Even though social security kicked in a couple of years back, without the Firebirds gig, things were lean, the measly Lutheran church checks spent in a day’s time. When the casino opened last year he landed a gig playing in the cocktail lounge. Not the busy nights—and not because of his hand (no one around here had an ear sophisticated enough to pick out the augmented ninths he couldn’t hit, the half-diminished chords he occasionally flubbed), but because he wasn’t as nice on the eyes as he used to be. He knew that to be true and didn’t mind; the girl they had playing Fridays and Saturdays was real cute and could even sort of sing. The Sunday-to-Thursday pay was decent, plus he got a comped dinner and a couple of big pours from Eric.

Lester saw the new sports complex going up next door, watched it coming together week after week. When they started hiring, boy, did he jump. For the money, but also because following in the paper, listening on the radio, isn’t like being there. He missed it.

The Salt River Fields folks were interested—how could they not be, with his résumé of Newport Jazz, the Copacabana, all the places he’d played before he was even twenty-one, to say nothing of his thirty-plus years with the Firebirds. But when he tried to negotiate a fee per game, Joe, the tightfisted midget, insisted it was a flat fee for the season or nada. So Lester, with some gripes, took the three grand and a parking pass.

William leaves the stadium in a funk. He’d known it would be weird, being the youngest guy on the team, the rookie straight out of high school. Objectively, he knew he’d get cut, too—it was unheard of for a recruit, even a spectacular one, to jump straight to the majors—but through those months of psyching himself up for his big fucking debut, he’d hoped that he would be the exception. Look at Matthews, he thinks now—two home runs last week! There is talk of him staying with the club, not even stopping at Salt Lake. Meanwhile, William has been batting like shit—even after two hundred hours with that cranky geezer batting coach—and can hardly hang on to the ball at first. Every Thursday this spring has felt like his head is in a guillotine, waiting for the Friday cut he knows is coming. Instead, Paine calls him in and gives him his envelope of meal money—with hardly more than a nod and the line, “Don’t spend it all in one place.”