Graves' Retreat by Ed Gorman

I?”
        T.Z. sat up on the bed, lit up the yellowed remains of a quirly. “The kid’s got things good here. I want to get that money without anybody finding out that he even knew us.”
        “I’ve got it all figured.”
        T.Z. kept his eye on him. “I’m serious, Neely. I don’t want nobody to know that the kid’s my brother or that he’s got anything to do with
        us.”
        Neely stood up and smiled. “You don’t sound real scary, pretty boy, when you make threats like that.” He picked up T.Z.’s shirt from the chair and then tossed it to him. The smile was long gone. “Come on. We’re going to go watch a little baseball.”
        Sullenly, and without a word, T.Z. put on his fancy lace shirt and his string tie, and then his fancy-cut black coat.
        "I want you to go easy on the kid, Neely. And I’m serious,” T.Z. said.
        Neely just shook his head. “You’re a pathetic bastard, T.Z. You know that? Whose idea was it to come to Cedar Rapids anyway?”
        “Well-”
        “Who said, ‘My brother works in a bank. He can get us some money.’ Was it me, T.Z.?”
        “Well-”
        Neely shook his head again. “Like I said, T.Z., you’re one pathetic bastard. You know that?”
        Then they went to the ballpark.
        

CHAPTER TWELVE
        
        In the seventh inning, the sky vermilion and banked with golden clouds, Harding came out to the mound.
        The score was 6-5. The second team was beating the first.
        Les Graves stood slamming the ball into his glove. The cheers of the crowd had long ago vanished into the gathering dusk.
        Harding, reaching him, said, “You gotta concentrate, Les.”
        Les looked up. There was a wildness in his eyes. “I am concentrating.”
        “No, you’re not. Just before you throw, your eyes move to the right. To the stands.”
        Les sighed.
        “I know who you’re looking at.”
        Les shook his head, fearing the answer that Harding would offer.
        “You’re looking at Clinton Edmonds.”
        Les frowned. Harding was half right. He was probably, in fact, looking to the right, just to the west of the batter’s box, but it was not Clinton Edmonds he was looking at. It was Susan Edmonds.
        “You remember how I told you to relax?”
        “Yes.”
        “Then try it.”
        “I-I don’t know if I can.”
        “C’mon, Les. You gotta try.”
        “All right.”
        Les turned slightly away from the manager, closed his eyes and began taking a series of deep breaths and trying to blank his mind entirely. Harding insisted that an ancient Sioux Indian who lived up near Parnell had taught him this trick. (Les had never had the courage to ask Harding what an ancient Sioux Indian was doing up near Parnell, when the Sioux reservation was three hundred miles north.) But he tried it. He pictured in his mind his toes and then his legs and then his groin and then his stomach-all the way up his body to his brain itself-relaxing, relaxing, relaxing… and in truth, the tension did seem to flow out of his body as his awareness of the crowd, even Susan, began to diminish. His felt his muscles surrender, surrender…
        A few minutes later, Harding said, “Now, we’re going to do that again when we’re up to bat and you have some more time. Now, you just step up to the mound again and everything’s going to be fine.”
        Les smiled. “I sure hope you’re right.”
        “You just wait and see. That damn Sioux chief I told you about knew half the secrets of the universe.”
        This time the ancient one was a chief. The last time his name was invoked, the man had been a mere warrior.
        Les laughed. “You sure you knew this Indian?”
        “You think I make up shit like that?”
        “Hell, yes, I do.”
        This time Harding laughed. “You should be