Gone to Glory Page 10
Gilchrist opened a desk drawer and brought out a bottle of air freshener. He raised the wick without taking his eyes from Traveler. “Golly’s done some scouting for me in the past. High schools, semipros, things like that. He has a great eye for talent. That’s why I asked him to prepare a player report for potential buyers. The sooner the better, I say. The cost of running the Saints is eating me alive.”
“If Simpson works for you, why send his mail to an old folks home?”
“He’s on the road a lot, so I send it to his sister, who works there.”
“The road he took yesterday was right behind my car. He followed me.”
Gilchrist pulled at his lip. “Maybe he thought you were a scout from some other team.”
“Sure he did.”
“Believe me or not, Mr. Traveler. It’s all the same to me.”
Traveler got to his feet and wandered around the office, examining it carefully. Underneath the team banners, T-shirts and caps that had been stapled to the walls, the plaster was disintegrating, the paint crumbling to dust. A century’s worth of mold and mildew was thumbing its nose at Gilchrist’s deodorant.
Traveler took the cap from his head. It, too, had absorbed the smell of the Brooks Arcade. “As I understand it,” he said, “Pepper Dalton has made an offer for the Saints.”
“That’s correct as far as it goes.”
“He has a man at the Phoebe Clinton, too.”
“If you mean Hap Kilgore, he’s an old man, nothing more.”
“He’s a friend of mine.”
“That doesn’t change anything. Neither man figures into the equation any longer, not with Dalton in jail and out of an inheritance.”
“And if he’s found innocent?”
Gilchrist stood and placed his right hand over his heart. “Look at this place, Mr. Traveler. I can’t afford to wait for the trial. If the truth be known, I can’t wait until next week. I’m drowning in red ink.”
“Do you have other offers?”
“I will soon enough, once the word goes out that I’ve dropped my price for the Saints. I have no choice, really, not with Dalton out of the picture.”
“I was always a fan of the old Bees myself.”
Gilchrist dropped his hand and sat down again. “You disappoint me. I thought you were smarter than that. You’ve been listening to old men like Hap Kilgore reminisce. There’s no going back, Traveler. You should have learned that by now.”
“You never saw him play, did you?”
“He never made it. He was a minor leaguer all his life. Just like Salt Lake.”
“And Pepper Dalton?”
“He’s your client, Mr. Traveler. One of your old Bees, if I’m not mistaken. Why should I know more about him than you do?”
“I haven’t seen him since I was a boy.”
“It’s best left that way. Games are for young men.’”
“And you?”
“I don’t play games, I run them. That’s the difference. Take Pepper, now. If it were up to him, he’d still like to play. He’s living in the past just like old Kilgore. There’s no future in that.”
“On the subject of Hap, why was he fired from the Saints yesterday?”
“1 hope you’re not under the impression that he actually worked for us.”
“I realize that he was a volunteer.”
“Hospitals need volunteers, not baseball teams.”
“When I arrived at Derks Field yesterday, he was wearing a uniform and hitting fungoes. When I left he was out on his ear.”
“What can I say? We kept him around for sentimental reasons. A few of our old-time fans got a kick out of seeing him in the bull pen. They’re people like you, Traveler, living in the past to avoid the present.”
“Bullshit.”
Gilchrist grinned … Okay, so I thought having the old man around would sweeten my deal with Dalton.”
“Did my presence have anything to do with Hap getting fired?”
Gilchrist ran a hand over his perfect hair. “I know who you are. I’m a sports fan, too, in addition to being a businessman. But unlike you, I don’t quit when things go wrong. You walked away from the Hall of Fame because of an accident. I, on the other hand, would have played all the harder. You see, fear was on your side then. Every time someone tried to run against you, they’d see that guy you crippled. They’d see themselves in a wheelchair for the rest of their lives.”
Traveler tossed his Saints cap onto the desk. “Football’s a game, just like baseball. It shouldn’t be worth a man’s life.”
“To most athletes their game is their life. Ask Hap if you don’t believe me. I killed him yesterday in a manner of speaking. But I didn’t have any choice, really. He was Pepper’s man, not mine. Once Pepper took himself out of the running by killing that woman, there was no need to keep Hap around.”
“He wasn’t doing any harm.”
“Our insurance people didn’t like it. They wouldn’t cover us if he got hurt on the field.”
“You could have asked him to sign a waiver.”
“Give me one good reason why we should want to keep an old fart like Hap around.”
“Experience,” Traveler replied.
19
The lobby of the Chester Building was empty. Even the cigar counter had been deserted, though its eternal flame burned on. Only Nephi Bates was at his post.
He scowled at Traveler, at the same time adjusting earphones that were plugged into a cassette player that hung from a neck strap. As soon as Traveler stepped inside the elevator Bates said, “Floor, please?”
“The same as always.”
With a shake of his head Bates cranked up the volume. Then he carefully mouthed, “Floor, please?”
