"Look at the fans!"

As the Titans took the field for the ninth inning, the scoreboard flashed the score from Cleveland. Pandemonium. Security guards and policemen moved to the bottom of each aisle. They were as excited as anyone else, and when the fans shouted at them to get out of the way, they hunkered down, grinning.

Thorson's job wasn't easy. He had to face the meat of the Red Sox order, starting with Teddy Amaro, the number-two hitter. He hit a line drive right at Thorson, who made the catch in self-defence.

Young Randy Slaughter topped a grounder to Billy Wise, who flipped it to Tiny Washington. Two out. Bobby Johnson, who didn't want to be the last out, marched angrily to the plate, pumped up by the booing all around him.

When he hit the first pitch hard and high to left field, Preacher Kelsey fairly danced with joy at the chance to catch the ball. He did it exuberantly, but with both hands, then grabbed it and pumped it in the air as Gardiner and Thorson, who had both frozen to watch the catch, met halfway to the mound in an embrace, soon to be swamped by the rest of the players as the dugout emptied.

I put the binoculars on Preacher as he did some fancy broken-field running through the fans who were streaming onto the field. He lost his cap on the way but didn't let go of the ball, which he gave to Thorson.

Thorson put his arm around Kelsey's shoulder and then, surprisingly, handed the ball back. Then tears blurred my eyes again, and I got up and joined the rest of the reporters heading for the elevator.

Moose hugged me.

"Holy fuck. They did it."

Chapter 9.

We ran down the corridor to the clubhouse, with the sound of the stamping, shouting fans booming and echoing overhead. As I walked through the doors, I was hit by the first champagne shower. The sickeningly sweet Ontario bubbly stung my eyes terribly. When I could see again, Bony Costello was holding the now empty bottle and grinning, his own uniform soaked, his hair hanging in his eyes.

"Gotcha," he said, then hugged me and lifted me off my feet. It was like being mauled by a bear, but not altogether unpleasant. When he dropped me, I retrieved as much dignity as I could, given that I was drenched with wine, and set off in search of Joe Kelsey.

He was on the platform that had been set up by the NBC crew, waiting with Thorson and Ted Ferguson while Bert Nelson interviewed Red O'Brien. The other players watched, swigging champagne from the bottles and whooping with joy, already drunk with happiness.

Alex Jones had five bottles stashed at his locker. He opened them, one at a time, and made forays into the room to douse his teammates. When Nelson turned his microphone to Ferguson, it was Jones who jumped on the platform and christened the pair. I took snide satisfaction in watching Ferguson's expensive ultra-suede jacket soak up the wine.

There was no point in taking notes while they spouted platitudes on the stand. I went looking for comment from some of the lesser stars.

I found Gloves Gardiner sitting in front of his locker, tears streaming down his face.

"I've got twelve years in this game, and I've never even come close," he said. "I was afraid I never would."

"It was a great game."

"I'm so proud of all the guys. Steve was awesome."

"You and he almost got into it in the first inning. What was that about?"

"I was just reminding him that we are all in this together," Gardiner said, smiling tightly. "But that's all history now. Now we have to look ahead to the playoffs."

"What about the A's? Are you thinking about them yet?"

"Yeah, a bit. Oakland is a tough team, but we had a good record against them during the season, and in our division they would have finished fourth. This was the big one to win."

I could see that Kelsey was finished with the television interviews, so I left with Gloves and fought my way to Joe's locker.

There was such a mob I couldn't even see him or hear a word he said until Tiny Washington, at the next locker, pulled his stool out for me to stand on. I tried shouting questions, but it was no use. I stood on my perch and just watched for a moment.

Plastic sheets had been taped over all the lockers to protect the players' clothes. The clubhouse was as crowded as the Eaton's Boxing Day sale, a happy, jostling mass of players, reporters, and hangers-on.

Jones was still a one-man champagne raiding party. He was going nuts, a nineteen-year-old man-child in his glory. When he ran out of targets, he poured the stuff over his own head.

Flakey Patterson had found a Canadian flag and stood draped in it, babbling and eating, released from his vows. Thorson was in a corner, surrounded as completely as Kelsey, smiling and talking. Eddie Carter had a tape deck turned up to full volume and was boogying with Archie Griffin in a corner.

A couple of bat boys were sneaking drinks, looking around furtively. Goober Grabowski and Stinger Swain had lined up bottles in front of them for some competitive chugalugging.

Moose Greer, sweating profusely, came to the door and bellowed: "Cover up, guys, you got guests!" Then he ushered in the players' wives and girlfriends.

Jones, spying new victims, grabbed several bottles and ran across the room, and soon the women were soaking, too, carefully coiffed hair in rattails, mascara running down their cheeks. They found and embraced their husbands in the chaos.

"Pretty sight, isn't it?"

Startled, I turned and found that Joe Kelsey had climbed up next to me on his stool. He had neither wife nor girlfriend in town, but didn't seem to mind.

"You did it, Preacher," I said.

He turned to me, eyes wet, and said, "I did it, Kate."

