"Ohhhh, shit," he managed from the bottom of his throat. "Pppphhhhew. I ... am ... so ... hung ... over. Bla-uuhhhhhh. I feel like shit."

        Daniel McConnell rolled to his right, partially, waiting for gravity to take over so he could get out of bed. "The Queen Mum herself could kneel before me, mouth wide and waiting, and I could not properly present myself."

        Sometime during his teenage years, when drugs and alcohol and hangovers became a regular part of his life, Daniel McConnell began gauging his state of morning-after non-being by his inability to achieve erection, even when tempted by the Queen Mother. Today was no different. Saturdays never are, because Fridays are never different either: a potent mix of hard liquor, enough marijuana to blister his lungs, and of course, cocaine. Weekends with Gyp meant cocaine, and since he lived with Gyp, and since Gyp’s job of screwing dealers for blow didn’t have a generous vacation plan, Gyp was always there. "Gy-yp! What’s for breakfast, honey?" Daniel called out in his best Nick-At-Nite-husband-returning-from-work voice.

        Gyp answered with her middle finger as Daniel shuffled into the living room. Gyp wore only a barely-long-enough t-shirt and was bent over the coffee table inhaling more of last night’s party while "I Got You" played through the stereo.

        "What’s that?"

        "Coke."

        "I know it’s coke; I’m not talking about that."

        "The music?"

        "Yeah, the music."

        "Split Enz."

        "I know it’s Split Enz."

        "Rhetorical question?"

        "Yes, rhetorical question."

        "So was that," she said with a smirk, putting her face back down over the coffee table.

        "What’s next? Wall of Fucking Voodoo? Jesus, Gyp, what’s wrong with this picture? You’re 27, you’ve got your face in a mirror of blow, you’re wearing nothing but a t-shirt, and you’re listening to Split Enz."

        "What part of that don’t you like: 27, coke, t-shirt, or Split Enz?"

        "Mostly Split Enz, but I thought you would’ve had enough coke last night."

        "What would be a more appropriate soundtrack to this scene?"

        Daniel paused, a clever answer would be hours away. He made his way toward the kitchen as the phone rang. "Yep."

        Gary Runnells, known as Mr. Erection in the four weeks since the Cubs clinched the division and subsequently advanced to the World Series, was on the other end of the call. Eight hours from the first pitch of Game 1 and Mr. Erection was up and ready.

        "Yes, Gary, eight hours away. I can’t wait," Daniel answered in an even tone.

        "Yes, it is unfuckingbelievable. ...

        "I know. Game 2. Tomorrow night. You’ll be there. I’ve seen your tickets. ...

        "I love Mark Fucking Kotsay, too. Why wouldn’t I? ...

        "Yes, that was the greatest fucking trade the Cubs ever made. ... Kotsay for Matt Stairs. ... Right after Patterson went down. ... I know, where were you going to play Stairs anyway? ... Never shoulda got Stairs in the first place. ... I know that, too. ... He hit .357 since the trade, plus the two homers in the playoffs. ...

        "Yes, I remember the 16-inning game he saved against San Diego in late August. ... Yes, he jogged in from center field and struck out Ryan Klesko ’cause the Cubs had nobody left in the ’pen. ... Yes, I know he did the same thing to save the championship game in the 1995 College World Series. ... I know, he pitched in college, too. ... I know Gary, I know. I know ’cause you told me. You’ve told me everything I know about the Cubs."

        "Is that Mr. Erection?" Gyp screamed from the living room. "Tell him the Cubs are going to fucking lose." She laughed and then put her face back down in the coke.

        "Gary, I gotta run. Really. ... Yeah, I’ll see you tonight."

        Hanging up the phone and shaking his head, Daniel found relief in a half-gallon of orange juice in the refrigerator. "Jesus, that kid is going to up and die. Either way, he’s dead. If the fuckers win, he’s gonna go crazy and run in front of a truck. If they lose, he’s going to put a bullet in his head. He’s dead by Halloween, no question.

        "I swear, I could ask that guy how many pubic hairs Sammy Fucking Sosa has and he could give me an answer."

        "Hey, you gotta split soon," Gyp said quickly, again lifting her head from her blow. "Tsang’s coming over." Tsang was the local coke dealer. Wiry and greasy and as white as can be, he looked more Southern United States than North Side Chicago. Gyp was the one who gave him his nickname. He kept track of his inventory in a laminated booklet that looked, according to Gyp, just like a Chinese menu. Today was payday.

        "I still don’t understand why you fuck that guy."

        "Quid pro blow, my friend."

        "And I have to leave. That’s the part I really don’t get. You suck that guy’s dick for coke, but you’re too much of a prude to have anyone else around. Do you see the irony there?"

        "Fuck you."

        "Not even if you were the Queen Mum."

        "Come on, big guy, wake up." Jack Boomer looked down at his shrunken penis and willed it to rise. It was the first time in his life he didn’t wake up with a hard on—an extraordinary fact, especially since Jack just turned 93. "Your dick is always the first thing up in the morning," his second wife often said. She also used to make goochee goo noises and play hide and seek with it. "Look at that precious little thing. I think it just smiled at me! What a precious little boy you are! What a precious little boy you are! . . . It’s like a penis, only smaller."

        Fucking bitch. So he had a small dick, at least it always worked. Most of his friends never had an erection after Apollo XIII, while he banged secretaries well into his eighties. "Viagra’s for pussies," he muttered.

        To him, his limp dick was ultimate proof of his imminent demise. The same day the Cubs clinched the Central, he discovered he had four weeks to live. The cancer was already in his liver then. Now, four and a half weeks later, every day was a miracle. Today was October 20th—his birthday—but he didn’t care about that. He just needed to hold on eight more days. He had been a week late coming in; he didn’t want to be a day early going out.

        How could this be happening? Why now? He needed to talk to Harry. It was the only way to remain sane. He pressed the little button and waited for the morphine to take him to sweet oblivion.

        "What the fuck you want now?"

"Same thing I always want. More time."

        "Why? You’re in agony. You got a limp noodle. Just let go."

        "I need to see them win it. I want to see the city in flames."

        "And I want to bang the Queen Mum."

        "You’ve got connections."

        "Fuck connections. This isn’t the Tribune Company. Things don’t work that way up here. There’s only one fucking connection worth having, and He’s a fucking Yankee fan."

        "I knew it."

        Gyp hated her grandfather almost as much as she hated the Cubs. But she hated hospitals most of all. Five times. Five fucking times in the last year she had found herself at St. Elizabeth’s. Two times they treated her for a drug overdose, and three times they pumped her stomach. ("Use a gun," Daniel had told her. "They can’t pump your stomach for bullets.") Now here she was again—this time, under her own power. But she had to go. She needed the money, or Tsang was going to kill her. She wanted to die, but on her own terms.

        From the hallway, the old fuck really didn’t look much different than when she’d seen him at her mother’s funeral six years earlier. He certainly didn’t appear to be on the verge of death. His breaths were deep and steady, and his eyes opened the second she stepped in the room.

        He recognized her immediately, and spoke as if they saw each other every week.

        "Hi Gyp," he said in a barely audible whisper. "Come to see your grandpa off?" This was the first time she’d seen him sober, and the first time he got her name right on the first try. She looked at his morphine drip with a bit of envy.

        "Hi grandpa. I just found out you were here. How you feel?"

        "They made it. They finally fucking made it."

        "I know. I know. Isn’t it great? Gyp moved into the seat next to her grandfather and took his hand. "Grandpa, I’m in trouble. I need your help."

        Jack Boomer closed his eyes and began clicking the little button. A stupid grin crept across his face.

        "Up & Comers," promised the headline in the magazine.

        Brant Brown tossed his long, white whiskers to one side, and took in the picture from an arm’s-length view. Among the many problems that had befallen him since that photo was taken, farsightedness was creeping up on him. It was must have been taken in the summer of ’97. Brant was batting .320 and playing a solid centerfield for the Iowa Cubs. He had his entire major-league career before him then.

        That day in the spring of 1998, when Jim Riggleman told him he’d be flying back to Chicago to start the season with the big club, that was the proudest day of his life. But there were other days too: days that neither his conscience nor the fans would ever let him escape. September 23, 1998. Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone?

        But there were lots of days to reflect on since that picture was taken, lots of days...

        October 20, 2001. Brant looked at his date watch, as he rode the el, to make sure his appointment was today. This afternoon, he was seeing one of his specialists, this time the urologist. He usually saw the doctor at his office, but today Dr. Klein was the attending physician at the hospital. Since St. Elizabeth’s handled all of Dr. Klein’s lab work anyway, the nurse called to tell Brant he could come to the hospital instead.

        A Cub fan standing next to Brant on the train jostled into him as the train pulled into Belmont. Shouting and high-fiving with his buddy, the guy was annoying at best. Mark Kotsay this and Mark Kotsay that, Brant had heard more than enough about the Cubs’ spectacular new centerfielder. Sometimes his frustration spilled over. Mark Giangreco, doing a human interest story on Brant’s battle with cancer, had asked him in a television interview if he felt bittersweet about his old team’s appearance in the World Series. Brant replied, "No, just bitter," and Giangreco aired the comment that night at ten o'clock. Giangreco, the pussy, Brant thought to himself on the train. The guy rode me harder than anyone, after that ball in Milwaukee.

        The car lurched forward again as it pulled out of Belmont, and Brant’s elbow jerked into motion with it. He caught the tall guy in the Cubbie-blue pinstripes just below the ribs. The man had his back turned, so the blow most likely nailed his kidney. Brant read the name on the back of the uniform top: "Mr. Erection."

        Brant readied himself for what the tall man might do, and was screwing his face up into his best what-the-fuck look. But Mr. Erection didn’t even notice the solid body blow he had sustained. The train continued on downtown, with more Cub revelry, more talk of the Stairs-for-Kotsay deal, and for Brant, a deepening sense of gloom.

        His spirits rose slightly as he got off the train and walked up Michigan Avenue. His first stop would be Nordstrom’s for his fitting. It was a fine October day, unseasonably warm, with a splash of fall colors and a liberal dose of pretty women—all prettier than Gyp.

        Gyp wasn’t beautiful, but she was the only person in Chicago who hadn’t seen the replay of his dropped ball in Milwaukee. Besides, she shared his latest passion. Drugs.

        In this regard, Gyp was a godsend. She always had drugs and usually didn’t care if Brant paid her back for what he snorted. Brant warned her that she might get into financial trouble if she didn’t stop giving him cocaine, but she said she had this really cool friend, Tsang, who was always doing her favors. Brant didn’t know what her relationship with Tsang entailed, and he didn’t care. If it weren’t for Gyp, Brant would be even further in debt than he was now. All of his baseball money was gone, as drugs, cancer and unemployment took their toll on his bank account.

        Brant pushed his way through the revolving door, and entered Nordstrom’s. The smell of perfume enveloped him immediately, and he was eyed up and down by the young sales lady behind the glass table. She was prim, starched, stuffed, and manicured. She looked like someone who would fold her panties neatly inside her dresser drawer and then give them a shot of eau de toilette before she pushed the drawer shut. She was no Gyp, and she was oh so erotic.

        Brant flashed her a barely perceptible wink as he passed by. Apparently it was not perceptible at all to the sales lady, as she stared straight ahead and Brant felt foolish. Brant wondered whether he had the ability to perform the love act for her anyway. The lump on his testicle had been removed, but his equipment still worked only in fits and starts.

        The incident with the sales lady dampened Brant’s mood once again. His life-after-baseball had come suddenly, and in his darkest hours, Brant had to admit his new life was deplorable. But he made every attempt to retain the swagger he exuded as an "up-and-comer" in the major leagues. And today, of all days, he would need that swagger when dealing with the Nordstrom’s manager. He needed the money.

