Gone to Glory Page 2

  Traveler stepped in front of the old man and knocked the ball down bare-handed.

  “Better put on the mitt, Mo. Otherwise you might get hurt.”

  Traveler looked around. No one seemed to be paying any attention, so he did as requested.

  Kilgore picked up another ball and hit a medium fly. “The truth is, I liked Pepper’s style. We’re still close after all these years, you know. Very close.”

  Traveler fielded the throw in and lobbed the ball to Kilgore. The old man rubbed it for a moment before tossing it in the air. He swung hard, grunting with the effort, and missed.

  “Took my eye off it, for Christ’s sake.” Breath wheezed out of him along with tobacco juice. “Pepper used to do the same damned thing.”

  “Let me try hitting a few,” Traveler said, rolling up his sleeves.

  “Why not. You look like you’ve kept yourself in good enough shape.”

  The metal bat felt strange in Traveler’s hands, much lighter than the wooden ones he remembered from American Legion ball. His first toss of the ball was so far off-center that he didn’t swing. When he glanced at the outfielders he could see them edging in.

  Kilgore snorted and spit. ‘They’re making a mistake with a man your size.”

  Traveler swung easily. The ball went about three hundred feet, more than the fielders had expected but still catchable. His next one, a line drive, sent them back to the base of the left field wall.

  “That’s where Pepper hit his homer,” Kilgore said.

  Traveler squinted toward the metal fence where billboards advertised Mullet-Kelly Men’s Clothes, the I & M Rug and Linoleum Company, the Mayflower Cafe, and Pay Less Drug Stores. He’d hit the fence once as a seventeen-year-old American Legion All-Star. Since then he’d grown half a foot and fifty pounds.

  “Don’t try to kill it,” Kilgore advised as if he could read Traveler’s mind. “Uppercut it a bit. You’ll be surprised what these metal bats can do. It’s a good thing they don’t use them in pro ball, otherwise no pitcher would be safe.”

  At the crack of the bat Traveler knew he’d connected squarely. So did the outfielders. Instead of giving chase they merely turned to watch the ball clear one of the light standards.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Kilgore said. “If Pepper had only been able to hit like that.” He spit. “One home run in three years. No wonder nobody but us remembers him.” Traveler took a deep breath, savoring the smell of Sloan’s Liniment and new-mown grass. For a moment, just as he hit another ball out of the park, he thought he could smell hot dogs, too, and roasted peanuts. “Ease off,” Kilgore said. “Balls cost money.”

  Traveler stretched, enjoying the feel of the hot sun on his shoulders. Kilgore tossed him another ball.

  When Traveler caught it, he felt like a kid again.

  Twelve years old, with the Bees playing their archrival, the New York Yankee farm team from Twin Falls, Idaho. His father had given him birthday tickets so that the three of them, Willis Tanner included, could go to the game. They had arrived at Derks Field two hours early to get their favorite seats, the last row up in the grandstand directly in front of the radio booth. From there they could watch the game and hear the announcer call the play-by­play at the same time.

  Traveler adjusted his swing. The outfielders, who’d been bunched along the warning track, vied to see who would catch it. Two of them collided. The ball dropped free.

  “Call for it,” Kilgore muttered, though not loud enough for anyone but Traveler to hear it. “That could cost you a game.”

  By the time the Bees game started, mustard stains were all that remained of his and Willis’s hot dogs. Ice cream and soda pop had left their fingers sticky. Peanut shells crunched underfoot each time they stomped encouragement for the Bees.

  Traveler found his rhythm, sending fly ball after fly ball to the base of the wall. He was hitting the balls faster than Kilgore could feed them to him.

  Not a run scored until the top of the ninth, when an error gave Twin Falls the lead, one to nothing. In the radio booth behind them, the announcer lamented, “I hate to say it, folks, but the Bees have the weak end of their order due up in their half of the inning, the six, seven, and eight hitters.”

  Traveler paused to wipe sweat from his eyes. “Give me the bat,” Hap said. “I’ll spell you.” The outfielders booed.

