Murder at Fenway Park (23 page)

I came to with Karl Landfors gently shaking my good arm and repeating my name. I looked at him but my eyes didn’t focus close-up. They instead took in the two uniformed cops standing behind him. One was writing in a notebook.

“Mickey, you awake?”

With an effort that aggravated my headache, I was able to bring my eyes to focus on Karl. “Yeah, I’m awake.”

The officer who was writing told Landfors, “Better take your friend here to a hospital. He don’t look so good. We got everything we need for now. We’ll be in touch to get your statements.”

“Okay, good idea,” Karl agreed. “Can you stand?”

“I think so. Legs weren’t hurt, they should be okay.” Karl helped pull me to my feet, then had to support me because I was too woozy to keep my balance. I felt better after looking down and seeing that Neal was still out.

“C’mon, Mickey. I explained everything to them. Let’s get you to a doctor and get you looked at.”

“Yeah, okay.”

A broken right arm and three, maybe four, cracked ribs. That’s what the doctor who patched me up said when we got to the hospital. He was worried that one of the broken ribs might have punctured a lung, so I had to stay overnight for observation.

Landfors came by the next morning. “How you feeling?”

“Better. Lung seems to be okay.”

“Good. You look better. Of course you couldn’t look any worse than you did last night.”

“Mmm. Funny.”

“Just trying to cheer you up.”

“If you want to cheer me up, tell me what happened with the cops.”

“Well, not much to tell. I called Division Eighteen from the bar and asked for Lieutenant Downes. He wasn’t in, but they sent a couple of men out. They showed up pretty quick, and I told them that Neal confessed to murder—”

“
Two
murders. He admitted killing Red Corriden, too.”

“Oh. I only heard him admit to Macullar. Anyway, one was enough for the cops to take him in. I gave them our names, and they took my address. I didn’t know yours to give them, but I told them they could find out from the Red Sox.”

“Did they say when they’d want to talk to us?”

“No, I guess they’ll call or come by. Listen, Mickey, I talked to my editor this morning. He wants me back in New York right away. I had a couple of questions for you, though. Does it hurt for you to talk?”

“It’s not too bad.”

“Well, I’m still not sure I understand how you knew it was Neal. Why wasn’t it Fletcher?”

“Let’s see ...” I tried to put my explanation in a more coherent form than the way I’d first thought it through. “Well,” I said, “when Neal told me Clyde Fletcher cheated at cards with Hal Chase, I thought maybe Fletcher
could
be the killer. When Macullar was murdered, I assumed the call I got wasn’t from Fletch—it was somebody using his name to set me up. But then I realized it could have been both. It could have really been Fletcher
and
he was setting me up.”

“Right! So what made you think it was Neal?”

“Two reasons. For one thing, Fletch and I had only been to Hanratty’s once—so he’s not going call it ‘the saloon
where we used to
go.’ That’s if you go someplace regularly. But somebody who saw us there, like Billy Neal did, might think we went there a lot. That wasn’t enough to eliminate him completely, though. Mrs. O’Brien might not have used his exact words, so I couldn’t rely on that.

“Then I realized that Billy Neal had to be the one in cahoots with Chase, because Fletcher wouldn’t have said anything to me about the card game if he had cheated.”

“
Neal
said something about it.”

“Yeah, but that was to cast suspicion on Fletcher. When Fletch told me about it, he didn’t accuse anyone but Chase.”

“Oh. But what’s the big deal about a card game, anyway?” Landfors asked. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I was looking for connections. See, I thought Tyler was desperate to keep his cover-up intact and had somebody kill Jimmy Macullar. So I needed a connection with Bob Tyler. And that’s where the card game comes in. Tyler was paid off by gamblers to keep Hal Chase playing baseball; Neal was in on a card scam with Chase.
There’s
a connection with Tyler. Both Neal and Tyler knew Chase, both were involved in crooked dealings with him, so maybe Neal and Tyler knew each other through Chase.

“Once I started to think that way, other things seemed to fit. When I first came to Boston, Tyler told me there were other injuries on the club and he needed to pick up a couple more players—a pitcher and a first baseman. So why did he get Neal—a catcher? You don’t use up a roster spot on a player you don’t need. So I figured he wanted Neal for other services: to help him keep a lid on things, and to keep an eye on me.”

“But it doesn’t make sense! You said Neal made a fuss about not playing—why would he do that if he was hired for another reason? Why draw attention to it?”

“It wouldn’t make sense to you, maybe. But it’s real simple: when you’re a ball player, you gotta play baseball.”
I’d even play for a factory team,
Neal had said.
Got to keep playing ball.

“Ah. So in other words, because he’s a baseball player, he doesn’t have to be sensible.” I didn’t expect Landfors to understand.