        "Yes, Mr. Brown, I’m Mr. Pink...How can I help you?"

        "Mr. Pink? Like in the movie?" Brant said.

        The man was tall, formal, well-dressed, polite, and he’d heard all the Mr. Pink jokes before, though from the looks of this man, Brant wondered whether he’d seen any Tarantino pictures. Mr. Pink pursed his lips and nodded curtly.

        Brant was thrown off momentarily but he put his airs back on.

        "Yes, I’m Brant Brown, the baseball player. You might recall that Kerry Wood and I played Santa Claus for the children at your store last year. You know Kerry Wood, don’t you?"

        "Yes, of course, the young man who’s pitching in the Super Bowl." The store manager’s expression brightened only slighty.

        Brant groaned inwardly but plunged forward, just as he had rehearsed in Gyp’s apartment. "As you might imagine, Kerry is quite busy this year with the World Series, and hasn’t even thought about Christmas. However, I will be available to work with the children again this year."

        "Splendid." Mr. Pink looked at his watch.

        "In addition, I’ve decided I’d like to work with the children for the entire Christmas season. Last year it was just a one-day event."

        "How generous. Here’s what you should do: Call Mr. Perkins in Public Relations..."

        Brant broke him off.

        "Yes, I’ve spoken to Mr. Perkins, and he sent me to you. I’m to be fitted for the costume."

        Mr. Pink motioned with his hand and Brant followed him through a swinging, wooden door marked Employees Only. Mr. Pink collected the red garments up off a shelf and looked for a private area for Brant to change clothes.

        "Behind that door, you’ll find a mirror." The man pointed in the general direction of several doors. "Try on this prototype, and I’ll measure you for the alterations."

        Brant took the red suit into a small room, but found no mirror. There were cans of paint stacked against the wall, and a light bulb on the ceiling. He pulled off his shirt, jeans, and sneakers and pulled on the white long-john’s that Santa apparently wears under his suit. The red trousers, red coat, and black belt all looked like North Pole standard issue. He even had black boots to match the belt.

        "It’s too big," Brant told the store manager.

        Mr. Pink gave Brant an impatient look. "Mr. Brown, this is an oversized suit. After all, Santa Claus is fat!"

        Brant looked sheepish, as Mr. Pink started measuring.

        "We’ll supply the pillows," the store manager added.

        Brant cleared his throat and tried to rally some of the confidence that was threatening to leak out into his red trousers.

        "Now, I believe we should discuss my rate, Mr. Pink. Last year, my agent and I waived my $2,500 per day appearance fee, because it’s such an outstanding cause. This year, we’ll do the same…for the first day. And we’ll cut my fee in half for each day of the remaining four weeks."

        Mr. Pink clucked his tongue and said, "The rate is ten dollars per hour, Mr. Brown. It’s Nordstrom’s policy." He continued measuring around the waist.

        "Yes, but I’m a major-league baseball player."

        "Then you must have plenty of money and can afford to donate your time."

        "You don’t understand. My drawing power will bring revenue into your store."

        "Perhaps. But if you want to start talking about revenue, maybe you should persuade your friend Mr. Wood into taking part. Or this Mr. Kotsay, whom I’ve been hearing so much about."

        Brant knew he was losing the battle; besides, he was getting hot in the Santa suit. "I’ll work for twenty dollars an hour."

        Mr. Pink gave him a long look and said, "I’ll put it to Mr. Harrison, head of Human Resources, that you’re a celebrity" (Mr. Pink coughed gently into his hand) "and that you should be paid fifteen dollars per hour. Now, if you’ll step back into the changing room."

        Mr. Pink stopped abruptly. "Oh, Mr. Brown, you shouldn’t have changed clothes in that room. We’ve been keeping that door ajar because the key has been lost. I’m afraid your clothes are locked inside."

        Brant boarded the bus to St. Elizabeth’s wearing his red coat, red pants, and black belt and boots. He caught a few looks from strangers and decided it was because he wasn’t wearing the entire Santa suit. After he put on the fake beard and red hat, he for the most part went unnoticed. Brant surmised that it’s simply not that unusual to see Santa Claus walking the streets of America anymore. Or Elvis, or Darth Vader, or Batman, for that matter. People are so self-absorbed they don’t even blink.

        He decided to keep his doctor’s appointment. Lymph node surgery had been performed three weeks after the testicular lump was removed, then Brant moved on to radiation therapy. His last treatment was in February and the cancer had been in remission ever since. Most of his doctor’s visits in recent months had been to give samples. His general practitioner, his oncologist, and his urologist all seemed intensely interested in siphoning his blood, urine, saliva, etc., and studying it under the microscope. Brant wondered whether the increasing levels of cocaine were showing up in his fluids; he hoped he wouldn’t have to explain his growing addiction one of these days.

        Dr. Klein shared an office at the hospital with another urologist and a gastroenterologist. Brant sat down in the waiting area and picked up the newspaper. The door opened and in from the hallway came an old man, huffing and wheezing, "Oh, my Gawd! It’s Santa Claus…Oh, my GAWD! It’s Santee!"

        Brant sunk down in his chair and held the newspaper in front of his face. It was the first time all afternoon that someone had called attention to his appearance. Unfortunately, it was a demented, old man who couldn’t stop cackling. "First the Cubs, now Santee!…First the Cubs, now Santee!...First the Cubs, now Santee!"

        "Right on, old man! You tell ‘em. You tell it like it is!" Some jerk in a Cubs uniform top had stood up in the waiting room and was goading the old man on.

        "Whaddya think, mister. Cubs in five?"

        "First the Cubs, now Santee!...First the Cubs, now Santee!" The man was screaming.

        The nurse came around the reception desk and said to the Cub fan, "Mr. Runnells, the doctor will see you now."

        "You take care, old dude. Cubs in five!" The man turned and Brant peered out from his paper long enough to see "Mr. Erection" printed across the guy’s back.

        Him again. Hmm, Mr. Erection is seeing the urologist. Brant shook his head.

        The old man was either crazy or out of his mind on morphine, and the nurse couldn’t make him leave. Brant had the paper up in front of his face hoping the guy would forget about Santa Claus when he heard a female voice that sounded very familiar come from the hallway. "Grandpa, come back to your room. That’s not the real Santa Claus."

        "Not Santee?" The man looked chagrined.

        "No, not Santee."

        The young woman took his hand, and the nurse helped escort the old man out of the room. When the nurse returned, she said to Brant, "Saint Nicholas, I presume."

        Her name tag said Charlotte. She was dressed in the standard white issue: nurse’s cap, skirt past the knee, and white hose and shoes. She seemed young, and was definitely busty behind the friendly confines of her buttondown blouse.

        "Listen," he said leaning forward. "This is very embarrassing for me. I’m Brant Brown…here for my four o’clock appointment. I lost my regular clothes today. If we could speed this along, maybe all these people in here would stop looking at me."

        "I know who you are, Mr. Brown. Follow me into the examination room." Her hips swayed from side to side as she walked down the hallway.

        Brant stepped into the room, and Charlotte shut the door.

        "I’ve taken you early because Dr. Klein is unavailable today. Unfortunately, he’s been called into an emergency. That happens a lot when he’s on duty here at the hospital."

        "Then I wasted my time coming down here?"

        "No, I’ve been instructed to take a sample from you before you go."

        "More urine. How much more do you need?"

        "Not urine. As Dr. Klein discussed with you, we need to evaluate the damage that the cancer has done to your body. That’s why your physician keeps taking x-rays, for example."

        Brant started to have an inkling of where this line of discussion was going.

        "That’s also why your oncologist takes so many blood specimens."

        Brant’s throat started going dry.

        "And that’s why, we—or Dr. Klein, rather—needs to know whether you can still make babies."

        Charlotte held Brant’s gaze for a moment before stepping to the window. She found the cord behind the blinds and pulled the slats halfway shut. Then she walked slowly in front of her patient toward the shelf along the opposite wall. As she squeezed by the examination table, Brant felt the smooth fabric of her skirt press up against his thigh.

        Charlotte searched through the cabinet full of medical instruments and supplies before finding what she was looking for. She took the long plastic container and turned around with it, standing very close to Brant, as she showed it to him. His heart was palpitating.

        "They didn’t design these things very well, I’m afraid," she said, looking Brant in the eye. "As you can see, the opening isn’t very large in diameter." She twisted off the cap. "Some men have had trouble collecting their semen. It doesn’t make sense that they’d shape it like a penis." Charlotte laughed lightly, and Brant could feel her breath. "They should have shaped it like a vagina."

        Brant took the plastic vial from her, and Charlotte stepped back and stood still.

        Brant stood staring at her, breathing heavily in the silent room. Her brown eyes told him yes, so he reached for his belt. It was big and black and heavy. Oh God, I’m dressed like Santa Claus!

        Charlotte smiled mischievously and turned on her heel. "Call me when you’re finished."

        The door shut behind Charlotte and Brant let out a sigh. He took off his coat and removed the belt buckle, which fell to the floor with a loud clank. The oversized pants had been held up by the belt, so they fell down around his ankles. He sat down and tried to imagine he was anywhere but the doctor’s office. Suddenly the door was thrust open, just wide enough that he could see Charlotte’s hand reach in through the door. She dropped two magazines on the floor and called out, "There’s kleenex on the shelf."

        When Brant’s heart stopped racing for the second time, he reached down to see what the nurse had left him. People Weekly, with Britney Spears and her bare bellybutton on the cover. Brant opened it to the middle. "Queen Mum recovering after bowel resection," read the caption. The photo showed the royal matriarch in visible discomfort seated at a banquet table. He tossed the People down and picked up the other choice. Sport, March 1998—the swimsuit issue. He thumbed through the magazine, and its pages upon pages of bikini babes. Here they’re frollicking in the surf, there they’re riding stallions bareback along the water’s edge. Boring stuff.

        Brant made it past the swimsuit pictures and found the baseball pages. "Up & Comers," the headline read. He tossed his long, white whiskers to one side, held the magazine at arm’s length and found the picture of himself at the bottom of the page. I sure did look good in that Cubs uniform, he thought, and he began administering the procedure upon himself.

        At that moment, the door was thrown open again. And this time it didn’t stop halfway. That old man stood crazy as a loon in the doorway, pointing directly at Brant. "Santee’s doin’ his bidness in here! Somebody, come quick...Santee’s doin’ his bidddddneeesssss!!!!"

        Yes, there were lots of days to reflect on since that picture was taken, and today was one of them.

        "I can't believe I'm actually going to do this," thought Gyp.

        Sure, Gyp had done plenty of awful things to finance her drug habits, but she couldn't remember an evening she dreaded as much as this one. She had promised him months ago—in exchange for a much-needed loan—that she'd go to his party if the Cubs ever made it to the World Series, but she'd hoped that Mr. Erection wouldn't actually hold her to it. He did, and Gyp was supposed to meet Daniel there in a little less than an hour.

        Gyp was upset for a number of reasons. It wasn't just baseball that she disliked, but also Mr. Erection himself: His nauseating fixation on baseball statistics, rare sports collectibles, and his own erect penis reminded her of her grandfather at his worst. They'd never been introduced, but Gyp could easily imagine her grandpa and Mr. Erection getting on like the best of friends. And since Gyp had no interest in talking about the Cubs, Cubs fans, or Cubs fans' genitals, she'd made a habit of dealing with people like this only when she desperately needed help—which right now she did. Tsang had given her 24 hours to come up with the money.

        She had seen her grandpa earlier in the day, but he was in no condition to write her a check. And even if he was, he wouldn't. Mentally unfit as he was, Grandpa knew Gyp hated him, and he wasn't about to pay her for it. Mr. Erection, on the other hand, never sensed Gyp's hatred (though she'd never tried much to conceal it), and Gyp took advantage of this. In times of need, she would ask him for loans, and Mr. Erection—a lawyer with nothing to spend money on but cheap beer and baseball memorabilia—would usually be willing to help. Still, Gyp hated seeing him, and she hated lowering her self to ask him. She knew that tonight would be miserable.

