by Paul Hina
wondering if you had any names."
"He was in with Ramsey and his boys, and those are the types of guys that would place bets on the date of their own Mother's death. They'd be more than happy to take information from Brett that could help them win a bet on a baseball game."
"Right."
"Then there were the women," Red says.
"With Brett?"
"Yeah, he had a couple girls on the side. Usually, that's none of my business. I stay out of the boys' affairs as long as it doesn't show up on the field. But I had to straighten him out a couple of times when he had girls hovering outside the clubhouse."
"You recognize any of the girls?"
"No, can't say that I did."
"Well, I'm going to…" Clay says, motioning to the dugout.
"Come to my office after practice if you have any more questions."
"I'll do that," Clay says, and hobbles toward the dugout, still sore after his battle with the hillside earlier.
"When you going to get a cane?" Red asks, stopping him again.
Clay turns around and stares at Red. "If anyone else said that to me, I'd put a fist in their face."
"I don't like seeing you limp like that."
"And limping with a cane would be better?"
"You'd look a lot less likely to topple over."
"I had a fight with a hill before I got here."
"Looks like the hill won."
"It did," Clay says, half-smiling. "But if I get a cane, that'll mark the end of my comeback."
"Not going to be a comeback, Clay," Red says, a stern look on his face.
"You don't mince words. Never have."
"Don't have the time. Besides, you already knew you weren't coming back. It's been… What's it been? Four years since you played?"
"But I was good."
"You're damn right you were. You were one of the most skillful second basemen I ever saw. You could've been a great one. But the war… It just—"
"It chewed me up."
"Spit you out."
"But I hit .306 for you right here on this field."
"Yeah, but it's single-A ball, and you'd known pro pitchers. And, still, you weren't going anywhere. Double-A wasn't even calling," Red says, and takes a long drag off his cigarette. "Besides, you couldn't run worth a damn."
"It was tough, but I tried."
"You did. You left more out on the field than most ballplayers will ever be able to say they did. And, here, in this clubhouse, you're still a hero to these guys."
"Yeah?"
"Sure you are. You made it to the show."
"That I did."
"They look up to you. Keep that in mind when you talk to 'em."
"I will," Clay says, and turns toward the dugout.
Clay has had a special connection with Red from the first day he came here to play. Red is the only guy around these parts who ever saw Clay play before the war. He was the third base coach for the Triple-A Baltimore club when Clay played there before he was called up to the Indians. And they both had experienced a fall of sorts: Clay with his injury, Red with his booze. And they've both had their comebacks. They were both given second chances here in San Jose by Henry and the Braves. Still, they can see the damage in one another like no one else around. They know where the other has been and what they've come from. It affords them the freedom to talk frankly to one another.
Not that Red ever needed a reason to talk frankly. That's what makes him such a good coach.
Clay clumsily descends the three steps of the dugout, clutching the handrail for dear life. Johnny, the first base coach, is sitting on the end of the bench reading the newspaper. Sidney Bois, the third baseman, who's down toward the end of the dugout, is leaning over the rail, watching the rest of the team practice.
Sid was the second best player on the team before Brett died. Now, he's the star of the club. He was also Brett's best friend on the team.
"What are you doing down here?" Clay asks, leaning into the dugout rail about six feet away from Sid.
"Hey, didn't see you come in," Sid says, seeming genuinely happy to see him.
"You feeling all right?"
"No, I'm fine. Just a little twinge in my thigh. Red saw me limping, and wants to keep me out of practice a few days."
"Red doesn't seem to like seeing anyone limp," Clay says. "You still going to play tonight?"
"Wouldn't miss it. It's probably just a little hamstring thing. No big deal."
"That's good."
"Hey, you mind if I ask you something?" Sid asks as he spits over the rail.
"Shoot."
"How long were you in single-A before they called you up?"
"My first go-around in single-A was the summer after my junior year in high school. I wasn't there long, maybe a couple weeks, before I was called up. And I think I was playing triple-A by the end of July.
"No kidding," Sid says, looking dejected.
"Look, kid, I got lucky. The right people saw me at the right time, that's all," Clay says. "Besides, it was a long time ago. Things are probably done differently compared to when I was starting out. Your time will come."
