Green Monster (8 page)

They watched the first inning from the Monster Seats, but when a couple arrived with tickets to the seats Sam and Heather were sitting in, Sam said it was time to talk to Hurtado. Heather nodded. They went back to the suites concourse and took the elevator down to the clubhouse level. A guard stood outside the door to the Red Sox clubhouse.

“Andy, I'm going down the tunnel to talk to Gil for a second,” she said to the guard. “Sam, wait here. I'll bring Ivan up from the dugout.”

Heather disappeared down the ramp that led to the first-base dugout. In a minute she was back, trailed by a dark, wiry man wearing the blazing white home uniform of the Red Sox. He was obviously checking out Heather's legs as she walked ahead of him. Sam had seen Ivan Hurtado dozens of times on television. He seemed bigger in person, and younger.

“Let's go in here,” Heather said, opening the door to the clubhouse.

Inside the deserted clubhouse were rows of floor-to-ceiling cubicles with the players' names and numbers on the facing edge of the shelves. There were chairs, tables, and couches in the center of the room, most facing a wall-mounted TV screen. Off to one side was the shower and the trainer's room. Gil Mahaffey's tiny office was just inside the clubhouse door, next to a table full of snacks: candy, gum, nuts, sport drinks, and pastries. The clubhouse smelled like a mixture of soap, sweat, styling gel, and deodorant. Sam had seen bigger dressing rooms at college gyms.

Ivan Hurtado took off his Sox cap and plopped himself down in one of the armchairs, looking around in a bored, distracted way.

“What's thees about, man?” he asked Heather. The way he looked at her, Sam suspected they knew each other in a capacity other than player and team executive.

“Ivan, I'd like you meet Sam Skarda. He's going to ask you some questions about the Series in '04.”

“You a reporter, man?” Hurtado said. “Wait till after the game, like the rest.”

“No. I'm doing some insurance work for the team,” Sam said. That would be vague enough.

“Yeah, okay,” Hurtado said, still petulant. “Shoot.”

Sam asked Hurtado to think back to the first game of the World Series and describe what happened, from the first inning, when the Red Sox scored five runs off Cardinals starter Alberto Miranda. He watched Hurtado's expression intently as he raised the subject of the Series. There was no change; Sam could have been asking him about his electric bill.

“Alberto, man, he no have his good stuff,” Hurtado said almost by rote, as though he'd answered the question a million times. “I know, cuz you no can heet his stuff when he's right.”

“You dropped a fly ball that inning, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I take my eye off it when Weatherby cut in front of me.”

“How'd Alberto look after that inning?”

“What you mean?”

“I mean, the look on his face. Did he look disappointed? Tired? Disgusted?”

“Oh, he disgusted, man. Like he no can figure out what the fuck is up with thees shit.”

“Was he really bearing down?”

“Shit, yeah, man. He just no have it.”

Hurtado was relaxed now, as though sitting in the clubhouse and talking about the World Series he lost was better than sitting in the dugout watching some kid from the minors audition for his job. Sam took him through the remaining three games of the Series, games in which the Red Sox won 3-1, 5-4 and 7-0. In the middle two games, several plays could have turned the games around. Hurtado said the Cardinal pitchers had pitched well in those games, but Boston's pitching had simply been better.

“We played bad, man,” Hurtado said. “We coulda beat 'em. But they make a lotta great plays, and we fuck up too many.”

“Infield play well?”

“Yeah, man, they all played good, except Alberto, he make a couple of bad throws. Everybody see that.”

“Miranda didn't have a good Series, did he?”

“Not too good.”

“He didn't hit well.”

“No, man, but those Sox pitchers, man, they were fuckin' great.”

“Is that pretty much how all the players saw it?” Sam asked. “Just a bad Series for Miranda?”

“Yeah, man, that's all.”

“How about you? Did you give it everything you had?”

“What you mean, man?” Hurtado said. His eyes narrowed as Sam crossed into the taboo territory of questioning a professional athlete's effort.

“You and Alberto were the biggest stars on that team. Neither of you played well. I'm just wondering if there was a reason.”

“No reason.” Hurtado shrugged off the implication and regained his unconcerned expression. “I try my best. Alberto try his best. If we both play good, I don' think it make no fuckin' difference. The baseball gods, they was on Boston's side that year.”

“I guess they were.”

“Not thees year, though. Shit, we can't do nothin' right, man. I think we do better next year, but if they no want me here, I wanna go someplace else.”

“I read that they offered you three years at $60,000,000, and you turned it down.”

“It ain't about the money, man. Is about respect.”

“I have a lot of respect for $60,000,000.”

