Death at Charity's Point (7 page)

“Warren Baker. The baseball coach. Also teaches math,” said Binh over his shoulder, his words popping out in rhythm with his steps. “Been here about as long as George. Knew him as well as anybody, I suppose.”

The path led us around the back of a square brick building. Before us lay an enormous flat expanse of playing fields, with what looked like hundreds of figures flitting across them. There were girls in shorts and tee shirts, others in little skirts and knee socks. There were young people of indistinguishable gender in sweat suits jogging in groups of three and four. Several stood in small clusters. Shot putters, and discus and javelin throwers, I judged from the motions they made.

From the far end of the field came the sound of aluminum bat meeting baseball—not a crack, but a ping. I have never accustomed my ear to the sound, no matter how many of Billy’s games I’ve watched. Horsehide and ash, that’s what I wanted to hear. But, hell, I don’t like the designated hitter rule, and I’d rather see a stolen base than a home run, so I guess I’m an anachronism.

Binh led me to the baseball diamond. A compactly built black man wearing a nylon windbreaker with a cap yanked low over his forehead was whacking fungoes to his infield. “Get your goddamn
tail
down, McAllister. Stick your face in there, for crissake, or I can find a spot for your ass beside mine on the bench.”

His voice rasped, as if he smoked too many cigarettes and yelled too often. He smacked another grounder at McAllister, a skinny kid at third base. He smacked it
hard.
I was standing close enough to him now so that I could hear his
umph!
of effort when he swung the slender fungo bat. McAllister managed to keep his tail down, but his face shied away from the wicked ground ball. It glanced off the heel of his glove and caught the kid flush on the Adam’s apple. He collapsed in a heap.

“Barnett!” called Baker. “Where the hell is Barnett?”

A towheaded youngster playing catch off to our left came jogging towards us. “Barnett,” said Coach Baker, “you get your body out there at third base and see if you can keep it in front of a grounder, will you? McAllister,” he shouted at the boy who was now sitting on the ground where he had fallen, holding his throat, “get in here. Damn it, get in here
now
!”

The boy got up from the ground and walked slowly in toward the plate where his coach waited, leaning with one arm on the fungo bat.

Alexander Binh said to me, “Wait a minute, and I’ll introduce you.”

Baker glowered at young McAllister. “You wearing a cup, boy?”

“No, sir.”

“I suppose you ain’t got a jock on, either?”

McAllister looked at the ground and shook his head.

“Well, no wonder you’re afraid of the ball. Lucky you took it in the
Adam’s
apple and not your other apples. Go get yourself dressed for baseball, son.” Baker’s voice had softened, and the boy looked up at him.

“Now!” said Baker, more loudly. “Sprint, boy. You get back here, and I’m going to whack you in the crotch with this bat and it better ding like a bell.”

McAllister nodded, and took off toward a building at the far end of the playing fields.

Baker turned and seemed to notice us for the first time.

“Say, Brother,” he said to Binh.

“Hi, Token,” replied Binh. They touched palms up in front of their faces and grinned at each other. “This is Mr. Coyne. He’s George Gresham’s lawyer. Got a minute?”

Baker handed the fungo bat to Binh. “Do the infield for me. And don’t baby them.”

Alexander Binh allowed his eyes to smile quickly. He laid his corduroy jacket on the ground and rolled his shirt cuffs up his forearms, which I noticed, were corded and thickly veined.

Baker held out his hand to me, and we shook. “What can I do for you?”

I gave him what had become for me a set speech. “And so,” I concluded, “I guess I’m just trying to get a sense of what George had been feeling and thinking during the last few days of his life. To try to understand his suicide.”

Baker led me away from the baseball field toward a small tier of bleachers. We sat on the bottom bench. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pack of Camels. He offered me one, and I shook my head and lit a Winston of my own.

“George was a tough man,” Baker began, exhaling a long plume of smoke. “Exacting teacher. Demanded a little bit more of each of his students than they were capable of, if you understand me. Always pushed them to increase their limits. Would’ve made a hell of a coach.”

I squinted at him. “How does that relate to his death, Mr. Baker? I don’t get it.”

