There he was. Sure as summer, certain as dusk. Luther Laurence. Same light smattering of scars on his face. Same hooded, sullen eyes, and those eyes looking right at Ruth as a smile appeared in them, a tiny, knowing glint, and Luther raised his fingers to the brim of his hat, and tipped it at Ruth.

Ruth tried to smile back, but the muscles in his face wouldn’t comply as Scott popped out to shallow right. He heard the announcer call his name. He walked to the batter’s box, feeling Luther’s knowing eyes on his back the whole way. He stepped up to the plate and hit the first pitch he saw straight back into the pitcher’s glove.

So this Clayton Tomes was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?” Danny caught the eye of the peanut vendor and held up two fingers.

Luther nodded. “He was. Musta had jackrabbit in him, though. Didn’t say a word to me, just picked up and left.”

“Huh,” Danny said. “I met him a few times. He didn’t strike me that way. Struck me more as a sweet kid, a boy really.”

The oily brown bags came sailing through the air and Danny caught the first but let the second pass by, and it glanced off Luther’s forehead and landed in his lap.

“Thought you were some kind of baseball player.” Danny handed a nickel down the row of fans and the last man handed it to the peanut vendor.

“Gotta lot on my mind.” Luther took the first warm peanut from his bag and flicked his wrist and it bounced off Danny’s Adam’s apple and fell into his shirt. “What Mrs. Wagenfeld say about it?”

“Just chalked it up to something you darker folk do,” Danny said, reaching into his shirt. “Hired herself another houseman straightaway.”

“Colored?”

“No. I guess the new prevailing theory on the east side after you and Clayton didn’t work out is to keep it whiter up there.”

“Like this here park, uh?”

Danny chuckled. Maybe twenty-five thousand faces in Fenway that day, and not a one besides Luther’s any darker than the ball. The teams were changing sides after Ruth’s line-out to the pitcher, and the round man trotted out to left on his ballerina toes, his shoulders hunched like he was expecting a blow from behind. Luther knew Ruth had seen him, and that the seeing had rattled him. Shame had filled the man’s face like it had come from a hose. Luther almost pitied him, but then he remembered the game in Ohio, the way those white boys had soiled its simple beauty and he thought: You don’t want to feel shame? Don’t do shameful things, white boy.

Danny said, “Anything I can do to help you?”

“With what?” Luther said.

“With whatever’s been eating you up all summer. I ain’t the only one noticed. Nora’s worried, too.”

Luther shrugged. “Nothing to tell.”

“I am a cop, you know.” He tossed his shells at Luther.

Luther swept the shells off his thighs. “For now.”