Playing for Keeps Read Online Free PDF Page A

first, informal meal on the ship.
    I gave a quick glance to the heaped plate Neil had prepared for himself. It was a well-known fact that teenage boys were always hungry, so Ricky was bound to be. Mr. Diago was bent over his plate, looking as if he were concentrating on his food and nothing else. Where was Ricky? Obviously his uncle didn’t care.
    I turned toward Neil, deciding to tell him about Mr. Diago’s odd behavior, but Neil was listening to Mrs. Duncastle. I heard her say, “My father never missed a major baseball game. If it wasn’t TV, then it was radio. I took in every game right along with him. So it was only natural, I suppose, that my late husband was also a baseball fan.”
    “Did you follow the Cincinnati Reds?” Neil asked.
    “Yes, but they weren’t my favorites.” She giggled and added, “Don’t ask me why, as a native west Texan, I rooted for the Minnesota Twins. I still remember 1965—before you were born—and the Cuban stars who brought the Twins the pennant— Tony Oliva, Sandy Valdespino, and Camilo Pascual. Pascual was one of the best pitchers in the majors.”
    “Don’t forget Zoilo Versalles, a top shortstop with a great batting average.”
    Mrs. Duncastle swallowed a large bite of potato salad and said, “Those Cubans really made a name for themselves. I still remember Cookie Rojas. He was with the Phillies and ended up managing the Angels in 1988.”
    “There was another Cuban star—Martín Urbino,” Neil said. “Remember him? He was a good all-around player and went on to manage one of the Cincinnati Reds’ minor-league teams.”
    “I remember Urbino,” Mrs. Duncastle said. “Stocky and strong. He had a lot of power behind that bat.”
    “Take a look at the man facing us at the table next to the wall,” Neil said. “Doesn’t he look like Martín Urbino?”
    Mrs. Duncastle put on her glasses and leaned forward. “Where?” she asked.
    Neil turned to point him out. I looked too, but Mr. Diago was no longer there. A young blond woman sat in the chair where he had been. She was eating and chatting with the woman next to her.
    “I guess he left,” Neil said. “Well, it doesn’t matter. If I see him later, I’ll point him out to you.”
    As Neil and Mrs. Duncastle went back to discussing baseball, I turned to Glory on my other side. But she was busy listening to a detailed complaint from Myra Evans about her son-in-law.
    I finished my salad, my thoughts on Mom. They were bound to have postcards on the ship. I’d send one to Mom, just to let her know I was thinking about her. To say I was sorry we’d parted on such unhappy terms. To say . . . I put my napkin on the table and began to slide my chair back.
    I was about to excuse myself when a tall, muscular man who was probably in his mid-sixties stopped behind my chair, blocking my way.
    “Dora?” he asked Mrs. Duncastle in a voice so deep it sounded like the voice of a bear in a Saturday-morning cartoon. “Is it really you?”
    Mrs. Duncastle turned, looking up with surprise. She beamed, a tiny speck of broccoli decorating her smile. “Anthony Bailey!” she said, grasping his hand. “I haven’t seen you since Fred and I had dinner with you at that builders’ convention in Las Vegas.”
    “How is your husband?”
    “Oh, Fred’s fine. Enjoying retirement.” Without letting go of Mr. Bailey’s hand, Mrs. Duncastle introduced him to everyone at the table and giggled. “I was so impressed because Anthony was staying in the Las Vegas hotel’s presidential suite.”
    He tried to look modest but didn’t make it as he said, “This time it’s the
royal
suite—top of the line.”
    “Oh, my,” Mrs. Duncastle said, sounding impressed all over again. Then she asked Mr. Bailey, “Are you on board for the bridge tournament?”
    He laughed. “No. Bridge is not my game. To my way of thinking, playing cards for fun, as you once put it, is a waste of time.”
    “I hope you’re kidding,” Glory began, but Mr. Bailey