(An Outtake from THE ALL NATIONS TEAM)

The next day, the people that Shoe had been trying to avoid showed up at our hotel just as we were preparing for an all-day drive to Charleston, West Virginia, for a late afternoon game. Once again, the men in dark suits arrived in a Studebaker, but this one was painted a dark blue, and its sides were chipped and scratched, with at least one hole in the driver's side door that had to have been made by a bullet.

Old Blount must have known that such a vehicle, driven by such a crew of hard-looking men like these three, could only mean trouble, because he hit the deck of the empty team bus and didn't make another peep for the rest of the morning.

George had a good feeling who these men were looking for, but that didn't stop him from grabbing a bat from the pile of equipment next to his bed before he walked out to meet them.

"Can I help you?" he said the short white man at the head of the trio.

"I believe so, Mr. Grunion. You've got a player on this team that's wanted in at least three states. I hope you weren't planning on taking him on a trip any time soon."

George looked at the empty bus, then back at the short man. "I do plan on taking a trip, but I can assure you I have no men who have any sort of criminal record. I run a ball club," he added, lifting the bat up to the short man as if for inspection. The taller men behind the first both made a move toward their belts, but the short man held up a stubby hand.

"Oh, I know all about your All Nations team, coach. Men from all walks of life, and even a woman. But she's not with you any more, is she?" He made a big show of cupping his chin in his hand as if thinking, trying to remember an obscure fact. "I believe she's off spying for the Germans, now, isn't she?"

"I'm not sure I--" George began.

"That's right," the man in the black suit said. "You don't. Now, hand Mr. Shoemaker over to us, and we'll take care of the rest, George. We don't want to have to involved your old friend Mr. Wilkinson in this, now, do we? Or your lovely daughter and your son, out there in Chicago, for that matter."

George stared at the man in front of him, simultaneously trying to keep the sneer off his face while trying not to raise the bat again. The mention of his family had turned the world red in his vision. He would've been happy to turn Shoemaker and his bad attitude over to just about anyone that morning, but these men had stepped over an invisible line.

"You are... mistaken," he said through gritted teeth. "Good day."

Before George could turn around, the two taller men moved out of the reach of his bat and split up, heading for the hotel. George entertained the thought of going after them with the bat, but the gun that had appeared in the hand of the short man in the black suit stopped him cold.

"They won't find anyone but ball players in there," George said.

"Shut up, nigger," the man said in a distracted voice. He was already looking around George toward the hotel. George was officially invisible to the man now.

As the other two men in black suits kicked in the flimsy doors of the hotel, unceremoniously pulling players out into the morning sun, George felt an old, helpless rage fill him. Even more than the gun in the other man's hand, he felt powerless to do anything but wait due to the color of the other man's skin. In all his years of coaching the All Nations, he'd never heard anyone call him a nigger, at least not to his face. His grip on the bat became tighter.

"Relax, Coach," the other man said. "We'll be out of your hair momentarily. You don't want this man on your team anyway. He's pure trouble. Caught him running guns and liquor across the border from Canada a year ago. Shot my brother and got away, the bastard."

"Are you cops?" George said, not wanting to speak to him at all, but knowing from his childhood that suffering humiliation in silence was a fate worse than death.

"You could say that," the man said. "I used to be. Now I'm... freelancing, you could say. Lots of money to be made in liquor, you see, and it's just going to get better in the future. Now," he said, turning on George, "where in the hell is Shoemaker, _Coach_?"

George counted his assembled players standing in a line in front of the hotel. Eleven. But Shoemaker wasn't one of them.

"He must have run off when your boys started kicking in doors," George said, not taking his eyes off his players. He recognized all of them except for the tall, bearded young man wearing an All Nations uniform, though he could have easily passed for a House of David player.

The two men in black suits walked up and down the sidewalk in front of the open hotel room doors.

"Nobody else here but regular people," the first man said in a gravelly voice.

