It was May 24^th, a Sunday, and I was in Pittsburgh, playing out what I figured to be the last season of a lackluster career in the minors. According to the newspaper I'd picked up, there were a couple governments changing hands in France and Belgium, the Scottsboro Case was still getting some press, and our team beat the Charleroi Governors, who were having a bad year, so we had a pretty easy time of it. The last play of the game was a double play turned by the Cumberland Colts' second baseman (thank you very much) off a sinking line drive—a catch and a quick tag. The gods didn't seem to care for my success however, so the skies opened up an hour after the game ended and stranded our bus in Pittsburgh. Most of the team stayed at the William Penn Hotel, but a few of us got siphoned off to a fleabag four blocks away called the Excelsior.

I was awake by 6 A.M. and decided to head out to look for a diner to get some breakfast. The rain had quit, leaving a thick nasty mist still hanging in the air and the threat of more showers to come. It didn't take long for my overcoat to soak up the dampness, so I picked up my pace, lowered my expectations, and ducked into the first greasy spoon I came to.

The coffee was bad and the plate of eggs they gave me answered the question I'd asked myself walking in the door: how bad can they mess up bacon and eggs here? I sat in the booth, skimming through the paper, listening to cars sloshing by outside and oblivious to the two people who were standing beside my table, studying me. When I did look up, they continued to stand and stare with the cold intent of a department store mannequin.

I took notice of the blonde first, and didn't want to stop noticing her: A tall, slim blonde straight from the pages of Vogue who looked down at me under a pair of eyelashes that were long enough to rustle the netting on her wide-brimmed hat when she blinked. She stood with one leg posed strategically in front of the other and one hip arched just slightly. Not a bad batting stance, I thought to myself. No one should look that well assembled at six in the morning.

Her companion was a full six inches shorter than she was, even accounting for her three-inch heels. The hair on his head—what there was of it—was a gray sloppy wasp nest. Long individual strands of his hair fell onto his face, other strands waved lazily in the air. His head was too big for his body, or more likely, his body was too small for his head. His face showed signs of intellect, but not necessarily intelligence and his mouth puckered nervously as he watched me. He was wrapped in an old, ill-fitting overcoat, and with his shoulders slumped, he reminded me of a pulpy pear wrapped in a dirty gray napkin. "May we trouble you, sir, for just a minute or two?" he asked.

"Depends on how much trouble you want," I told him.

He smiled slightly and swiped nervously at his chin a few times. "Actually, I don't think we'll be any trouble to you at all." He looked at the bench across the table from me. "Um, would you mind?"

I gave them a sit-down gesture with my hand. The blonde glided down and slid across the length of the bench in one long sweeping movement smoother and softer than a feather landing, converting the opinion of a second baseman who had lived his whole life believing that any slide was an ugly thing. When she was settled in, the man plopped down beside her, stuck his hand out and said, "My name, sir, is Arthur Morgan, professor of art history. This lovely young woman is my dear friend, Marion Rice."

I shook hands with the professor and looked over at Marion Rice. She offered me something just less than a faint smile—a slight softening of her gaze—which I wolfed down. She tipped her head back and continued to observe me.

"Samuel Kenton," I said.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kenton," the professor said. "And I do hope you will be pleased to have met us as well." At that point he leaned forward and lowed his voice to a half-whisper that seemed propelled by a certain urgency. "I'm not accustomed to being quite so bold as this with strangers, but Miss Rice and I are under some unusual time constraints." He caught me studying his clothes and brushed at the front of his coat gently. "Rather tough times for art historians, I'm afraid."

"Tough times for most of us."

"Indeed, Mr. Kenton. Indeed." He drew a breath and said, "Let me get to the point. Tell me, sir, do you know who Hans Memling was?"

"I don't like quizzes," I told him.

"Yes, I see. Well, Hans Memling was a fifteenth century Flemish painter."

"Oh, that Hans Memling."

"Allow me to tell you a very brief story concerning Hans Memling. I shall keep it brief."

"Thank you."