“Anyway,” I said, “I think Tyler either knew or suspected that Neal killed Corriden. So he brought him to the Red Sox where he could control him: he had something on Neal, so he could force Neal to do his dirty work for him—I thought that included killing Jimmy Macullar, but I guess Neal did that on his own. Maybe now Neal will tell us exactly what the deal was with Tyler.”

“That’s another thing: how could Tyler find out it was Billy Neal, work out a trade to get him, and bring him from Detroit to New York in just a couple of days?”

“With Tyler’s connections to Chase and Rothstein, he could have found out about Neal pretty quickly. And there was no trade: Tyler got Neal and Strickler for cash—that’s an easy deal to make. Also, Neal didn’t come from Detroit—the Tigers were in Philadelphia during our New York series.”

“Huh. Well, what about Neal killing Red Corriden in the first place? How’d you figure that one out?”

“I already thought that Corriden was killed because of something to do with the batting race scandal. After I figured out that Neal was the one with connections to Hal Chase, I put some things together: Harry Howell said somebody suggested throwing the title to Nap Lajoie, Neal was with the Browns that year, and Neal had been involved in a gambling scam with Chase. So maybe Neal tried to fix the batting race to put a bet on it. Thing is, I never heard of betting on a batting title.”

“That’s why you had me put a bet on Joe Jackson to win it this year.”

“Right. I wanted to make sure it could be done. By the way, I
didn’t
ask you to put a bet on him—I said ‘see if you could.’ ”

“That was ten bucks!”

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t bet on baseball. Anyway, I put together a couple more things: Corriden and Neal were teammates on the Browns in 1910, they were teammates on the Tigers at the start of this year, and Corriden was up in arms about gambling. So I figured he found out about the batting race being fixed; somehow, Billy Neal realized Corriden knew about it and he decided to shut him up.

“But, anyway, with all my figuring, and everything pointing to Neal, there still wasn’t any hard proof—that’s why I needed to get him to confess.”

Landfors was incredulous. “I can’t believe you figured it out.”

“Well, I didn’t figure everything out. I thought Tyler ordered Neal to kill Jimmy Macullar.” That seemed to make Landfors feel better.

I
was released after two days in the hospital. I was stiff and bandaged and some parts of my body had turned spectacular shades of green and purple, but I was going to be all right. The injuries wouldn’t leave any long-term damage to my ball-playing career, and with Billy Neal arrested for killing Jimmy Macullar, my career wouldn’t be ended by electrocution either.

I returned to Mrs. O’Brien’s rooming house expecting to hear that the police had tried to contact me for my statement about Neal. The only message awaiting me was an official letter from Robert F. Tyler, Treasurer, Boston American League Baseball Club. I was dropped from the team. The letter called it an “unconditional release.” My injuries meant that I couldn’t contribute to the team, so my best friend Bob Tyler decided I wasn’t worth keeping. A week earlier, that would have put me in a panic—I’d have worried that Tyler would let Captain O’Malley at me. But with the case solved, I should be safe.

I called Lieutenant Downes at the Dorchester station house to see what was up with Billy Neal. He said he didn’t know what I was talking about. I suddenly didn’t feel so safe.

Downes put me through to the front desk. The dispatcher checked his phone log for me: Yes, a call came in Thursday night; no, they didn’t send anyone out—they called the Walpole Street station house to have them check it out.

“No! Why did you do that?”

“Standard procedure. It was in their district.” Damn!

Next I called the Walpole Street station. Yes, they received a request from Division Eighteen to investigate a disturbance Thursday night. No, there were no arrests. There was no disturbance—it must have been called in by a hoaxer.

Jeez. This wasn’t over.

And I was off the team—no reason for Tyler to keep O’Malley away from me. I could still take the fall for Jimmy Macullar’s murder.

No! It was worse! Billy Neal was out there somewhere. Never mind O’Malley,
Neal
would be after me. I was going to be dead.

I was still too weak and in too much pain to have the energy to face more of this. As I fought down a tempting impulse to surrender and succumb to the panic that besieged me, I tried to review everything that had happened outside Hanratty’s. The episode came back to me in flickering, broken scenes—partial images, fragments of words and sentences.

To help bring the memory into clearer view, I went back to the pub. Standing, teetering, in the alley, I reconstructed what had happened. There’s the barrel where I hit my head ... that’s where I was laying when Neal kicked me ... there’s the spot where Landfors dropped Neal’s head. The rest started to come back: the words of Neal’s story, Karl shaking me to my senses, the two cops standing behind him. The cop—the one who was writing things down—that was the desk sergeant I had seen in O’Malley’s station house!

It all came back to me, more vividly than I was comfortable with. There was something else to take care of ...

My excursion to Hanratty’s exhausted me; it took more effort than I should have expended in this early stage of my recovery. I went back home for needed sleep.

No rest came. Laying in bed, trying to sleep, I suffered through garbled daydreams and frightening nightmares, all of them bizarre fantasies populated by grotesque laughing images of Billy Neal, Bob Tyler, Tom O’Malley, Hal Chase, Harry Howell, and Ty Cobb.