  The booing started when the Bees number-six hitter struck out. While number seven, Ed Tomkins, was on his way to the plate, the booth announcer said, “There’s sure to be a pinch hitter for Pepper Dalton, who’s due up next. Only trouble is. Hap Kilgore has already used up most of his bench. But he’s still got Matt Hensen, the backup catcher, or even one of his better-hitting pitchers.”

  The crowd buzzed.

  “Call me a liar,” said the announcer. “I‘ve got a pinch hitter right now. Hensen is out of the dugout and swinging a bat. He’s going to hit for Tomkins.”

  The Twin Falls manager came out onto the field to talk to his left-hander on the mound. From there, the two of them stared intently at Pepper Dalton, who was now warming up in the on-deck circle.

  When pitcher and manager nodded at each other, the crowd grew silent.

  “They’re walking Hensen intentionally,” the announcer confirmed a moment later.

  Traveler was about to swing the metal bat again when Kilgore laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. “That’s enough, son. You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

  Traveler smiled at the old man but was still seeing him as he once was.

  Kilgore stepped out of the dugout, removed his hat with one hand and rubbed his bald head with the other, then walked slowly over to the on-deck circle. He didn’t say anything to Dalton, but only clapped him on the back and shoved him toward the plate, surprising everyone, including the announcer.

  “I don’t like to second-guess, folks, but all I can say is that Pepper’s hitting one-fifty-nine. Wait a minute. Twin Falls is bringing in another pitcher. A side-arming right-hander. That has to be it for Pepper Dalton.”

  Pepper acted as if he’d heard the announcer himself. He took an uncertain step toward the dugout, but Kilgore waved him back toward the plate. Fans began heading for the exits to beat traffic rather than wait for the inevitable.

  Dalton bailed out on the first pitch, a fastball on the inside corner.

  Traveler crossed his fingers and showed them to Willis, who did the same.

  “You gotta know the curve’s coming next, “the announcer said. His tone of voice said that would be the end of Dalton.

  The next pitch looked to be inside. Dalton’s front foot twitched out of the way as the curveball broke sharply. His foot was still on the move as he swung in desperation.

  The crowd was so stunned that the broadcaster’s voice echoed in the grandstand. “That ball’s really hit. It’s

  Going … going … it’s gone to glory.”

  “Whew.” Kilgore took a red-checkered bandana from his back pocket and mopped sweat from his face. “What do you say, Mo? I think we’ve earned ourselves a breather.”

  Traveler suddenly noticed how pale the old man had become.

  “Let’s get you out of the sun,” he said.

  Kilgore shook his head and gestured toward the dugout, where two middle-aged men in uniform were talking. “That’s a management huddle going on in there. It’s safer out here.”

  He tied the bandana around his head like a sweatband. “Besides, you know what they say about fresh air—it’s good for us old farts.”

  “Come on, Hap,” came a shout from the outfield. “We’re waiting out here.”

  Grimacing, Kilgore thrust his arms into the air in a signal of surrender. The outfielders answered with obscene gestures before forming into pairs to run wind sprints along the base of the outfield fence.

  “You see that? Young players these days have no resp
ect.”

  “Did you at their age?”

  Kilgore chuckled. “I guess not.” He took the metal bat from Traveler and leaned on it. Despite the improvised sweatband, runoff was still dripping into his eyes.

  For his part, Traveler felt chilled. He rolled down his shirtsleeves and buttoned the cuffs. “You’ve got to be careful this time of year. The sun feels hot, but the air is still cool.”

  “A man my age has to be careful, you mean.” Kilgore made a face as he squinted toward the Wasatch Mountains, where thunderheads were beginning to boil around the edges of the snow-covered peaks. “There’s nothing like Mormon country in May. The weather can change just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Sun one minute, rain the next.”

  The breeze blowing off the mountains carried with it the promise of rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  “Jesus,” Kilgore said, tossing the bat toward the dugout. “Here I am standing around with a lightning rod in my hand.” He pointed his nose at the outfielders. “Wouldn’t that give those young bucks a laugh, me getting zapped?”

