Magic Time. W. Kinsella P.

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СКАЧАТЬ a large hand into a side pocket and withdrew his keys. I had grabbed them and was halfway across the room before Byron could untangle his feet from the chair legs.

      The interior of the car was still cool from the air conditioning. It smelled of leather and of lime after-shave. There was nothing in sight except a State Farm road atlas on the front seat. The very neatness of the car told a lot about its owner, I thought: methodical, the type of man who would care about distances.

      I carried the atlas into the café, where the stranger was now seated across the table from Byron.

      ‘Let’s just check out New York to Chicago,’ he said. ‘There’s always a chance I’m wrong.’

      He turned to the United States mileage chart, and all three of us studied it. There were eighty cities listed down the side of the chart, and sixty names across the top. Where the two names intersected on the chart was the mileage between them.

      ‘Yes, sir, 809 miles, just as I said.’

      The stranger put a big, square fingertip down on the chart at the point where New York and Chicago intersected.

      I noticed the stranger had a lantern jaw. He was also more muscular than I would have guessed, his shoulders square as a robot’s. His eyes were golden.

      I quickly calculated that there were nearly five thousand squares on the mileage chart. He can’t know them all, I thought.

      ‘Would either of you care to test me?’ he asked, as if reading my mind. He smiled. ‘By the way, my name’s Roger Cash.’

      ‘Mike Houle,’ I said. ‘And this is my kid brother, Byron.’

      We were sharing the ice cream because we were saving for a Cubs’ home stand. Dad had promised to take us into the city every night as long as we could afford to buy our own tickets.

      ‘Well …’

      ‘No bets, then. Just name some places. Distances are my hobby.’

      ‘Omaha and New Orleans,’ I said.

      ‘Approximately 1,026,’ Roger Cash replied, after an appropriate pause.

      We checked it, and he was right.

      ‘St. Louis to Los Angeles,’ said Byron.

      ‘Exactly 1,838 miles,’ said Roger.

      Again he was right.

      ‘Milwaukee to Kansas City,’ I said.

      ‘One thousand, seven hundred and seventy-nine,’ he replied quickly.

      We checked the chart.

      ‘Wrong!’ we chorused together. ‘It’s 1,797.’

      ‘Doggone,’ said Roger, grinning sheepishly, ‘sometimes I tend to reverse numbers. Seeing as how I couldn’t do it three times in a row, I’ll buy each of you men a dish of ice cream, or something larger if you want. A banana split? You choose.’

      It wasn’t often we could afford top-of-the-line treats. I ordered a banana split with chopped almonds and chocolate sauce on all three scoops. Byron ordered a tall chocolate malt, thick as cement. Roger had another pink lemonade.

      ‘What made you memorize the mileage chart?’ I asked between mouthfuls of banana split.

      ‘Nothing made me,’ said Roger, leaning back and straightening out his legs. ‘I spend a lot of time traveling, a lot of nights alone in hotel and motel rooms. It passes the time, beats drinking or reading the Gideon Bible.

      ‘I’ve been known to gamble on my ability to remember mileages,’ he went on, ‘and on the outcome of baseball games in which I am the pitcher. I never gamble unless the odds are in my favor, substantially in my favor.’

      ‘Do you pitch for anyone in particular?’ I asked.

      ‘One season, I tried to take a team barnstorming. But,’ and he shook his head sadly, ‘that era is dead and gone. When I was a boy I watched the House of David play, and the Kansas City Monarchs. Must have been about the last season they toured. Costs too much to support a traveling team these days, and with television and all, people don’t go out to minor-league parks to see their home team let alone a team of barnstormers.

      ‘No, what I do now is arrange for a pickup team to back me up – play an exhibition game against a well-known local team … Say,’ he said, as if he had just been struck by a brilliant idea. ‘Do you suppose you men could round up the rest of your high-school team?’

      ‘Byron’s not in high school yet,’ I said. ‘But I probably could. Most of the players live close by, a few on farms. Some will be away on vacation, but I think I could round up a full team without too much trouble.’

      ‘In that case I think we might be able to arrange a business proposition.’

      For the next few minutes, Roger Cash outlined his plans, while Byron and I nodded at his every suggestion. It was obvious he had done this thing many times before.

      All the time he was talking, I was eyeing the mileage chart, searching for an easily reversible number.

      ‘Have you spotted one that will beat me?’ Roger asked suddenly. He had been talking about how many practices our team would need, and the switch in subject caught me by surprise.

      ‘Maybe.’

      ‘You want to put some money on it?’

      ‘A dollar.’ I gulped. I could feel the pace of my heart pick up.

      ‘You’re on,’ he said, turning away from where the chart lay open on the table top. ‘Name the cities.’

      ‘Albuquerque to New York.’

      Roger laughed. ‘You picked one of the hardest. A mileage easy to reverse. Now, if I wanted to win your dollar I’d say 1,997.’ He paused for one beat. I could feel my heart bump, for the number was right.

      ‘But if I wanted to set you up to bet five dollars on the next combination, I’d say 1,979. I might miss the next one, too. People are greedy and like to take money from a stranger. I might even miss a third or fourth time, and I always leave the chart out where a man with a sharp eye can spot an easily reversible number. You men aren’t old enough to go to bars, or I’d show you how it really works.’

      I took out my wallet, opened it up and lifted out a dollar. ‘No,’ said Roger. ‘I’ll chalk that one up to your experience. I have a mind for distances. I once read a story about a blind, retarded boy who played the piano like a master. And I heard about another man who can tell you what day of the week any date in history, or future history, was or will be. Myself, I have an idiot’s talent for distances.’

      ‘What’s so great about distances?’ asked Byron. ‘If I was smart I’d choose something else to be an expert on.’

      ‘Let me tell you about distances,’ said Roger, his golden eyes like coins with black shadows at the center. ‘Six or eight inches doesn’t СКАЧАТЬ