They wandered through the ballpark, weaving through rows of seats, up the aisles, pausing every few moments to look behind them. Coot carried the bulky leather bag with both hands. Blake moved fast, and Coot moved quick behind him. Soon they were on the field, jogging across the cropped grass toward a tall outfield wall. A large advertisement for B&R Headache Powder was over the left field. Blake found a door within the giant “&” on the wall. The door led into the dirt parking lot with a few tractors and chalk spreaders and baskets of baseballs.

They crept toward their Hudson, pausing to take cover behind vehicles. Blake told Coot to get on all fours and peek beneath the cars to see if the coast was clear. When they neared the area where they’d left the Hudson, they could see the vehicle surrounded by more men in official-looking uniforms. The door of the vehicle, though it had been battered by dust, revealed the faintest remnants of text on the side advertising the gospel troop.

Blake swore.

“What now?” asked Coot.

“I’m thinking, Coot.”

They backtracked through the stadium and found the nosebleed seats again, then they crouched low. They stayed there for a few hours, until the park emptied and the sun went down. Neither of them spoke a word. Finally Coot fell asleep, using the brown leather bag for a pillow.

When the sky was black, they climbed the fence on the east edge of the park. They walked back toward the motel room through the darkness until Coot had developed blisters on his feet. When they reached the motor inn parking lot, Blake stopped walking and squatted beneath a delivery truck tire. He swore again.

“What is it?” Coot said. But no sooner had he said it than he saw what Blake was cussing at. It was a man in the distance, wearing a badge, standing beside their motel door.

“Those rabbit-chasing grunts ain’t got nothing better to do than go after an old man.”

“Are we done for?” said Coot.

But Blake was in no mood to answer. He remained quiet, letting his mind work overtime. After several moments, Blake finally flashed a flimsy smile and said, “We ain’t licked yet.”

And Coot knew that even though Blake had promised he never would, he was lying.

Twenty-Nine
The Long Green

“No thanks, I got all the tobacco pickers I can stand,” said Mister Harrison. “If it’s work you’re looking for, go ask my competitor for a job. They probably pay worse than I do, though.”

“I know you already got you plenty of pickers,” said Paul. “But you ain’t got five pickers for the price of two.”