inspired.”
“Are you nominating, or just speculating?”
“I don’t want to say any more until I’ve given it some more thought. I want to look into the backgrounds of a few players.”
Harvey looked askance at the radio man. “I’d be careful, Snoot. I’d rather you just come to me with your suspicions.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course not. In any case, if it turns out to be a teammate, I’ll actually be relieved. Better a disgruntled teammate than some stranger with a serious grudge.”
Coffman nodded thoughtfully. “Anyway, rest assured I’m not trying to do your job. My daddy was an army colonel, and I must’ve gotten his gene for maintaining order.” He looked off. “Ladies!”
He beckoned to a short woman and two teenage girls who were walking toward them on the grass. The woman was fighting middle age in a too-tight summer dress that said too much about a body that wasn’t what it had been. She was in obvious competition with her daughters, who wore matching halter tops, inside of which their breasts trembled like Jell-O molds.
Coffman introduced his wife, Cindy, to Harvey, who took her plump hand.
“C’mon, Daddy,” the taller of the two girls said. “I want to say hi to Moss.”
“My family,” Coffman said to Harvey. “God love ’em. These are my precious jewels, if you’ll pardon the expression, Tara and Tiffany. This is Harvey Blissberg, who used to play baseball.”
The daughters had no interest in anybody who “used to” anything. “Nice to meet you,” they mumbled without meeting his eyes.
“You must be big Moss Cooley fans,” Harvey said to them anyway.
“They’ve been fans since we had some of the ballplayers over for a clambake a while back,” Coffman said.
“He picked me up and threw me in the pool!” the shorter one said in a voice that sounded carbonated.
Coffman hugged this one to him and kissed her hair. “I think Tara’s more impressed by that than the streak. You have any children, Harvey?”
“Sadly, no.”
“There’s nothing sweeter than family. Nothing sweeter.”
“Oh, stop pontificating,” Cindy said, elbowing her husband affectionately. “Leave the poor man alone.”
“Yes, dear,” Coffman said, winking at Harvey. “Nothing sweeter. So you’ll think about being my guest on the pregame show? Don’t fret. I’ll do all the talking. In fact, I insist on it.”
“As usual,” his wife deadpanned, fondling an earring.
“Here comes Moss,” Tiffany said as Cooley swaggered slowly out of the batting cage. But he walked right past Harvey and Coffman’s avid, giggling daughters, oblivious to all of them. He kept his eyes down, lost in some deep ritual of mental preparation, some private preserve where the hollering of history could not reach him.
“Mr. Blissberg.”
Harvey turned. Now it was a big young man in his twenties standing next to him in a pale blue polo shirt and slacks. He had a hard face and ballpark franks on his breath. His shaggy brown hair was expensively cut, but his shoes—Vibram-soled clunkers—gave him away as a cop.
He excused himself from the Coffman family and turned to the young man. “Yes?”
“I wonder if I could speak with you for a moment. My name’s Joshua Linderman. Detective Joshua Linderman of the Providence Police Homicide Division.” He extended his hand.
Taking it, Harvey felt a smile spread across his own face like a pool of warm syrup. “Oh, my God,” he said. “You’re his son.”
“Nephew, actually.”
“Well, I’m a big fan of your uncle.”
“And he’s a fan of yours.”
“So, you’re in the business too now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Part of the security detail here?”
“No, sir. I’m off duty. I came to see you.”
Joshua Linderman was at the age when youth and authority were awkwardly blended in him, especially out of uniform. Harvey was tempted to cure him of all these yes sirs and no sirs, but he was at the age when he was actually beginning to enjoy
“Are you nominating, or just speculating?”
“I don’t want to say any more until I’ve given it some more thought. I want to look into the backgrounds of a few players.”
Harvey looked askance at the radio man. “I’d be careful, Snoot. I’d rather you just come to me with your suspicions.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course not. In any case, if it turns out to be a teammate, I’ll actually be relieved. Better a disgruntled teammate than some stranger with a serious grudge.”
Coffman nodded thoughtfully. “Anyway, rest assured I’m not trying to do your job. My daddy was an army colonel, and I must’ve gotten his gene for maintaining order.” He looked off. “Ladies!”
He beckoned to a short woman and two teenage girls who were walking toward them on the grass. The woman was fighting middle age in a too-tight summer dress that said too much about a body that wasn’t what it had been. She was in obvious competition with her daughters, who wore matching halter tops, inside of which their breasts trembled like Jell-O molds.
Coffman introduced his wife, Cindy, to Harvey, who took her plump hand.
“C’mon, Daddy,” the taller of the two girls said. “I want to say hi to Moss.”
“My family,” Coffman said to Harvey. “God love ’em. These are my precious jewels, if you’ll pardon the expression, Tara and Tiffany. This is Harvey Blissberg, who used to play baseball.”
The daughters had no interest in anybody who “used to” anything. “Nice to meet you,” they mumbled without meeting his eyes.
“You must be big Moss Cooley fans,” Harvey said to them anyway.
“They’ve been fans since we had some of the ballplayers over for a clambake a while back,” Coffman said.
“He picked me up and threw me in the pool!” the shorter one said in a voice that sounded carbonated.
Coffman hugged this one to him and kissed her hair. “I think Tara’s more impressed by that than the streak. You have any children, Harvey?”
“Sadly, no.”
“There’s nothing sweeter than family. Nothing sweeter.”
“Oh, stop pontificating,” Cindy said, elbowing her husband affectionately. “Leave the poor man alone.”
“Yes, dear,” Coffman said, winking at Harvey. “Nothing sweeter. So you’ll think about being my guest on the pregame show? Don’t fret. I’ll do all the talking. In fact, I insist on it.”
“As usual,” his wife deadpanned, fondling an earring.
“Here comes Moss,” Tiffany said as Cooley swaggered slowly out of the batting cage. But he walked right past Harvey and Coffman’s avid, giggling daughters, oblivious to all of them. He kept his eyes down, lost in some deep ritual of mental preparation, some private preserve where the hollering of history could not reach him.
“Mr. Blissberg.”
Harvey turned. Now it was a big young man in his twenties standing next to him in a pale blue polo shirt and slacks. He had a hard face and ballpark franks on his breath. His shaggy brown hair was expensively cut, but his shoes—Vibram-soled clunkers—gave him away as a cop.
He excused himself from the Coffman family and turned to the young man. “Yes?”
“I wonder if I could speak with you for a moment. My name’s Joshua Linderman. Detective Joshua Linderman of the Providence Police Homicide Division.” He extended his hand.
Taking it, Harvey felt a smile spread across his own face like a pool of warm syrup. “Oh, my God,” he said. “You’re his son.”
“Nephew, actually.”
“Well, I’m a big fan of your uncle.”
“And he’s a fan of yours.”
“So, you’re in the business too now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Part of the security detail here?”
“No, sir. I’m off duty. I came to see you.”
Joshua Linderman was at the age when youth and authority were awkwardly blended in him, especially out of uniform. Harvey was tempted to cure him of all these yes sirs and no sirs, but he was at the age when he was actually beginning to enjoy
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