Chapter 19

Zeke was back two days later while we were still in the midst of a long home stand and staggering around, losing two for each win we managed to eke out. He looked awful, run over and wrung out. But then, so did we. I had learned to shave my face without actually seeing myself in the mirror.

"You want me to call the doc?" I asked since we had a team physician at all the games, but he was not in the stadium until about an hour before game time. The trainer and the clubhouse boys did the taping and oversaw the whirlpools baths.

He shook his head.

"You eat today?" I asked.

"Hamburger," he said. "Then I threw up."

"You going to play tonight?"

"Sure," he said, giving me a sickly smile, "it's what I get paid for."

"Got to ask you a question," I said. I pulled him into my little office and closed the door. He looked worried and a bit greenish. We stood, nearly touching.

"While you were out, day before yesterday, Jojo admitted that a gambler had contacted him, and Freeman's maybe in a lot of trouble, same thing only worse. Rumors, you know how that goes." I rested my behind on the edge of my desk and looked up at him, hoping, fingers mentally crossed, stomach churning.

Ramirez nodded and screwed up his mouth as if he had bitten something awfully sour.

"Anybody ever contact you, talk about easy money?"

He shook his head and made a small smile. "You know how much I make? What would it take to bribe me?"

"Your drug of choice," I suggested. "Unlimited supply."

"Uh uh," he said, shaking his head. "Never happen, ain' gonna."

I smiled, stood and patted his broad back. He winced.

He went two for four that night, played his position with grace, and as far as I know, he still had not kept any food down. I pitched the last two innings of the win; no runs and no walks. It helped me forget my troubles, our troubles. My ERA was incredible, barely over two.

The day before, I had met with Mr. Ambrose and Charley Freeman at the MCI offices. It was another chilly meeting from the git-go, and it had a sad ending.

"Charley says he knows some gamblers," Ambrose said after I apologized for being late. "Knows them socially."

"You associate with known gamblers?" I asked. "Gawdamn, I can't believe it. How could you do anything so fuckin' dumb?"

"So does Jepperson," Charley said quickly. "That's where I met him, playing golf with a bunch of wise guys in Nevada. They were doing thousand dollar skins."

"Mr. Jepperson is aware that you associate with gamblers?" I demanded, feeling my pulse racing.

"Not exactly," he said, not looking at either of us.

"Well," said Mr. Ambrose, rocking forward. "Explain."

"They know folks I know, the gamblers do, girls, you know, advertising people, models. So we run into each other here and there. I think he met his wife that way, out on the Coast."

"Have you bet on baseball games?" I asked, wishing I wasn't.

"No, no, shit no," he said, looking offended. "Never. Come on!"

"So," I said to Mr. Ambrose, confused, "what's the problem?"

"Tell him," Ambrose said to Charley Freeman. Then he sighed.

Charley rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's like this, no big deal; heard about this early line, this bet, back when the new teams were created. I was in Vegas. Last winter, you know. Talked to these guys about it, joked, you know how it goes, just joking around, 19th hole. It's pretty funny betting that a team will lose a hundred games what with the balanced schedule and all."

"And?" said Mr. Ambrose, his long fingers together in front of his chin as Fast Charley stopped and looked from me to him. "Go on, tell him."

"So, I got a bet down, a couple of thou," Charley Freeman said, his gold necklace gleaming beneath his open throated shirt. "With a legit book, a sports book. It's legal." He looked from me to Ambrose and back to me again, smiling his crooked grin.

"Which way?" I asked.

"I bet you'd lose at least a hundred, even money."

"Shit," I said. I felt my stomach turn over and sink.

"How was I to know I'd end up pitching for Washington?" He waved his hands.

"You can't bet on baseball," said Mr. Ambrose quietly, his fingers now clamped together before him. "You ever hear of Pete Rose?"

"But I never bet on a game," he cried, waving his hands. "Not one fucking game."

"Is there a relief pitcher loose somewhere?" I asked Ambrose while Charlie sputtered

"No," he said, shaking his head, looking sad, "I've already checked. Nobody you would want, but that kid we sent down, Amberson, he's ready to come back up. Hasn't walked a man in three appearances."

I nodded.

"Should I call him up?" Ambrose's forehead creased with worry.

"Right away," I said, getting my breathing going again, my belly churning. "Right away."

He grabbed a phone and told Lucy to get a call in.

"Charley," I said, as I stood, "you sure have messed up." I offered him my hand. He ignored it.

"I ain't done," he said loudly, half-standing, fists bunched at his sides, eyes bugged out. "I didn't bet on no games, not a one."

"I'm afraid you are," said Thomas Ambrose. "You've played your last game."

Fast Charley sat, looking like a hot air balloon with a slow leak. I left.

That evening, before we went out on the field, we had another team meeting, this time with everyone present. I told them that Jojo had been suspended by the league office and was probably not going to be back until next year if ever. That made a gangly rookie named Millerson our new second baseman.

"Talk to Mac before the game," I said to the kid. "He's late but he will be here."

"He don' know who I am," said the young player; the others called him Rats and I had forgotten his real name.

"Yes, he does," I said. "You'll be surprised."

Then I told them about Fast Charley Freeman. Even Ramirez looked shocked. All I heard was people exhaling when I was done; it was like a collective sigh.