"So your advice to the Titans would be?"

"Relax. Try to enjoy it. This is what it's all about. And don't forget what brought you here. Teamwork. No one wins a game all by himself. If you strike out, that just means it's someone else's turn to drive in the run. You'll be asked to do other things that you'll do well. Don't dwell on your failures."

"Easier said than done."

"For sure. I was a basket case my first time. You're talking to the guy whose error cost us a game in the playoffs three years ago. But I also drove in the winning run in the next game."

"Which do you remember more?"

"Winning felt better, but I'll never forget the error. I guess I just cancelled myself out. I might as well not have played."

"You're pretty philosophical today."

"You get that way when you know you're going to be watching the World Series on television."

"I guess. Have fun with your family here. And have a good winter, if I don't see you before you leave."

"You too. And, hey. Watch out for that pressure!"

"Thanks. I'll just write one game at a time."

The last series of the season is like the last week of school, with the same schizophrenic blend of relief and anticipatory nostalgia. The world is about to change abruptly. Most of the people you see every day will be gone. And not all of them will be back. It's great to get away from the schoolyard bullies and teacher's pets, but you know that in a month you'll be missing them. Of course, I still had to get through the playoffs and World Series, even if the Titans didn't go that far. A lot of column inches to fill. I went to the press box to write.

The game was pretty uneventful. There were so many backup players and minor-leaguers in the lineup it looked like spring training. Harry Belcher started in what would have been Steve Thorson's spot. Since he had spent the season in the minors on merit, no one expected him to do much; but he pitched a pretty good six innings before Red brought in his relievers to get some work. Titans lost, 65.

The biggest excitement in the press box was when Arnie Shapiro called his office in New Jersey and found out that Hank Chambers and Jim Wilder, former Yankee stars, had just been arrested.

"What for? Drunk driving?"

"No way. Possession of cocaine and dangerous weapons."

"Ouch."

I'd met both players one spring when they'd come to the Titan camp to see Moose. I turned to him.

"Are you okay?"

He was pale. "It's a shock. Those guys are friends of mine."

"Have you seen them recently? Did you know they were into this kind of stuff?"

"No, I haven't. I didn't. Stupid bastards. What were they messing with that shit for? Damn."

He sent one of the press box runners to check the sports wire. The kid came back in ten minutes with a scrap of paper torn from the machine. Moose read it and passed it to me. It was an early story, just reporting that the pair had been arrested, along with three others, in a police drug raid. I passed it to Arnie.

"That's tough, Moose. I'm sorry."

"That stuff just brings you grief."

After the game, I stopped by Gloves Gardiner's locker and told him about Chambers and Wilder.

"Doesn't surprise me," he said. "They're maniacs. I thought they were strung out when I saw them last week."

"Where?"

"At Yankee Stadium. Didn't you see them? They were there before the game Thursday night. They had seats right next to our dugout."

"Huh. I guess I didn't recognize them."

"I think that's the day you got there late."

That late lunch, haunting me again.

"It's too bad, anyway. They used to be fine players."

"But not particularly fine people," Gloves said.

"They had it all once. Now it's drugs and guns?"

"And greed, same as most people. The most Chambers ever made in his career, even when he was a batting champion, was probably $150,000. Kids two weeks out of the minors get that these days. Maybe he figured the world owed it to him."

"So he was bitter."

"Wouldn't you be?"

"Since writers don't make that kind of money, I don't think the temptation will be laid in my path."

"And you're probably a better person for it."

"Thanks, but I think I'd be willing to face the challenge."

MacPherson drove me home in silence. Something was wrong, but I was too tired to ask. When we got to my house, he spoke, looking embarrassed.

"Did you tell Staff Sergeant Munro about last night?"

"Lord, no. Why?"

"He was acting real funny today. I looked up one time and he was standing there laughing at me. For no reason."

"I can't imagine what that could be about."

"I don't think it was anything I said or did."

"I'm sure it wasn't."

I realized I hadn't heard from Andy since I'd given him the blackmail material. Both Joe Kelsey and David Sloane had been at the stadium but I hadn't spoken to either of them. I thought of calling Andy, but it was almost midnight. He might get the wrong idea. He might be right.