More drained than when I went to bed, I got up and called Karl Landfors at the
Press
to tell him what had happened. He was thinking clearly enough to give me some sound advice: “Get your ass out of Boston. Come down to New York, and I’ll put you up at my place.”

A trolley took me and my luggage from Grand Central Station to the
Press
building.

Karl was working in his little corner of the city room. He greeted me with a big smile. “One of your worries is over.”

“Really? What’s up?”

“Read this. Came in this afternoon.” He handed me a yellow sheet of paper.
Baseball player Billy Neal was killed yesterday in a hunting accident near Tannersville, New York . . .

“You’re kidding! A
hunting accident?
”

“If I were writing the story on this—don’t worry, I’m not—I would put ‘hunting accident’ in quotes. I made a couple of calls. Guess who owns a hunting lodge outside Tannersville?”

“Bob Tyler?”

“Close. His old patron. Arnold Rothstein.”

“Wow. So Tyler had Rothstein—”

“Do him a favor. That’s what I’d guess. Tyler had enough of Billy Neal.”

“So he wasn’t quite as gutless as Neal thought.”

“Guess not. Maybe he was worried with the series coming up—wanted to make sure Neal wouldn’t cause him any more problems. Must be a relief for you.”

“The man in green!”

“What?”

“That’s what Tyler meant!
‘No, not a warning. He’s had plenty. Take care of him for good.’
That’s what he said to Chase’s friend. He didn’t mean kill
me,
he meant kill Neal!”

“Now the only thing for you to worry about is O’Malley trying to pin Macullar’s murder on you.”

“No, I don’t think he can do that.”

“Why not? He still has an open murder case—as far as the cops are concerned, Neal didn’t do it.”

“They don’t have the gun. They can’t plant it on me.”

“They could have got it from Neal.”

“Uh-uh. I have it.” I opened my satchel enough for Landfors to look in and see the skinny, ugly revolver.

No one was near us, but he whispered, “What are
you
doing with that?”

“When you went to call the cops, after you knocked Neal out, I felt like I was going to pass out. I got worried that Neal might come to while I was out, and I remembered that Macullar was shot and I was shot at. So Neal would probably have a gun on him.”

“Why didn’t you think of that before we went to the bar? We could have been killed!”

“Why didn’t
we
think of it. Anyway, when Neal was down, I went over to him to see, and he had the gun in his jacket. I took it out and slid it under a trash bin. Then I passed out.”

“Why didn’t you
tell
me about the gun?”

“I forgot about it. It was just before I passed out, and, I dunno, I guess it didn’t stick in my memory. I didn’t remember until I went to the alley this morning. It was still there.”

Karl grinned and shook his head. “You
forgot
about it. Well, get rid of the damn thing already! Then there’s nothing they can use to convict you for Macullar.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

“Come on. I know just the place.”

It was getting dark when we left the
Press
building and headed down the block toward the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Ah! The hair,” Karl blurted.

I turned to him. “The hair?”

“The hair you gave me. I had it checked out at the Museum of Natural History. You were right—it was cat hair. That reminds me: did Neal admit he planted the bat on you?”

“No, I didn’t ask about that. It must have been him, though. Doesn’t really matter anymore, I guess. As soon as we get rid of the gun, it’s all over.”

When we reached a pier, Karl said, “I hear the East River is the customary repository for such items.” He reached for my satchel and asked, “Would you care to do the honors, or shall I?”

“Me.” He opened the bag and I reached in and took out the gun. I held it out over the water almost reverently. This was going to close out the Red Corriden—Jimmy Macullar—Billy Neal affair, and it seemed appropriate to reflect a little on the case.

“The idea is to let the gun go into the water—not show it off. It’s considered suspicious behavior to be seen holding a firearm.”

I instantly released my hold on the gun. The hell with it—I’d already given the case a lifetime’s worth of reflection. The gulp of the river swallowing the gun wrote
The End
to the saga, and the splash that followed added an exclamation point.

There was no need now to stay at Karl’s apartment. I was going back to Boston. He walked me to Grand Central Station, and I thanked him for everything he had done for me.

“No problem.” Landfors smiled and furtively flexed his arm. “Some of it was really quite stimulating.”

“You’re not going to write about it?”

“No, no. I’m going to get back to my book.”

“You know, I couldn’t have gotten through this mess without your help. And with Peggy’s. Uh, you and Peggy ... are you two, uh ...”

“Peggy and me?” Landfors said. “No. Not that I’d mind, but no, there’s nothing romantic between us.”

“I want to explain it all to her, but I don’t know if she’ll want to listen to me ...”

“I already explained most of it to her—at least why you told her to stay out of things the way you did. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, it’s okay.” It was a relief actually.

“But when you get back, I do recommend that you grovel a bit. And bring flowers—she likes roses, by the way.”

As it turned out, she liked them very much indeed.