"Which way?" I asked."I bet you'd lose at least a hundred, even money." Shit," I said. I felt my stomach turn over and sink."How was I to know I'd end...up pitching for Washington?" He waved his hands."You can't bet on baseball," said Mr. Ambrose quietly, his fingers now clamped together before him. "You ever hear of Pete Rose?" But I never bet on a game," he cried, waving his hands. "Not one fucking game." Is there a relief pitcher loose somewhere?" I asked Ambrose while Charlie sputtered"No,". Well, a snow-free ski resort surely offered the latter.The middle-aged woman, when she arrived, joined us, though I got the impression she'd have preferred to have been on her own. Her name was Celeste something-or-other. The older guy, who showed up last, was a good deal more convivial; he was Douglas, "call me Doug," and I never got his last name either. He seemed to set kind of a bead on Celeste, whose initial response was a little frosty; but he was so easy-going and friendly that it was. More

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