  “That’s a metal fence they’re running along,” Traveler pointed out.

  Kilgore shifted tobacco from one cheek to the other before spitting toward left field. “You’re right. It would serve them right if they got their asses singed.”

  He glanced over his shoulder in the general direction of the dugout. “Sometimes I think nobody around here has any brains. I mean, look at those guys. There are metal railings everywhere. Jo-Jo’s leaning against one right now, for God’s sake.”

  “The storm’s still a long way off,” Traveler said. “Dummies, every one,” Kilgore went on, undeterred. “But that’s one thing you can’t say about Pepper Dalton. He was no dope. The fact is, he was the smartest player I ever coached. That home run of his, for instance. He knew right off that it was the highlight of his career. ‘Quit while you’re ahead,’ I told him. And you know what he said? ‘You’re right, Hap. I’m not good enough. I never will be.”

  The old man stared toward the mountains and sighed. His eyes had the long look of someone focusing on the past. “Pepper wasn’t your average player, not by a long shot. Most of these boys fool themselves. Next season’s always going to be their big year, the one that will put them in the major leagues. But not Pepper. He never lied to himself. You know what he said to me after that game? ‘Hap,’ he said, ‘I’m hanging ’em up at the end of this season. But I’ll be back one day, running things my way.’”

  The old man stared Traveler in the face, waiting to be prompted.

  “What did he mean by that?” Traveler supplied.

  “He became a student of the game. Spent twenty years managing in the minor leagues just like me, getting himself ready to own his own team. There’s only one problem with that, of course. Managing in the minors pays spit. Pepper couldn’t save any more than I could.”

  Traveler raised his hands, palms up, a silent question about the relevance of what the old man was saying.

  “Hold your horses. I’m coming to the point.”

  Traveler dropped his hands far enough to slide them into the pockets of his Levis.

  “Lady luck stepped in. Pepper inherited money. Last week he made an offer for the Saints, and it was accepted.”

  Kilgore wet his lips, his tongue policing up shreds of tobacco. When he opened his mouth to say something more, he hiccupped. The spasm caused him to swallow his mouthful of Redman. His Adam’s apple shimmied. He doubled over, gagging and spitting repeatedly to rid himself of what shreds remained in his mouth.

  When he raised his head a few moments later there were tears in his eyes. “I was going to be his third base coach.”

  “Was?”

  “Pepper was arrested this morning.”

  Before Traveler could react a voice called from the dugout. “Hey, Hap. Have you got a minute?”

  “I’d better see what Jo-Jo wants.” “Why was he arrested?”

  Kilgore shook his head and started for the dugout, reloading his mouth with tobacco. Halfway there he stopped and turned around. “They say he killed his own sister to get the money.”

  2

  While Hap spoke with the Saints’ manager, Traveler lounged against the metal fence and kept his eyes on the gathering thunderheads. The rain smell was stronger than ever, but so far the clouds showed no signs of making it over the mountains. But then the Wasatch had a tradition of keeping things out. They’d served as Brigham Young’s barrier against his enemies in the east. Against Missouri Pukes, as Mormons called them, and the Illinois Satanists who’d persecuted the faithful from the beginning, stealing their land and murdering their first prophet, Joseph Smith. Once those mountains had held up a federal army long enough to keep Brigham Young from being arrested for treason.

  Traveler lowered his eyes. The man in the left field bleachers was still there watching through binoculars.

  Traveler leaned back, stretching. Directly overhead, the brilliant spring sky, still untouched by eastern thunderheads, was split down the middle by the contrail of a jet passing over the mountains. It made him wonder how Brigham would cope these days against the forces of change.

  Moving slowly, nonchalantly, he ambled back toward the grandstand. Once hidden from bleacher view by the concrete structure, he broke into a trot, bypassing the metal doors to circle the stadium.

  He reached the bleachers without being seen. The snooper, dressed in nondescript gray, hadn’t moved.

