Free Parker Field by Howard Owen

a hell of a time findin’ it. The family had moved on, to Massachusetts or somewhere like that. Somebody told me that her father died and her mother sold the house the next year. She might have had other family, but I didn’t stick around long enough to find out.”
    “What did you do? I mean, did you leave flowers or something?”
    Jimmy doesn’t answer for a beat or two.
    “Yeah. Left some flowers. I remember one time she said she liked yellow roses, so I got some. Her grave was way up some hill. Didn’t see any other Flynns around it.”
    I observe that it seems like he went a long way to pay respects to someone he hardly knew.
    “Well,” Jimmy says, “she was nice, you know? She might of had a screw or two loose, but she was a good-hearted girl, and she deserved better than what she got.”
    I’m thinking Jimmy might have been a little in love with Frannie Fling himself. She could have done, and did do, worse.
    C INDY OFFERS to give Peggy a ride home later. I don’t think my mother’s planning to spend any long periods of time away from the hospital, just long enough to make sure the house is still standing. Awesome Dude’s already left. I guess he’s perambulating somewhere between the hospital and Oregon Hill.
    I almost forgot I have a meeting with Grubby at two. It’s five after by the time I get there. Sandy McCool ushers me in.
    I asked Wheelie about getting a short sabbatical to do the story on the 1964 Vees, but it turns out managing editors don’t have the authority, or balls, to approve such a major undertaking. He said I’d have to ask Grubby.
    James H. Grubbs, former boy reporter and present publisher, looks as good as ever, which means “not very.” I don’t know if sunlight bounces off his skin or if he just never goes outside, but he is about the same shade as the copy paper on his desk, and he looks as if a good breeze would blow him away. He’s working his iPhone when I walk in, and he doesn’t stop, barely bothers to look up.
    “Five minutes late,” he says by way of greeting.
    “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
    “Oh,” he says, “don’t worry. I’d never let you interrupt anything.”
    “After all I’ve done for you.”
    He emits a sound that would be a laugh, were it accompanied by any show of merriment whatsoever.
    “Like give me gray hair and ulcers?”
    I figure it’s a fool’s errand to mention that I’ve also given him some damn good stories when they were in short supply in our ever-shrinking newsroom. It’s an even bigger fool’s errand to mention that selling his soul to the devil probably gave him his gray hair and ulcers.
    So I cut to the chase. I explain, in as few words as possible, about my idea for a takeout on the 1964 Vees, our last Yankees farm team.
    “We have a sports department,” Grubby notes.
    “Bootie says it’s fine with him.”
    Grubby does actually laugh at that one.
    “Everything’s fine with Bootie. Did you bring him some Scotch?”
    I mention that our sports guys don’t have time to go to the bathroom anymore. One guy’s covering the whole prep beat and another one’s responsible for two major college athletic programs plus auto racing.
    “And you do? You’ve got plenty of time?”
    I say the only thing I can think of.
    “I’ll make it worth your while.”
    When I mention the Frannie Fling angle, he seems slightly more interested. He can see that there might be a hook.
    “Yeah,” he says. “You might be able to get some of the old geezers to talk about that. That’d be interesting.”
    I mention that my mother’s “special friend” was on the team.
    “Ah,” Grubby says. “So you’ve got an angle. Well, maybe he can tell you some inside stuff.”
    I tell him that Les is in the hospital, recovering from a gunshot wound and a stroke. It was in the paper, I remind him.
    “Oh yeah,” Grubby says, as he uses the little stylus to respond to someone in the ether who must be more important than me. “Sorry. I