Nick straightened. JD had the look of a man who
might have recognized something. Nick glanced up at the
reproduction plaque on the wal . He had sat under it many
times, gazing at it idly as he waited for his food, reading the words when his dinner mate went to the bathroom, staring at
it listlessly as he ordered for that last drink that would send him into taxi territory.
14
It was a common fake wood plaque, roughly two feet
tall and one wide, featuring a frieze of a nameless baseball
player in pinstripes—something many people had defaced
over the years because those pinstripes looked far too much
like Yankee pinstripes and this was Boston, baby. It was also
covered in Red Sox stickers and graffiti.
Nick looked up at it dubiously, then back at JD. “Are you
remembering something?”
JD was still scowling. He shook his head minutely, still
examining the plaque. “I just . . . looking at that gives me a
feeling I think is familiar.”
“Have you seen it before?”
“I don’t know. I think . . . I think maybe I hate the Yankees,”
JD answered with a shrug.
Nick snorted and couldn’t help but smile as he took a
drink.
“I guess that’s nothing spectacular, huh?”
“Well. It’s not going to help narrow you down from the
crowd any.”
The amusement faded from JD’s eyes and he returned
his attention to his hands, twisting his fingers together
and shifting uneasily in the chair. Nick watched him in
sympathy. He couldn’t begin to imagine what was going
through his mind.