I thought someone was pocketing a leftover hot dog down at concessions.” “Yeah, well, the old man almost left with a mouth full of Chiclets.” “That wouldn’t be smart, Fain. You know how much the owners like to cup each other’s cheeks.” “I know, I know.” T.J. bottomed-out his glass of beer and blew some erasures off his newspaper. “Hey, what’s a four-letter word for sacrifice that ends in a T?” “You asking me? I thought you were the word freak.” “It’s bunt, you numbskull. Just thinking maybe you drop one down in your next at-bat. Get the legs churning a little. Maybe bust out of that slump.” “Ah, you know, not really my style. I’ll bust out in my own way. On my own time.” “Your funeral, pal.” T.J. refilled his glass and set the puzzle down on the bar. “So, he call you again?” “Not since last time. I did what he wanted, so I expect a call soon. He doesn’t like to give me too much vacation time.” “What’d he have you do this time?” “You’re the one with the newspaper. Why don’t you tell me?” T.J. took his newspaper, swept a pile of stray peanut shells on top, and flung it into a wastebasket behind the bar. “What? From Calla? You think I’d believe a word of that hack’s writing? Come on, I want to hear it from you.” “Not much to it, really. Told me to go over to the Hide-Away Motel—“ “The one down on Port Street?”
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