shook his head. “I never understood that.”
“Understood what?”
“Why she hated me talkin’ about politics.”
“Women don’t give a damn about things like that.”
“Some women do. Look at the suffragettes.”
T.Z. laughed. “The suffragettes. Hell. Who gives a damn about them?”
But suddenly Neely wasn’t paying so much attention to their argument. Suddenly Neely wasn’t paying attention to anything but sight of a certain man way up high in the east section of bleachers.
There was a kid behind them in the stands with a pair of field glasses.
Neely leaned over and said, “Want to make a penny?”
“For what?” the kid said suspiciously.
“For your glasses?”
“You mean buy them?”
“Just use them.”
“For how long?”
Neely wanted to crack the kid across the face. The kid was ten, chunky and mean-looking.
“For no more than a minute.”
“What the hell are you doin’?” T.Z. asked Neely.
“Shut up,” Neely said.
“A nickel,” the kid said.
“All right,” Neely agreed, tossing and flipping him a nickel. “Now give me the glasses.”
“No more than a minute,” the kid warned.
Neely jerked the glasses out of his hand.
“What the hell’s going on?” T.Z. asked.
“I already told you,” Neely said, as if to a child. “Shut up.” Then Neely turned the glasses east to the bleachers where he’d spotted the man.
He adjusted the glasses to get the best look possible.
The kid said, “It’s been more than a minute, I’ll bet.”
T.Z. said, “You watch your mouth, kid.”
“He promised,” the kid said, sounding as if he were going to start crying. “He said a minute. One minute.”
“Shut up,” T.Z. said.
“Shit,” Neely said, not taking the glasses from his eyes.
“What is it?” T.Z. asked.
“Shit,” Neely said again.
Then he yanked the glasses from his eyes and plumped them back in the lap of the kid.
He started walking very fast for the exit from the ballpark.
T.Z. had to half run to keep up.
“What’s wrong, Neely?”
But Neely didn't say anything more than “Just keep your head down and move as fast as you can.”
T.Z. always got scared. He was scared now. “What’s wrong, Neely? Tell me, please. What’s wrong?”
“Like I said,” Neely said through gritted teeth. “Keep your head down and move as fast as you can.”
Thirty seconds later they had left the ballpark. That was when Neely broke into a full run and headed for the maze of the railroad yard down in the valley below.
T.Z., trying to keep up, said, “I’m scared, Neely. I’m real scared.”
But all Neely could think about was the glimpse of the fat man in the bleachers and who the man was.
And why he’d be here in Cedar Rapids.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A home run won the game by a single run for the first team. The second team had never come this close to beating them before.
The crowd’s applause was sparse.
Clinton Edmonds, all curses and bluster, got up and stalked from his box seat, Susan and Byron following meekly in his wake.
The fat man sat up in the bleachers until nearly everybody had left the park. Dusk was full in the sky now, a low and gorgeously purple dusk, with a scattering of bright stars and a full moon so vivid it looked like a painting.
***
The fat man made his way carefully down the bleachers and back to the Grand Hotel, over on Second Street East. He had a last glance at Les. He would see the man later tonight.
***
Harding, the team manager, went through his usual postgame talk, spiced with derision,
“Understood what?”
“Why she hated me talkin’ about politics.”
“Women don’t give a damn about things like that.”
“Some women do. Look at the suffragettes.”
T.Z. laughed. “The suffragettes. Hell. Who gives a damn about them?”
But suddenly Neely wasn’t paying so much attention to their argument. Suddenly Neely wasn’t paying attention to anything but sight of a certain man way up high in the east section of bleachers.
There was a kid behind them in the stands with a pair of field glasses.
Neely leaned over and said, “Want to make a penny?”
“For what?” the kid said suspiciously.
“For your glasses?”
“You mean buy them?”
“Just use them.”
“For how long?”
Neely wanted to crack the kid across the face. The kid was ten, chunky and mean-looking.
“For no more than a minute.”
“What the hell are you doin’?” T.Z. asked Neely.
“Shut up,” Neely said.
“A nickel,” the kid said.
“All right,” Neely agreed, tossing and flipping him a nickel. “Now give me the glasses.”
“No more than a minute,” the kid warned.
Neely jerked the glasses out of his hand.
“What the hell’s going on?” T.Z. asked.
“I already told you,” Neely said, as if to a child. “Shut up.” Then Neely turned the glasses east to the bleachers where he’d spotted the man.
He adjusted the glasses to get the best look possible.
The kid said, “It’s been more than a minute, I’ll bet.”
T.Z. said, “You watch your mouth, kid.”
“He promised,” the kid said, sounding as if he were going to start crying. “He said a minute. One minute.”
“Shut up,” T.Z. said.
“Shit,” Neely said, not taking the glasses from his eyes.
“What is it?” T.Z. asked.
“Shit,” Neely said again.
Then he yanked the glasses from his eyes and plumped them back in the lap of the kid.
He started walking very fast for the exit from the ballpark.
T.Z. had to half run to keep up.
“What’s wrong, Neely?”
But Neely didn't say anything more than “Just keep your head down and move as fast as you can.”
T.Z. always got scared. He was scared now. “What’s wrong, Neely? Tell me, please. What’s wrong?”
“Like I said,” Neely said through gritted teeth. “Keep your head down and move as fast as you can.”
Thirty seconds later they had left the ballpark. That was when Neely broke into a full run and headed for the maze of the railroad yard down in the valley below.
T.Z., trying to keep up, said, “I’m scared, Neely. I’m real scared.”
But all Neely could think about was the glimpse of the fat man in the bleachers and who the man was.
And why he’d be here in Cedar Rapids.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A home run won the game by a single run for the first team. The second team had never come this close to beating them before.
The crowd’s applause was sparse.
Clinton Edmonds, all curses and bluster, got up and stalked from his box seat, Susan and Byron following meekly in his wake.
The fat man sat up in the bleachers until nearly everybody had left the park. Dusk was full in the sky now, a low and gorgeously purple dusk, with a scattering of bright stars and a full moon so vivid it looked like a painting.
***
The fat man made his way carefully down the bleachers and back to the Grand Hotel, over on Second Street East. He had a last glance at Les. He would see the man later tonight.
***
Harding, the team manager, went through his usual postgame talk, spiced with derision,
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