“You win.” Traveler held up three fingers. One of them, he noticed, had a bluish stain at its tip. No doubt the result of cheap dye from the Saints cap he’d tried on. Bates slammed the accordion door with one hand and whacked the start lever with the other. The elevator bucked violently. Traveler lost his balance and fell against the grillwork siding.
Grinning, Bates reversed the lever. The cage shimmied. From somewhere above them came the sound of cables clanging together. The resulting vibration produced a resonant hum that set Traveler’s teeth on edge. It also drove the glee from Bates’ eyes. He hunched his shoulders protectively, dislodging the earphones from his head. The voice of the prophet, Elton Woolley, spilled out: “O how great the goodness of our God, who prepareth a way for our escape from the grasp of this awful monster; yea, that monster, death, and—” The connector plug pulled loose as Bates lunged at the emergency button.
Traveler caught his hand in midair. “No need for that. I’ll run myself up.”
“Don’t move us. There might be damage to the
cables.”
“Three floors isn’t that far to drop.”
Bates fumbled for his earphones as if seeking salvation before the fall. He didn’t know that Barney Chester had installed a backup safety system on the elevator only last year.
The office of Moroni Traveler & Son was as empty as the lobby. The thought flashed through Traveler’s mind that the whole gang had gone out drinking, and then he saw his father’s note: “Have gone to Salt Lake International to watch the planes. Will be home for dinner.” The airport was one of Martin’s favorite haunts, especially when he was feeling down in the dumps or nostalgic. If all else failed to lighten his mood, he’d rent a plane and go flying.
Traveler considered leaving a note of his own. “Am leaving for Fillmore. Won’t be home for dinner.” But as soon as he picked up the pen, he decided to say good-bye to his father in person. After all, Fillmore was a good three hours away by car. Three hours there and back, plus the time needed to find and interview Pepper Dalton’s lady friend and brother-in-law, added up to an overnight stay.
Traveler sat down, signaled for a menu, and eyed his father closely. “It looks like you had a hard time getting out of bed this morning.”
Instead of responding, Martin tapped the window to point out a jetliner that was taxiing away from the boarding area. “I used to love coming out here right after the war. It was better than going to a drive-in movie. You could walk right out to the edge of the runway in those days and see the planes close up. I even brought your mother once.”
He shook his head as if to condemn the memory. “In those days there were all kinds of planes to watch. Fighters and bombers. P-38s, P-51s and B-17s. Even B-29s. Now what do you see? Passenger planes lined up like sausages.”
Traveler was about to mention the National Guard squadron stationed on the other side of the airport, but then he thought better of it. Martin considered P the proper designation for a fighter plane, not F. He’d said so often enough. P as in pursuit.
“They call this place Salt Lake International, tor Christ’s sake. Look out there.” Martin’s finger was at the glass again, this time tracing a line meant to take in the entire expanse of the landscape. “We’re in the middle of a desert, land-locked. The only proper name for this place is Salt Lake Provincial Airport.”
He paused to grin at his son. “But you know Mormons. They think of California as a foreign country. If they had their way passports would be required. The day that happens, I’ll call the place international. Not before.”
“It’s not that bad,” Traveler said.
“Bad! In the old days flying commercially meant something. Traveling by air was first-class, reserved for the cream of society. As for the rest of us peasants, trains and buses were good enough. But nowadays everything’s homogenized. There’s nothing left to rise to the top except scum.”
Traveler sat back. He knew better than to interrupt. That would only prolong Martin’s mood.
“Progress is like old age. Inevitable but not worth a good goddamn.”
A waitress arrived. Traveler ordered a nine-dollar-and-ninety-five-cent club sandwich like the one Martin already had sitting in front of him. It had been quartered, with the crust removed, leaving four bite-size pieces behind on a leaf of wilted lettuce. Off to one side was an ice cream-scooped mound of potato salad.
“Do you remember the old Pilot Café on West Temple?” Martin asked.
Traveler did indeed. The place had been famous for the World War II trainer plane mounted on its roof.
“They served chicken in a basket.”
“Not quite.” Martin tapped his forehead … Chicken in the Rough, they called it. You know what’s there now? No, don’t bother to answer. I don’t know either. That’s the trouble. West Temple is like everything else; it’s lost its character. All you see is one fast-food joint after another.”
Traveler’s memory of the Pilot Café included carhops, which qualified it, to his way of thinking, as the fast-food joint of its era.
A jet landed, a small two-engined commuter, probably from the Coast. Martin watched it all the way into its parking area before continuing. “When you get to be my age, memories from your youth are more real than what happened yesterday. Christ, it seems like yesterday when I brought Kary, your mother, to watch the planes. This place wasn’t here then, you understand. The terminal was small and friendly. Not like this concrete monstrosity,”
Martin’s head tilted to one side. “Listen to me, will you? To hear me talk, you’d think I never learned a thing about your mother. That I just kept on making the same mistakes over and over again.”
He sucked in a quick breath as if preparing to go on, but for some reason didn’t speak again until Traveler’s sandwich arrived, a twin of the one already on the table.
