Billy Phelan's Greatest Game by William Kennedy Read Free Book Online

play. A labyrinth.
    “Francis,” said Martin, and Francis turned and squinted through half-waking eyes, pitiable visage. Martin vividly remembered the original: Franny Phelan: Albany’s best-known
ball player in his time. And he remembered too the dreadful day in 1901 when the scabs and the militia were trying to drive a single trolley through a mob on Broadway in front of Union Station, and
Franny, in front of the Railroad YMCA, hurling a smooth round stone like a fast ball, and laying open the skull of the scab conductor. The militia fired wildly into the crowd as other stones flew,
and in retaliation for the dead scab, two men who had nothing to do with the violence, a businessman and a shopper, were shot dead. And Franny became a fugitive, his exile proving to be the compost
for his talent. He fled west, using an alias, and got a job in Dayton playing pro ball. When he came home again to live, he returned to life on the road every summer for years, the last three as a
big leaguer with Washington. Franny Phelan, a razzmatazz third baseman, maestro of the hidden ball trick.
    Such a long time ago. And now Franny is back, the bloom of drink in every pore, the flesh ready to bleed through the sheerest of skin. He puffed his cigarette, dropped the lit match to the
floor, inhaled, and then looked searchingly at Martin, who followed the progress of the match, watched its flame slowly burn out on the grease of George’s floor.
    “Ah, how are you, Martin?” Francis said.
    “I’m well enough, Fran, and how are you keeping yourself?”
    “Keeping?” He smiled. “Orange soda, with ice,” he told George.
    “What color orange has your money got?” George said.
    “Take it here,” said Martin, pushing the dollar back to George. And George then poured Francis a glass of soda over ice, a jelly glass with a ridged rim.
    “It’s been years,” Martin said. “Years and years.”
    “I guess so,” said Francis. He sipped the soda, once, twice. “Goddamn throat’s burning up.” He raised the glass. “Cheers.”
    “To you,” Martin said, raising the bottle, “back in Albany.”
    “I only came to vote,” said Francis, smiling.
    “To vote?”
    “To register. They still pay for that here, don’t they?”
    “Ah, yes, of course. I understand. Yes, I believe they do.”
    “I did it before. Registered fourteen times one year. Twenty-eight bucks.”
    “The price is up to five now. It must’ve been a long while ago you did that.”
    “I don’t remember. I don’t remember much of anything anymore.”
    “How long has it been? Twenty years, it must be.”
    “Twenty-two. I do remember that. Nineteen-sixteen.”
    “Twenty-two years. You see the family?”
    “No, I don’t go through that business.”
    “I talked to Chick this morning.”
    “Fuck him.”
    “Well, I always get along pretty well with him. And he always thought well of you.”
    “Fuck ’em all.”
    “You don’t see your kids either?”
    “No, I don’t see nobody.” He sipped the soda. “You see the boy?”
    “Quite often. He’s a first-rate citizen, and good looking, with some of your features. I was with him last night. He bowled two-ninety-nine in a match game.”
    “Yeah.”
    “You want to see him? I could set that up.”
    “No, hell no. None of that old shit. That’s old shit. I’m out of it, Martin. Don’t do nothin’ like that to me.”
    “If you say so.”
    “Yeah, I do. No percentage in that.”
    “You here for a while?”
    “No, passing through, that’s all. Get the money and get gone.”
    “Very strange development, running into you here. Anything I can do for you, Franny?” Franny, the public name. What a hell of a ball player, gone to hell.
    “I could use a pack of smokes.”
    “What’s your brand?”
    Francis snorted. “Old Golds. Why not?”
    Martin pushed a quarter at George and George fished for the cigarettes and bounced them on the bar in front of Francis.
    “That’s two I owe you, Martin. What’re