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“Can’t wait to do it,” Betty says.
“If you’d do us one favor before you go into your dressing room?”
“Will if I can.”
Dingley hands her a silver dollar. “We have to pick a home team. Would you flip that? Lieutenant Warwick can call it.”
Betty flips the silver dollar high. Warwick calls heads. Betty snaps it out of the air, slaps it on a meaty wrist, and peeks. Looking at Warwick, she says, “Sorry, boss.”
“Home team!” Dingley gloats. “We get our lasties!Yesss!”
Warwick offers congratulations which, when coupled with his sour look, don’t sound terribly sincere.
Betty takes her after-show clothes into the equipment room, toting her purse. Between a bat-rack and a mowing machine she sees a door with her picture pasted on it (snipped from her pre-tourPeoplemagazine interview). She peeps inside.
“Not much,” Lieutenant Warwick says, “but the best we could do on short notice.”
“There’s a toilet,” Dingley says. “If you… you know… need to…”
“It’s fine,” Betty says, putting him out of his misery. All she wants is for them to go the fuckaway. There’s something she has to do, and it’s important.
Warwick says, “We have a mic. Wireless. When it’s time, you’ll come straight to the pitcher’s mound. Chief Dingley and I will walk you out, and I’ll hand the mic to you. Or your accompanist.” He glances at Red, who is reclining on a bench to the left of the door, back against the cinderblock, looking to Jerome as comfortable as old Tillie. He’s got his sax case on his lap.
Betty says, “No need for a mic, it’d drown out Red’s horn. I’ve got plenty of lungpower, believe me. No need to walk me out, either. I trust Young Man Jerome here to get me to where I’m supposed to do my thing.” She comes back and squeezes Jerome’s shoulder. “If he can write a book, he can escort me to the pitcher’s booth, or whatever y’all call it.”
Dingley says, “That’ll be fine, ma’am, whatever you want.” He turns his attention to Mr. Estevez, standing nearby with his hands neatly folded. “You can park beside that Subaru, and stand by. Take Ms…. Ms. Sista… back to her hotel after she sings.”
Estevez nods.
Betty says, “I may stick around a bit, boys. Take in a little of the game. I’ll let you know.” Before anyone has a chance to say anything else, she goes into her makeshift dressing room and closes the door behind her.
“Take care of her,” Warwick says to Jerome, and starts away without waiting for a response. Which would have beenOf course I will—her and Red, too.
Jerome looks at the old man, who is looking back at him with troubled eyes and a frown. “Red? All right? Not feeling sick?”
Red seems about to say something, then makes a business of attaching a glittery strap to his instrument. When he looks up at Jerome, his face is serene again. “Never better. I love me a gig, even if it’s only one song long.”
3
6:45 PM.
The gun is now in Holly’s right hand. She’s careful to approach the doors from the side, but when she gets close she sees there is no peephole to worry about. There’s a keypad, and the tiny red light glowing above the numbers tells her the doors are locked. Inside she hears two voices, a child and a man. This strikes her as weird. Very.
The child says, “I took down all the posters, all your favorite players, how do you like that?”
The man replies, “You wouldn’t do it if I could get at you.”
The child: “Fuck you!”
The man: “Don’t talk to your daddy like that.”
The child: “What did you do to her?”
The man: “Never mind. She’sgone. That’s all you need to know.”
Holly realizes therearen’ttwo people on the other side of the doors. The reason it’s weird is because Donald Gibson is speaking in two voices, and he’s got Kate and Corrie in there… unless they’re already dead.
The man-voice shouts, “Who are you?” He laughs, then almost sings it, the words punctuated by grunts of effort: “Hoooo… are… YOU?”