The Prospect

The Prospect

By Jack Smiles

Bales was right across the street from his hotel, which, Fell judged, wasn’t half bad for a crossroads cow-town. He got to Bales early and took a table against the wall opposite the bar. Even though they came in on time, the father, Wilson, apologized for being late.

“I was back a farm birthing a cow,” he said. “Need Terry’s help with the calves.”

Wilson was leading the way with Terry close behind him. The old man pulled a chair out for his wife, Denise. Terry did the same for his girlfriend, Mary Lou. Fell sized Terry up. He wasn’t a big kid, looked to be about 5’10”, maybe 160. Built, though, with those long, lean farmer muscles showing below the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel shirt. And he had a posture, the kid did. Like they used to say about Big Ed Walsh: he could strut standing still.

Terry, his parents, and Mary Lou sat across the table from Fell. Watching Terry and his father cut their steaks, with their forks and knives dwarfed by their huge paws, Fell had a hard time getting the image out of his mind of those hands inside a cow’s guts. After Terry’s father finished his steak, put down his fork and knife, and wiped his face, Fell opened his mouth to make his pitch, but Terry’s father beat him to it. “They tell me you want to send my boy away to play ball clear to Wichita.”

“He won’t be there long, Mr. Kranson,” Fell said.

“Well that’s good, gonna need him in August.”

“No,” said Fell, “that’s not what ….”

Just then the restaurant front door opened. Fell glanced at the man who walked in, recognized him and lowered his head. Terry was about turn and look, but Fell distracted him.

“Terry, do you know how much Bob Feller made last year?”

“No sir.”

“Twenty-thousand.”

Terry’s mother’s mouth fell open. “Dollars?” she said with a gasp.

“Yes, mam, dollars.”

“Well, yeah, and more than that one day.”

Mary Lou mumbled, and elbowed Terry in the ribs.

Fell dared a glance at the front. Yankee scout Dan Kellow stood at the bar talking to the bartender and then turned and went down a hallway toward the men’s room.

Fell excused himself and hurried to the bar.

He put a fiver in the bartender’s hand. “If that stranger asks about Terry, you don’t know him.”

“But he’s sitting right there.”

Fell put another fiver in his hand, repeated “you don’t know him,” and hurried back to the table.

Kellow came out and went back to the bar.  He looked at Fell’s table, but Fell looked down at his plate. Kellow didn’t recognize him. Kellow talked to the bartender, who pointed toward the street. Kellow went out. Fell went to the bar.

“He didn’t ask about Terry,” the bartender said. “He went across the street to get a room. He’s coming back for dinner. Twenty minutes.”

Fell was relieved. He was a step ahead. Kellow had just arrived. He hadn’t been at the game. But what else could he be here for? Fell went back to the table and waved for the check. As he counted out the money, he said, “Here’s my offer: $300 for his name. It’s unheard of. And $350 a month. Please think about it.”

Fell got Terry and his family out of the restaurant just in time. Their pickup pulled away just as Kellow walked across the street from the hotel to the restaurant. Walking in the opposite direction to the hotel, Fell turned his head as he passed Kellow in the street. It was dark. Kellow didn’t recognize him.

Fell went to the desk and chatted up the night clerk about dinner. “Cut that steak with a butter knife,” Fell said, glancing down at the registration book. Reading upside down he saw that Kellow was in 10, two doors down from his own room.

Picking hotel room locks might not like seem like a scouting skill, but it happened before. In Kellow’s room Fell found Kellow’s personal appointment book on the dresser. He looked at the next day, Tuesday. Nothing there. He looked at Wednesday. It read, “Game at Wheatland high school. Good prospect. 4 p.m.”

“Damn Yankees,” Fell said under his breath. Wednesday was Wheatland’s next game and as far as Coach Poole cared, two days rest was plenty for Terry. Back in his room Fell poured a stiff bourbon and played mental pepper with his options. One: run over to the bar, confront Kellow, and demand he lay off his discovery. Two: go out to the farm and make the family an offer that would curl the old man’s mustache. But the Browns were cheap. Fell didn’t have the power to offer the money he was thinking about. Hell, he didn’t even think they’d go for the $300.

Back in his room Fell tried the telephone, but the operator couldn’t make a connection to St. Louis. He went to the desk and sent a telegram, but wasn’t optimistic. President Miller wasn’t gonna buy “the next Feller” description. How could there be more than one?

So Fell chose option one. He stormed into the Bales and walked right up to Kellow.

“Fell,” Kellow said, “What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere? The Browns find some money in the couch cushions?”

“Like you don’t know. The kid’s mine, Kellow. I discovered him.”

Kellow drained his glass, threw his money on the bar, said, “It’s business,” and walked out.

Fell went to the window and watched Kellow enter the hotel. He waited a couple minutes and then went to the hotel. He gave the night clerk a fiver. “If room 10 goes out ring me. If not, pass it on to the day clerk.”

Fell stayed up half the night worrying. The desk didn’t ring. The next day there were enough cowboys around for Fell to keep an eye on Kellow without making it obvious. The Yankee scout took breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the Bales. After dinner he went to the bar. The waiter brought him a telegram. Kellow read it and went back to his room.

Fell made the same deal with the clerk. Exhausted, he downed a couple of drinks and slept. In the lobby in the morning, the day clerk nodded at him. Kellow hadn’t gone out. Fell followed Kellow to Bales, took a table across the dining room. As Fell ate his breakfast, Kellow walked over to his table and stood over him. “Look, Fell, you’re right. You discovered him, the kid is yours.”

Fell nearly spit out his coffee. He slapped a hand on the table and laughed. “Since when did the Yankees get a conscience?”

“Do you want him or don’t you? Final offer, the Smith kid is yours.”

“Smith? Who the hell is Smith?”

“Don’t play stupid with me Fell. He’s the outfielder from West County high and they’re playing here tomorrow.”

“But, I’m not here for…”

Kellow interrupted, raising his voice. “I’m not buying your act, Fell, I know that’s why you’re here. You’re getting what you want. Besides I found a better kid. Kranson kid, a pitcher,  Terry’s the name.”

Fell dropped his fork. It clattered off the plate onto the floor. He put his hands over his face. “How’d you find him?”

“I got lucky. I overheard talk of the kid in the bar. He’s a hayseed, but I figured if the truth of the stories were half of what I was hearing, he be a find. For fifteen bucks and a bottle of bourbon, the bartender said he’d get word to the kid and the old man. They came to my room last night. Barrow wired him personally from New York. The old man was impressed as all hell. Signed him right there in my room. They’re all on the way to Springfield as we speak. The old man, the mother, the girlfriend. Gonna get him settled in.”

Fell’s mouth dropped open, but he couldn’t speak.

“Come on, Fell, aren’t you going to thank me? Say something.”

Fell looked down at his eggs and said, “But who’s gonna birth the calves?”

Jack Smiles is a former community newspaper feature writer collecting short fiction rejections as a hobby in retirement.

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