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Show Car Baseball Butch and Fenn Stories 74 Two headlights ignite in the Wilkes' yard. They're huge beacons, so I know that it's Mr. Wilkes in his Plymouth. Then, right across the lights, full front, I see Parley's x-ray form pass and disappear on the run. The headlights spin, close together, cross-eyed, and I hear the old growl of that terrible car as it swings out onto the street. Another car runs right around the Concord corner and in front of us before we move. "Strike two." Fenn says. "Right?" He gets up. Butch and I do too, but Butch says, "Something's going on." We both know it is not right that old man Wilkes would be up so late. Suddenly, in fact, everything is beginning to seem late. "He's going to kill Parley," Fenn says. It sounds pretty bad the way he says it: information. "But I'm going on old man Wilkes. This is going to put me back in the ball game." It almost does. We watch the Plymouth clear across the field. It's swinging through the signs, cruising for murder, and Fenn only has time to nab a double - and he has to hit the dirt with that. Butch and I duck as the old Plymouth sweeps by; we take the strike. "Strike three, boys," Fenn says. "It's one out all around. How can you guys strike out like that?" Butch is biting his lower lip. "There's nothing we can do, Butch," I say. "Parley's okay; he can run." |