Hurtado blew a raspberry with his lips and began stretching, pulling one leg up to his chest with his hands clasped around the knee, then the other leg.

“If they want me, what the fuck am I doin' up here talkin' to you?” Hurtado said. “Maybe I go play with Alberto in L.A. He my brother, you know?”

“You guys pretty close?”

“Hell, yes, man.”

“You see him in the offseason?”

“Not so much anymore. We no play winter ball together since the Series.”

“But you talk to him?”

“Yeah, we call each other.”

“How's he doing?”

“Not so good, man. They write fuckin' shit about him, too. Reporters, man. It's ‘steroids this,' ‘steroids that' all the time now. Alberto, man, he clean, but no one believe it.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“I just know, man. He don' do that shit. He don' need to.”

“How about you, Ivan? Have you ever tried steroids?”

“Oh, man.” A pained look crossed Hurtado's face. “How many times I gotta say it? Never. No fuckin' way. That stuff will kill you.”

“It can make you great, too.”

“Not if you ain't great already.”

Sam thanked Hurtado for his time, and the ballplayer stood up and looked around, as if trying to decide whether to return to the dugout or simply leave the ballpark. He gave Heather one more lingering glance, then turned and walked down the tunnel to rejoin his teammates.

“You two ever go out for a milk shake?” Sam asked Heather after Hurtado left.

“Once or twice,” Heather said. She smiled slightly. “I wanted to make him feel at home after the trade.”

“So, you know him. Do you believe him?”

“Honestly? He's too proud to intentionally play bad, and he's too emotional to keep quiet about it if he did.”

“I didn't think he was lying, either. But I've been wrong before.”

“Do you want to talk to any of the other players?”

“No, I got what I needed here,” Sam said. He stood up and began walking toward the exit. “We need to talk to Alberto Miranda.”

“How do you know he's the guy?”

“If a fix was on, they couldn't have done it without him.”

Chapter Nine

Lou Kenwood was no longer alone when Sam and Heather returned to the owner's suite. Paul sat at the bar on the upper level, and a woman in a wheelchair sat next to Kenwood, watching the game. An oxygen tank with two round gauges was attached to a holder behind the wheelchair, and a tube extended from the tank under the woman's arm.

“Oh, there you are,” Kenwood said. The woman next to him did not turn around. “Paul, would you leave us for a while?”

“Sure thing,” the chauffeur said. He got up from his stool, walked out of the suite, and closed the door behind him.

“Did you talk to Hurtado?” Kenwood asked Sam.

“Yes.”

Sam approached the woman in the wheelchair and extended his hand. Heather remained at the back of the suite.

“I'm Sam Skarda.”

“Excuse my manners,” Kenwood said. “Sam, this is my wife, Katherine.”

Kenwood's voice was a bit slurred. He might have been on his third or fourth bourbon.

“Pleased to meet you,” Sam said.

“Hello, Sam,” Katherine said. “I'm so glad to meet you. I hope you can help us.”

Katherine Kenwood's grip was not forceful, but she did not simply lay her hand in Sam's palm, either. She put what strength she had into it.

She had definitely been a beauty in her day, and—except for the inevitable wrinkles, an age spot here and there, and the oxygen tube that ran under her nose—that day had not yet officially passed. Her hair was an elegant gray with silver streaks. Her eyes were a bit watery, but the hue remained a vibrant blue. She had the small, pert nose of a debutante, and her mouth, though widening with age, looked like the inviting kind that many men would once have wanted to kiss, and probably had. Her jaw line was sharp, almost regal, with no obvious signs of facial work so common to wealthy women of her age. What she had was what nature had given her, and nature had been generous.

“What did Ivan say?” Kenwood said.

“He said the Cardinals played hard, and he and Miranda tried their best. They just didn't have it.”

“Would you expect him to say anything different?” Katherine said.

“I would have expected him to show some reaction if he knew the Series had been fixed,” Sam said. “He didn't. I believe him, for now.”

“So do I,” Kenwood said. “Are you going to talk to any of the others?”

“No. After watching the DVD and reading the game stories, it would have to be Hurtado and Miranda. Definitely Miranda.”

“When are you going to talk to him?”

“As soon as I can.”

Sam pulled up a chair and sat next to Katherine. Heather asked from the bar if anyone wanted a drink. Sam declined.

“Make mine a martini, sweetheart,” Katherine said.

“Do you think you should?” Kenwood asked.

“Why the hell not?” Katherine said. She laughed in a low, rumbling tone that didn't sound as much bitter as resigned. “I'm dying, Sam. I smoked two packs a day for thirty years, and it caught up with me.”

“I'm sorry,” Sam said. He noted the slight rasp in her throat as she spoke.

