The Closer by Alan Mindell Page A

her expression confirmed his supposition. Not that he hadn’t suspected while they were still in Los Angeles, because when he returned to their hotel suite after baseball, she’d either been asleep or acted very strange. Of course none of this made him happy. Nor did the way she looked—much thinner than when he last saw her before the other night, a little over a year ago. Plus, she had large dark circles under her eyes.
    â€œNo big surprise,” he said. “Not with your mother’s history.”
    â€œDon’t think for a minute I’m going to detox,” she responded, looking angry.
    â€œNo one’s asking you to…. Unless you want to.”
    â€œI don’t want to.”
    He didn’t answer.
    â€œI need my stuff,” she declared.
    â€œI don’t want you on the streets, Carly.”
    â€œHow you think it’s going to get to me,” she retorted, raising her voice. “Carrier pigeon?”
    â€œYou don’t get what you need,” he replied, raising his voice also, “you’ll just run away again…right?”
    â€œRight!”
    â€œThen I don’t have much choice,” he said resignedly, in a lower tone. “I’ll get it for you.”
    â€œYou mean you’re going to hit the streets!”
    â€œNo. I know some guys…they deliver. Anyway, the streets would be nothing new. Where you think I been all this time looking for you?”
    She didn’t answer right away. Her expression changed, becoming less severe. And when she did speak, her voice was much softer.
    â€œVery expensive, Dad. All this.”
    He shrugged.
    â€œNew apartment. My shit…”
    He shrugged again.
    â€œI think you’re asking for trouble,” she said, her tone softer yet. “Having me around…”
    â€œFor me to decide,” he answered firmly.
    â€œYou going to let Mama know?”
    â€œDon’t think so. Not right away.”
    This time it was Carly who shrugged.
    â€œUnless you want me to,” he added.
    â€œI don’t want you to…she’ll just make more trouble for you.”
    â€œYou haven’t talked with her lately, have you…?”
    â€œNo,” she said, practically whispering. “She has her own problems. Can’t help me with mine.”
    â€œWhere were you all this time?”
    â€œWhere you found me…the streets.”
    â€œHollywood…? L.A…?”
    â€œAll over California, but mostly Texas.”
    â€œTexas?” he said grimacing. “What were you doing there?”
    â€œNothing you’d want to know,” she replied, almost under her breath.
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    Heading down the hall to his own apartment later that night, Murdoch knew he’d done the right thing declining to play in the All Star Classic. With homestands coming up on both sides of the Classic, his next road trip wouldn’t be for two weeks. Giving him time he needed right here.
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    During recent seasons, Murdoch received about a dozen letters a month, most of which could be categorized “hate mail.” Many of these attacked his racial origin. Some accused him of abusing women, the specific evidence being—as reported by the media—his treatment of his ex-wife. Others, a very few now, came from Cleveland fans blaming him for their team’s failure to achieve a World Series title.
    The week before the All Star Classic, though, Murdoch’s mail drastically increased, and not solely because of his refusal to play in the game. Or the perception that he was arrogant. Or overpaid. No, in the last game before the Classic, his ninth inning game-winning single raised his hitting streak to fifty, just six games short of DiMaggio’s record.
    Joe DiMaggio was an American hero, his death earlier that year getting front page headlines. Murdoch was his antithesis. If DiMaggio portrayed class, dignity, and pride, Murdoch was perceived as selfish, immature, and