“Robert Mitchum? Charlotte Rampling? Farewell, My Lovely? No? How about Dick Powell, 1944?” Confusion was doing a cross-fade to anger. “I gather you don’t watch Turner Classic Movies.” How had this troll found his way to Ted’s spare seat? Who knew Ted was coming to the game? Lester. And Cheryl. Ted knew which way he’d bet on that hand. He had mentioned it to her at the restaurant.

Ted was enjoying himself. Feigning innocence, he asked, “Have you been following me?”

The guy swung a hand in front of his face as if he were pushing aside spiderwebs. “So what’s the holdup on getting Cheryl her money?”

“Take Me Out to the Ball Game” segued into “Lazy Mary.”

“You two should get your priorities straight. I saw her a couple of hours ago, and she told me to drop the money thing.” Something made him stop there and not mention her insistence on finding Richie’s killer.

“That’s not right. She wouldn’t do that,” the man said. The high-pitched rasp of his voice was more evident the longer he spoke, as though he might have been out of practice.

“I’ll call her tomorrow and straighten it out. Okay, friend?” Ted thought about leaving, but he would have to squeeze by this giant. It wasn’t going to work.

“What do you know you’re not saying?” the guy prodded.

“I’m trying to be polite about this. I don’t know you, and it would be unethical for me to share information regarding a client without that client’s express permission.” The Cardinals took the field, and the fans around them began to take their seats.

“You got some set to be talking about ethics.”

“Yo! Siddown, big guy.” The voice came from two rows behind. Ted realized that most people in the section were already seated. The relief pitcher was warming up. Ted sat.

The big guy did not. He turned and faced the man who’d yelled. “Would you like to rephrase that, asshole?”

The fan was sitting with friends. He was a regular. Season ticket holder. If something got started, there was a good chance the troll would be fighting half the section. “Yeah. I meant to say, ‘Sit the fuck down, big guy.’”

The chant started. Four Mets fans were pointing at the big guy and yelling, “Asshole!” in unison. It spread quickly. By the fifth “Asshole,” there were two dozen others who had joined in.

A blaze of rage erupted on the man’s face, but it turned to stone immediately. He bent down, his bulk looming over Ted, obscuring the field, fans, and everything but that massive face. “You take care of Cheryl. She is owed big-time. Half a mil, Eddie. She’s waiting. Get it. If not, you’ll never see me coming.”

“Asshole! Asshole!” The whole section had joined in, everyone pointing and jeering.