We shook hands solemnly, then laughed. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek and he hugged me, hard.

"He gave you the ball?"

"You saw that? Wasn't that something?"

"You both deserved it, today."

Just then, Moose shouted to Kelsey from the doorway. "The man who caught your homerun ball is outside. He wants you to sign it for him."

"I'll do better than that!"

He grabbed a bat and went to the door. He was back a moment later, with the ball in his hand.

"I traded him," Kelsey said, "for a bat and a pair of tickets to the first playoff game."

Then he walked across the room to Thorson's locker. I couldn't hear what he said when he handed it to him, but I could see their faces. They were serious, as though making a pledge. Then they embraced.

Oh, shit. It set me off again. I hopped down from the stool and began to make the rounds, happy as Elwy in a bowl of cream. I found Jeff, and we split up the team, making sure we got quotes from everybody. I started off with Thorson, fighting my way through the crowd.

"What did you have to say to Kelsey after the game, Steve?"

"Jesus Christ, woman, don't you ever let up? I just pitched the team into the playoffs and you want to know what I said to Kelsey? Get off my case."

He turned away from me and kept on answering questions.

"Charming," said Christopher Morris.

"A real prince of a guy," I agreed.

"QUIET!"

Moose's voice cut through the babble.

"Can I have your attention, please? The clubhouse is now closed. We ask all players to please stand by for a meeting, wives and girlfriends to go back to the lounge, and all members of the media to assemble immediately in the boardroom for a press conference."

There was a general murmur of confusion and protest, but one look at Moose's face was enough to convince most of us that something serious was up.

Ted Ferguson was waiting for us, looking uncomfortable. As soon as we were settled, he told Moose to close the door.

"I regret to have to inform you that Pedro Jorge Sanchez was found dead in his condominium at approximately 3:45 this afternoon." The announcement was formal and chilling.

"What happened?"

Drugs? Heart attack?

"The cause of death won't be official until the autopsy is complete, but it appears that he died during a robbery."

"When did it happen?"

"Probably sometime last night."

"Who found him?"

"When he hadn't appeared by game time, and there was no reply to repeated telephone calls, one of our staff went to see if he was all right. The superintendent of the building provided a key and the two discovered his body. The police were then called to the scene."

"Was he shot, or what?"

"We don't have any details."

"Who is in charge of the investigation?"

Ferguson checked a notepad in front of him.

"Staff Sergeant Lloyd Munro, of the homicide squad, has been assigned to the case."

"What about his wife? Does she know?"

"We're still trying to reach her in Santo Domingo."

There was an uneasy silence. Finally, I asked the cold, but inevitable, question.

"What does this do to the rest of the season?"

"We don't know. Red is telling the players now, and I expect they will come to a decision about continuing or not. Tomorrow is an off day, as you know, so they'll be able to think about it overnight.

"Moose will keep you informed, and we'll have some sort of press conference tomorrow. And that's really all I have to say. If you'll excuse me, I must go talk with the players."

When Ferguson left, everyone began to talk at once. Murders were not the normal stuff of our professional lives. I hadn't covered a crime since I was a junior reporter fifteen years before. I'd hated it.

I called Jake Watson from the phone in Moose's office and told him what I knew.

"It just came over the wire," he said. "I've checked with city side. Jimmy Peterson's working on it. I'll get you transferred."

Peterson is the cop reporter, an ancient, old-fashioned guy who has held down the beat for thirty-five years and has better connections on the force than the chief.

"Peterson." His voice was gruff and impatient, but that's just his style. He always sounds as if he's got a fedora on the back of his head, with a press pass stuck in the band. He still smokes cigars, no matter what rules the newsroom tight-asses try to enforce.

"Jimmy, it's Kate Henry. I'm at the Titan offices. We've just heard about the Sultan Sanchez murder. What do you know?"

"Beaten to death. The proverbial blunt instrument. The place was a mess. Looks like he interrupted a burglar."

"Who's this guy who's in charge of the investigation? Lloyd Munro? I haven't heard of him before."

"He's good. Young. Smart. He's a little unconventional but gets away with it because he's Donald Munro's son. Head of homicide in the fifties. Killed on duty. Before your time."

"What's he like to deal with?"

"Tough. Doesn't like the press. He'll talk to me. I knew his dad. Don't know about you. He's at Fifty-two Division."

He gave me the number and I asked him to transfer me back to the sports desk. He didn't say goodbye. In a moment, Jake came back on the line.

"Jimmy'll do the murder. You get reaction down there from the players and cover the baseball angle. What's going to happen with the rest of the season?"

"The players are meeting right now. I'll stake out the dressing room and get back to you as soon as I know anything." Moose came into the office as I hung up.

"What else do you know? What staff member found him?"

"It was Jocelyn. She's freaked out. You can't talk to her."

Jocelyn Mah was Moose's secretary. Poor kid.

"Where is she?"

"She left. The cops told her not to talk to anyone."

"Right. What's the word from the players?"

"They're still in the meeting."

"I'll go wait in the hall. See you."