"You see, Mr. Kenton, it happens that one of Hans Memling's priceless masterpieces hung for centuries in the cathedral at Ypres, a small town in Belgium that was under siege for over three years during the war in Europe. Early in the conflict, the priests took it down and hid it in a farmhouse outside of town for safekeeping. This was a wise decision, considering the cathedral was soon destroyed by bombs. Unfortunately, in the ebb and flow of war, the farmhouse changed hands several times and the painting—at some point during the war—was discovered by a colonel in one of the invading armies and, well, the painting vanished." The professor sat back, opened his hands up as though he was releasing a bird, and then leaned forward again to continue his story. "In the nearly thirteen years since the war's end, this magnificent painting has suffered a very difficult existence." He studied the ragged sleeve on his coat. "Not unlike us, Mr. Kenton, as you so astutely pointed out."

I took a sip of coffee and tried to figure out what he was selling.

"I have spent thirteen years searching for this masterpiece, Mr. Kenton. Thirteen years of my life on this quest. Bur very recently, miraculously, I have acquired it, with the invaluable assistance of my good friend, Miss Rice."

I looked at Miss Rice who continued to look at me. I wondered what her invaluable assistance consisted of.

"At last we are in a position to be rewarded for our efforts, but we need some help, and so we have turned to you."

"You've turned to an empty well," I told him. "I've got eighty cents to my name till payday. A priceless work of art should be worth at least a buck, shouldn't it?"

The professor chuckled. "Oh no, please, Mr. Kenton. You're heading down the wrong trail entirely. You misunderstand our intentions." He thought about what I said some more and then laughed more heartily, ending with a raspy cough. He dabbed at his eyes. "No, no, Mr. Kenton. We are not trying to sell this painting to you." He turned toward Marion Rice and shared his mirth with her. She returned a soft glance.

"Well, it sounds like you've got the painting and you want to unload it. Isn't that right?"

"We have the painting and we have a buyer," the professor explained. "A very prestigious buyer. One of the premier museums in the world, in fact, although I must not reveal their name, of course."

"Of course. So, the help you need from me?"

At that point the blonde spoke. "We would like you to come along with us when we deliver the painting and help us collect our money so we don't have to worry that the people who were hired to make this transaction might…" She searched for the right phrase, "…take advantage of us."

This had been perfectly planned, I thought. The first time I heard her voice, she was asking me to protect her. Smoky and sweet and clear like a liqueur that's aged for a century, her voice drifted across the table and mingled with the backdrop of a new rainstorm forming outside. She could have asked me to dive off the Grand Canyon and land in a bucket of soup and I probably would have done it.

The professor leaned closer to me and lowered his voice even more. "We are prepared to pay you five hundred dollars," he said. "Just to stand with us while we complete the transaction." He took a fat bundle of tens out of his pocket and slid it under my napkin.

I shook my head slowly and squinted my eyes. "This all smells funny," I said.

"I'm sure it must seem quite unusual, but I assure you it is absolutely honest and on the level. You will be in no more danger than Miss Rice and I will be in, and in fact, your very presence will reduce any chance of trouble several fold. The museum that is purchasing this painting is a dignified establishment, Mr. Kenton. Unfortunately, the men they have hired to make the transaction for them are young, they seem a little headstrong for my liking, and need…" he paused and now took his turn looking for the right phrase, "…just a little discouragement, that's all."

"Tell me how you picked me for this golden opportunity over everyone else in town."

"We need a man who looks strong and unshakable. As you can see, Miss Rice and I hardly meet that description."

"You need a thug," I said.

"No. Someone aggressive, certainly; but a thug, no. You appear to be man who is employed, doing fairly well for himself. Is that not so?"

"Somewhat. I'm a ballplayer."

"Indeed? For the Pittsburgh Pirates?"

"For the Cumberland Colts."

The professor's eyes dulled a bit. "I believe you are precisely the person we are looking for because you also appear to be a man who is intimidated neither physically or intellectually."

I looked at the bills that were peaking out under my napkin. They were intimidating. I looked long and hard at them.

"Gather them up," the professor said. "We'll go see the painting and you can make your decision at that time."

