the farthest thing from his mind right then. “I don’t think we have anything to say to each other,” Jack said, turning away.
“Don’t turn your back on me, boy,” Abe warned.
Jack froze. Then slowly, so as not to appear intimidated,he turned back. “If you have something to say, then say it. If not, I have a date.”
“Oh, I have something to say, all right,” Abe said, grinning. “I wanted to give you some advice.”
In that instant Jack knew. Knew that Glassman was about to go for his jugular. Knew it wasn’t over, that it had never been over. Dread filled him. “I can’t wait.”
Glassman laughed. “Stick to your own league.” He laughed harder. “Know what I mean? You’re bush league, Ford, and you always have been. You can’t make the majors— you won’t . I’m the Man in this town, just like I was the Man in New York. Ring any bells?”
The sweat was pouring now in a steady stream. “You can’t touch me, not now.” But he felt as if he were free-falling through space.
Abe laughed. “No? Just wait and see, boy. Just wait and see.”
Falling.
God, why?
PART TWO
Lovers
December 1987
20
H e hadn’t had the dream in years.
Not since he was in his mid-twenties, but he’d been having it recently, and he had it that night. He was a boy—it was years ago. He was walking home. His block stood out crystal-clear in his mind. An empty lot, dirt and debris taking up half of one side, the chain fence partly torn down, so easily circumventable. Rows of rotting, squalid, wood-shingled homes, porches crumbling, paint gone, shutters hanging crookedly. Rats escaping from overturned, overflowing garbage cans. Wrecked and stripped jalopies dotting front yards and the sides of the street.
His own house was on the corner. It was no different from every other house on the block. One side of the porch sagged precariously. White paint had long ago flaked away, revealing green and gray patches beneath. One of the front windows was boarded up; the glass had been shattered. His father had thrown something at it—years earlier—with his mother screaming hysterically and Jack hiding under the stairs. The other front window had a jagged, gaping hole. The screen door had a myriad of tears in it.
As Jack approached the house, getting closer, his mother appeared on the front step. A voluptuous woman, clad in short shorts and a halter top, with dyed blond hair, showing dark roots. She laughed at him.
Jack called to her, wanting to show her something, something important, something that would make herhappy, proud, something that would make her love him. He didn’t know yet what that something might be. He quickened his pace, and the house started drifting away, with his mother laughing on the porch.
Jack started running.
The house moved away faster.
He ran faster. Calling her.
His mother’s laughter grew louder.
Now he was running as hard as he could. He could barely breathe. He tried to shout, wanted to shout, Mom, wait, Mom! but he had no air. The house was moving so fast now. It had almost disappeared from his view.
He woke up.
Sweat covered his naked body. Breathing hard, Jack swung his legs over the side of the bed, flicking on the light. Sweet Jesus.
His hands were trembling. And he could barely breathe—as if he’d actually been running.
He now knew that it really was his mother who had called.
He knew it was her for a very distinct reason—one day Melody had brought her to his office.
What had taken her so long to try and reach him? It was a question that haunted him, a question he hated for its power over him. For the past three years he had been on a weekly TV series. A show that had gotten tremendous PR—even its cancellation had been a major controversy. His face had appeared on the cover of TV Guide the first year. Since then he had made the cover of People, Playgirl, Esquire , and TV Guide again. God only knew how many times he had made the front page of the gossip rags on
“Don’t turn your back on me, boy,” Abe warned.
Jack froze. Then slowly, so as not to appear intimidated,he turned back. “If you have something to say, then say it. If not, I have a date.”
“Oh, I have something to say, all right,” Abe said, grinning. “I wanted to give you some advice.”
In that instant Jack knew. Knew that Glassman was about to go for his jugular. Knew it wasn’t over, that it had never been over. Dread filled him. “I can’t wait.”
Glassman laughed. “Stick to your own league.” He laughed harder. “Know what I mean? You’re bush league, Ford, and you always have been. You can’t make the majors— you won’t . I’m the Man in this town, just like I was the Man in New York. Ring any bells?”
The sweat was pouring now in a steady stream. “You can’t touch me, not now.” But he felt as if he were free-falling through space.
Abe laughed. “No? Just wait and see, boy. Just wait and see.”
Falling.
God, why?
PART TWO
Lovers
December 1987
20
H e hadn’t had the dream in years.
Not since he was in his mid-twenties, but he’d been having it recently, and he had it that night. He was a boy—it was years ago. He was walking home. His block stood out crystal-clear in his mind. An empty lot, dirt and debris taking up half of one side, the chain fence partly torn down, so easily circumventable. Rows of rotting, squalid, wood-shingled homes, porches crumbling, paint gone, shutters hanging crookedly. Rats escaping from overturned, overflowing garbage cans. Wrecked and stripped jalopies dotting front yards and the sides of the street.
His own house was on the corner. It was no different from every other house on the block. One side of the porch sagged precariously. White paint had long ago flaked away, revealing green and gray patches beneath. One of the front windows was boarded up; the glass had been shattered. His father had thrown something at it—years earlier—with his mother screaming hysterically and Jack hiding under the stairs. The other front window had a jagged, gaping hole. The screen door had a myriad of tears in it.
As Jack approached the house, getting closer, his mother appeared on the front step. A voluptuous woman, clad in short shorts and a halter top, with dyed blond hair, showing dark roots. She laughed at him.
Jack called to her, wanting to show her something, something important, something that would make herhappy, proud, something that would make her love him. He didn’t know yet what that something might be. He quickened his pace, and the house started drifting away, with his mother laughing on the porch.
Jack started running.
The house moved away faster.
He ran faster. Calling her.
His mother’s laughter grew louder.
Now he was running as hard as he could. He could barely breathe. He tried to shout, wanted to shout, Mom, wait, Mom! but he had no air. The house was moving so fast now. It had almost disappeared from his view.
He woke up.
Sweat covered his naked body. Breathing hard, Jack swung his legs over the side of the bed, flicking on the light. Sweet Jesus.
His hands were trembling. And he could barely breathe—as if he’d actually been running.
He now knew that it really was his mother who had called.
He knew it was her for a very distinct reason—one day Melody had brought her to his office.
What had taken her so long to try and reach him? It was a question that haunted him, a question he hated for its power over him. For the past three years he had been on a weekly TV series. A show that had gotten tremendous PR—even its cancellation had been a major controversy. His face had appeared on the cover of TV Guide the first year. Since then he had made the cover of People, Playgirl, Esquire , and TV Guide again. God only knew how many times he had made the front page of the gossip rags on
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