not recognize the man staring back at him, though ask the stranger in the mirror anything else, anything at all, and he knew the answer instantly: even the identity of an obscure statue in an even more obscure town.
‘“The Man That Got Away”,’ Solomon said. ‘The fifth track on side two of Love on the Rocks by Julie London is “The Man That Got Away”.’
There was a silence punctuated only by murmured questions and the low, steady drone of the jukebox.
Billy-Joe stared at Solomon for a long second before his poker face cracked and a smile exploded across it. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘How in the hell do you know a thing like that?’
‘Is he right?’ people asked in the crowd. ‘Did he get it right?’
‘Hell yeah he got it right,’ Billy-Joe said, and the room exploded into noise.
‘Looks like you need to up your game, son,’ someone shouted, then he turned to the crowd. ‘And if anyone wants a little side action, I got twenty bucks says this fella’s going to answer whatever questions Billy-Joe throws at him.’
‘I’ll take that bet,’ someone replied, and the room hummed louder as more bets were placed.
Billy-Joe sat quiet and still on his stool, staring at Solomon like he was a puzzle to be solved. Solomon just stared ahead, scanning the menu on the wall and doing his best to ignore the hunger gnawing at his stomach.
When the room settled Billy-Joe rubbed his hands together like before. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I figure any man can answer an obscure question about Julie London ain’t likely to be too interested in sports, so let me pitch this one atcha.’ He paused, waiting for complete silence in the diner before speaking again. ‘In nineteen and seventy-eight,’ he said, keeping his voice low, ‘there was a ballgame ’tween the Rangers and the Baltimore Orioles. Now during that game an Orioles fan had a heart attack and was gonna die right there in the stands, only one of the players jumped up off of the bench and saved that man’s life. What I want to know – is the name of that ball player.’
A murmur rippled through the crowd and heads shook. Solomon stared at the menu on the wall and focused on the information pouring through his head in response to the cowboy’s question:
Texas Rangers … 1978 season … finished second in the ALW behind the Kansas City Royals …
The information began to take shape now, forming vague images like half-forgotten memories as his mind sank deeper into the details.
… evening of July 17th … away game at the Baltimore Memorial Stadium … grey skies but still summer warm and close, like a storm was coming … the game is halted in the seventh when a shout goes up behind the Orioles dugout …
Solomon’s mind continued to freefall through clouds of facts until they formed images, as if he was remembering something he had once witnessed himself:
… the crowd behind the dugout form a circle, their attention on the centre and not on the field. The shout goes out again, clearer this time: ‘A doctor. This man needs a doctor.’ The man who shouts looks around, eyes white and frantic. Another man lies at his feet. Big guy. Not moving. Nobody comes forward. Time slides to a halt …
… 1978 … July … Jimmy Carter in the White House … Grease playing to packed houses in the movie theatres … 1978, when ballplayers still earned regular pay cheques and had second careers.
The silence is broken. ‘Here,’ someone calls out and there’s movement in the away team dugout as one of the Rangers’ pitchers stands, moves to the edge of the field and vaults over the guardrail. The crowd parts as he climbs the seats and watches on as he drops down by the big guy. This pitcher has one good season left and knows it. He’s in his second year residency at a Pittsburgh hospital. He administers CPR to the stricken fan like he’s done a hundred times in the ER and mouth-to-mouth like he was taught. The fan coughs and groans and the pitcher keeps working steadily, pumping his chest, hand-over-hand, working the heart now he’s breathing again, keeping it going until the ambulance arrives. The fan’s name was Germain. Germain Languth. And the Rangers’ pitcher was called:
‘Medich,’ Solomon said and turned to the cowboy. ‘George “Doc” Medich. He saved the man’s life and the game was resumed. The Rangers went on to win two to nothing.’
There was a pause as the whole room held its breath. Billy-Joe stared at Solomon in disbelief. ‘Now how in the hell did you know that?’
The room erupted into noise and money was waved in the air as more side bets went down. Some still bet against Solomon, but the majority were now with him. Hands were shaken and attention turned back to the dusty stranger at the centre of it all.
There was one question left and the cowboy looked edgy, his eyes darting around the room as he tried to come up with a question that might still win him the bet. Solomon stared ahead at the menu. Steak and eggs and home fries, that’s what he would order. Or maybe the special, whatever that was. His stomach growled in anticipation, lost in the hubbub of the room. One more question.
Then the trucker stood up with a sharp scrape of metal on concrete and pointed his thick finger at Solomon. ‘I see the angle now,’ he swung the finger round to Billy-Joe and poked him in the chest. ‘You’re working together, ain’t ya? You two’s grifters. This whole goddam thing’s a set-up.’
Billy-Joe spun away from the trucker’s finger and squared up to him. ‘What you just call me?’
The trucker jabbed the finger into his chest again. ‘I said this here’s a con and you two’s workin’ it together. How in the hell else could he answer a question like that?’
Billy-Joe looked up with the same cold challenge as previously. ‘So how’s this con work then, genius? You think we travel around Texas hitting diners so that I can deliberately lose a bet to someone I’m secretly workin’ with? Where’s the grift in that?’
The trucker pointed at the crowd. ‘I bet you got a third guy, ain’t ya, whippin’ up interest and layin’ down some side bets?’
‘Bullshit,’ Billy-Joe said and bumped his chest against the trucker’s.
The trucker pulled himself up to his full height and glared down at the cowboy, holding his ground, the eyes of the crowd upon them. No one saw Rita step out of the kitchen and pop the cash register, though they all heard the crash it made when she slammed it shut again. The hollow clang echoed away in the silence that followed and Rita moved away from the register, looking around the room and making sure everyone felt the full weight of her disapproval.
‘I didn’t ask for you boys to start waving your dicks around over some stupid ass bet.’ She shot a glance to the back of the room where the man in the booth was back to reading his newspaper. ‘But if y’all are gonna start pickin’ fights then I’m puttin’ a stop to this thing right now.’
A collective groan went up in the room and a short, round man in a Coors Light T-shirt stepped forward. ‘Aw come on now Rita, that ain’t fair.’ He held his sweat-stained rancher’s hat in front of him like he was pleading for his soul on a Sunday. ‘Just ’cause these two’s gettin’ all worked up, don’t mean the rest of us have to suffer none. I say let the cowboy ask his last question.’
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.
‘I still say it’s a con,’ the trucker muttered.
‘Then don’t put any damn money down,’ the man in the Coors Light T-shirt said. ‘But don’t be ruining things for the rest of us.’
The trucker puffed himself up again and turned to face this new challenger as the noise in the room started to