Part 45 (1/2)

I see in your face. The moon is ruling you again.

Yeah. Maybe.

I forbid you to have unhappy thoughts.

He turns, places a palm under her chin.

I like when you touch me like that, Julius.

She takes off her silk scarf and wraps it around his neck. Julius?

Yeah, Margaret.

I think you would like to touch her like that.

Who?

She points at the statue. Her. I do not like the way you looking at her.

You got me. Dead to rights. She means a great deal to me. I've been seeing her on the side for years.

Margaret makes a clucking sound. This statue make people crazy. I do not understand. She promise everyone is free. Is a lie.

Maybe so. But it's a beautiful lie.

She is a liar. If I have to be poor, if I have to earn a living on my back, fine, but this is not free. Do not tease me with this word-free. Where I come from we have a word for this kind of lady tease.

Everyone has that word, Margaret.

She is a b.i.t.c.h.

Willie pulls Margaret close. You make a valid point, he whispers, but maybe it's best not to shout it on the Fourth of July.

She looks around. Tourists along the railing are staring. I did not know I was shouting, she says.

As the summer winds down, Willie wishes he could take Margaret to Ebbets Field. Along with the rest of New York he's obsessed with the pennant race. His sainted Dodgers are trying to hold off the deathless Giants. What he wouldn't give to spend a few hours behind first base, cheering on Jackie Robinson. But an outdoor stadium, in broad daylight, surrounded by thirty-four thousand people? Impossible.

Then the season comes to its historic crescendo, one final game, and Willie has no choice. He has to see it. He walks Margaret down to Frank's Bar and Grill, one of the few bars in Brooklyn with a TV. It's also a cop hangout, so Willie wears extra-dark smoked gla.s.ses, fake sideburns, lots of Margaret's makeup.

Along the way she questions him. All summer your Dodgers could not lose?

Yeah.

And these Giant mens were dead.

Yeah.

And then these Giant mens come back from the dead?

They did.

How they do this?

They never quit.

I like these Giant mens.

No, no. Margaret, we're rooting for the Dodgers. Yes, the Giants never quit. But neither did the Dodgers. When the Giants came back, the b.u.ms could have hung their heads, but they won the last game of the season-that's what forced a tie. That's why there was a three-game playoff. The Giants won the first game, and still the Dodgers didn't quit. They won the second. Now, today, is for all the marbles.

Why it matter so much to you?

You identify with Hepburn. I identify with the Dodgers. They're b.u.ms, they're losers, but if they could win just once, it would be a sign.

Margaret hooks her arm in Willie's. I will root with all my heart for your Dodgers.

She sits on a stool at the corner of the bar, wearing her birthday bonnet, while Willie paces up and down the bar, pleading with the TV mounted above the bottles. His pleading works. Brooklyn takes a 42 lead into the ninth.

Three outs to go, Margaret. Three little outs.

She blows him a kiss as if he's on the mound. Hooray, Julius.

The Giants quickly get two men on base. Then drive one in: 43. Thomson stalks to the plate. No, Willie says, please, not Thomson. Everything about Bobby Thomson frightens Willie, even his name. He thinks of all the prison guards who held Thompsons on him. Thomson even looks like a prison guard. That big round face. That ape-like grin.

Willie begs the Dodgers not to bring in Branca to pitch to Thomson. He begs the bartender not to let them bring in Branca. Thomson just hit a home run off Branca, he tells the bartender. In the first game of the playoff, remember? Doesn't anyone remember?

When the Dodgers bring in Branca, when Thomson swats a fat Branca fastball high beyond the left field wall, the bar goes silent. Willie has heard this kind of silence only once. A Dark Cell. The solitary confinement of the fan.

As Thomson rounds the bases, the Giants win the pennant, Willie is on his knees in the middle of the barroom. Margaret jumps off her stool, the Giants win the pennant, runs to him. She helps him stand, pays their tab, leads him out of the bar.

Is only a game, Julius. Is only a game.

It's not, Willie says. It's a sign. It's a judgment.

My head just wasn't screwed on straight, Sutton says, pacing up and down Dean Street. Five years on the run will do that to you. I got involved with this girl-Margaret. I got wrapped up in that f.u.c.kin pennant race. f.u.c.kin Thomson.

The shot heard round the world, Photographer says, lighting a Newport.

Poor Branca, Reporter says.

f.u.c.kin rat, Sutton says. A sportswriter back then said Ralph Branca was so hated, he should find Willie Sutton and take fugitive lessons. I'll admit, that gave me some solace.

Okay, Mr. Sutton. It's time.

Reporter opens the door of the Polara, waits for Sutton to get in.

Sutton doesn't move. Time for what kid?