"No more men with baseball gloves and uniforms," the third man said and chuckled. "Just normal people who weren't too happy at having their doors kicked in at seven a.m."

"Shut your trap," the short man said, staring at the players. "Is this it, Coach? All your players?"

George nodded, looking away from his eleven men at last. He stared the shorter man in the eye and remember what he'd called him. "Yes, that's my team. Are you through with us now?"

"Just about," the man said, glaring at the half-dressed players standing with their arms crossed and getting angrier by the second. No Small Foot especially looked ready to explode.

"I just need you tell me one last bit of information," the man said digging into his coat pocket for a small pad of paper and a pen, keeping his gun in his left hand. "I need their names, _Coach_."

George began rattling off the players, starting with Mack at the far left.

"Just Mack?" the other man said, trying to scribble down the name with his gun out. He gave up and holstered his gun inside his coat.

"Just Mack. Then it Jiang Ming-Kai. J-I-A-N-G. Frank Blukoi." He got to the bearded man with the bright blue eyes. "David." George swallowed, thinking hard for a last name. "David Beardsley. Cristobal Torriente and Joe Rogan. John No Small Foot. Jose Mendez, Guillermo Rodriguez. John Donaldson and Domingo Prieto."

"Beardsley," the short man said. "Don't recall that name on your roster from your games in the City, Coach."

"He's new," George said, avoiding Shoe's gaze when he saw the tall young man smirking at him under his beard. That fool was enjoying this, George thought, tempted to turn him in then and there. "A team like this, we have players coming and going all the time, you see. I'd show you his contract, but the owner has them all, and he's not here."

"Sure," the other man said. "Let's go, you big lummoxes. We're wasting time here." He looked back at George, the gun in his tiny hand again. "Don't let me catch up to you again, nigger. If you see or hear of this Shoemaker fellow, you get in touch with the authorities. We'll take care of him. You don't want to get caught up with a Communist like him."

"Of course," George said, giving the man a half bow that sent the bat in his hand clattering to the ground. "Sorry," he said, bending for it just as the short man did. George got to it first, as planned, and gripped it by the fattest part of the bat with both hands and levered the handle end directly into the face of the short man in black.

He was rewarded with a resounding crack as the other man's head jerked back.

"I'm so sorry!" George shouted as he kicked the man's dropped gun over in the direction of his players. He reached out to help the bleeding man, but the man's two cronies pushed him away, their own guns drawn.

"It was an accident," George said. "I didn't mean to -- why would I -- I just..."

The third man glared at George, his gun drawn, but with a glance behind him, he lowered his weapon.

"How about you gentlemen move along," No Small Foot said, aiming the gun at the second of the three men. "You have no further questions for us, do you? And we have a long drive in front of us, so... move along."

With no further words, the three men in black scuffled back to their Studebaker, the short man moaning and holding the bloodied mess of his nose. They roared away while No Small Foot tracked them with his good left eye, the barrel of the gun pointing the entire time at the retreating vehicle.

"Nice slip-up, Coach," No Small Foot said. "Don't you hate little accidents like that?"

George tried to smile, but his heart was hammering so hard in his chest he could barely catch his breath. He'd never done anything like that before in his life.

"Put that gun in the garbage," he said when he was able. "I hate those things. And the rest of you," he called out, avoiding looking at Shoe altogether, "get your stuff and let's get out of this place. Obviously, some of us don't have a lot of friends in Jersey."

All day long, once they were able to get Blount off the floor of the team bus, George kept waiting for Shoe to take off his fake beard and start his cackling laugh, but the man was silent as a monk as he sat stroking his foot-long beard, sitting in the seat next to Mack.

George shrugged to himself, and before turning around he took a good look at Mack. The young centerfielder's skin looked paler than it ever had, almost the color of Rodriguez's coppery-brown skin. Mack sat with his neck at a crooked angle, his face turned in profile as if looking out the window, but he was dead asleep with his mouth open.