"You think?"
"Sure, I do. You've got a rifle for an arm, you're throwing bull's-eyes to first every time, and you're hitting… What are you hitting now?"
"About .320."
"Well, hell, you'll be in double-A before the season's out if you keep hitting like that."
"Yeah, but my homers are down."
"Homers get attention here at the ballpark, but the guys that matter, the scouts who decide who goes to the show, they notice who gets on base. A hit is a hit no matter where you play."
"I guess you're right," Sid says, turning back to the action on the field.
"You think what happened to Brett has affected your play?"
"Nah," Sid says. "Well, maybe a little for the first few games after, but not anymore."
"And the other guys?"
"Everyone seems to be okay."
"It does show you though."
"What's that?"
"You've got to stay focussed on the game."
"You got that right."
Clay leans into the rail, scratches his face a little, reminds himself he needs a shave. "You mind if I ask you something about Brett?"
"What for?" Sid asks, turning to look at Clay. The friendliness that was there just a second earlier barely exists now. He's looking at Clay with suspicious eyes, and Clay's getting the distinct feeling that he's not going to be helpful for long if Clay can't think of a way to loosen the conversation up.
"The brass for the Braves asked me to look into what happened over here and report back to them. They're real upset about losing a hot prospect like Brett, and they want to see if there's anything they can do to prevent something like this from happening in the future."
"No kidding? So, Boston had their eyes on Brett already?"
"Sure they did," Clay says, and, though he felt bad for lying about the Braves contacting him, he also knew that sometimes a lie was the fastest way to get to the truth.
"What do they want to know?"
"Were you with him that night?"
"Yeah. A bunch of us went over to Eddie's Bar after the game."
"He drink a lot?"
"Brett always drank a lot, but he could hold his liquor better than anyone I ever saw."
"So, last you saw him, he seemed fine?"
"He was lit, no doubt about it, but nothing out of the ordinary for Brett."
"And you all left together?"
"No. He was the first to leave that night."
"You know where he was going?"
"A card game up in Fremont."
"He played cards a lot?"
"Oh, yeah, a couple days a week, I'd say."
"Always in Fremont?"
"Not sure, but lately it seemed like that was about the only place he was going. There was a girl up that way he was sweet on."
"He see lots of girls on the side?"
"Some, sure. Nothing serious though. He and Emma were real tight."
"But the girl up near Fremont, you know anything about her?"
"Just that he had a thing for her."
"How long?"
"I don't know. A couple weeks."
"Did he often take Emma to his card games?"
"Until that night, I don't think he ever did. She couldn't stand to watch him gamble."
"But, on that night, she went. What do you make of that?"
"Just bad luck, I guess."
"And she was with him at Eddie's that night?"
"Nope, just us guys."
"So, she didn't leave with him?"
"I'm not saying that. I'm just saying I never saw her."
"Did he mention that he was going to pick her up?"
"No, but I guess that's what he did."
"I suppose so."
Clay leans into the bar, stretches his leg behind him a bit, watches Red hit a short pop fly to the center fielder.
"You know, she was no angel either," Sid says.
"Who? Emma?"
"Yeah. I don't want you to think that Brett was the only one who had things going on. They loved each other, that was plain to see, but their relationship was… It was loose. They had an understanding."
"Yeah? She had other men on the side?"
"Brett never said anything, but I saw her with other guys."
"Anyone in particular?"
"I don't want to speak out of turn and get anyone in trouble," Sid says, looking at Clay.
"Don't worry about it. My report to the Braves will be private, completely anonymous."
"Well, there's a lawyer in town I've seen her with a few times."
"Wayne Parker?"
"I think that's the guy. His office is over by the drugstore."
"Yeah, that's Wayne alright," Clay says. "And you're sure they were together?"
"Looked that way to me," Sid says, and spits over the rail again.
"You ever hear of a guy named Ramsey?"
"Sure. He's the guy who ran the tables Brett played."
"You ever sit in on any of those games?"
"Too rich for my blood."
"Any of the other guys ever go?"
"No, just Brett."
"He always go alone?"
"No. If he wasn't with a
