the place has pretty much cleared out, except for a handful of hopelessly single over-forty males and hard-drinking, heavy-smoking women who step outside every half hour or so to take their drags. Madden, even with his tie loosened and his hair mussed, doesn’t exactly fit in with this amiably sorry bunch. But he’s doing his best.
“I don’t go to the movies all that often,” he says a little too loudly with the hint of a slur creeping into his speech, “but here’s one that has special meaning for me tonight.”
They’re playing a little game with the bartender, Eddie, a gentlemanly Irish guy in his early forties who’s almost as bald as him. Someone recites a line from a movie and Eddie has to guess which movie it’s from. Unfortunately, it’s now his turn.
“Houston, we have a problem,” he says.
“Oh, that’s lame,” says a rather weathered, buxom, bottle blonde named Peggy who’s sitting next to him at the bar. She’s wearing a black v-neck T-shirt that leaves enough cleavage exposed to reveal a small tattoo of the cartoon character Taz, the Tasmanian devil, on the upper portion of her left breast. Earlier she’d suggested that if he played his cards right she might show him her Yosemite Sam.
“Apollo 13,” says Eddie.
“Yeah, that was a good movie,” Peggy remarks hoarsely. “Tom Hanks. He had to lose a lot of weight for Survivor.”
“Hello, Hank.” He feels a large arm over his shoulder and looks up to see Pastorini standing next to him.
“Oh, hey, Pete. Welcome to my impromptu retirement party.”
“Twenty-four years a dick,” Peggy says.
“Fourteen,” he corrects her.
“Oh, shit, sorry.” She lets out a loud, raspy laugh. “Twenty-four was the age of my last boyfriend, what a useless prick he was. Except for the sex, of course.”
“Of course,” Madden says, raising his glass as she leans into him suggestively.
“How many has he had, Eddie?” Pastorini asks.
“He’s working on his fifth,” says the bartender.
“He’s fine,” Peggy says.
“He’s pretty snockered,” says Eddie. “I was going to call him a cab. But then he said you were coming.”
“Come on, Hank. Let’s have a little chat,” Pastorini says.
His boss, whom he just notices is looking very hip-hop, dressed in a navy-colored, velour Adidas sweat suit, now has him by the arm and is tugging him gently, trying to get him off the barstool.
“Where’s your bling-bling, Sarge?”
“Hank, a word.”
“Careful, big boy, he’s got a bum foot,” the blonde warns.
“I know he’s got a bum foot. And if you don’t shut up, I’ll give you one, too.”
“Touchy, touchy,” she says. “Someone had too much caffeine today.”
With some further encouragement from Pastorini, he manages to stand up. Swaying a little, he declares, “Pete, I’m drunk.”
“No shit. Eddie, bring us over a couple of Diet Cokes, would ya? No ice.”
Pastorini leads him to one of the booths and deposits him onto the banquette side. Eddie arrives with the Diet Cokes, which look awfully like Guinness Stout because he’d served them in pint glasses.
“Drink that,” Pastorini orders. “Then I want to see those documents.”
He takes two big gulps of the Coke. It tastes much better than the beer.
“What happened, Hank?” he goes on. “Everything seemed fine when I spoke to you this morning. You told me you had a partial thumbprint from the pizza that was his.”
He isn’t sure whether it’s the beer or the reminder of all that had gone wrong, but he’s hit with a wave of nausea. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again he’s staring down at a sea of initials, names, and assorted other words that have been carved into the table. For some reason his eyes fall on the words “The Clash.” He’s totally mystified by what it means. Clash of what?
“I let it get too personal, Pete. I told myself I wouldn’t. But I did. I’m a friggin’ disgrace.”
“Stop that.”
Leaning back, he manages, after a brief struggle, to pull the envelope—Cogan’s envelope—out of his front pants pocket and hands it to Pastorini. It’s still folded in three, and, unfurling it, Pastorini reads what he sees written.
“Four steps to proper pitching,” he says, puzzled.
“No, no, inside. Look inside.”
Pastorini takes out the pages and looks them over. While he pursues them, Madden drinks the rest of the Coke.
“How did he get these?” Pastorini asks.
“I told you. I don’t know.”
He stares down at the table, running his finger over one of the grooves of a carved letter. It was the first B in Bob. It said “Bob + Liz.” He wonders where they are now.
“Hank.”
He