Blake Madison sat in the borrowed KIA half a block down from the Fast Spitball, intermittantly checking the comings and goings of the riff-raff that frequented Glory's joint while sucking at a road bottle of Four Roses. He was mulling over the possibility of lighting a roach he had found in the ash tray while looking for a long butt, when Sammy the Snapper exited the joint, looked down the street in both directions, smoothed back his thinning comb-over, and took off down the street in the direction of Cleveland Avenue at a brisk clip. Something was brewing, and it smelled more like murder than java. The Spitball was packing in more tough characters and lost souls than a Cohen Brothers flick. He had already seen Tony Carbone park his rose Cadillac in the Tow Away Zone and lumber in. Johnny Thorn had shown up a little later, followed by Bette. Then that lethal skirt Vendetta Threats had exited a City Bus, paused to freshen her make-up, slipped on a pair of high-heels from her purse, and clacked in.

Blake was glad he was on the outside of this one."I'm just the waterboy," he mumbled aloud," the real game's not over here." He needed a break from the interior of the KIA, which reeked of stale beer and cat piss. Looking up the street away from the Spitball, he saw the neon sign for the Fugawi Inn. He lit a Pall Mall and sauntered in that direction. Peering through the keyhole-shaped window in the door, he saw the bartender, a guy he remembered as Pete, watching the Angels lose on a static-blasted TV. He walked in and took a seat at the bar.He was disappointed to note that the place smelled more like stale beer and cat piss than the KIA. Pete, all the while keeping his eyes glued to the screen, poured a tumbler of Four Roses and said one word- "rocks?" Blake nodded, and Pete dropped three cubes in the glass. The guy had great peripheral vision, you had to say that for him. He deposited Madison's whiskey on the bar, walked slowly toward the television, then struck it a massive blow with his fist. The picture snapped into focus long enough to watch Mullens get tagged out on a steal attempt."Fuckin' loser," said Pete.

"You a fan?" said Madison. A copy of Baseball News lay on the end of the bar. Bartender had on a Dodgers tee shirt. This is why I get the big money, Blake thought to himself. "yeah. Played some minor league ball in Arkansas. Real quad-A, you know. Cow shit and two-row bleacher stuff. I could steal second better'n Mullens though, that flat-footed peckerhead." Blake smiled."Johnny Thorn played minor-league ball in Arkansas, didn't he?" The bartender slapped a wet towel that smelled like it had been last used to sponge down a bulldog on the bar." No, Oklahoma. Fuckin' prima donna," Pete spat." Pretty boy. Pretty dirty too." He mopped the bar, a dead scowl on his puss."Dirty?" said Madison. "How so?" Pete, for the first time, smiled."For five hundy he'd do what he could to make sure his team lost. But he's changed. It's 50 grand now." He suddenly pivoted and slapped the TV with the bar towel, this time failing to disrupt the static."Goddam Magnavox piece of shit," he said, burying his face in the Baseball News.