        At least she'd be going with a date who'd always expressed a similar disdain for baseball. Brant was going to pick her up shortly. He had no interest in talking to her about baseball, and even less interest in discussing his genitals.

        The excruciating burning sensation could do nothing to wipe the jittery smile from across his face. Mr. Erection would never let anything get in the way of his enjoyment of this great day—not even the flaming-hot red piss that the doctor couldn't help him with. He zipped up and savored the moment.

        This is the day that Mr. Erection had lived for. The Chicago Cubs in the World Series. And if that weren't enough, Mr. Erection had more to be excited about. He had won a charity raffle some weeks back at the Cubby Bear sports bar, and tonight he would receive his prize: an in-the-flesh visit from Mr. Erection's all-time favorite pre-Kotsay Cub. Yes, Ron Santo, the great third baseman, had agreed to attend his party.

        Mr. Erection had finished the party preparations weeks ago. The lights and streamers were up, the Ronnie "Woo Woo" cassette was in the stereo, and the red-and-blue "We Love You, Ron" sign hung perfectly from the window frame. Plenty of Old Style was chilled, and the new life-size inflatable Mark Kotsay replica (Mr. Erection's latest and greatest eBay purchase) stood near the front door. All that was left to do was wait for the first guests to arrive...

        "Waste of good pussy," Tsang muttered to himself as he fingered Gyp’s picture. It was a shame he had to kill her—bitch sucked a mean dick and all—but business was business. All the pussy in the world—hell, even doin' the Queen o' England herself doggy-style in front of Parliament—wouldn't square Gyps debt. And no way was she gonna come up with the money on time. They both knew it. So why had he given her another 24 hours? ... To fuck her again, that's why. Tsang crumpled up the photo and threw it out the window. "Yep, damn waste."

        But before she dies, I need some smokes. Tsang cut the wheel hard. His black '69 Charger (just like the Dukes drove, except the color—orange is for pussies) sliced across traffic and skidded to a stop in front of his favorite 7-Eleven.

        Tsang flipped open his laminated booklet. Good, the clerk still owed him money. Until he settled up, Tsang smoke and drank for free. It’s good to be the dealer.

        "Ohhhh, shit," muttered the clerk as Tsang sauntered in.

        "Give me a carton o' Reds, bitch, and a bottle o' Jack. ... No, bitch! ... The BIG bottle.”

        "Here. Take it."

        Tsang opened the carton, pulled out a pack, and tapped it on the counter repeatedly to pack the tobacco as he stared at the clerk.

        "Anything else?"

        "Yeah, how 'bout my money?"

        "I ... I don’t got it yet."

        Tsang smacked the clerk in the head, hard.

        "Fuck! Why'd you do that? Take it easy, ok, you'll get it."

        Tsang used a closed fist this time, knocking the clerk off his feet.

        "When?"

        "N-n-n-next week, Tsang, I promise!"

        Tsang pealed the wrapper off the pack, flicked a cigarette to his lips, lit it, and took a long, deep drag.

        "You better... Now, get up and hand me that Sport, bitch; I gotta back one out."

        Damn, she’s sexy. Brant really needed to get laid tonight, especially after yesterday. Getting caught whacking off in a Santa suit was bad enough, but that photographer had come out of nowhere. Christ, I hope the beard obscured enough of my features. . .

        "Hiya handsome," Gyp said as she hopped into the car and leaned across the seat for a kiss.

        "Hi, baby. You sure you want to do this?"

        "No, but I promised my friend Gary, and I need a favor. The sooner we get it over with, the sooner we can play, 'kay?"

        Mr. Erection had to loan her the money. Otherwise, she'd have to go back to the hospital to beg her grandfather again. She hated hospitals. Besides, he'd just lain in his bed last week when she'd asked for his help, drooling and mumbling nonsense like "big guy" and "holy cow."

        "Fine by me," replied Brant. "But if he or that fucking prick Santo says one thing about '98—'Ohhhh Noooo! He dropped the ball!'—I swear to God, I’ll kill 'em."

         "Sure, whatever you say. Oh, hey, can we make a quick stop? I’m outta smokes."

        At Gary's apartment, Gary and Daniel waited for the guests to arrive. Gary sat in quiet anxiety; Daniel sat in quiet disregard. Drinks and food laid out, Fox tuned in on the TV, Ronnie "Woo Woo" on the stereo, the two bided their time with the Tribune—Gary with the sports page, Daniel combing the Tempo section.

        "This guy kills me," Daniel said, not looking up from the paper.

        "Who's that?"

        "Bob Fucking Greene."

        "Not again. Drop it."

        "I can't. Listen to this guy. What a fucking hack! How this guy is a respected, published author is beyond me."

        "I know, Daniel. How many times do we have to do this? You don't like Bob Greene. You don't know anyone who does like Bob Greene, including me. He sucks. I know that, you know that ..."

        "People at the Tribune know that," Daniel interrupted to emphasize his point.

        "Yes, people at the Tribune know that, too," Gary said, patronizing his friend. "You have a friend who knows one of the editors there and she said that Greene is the joke of the newsroom. I know, I know, I know. Daniel, let it go."

        "But listen to this:

        "...Think of all that has happened since the last time the Cubs could call themselves 'World Champions': Two world wars and countless other battles that have forever changed the world's political, social and economic landscape; the rise and fall of communism; round-the-world commercial air travel; man's travels to the moon and back; the civil rights movement; the polio vaccine; the emergence of AIDS; Roosevelt, Kennedy, Reagan, Watergate, and Clinton's impeachment; a new millennium; the Great Depression; the Dow Jones reaching 10,000 and beyond ...

        "Someone should check this guy's crotch! Does he even have a dick?"

        "I know, Daniel. He's terrible."

        "Listen, though. Listen to this:

        "Should the Cubs actually defeat the hated Yankees, what will we remember about the period until their next championship? A cure for cancer? No homeless? No poverty? A single, worldwide economy? Fully wireless technology? Men on mars?

        "It is a wondrous time, indeed. Wondrous not only for Cub fans, but wondrous for us all."

        "Are you fuckin' kiddin' me? Does he get stuck at work and just turn in his old high school essays? Hack!"

        "Let it go, Daniel."

        Gary was detached from the Cubdom that surrounded him: pennants, photos, autographs, scorecards, Ronnie "Woo Woo" on the stereo, an inflatable Mark Kotsay. A real-life Ron Santo and Brant Brown were en route. The Cubs were in the World Series and Gary even had a date for the evening. But when Daniel continued his semi-regular Bob Greene diatribe—"I know disfigured, retarded monkeys who could ..."

        "Will you fucking stop!" Gary snapped, flinging his sports section at the stereo and killing the sounds of Ronnie "Woo Woo." "Enough!" He dropped his head into his hands.

        "What is with you? Am I missing something? Do I need to remind you what's happening here? Look around, my friend. Jesus Christ, if this isn't the reason you exist ..."

        "Would you just listen to me for a second? Please. Jesus Christ, can you just stop complaining for a couple of minutes and let me talk!"

        "Alright. OK." Daniel backed off.

        The blood rushed from Mr. Erection's face. He turned pale as he told the story of ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional!, a Costa Rican gambling establishment created by a couple of small-time bookies from Southern California who became millionaires—as well citizens of Costa Rica and fugitives in the eyes of the U.S. government—through the magic of 1-800-776-6683. It was perfectly legal in Costa Rica; the feds just didn't care for the fact that 93.4% of their customers lived in the United States and gambled on professional and college sporting events played in the United States. An associate at Mathers, Shapiro, Westerberg & Cochran had introduced Gary to ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional! It was a perfect relationship: no traceable phone calls to an illegal racket, no wagers scribbled in indecipherable shorthand on flash paper, no rendezvous' at McDonald's to exchange envelopes of cash.

        The weekly cycle at ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional! was Wednesday through Tuesday (to include "Monday Night Football" in the weekend action during the fall). After a profitable week, Gary would receive a cashier's check, usually on Friday. After a week in the red, he would put together a two-day envelope on Tuesday evening, including a cashier's check in the appropriate amount, noting his account number. He was meticulous with his own bookkeeping, using a legal notepad and black and red ink. His system was searchable chronologically or by sport.

        "I was fine, making several thousand a year," Gary confided in Daniel. "Until the Super Bowl two years ago. Remember how that sonofabitch got tackled at the one..."

        "Kevin Dyson."

        "Yeah, Dyson. Whatever. I had the Titans on the money line at 2½ to 1. No way they were going to lose that game. Tampa damn near beat the Rams and Tampa had no offense. Tennessee was Tampa with an offense. That cost me five grand."

        "Ouch. But that's... that's not going to kill you."

        "That was just the start."

        Gary went on to tell Daniel how he had his worst year in 2000 chasing the money he lost on the Rams by betting them hard all year. "I was fine for the first six games, then they fell apart. And after they backed into the playoffs, I figured they were a lock for the Super Bowl."

        As Gary continued his tale for Daniel, Brant and Gyp made their way to Gary's apartment in Lakeview. As they drove, Brant reached to extinguish the Big Audio Dynamite coming from the stereo in Gyp's 1991 Tercel. "This town is nothing but oldies radio," he grumbled. They continued north on Ashland in silence, briefly.

        "Hey, don't worry about the money," Brant turned to Gyp, abruptly changing the course of their conversation.

        "What?"

        "How long can you hold out? When do you need to get the money to Tsang?"

        "He wants it by tomorrow," she said. "Why? What are you talking about?"

        "Long story."

        "Gimme the highlights."

        "Ever heard of Gary Varsho?"

        Gyp stared blankly.

        "His career with the Cubs was about as memorable as mine," Brant continued. "Bounced around a little, like me, and then disappeared. Anyway, he hooked up with this outfit in Costa Rica. They look for former athletes who don't have much star quality..."

        "What kind of outfit?"

        "Gambling. Varsho and others like him are in the collections department."

        "So Gary Varsho is a goon for the Costa Rican mafia. How does that help me?"

        "It's not the mafia. This is a legit business, at least in Costa Rica. The guys who run the place are living the good life down there. But our wonderful government, which has half of everything I ever made as a ballplayer by the way, looks at them as felons because of their red, white and blue client roster. As soon as they set foot back in the U.S., the feds are going to nab them. So they set up camp down there and hired some cheap labor to work the phones. All they do is set the lines and play 36 holes a day. To keep their presence in the states, they created a network of guys like Varsho to help out when some of their less-than-premier customers fall behind in their payments."

        "Is this going to spin back to me anytime soon?" Gyp asked impatiently.

        "Your good friend Mr. Erection is in arrears to ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional!"

        "Essay what?"

        "¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional!" Brant said in his best suave Spanish accent. "'That's a Pro Move!'"

        "Cute."

        "It's time for Mr. Erection to pay up. Varsho just took care of some guy in Ravenswood and is on vacation in Key West. I've been doing some networking and he knew I could use the work. Your friend either pays up or we take care of him. Either way, I ... we are in for a percentage."

        "Take care of?"

        "Scare, hurt, maim. Perform selective digital amputation. Any or all of those."

        "And you've done this before?"

        "Not yet. But I look at it this way: my balls are shriveling up, I'm in debt to a coke whore—no offense—who's in debt to a drug dealer. I'm negotiating my salary to be a department store Santa, and my signature move as an athlete was dropping a fly ball. I see this as a step up on the career ladder."

        "How much is he in for?"

        "Twenty-five thousand," Gary said to Daniel.

        "Twenty-five thousand?!" Gyp shouted back to Brant. "Fuck the cigarettes. Let's get to the party!"