“So am I. Christ, I don't want to die. I wanted to be around to see us win another championship. But it had to be this year…”

Sam didn't know what to say, but he appreciated Katherine Kenwood's bluntness. She was making the best of the cards she'd been dealt, facing death with the kind of grace everybody hopes they'll have.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the game. It was in the sixth inning; the Blue Jays were leading 6-4, and the Sox had runners on second and third with one out.

“Gil should put on the squeeze here,” Kenwood said.

“It's a bad play when you're down two runs,” Katherine said. “What is it with you and bunting, anyway?”

“Look where Johnson's playing,” Kenwood insisted. “He's two steps behind the third base bag, and Davis can bunt.”

“He won't.”

“Gil's got to get the crowd back into the game. You want to put ten on it?”

“Sure, I'll take that bet,” Katherine said.

There was a hint of what must have been the old playfulness between them, the residual familiarity of sharing thirty years and hundreds of ballgames together.

Davis swung away at the first pitch and fouled it back.

“I guess Gil doesn't like the squeeze here, either,” Katherine said.

“There's only one strike. He's got one to play with.”

Davis took a pitch outside for ball one, and didn't start to slide his hand up the bat as if to bunt. He stepped out of the box and checked the third base coach's signals.

“That's a different sign than he got on the last pitch,” Kenwood said.

“You missed the indicator,” Katherine said. “There's no play on.”

“Look at Mitchell's lead. He's farther down the line. Watch…”

The Blue Jays pitcher delivered, Mitchell stayed where he was and Davis whistled a line drive past the third baseman, who had started to cheat in. It was now 6-5, runners on first and third, still one out, and the crowd was suddenly on its feet, roaring.

Silently, Kenwood pulled his wallet out of his pants pocket and extracted a ten dollar bill, handing it to his wife.

“Why do I bet with you?” Kenwood sighed. “You must be into me for a couple of thousand bucks by now.”

Katherine took the bill, put it in the pocket of her sweater, and gave Sam a satisfied grin. Sam returned the smile, then glanced quickly at Heather. She was not smiling.

“Sam, I understand you're going to be leaving town, with Heather,” Katherine said.

“That's right.”

“I wonder if you could come out to the house tomorrow morning before you leave.”

“I could. Why?”

“I'd like you give me a shooting lesson.”

Sam glanced at Lou Kenwood, who simply shrugged and turned back to the game.

“Why?”

“Lou leaves me alone at the house too often. It's on an isolated point, sticking out in the ocean. With all that's going on now, I don't feel safe there.”

Sam must have looked perplexed by the request, because Katherine felt compelled to explain.

“Just because I'm dying doesn't mean I don't care about protecting myself,” she said. “I bought a pistol, but I need someone to show me how to use it. You were a police officer, weren't you?”

“Yes. I'm still licensed to carry.”

“Then you could take an hour or so to show me how to shoot, couldn't you.”

It was a statement, not a question. And since the man paying his salary didn't voice any objection, Sam agreed.

“Wonderful. I'll have Paul pick you up at your hotel right after he drops Lou at his office. Say, about 8:15?”

“I'll be ready.”

***

Neil Diamond's “Sweet Caroline” blared out of the stadium loudspeakers after the Red Sox took the lead in the bottom of the eighth inning. The capacity crowd roared along with the “bom-bom-BOM” chorus, kept singing after the song faded out, and continued to sing until the Sox closer threw his second pitch in the ninth. Sam couldn't help but think about a woman named Caroline who lived in Tucson, and wonder if their good times would ever seem so good…

Heather took Sam down to the clubhouse level, waiting for the game to end so they could walk out to the left-field scoreboard. After the final out of the 7-6 Boston win, the players exited the dugout and headed up to the clubhouse while the crowd sang along with “Dirty Water” as it blared from the p.a. system.

“You were getting awfully chummy with the Missus,” Heather said as the players filed past.

Sam wondered if he was hearing a tinge of jealousy in Heather's voice.

“I like her,” Sam said simply. “She's a smart, interesting woman.”

“She's a drag on Lou's time and energy,” Heather said. “I know that sounds harsh, but it's true.”

“God forbid you should get old someday,” Sam said.

“If I end up in a chair, I hope someone puts me out of my misery.”

Sam couldn't tell whether Heather's lack of compassion was restricted to Kenwood's wife, or to mankind in general.

They took the tunnel down to the dugout, now deserted except for the equipment man picking up bats, helmets, and towels. The floor of the dugout was covered in seed shells, gum wrappers, Gatorade cups, and drying saliva. Sam stepped over the worst of it and went up the steps to the field level, where the grounds crew was removing the bases and smoothing the infield with a small tractor. Sam turned to look back up into the stands. While the aisles were clogged with exiting fans, a few stragglers remained seated, not wanting to let go of their visit to this jewel of a ballpark. A dozen security cops stood on the dirt of the infield warning track, looking into the stands for anyone who thought they could get away with jumping over the low retaining wall onto the field. At least on this night, no one was drunk or foolish enough to try it.