“Well, hell—he was the same way with himself, you know. That’s all. Maybe he discovered his own limits. Like the ballplayer who spends lots of years in the minors and finally finds himself twenty-eight, thirty years old and a two-fifty hitter and not good for much of anything. That could have been George. Would’ve been just like him. George couldn’t have lived with the idea of being a two-fifty minor-league hitter.”

Baker tilted his cap back to look intently at me.

“Would that lead him to commit suicide, do you think?” I asked.

“Shit, I don’t know. Who can answer a question like that? You wanted to know what he was like, that’s what he was like. Two-fifty hitters don’t necessarily kill themselves.” He dragged on his Camel and looked out over the baseball diamond. “Some do, I expect.”

I nodded. “Were you aware of anything particular in his life that might have been different lately? A love affair, a gambling debt, illness—something like that?”

“Nah. I don’t think so.” Baker yanked the beak of his cap back down over his eyes. “Look,” he said. “I really gotta get back to my team. My Asian friend’ll have them thinking that all grounders come on three easy little hops. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more.”

“It’s okay. I appreciate your time,” I said. We stomped on our cigarette butts and walked back to the diamond.

“Okay, you guys,” Baker yelled, taking the bat from Binh. “Mr. Binh has given you a nice little rest. See if you remember anything. Knees bent, up on the balls of your feet, heads up, gloves down…”

Binh picked up his jacket and tossed it over his shoulder. We began to walk back toward the school buildings. “Warren Baker,” said Binh. “You never heard of him?”

“No,” I said. “Should I?”

“Halfback, West Point, class of sixty-three. Everyone said he could’ve made it in the pros. Football
or
baseball. But he owed Uncle Sam five years, and he spent one of them in Vietnam. Left two toes from his left foot over there. End of athletic career.” Binh looked at me. His eyes seemed warmer to me. “Baker’s a hell of a guy. We kid each other a lot, him a Vietnam veteran and me half Vietnamese. And he’s spent more time in the country of my origin than I have.”

I nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“I was born in Paris and educated here.” It took me a moment to realize that “here” meant The Ruggles School. “So I’m the token Oriental, and he’s the token black. At least, that’s what we tell each other, though the truth, I think, is that we’re both assets to this place. Warren’ll always be here. It’s his home, now. I’ve got better things to do.”

I murmured “Umm,” to encourage him to keep talking. But he evidently felt he had told me enough.

We walked the rest of the way in silence. I followed him back to the grassy quadrangle where most of the school’s buildings seemed to be grouped. We took the path past the administration building where my BMW was parked, past a couple of plain-fronted brick buildings, which I thought either contained classrooms or served as dormitories, to a more modern structure. This one, also, was constructed of brick, but there was varnished wood and glass, too, and its facade offered more facets and angles to the eye.

“Student Union,” said Binh. “Auditorium’s around the other side. Rina’ll be there, I think.”

We climbed half a dozen wide steps, pushed through a set of big double doors, and found ourselves in a dimly lit lobby. Binh motioned me to be quiet, and pushed open another door. I followed him into a theater. The aisle sloped down toward a brightly lit stage where several sweatshirted and blue-jeaned figures moved around. Binh made his way down the aisle and took a seat in the front row. I groped my way behind him and slid into a seat next to him.

Up on the stage a tall young woman, indistinguishable from the others except by the clear aura of command which she emanated, was gesticulating with one hand while she held in her other a sheaf of papers. “You’re a
clown
pretending to be a
wall,
Scott. The audience has to get the
humor
in this. Broaden it. Ham it up. It’s supposed to be
funny. Slapstick.
Loosen up. Have
fun
with it, for heaven’s sake.”

“That’s Rina Prescott,” whispered Alexander Binh. I nodded.

“Okay, then,” the woman continued. “Let’s do it again. C’mon, kids. Let’s pretend we’re enjoying ourselves up here. Okay? Quince? Thisby? You guys with us? Okay. In your places. Let’s take it from, ‘Gentles, perchance you wonder…’ Prologue, go ahead, now. Remember. It’s supposed to be
silly
.”

Binh leaned toward me, his shoulder touching mine. I inclined my ear to him. “
Midsummer Night’s Dream.
She thinks these kids can put Shakespeare over.”

“Just a minute! Okay. Everybody stop.” Rina Prescott interrupted the speech of the boy on the stage. She came to the edge, by the footlights, leaned over, and peered toward us. “Who’s in my theater? Who’s there, anyway? Hey, Peter. Give me some house lights, will you?”

