Double Play

by Paul Hina

his nerves, gave him something to focus on, other than the task at hand. A cigarette is a handy distraction, an easy tool for social deflection. Usually, though, a baseball in the hand serves as a nice enough substitute for Clay, relieves a bit of the tension. He likes to have something to do with his hands when he's asking difficult questions in a possibly volatile situation. And asking someone if their sister is really dead is not an ideal question, and invites an immediate level of volatility. Still, carrying a baseball into the garage might give the impression that he's carrying it as a weapon, and he certainly doesn't want to encourage a fight.

  Clay walks toward the garage. His limp is less pronounced than it was yesterday, but it's still feeling pretty sore. He tries to hold the pain at arm's length, tries not to dwell on it. As he gets closer to the garage, it becomes clear to him that the guy under the hood is not Kevin.

  "Excuse me," Clay says.

  The guy under the hood stands upright. He's an older fellow, probably in his fifties. He's wearing a dirty pair of gray coveralls with 'Gene' embroidered in cursive over the left breast.

  "What can I do for you?" he asks, wiping his hands on a dirty rag he took from the front pocket of his coveralls.

  "I'm looking for Kevin Dunham."

  "He's not in yet," the man says, walking over to a tool bench off to the side of the open garage door. "Anything I can help you with?"

  Clay takes a step toward the guy, and reaches his hand out. "I'm Clay, by the way."

  "Gene. Nice to meet you," the guy says, squeezing Clay's hand with his blackened, calloused hand.

  "This your garage?"

  "It is."

  "Do you mind if I ask when Kevin usually gets here?"

  "Who knows? Sometimes he's here before me. Other days, he'll saunter in here around lunch like he owns the place."

  "But you are expecting him today?"

  "Yeah, he'll be here. Just can't say when."

  "Could you tell him I stopped by?" Clay asks, and turns away from Gene.

  "You one of Ramsey's boys?" Gene asks.

  "No, I'm not." Clay says, turning back toward Gene. "Have Ramsey's boys been here looking for Kevin?"

  "Sure. Not for a couple weeks, though. Not since the… Well, it's been a few weeks."

  "Not since the accident."

  "Yeah. Not since then. Seems like a common courtesy to leave a fella alone for awhile after something like that happens anyway," Gene says, grabbing a tool from the bench and heading back over to the car he was working on.

  "You know why Ramsey sent his boys here to see Kevin?"

  "Sure. He owed Ramsey money. The kid just doesn't know when to stop, I guess," Gene says, sitting on the car, looking outside the garage. "Last time they were in here, they tried to play tough with me. With me. Can you imagine? They thought I was covering for him or something. So, I asked them why they let him keep playing. 'Keep him out of the games,' I said. The boy loves poker. He's not going to stop unless they make him."

  "What'd they say?"

  "Not much. They were just a couple of goons."

  "They do anything to you?"

  "Me? Nah. I can handle myself alright," Gene says.

  "So, did Kevin used to go to these card games with Brett?"

  "Oh, yeah. All the time. Although, Kevin stopped going with him a week or two before the accident. They had some kind of falling out. Tell you the truth, if they hadn't had that fight, Kevin probably would've been in the car with him that night."

  "What'd they fight about? You know?"

  "What do young guys usually fight about?"

  "You tell me."

  "Girls. It's always about a girl, right?"

  "I don't know. It's been a while since I've been that young."

  "Nah. You're still a young man to an old codger like me."

  "Maybe so," Clay says.

  "Why are you asking all these questions about Kevin?"

  "I'm a P.I."

  "Hey, you're Clay Hart," Gene says, a smile lifting his gray face.

  "I am."

  "I knew you looked familiar, but I couldn't place you without your ball cap on. You used to play first base for the Braves."

  "So I did."

  "Boy, I remember you. You were a hell of a hitter."

  "I did alright."

  "Alright? You were more than alright," Gene says, almost laughing. And suddenly his face looks younger, less heavy. He seems more at ease in his skin, a lot less somber than he did just a few seconds before. Sports often has a way of bringing out the boys in men.

  "Didn't you play in the big leagues before the war?" Gene asks.

  "For a little while."

  "Who'd you play for again?"

  "The Indians."