“You know what Kary said to me that day? You love these planes because they remind you of the war. That’s why you come out here. Because you loved every minute of playing soldier. The killing, too.”
Sighing, he tilted his head to the other side, and then back again as if listening to echoes from the past. “I think those were her exact words.”
“It’s been a long time, Dad.”
“There are some things you don’t forget. Your first woman, even though you may live to regret her. Your first kill.” He waved his hands over the table as if swatting at something unseen between them.
Traveler caught his breath, wondering if this was the time when his father would finally end his silence about the war.
Martin snorted, a sound of self-derision. “When it came to men, your mother knew what she was doing. She was no genius, but she was cunning enough. Sometimes I think she knew me too well.”
Traveler bit into his sandwich, swallowing a lifetime of questions along with the food.
“‘That’s the trouble with heroes,’ she’d say. ‘The rest of their life is a letdown.’”
Traveler looked up to catch Martin watching him. His father glanced away, but not quickly enough. The glistening in his eyes had been impossible to miss. “Sometimes it seems like someone else fought in my place. At other times …” Martin pretended to watch the runway, but the window reflected closed eyes. “Your mother knew how to get at me, all right. But by God she wasn’t infallible. Having you for a son is no letdown.”
When Traveler reached across the table, his father shook his head and said, “Don’t get sentimental on me.”
“Dad, I’m on my way to Fillmore.”
“For Hap Kilgore?”
“That’s right.”
Martin plucked at his pajama collar. “That reminds me. I took a collect call for you from Chuck Cecil.”
“And?”
“I didn’t know what you wanted from him, did I? All he knew was that you’d left your number at his hotel in Baltimore.”
“I’m surprised you accepted the call.”
“I’m not senile yet. I recognized his name. One of the old Bees, wasn’t he?”
“Center fielder.”
“That’s right. A home run hitter. He says he’s attending a convention and that you’ll have a hard time reaching him in his room. The best time to try, he said, would be about ten o’clock tonight.”
“It was a long shot anyway. He might be needed as a character witness for Pepper Dalton down the line. But that’s about all.”
Martin forked potato salad into his mouth and chewed on it for a while. Finally, he washed it down with coffee. “What do you think about Cecil as a name?”
The tone of voice alerted Traveler. His father was up to something.
“Come to think of it,” Martin went on, “Cecil sounds a bit uppity as a first name. Chuck’s probably better.”
“Un-hunh.”
“Hey, I need your input here. It’s not easy being a father. I’ve been trying out names for your baby brother all day.”
“Christ.”
“You’re right. I should have known better and looked to religion in the first place. Like you, he ought to be named from The Book of Mormon.”
Martin’s lips pressed together in a tight line, his way of holding in laughter. “What do you say? Mosiah? Jarom? Lehi? Manti? They all sound good, don’t they?”
“You might as well make it Moroni the third and be done with it.”
Martin spread his hands. “Of course. What a dummy I am.”
“Have you been talking to Claire?”
His father sighed so deeply it seemed to deflate him. All sign of mirth departed along with his breath. “The only woman I’ve heard
from today is your mother. My head’s full of her memory.”
Traveler knew the feeling.
“She wanted more children, you know.”
“And you didn’t?”
“Someday I’ll have to explain our relationship to you.”
Kary was inside Traveler’s head, too, and always would be. “Haven’t you ever wondered about the difference in size between you and your father?” she’d ask every so often, her expression alive with implication. “Your eyes, too. Yours are blue, your father’s brown.” That was her way, never coming right out with it, but edging just close enough so that he’d known Martin wasn’t his real father. “I gave you his name, of course. But that had to be. A woman can’t be left alone, not with a new child.”
Traveler pushed back from the table and stood up. “If I’m going to Fillmore, I’d better get started.”
“Take care,” Martin said. “You’re the only son I’ve got.”
20
Millard Fillmore is a forgotten president, except in Utah. There, he’s remembered as the first friend the Mormons ever had in the White House. Not only did he sign the bill creating the Territory of Utah, he named Brigham Young its first governor. By contrast, Fillmore’s predecessors turned blind eyes to Joseph Smith’s murder and the Mormon persecution that followed. Fillmore’s successor, Franklin Pierce, tried to remove Brigham from office, only no Gentile had the guts to take the post. The next president, James Buchanan, sent an army into Utah to do the job.
As a result, nearly 6,800 square miles of the state are named Millard County. Its seat is Fillmore, a town of two thousand, some 140 miles south of Salt Lake, on the western edge of the Pavant Mountain Range.
Traveler made the drive in a little under four hours, including one stop for gas. His last trip to Fillmore had been as a Boy Scout.
Except for a fresh coat of paint here and there, the downtown looked unchanged. It still had one main street, with few tributaries. Pickup trucks outnumbered cars. At the moment, most of them were parked in front of the Millard Feed & Seed on one side of the street and the Fillmore Café on the other.