Deke squinted. “Damn if I know.”
Coach clapped his hands and told his kids to shower up. He walked over to the bleachers and clapped me on the back. “Howza goin, Shakespeare?”
“Pretty good,” I said, smiling gamely.
“Shakespeare, kick in the rear, that’s what we used to say when we were kids.” He laughed heartily.
“
Coach Borman looked puzzled. “Really?”
“Nah, just goofin witcha.” And sort of wishing I’d acted on my first impulse and scooted out of town after supper. “How does the team look?”
“Aw, they good boys, they goan try hard, but it won’t be the same without Jimmy. Did you see the new billboard out there where 109 splits off from Highway 77?” Only he said it
“Too used to it to notice, I guess.”
“Well, have a look on the way out, podna. Boosters done it up right. Jimmy’s mama ’bout cried when she saw it. I understand I owe you a vote a thanks for gettin that young man to swear off the drinkin.” He removed his cap with the big C on it, armed sweat from his forehead, put it back on, and sighed heavily. “Probably owe that fuckin nummie Vince Knowles a vote a thanks, too, but puttin him on my prayer list is the best I can do.”
I recalled that Coach was a Baptist of the hard-shell variety. In addition to prayer lists, he probably believed all that shit about Noah’s sons.
“No thanks necessary,” I said. “Just doing my job.”
He looked at me keenly. “You ought to still be doing it, not jerking off over some book. Sorry if that’s too blunt, but it’s how I feel.”
“That’s all right.” It was. I liked him better for saying it. In another world, he might even have been right. I pointed across the field, where the Silent Mike look-alike was packing his salad bowl into a steel case. His earphones were still hanging around his neck. “Who’s that, Coach?”
Coach snorted. “Think his name is Hale Duff. Or maybe it’s Cale. New sports guy at the Big Damn.” He was talking about KDAM, Denholm County’s one radio station, a teensy sundowner that ran farm reports in the morning, country music in the afternoons, and rock after school let out. The kids enjoyed the station breaks as much as the music; there would be an explosion followed by an old cowboy type saying, “K-DAM!
“What’s that contraption of his, Coach?” Deke asked. “Do you know?”
“I know, all right,” Coach said, “and if he thinks I’m gonna let him use it during a game broadcast, he’s out of his sneaker. Think I want ever’one who’s got a radio hearin me call my boys a bunch of goddam pussies when they can’t deny the rush on third and short?”
I turned to him, very slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“I didn’t believe him, so I tried it myself,” the Coach said. Then, with mounting indignation: “I heard Boof Redford tellin one of the freshmen that my balls were bigger than my brains!”
“Really,” I said. My heartbeat had picked up appreciably.
“Duffer there said he built it in his goddam garage,” Coach grumbled. “Said when it’s turned up to full gain, you can hear a cat fart on the next block.
The sports guy, who looked all of twenty-four, picked up his steel equipment case and waved with his free hand. Coach waved back, then muttered under his breath, “The gameday I let him on my field with
It was almost dark when I got to the intersection of 77 and 109, but a bloated orange moon was rising in the east, and it was good enough to see the billboard. It was Jim LaDue, smiling with his football helmet in one hand, a pigskin in the other, and a lock of black hair tumbled heroically over his forehead. Above the picture, in star-spangled letters, was CONGRATULATIONS TO JIM LADUE, ALL-STATE QUARTERBACK 1960 AND 1961! GOOD LUCK AT ALABAMA! WE WILL NEVER FORGET YOU!
And below, in red letters that seemed to scream:
“JIMLA!”
Two days later, I walked into Satellite Electronics and waited while my host sold an iPod-sized transistor to a gum-chewing kid. When he was out the door (already pressing the little radio’s earpiece into place), Silent Mike turned to me. “Why, it’s my old pal Doe. How can I help you today?” Then, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper: “More bugged lamps?”
“Not today,” I said. “Tell me, have you ever heard of something called an omnidirectional microphone?”
His lips parted over his teeth in a smile. “My friend,” he said, “you have once more come to the right place.”
I got a phone put in, and the first person I called was Ellen Dockerty, who was happy to give me Sadie’s Reno address. “I have the telephone number of the rooming house where she’s staying, too,” Ellen said. “If you want it.”
