Further Adventures of Carlotta Carlyle by Linda Barnes

to scare her to death. What’s he supposed to do for a finale? Kidnap her? Rape her?”
    â€œI’d never—I only thought he’d keep her home nights. I thought she’d turn to me, for help, for protection. Instead, she called you.”
    The way he looked at me, I could tell Dee’s cry for help, for my help, had been bitter medicine. Yet another injury to his pride.
    â€œAnd just what was Clay going to do to me, Ron?”
    â€œI dunno,” he said studying the linoleum like it was a work of art. “Man’s a fool. I guess he figured he could scare you.”
    I thought about my time in the trunk. Especially the few moments when I hadn’t known whether Clay would open it or walk away.…
    He’d done his job.
    Ron was speaking. “I think Clay’s way past thinkin,’ about me, Carlotta. I’m afraid he really wants Dee. I’m scared he’ll hurt her.” He swallowed audibly. “I guess I’m ready to go to the cops.”
    I said, “No reason to, Ron. I’ve taken care of the cops. You’re going to do something harder. Tell Dee. Every nasty detail.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen pack your bags and update your resumé, because she’ll fire your ass. You know she will, if I tell her.”
    He didn’t say anything, just stared into the mirror like he was saying good-bye to the best part of himself.
    â€œDo it, Ron. Apologize. Stay with her.”
    â€œShe’s never loved anything but the music, Carlotta.” he said, his Adam’s apple working. “She doesn’t love me.”
    â€œShe comes back to you, Ron.”
    â€œShe comes back.”
    â€œMaybe that’s her kind of love. Maybe that’s all the love she’s got.”
    â€œI don’t know if I can live with that,” he said.
    I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to the pale skinny man in the mirror.
    â€œTwo days, Ron,” I said. “You have two days to tell her, or else I will.”
    I flagged a cab and went straight to the airport. No trouble changing the tickets. Fly first class, they give you leeway.
    Dee called late the next night, woke me from a sound sleep. I suppose Ron will always be her lead guitar.
    Miss Gibson arrived via messenger. I’ve stroked her, held her, but I can’t bring myself to play her. I try, but something keeps me mute. When I touch the strings, finger a chord, I’m overwhelmed by a sense of awe.
    Maybe fear. With that precious battered guitar in hand, I guess I’m scared that I’ve come as close to the magic as I’ll ever get.

Stealing First
    Skip the Fenway franks, the mustard squished underfoot circa Opening Day 1912, the peanuts, the stale beer. If you’re after the aroma of game day at Fenway Park, go for the scent of hope—frail hope, fervent hope, pent-up hope.
    Diluted by failure, sure, but never despair.
    The two-story Coke bottles try to steal the show, but the Green Monster dominates, along with the single red-painted seat in the bleachers that marks Ted Williams’s 502-foot home run.
    You see everybody at Fenway. The suits go for the skyboxes and the 600 Club, the Joe College types aim for the bleachers, alienating the beer bums. There are always out-of-place delights, the cotton-haired lady swearing her lungs blue in the bleachers, the scruffy misfits in the rich seats.
    Some seem familiar, but only because you’ve seen them at the park before. Me, I semi-recognize a lot of guys, and often it’s because I’ve arrested them. I had that itchy feeling a couple of times waiting in line at the entry gates on Yawkey Way, but none of the faces screamed a warning, and nobody stopped to schmooze. The gate was jammed and noisy, edgy the way it is when the hated Yankees are in town, jacking each game up to playoff intensity.
    I gave the man my ticket and pushed through the turnstyle.
    Section 27, Row 12, Seat 14, a terrific seat, third-base