“If she’s married…”
“Alex, I’m not expecting that she’s going to be waiting for me after all these years. I know she’s not sitting up in a tower like Rapunzel or something.”
“Then why-”
“Rapunzel was the one with the hair, right? The long hair?”
We kept throwing the ball.
“Although Rapunzel had blond hair, right?” he said. “Maria’s hair was jet black.”
“Randy…”
“Have you ever been in love with a girl with dark hair and dark eyes, Alex?”
I threw the ball. “Do green eyes count?”
“In California, there are blondes everywhere. Just gorgeous women, Alex. You look at ’em, and it’s like you’re looking right into the sun. But then you blink and you look away, and it’s like you can’t even remember what they looked like. Now a girl with dark eyes, the kind of eyes that just go right through you…”
“Randy…”
“That’s the kind of girl that gets under your skin.”
“She’s not a girl anymore,” I said. “She’s gotta be what, in her mid-forties now?”
“About that,” he said.
“Some woman in her mid-forties, probably been married for a long time, probably has a couple kids. You’re gonna walk up to her door and say, ‘Hello, remember me?’ ”
“She’ll remember me,” he said.
“And then what?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t know, Alex.”
“Randy, do you have any idea what this sounds like? I’m sorry, it just sounds so stupid.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. He backed up a few feet and threw the ball a little faster. It hit my glove with a pop, the same sound I used to hear a thousand times a day. It had been my entire life once, just catching a baseball and throwing it back, again and again.
‘Take it easy,” I said. “I’m not wearing a mask here.”
“Just think about it,” he said. “I look her up and I can’t find her, but instead I find you. And it turns out you’re a private eye now.” He threw the ball again. Pop!
“No, not really,” I said. But he wasn’t listening. I tossed the ball back.
“And you used to be a cop in Detroit, which is where she lived.”
“A long time ago.”
“And you still live in Michigan now.” Another throw, another pop in my glove.
“Detroit’s six hours away from here, Randy.”
“I could always count on you, Alex. You were my catcher, man. I mean, I threw to other guys, but you were my catcher.” He backed up another few feet and threw a hard one. It gave my left hand a little tingle when I caught it.
“Okay, we’re about done here,” I said. I should have pocketed the ball right then, but instead I tossed it back to him.
“Don’t you believe in fate, Alex? With you and Leon helping me, I know this is going to work out.”
“Leon,” I said. “About Leon…”
“He’s expecting us today, by the way,” Randy said. “I figure we can go see him after lunch.”
“Expecting us?” I said. “For what?”
“To bring us up-to-date on the case,” he said. “I talked to him a few days ago, you know, when he told me where to find you.”
“Up-to-date?” I said. “On the case?”
“I feel a slinky coming, Alex.”
“Randy, don’t.”
“I got to throw one, Alex. I’m bringing out the slinky.” He went into a slow windup.
“Randy, so help me God, if you throw a slinky…”
“Get down, Alex. Here comes the slinky…”
I could have thrown my hands up in the air. Or turned my back to him. It probably would have stopped him. I don’t know why I went down into the position, my glove in front of me, my right hand behind my back. Maybe it was just instinct. Or maybe part of me really did want to see him throw the slinky again, one more time.
He threw the ball, dropping down into that sidearm delivery. Just like the old days.
And just like the old days, the ball bounced five feet in front of me.
I didn’t catch it, but at least I stopped it. That was the one thing I was always good at. Whatever it took, whatever part of my body I had to sacrifice, I could always stop the slinky.
“I think I hurt my arm,” Randy said. We were sitting at the bar in Jackie’s place, sitting in front of two big plates of his Wednesday corned beef.
I didn’t say anything. I just sat there with a bag of ice against my right eye.
“Jackie, this is damned good,” he said.
Jackie came over, looked at me for the seventh time since we had come in the place, and shook his head. “Alex, tell me again what happened.”
I gave him as nasty a look as you can give a man with your right eye swollen shut.
“Are you telling me, Randy,” he said, still looking at me, “that this man forced you to throw to him?”
“He wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Randy said.
“And he made you try to throw that pitch you used to throw? What was it called?”
“The slinky,” Randy said. “On a cold day, without even warming up. I could have ruined my arm.”
“Well, it serves him right,” Jackie said. “He got what he deserved.”
“If you guys are about done,” I said, “I could use some more ice.”
“Hurry up and eat, will ya?” Randy said. “We gotta go see your partner.”
“Randy, I’ve been trying to tell you,” I said. “He’s not really my partner. I mean, he is, but it’s because we have this arrangement. All his life, Leon has wanted to be a private investigator. His old boss fired him and talked me into taking his job. Don’t even get me started on that. Let’s just say it didn’t work out very well.”
“But you are still a private investigator,” Randy said.
“I still have the license,” I said. “But I don’t do anything with it. Leon helped me out of a jam, so in return I agreed to be his partner. You know, just to have my name on the business cards.”
“And in the phone book.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re in the phone book. Like we’re gonna get a lot of business up here.”
“And on the Web site.”
“Yeah, the Web site. I’m gonna have a little talk with him about that.”
“I’ve got plenty of money, Alex,” he said. “I plan on paying you for this.”
“It’s not the money, Randy. Are you listening to what I’m saying? I’m not really a private investigator. Two times now I’ve gone out trying to find somebody, and both times it ended up being a disaster. I’m not any good at it.”
“You were always a good two-strike hitter, Alex.”
I dropped the bag of ice and looked at him. “Say that again?”
“You were always a good two-strike hitter.”
“Randy, we played a whole season together. Were you ever watching when I went up to the plate?”
“Of course.”
“How many times did you see me go after a bad pitch with two strikes?”
“Offhand, I don’t think I can remember you ever doing that.”
“How about at least once a game, sometimes twice, sometimes three times. Hell, I remember doing it four times once. Swinging at a ball a foot outside and striking out. In fact, if you had to pick one reason why I never made it as a ballplayer, Randy, just one reason, that would be it.”
It was all coming back to me, and after already taking one in the eye that day, it wasn’t doing much for my mood. I was good behind the plate, I was great with the pitchers, especially the headcases like Randy, and I had a decent throw to second base. But I never batted over. 240, mainly because I struck out swinging too much. It didn’t take long for the pitchers to find out. If they got two strikes on me, I was dead.
I guess that says something about me. Two strikes and I’ll try too hard to protect the plate. I’ll swing at anything.
“Well, okay, then,” Randy said after a long moment. “Here’s your chance to make up for it.”
“Seriously,” I said. “We gotta talk about this.”
“Hold that thought,” he said. “I gotta hit the little boys’ room before we go.” He spun off the bar stool and started singing. “L’amour, l’amour, oui, ya da da…”
“Where’s Jackie?” I said. “I need more ice.”
“How does it go?” Randy said, and then he started singing it again. “L’amour, l’amour, oui, son ah something… What’s the next line?”