“That’s awful,” I said, tucking the Sunliner’s bill of sale into my wallet. I bounced the car keys on my palm. “Local guy?”

“Nope, and no ID. He probably came down from The County in a boxcar, that’s what my dad says. For the apple picking over in Castle Rock, maybe. Mr. Cady—he’s the clerk at the greenfront—told my dad the guy came in yesterday morning and tried to buy a pint, but he was drunk and smelly, so Mr. Cady kicked him out. Then he must have went over to the millyard to drink up whatever he had left, and when it was gone, he broke the bottle and cut his throat with one of the pieces.” She repeated: “Can you imagine?”

I skipped the haircut, and I skipped the bank, too, but I once more bought clothes at Mason’s Menswear.

“You must like that shade of blue,” the clerk commented, and held up the shirt on top of my pile. “Same color as the one you’re wearing.”

In fact it was the shirt I was wearing, but I didn’t say so. It would only have confused us both.

3

I drove up the Mile-A-Minute Highway that Thursday afternoon. This time I didn’t need to buy a hat when I got to Derry, because I’d remembered to add a nice summer straw to the purchases I made at Mason’s. I registered at the Derry Town House, had a meal in the dining room, then went into the bar and ordered a beer from Fred Toomey. On this go-round I made no effort to engage him in conversation.

The following day I rented my old apartment on Harris Avenue, and far from keeping me awake, the sound of the descending planes actually lulled me to sleep. The day after that, I went down to Machen’s Sporting Goods and told the clerk I was interested in buying a handgun because I was in the real estate business and blah blah blah. The clerk brought out my .38 Police Special and once more told me it was a fine piece of protection. I bought it and put it in my briefcase. I thought about walking out Kansas Street to the little picnic area so I could watch Richie-from-the-ditchie and Bevvie-from-the-levee practice their Jump Street moves, then realized I’d missed them. I wished I’d thought to check the late November issues of the Daily News during my brief return to 2011; I could have found out if they’d won their talent show.

I made it a habit to drop into The Lamplighter for an early-evening beer, before the place started to fill up. Sometimes I ordered Lobster Pickin’s. I never saw Frank Dunning there, nor wanted to. I had another reason for making The Lamplighter a regular stop. If all went well, I’d soon be heading for Texas, and I wanted to build up my personal treasury before I went. I made friends with Jeff the bartender, and one evening toward the end of September, he brought up a subject I’d been planning to raise myself.

“Who do you like in the Series, George?”

“Yankees, of course,” I said.

“You say that? A guy from Wisconsin?”

“Home-state pride has nothing to do with it. The Yankees are a team of destiny this year.”

“Never happen. Their pitchers are old. Their defense is leaky. Mantle’s got bad wheels. The Bronx Bomber dynasty is over. Milwaukee might even sweep.” I laughed. “You make a few good points, Jeff, I can see you’re a student of the game, but

’fess up—you hate the Yanks just like everybody else in New England, and it’s destroyed your perspective.”

“You want to put your money where your mouth is?”

“Sure. A fin. I make it a point not to take any more than a five-spot from the wage-slaves.

Are we on?”

“We are.” And we shook on it.

“Okay,” I said, “now that we’ve got that accomplished, and since we’re on the subjects of baseball and betting—the two great American pastimes—I wonder if you could tell me where I could find some serious action in this town. If I may wax poetic, I want to lay a major wager. Bring me another beer and draw one for yourself.”

I said major wager Maine-style— majah wajah—and he laughed as he drew a couple of Narragansetts (which I had learned to call Nasty Gansett; when in Rome, one should, as much as possible, speak as the Romans do).

We clinked glasses, and Jeff asked me what I meant by serious action. I pretended to consider, then told him.

“Five hundred smacks? On the Yankees? When the Braves’ve got Spahn and Burdette? Not to mention Hank Aaron and Steady Eddie Mathews? You’re nuts.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. We’ll see starting October first, won’t we? Is there anyone in Derry who’ll fade a bet of that size?”

Did I know what he was going to say next? No. I’m not that prescient. Was I surprised? No again. Because the past isn’t just obdurate; it’s in harmony with both itself and the future. I experienced that harmony time and again.

“Chaz Frati. You’ve probably seen him in here. He owns a bunch of hockshops. I wouldn’t exactly call him a bookie, but he keeps plenty busy at World Series time and during high school football and basketball season.”

“And you think he’ll take my action.”

“Sure. Give you odds and everything. Just . . .” He looked around, saw we still had the bar to ourselves, but dropped his voice to a whisper anyway. “Just don’t stiff him, George. He knows people. Strong people.”

“I hear you,” I said. “Thanks for the tip. In fact, I’m going to do you a favor and not hold you to that five when the Yankees win the Series.”

4

The following day I entered Chaz Frati’s Mermaid Pawn & Loan, where I was confronted by a large, stone-faced lady of perhaps three hundred pounds. She wore a purple dress, Indian beads, and moccasins on her swollen feet. I told her I was interested in discussing a rather large sports-oriented business proposal with Mr. Frati.

“Is that a bet in regular talk?” she asked.

“Are you a cop?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, bringing a Tiparillo out of one dress pocket and lighting it with a Zippo.

“I’m J. Edgar Hoover, my son.”

“Well, Mr. Hoover, you got me. I’m talking about a bet.”

“World Series or Tigers football?”

“I’m not from town, and wouldn’t know a Derry Tiger from a Bangor Baboon. It’s baseball.” The woman stuck her head through a curtained-off doorway at the back of the room, presenting me with what was surely one of central Maine’s largest backsides, and hollered, “Hey Chazzy, come out here. You got a live one.”

Frati came out and kissed the large lady on the cheek. “Thank you, my love.” His sleeves were rolled up, and I could see the mermaid. “May I help you?”

“I hope so. George Amberson’s the name.” I offered my hand. “I’m from Wisconsin, and although my heart’s with the hometown boys, when it comes to the Series my wallet’s with the Yankees.”