ashamed of yourself,
Graves.”
He walked back to his team, waddling a bit because not only was his stomach spreading as he reached forty but so was his backside.
Les, continuing his deep breathing, and concentrating, concentrating, stepped up to the mound, shook off two different signals from the catcher, waited till he found one he liked and then sailed one so fast and so fine across the plate that the crowd went flat-out crazy again.
He struck out the next two batters and trotted back to the home team side with the crowd giving him a standing ovation.
***
The fat man had himself two more soft drinks and then took the folded-up poster from inside his jacket.
It was a crisp folder, recently printed, and if you held it close enough to your nose, you could smell the printer’s ink, which was one of the fat man’s favorite odors in all the world.
He opened the folder and pressed it flat, and stared at the visage of T. Z. Graves and the big bold word wanted and then that glorious figure $5000 dead or alive.
Only crazy people trifled with the railroads, which, in this year of Our Lord 1884, virtually if not literally owned the country. (It was said that in the halls of Congress, the paintings of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson had been replaced with the portraits of J. P. Morgan and James J. Hill.)
T. Z. Graves had not only robbed a train. He had killed a railroad employee.
Even desperadoes as popular and pampered as the James Brothers had paid for foolishness of that magnitude, Jesse shot dead just a year and a half ago, and Frank James going through a series of bitter trials that could yet end up in his hanging.
Just how did T. Z. Graves think he stood a chance against the might and cunning and tirelessness of the railroad?
The fat man had some more of the cool drink and watched as Les Graves ran back to the home team side.
The fat man smiled as his eyes followed Graves. That was one trick the railroad men, beginning way back when Allan Pinkerton was just a tyro, learned well.
You didn’t stalk the criminal himself. You stalked his family. Because when you got the family, you got what Pinkerton liked to call “leverage.” The fat man had heard Pinkerton give a talk in St. Louis once. Pinkerton said that the Romans had learned one truth about torture-that some men you can torture for hours, days and get nothing from them. But take these same people and threaten to torture somebody they love and-the men broke almost immediately.
The fat man leaned his arms back and enjoyed the sight of the teams trading places on the field and the men in their new straw hats and the women in their floral hats and the kids with pennants and homemade baseball caps made up to resemble those worn by the players.
You got to a man through his loved ones, the fat man thought contentedly to himself.
And that was just what he planned to do.
***
Neely said, “Remember the year the White Stockings won twenty games in a row?”
But T.Z. wasn’t listening. T.Z. never listened when the subject was sports. T.Z. had his women and his nightmares and that was about it.
They stood at the north end of the bleachers, watching the game in its last inning.
“Boy, there sure are some pretty ones in this town,” T.Z. said.
Neely said, “There are pretty ones everywhere.”
“Yeah, Neely,” T.Z. said, “but you never seem to do anything about it.”
“Wasn’t my fault she ran off with that goddamn drummer.”
“You could always try to find another one.”
"She’d be just like Myma was.”
“Myma wasn’t so bad.”
“If she wasn’t so bad, why did she run off with that goddamn drummer?”
“Maybe she got tired of your politics.”
Neely
Graves.”
He walked back to his team, waddling a bit because not only was his stomach spreading as he reached forty but so was his backside.
Les, continuing his deep breathing, and concentrating, concentrating, stepped up to the mound, shook off two different signals from the catcher, waited till he found one he liked and then sailed one so fast and so fine across the plate that the crowd went flat-out crazy again.
He struck out the next two batters and trotted back to the home team side with the crowd giving him a standing ovation.
***
The fat man had himself two more soft drinks and then took the folded-up poster from inside his jacket.
It was a crisp folder, recently printed, and if you held it close enough to your nose, you could smell the printer’s ink, which was one of the fat man’s favorite odors in all the world.
He opened the folder and pressed it flat, and stared at the visage of T. Z. Graves and the big bold word wanted and then that glorious figure $5000 dead or alive.
Only crazy people trifled with the railroads, which, in this year of Our Lord 1884, virtually if not literally owned the country. (It was said that in the halls of Congress, the paintings of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson had been replaced with the portraits of J. P. Morgan and James J. Hill.)
T. Z. Graves had not only robbed a train. He had killed a railroad employee.
Even desperadoes as popular and pampered as the James Brothers had paid for foolishness of that magnitude, Jesse shot dead just a year and a half ago, and Frank James going through a series of bitter trials that could yet end up in his hanging.
Just how did T. Z. Graves think he stood a chance against the might and cunning and tirelessness of the railroad?
The fat man had some more of the cool drink and watched as Les Graves ran back to the home team side.
The fat man smiled as his eyes followed Graves. That was one trick the railroad men, beginning way back when Allan Pinkerton was just a tyro, learned well.
You didn’t stalk the criminal himself. You stalked his family. Because when you got the family, you got what Pinkerton liked to call “leverage.” The fat man had heard Pinkerton give a talk in St. Louis once. Pinkerton said that the Romans had learned one truth about torture-that some men you can torture for hours, days and get nothing from them. But take these same people and threaten to torture somebody they love and-the men broke almost immediately.
The fat man leaned his arms back and enjoyed the sight of the teams trading places on the field and the men in their new straw hats and the women in their floral hats and the kids with pennants and homemade baseball caps made up to resemble those worn by the players.
You got to a man through his loved ones, the fat man thought contentedly to himself.
And that was just what he planned to do.
***
Neely said, “Remember the year the White Stockings won twenty games in a row?”
But T.Z. wasn’t listening. T.Z. never listened when the subject was sports. T.Z. had his women and his nightmares and that was about it.
They stood at the north end of the bleachers, watching the game in its last inning.
“Boy, there sure are some pretty ones in this town,” T.Z. said.
Neely said, “There are pretty ones everywhere.”
“Yeah, Neely,” T.Z. said, “but you never seem to do anything about it.”
“Wasn’t my fault she ran off with that goddamn drummer.”
“You could always try to find another one.”
"She’d be just like Myma was.”
“Myma wasn’t so bad.”
“If she wasn’t so bad, why did she run off with that goddamn drummer?”
“Maybe she got tired of your politics.”
Neely
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