        "What the...? How? ... Twenty-five thousand ... dollars? Are you fucking stupid?" Daniel asked rhetorically.

        "Yes. Yes, I am. And it's growing by a point a week. I'm fucked."

        "How did you get twenty-five thousand in the hole and how are you going to pay that off?"

        Mr. Erection turned red and slumped on the couch. He had done the worst thing a gambler could do: he had panicked. He had continued to throw good money after bad until his credit cards were maxed, all five of them. And when he was unable to square his account each week with ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional! he went after the surest bet he had ever known: he bet against his Cubs. On September 1 when the Cubs held a 4½-game lead, he bet against them to win the Central, getting 3 to 2 on Cincinnati and 2 to 1 on Houston. In the division playoffs against Montreal, he bet the Expos at 3 to 2. And the Braves, how could they ever beat the Braves? Even if he had to lay $170 just to win $100, how in the world were the Cubs going to beat the Braves in a seven-game series? Gary put $5,000 on the Braves.

        "So after the Braves won the first two games, I figured the Cubs were really done, so I started betting the Braves game by game, twenty-five hundred a throw. By the time this guy," Gary said, pointing to the inflatable Kotsay doll, "homered to win game five, I was down another seventy-five hundred, on my way to losing the five grand I originally bet on the series."

        Daniel stared straight ahead, a confused look fell across his face as he tried to take it all in. He knew Gary gambled, but this? This is not gambling. Then he started putting pieces together and some things just didn't jive. "You're in big-time debt to some Costa Ricans and you've been betting against the Cubs ... but you've been bouncin' around town more excited than anyone. Just like always. What ... that ... that just doesn't make sense."

        "Make sense?" Gary answered, perking up. "Are you kidding? The Cubs won the pennant! They're in the freakin' World Series, man! It makes perfect sense. I've been waiting all my life for this. I always said I would sell my soul to see the Cubs win the pennant. I think I have."

        A half-hour later, Mr. Erection's Ron Santo-attended, Cubby Bear-sponsored World Series party was in full swing. Santo, Gyp, Brant Brown ("He doesn't even remember who I am," Brant whispered to Gyp, pointing to Santo), Daniel, the inflatable Mark Kotsay, Jill and Jennifer the neighbors, and Paul "Kong" Kingman, Mr. Erection's best Cub friend, were gathered in Gary's apartment.

        With Steve Lyons working the pregame show on television, Gary rose to address his friends. "First off, I want to thank our special guest Ron Santo for joining us this evening." Gary paused while the other guests politely clapped and Santo, standing near a barrel of Old Style, acknowledged them uncomfortably and glanced at his watch. Gary continued, "This is a day I will always remember. ... All of us will, because we've never seen anything like it. We are about to see the Chicago Cubs play the New York Yankees in the World Series. The Cubs! The World Series!" Only Jill, Jennifer and Kong acknowledged the rallying cry and let out a cheer. "How many millions of Cub fans have come and gone since this last happened? We should be so very thankful that we're here to witness this."

        "OK, Gary, enough," Daniel said.

        "Yeah, sit down!" Brant yelled.

        "Bear with me. I'm just about finished," Gary said, reaching behind the television and grabbing a .38 service revolver. "It was good to be a lawyer with cop connections," he thought.

        "Jesus Christ!" Daniel yelled as the others sat in stunned silence. Santo sipped his Old Style.

        Gary was calm, his expression blank.

        "Gary, what the fuck are you doing? Don't fuck around with that!"

        "This is the place I've always wanted to be: watching the Cubs in the World Series. My journey is complete."

        Gyp held her hand to her mouth as Brant whispered to her, "This is not good."

        Daniel tried to reason. He became the cop psychologist trying to talk down the leaper. He spoke with a false calm. "Gary, you can't end it here. Don't you want to see how it turns out?"

        "I'm a Cubs fan," Gary answered matter-of-factly. "I'm just happy to be here."

        With that, he inserted the barrel into his mouth. Before the gasps of the others had left their mouths, Gary pulled the trigger and sent his blood and brains splattering behind him. Jill and Jennifer screamed and ran for the door. Kong let out a shrill. Daniel raced for Gary. Gyp grabbed Brant as Mr. Erection fell limp to the floor, the back of his head splashed against the "We Love You, Ron" sign like a piece of modern art.

        "Oh noooooooooooo!!!" Santo screamed. "Nooooooooooooo!!!"

        Gyp ran for the phone to call 911. Daniel crouched over Gary. Brant sidled over to Santo, who had dropped his Old Style. "If anyone named Miguel asks, tell 'im I dropped this one too," Brant said, pointing to Gary's corpse.

        Just after midnight, Santo strolled through the parking lot west of the ballpark and past the do-it-yourself car wash. Headed to Bernie's for a few free rounds, he thought of Kotsay's game-winning homer in the seventh to beat El Duque. Hands in his pockets, he skipped across Clark Street humming to himself, Hey, hey. Holy mack-er-el. No doubt about it, the Cubs are on the way. Santo jumped and clicked his heels.

        For a brief moment, Brant Brown had actually thought that his life was turning around. The cancer was in remission, Gyp was on his arm, and he had found a way to get them both out of debt. With one bullet that had all changed. Now the money was gone—and one way or another—so was Gyp. She’d either walk out on him, or get knifed by her coke-dealer pimp. Without her and her drugs, he really had no reason live. The cancer might as well come back to. It’s funny how life can change in an instant: dropped balls, a lump on your balls, a bullet in the brain, it seemed the Cosmos was united in one great conspiracy against him. He watched Wrigley disappear behind the buildings as the el took him toward the Loop and one last meeting with Gyp.

        This is Belmont. Transfer to red and brown line trains at Belmont. The CTA’s automated announcement jerked Browny out of his self-pity. He hated that fucking voice. In ’98, he and Mark Grace made the same trip from Addison to downtown routinely. "We need to get us some down-town pussy," Grace would say. "I’m tired of these Wrigley skanks." Back then, the conductors made the announcements. This one dude always messed up. He’d call out the wrong stops, or say the doors opened on the left when they opened on the right. Now they had a fucking computer making the calls. That was the problem with the world today. Nobody accepted mistakes. One fuck up and you’re gone. Well fuck them all.

        The train pulled into Belmont and two unabashedly inebriated men wearing identical Sammy Sosa jerseys walked through the doors. They looked to be in their mid-thirties. One was short and fat, the other tall and skinny. They reminded Brant of Abot and Costello. Brant loved to eavesdrop on Cub fans. In general, they were pretty knowledgeable, but they shared one huge blind spot. Each year, they thought the Cubs had a chance to win. Now they were finally right, but it had taken 93 years.

        "It sounded like a bomb went off," the fat one said. "The fucking ball bounced right over the screen. What do you think it will be worth if he dies?"

        Kerry Wood had struck out 12 Yankees that night to lead the Cubs to a game four victory, but that's not what the town was talking about. The second to the last batter Wood had faced was Derek Jeter, and now it looked like Wood might be the last pitcher Jeter ever faced. The first pitch careened off the top of his helmet and he hadn’t moved since. It had been almost 16 hours now.

        "It just breaks my heart. Guess he won’t win the MVP with catheter stuffed up his cock," said the skinny one.

        "You can't actually be happy that a man might die."

        "He's a Yankee."

        "You're fucking sick."

        The only time Brant had talked to Jeter was during batting practice before a spring training game in '98. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy. Confident—but not cocky—and very easy to talk. Brant had liked him instantly. He thought about Jeter lying unconscious in a hospital bed, his life turned around in the time it takes a 97 mph fastball to travel 60 feet, and he started to laugh.

        "Where the fuck is he?" Gyp had been waiting for Brant outside her grandfather's penthouse apartment for almost an hour. She needed money, and she needed it now. She was hoping to find some cash stashed in his mattress or in a shoebox under the bed, like people always found in the movies. But even if no hidden treasure turned up, she could hock a couple TVs and some stereo equipment. Brant had agreed to help her haul the stuff off for a cut of the profits. Now he was fucking late. "I swear to god, if that asshole stands me up, I'll cut off his remaining nut."

        Gyp was reaching into her purse for her cell phone when she felt a hand cover her mouth. She let out a muffled scream as she was pulled back into an alley. "Oh shit, Tsang’s found me," she thought.

        But it was only Brant. The fucking guy didn't know when to act serious. He was always messing around with her, and constantly trying to fuck her. She hated to think about what he was like when he had two good balls.

        "Come on, baby. How about a quickie in the alley?" Brant had her pinned against the wall, a lecherous and stupid smile across his face.

        "You're fucking late." Gyp was still too scared too tired to berate him properly. "Let's get this fucking over with." She grabbed his hand and led him around to the front of the building.

        In the elevator, they didn't say a word to each other. Brant had never seen Gyp like this. She seemed so sad and scared. It was the first time he'd seen her when she wasn't high. The elevator door opened and he followed her quietly into her grandfather's apartment.

        She turned the key in the lock and the door opened easily. She was not happy with what she saw. "That fucking cunt!" she screamed. "I can't believe she did this!" The apartment lay in ruins. The stereo, the TV, the whole fucking home entertainment system were all gone. She walked into her grandfather's bedroom, and saw her worst fears realized. It looked like a cyclone had moved through. Clothes and papers and drawers lay strewn about the room. An empty shoebox was at the foot of the bed, and the mattress had been ripped open.

        Suddenly, Gyp was dizzy. She needed a hit and she needed it fast. She hadn't had any coke for almost a day, and her only supplier was trying to kill her. She stumbled past Brant on her way to the bathroom. Maybe there was something in the medicine cabinet.

        "Hello bitch, you're late." Gyp didn't even jump at the voice. It was Tsang. He’d been waiting for her behind the shower curtains, and she knew she was dead. Part of her was relieved. She hoped it would be over quickly. A second later a hand pushed her hard to the floor, and she tensed herself for the sting of the knife . . . but it didn't come. Instead there was a crash and a muffled yell. She turned around to see Brant and Tsang struggling in the tub, the shower curtain wrapped around them. Brant had Tsang by the throat. After a brief struggle, it was over.

        "I didn't drop this one," Brant said.

        Gyp couldn't stop scratching her pookee.

        Nor did she want to.

        She lay on the couch in her apartment with the stereo on, while Brant scrounged in the kitchen for something to eat.

        She'd been a scratcher for as long as she could remember. It had become such a central part of her life that she didn't think it was odd, but she knew it wasn't exactly an acceptable form of public expression either. In her early years, she'd wait until she was alone, but it got more difficult to wait as she entered her teens, and she soon became adept at scratching on the sly. She'd developed a sixth sense for getting caught and became quite content with the delicate balance that had become her life. She engaged in this most private form of self-gratification in the most public places, and still she kept the whole thing internalized. No one ever saw her, and she never told anyone.

        "Gyp, we're awfully low on munchies." Brant called out from the kitchen. "And I'm starved!"

        At the sound of his voice, Gyp reflexively pulled her hand up past the elastic waistband on the back of her shorts, but then she heard a spoon clang against the countertop and other kitchen noises, and she instinctively resumed a nice session that had begun thirty minutes earlier.

        The importance of scratching rose in proportion to the amount of stress in her life so, in the past few days, she'd nearly scratched herself raw. Gyp closed her eyes tightly to block out the memory of yesterday's events with Tsang, and made a last few furious wiggles with her index finger as she sensed Brant was about to come into the room.

        "Gyp, I'm tired of Split Enz." Brant called out. "Why don't I put on the Butthole Surfers?"

        Butthole. Gyp cringed at that offensive word. When she was a girl, Gyp named her most special place Sally. There was a girl she knew named Sally, and "Sally" made her think warm thoughts, so "Sally" it became. When she got a little older, she went through a phase where she felt herself to be too sophisticated for Sally, so in her mind Sally was replaced by Guinnevere. That's also when she began growing her nail.

