The New York Read Free Page A

with at night on the road.
    One thought led to another while I was drinking beer and surfing through the games on television. I thought about speaking Spanish. And I thought a disturbing lot about Charlene Cleaver, who was waiting for me down in Houston.
    I called her the first night after the last game of the season. She was disappointed, she said. She had made reservations for us for dinner at Tony’s and now would have to cancel them. I said for $625,000 for another ride in the Bigs, I’d make up the dinner to her.
    This was the wrong thing to say. Or maybe I put it in the wrong way. George had upset me some and I let our conversation carry over to Charlene by the tone in my voice.
    â€œI happen to know $625,000 is a lot of money,” Charlene said. Then nobody said anything for a moment. “What does Sid say?”
    She talks about Sid Cohen like they are co-conspirators and I am the conspiratee. I resent the hell out of it. Charlene and I were close, but, I thought then, not that close. Same with Sid.
    I have to admit here that Charlene is a prattler at times and goes off on her own tangents, which, combined with her stunning good looks, might lead some people to think there is no brain behind those pretty eyes. But there is. When we first started going together, I showed off my wallet to her, in a manner of speaking. Talked about my CDs and how I would be fixed when I retired and so forth. She set me straight on that.
    I remember the first loving words out of her mouth that night. I kissed her long and deep, and she said, “Latin American funds.”
    I was so intoxicated by her at the time that it took me a moment to react. “What did you say?”
    â€œLatin American funds are returning twenty-five percent the last I looked. What do your CDs return?”
    One thing led to another. One kiss led to another to an invitation to share breakfast with her at her place. And I started listening close to Charlene after that, transferring out of my CDs and into strange things like Latin American mutual funds and some gaming stocks. Damned if she wasn’t right about all that stuff I never paid much attention to.
    But she wasn’t Sid Cohen. I had cut this deal for myself by myself.
    I tried a silence-breaker. “Charlene —” I began.
    â€œAnybody works for a living ‘stead of playing baseball knows what that kind of money is. I might have to work fourteen, fifteen years to see that kind of money, Ryan Patrick, so don’t high-hat me. But what does Sid say?”
    â€œI didn’t talk to Sid.”
    â€œOh. I see,” she said.
    â€œHoney, I just wanted to point out the obvious. If I was to tell you I had a chance to make twenty-five dollars an hour shoveling shit in some godforsaken place like Albuquerque, you’d give me a kiss and pack my lunch before I left. Bet I tell you I got another chance on the merry-go-round, you sound like you ain’t happy.”
    â€œI’m
not
happy,” she said, stating her feelings and correcting my English in the same three-word sentence. “I miss you.”
    â€œHell, I miss you, honey,” I said.
    â€œI was jest thinking about you comin’ up the drive.”
    Charlene don’t have no drive. She lives in an apartment building.
    â€œI was thinking’ it, too,” I lied.
    â€œWas you?” Sometimes she slips like that. She went to community college, not a regular four-year place, bet she works hard to root out that East Texas way of talking.
    â€œI was.”
    When we start talking like characters out of “Li’l Abner,” it is a sign that the squall is passing.
    â€œIsn’t that less money than you made last year?” Charlene said.
    â€œA bit”
    â€œWhy’s that?”
    â€œWhy’s what?”
    â€œWhy’re you getting paid less?”
    â€œI’m lucky to be paid,” I said.
    â€œI know that,” she said. “I mean, why would he pay