I wrapped my hand around the bills, curled them up, and tucked them into my vest pocket where a nice watch ought to be. "Okay. Let's go," I said.

The professor led us down the street to a hotel that was better than the one I'd slept in. We walked into a lobby that was large and well lit, and went up two flights of stairs. I kept my eyes and ears open, but I didn't know what I was expecting to see or hear. He opened the door to his room and I walked in. It was a large parlor area. "There's no bed in here," I said.

"No, Mr. Kenton. This is a suite. The bedroom is behind that door."

I walked over to the door and went in to take a look. No one was under the bed, behind the dresser, or in the closet, and the window was locked. When I returned to the parlor, the professor reached behind an overstuffed chair that was against one wall and pulled out a rectangular object, about two and a half feet square, covered with a cloth. The cloth was draped over it like a pillowcase. "Let me show you the masterpiece," he said. He pulled off the cloth and displayed the painting. It certainly looked old. The paint was muddy and covered with tiny cracks, like a newsreel movie I had seen of the parched flat earth of the Great Plains. If old counted, this was a valuable work of art.

"Smaller than I thought it would be," I said.

The professor dropped the cloth over the painting and slid it back behind the chair. He pulled up a straight back chair for me to sit on in the center of the room, drew one up for himself between me and the overstuffed chair, and directed Marion Rice to sit on a loveseat behind a small oval coffee table.

He pulled out his watch. "We shall see how punctual they are," he said. "It's nearly eight. They should be here soon." He sat back in his chair and waited, but after five seconds, the silence got to be too much for him. "So, Mr. Kenton, you are a professional athlete, you say. That must be a fascinating career."

"You think so?"

"I do indeed."

Marion Rice was studying me. "You look like a man who has lost the passion in life," she said. "Did you ever have a passion, Mr. Kenton, a passion for baseball perhaps?"

"I guess so," I said. "It made me quit college, leave home, and leave my friends. It was a pretty good passion at one time."

"And now, you don't want to ride that passion out? You don't want to see whether you can reach the major leagues?" she asked.

"Already been there," I told her. "I played in the majors for one game."

"Only one game? What happened?"

"I guess I proved I wasn't a major league player," I said and looked up at her. She wanted more. I hadn't told the story in a while and I figured I could make it short. "The Washington Senators called me up mid-season in '28. I got to the ballpark and they put me in to play second base in the fourth inning. I was up twice and struck out twice. Came the ninth inning with two outs and we were behind by a run. There I was at the plate again. They never should've left me in. I was a rookie. I guess they wanted to see what I could do. Well, they found out. I got the count in my favor, three balls and no strikes, and the pitcher throws one off the plate to see if I'd go for it. I knew it wasn't my pitch, but I couldn't lay off it. At night I still see it sailing off the plate. The bat came around like it had a will of its own and tapped the ball to the first baseman. He took two steps into foul ground and caught it chest high. End of game, end of big league career."

As soon I spoke those words, I heard footsteps climbing the stairs, walking down the hall, and stopping outside our door. Three sets of footsteps. There was a brief rap at the door. The professor got up, opened the door and let the three men in.

The professor was right about them being young and probably impulsive. The first one to walk through the door eyed me up and down and said, "Who's he?"

"A colleague," the professor said.

I stood up slowly, resting my hands on my hips and studying each one of them for a moment. Earn your keep, I figured. They looked like they might be brothers. They weren't very big. I was hoping they'd be a bit bigger in fact. Big people don't have to make an effort to prove they're tough. "Where's the painting?" the first man asked.

"Yes sir, right down to business," the professor said. He slid the painting out from behind the chair and pulled the cloth off. It looked like a guy in a funny haircut, but as I looked at it this time I caught the expression on the guy's face, stubborn and quietly defiant, like a batter squaring his stance. I liked him.

"It looks small," the man said.

"Perhaps. But larger than your suitcase," the professor said, draping the cloth back over the portrait. "Now, if I may see the money."