        Her fingernail grew and grew, but her sophistication didn't last, so after she met a boy who made her laugh, Guinnevere became Squint.

        Squint was a silly name to match her silly disposition at the time, and it painted an accurate mental image of the subject (though Gyp rarely looked Squint straight in the eye).

        When the boy moved away, Squint just seemed dumb, so Squint became Mookie. Gyp had seen a baseball player named Mookie, and she liked the sound of it. It combined the warmth of Sally with the humor of Squint. But she didn't want to think about that black man in the baseball cap every time she scratched herself, so she changed it to Pookee.

        "The only things edible in that fridge were apples and ice cream," Brant said, shuffling into the living room with two bowls and a tray. Gyp pulled her finger out just in time.

        "Really, we ought to go shopping."

        "Huh?" Gyp straightened up. "Brant, we've got more important things to worry about than shopping, don't you think."

        "Don't worry, baby. I have everything taken care of."

        Gyp looked skeptical.

        "Here, eat something," Brant said. "Have an apple."

        Gyp took a small bite out of the large, red apple and began munching.

        "When you look at it, we've really come out of this thing looking pretty good." Brant said. "We got most of your grandpa's stuff out of the '69 Charger. The stuff Tsang didn't wreck anyway. And he had all those brand-new DVD players in his trunk. Those have to be worth a couple thousand. And look at all this blow...." Brant motioned toward the baggies on the coffee table.

        Brant took a few spoonfuls of ice cream, pushed his dish away, and picked up an apple. "Oh, crap, I don't have a knife," he said, wiping his hands on his pants. "You know I don't like the skin."

        "Here, give it to me," she said, and Brant handed her the apple.

        "You sure you can get rid of all that stuff?" Gyp said, as she began digging her nail into Brant's apple.

        "Yeah, no problem. Varsho's gonna have a guy call me. Another ballplayer. These guys can fence anything, just like that!" Brant snapped his fingers for emphasis.

        Gyp had set right to work on Brant's apple, and he marveled at the effortless work she was making of it. Long red strips were peeling off beneath her touch, as Gyp quickly and uniformly shed the fruit of its membrane.

        "That's quite a potato-peeler you've got there," he said. "I still can't get over how long and sharp your nail is...and on just that one finger. It must be two inches long. Why do you do that?"

        Gyp looked uncomfortable, as she finished skinning the apple. "I just like it, I guess. It's what makes me unique."

        "Well, it sure came in handy last night."

        "Shit! Don't talk about that!" "All right, all right."

        "Just eat your ice cream." Gyp said. And she went back to work on the apple.

        With the peelings lying on the plate, Gyp took the apple and pierced it down through the center with her fingernail — right down through the core — and then slashed outward three times quickly as the fruit fell into quarters. She picked up one of the slices and held it out for Brant to eat. Brant obliged, sucking the juice from Gyp's finger as he took it into his mouth.

        The phone in the kitchen rang and Brant stood up, licking his lips as little bits of apple flew out of his mouth. "That must be the guy."

        Gyp could hear Brant talking on the phone. The music had stopped playing, so she switched on the TV — and she returned to her scratching.

        It was true that Brant had never noticed the length of her fingernail before. She had been effective in keeping her private world private. But the nail was longer and sharper now than it had ever been before. When she wasn't scratching, she was usually whet stoning. She needed to, because as the years had gone by, Pookee had built up resistance to the scrapings of her nail. Gyp could only attain the intense pleasure if she scratched with a razor-sharp instrument. But the sharper her nail became, the tougher the tissues became surrounding the pookal opening. Still, sometimes she scratched so long and so diligently that even the course, calloused tissues would become tender. In times like these, she would treat herself to a little bit of luxury: She'd slip into her silk nightie and she'd powder her pookee. Gyp could hear Brant's conversation coming to a close, so she removed her finger once again.

        "... don't forget, this is real important, I need to hear from you," Brant was saying. "Call me, Ismael." And he hung up the phone.

        Brant came back into the room. "That was Valdes. Nice guy. He's still pitching for the Angels, but Varsho's already got him in the racket. I guess, his future in pro ball doesn't look real bright. What's on TV?"

        "They're talking about the Cubs, like usual," Gyp said.

        "Those suckers are gonna blow it. Kotsay dropped that pop fly in New York, and now they're down 3-2. The Yankees don't need Jeter, as long as the Cubs play like the Cubs."

        "Brant, how can you think about baseball?"

        "Baby, I'm in the clear. That was a World Series game. It's all on Kotsay now. Who's gonna remember that stinking ball in Milwaukee? No one, that's who."

        "But you're acting so casual, you seem so...happy. Do you realize what we did?"

        "Hey, you're the one who told me not to bring it up."

        It was true. Gyp didn't want to talk about it or even think about it. She had been staring at a coffee table covered with cocaine all morning, but she couldn't bring herself to indulge in it. One snort, and all the details of last night would come flooding back. She wanted to scratch, but Brant was settled in next to her sucking on his apples, and he wasn't going anywhere soon. She needed some kind of release.

        Gyp's addiction was too powerful. The line that she had laid out earlier was still waiting for her. It looked a little lumpy in spots, so she chopped at it with her fingernail until it became a fine powder. She put the straw up to her nostril and in a moment she felt that familiar cool draft. Her eyelids popped open and she saw Grandpa's bathroom. There was blood everywhere....

        Gyp picked herself up off the bathroom floor. Tsang was not a large man, but he was terrifically strong, and he had reversed positions with Brant. The drug dealer had the full weight of his body centered on Brant's groin, as his right knee wedged down against Brant's remaining nut. He was gouging at the ballplayer's eyes with his knuckles and, when the opportunity presented itself, biting down on Brant's neck. Brant was trying to get one arm free so he could hurl the other man off of him. But Tsang was using his left leg to block the motions of Brant's arms and hands.

        Gyp came to his aid, trying to pull Tsang off, but she had never been strong, and Tsang barely took notice of her. Then she remembered Grandpa's bat.

        It was 1972, and Gyp hadn't had her fourth birthday yet. The Cubs had a Sunday doubleheader against the Pirates, plus it was Bat Day. The first ten thousand youngsters through the turnstiles would receive a Ron Santo autographed bat. Grandpa wanted that bat. "Gyp, I'll buy you all the cotton candy you want, if you give me the Ron Santo bat," he had told her.

        Gyp left the two men grappling and cursing at each other in the tub, and raced down the hallway to the den. The bat lay horizontal in Grandpa's display case, with the trademark and signature rotated toward the front. He probably hadn't touched it in twenty-nine years, as the glass doors were locked shut.

        Gyp could hear Brant screaming in the bathroom, and she tried not to panic. She rifled through the desk drawers but she couldn't find the key. She had heard that you could pick a lock with a safety pin, but Grandpa didn't have any pins lying around. Then she remembered her nail-she had just sharpened it to a fine point yesterday. She inserted the tip into the keyhole and the doors swung open.

        When Gyp ran into the bathroom, Brant's face was purple. Tsang had gotten a hold of Brant's throat and was slowly strangling him. She lifted the heavy wood bat up to her shoulder, but the thought of cracking it down over Tsang's head sickened her. She was not a violent person.

        Gyp walked up to the tub and swung the bat. At the last moment she aimed away from the head and it landed somewhat gently on Tsang's shoulder. It fell out of her hands and rolled across the tile floor. Tsang lost his grip and Brant screamed out in terror, "Jesus, Gyp do something!" In an instant, Tsang recovered and he dug his thumbs back into Brant's windpipe. His eyes rolled back in his head.

        Gyp knew she had a weapon that she hadn't used yet, and she couldn't let Jesus, Gyp do something! echo for the rest of her life. She stepped up behind Brant's tormenter and slashed down at the side of his face with her finger. Tsang howled in pain and reflexively covered his eyes with his hands. Brant gulped in a mouthful of air and lifted himself up on the palms of his hands. Tsang sat back on his haunches. "You bitch, I'm blind!" Gyp could see blood trickling down his sideburns into the sparse black hairs that Tsang kept as a beard.

        "Gimme that," Brant said, as he hauled himself over the edge of the tub. Gyp stood still looking on in horror as Brant retrieved the bat from underneath the washbasin. Brant was on his knees with the bat in his hands. "I was a shitty fielder, but I still know how to use one of these," he said, as he gripped it with both hands just beneath the trademark.

        The sound of a bat hitting a ball is one that baseball players hear every night in their dreams. This was a sound for nightmares. Gyp leaned over the edge of the toilet gagging as Tsang dropped face first, his nose landing hard against the bathtub drain.

        "I didn't drop this one," Brant said, still clutching the bat in both hands.

        He and Gyp were sitting on the floor of the hallway, Brant's back up against the bathroom door.

        "But what are we going to do with him? He's not dead. If he gets out of here, he'll come back for me." Gyp's eyes were round with fright.

        "That's why he's not getting out of here."

        "Oh, Brant, we can't do that. They might say we murdered him."

        "Look, Gyp, it's not murder because he deserves it. And, besides, no one's gonna find out."

        Gyp spoke in a whisper even though Tsang was comatose behind the door. "How can you be so sure? Those cops have ways of finding stuff out."

        "You've talked to the cops before. It's not so bad. How about the other night, after that Erection guy blew his brains out."

        "Yeah, but we didn't kill Mr. Erection. This would be different. I'd be nervous."

        "Look, baby, no one's gonna find the body, and we're not going to leave any clues." A plan was forming in Brant's mind. "The cops only catch people who aren't smart. We're going to do a clean job."

        "What's a clean job?"

        "No weapons, no accessories, no blood."

        "How do you think you can pull that off?"

        "Look, shithead in there is lying face down in the tub, unconscious. That's the perfect place for him to be. Usually, guys dump the body in the tub after they've turned it into a mess. They've tracked evidence all over the place just to get it into the tub, where they can slice it up. With us, he's already there!"

        Gyp was in shock. Looking into Brant's eyes was like looking into the eyes of a professional killer. "How are you gonna do it?"

        "I'm not gonna do it...you are." Gyp couldn't believe it. "Why me?"

        "Because I don't have a stiletto growing out of the end of my finger." Gyp touched her nail nervously.

        "That's the damnedest thing I've ever seen. You cut that guy's face up with just one swipe. And that's exactly what we need right now."

        Gyp started to cry. "Oh, Brant, you do it. Use a knife."

        "No, baby. You have a weapon that no one will find. It's better this way."

        "Why don't we just leave here and see what happens?"

        "I'll tell you what'll happen: The cops will find this guy in your Grand-Pap's apartment, and within minutes we'll hear a knock at our door. Besides, he probably left his car right downstairs. We'll sell the Charger, and we'll get all your grandpa's stuff back."

        "Then let's just take the car and forget about Tsang."

        "Then Tsang makes a miraculous recovery and tells the police that we lured him in here to kill him for drugs. You're an addict, so it's a reasonable story."

        "But he wouldn't tell the cops that he sells me drugs."

        "He would if it got him off of breaking-and-entering, burglary and attempted murder. Besides, if we get his car, and the cops can't trace it to us, who knows what's inside of it. Maybe more than Grandpa's toaster. This guy's a drug dealer after all."

        Gyp needed cocaine. Everything else was confusing, but she was sure of that. And Brant reassured her that he would take care of the body.

        She got up and pushed the bathroom door open. Tsang hadn't moved. Gyp knelt down close to the man who had supplied her with drugs the last eighteen months. He wasn't bleeding much, but the hair on the back of his head was matted, sticky and red. There was an indentation where Brant had smashed his skull in.

        "We've got to strip him." Brant said.

        "Why?"

        "I don't want blood on anything."

