Angels in Heaven

good on
paper, but I couldn’t help thinking that Benny would come up with any excuse to
have a cheap laugh at my expense. He probably had one of his hammock-weaving
amigos up in the stands taking pictures.
    Anyway, while I was fretting,
fussing, and fidgeting by the river trying to come up with a plan B that made
sense, that little rascal had all the details of his own plan B already worked
out. He’d seen, as I had, the announcement in the newspaper that the
Globetrotters were in town. He figured they’d be staying at the most American
hotel in town, the Holiday Inn just off the Paseo Montejo, phoned up, and they
were. So he dropped by one afternoon when he was supposed to be by the
pool—didn’t he?—all on his lonesome, without telling his best friend in the
world, who at that very moment was wracked by disease, and tracked down the
road manager, name of Happy, whom he found in the outdoor bar by the pool.
Benny drew Happy aside. Benny said his pal V. Daniel was in Mexico doing a chore for one of Happy’s basketball brethren, none other than power forward J. J.
Hill, for confirmation of which all he had to do was phone up J. J. at his
hotel, number on request. Benny said in the course of my duties I’d had a minor
altercation with the local fuzz, the specifics of which Benny had neglected to
inform me. He offered Happy a lot of money (mine) if I could mingle with the
team for a few hours, and that was all. Benny had a stroke of luck here, as
Happy came up with the good news that the teams were taking a late flight out
Saturday night after their last game—M6rida to Mexico City to Monterey to Houston.
    Whatever line Benny spun, Happy
bought it, and they shook on the deal. It was the twerp’s idea to have a fake
broken arm, that way I’d have a reason for not warming up with the others, let
alone playing, God forbid, and also that way I’d only have one hand to blacken.
    So when I got back to Mérida after
some more soothing hours in the womb, I called Happy from Jorge’s back room and
made the necessary arrangements. Later I sent Carlos out shopping for a
gigantic embroidered silver-on-black sombrero, a pair of flashy shades, one
large souvenir scarf, a jar of cold cream (any brand), a box of tissues, one
pocket mirror, several corks, and finally, an extensive supply of food and
drink. Then there was nothing to do but wait and practice my lay-ups.
    To the great delight of all Jorge’s
neighbors, the hired bus containing both teams plus Happy plus the two refs who
traveled with the entourage pulled up in front of his shop just after seven. A
half-dozen Globetrotters piled out and invaded the store. Happy followed Jorge
out back and handed over the warm-up outfit and a pair of canoe-size hightops
he’d brought along as arranged. The road manager was, as one might guess from
his moniker, a totally harassed, permanently worried, short, black bundle of
nerves with round glasses and a highly creased forehead; I suppose my pristine
forehead might pick up a wrinkle or two if I had to baby-sit that busload of
sports all around the world.
    I was already made up and had been
for some time, and I am here to state that burnt cork really works, as Benny
had assured me it would. I do not care to speculate how he came by that
information. What you do is cream your visage thoroughly, wipe off all the
surface cream, bum some corks, and rub the charred bits on. Then one either
pats the face gently all over with a tissue or powders lightly, my dear, with a
soft puff.
    I climbed into the warm-up outfit, slipped
on the boats, put on the sombrero, then the shades. I slung the towel casually
around my neck. I inserted my broken wing into the sling. Happy took one look
at the finished product and shook his head slowly.
    “Thought I’d seen it all,” he said.
“How wrong I was.” I handed over two grand in traveler’s checks, which failed
to significantly cheer him up. He led the way to the door into the shop, opened
it a crack, and called out, “Hey, Peanuts, Snowy, come here a minute!”
    In came Peanuts and Snowy, already in
costume, like me, but with Globetrotter shorts and vests underneath, as
bullfight arenas don’t have changing rooms and all personnel involved in a
bullfight show up in their appropriate attire, be it suit of lights or the more
mundane costumes of the ground crew, the horse handlers, and so on.
    Peanuts was a skinny bald gent about
my height. Snowy was a hefty afroed gent so black he was