influenced lobby, mingling with the busy folk coming and going, I briefly wished I worked in this urbane, sophisticated place. As I stepped into the elevator, another one opened, and Shirlene Cord’s vibrant voice was moving out of it.

  “Got a meeting in fifteen with the mayor, sugar. I’ll take care of that tonight, all right?”

  As I glanced over my shoulder, I saw her slip her phone into her purse and make tracks for the doors. She didn’t notice me.

  I stepped back and let the elevator go, interested in seeing where Shirlene Cord was really going, since the mayor was en route to a speaking gig. I kept my back turned until her voice progressed toward the street doors, then hurried after her. She went out and jumped into a red BMW parked regally in a red zone at the curb. I raced to my car, noting that Shirlene had made a U-turn on Griswold then headed for the left-turn lane to Michigan Avenue.

  Fortunately I caught up with her as she turned right onto Cass. She drove fast, but I kept her in sight. Her destination was less than a mile away, the MGM Grand Detroit casino. She stopped at the valet, and I drove past, grabbing a spot in the structure.

  I lost her for a few minutes but picked her out by her incredibly aerial hairdo. It was
also possible to track her by her fragrance—the same flowers and musk that had wafted from her at Abby’s funeral.

  She walked rapidly through the casino, with a spring to her step and erect posture.

  The place was the typical clanging hive of glitzy surfaces where wealth got transferred from the eager clientele into the hands of the descendants of—well, perhaps the Penobscots.

  Shirlene Cord, a small red purse slung over her shoulder, followed a snaking path to the craps zone. Her outfit was black with bright-red shoes that matched the purse. She also wore a necklace of huge red beads—not gemstones, just brilliant red plastic beads. She looked terrific, I have to say.

  She stopped at a table that had only a couple of other players. But when she got there, everything changed. The croupier smiled in welcome, and suddenly her name was being called all over the place. The pit boss hurried over, also calling her by name, all smiles, and players left other tables to come to this one.

  “Shirlene! Hey, Shirlene. Hey, Lady Luck’s here!” Six or seven men gathered around.

  I hung back, watching. Looking around, I realized this table was surrounded by a little extra space, a velvet rope, and swankier appointments. The high-stakes table.

  A cocktail waitress came over as Shirlene opened her small red purse. A whole bunch of green stuff spilled out. I edged closer as the croupier fanned out the money.

  “Change five thousand,” he said.

  “Change it,” said the pit boss, a dapper guy in a tan suit. Shirlene ordered a vodka tonic.

  And the fun began.

  The men crowded around to play, throwing down chips and cash, laughing and shouting with excitement.

  I don’t know a whole lot about craps, but I know you throw the dice and bet on the outcome.

  The croupier sticked the dice over to Shirlene, who commanded one end of the lifeboat-sized table.

  As I watched her from behind and slightly to the side, her whole body came alive; her expression animated, happy—she looked as if she’d arrived at the Fountain of Youth. She cupped the dice in her hands, blew on them for luck, then clacked them vigorously. Then she tossed them down the felt. Her eyes shone, and her neck curled sideways to help the dots come up right. And a whoop and a holler later, the croupier pushed a pile of black chips over to her.