The Natural Read Free

dreaming.
    He yawned. His mouth felt unholy dry and his underclothes were crawling. Reaching down his battered valise from the rack, he pulled out a used bath towel and cake of white soap, and to the surprise of those who saw him go out that way, went through the baggage cars to the car between them and the tender. Once inside there, he peeled to the skin and stepped into the shower stall, where he enjoyed himself for ten minutes, soaping and resoaping his bony body under warm water. But then a trainman happened to come through and after sniffing around Sam’s clothes yelled in to him, “Hey, bud, come outa there.”
    Sam stopped off the shower and poked out his head. “What’s that?”
    “I said come outa there, that’s only for the train crew.”
    “Excuse me,” Sam said, and he began quickly to rub himself dry.
    “You don’t have to hurry. Just wanted you to know you made a mistake.”
    “Thought it went with the ticket.”
    “Not in the coaches it don’t.”
    Sam sat on a metal stool and laced up his high brown shoes. Pointing to the cracked mirror on the wall, he said, “Mind if I use your glass?”
    “Go ahead.”
    He parted his sandy hair, combed behind the ears, and managed to work in a shave and brushing of his yellow teeth before he apologized again to the trainman and Jeft.
    Going up a few cars to the lounge, he ordered a cup of hot coffee and a sandwich, ate quickly, and made for the club car. It was semi-officially out of bounds for coach travelers but Sam had told the passenger agent last night that he had a nephew riding on a sleeper, and the passenger agent had mentioned to the conductor not to bother him.
    When he entered the club car, after making sure Roy was elsewhere Sam headed for the bar, already in a fluid state for the train was moving through wet territory, but then he changed his mind and sat down to size up the congregation over a newspaper and spot who looked particularly amiable. The headlines caught his eye at the same time as they did this short, somewhat popeyed gent’s sitting next to him, who had just been greedily questioning the husky, massive-shouldered man on his right, who was wearing sun glasses. Popeyes nudged the big one and they all three stared at Sam’s paper.

    WEST COAST OLYMPIC ATHLETE SHOT FOLLOWS 24 HOURS AFTER SLAYING OF ALL-AMERICAN FOOTBALL ACE

    The article went on to relate that both of these men had been shot under mysterious circumstances with silver bullets from a.22 caliber pistol by an unknown woman that police were on the hunt for.
    “That makes the second sucker,” the short man said.
    “But why with silver bullets, Max?”
    “Beats me. Maybe she set out after a ghost but couldn’t find him.”
    The other fingered his tie knot. “Why do you suppose she goes around pickin’ on atheletes for?”
    “Not only athletes but also the cream of the crop. She’s knocked off a crack football boy, and now an Olympic runner. Better watch out, Whammer, she may be heading for a baseball player for the third victim.” Max chuckled.
    Sam looked up and almost hopped out of his seat as he recognized them both.
    Hiding his hesitation, he touched the short one on the arm. “Excuse me, mister, but ain’t you Max Mercy, the sportswriter? I know your face from your photo in the articles you write.”
    But the sportswriter, who wore a comical mustache and dressed in stripes that crisscrossed three ways — suit, shirt, and tie — a nervous man with voracious eyes, also had a sharp sense of smell and despite Sam’s shower and toothbrushing nosed Out an alcoholic fragrance that slowed his usual speedy response in acknowledging the spread of his fame.
    “That’s right,” he finally said.
    “Well, I’m happy to have the chance to say a few words to you. You’re maybe a little after my time, but I am Sam Simpson — Bub Simpson, that is — who played for the St. Louis Browns in the seasons of 1919 to 1921.”
    Sam spoke with a grin though his insides were