At apartment 4-B, he knocked on the door. Affixed to the jamb was a mezuzah, worn smooth as if whoever lived there was devout, touching their fingers to it hundreds of times across the threshold. A young woman answered. She was pretty: dark, Middle-Eastern, with long black hair, and a tiny diamond stud through her left nostril; she was wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans. “I don’t know what to do with him,” she said, and led him to a bedroom. There, it was obvious that someone had just pulled the comforter up over the sheets in a way to cover the bed but without making it neatly—because, beneath it, the pillows were askew and the top sheet hung crookedly, one edge touching the floor. Through the open window he could see Webber, sitting in the far corner of the fire escape landing, gazing across the alley toward the building where Edward Everett once spent his falls and winters. Edward Everett poked his head through the window.
“What’s going on, Webb?” he said. The landing was large enough that someone had set up a small sitting area, a wooden chair and table.
“Ah, shit, Skip,” Webber said.
“Personal chauffeur to the park.” Edward Everett hoisted himself into the window, resting his hip on the sill. “Game’s almost starting, Webb.”
“I know,” Webber said. “Katrina and I just had something we needed—”
“There’s nothing we need to talk about,” the woman said, leaning into the window beside Edward Everett.
“How can you say that,” Webber said. “After—”
“It’s been three weeks,” she said. “That’s not long enough to say ‘after’ anything.”
“What’s the problem?” Edward Everett asked. “Maybe I can help.” He pulled himself through the window until he was kneeling on the fire escape. Looking down through the iron bars of the platform, he had a brief moment of dizziness as he saw past the landings below—the barbecue grill someone had set up on the third floor, a large planter on the second—all the way to the broken asphalt of the alley. He felt an anger welling up in him. If it were up to him, he’d tell Webber: Fine. I’ll have Henley clean out your locker. But he couldn’t. He wondered if there was some statistical column that Marc Johansen, MS, MBA, didn’t know about: alongside on-base percentage there ought to be pain-in-the-ass factor. Webber might break the all-time record, his talent not a fair trade for his disappearances, the times he loafed to first on a ground ball or pouted if he took a pitch he thought was high but an umpire called “strike three.”
The woman sighed. “Brett. It’s easier if you just leave.”
Below, the steel rear door of the furniture warehouse banged open; a man in a white oxford shirt stepped outside and lit a cigarette.
“Easier on who?” Webber said.
“Whom,” the woman said softly.
“Whom,” Webber said loudly, banging his hand against the ladder of the fire escape so hard it rattled. In the alley, the man looked up.
“Fuck you,” Webber shouted down at him.
“This is partly why,” the woman said, stepping back from the window.
“Fuck you,” the man shouted back. He stalked toward the fire escape, jumping at the bottom of it, trying to grab the ladder that, thankfully, was retracted onto the first-floor landing.
“I’m sorry, Kitty Kat,” Webber said.
“Webb, maybe you and your friend could work this out later,” Edward Everett said. It had to be well past first pitch. Webber’s status as golden boy in the organization notwithstanding, Edward Everett should have stayed at the park, should have just let Webber show up or not show up. Except that would reflect badly on him. The best thing he could do was to nurse Webber through the season until the big club decided to bump him up the ladder. If he played to his ability, that could be as soon as a month from now.
“Two hours ago …” Webber said in a pleading voice but the woman didn’t respond. “Kitty Kat?” he called.
From deeper in the apartment, Edward Everett heard the click of heels on hardwood and then a door opening and closing and, after a moment, a lock turning.
“Kat?” Webber called again, moving past Edward Everett, giving no sign that he even remembered his manager was there, and stepped through the window. Edward Everett followed him inside and found him at the front door, which was locked with a dead bolt that required a key to open. Webber pounded on the door, bellowing, “Fuck!”