        Brant got down beside Gyp and struggled to pull Tsang's shirt over his head. The man was dead weight, and the tub was confining. The shoes and socks came off easier. Still, the man hadn't moved on his own. "Oh, Brant, I think he's dead," Gyp said, hoping it was true. At that moment, Tsang expelled a mild gush of air, which was not quite a cough.

        "Does that answer your question?" Brant said. "Look, we have to roll him over to get the pants off." Brant straddled the tub, putting his left foot on the far edge of the tub. He grabbed Tsang by his jeans and pulled up. Tsang slumped over onto his back.

        Gyp looked at the face. Blood trickled from his nose and his eyes were open. She had done more than just scratch him with her nail; a deep crevice ran the length of the left side of his face, from his whiskers to his eyebrow. She couldn't see the pupil of the left eye, and she wondered why. She looked closer. The eyeball was completely red-not red like a bloodshot eye-but entirely red. Then it moved. It seemed to be bobbing in the small pool of blood that had gathered in the eye socket. It was rolling forward impossibly far as if it were about to invert itself. Then Gyp saw the pupil appear at the top edge, like a ship appearing on the horizon. Gyp gasped. She had been looking at the back of his eyeball!

         "Brant! Oh, my God."

        Brant reached down to close Tsang's eye, and in his haste he poked it with his finger. The eyeball tumbled out of the socket, rolled down past the nose, and plopped onto the porcelain. The pupil stared up at Gyp.

        "Settle down, baby, I'll get it."

        The eyeball lay motionless for a second, but then it got caught up in a small stream of water that had been in the tub. The eye floated past its owner's face, setting a course for the drain opening. Brant grabbed at it, but it squirted out between his fingers. It was an inch away from going down the drain when Brant delicately plucked it up between his thumb and index finger, and set it down on the soap dish.

         Gyp sat forward on the toilet seat and wept. She put her face in her hands and cried uncontrollably.

        "C'mon, Gyp. Pull yourself together. You can do this."

        Brant had removed Tsang's pants and briefs. He put his arm around her and kissed the tears running down her cheek. Gyp shuddered as she nuzzled up against Brant's chest.

        "You remember that hockey game, where the goalie almost bought it?" Gyp just kept crying. "Honey, this is important. ... You remember that? His throat got cut by some guy's skate. That was the jugular. The guy would've died fast, if the doctor hadn't been right there." Brant snapped his fingers. "That's what we're gonna do."

        "Now, look, his neck's right there down by the drain. This'll be a clean job. All the fluids will flow down into the sewer, and I'll take care of the solids."

        Gyp knelt before the tub in a daze. The hysteria had passed and shock was settling in. But she was still fully aware of the horror of what she was about to do. Brant had turned the face away so she couldn't see Tsang's good eye, and he had taken the other one out of the soap dish. He said he knew how difficult this must be.

        The body was naked, and since Gyp had become so familiar with a certain appendage during the course of her drug addiction, she took one last glance. Amazingly, it was erect. Somehow, the guy knew she was there, and despite his impending death, subconsciously he was stiff for her. The nerve!

        Gyp took a deep breath and grabbed Tsang around the throat. She found the spot that Brant had pinpointed, and jabbed with her stiletto down to the hilt. The mouth opened, and a wheezing sound emanated, but she hadn't found the vein.

        "C'mon, Gyp, it's right there," Brant said, impatiently.

        "Leave me alone!" Gyp pulled her nail back out and tentatively stabbed at another spot. Blood oozed up out of the wound. "I felt something. Did I get it?" she asked.

        "No, you're not doing it right, there'd be more blood."

        "Jesus, Brant, it's not like popping a balloon. Some of the stuff in there is rigid. I don't know if I can do it."

        Brant swallowed his anger and said, "Sure you can, baby. Just take your time."

        Gyp slid her nail back into the puncture wound she had just made and felt around inside Tsang's neck with her fingertip. She couldn't slide her finger freely, and she didn't know the parts of the anatomy, but she came upon a long, slender piece of tissue that felt like a blood vessel. Wouldn't the jugular be wider than this? Then she felt a pulse. If she jabbed down right on the spot where she felt the pulse, maybe that would do it.

        Gyp wiped her brow with her free hand and glanced at Tsang's erection for motivation. Determined to do the deed, she puckered her pookie and stabbed at the pulse. Nothing happened for a moment, then the lazy river came flowing out of the wound. A gurgling sound came from the man's throat, and his limbs went into a spasm. Gyp pulled her finger out of the hole, and the dam collapsed. Pints of deep black blood came shooting up in rapid fire directly at Gyp's torso. Before she could dodge out of the way, her blouse was soaked through.

        "Turn him, turn him!" Brant was yelling. "Keep it in the tub!"

        Gyp just fell back and let Brant take it from there. He was frantic; he was insane. Brant turned Tsang's body, keeping the geyser within the tub. Then in an instant he was pulling off Gyp's shirt. She could feel him unsnapping her bra in back. When she looked down she saw him lapping the blood out of her navel. It was all over his nose and chin as he took her breast in his mouth and suckled the nipple.

        "Look, they're showing it again, Gyp."

        Gyp glanced up from the coffee table and breathed in deeply, setting the drug on its voyage to her brain. She heard the TV like it was on the bottom of the ocean.

        Mark Kotsay jeopardized every Cub fan's dream Wednesday night at Yankee Stadium with this misplay of Jorge Posada's fly ball.

        "Give it to him, Giangreco," Brant said. "Give it to him like you gave it to me."

        In other Cub-related news ... Would you want your child sitting on this Santa's lap? Look closely, baseball fans. Yep, that's former Cub Brant Brown behind the whiskers. We've blurred the photo below the waist, but yes, he is doing what he appears to be doing. Apparently, he's not master of his domain. Now, there's one for the "Where Are They Now" file.

        "Oh, man," Brant groaned, "wait 'til Mr. Pink sees this. There goes my job at Nordstrom's."

        Walking down the sidewalk before the start of Game Six, Ron Santo was in another bad mood. Cubs management had just informed him that, due to a last minute switch, he had been scratched from the Cubs' tentative plans for the Game Seven festivities.

        Apparently, reports of another former Cub's inspirational battle with cancer and his subsequent nervous breakdown had caused a surprising outpouring of sympathy and support from Cubs fans. As a result, the Cubs organization had chosen to invite him, not Santo, to attend the game as "Mr. Cub" Ernie Banks' guest of honor.

        "Fuck," Santo thought to himself. "This deranged fuck runs around ruining the spirit of Christmas for everybody, and yet he is more worthy of honor than the greatest third baseman in the Cubs' pathetic history. Bunch of assholes."

        But the loss of his Game Seven seat of honor wasn't the only thing pissing off Santo tonight: As a result of the Cubs' new Brant Brown-inspired cancer-awareness program, he'd been sent off on another one of those awful PR visits. Tonight he was en route to the local hospital to meet with a long-time Cubs fan who was terminally ill. He had to watch Game Six alongside Jack Boomer's hospital bed.

        As he approached the hospital entrance, Santo crossed his fingers. "With any luck, this guy will blow his head off during the pre-game just like the last one."

        Brant Brown paced anxiously. He had just received the phone call inviting him to attend Game Seven, but that was the furthest thing from his mind right now. He was waiting for one of Varsho's men to come pick up Tsang's car, which was full of drugs, stolen goods, and Tsang's own body – wrapped carefully in garbage bags and duct tape.

        "You know," Gyp said, "in a funny way I'm sorta gonna miss Brooks."

        "Who the fuck is Brooke?" Brant responded.

        "Brooks. I mean Tsang. I just called him Brooks because it doesn't feel right to call him by some stupid nickname, now that he's dead and all. Brooks is his real name."

        Brant now realized why Tsang, beneath his greasy stubble and sunglasses, had looked so familiar. Brant and Brooks Kieshnick had played in the same Cubs outfield just a few years ago. He was a fellow "outfielder of the future" who never panned out.

        Just as Brant made this connection, there was a loud knock at the door. Brant opened it to see a short man with a finely groomed mustache and a friendly grin. This was an ex-teammate that Brant was able to recognize easily.

        "Matt Meiske!," Brant exclaimed happily. "How the hell are you?"

        "I'm good, Brant, but we've got business to attend to. First things first, do you know a guy named Daniel McConnell?"

        "Yeah, he lives with her," Brant said, pointing to Gyp. "Why?"

        "Well, apparently he was talking to the cops about his friend's suicide, and he may have revealed some sensitive information about his friend's gambling debts to the Costa Ricans." A genuinely nice guy, Meiske was visibly uncomfortable relaying this bit of news. "Well, when Varsho heard about it, he wasn't sure how much information this guy might leak, and so he decided that the safest thing to do would be to have the guy wiped out."

        "You mean… he's dead?" Brant asked.

        "Umm, yeah," Meiske replied. "One of Dejesus's guys took care of it."

        Upon hearing this, Gyp clenched her fists and stared blankly straight ahead. She needed to get out of here.

        She'd experienced too much death, too much violence. She needed to talk to someone – anyone – who was far away from this whole horrible scene, away from Brant, away from Gary Varsho's network of disgruntled ex-Cubs. Without saying a word, she ran out the front door.

        Back at the hospital, Ron Santo and a barely conscious Jack Boomer had just watched the Cubs score nine runs in the first inning of Game Six. By the fourth inning, with the Cubs up 13-4, Jack was out cold, and Santo was left to watch the game by himself.

        Santo then heard the sound of a nurse – presumably the very shapely one he'd passed on the way in – speaking with a woman in a neighboring bed. The hospital room curtain prevented him actually seeing the women, but he could hear the unmistakable snap of a rubber glove. An intimate medical procedure was about to take place.

        Santo immediately lost interest in the game and focused on the sounds coming from the neighboring bed. The patient let out a husky groan, and Santo could hear the erotic rubbing (and the occasional slapping noise) of latex on flesh. Santo glanced about the room to find that he was perfectly alone. The curtains were drawn, and Jack Boomer certainly wasn't going to wake up any time soon. With a sneaky smile, he quietly unzipped his pants and began pleasuring himself.

        As the woman's groans grew deeper, Santo's hand moved faster. He closed his eyes and eased back his head when, suddenly, the curtains flew open. He scrambled to cover himself, but it was too late – Gyp had seen everything.

        "Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!" the masturbating Santo shrieked. He hastily zipped up and ran from the room.

        The shapely nurse, alarmed by Santo's shout, ran to Jack Boomer's bed. She leaned over his unconscious body to check for a pulse, but there was none.

        A serene smile fell across Boomer's face, as if his soul were soaring with life's final triumph: He had breathed his last breath with a Game Six victory glowing from his television, with a fully erect Cub penis throbbing at his bedside.

        "C'mon, you can't give up now Jack ol' boy."

        "Fuck it, Harry; I'm done, game called on account of pain."

        "But the Cubs are only one game away . . ."

        "Fuck the Cubs. They're not worth it. Besides, they'll find a way to lose."

        "You're wrong, Jack. This is THE year. Everyone's talking about it--even the angels are making I-guess-hell's-frozen-over cracks."

        But you said HE's a Yankee fan.

        "Nobody's perfect. And big boy's back, Jack. Wouldn't you like to get mud on your turtle one last time? That hot nurse, for instance . . ."

        "CLEAR!"

        Gyp cringed as the current jerked her grandfather's body yet again. The crash team had worked on him for the last 10 minutes or so, making his frail body dance with repeated jolts of electricity.

        "Charge to 300 ... CLEAR!"

        "This is pointless; he's gone. And they could cover him at least," Gyp muttered, noticing her grandfather's erect phallus. "Poor Grams, that's the smallest prick I've ever seen. It's like a penis, only smaller. Nothing like Ron Santo's. Now there's a man who should be in the Hall of Fame. Pookee sure would like to meet him." A rhythmic beeping sound returned Gyp's attention to her grandfather.