  Traveler got within a few feet before the man sensed his presence and jerked the binoculars away from his face. His bloodshot eyes widened with fear. He tried to back up but the bleacher seats had him trapped.

  “I got permission,” he blustered.

  “To do what?”

  “Scout around, by golly.”

  Traveler moved in so close the man sat down abruptly on the wooden slat beneath him.

  “Big guys like you don’t scare me.” His pinched face said otherwise.

  At best he was half Traveler’s two hundred and twenty pounds.

  “Who are you?” Traveler said.

  “Golly. Golly Simpson.”

  Traveler held out his hand, palm up, demanding proof.

  Gingerly, the man took out his wallet and extracted a card.

  Traveler shook his head.

  “You got no right,” he said, but handed over his wallet anyway.

  The name on the driver’s license was Gulliver Simpson. His calling card read gulliver “golly” simpson. Beneath the name was the word investments.

  “Who are you watching?” Traveler said. “Me or Kilgore?”

  “I’m a scout for the Butte team.”

  “Montana is a long way from here.”

  “I’m free-lance.”

  “If I see you again,” Traveler said, “I’ll know you’re lying.

  3

  Traveler was back in right field, leaning against the fence with his eyes closed, when Kilgore shouted in his ear.

  “The fuckers have let me go. Fired me. Told me to get lost.”

  The old man clenched trembling fists in Traveler’s face. One of them held a dilapidated gym bag, which Kilgore began waving like a weapon.

  Traveler stepped back, out of range, while a thought nagged at him. Had his unauthorized presence on the field been to blame? “What happened?”

  The gym bag sagged against Kilgore’s hip. “There’s only one reason I can think of. With Pepper in jail, the deal’s fallen through. As of now, they don’t think I have any …” He pulled at his lower lip as if feeling for a word that eluded him.

  “Clout,” Traveler supplied.

  “Exactly. The sons-a-bitches think I’m just some old man they can kick around.”

  The flush had left his face. Without color, his skin was as lifeless as undertakers’ art. His uniform, which had looked s
kintight around the belly only moments ago, now seemed baggy. The bulge of tobacco in his cheek seemed ominous, like a tumor.

  In frustration, he drop-kicked the gym bag. It landed near the dugout. “Those assholes can’t fire me. I’m a volunteer.”

  In one quick motion Kilgore pulled the uniform top over his head. Underneath he wore a dark blue turtleneck sweatshirt. Once uncovered, the garment radiated Sloan’s Liniment strong enough to repel bugs.

  “The shirt’s theirs. So are the pants.”

  With that, he undid his belt and zipper and collapsed onto the grass to remove the rest of his uniform. His rubber-cleated baseball shoes came first, followed by his pants. Finally he rolled down his blue knee-high baseball socks to reveal white, hairless legs that looked too thin to support the rest of him. He made no move to jettison his sweat socks.

  “You know what they pay me, Mo?” Kilgore struggled onto his knees before lurching to his feet. “A free fucking pass to the games if the stands aren’t full. On a big night, I have to watch from the bull pen. By God, when we get Pepper out of jail things are going to be different around here. A third base coach, even in this league, is nothing to be sneezed at.”

  “Don’t expect miracles,” Traveler said. “I’m not a bail bondsman.”

  “Even an old fart like me knows you can’t make bail for murder. That means you’re going to have to prove that Pepper is innocent.”

  “That’s what lawyers are for.”

  “A lawyer’s fine, but you I know.”

  “Get dressed and we’ll go somewhere else to talk.”

  Kilgore waved away the suggestion. “They’re not running me out of here like some kid who’s snuck in over the fence. I’m taking my own good time about it.”

  He walked over to his gym bag, unzipped it, and removed a pair of tightly rolled, gray work trousers. Once unfurled, they were as wrinkled as old newspaper. He gave them a perfunctory jerk to smooth them out, then balanced precariously on one foot and tried to pull them over the other.

  Traveler caught him as he was about to fall. Laughter spilled out of the dugout.