Free Balls by Julian Tepper, Julian Page A

months Henry had showed up on time. Never once had he called out sick. There’d been the incident with John Grover, but Edgar couldn’t still hold that against him, could he? Besides Grover was a nasty old drunk, and he’d been the one to accost Henry and not the other way around.
    It had been his second month on the job. Grover, a rapporteur for the U.N. on sex crimes against children in sub-Saharan Africa, had come in from a full day of addressing the General Assembly. That frail but hostile curmudgeon Grover with his blue metallic eyes and the long white hairs growing out his nose and his habit of throwing around his weight and telling you what to do and then criticizing you for it afterwards:
    Kid, play some Tatum. Ahhh , you’ll stink it up. You can’t do speed and style. So do some Fats. No, never mind. You’re no good.
    Edgar had warned Henry about Grover. Ignore his bad manners, he’d said.
    Grover was a troubled man, broken by visions of deprivation and bloodshed and mass graves during five decades of service in Africa. He could not take this world of New York City and the Beekman Hotel seriously, said Edgar. But nevertheless he came in to get drunk, and when he drank he was hostile, at times plain violent.
    Just let him be. You think you can do that? Edgar had asked him.
    Won’t be a problem, sir.
    Don’t engage.
    I won’t.
    Perhaps Grover had put back six or seven old-fashioneds that fateful evening. It was late, almost eleven-thirty. Grover, seated in the lounge over four hours, from nowhere approached the piano. Henry didn’t see him coming, his attention was on playing. He’d never have anticipated Grover dumping a mixture of bourbon and muddled fruit into his lap. But he did. Henry jumped to his feet. He was horrified, incensed. Somehow he recalled Edgar’s instructions and quickly gathered his emotions, sweeping them back into his heart, and did nothing but ask Grover to leave.
    Leave? You leave, the old man had shouted.
    I work here.
    Ahh, screw you. Grover stood with his forefinger aimed at Henry. In a gray double-breasted suit, he was so frail. He told Henry he wasn’t a man, that he knew it just by looking at him. I could eat you alive.
    Henry had no idea what Grover had against him. He gave other employees at the Beekman a hard time, but with him he was especially cruel.
    Just go home, said Henry.
    In response, Grover shouted, Let’s go. Outside. Me and you.
    He’d been looking for a fight, to roll up his sleeves and go toe to toe with the piano player. Henry could kill him with a single punch. And he was not going to hurt an old man. Even after Grover came at his throat all Henry did was to hold him back. Grover would not acquiesce, he was vicious. At some point in restraining him, however, Henry used too much force and accidentally pushed Grover to the floor. Crowds gathered around them. Edgar wasn’t happy that Grover, having thrown out his back, had to be wheeled from the lounge on a gurney. There’d been a small piece about it in the Post the next morning. The headline read:
    Beekman Piano Player
K.O.’s Member of U.N.
    Henry was sure he’d get fired. There’d been witnesses to the scene, though, those who saw Grover go after him. So they cut him a break. All the same, Henry knew the hotel management had their eye on him. Even one year later the incident had left Henry second-guessing his job security.
    But that’s just in your head, Henry told himself. Dial Edgar. Do it.
    On his phone he pressed talk. In three rings Edgar answered. The sound of him pulling on a cigarette was a soft pop in Henry’s ear. He said, What’s happening, Hank? You’ve got problems?
    Edgar was the only person who called Henry Hank . Henry didn’t mind. In fact, he enjoyed it. It partly soothed the strained feeling in his chest now. He said, I’m sick, Edgar. I’ve got something bad.
    What is it? Edgar’s tone