        "Hold on! We've got a pulse. . . . Good job, people, he's back."

        BAM! The morning dove exploded in a cloud of feathers. "Stupid bird," Brant muttered as he dropped his--once Tsang's--piece and climbed back into bed, covering his head with a pillow. That's the last time that bird would wake him up at 5 a.m.

        After Gyp ran off, Brant and Meiske had met up with Varsho & Co. and raged the night away, celebrating another ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional! victory. Brant had never seen so much coke. And the whores . . . Wow . . . They made a one-balled, ex-cancer patient feel like a porn star. Varsho had relayed how Brant had taken out Brooks (a.k.a. Tsang) to his superiors and ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional! liked his style. He would never have to work as a mall Santa ever again. All he had to do was kill Gyp, who knew too much. But that could wait. He had to shake this hangover first.

        A familiar, yet long-lost sight greeted Jack Boomer as he opened his eyes. "Big guy! Oh, have I missed you buddy." Jack reached down and grabbed himself. "Now, where'd that hot nurse run off to?" The door to Jack's room opened. "Ah, here she comes." And in walked Gyp, stirring a cup of coffee. "Fuck."

        "Hi, Grandpa. You gave us quite a scare. How are you feeling?"

        "Like shit. I need the nurse."

        "I'll get her," said Gyp as she pressed the call box.

        "How long have I been sleeping?"

        "A while. All night and a most of today too. It's 6 p.m."

        "So I haven't missed any of game 7."

        "Game 7? Oh, right, the World Series, I think that's on at like 7. But how can you think of baseball right now? I mean, you're still alive. Don't you want to do something? Maybe get some fresh air . . ." Gyp had had her fill of baseball--ex-players, gambling and otherwise.

        "No, that's all I want to do," snapped Jack, which wasn't entirely true. Doing the nurse was also on the docket. Speaking of which, "Where the hell is that bitch?"

        "Grandpa!"

        A handsome young man walked into the room. "Someone call for a nurse?"

        As Gyp reflectively reached for Pookee, Jack muttered, "Fuck. I'll get you for this Harry."

     "Varsho's Sports Palace." "Gary's Gambling Emporium." "Win, Place, and Varsho." "1-800-GARY-VAR . . . sho. Oh. Damn, this is hard."

     Gary Varsho stood before the mirror looking for inspiration. The guy who had toiled in relative obscurity in Costa Rican gambling circles for five years was about to become a player. For months he had planned his move away from ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional! and now his moment had arrived. This World Series, this game 7, was not about the Cubs erasing their history or the Yankees adding to their own. This was his World Series, his game 7. He was five hours away from his biggest score, five hours away from leaving ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional! and venturing out on his own. El Duque versus Jon Lieber, and the odds makers had the Cubs at +130. No one thought the Cubs would win this game, not even at home. Varsho called in every chit he had and had friends, associates, glommers-on, groupies and other assorted derelicts place a million dollars worth of bets on the Cubs-all at ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional! The $1.3 million he stood to win would cover his start-up expenses for his own establishment, his permanent move to the Cayman Islands, a lifetime of pina coladas, and a Panama hat. Not only that, it would put a big-time dent in the coffers of his soon-to-be ex-employers. He laughed at the thought.

     He had only two things left to do: a well-placed phone call and . . .

     "Come on, Varsho! Think!" he shouted encouragement to himself. "C'mon. Be my muse.

     "Bet With Gary." "¡Gary, Si!" "May the Odds Be With You." . . .

     It was a warm October 28 in Chicago--60 degrees and still. Chuck Knoblauch soaked it all in. His past two seasons in baseball were memorable, though wholly unpleasant. Despite the world championship and yet another World Series appearance, Knoblauch had suffered the worst fate that can befall a professional athlete--the yips. It's the unexplainable mental block that causes the world-class golfer to miss two-foot gimme putts, the promising left-handed pitcher to pepper the backstop more than the catcher's mitt, and, in Knoblauch's case, the all-star second baseman to have a better chance of knocking out Keith Olberman's mom in the stands than throwing out a runner at first base. Knoblauch was exiled to left field; only a designated hitter could do less damage defensively.

     Despite the outward show of support from his teammates, Knoblauch felt their curious looks, the mistrust in their voices, and faces that communicated, "You don't have it. You're not one of us." Oh, how he wanted to show them, to get even with them.

     He shuddered suddenly as he thought of his ordeal, but just as quickly the bad thoughts left him. This was the World Series, game 7. He had been a nonentity in the last World Series, against the Mets, when he was relegated to the designated hitter role because of his defensive yips. This year he was contributing mightily--a .417 batting average through the first six games--and certainly he was a leading candidate for Series MVP. He was enjoying baseball and just feeling good again. It took him a long time to climb from his mental abyss. Now, this was his moment, preparing for game 7 and another championship, one just for him.

     "Dammit," Knoblauch said out loud though he was alone outside the batting cage. "I gotta shit." He dropped his bat and scurried back to the clubhouse.

     "Dammit," Jack Boomer complained out loud in his hospital room. "I gotta shit. I think I forgot how. . . . Nurse!"

     Once again, his male nurse entered. "Mr. Boomer?"

     "Holy Lord," Grandpa muttered to himself. "I can't catch a break. One last shit. That's probably all I've got left in me. Just once, I'd like to have some 22-year-old tart wipe my ass. Just once. Instead I get this queer."

     "Mr. Boomer? Did you call?"

     "I gotta shit!" he barked back.

     "I'll get a bed pan."

     In the Yankee clubhouse, Knoblauch sat with his baseball pants around his ankles, his Oprah magazine spread to page 89. As he read, "Who Are You, Really?" his mind wandered to the whorehouse he, Paul O'Neill and Tino Martinez had visited in Montreal during the All-Star break. He became erect as he thought about the $200 he spent blindly on what his whore had promised would be something he had never before experienced. He recalled how she had led him to the men's room and into a stall. "Please, Mr. Jeter, sit here," she said to Knoblauch, motioning to the toilet. Knoblauch dropped his pants and obliged. "Now, Mr. Jeter, please try to defecate."

     "Excuse me?"

     "Trust me, Mr. Jeter. Please try to defecate."

     "What are you going to do?"

     "Mr. Jeter, please. I promised you something you had never experienced. I assume by your questions I am fulfilling that promise. Please, you must trust me."

     Knoblauch was taken by her dark hair, squeezed unnaturally into tight curls. He was taken by her eyes, rich and brown. He was taken by her voice, sweet and smothered in a French accent. He gave into her and began to try to squeeze out his portion of the Buffalo wings and beer. As his face clenched and his energy focused on the business end of his digestive tract, he began to make progress. The feces moved south, his face relaxed and he let out a sigh. Desiree seized the moment. She grabbed his cock with her right hand and moved in with her head and swallowed his cock whole. She worked vigorously with both hand and mouth as Knoblauch continued to move his bowels, cooing to this combination of sensations. Desiree didn't stop until the second baseman with the yips was spent at both ends. As shit floated beneath him and a load of cum rested on his stomach, he looked at Desiree and asked through labored breath, "What . . . what do you call that?"

     "That, Mr. Jeter," she answered with a smile, "is a blumpy."

     "A blooompy," Knoblauch said, smiling as he mimicked her accent and his mind returned to Chicago in October. "I love how she said that. Blooompy."

     Before leaving the toilet, Knoblauch acknowledged his latest erection and masturbated. As he gathered himself and prepared to return to the field, the clubhouse phone rang. He gave it a curious look and then picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.

     "Chuck?" the voice said through the phone.

     "Yeah."

     "You ready?"

     "Yeah."

     "OK, my friend. This is it."

     "The girl is safe, right?"

     "Yes, the girl is safe."

     "OK, we're on."

     "Good luck."

     As the male nurse finished cleaning Boomer's asshole, Boomer became noticeably aroused. Immediately after, he became embarrassed.

     "It's OK, Mr. Boomer," the nurse comforted him. "It's quite natural."

     "Will you please tell me what's natural about having a man's finger up my ass and me lying here with a hard-on!?"

     The nurse finished, smiled, and left the room. Boomer switched on game 7 from his remote control and then masturbated.

     "Ladies and gentlemen, it has come to this: the Chicago Cubs are three outs away from their first World Series championship since 1908," Sean McDonough told his viewers as the Cubs took a 5-3 lead into the ninth inning. "No other professional sports team in North America has gone so long without a championship. It's a day many of us thought we would never see. This crowd has been on its feet and making noise since well before the game began. Now, they are at a fever pitch.

     "Jeff Fassaro has been called in to face Jorge Posada, Scott Brosius, and Luis Sojo. Here we go. Posada steps in and looks at ball one."

     Tim McCarver: "I won't even try to describe the feeling in this ball park. I've never experienced anything like it."

     Posada rolled a ground ball to Cubs shortstop Ricky Gutierrez, who threw across to first base.

     "Two outs away," McDonough said.

     Gary Varsho sat alone in his apartment, pacing back and forth with his fourth vodka and tonic in his hands. He quickly made a fist and thrust it subtly forward. "Two more. Let's go," he said to the TV.

     Just three minutes later, the face of the game had changed. In the television set at Varsho's apartment, Mark Kotsay's image filled the screen. His head was bowed and he stood with his hands on his hips. The graphic at the bottom of the screen read like a police blotter: "Mark Kotsay, Cubs, 2 errors this inning, 3 in series."

     "As much as your heart goes out to this young man and as tough an inning as it's been," Tim McCarver's voice carried through the TV set, "he is still one error away from Willie Davis' World Series record set in 1966."

     "For one inning," McDonough corrected.

     "Yes, for one inning."

     A 5-3 Cubs' lead had quickly transformed into a 5-5 tie. With two on and one out in the ninth inning, Knoblauch had hit a fly ball to Kotsay, who first dropped it and then threw into the Cubs' dugout trying to get Sojo at third. Both runners scored and Knoblauch stood on third base with the go-ahead run as Mariano Rivera warmed up in the Yankees' bullpen. With Knoblauch at third, Fassaro stared down at the next Yankees' hitter, Derek Jeter. "Fucking Kotsay," muttered Fassaro, the unlucky recipient of Kotsay's misfortunes.

     "Fucking Kotsay," Knoblauch muttered at third.

     "Fucking Kotsay," Varsho said to the TV.

     Fassaro gathered himself and delivered to Jeter, who lifted a fly ball to center field. Kotsay didn't move as he waited for it to come down from the Chicago sky.

     "I don't believe it," McCarver screamed. "Here we go again."

     "Kotsay's under it," McDonough said evenly. "And I must admit I'm rooting for him. Either way, it's deep enough to score Knoblauch."

     A roar grew from the crowd and funneled in stereo through Varsho's TV.

     "Wait a minute!" McCarver screamed again. "Knoblauch lost track of the outs!" As Kotsay waited for the catch, Knoblauch was past home plate and headed for the Yankees' dugout. As every other Yankee player and coach flailed his arms trying to direct Knoblauch back to third base, Kotsay made the catch and fired a one-hop strike to Bill Mueller at third. Knoblauch tried to scramble back but was confused as to whether he had to retouch home plate. He slipped as he desperately raced for third, lost his shoe, and was out by 30 feet. End of the inning.

     "Atta boy, Chuckie," Varsho said.

     "I . . . do . . . not . . . be-lieve what we've seen this inning," McCarver screamed as the crowd's roar grew louder in Varsho's TV and Kotsay was greeted with joy in the Cubs' dugout. Knoblauch knelt on all fours, between third and home, head bowed, one shoe on, one shoe near home plate.

     McCarver continued his rant: "Do you remember Fred Merkle? The last time the Cubs won the World Series, it was 1908. The only way they even made it to the World Series was because of the most famous base-running blunder in baseball history. The New York Giants' Fred Merkle failed to advance all the way from first to second on what should have been a game-winning hit late in the season. The quick-thinking Cubs turned it into a force play and went on to win the pennant. Ever since, it's been known as Merkle's Boner. Well, Mr. Merkle, wherever you are, there's a new boner in town."