Besides, I had a day game to cover. I went to bed and dreamed I was on deadline, trying to find a phone in Yankee Stadium to file my story. But they were all being used by people who wouldn't get off: Steve Thorson, Joe Kelsey, Gloves Gardiner, David Sloane, Sam Craven, Jim Wilder, Andy Munro, Moose Greer, Jeff Glebe, even Sally. When I tried to tell them I needed the phone, they didn't hear me. I shouted. They laughed. I went down a corridor, into another room. A shadowy figure came at me with a bat. I couldn't move. I tried to scream and woke myself up in a sweat. Elwy was on my chest, sound asleep.

Chapter 24.

I was still groggy and grumpy when Andy called the next morning. He didn't have much news.

"We're still checking. Both Kelsey and Sloane have some sort of alibi for at least one of the murders. Sloane was home both Saturday and Sunday night. Kelsey was out with Eddie Carter after ten on Saturday and with Carter and his wife on Sunday until nine."

"Thorson was already dead by then, wasn't he?"

"Probably."

"He must have got to the stadium around seven-thirty, according to Sandi. I can't see him hanging around for long. He was in a hurry to get to the cottage."

"Exactly."

"Sloane's only alibi is his family?"

"But they're firm on it."

"He probably threatened to beat them up again."

"Kate, just because you don't like somebody doesn't mean he's a murderer."

"One, we know he's a violent man. Two, he bats left-handed."

"And three, he had no motive for Thorson."

"Maybe Thorson knew something. Maybe he saw Sloane corning out of Sultan's place."

"He just happened to be passing by?"

"Why not?"

"Then what?"

"What do you mean?"

"How did Sloane happen to be at the ballpark?"

"He followed him?"

"You're reaching, Kate."

"I guess."

"Right. Other than that, what's your day look like?"

"Nothing much. It's a day game."

"And you're going to be in tonight?"

"Probably. Ted Ferguson's throwing his annual bash for the team and local bigwigs but my invitation seems to be held up in the mail again."

"Okay. Constable Donny will meet you at the ballpark."

At least I was able to drive my own car there. A small blessing.

I was busy before the game. Beat writers from around the league had deserted their teams to come and get an early start on their playoff coverage. So there were lots of questions to be answered about new players and the status of the murder story. I was getting more attention than the players.

Moose stopped me on my way to the press box.

"Are you busy tonight, Kate?"

"As it happens I have a rare free evening. Why?"

"Do you want to come to the party tonight? I owe you one after my behaviour on Sunday."

"Sure, where's the party?"

"At the Hilton. But I'll pick you up. Say about seven? Dinner's at eight."

"Gee, just like a real date. Do I get a wrist corsage?"

"Don't push your luck. I'll see you at seven."

"Come at a quarter to. We'll have a drink first."

I left the field early. There were a couple of scouts I hadn't been able to reach the day before. I tracked them down and got the last few quotes I needed for the playoff supplement. They thought that even without Thorson and Sanchez the Titans were a sure bet to go to the World Series.

Which reminded me-I hadn't heard back from Jerry Bergman. I phoned, but he wasn't in. His office promised that he would get back to me.

It was a loose afternoon, on the field and in the press box. The fans were whooping it up, carrying banners through the stands and heckling the Yankees. Most of the reporters were relaxing, drinking beer and speculating on the winners of the league Most Valuable Player and Cy Young awards.

"Thorson could get it," I said. "He didn't win as many games as Costello, but his ERA was lower and he had more strikeouts. Besides, being dead gets the sympathy vote."

It was generally agreed that there was no likely MVP candidate on the Titans. Three or four guys were having career years, but there wasn't a standout who had carried the team.

Rookie of the year was another matter. Alex Jones got everybody's vote in the press box. It was hard to see how the other writers in the league could overlook him.

He made a case for himself in the top of the first inning when he went deep into the hole behind third base and threw out a runner with a perfect, seemingly impossible, throw. That won him his first standing ovation of the day. A bases-loaded triple into the left-centrefield gap in the bottom of the inning won him the second. They would have given him a standing ovation for picking his nose. It was that kind of afternoon.

Red let each of his regulars play two or three innings, then sat them down, but even the subs were hitting. Flakey Patterson shut the Yankees out for seven innings. He would be starting the second game of the playoffs, and looked ready to go. Red sent Goober Grabowski to start the eighth, but the fans called Patterson out of the dugout for another ovation. Final score was 81, Titans.