Part 31 (1/2)

Stanley stepped forward carefully, right hand out.

”Turn it around,” he said amiably.

Ames turned the shotgun holding it by the barrel. Stanley took it and motioned for us to walk ahead of him out the door. We did.

”Sorry,” I said to Snickers as Stanley marched us to the stairway and we started down.

”Not your fault,” Snickers said. ”Not the money. The challenge got me. Know what I'm sayin'?”

”I know.”

Stanley marched us into the baseball collection room where Kevin Hoffmann sat drinking with a pistol in his lap. I could tell now he was wearing a New York Yankees s.h.i.+rt.

A color television sat on a shelf between two trophy cases. Someone was sliding into second base trying to steal. He was out by a yard.

Hoffmann pushed a b.u.t.ton on the remote and the game disappeared.

Below the television set, in an armchair, sat a haggard man in a blue robe dotted with little white fleurs-de-lis. There was a blue terry cloth sash around William Trasker's robe and he was wearing blue leather slippers. His skin was dead pale white. His eyes were dead blue. His mouth was partly open and his hair flopped over his forehead, probably getting in the way of his vision.

The good news was that he was alive and somewhat awake. The bad news was that he looked like he was going to fall over.

”You know what we're going to do?” Hoffmann asked pleasantly, turning his head toward me and motioning to chairs in the room in front of him with the gla.s.s in his hand. ”We're going to sit here, maybe talk a little, maybe watch a little baseball, White Sox and Yankees, maybe have a drink until we're sure the commission meeting is over. Then you are going to leave and Bill is going back to bed. Maybe Stanley has an appropriate poetic quotation for the occasion.”

”*In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor sewing a shroud for a journey,'” Stanley said.

”Shakespeare?” Hoffmann guessed, a distinctly slightly alcoholic smile on his face.

”Dylan Thomas,” said Stanley, gun in hand, standing next to the dazed Trasker.

”I can give you the best of Casey Stengel, Bill Veeck, and Yogi Berra, and tell you the real ones from the ones the reporters made up, but poetry and literature...Stanley can't be beat. Right, Stanley?”

Stanley didn't answer. Hoffmann drank.

”Any of this getting through to you, Bill?” Hoffmann asked his brother-in-law.

”You know, after tonight and a few more little bases on b.a.l.l.s, Stanley is going to be very rich. Not as rich as you and me, Bill, not as rich as me particularly when you quietly pa.s.s away and I inherit your total earthly a.s.sets.”

Hoffmann turned his head toward me.

”You understand what I'm telling you, Fonesca? You're reasonably smart. Dumb too, but reasonably smart.”

”No,” I said. ”Mr. Trasker here dies and his money which would go to his wife if she were alive goes to his kids.”

”My nieces and nephews,” Hoffmann concurred. ”Not a ballplayer in the lot. They don't even like the game. Bill and my sister believed their children have been ungrateful and should make it on their own. They made me the beneficiary of the Trasker millions, about twenty-two million including the house here and the apartment in New York. In fairness, I made them the beneficiary of my not inconsiderable holdings,” said Hoffmann.

”You got anything to eat?” asked Snickers.

”Baby Ruth candy bars, the little ones they give out on Halloween along with little packets of Cracker Jacks,” said Hoffmann. ”In the bowl over there. Stanley?”

Stanley reached for the bowl and pa.s.sed it to Snickers.

Bill Trasker blinked his eyes and tried not to keel over. He said something I couldn't make out.

”Sorry?” I said.

”He killed Roberta,” Trasker said, more clearly looking at his brother-in-law.

”No,” said Hoffmann, taking another drink. ”I did not. Bill, I did not kill my sister. I loved only three people in the world. My sister, Lou Gehrig, and Joe DiMaggio. I wouldn't kill them. Disease got Gehrig. Age got Joe and Stanley's greed got my sister. He was afraid she would give Fonesca here permission to bring in a doctor to look at you. And knowing my sister, if she decided to go that way, she'd bring in Drs. Shelbourne and Kauffman who would have you out of here in two heartbeats. A Shelbourne and a Kauffman are good for a double play when the batter is an alcoholic quack like Jim Obermeyer.”

”He speaks highly of you too,” I said. ”He says you have no backstroke.”

”Backhand,” Hoffmann corrected. ”Baseball's my game, not tennis.”

”So you told Stanley to kill her,” Trasker managed with a cough.

”No,” said Hoffmann, finis.h.i.+ng his drink. ”I expressly told him not to touch her. Killing her was his idea. He's a very good shot. I didn't ask for details but I'll bet he shot her between the eyes. I, on the other hand, am only a fair shot, so to be safe I'd fire at the stomach and chest from a close distance like this.”

Hoffmann raised the gun in his lap toward Trasker, who didn't seem to notice.

Ames sat forward, hand moving quickly toward his belt. Stanley turned his weapon toward Ames as Hoffmann fired.

The first bullet tore into Stanley's chest. The second hit him low in the stomach. Stanley's gun dropped to the floor. Stanley went to his knees and fell forward on his face. Hoffmann fired twice more. The first shot missed and broke the gla.s.s on a trophy case. A baseball came rolling out along the floor. The next shot went into the top of Stanley's head.

Snickers sat frozen with a tiny candy bar in his hand.

Trasker blinked down at the body.

Ames was up, a small pistol in his hand aimed at Hoffmann.

I was a spectator.

Before Ames could issue a warning or fire, Hoffmann dropped his gun to the floor.

”Can I pick up the gun again?” he asked me. ”I forgot to shoot myself.”

”No,” I said, getting up on shaky legs and moving forward to kick the weapon across the room out of his reach.

The baseball that had come out of the broken trophy case rolled past Stanley's b.l.o.o.d.y body, over shards of gla.s.s, and stopped a few feet in front of Hoffmann.

Ames kept his gun leveled at Hoffmann while I moved to Trasker. I handed him the three pills Obermeyer had given me.

”Can you swallow these?” I asked.

”Need water,” he mumbled.

”Water,” Snickers said, running toward the kitchen.

Hoffmann reached over to pick up the baseball.

”Bobby Shantz,” he said looking at the ball. ”Little man could pitch. Remember him, Bill?”