The first man set the suitcase on the coffee table. When he did, Marion Rice slid an ashtray aside and it fell on the floor. She half-stood, leaned far over and picked up the ashtray slowly and ever so sweetly. Every set of eyes focused on her, every set but mine. While they looked at her, I caught the professor sliding the painting back behind the chair, then sliding it out again; a curious move.

The first man opened the suitcase and took a step back.

The professor stood up and walked over to the suitcase to look at the money inside. He flipped through a few stacks of bills and smiled at the man. "I'm sure it's all there," he said. He walked back to the painting, picked it up, and handed it to me. "My colleague will take the painting to your car," he said.

"We can do that," the first man said.

"My colleague will keep it for you until you reach your car," the professor insisted.

I did what I was told. I walked out the door with the painting under my arm, and the three young men followed behind me, very close behind me.

Marion Rice and the professor waited two full minutes before they left the room. They scampered down two flights of stairs to the lobby, but left the hotel by the back exit, like I figured they would. I was at the back door, waiting for them when they got there.

"How many of those do you have?" I asked, as the professor stepped onto the sidewalk with a cloth-covered canvas under his arm.

He froze in his tracks, spun around, saw me, and gave me a weak smile. "Mr. Kenton," he said. He searched around nervously.

"They're gone," I said. "I gave them the painting when we got to the lobby and they drove off. I thought you might not want to run into them and would leave by the back door. I guess I guessed right."

"You did indeed."

"So," I said, nodding toward the canvas, "How many of those paintings do you have?"

"Only two," the professor admitted.

"Are either of them real?"

"One certainly is. The other's a copy. Not a very good copy, I'm afraid. Art historians generally don't make good artists. How did you know I made a switch? Was I that obvious about it?"

"You were subtle enough to fool them."

"But not subtle enough to fool you."

"When I was playing for Beaver Falls a couple years back, I had a manager who had a good looking niece that used to come to the games. He'd sit her directly behind home plate, and when the visiting team needed to throw an important pitch he'd signal her from the dugout. She'd time it just right. The pitcher would go into his wind up and she'd get on her feet and dump her soda down the front of her blouse. There wasn't a pitcher in the league could keep his focus on home plate when she did that." I looked at Marion Rice. "That's all I could think of when I saw you picking up the ashtray. You've got pretty good timing too, but I've seen that trick performed before."

"Very clever, Mr. Kenton," the professor said.

"Maybe," I said. "But I've got another little news item for you. What you didn't notice is that I switched the paintings when you stood up to count the money. You thought you handed those guys the fake, but you didn't."

When it registered what I was saying, the professor's face turned pale. He yanked the cloth up to reveal a corner of the painting. The tiny cracks were gone. He realized I was telling the truth, paused to contemplate his situation, and said to Marion Rice, "I suppose we won't be making as much money off of all our hard work as we had hoped." He turned toward me. "Why did you do it? Why did you switch the paintings? It couldn't matter to you whether we have it or those other men have it."

"If they'd looked at the painting before they drove off and found out they'd been swindled, I'd be in a spot, wouldn't I? The way it ended up, you made a little money, I made a little money, and the museum got a painting. Everyone wins."

"I'd hoped to win by a larger margin," the professor said, "But what is done is done." He squinted and studied me a long moment. "Tell you what, Mr. Kenton, I'd like you to come with us. We make a stronger team as a threesome, don't you agree, Miss Rice?"

She nodded her head.

"There are other adventures ahead of us," the professor said.

"No," I told him. "I'm not really interested in your adventures. I get enough adventures on the ball field."

"I wish you'd change your mind," Marion Rice said, taking a step forward. "Our adventures could be wonderful adventures." She gave me one last half-smile.

I soaked in the smile. "No," I said again. "You see, it appears I've just got no passion for this."

Her smile broadened. She nodded, turned slowly, and began gliding down the block. The professor followed.

I watched her walk away, her hips swaying slowly back and forth, puddles bursting and scattering blue ripples under her feet.

I leaned forward, just like I do in my dream every night, just like I lean into that pitch that starts out on a true course toward me and then sails away from home, just beyond my reach. This time I didn’t go after the pitch though. Not this time.

The End