Suddenly Binh and I were exposed as the auditorium filled with light. The woman squinted for a moment, then abruptly stood up. “Mr. Binh, what can I do for you?” She clearly indicated by her tone that she did not particularly desire to do anything for Alexander Binh.

“Ah, Miss Prescott. I have a gentleman here who’d like to talk with you for a moment?” Binh made it a question.

The woman dropped her hands against her thighs and shook her head. “Damn it,” she said, her voice low and intended only for us, “I’m working. I know you can see that. I’ve got a show to put on in nine days, Mr. Binh. Do you mind?”

Binh stood and moved to the edge of the stage. Rina Prescott stood, hands on hips now, and glared down at him. She was, I estimated, in her mid-twenties. Short, black hair, and a good face under the scowl it wore at the moment. She looked fine in her jeans. After a moment she moved toward Binh and squatted at the edge of the stage. He spoke to her in a low voice. As she listened, she glanced in my direction, seemed to study me for a minute, then returned her attention to what Binh was saying. I saw her shake her head. Binh touched her shoulder and whispered something else to her, and then she shrugged. Binh patted her arm and came back to sit beside me.

“Take ten, kids,” said the woman. “Don’t go away.” The actors, who had been sitting on the stage while their director conversed with Alexander Binh, stood and began milling around. Rina Prescott hopped nimbly down from the stage and came toward me and Binh. I stood.

She held out her hand to me. Her grip was firm, masculine. “I’m sorry to interrupt you…” I began.

“Me too,” she said. “People think this is fun and games. They don’t seem to understand. This is my
job
. They
pay
me to do this. I don’t suppose you allow people to walk into a courtroom when you’re delivering your summation to the jury or something so they can discuss their personal problems with you, do you? Or do you say, ‘Excuse me, please, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but I’ve got to go and have a little chat with this person I’ve never met before, and I’ve got to do it right now, because this person is very busy and has made a special trip to our courtroom just to talk with me, so take a break and I’ll be right back?’ Do you?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Prescott. I didn’t…”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Her voice was only a shade friendlier, but I thought I detected a smile crinkling in the corners of her eyes. “It was Elliott, right? Sure. Beef-witted sod!”

I grinned. She frowned. “What’s funny?”

“Beef… what?” I said.

She smiled, then, and it transformed her face. Her eyes, especially, glittered and danced. They were the green of spring leaves when they first burst open, bracketed by tiny wrinkles at the corners, as if they had stared at the ocean and sky for many hours from the tiller of a sailboat. Her tall, slim body had fooled me, and I revised my estimate. Early thirties, at least.

“Beef-witted,” she said. “That’s the Bard, of course. Best oaths you can find are in Shakespeare. Look, Mr. Coyne. Mr. Binh told me what you’re after, here. I really can’t help you, anyway. George was a nice man. I don’t know anything about his death. Okay?”

“If I could just ask you a couple of questions,” I said.

She sighed heavily. “Look. I said I can’t help you. I don’t mean to be rude. I’m busy.” She turned away from me.

“If we offend,” I said, “it is with our good will.”

Rina Prescott whirled to face me. “You know the play?”

I grinned at her. “I played Quince once. Many, many years ago.”

She stared at me for a moment. Then she shrugged. “Good for you,” she said. “Hope it went over. Right now I’m worried about his particular production. We’ll leave the house lights on for you so you can find your way out.”

She hopped up onto the stage and stood, her back to Binh and me, and clapped her hands. “Okay, people. Back into positions. Let’s go back to Philostrate. Come on, now. Move it.”

Binh touched my elbow and jerked his head toward the exit. I nodded and followed him out. As we opened the door at the rear of the theater, I heard Rina Prescott call out, “Okay, kill those house lights. Come on, up there, lighting crew, bring up the spot. It’s
night,
remember.”

Binh and I walked out of the building into the bright sunlight. We stood for a moment before the building. I shook a Winston from my pack and lit it.

“Wow!” I said.

Binh shifted his eyebrows and flashed a quick smile. “She’s right, of course. Anyway, you really didn’t think you’d learn anything here today, did you? I mean, you are going through some requisite motions, I assume.”