     The bottom of the ninth started seemingly uneventful. "Short fly to left," McDonough called with the all the routineness the play deserved. "Knoblauch waves off Jeter . . . he dropped it! Eric Young is at second base and Knoblauch is beside himself." More crowd noise through the TV. Varsho sat and sipped in his apartment. "Very good, Chuck."

     McCarver again: "Ladies and gentlemen, all those cards and letters of encouragement you had planned to send to Mark Kotsay, please send them to Chuck Knoblauch instead. . . . Unbelievable!"

     McCarver drew out more dated trivia and related the story of Fred Snodgrass, also of the New York Giants, circa 1912. Snodgrass had dropped a fly ball in the final game of the World Series that led to a series-clinching victory for the Boston Red Sox.

     "That was known as Snodgrass' Muff. So tonight we've had Knoblauch's Boner and Knoblauch's Muff."

     McDonough again. "Chuck, my friend, my heart goes out to you."

     The sound of empathy came only from the two broadcasters. Every other sound within range of a Fox microphone was of sheer joy. If Chuck Knoblauch had to suffer a nervous breakdown on national television for the Cubs to win the World Series, so be it. Here's an organization, the Yankees, with championships coming out of every pore and the Cubs--the Cubs--all they want is one every hundred years or so. So if Chuck Knoblauch's mental health has to be sacrificed for the benefit of all of Chicago, well . . .

     "Fuck you, Knoblauch!" "Hey Knoblauch! What size straightjacket do you wear?" "Hit another one to Chuck!" "Knoblauch, you can't catch and you can't throw. Can you at least suck cock?" "What position will you play next? First base coach?" "Fuck you, Knoblauch!"

     The jeers rained down on Knoblauch from the left-field bleachers as the inning evolved: a strikeout from Ricky Gutierrez, an intentional walk to Sammy Sosa, and a pop out from Rondell White. McDonough set the scene for the viewers: "Runners at first and second, two outs, bottom of the ninth, and we're in a 5-5 tie in the wildest finish to a World Series anyone can remember. Now it's the left-handed hitting Brent Mayne, acquired from Colorado in August after Todd Hundley went down with an injury. Mayne will hit for Fassaro."

     McCarver: "What a situation for Brent Mayne. His first at-bat in this World Series, in any World Series, and he's facing Mariano Rivera with two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning of game 7."

     Back to McDonough. "Rivera, working very deliberately, takes a walk behind the mound. This crowd has been in a constant roar since they opened the gates . . . and it's only grown louder in conjunction with the unbelievable events of the most improbable inning in World Series history."

     "Improbable!?" McCarver answered. "This is pure fiction."

     From his hospital bed, Boomer barked, "McCarver's an asshole!"

     McDonough: "Two and two now to Mayne. I have never heard 39,432 people sound so loud. We'll let them tell the story. . . ."

     The shrill grew as Mayne sneaked a look back at Jorge Posada and saw the Yankees' catcher slide to the outside part of the plate. "Slider away," Mayne thought. "He's been tipping it all Series." Rivera looked back at Young and then dealt to Mayne. Slider away at the knees. Mayne locked in and drove a hard line drive between Brosius and Jeter, one that was headed directly toward Knoblauch in left field.

     At the hospital, Jack Boomer watched Mayne's drive sail toward left field and immediately became erect. He momentarily let his glance dart from the TV to his happy member and he thought, "Hee-hee, Merkle's Boner; Boomer's Boner."

     Knoblauch acted even quicker than Grandpa. His baseball instincts took over and he instantly processed the geometry of the situation: "Charge hard. I can't catch it on the fly but I'll get it on a perfect hop. Chest high. I gotta shot. I can throw him out."

     Young's thought process was much less involved. "Two out, ball headed toward the outfield. Score."

     The ball got to Knoblauch before Young touched third base. Knoblauch was right: he got a chest-high bounce with all his momentum directed toward home plate. As Mayne watched the flight of the ball, he thought, "Fuck! Hit it too fucking hard!" Young began to cut the turn at third base. Knoblauch released the ball as Young hit third . . . awkwardly.

     "Noooooooooooooo!!!" Ron Santo screamed over WGN radio.

     Young stumbled, fell, and somersaulted toward the Cubs' dugout.

     "Young fell!" McDonough screamed through the TV.

     As Young scrambled to his feet, looking for an escape route, he saw it sailing overhead. Knoblauch's throw went over Brosius, over Posada, over the backstop, and into the stands.

     "Knoblauch's throw is in the grandstand!" McDonough screamed. "Young scores the winning run and the Cubs are World Series champions!"

     Jack Boomer screamed, "Hooray!" and then ejaculated at the same moment. "Hey! Wait! Not yet!"

     The TV showed the Cubs in a pile around home plate . . . the unbridled commotion in the crowd. And then Knoblauch, on his knees and by himself in left field.

     "That poor man," McCarver finally said.

     "May no athlete ever again experience what Chuck Knoblauch has experienced in the past 30 minutes," McDonough added.

     In his apartment, Varsho kept his emotions in check. He swallowed the last of his cocktail and smiled. "Nice touch, Chuck."

     In the 20 minutes since Knoblauch's throw landed in the grandstand, Ron Santo had said three words on the air: "I," "unbelievable," and "holy." Personal gratification went head-to-head with professionalism and the former not only won, it easily covered the spread. Twice Santo had yanked off his headset and looked to join in a celebration that was not happening, not in the oh-so cramped WGN press box. His partner, Pat Hughes, had been left to draw the pictures for the listening audience. "Once we reign in Ron, I'm sure he's going to be happy to share his thoughts with us," Hughes said, laughing at his color man. Santo even excused himself ("I think Ron wants to join in the fun down in the clubhouse," Hughes guessed). Alas, Santo sought a thorough release of his emotions. Following the first-ever World Series victory celebrated in Wrigley Field's 87-year history, Ron Santo deposited his semen into stall No. 2 in the press box men's room.

     "Chuck, anything you'd like to say?"

     Nothing in the Yankees' clubhouse was more noticeable than the quiet. Joe Buck of Fox had the unenviable assignment of interviewing the losing team, and no losing team had ever felt as low as the Yankees on this night. Knoblauch stared straight down and shook his head. Joe Torre entered the camera's view and began fielding questions and shielding his left fielder. Torre was stoic and calm.

     "Things like this happen. Unfortunately for us, it happened tonight in this situation. That's baseball. But we can't overlook everything the Yankee organization has accomplished, not only this year, but in the past six years. Four world championships and five American League pennants. I'm proud of all these guys. There are nothing but professionals in this locker room." As Torre finished speaking, Paul O'Neill finished masturbating in the shower.

     The clubhouse phone rang. "Hello."

     "Hey, Chuck."

     "Yes . . . ," Chuck Battilio answered quizzically. Battilio was a Yankees' clubhouse attendant who made road trips only during the postseason. He dutifully answered the phone, but he couldn't understand how the strange voice on the other end had recognized his.

     "Great work, my friend."

     "Huh?"

     "We're in. We're all set up. Varsho y Amigos. Way to go. We couldn't have done it without you. I owe you. Big time."

     Chuck Battilio finally figured it out.

     "Asshole!" he shouted back into the phone and then slammed it down.

     Torre walked by and stopped when he heard the mild-mannered Yankee employee slam the phone. "What was that?"

     "Some asshole calling to congratulate Knoblauch," Battilio said, accenting "congratulate" by miming quote marks with his fingers. Torre paused and stared directly at Battilio. "Don't do that," Torre said curtly. "I hate that."

     Varsho, Brant Brown, and Matt Mieske met the following Wednesday at the Piano Man on Clark and Grace. They had taken their own--now former--employer for $1.3 million. To all but one of their accomplices, those who placed the wagers, they had paid a 5% commission. Their last accomplice, their inside man, Chuck Knoblauch, received $235,000 and 20% of all future earnings of Varsho y Amigos.

     "How did you ever get him?" Mieske asked.

     "Talk to this guy," Varsho said, motioning to Brown.

     Brown smiled, tipped back his pint of Sam Adams and fielded a question from the waitress with the Russian accent before answering Mieske.

     "Would you like anything to eat?" the waitress asked, staring directly at Brown.

     "Do you have any Russian pussy?" he shot back.

     The three laughed and the waitress quickly walked away. "He wanted out," Brown said. "He couldn't take it anymore. He hated left field. He hated how his every play, good or bad, ended up on ESPN. He couldn't win. If he made a good play, they would say, 'Hey, look at Chuck Knoblauch playing some good defense,' as if surprised. If he made an error, it was 'Knoblauch's at it again.' He just hated baseball. And he grew to hate the Yankees. He said O'Neill was the worst. He said the others tried to hide it. But O'Neill would pace up and down the dugout, screaming, 'Why do we keep that guy? He's a fucking head case!' Screaming it, like no one was around."

     "I always thought O'Neill was an asshole," Varsho interjected.

     "But where did you meet him?" Mieske asked. "He threw the World Fucking Series. He's not going to do that for just anyone."

     Brown told the story of Yes I'm Professional Still--YIPS--the support group for athletes with serious mental blocks and those who had suffered shame and embarrassment on the field. "They were all there," Brown said. "Me, Wohlers, Ankiel, Knoblauch, Sax, Dale Murphy, Buckner, a few golfers . . . Bobby Clampett. A strange group. We just sat around and talked how we fucked up on the field. That was supposed to make us feel better. Knoblauch and Ankiel, those guys are really fucked up. They really just had no clue. I felt sorry for them. Knoblauch said he knew, he knew, that he had no chance of making a good throw. The ball was going to go anywhere but to Tino Martinez. He said it was like he had no control of his right arm, like it wasn't even attached to his body."

     "Twilight Zone, man," Mieske said.

     "Yeah, he just wanted to quit. So we got to talking about a month ago and I told him about Gary's gig."

     "That's when it all came together," Varsho said. "I've been wanting to go out on my own for some time. It's just crazy to kick all that money upstairs. Those stooges don't do anything. Set the lines, my ass. They just read the paper and get their odds from there. All they did was come up with the cash and move out of the States. Hell, any asshole can do that."

     The three raised their glasses and drank.

     "I needed one more big score," Varsho continued. "Brant told me about Knoblauch and I knew we could parlay that. He makes an error or two and no one blinks. 'Hey look, Knoblauch fucked up. Who knew?'" he laughed.

     "The throw to end the game, that was brilliant," Mieske said.

     "No, no," Brown answered. "That's the funny part. He got caught up in the moment and wanted to throw that sonofabitch out. He really thought he had a chance and wanted one last shining moment. He fucked up on his own."

     More laughter. "And the girl?"

     "That was his final condition," Varsho said. "A nice chunk of change to start and then a stream of money--tax free--for the rest of his life. But he said he wouldn't do it without the girl."

     "Get this," Brown interrupted. "The guy's hooked on vicodin and he's popping them like they were Chiclets. We're getting high before game 2 and he's all over Gyp. Can't keep his hands off her. So they finally go back to my room and she gets him off and he falls in love. Comes out screaming, 'Best sex I've ever had! Ever! Best sex! Best sex!'

     "I was laughing my ass off. That is one fucked up dude."

     "Fuckin' Knoblauch," Varsho said, laughing. "Here's to Chuck." And they raised their glasses again.

     On a secluded stretch of beach on Key West, Knoblauch and Gyp walked hand in hand. They sipped drinks festooned with paper umbrellas. They talked about nothing and they talked about everything and felt like they were 18 years old again. Knoblauch stopped and turned to Gyp.

     "Have you ever given a blumpy?"

Epilogue

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