Sam and Heather walked behind home plate and along the warning track that paralleled the third base line to the left-field corner. When they reached the Green Monster, Heather took him to a small doorway cut into the hand-operated scoreboard, just below the AT BAT indicator. Heather pulled the door outward, and they stepped over the foot-high threshold and into the dim, dusty room behind the scoreboard.

Inside, there was a long corridor about six feet deep, with head room limited by the slanted concrete abutments on the wall opposite the scoreboard. Three men in shorts and t-shirts were extracting green metal plates with white numerals from the scoreboard slots above their heads, and hanging them on the corresponding pegs against the wall behind them. Their night was over, except for the cleanup. It was hot inside the scoreboard, the men were sweaty, and they looked glad to be finished.

“Hiya, Heather,” said one, a wiry, dark-haired guy with sideburns and curly dark hair on his legs. “Givin' a tour?”

“Hi, Danny,” Heather replied. “Yeah, Sam here wanted to see Fenway's real glamour location.”

“Well, it's all yours,” Danny said. “We're outta here.”

“That's the last one,” said one of the other scoreboard workers, hanging up a final number.

“You gonna be a while?” Danny asked Heather.

“I thought I'd show Sam some of the autographs in here.”

“Joe Mauer came in last week and signed, right over there—above Pudge's name,” Danny said. He pointed to a spot on the back wall where a signature stood out in fresh, bold Sharpie strokes.

“We'll shut off the lights,” Heather said.

The three scoreboard operators picked up their jackets and their plastic Coke cups and walked out onto the field. Heather showed Sam one of the eyeholes through which the operators watched the game, and he could see the three men heading toward the infield. The lights were still on in the park, but the stands were now empty except for the custodians picking up garbage from row to row.

He turned back to Heather, and saw her taking off her jacket.

“It's hot in here,” she said. “Aren't you a little warm?”

The question didn't seem to require an answer. She smoothed her hair back with both hands, her breasts making round shadows on her tight, pink crew-neck shirt; she gave her head a little shake, not taking her eyes off Sam. Then she walked up to him and kissed him. While they kissed, she untucked his shirt from his pants. Sam looked quickly around. Here? Inside the Green Monster? Well, why not?

He pulled a folding chair over to him and sat down, with Heather facing him. He unzipped his pants and she pulled her skirt up and took off her underwear, hanging it on one of the pegs that held the scoreboard numbers. She straddled him on the chair while Sam caressed her breasts, first outside her shirt, then pulling it up gradually and loosening her breasts from her bra.

“Anyone else coming in here tonight?”

“I can't remember if that Girl Scout troop is tonight or tomorrow night,” Heather said.

He picked Heather up and leaned her against the inside of the scoreboard for support. While he was entering her, he could see the field through one of the peepholes. He wondered if his thrusts were causing any visible movement in the wall—but there was no one on the field to notice anyway.

Heather's eyes were open, looking off into the distance behind him. He closed his own eyes and kissed her while his left hand caressed the smooth curve of her small, taut ass, and his right hand played among the smooth strands of her hair. When he opened his eyes again, Heather's eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere near the far corner of the floor.

“What are you looking at?” he said into her ear.

“Nothing.”

She curled her thigh around the back of Sam's leg and arched herself backward as Sam kissed her breasts. She moaned, but Sam glanced at her face and saw that her eyes were still fixed on the same spot.

He adjusted his stance so he could turn his head to follow her gaze. Two rats were emerging cautiously from the shadows fifteen feet from where they stood.

“Jesus!” Sam said. He started to pull away, but Heather clung to him and thrust her hips closer to Sam's.

“Finish,” she said.

Sam kicked the folding chair toward the corner and the rats scurried back into the darkness.

When they were done, both glistening with sweat, Sam eased himself back onto the folding chair while Heather got dressed.

“Is that the standard tour, or did I get the special?”

“That's a first for me, too,” Heather said, pulling on her bra. “And I wasn't expecting an audience.”

“It didn't seem to bother you too much.”

“Well, this isn't the Ritz…or the Taj.”

The overhead lights were being turned off a few minutes later as Sam and Heather emerged from the scoreboard and walked back to the infield. They used the gate next to the third base dugout that led into the grandstand and went up the aisle, stepping on black, flattened pieces of chewing gum that must have dated back to the days when Mel Parnell was pitching.