  "That's right. I remember now," Gene says, and then he takes a look at Clay's leg and the smile begins to disappear from his face. Then he notices Clay noticing him staring and changes the subject. "So, is the kid in trouble?"

  "I don't know. I just wanna—"

  "Speak of the devil," Gene says.

  Clay turns and locks eyes with Kevin. Only a second passes before Kevin turns and runs back in the direction from where he came. A second later, Clay bolts after him.

  At first, Clay is moving faster than he thought he could move. His reflexes are still as sharp as they ever were. But after about fifty yards or so, his thigh is screaming at him. It was like his leg was trying to remind him that he couldn't do this anymore, and once the reminder finally reached his head, he knew that, if he didn't slow himself down in a hurry, he was going to drop. So, he started to slow, but it was too late. He fell anyway.

  It didn't matter one way or the other. Kevin had already turned the corner. He was fast and young. Clay was slow and disabled. It was never a fair fight.

  Luckily, Clay wasn't moving as fast as he thought. If he had been running faster, the tumble he took would've been much worse. As it was, all he had was a couple of skinned palms and a bruised ego. At least the skinned palms were new.

  As he goes to get up, Gene approaches him from behind.

  "You need any help?"

  "No, I think I got it," Clay says, but then quickly realizes he doesn't have it. "Maybe I could use a hand, if you don't mind."

  Gene reaches down and pulls him up. "You going to be able to walk back?"

  "I think so," Clay says, limping far more dramatically than before. His left hand is wrapped tight around his thigh for support and he's wincing with every step. "I'm going to be asking myself why I tried that for the next couple of days."

  "So, it looks like the boy's in trouble, huh?"

  "He may be. May not be. I don't know. But he sure thinks he is."

  "That's too bad. If he could quit the cards, he's a good kid—a hard worker."

  "Who knows? It may look worse than it is," Clay says through gritted teeth as he sits on the curb in front of the garage.

  "You know, there's no shame in walking with a cane," Gene says.

  "So I've been told," Clay says, looking up at Gene, a resigned look painted on his hot, red face. "You think I could get Kevin's address before I go."

  Six

  Walking the streets of San Francisco has struck a nostalgic chord in Clay. When he was here before, it was always during the offseason. There were always fresh memories of baseball still in his mind, along with the fantasies of games he was yet to play.

  Even after his final season, he was walking these same streets firmly believing he would play the following spring. But it was a lonely time. Though he still believed he would return to play ball for the Braves, there was the fear that his normal post-season hobbling wouldn't get any better, and that he would be done. What he especially remembers about that last winter was that the doubt just grew and grew until what was long clear to everyone else finally became clear to him. He would never progress beyond single-A ball with his injury.

  His career was stagnant, but he still loved the game so much he could hardly help looking forward to playing in the future. Ev
en now, just thinking about it, he can remember those butterflies he'd get before a game. He can still remember the rush he'd feel when he ran out to take the field for the first time at the beginning of a home game, or that storm of determination he'd feel every time he'd stroll to home plate, sizing up a pitcher through the squint of sun-stained eyes.

  But he also remembers how much he missed Maggie during those San Francisco winters. Sure, they were never official, and her dad was dead set against their being together, but there was something palpable between them. Still, silly or not, Henry just did not want Maggie to end up with a ballplayer. And, though he must have known that Clay's ambitions as a ballplayer were limited by his injury, and that he would eventually have to find another vocation, this never seemed to quell his tacit disapproval of Maggie's interest in Clay.

  Despite this, Clay and Maggie never stopped sharing flirtations. They had been playing footsie with one another like adolescent school kids from the moment Clay came to town, and the time he spent away from her in San Francisco was always difficult. He missed their verbal back-and-forths, their morning games of catch by the dugout. It was probably during that last, long winter that he realized he didn't want to be without her anymore.

  And these San Francisco streets bring back all those old feelings.

  It's been at least two years since he's been back, and it's been at least that long since he's seen Jack, his old boss. They've stayed in contact, though. Jack has referred cases to Clay that were closer to San Jose than San Francisco, and Clay has called on Jack many times for advice about a case, or for leads on work when times were slow. But Clay hasn't visited Jack's agency, The Clayborne Detective Agency, since the winter of 1949.

  As he approaches the