"What will it be, gentlemen?" asked the waitress in the cocktail lounge.
"Scotch and soda," said Paul Frost.
"A bottle of Squirt," said the man from out of town.
Spider Jorgensen leaned across the table, the muscles in his jaw taut, still not over the night's defeat and the hassle with the umpire. "It's the same everywhere," he said, slapping the table. "I don't care whether it's Yankee Stadium, the Coliseum in L.A. or the ball park down here in Class D. You just can't win ball games without pitching."
Paul Frost and the out-of-town man nodded in sympathy.
The waitress touched Spider gently on the shoulder. He whirled around in a jerky, nervous reaction.
"What?" he said, looking up at the girl.
"I'm waiting for your order, Spider," said the girl.
"Oh," said Spider, slumping back in his chair. He thought a moment and then said, "Squirt. Vodka and Squirt."
The out-of-town man didn't say so, but he couldn't help feeling that if any man in the state of New Mexico deserved vodka in his Squirt this evening it was John (Spider) Jorgensen.