The Dead Pull Hitter (13 page)

“If they get the rest of the inning in, it’s an official game,” Moose said.

“Thank you, Moose. I can always count on you to explain the finer points of the game.”

“You’re getting testy, Hank. Maybe I should call your babysitter.”

“Put a sock in it.”

Red O’Brien obviously wanted to avoid the loss if he could. With the soggy fans shouting approval he trudged out of the dugout towards home plate. As he got within talking range, lightning flashed, followed by a tremendous clap of thunder. Red shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the sky, as if to say, “See, even He agrees with me,” and the umpire broke up.

“Call it, call it,” chanted the crowd.

The four umpires huddled at home plate with O’Brien and Billy Saunders, the Tigers manager. After a few seconds the crew chief stepped back and waved his arms, delaying the game. The crowd cheered.

“Cards, Kate?” As usual, Stan Chapman was looking for a fourth for bridge.

“Not tonight, Stan.”

I had come prepared with the latest Martha Grimes mystery in my briefcase. I put my feet up on a chair and escaped into the English countryside until the game resumed at 10:45.

The rest was anticlimax. The Titans couldn’t put together enough hits to score, and the game ended at midnight, 3–0 for the Tigers.

“Oh, goody. Now we get to go chat with the cheery chaps downstairs. What jolly fun.”

Cheery they weren’t. But with the pennant won, there was none of the gloom that had become habitual after losses. I grabbed a few philosophical quotes from the ones who were talking, and left. Game stories weren’t really big news any more.

My faithful bodyguard was waiting for me in the corridor. He fell in step beside me on the way to the elevator.

“Enjoy the game, Constable?”

“Not much. What’s it like in there after they lose?”

“You don’t want to know. Your illusions would be shattered.”

“How come?”

“They all pretend they care about the team, but they’re really thinking about their own numbers and how good they’ll look come contract-renewal time. But they’ll get the Tigers tomorrow.”

“I hope so. I just want to see them beat the Yankees. Those are the guys I can’t stand.”

“And with any luck, you’ll still be stuck with this lousy assignment and you can see the games.”

He looked at me sheepishly.

“Hey, if I were in your shoes I’d feel the same way. And I appreciate your discretion tonight. Thanks.”

I invited him into the deserted press box while I filed my story. Then he drove me home, full of questions about my glamorous job. He walked me to the door, like a prom date, and asked when I’d need him in the morning.

“Get a good night’s sleep. I won’t be going out until the afternoon. I’ll call Staff Sergeant Munro and tell him.”

He waited until I’d unlocked the door, then made sure there weren’t any villains lurking in the hallway before he left.

I locked up and poured myself a glass of wine. Then I went to my study, Elwy racing me up the stairs, and turned on the TV. We watched a Perry Mason rerun. Elwy is particularly fond of Raymond Burr.

The sun backlit Father Michael Scanlon’s full head of white hair, making a halo, and didn’t he know it as he beseeched the Lord to take Sultan Sanchez and Steve Thorson to His heavenly bosom. The phony old priest’s list of their virtues sounded more like a scouting report than a eulogy. He had been chosen for the service not for his position in the religious community—his was an insignificant suburban parish—but because he was a charter member of the Titan booster club. He said grace at all the Player of the Month luncheons.

It was a glorious day, the sky a deep autumn blue and the air Indian-summer warm. The mourners, at least ten thousand of them, filled the seats between the bases behind home plate. The players, their families, Titan personnel, league officials, and local bigwigs were in folding chairs on the field. The widows were veiled in black, sitting together near the visitors’ dugout.

The priest stood on a crêpe-draped dais behind the mound, praying into a microphone. His amplified voice was out of sync with his lips. A small plane flew over the stadium, trailing a banner that read “Pedro Sanchez, Steven Thorson, Rest in Peace.” At game time, the same plane would be advertising the appearance at a local strip club of Miss Nude Northern Ontario.

“I’m surprised they didn’t bring in Ernie Banks for the service,” I muttered to Jeff Glebe.

“How come?”

“It’s a beautiful day. Let’s bury two.”

Father Scanlon was the last of four ecumenical speakers, following Father Jorge Guerrero, who had spoken in Spanish for fifteen minutes. It looked as if Scanlon was out to break Guerrero’s record, but he finally wound down and left the stage, stopping to embrace Sandi Thorson as the cameras clicked.

Tiny Washington and David Sloane took his place. Tiny looked embarrassed, Sloane composed.

“I knew Sultan Sanchez for thirteen years,” Tiny said, too close to the microphone, which squealed. “I played with him and I played against him. He always played hard. He was a leader on every team he was with. He taught pride to the young players. He also helped us remember to enjoy what we did. No matter what was going on, Sultan could make us smile.

“Steve Thorson was a competitor. He played with intensity and never gave less than one hundred percent whenever he was on the mound. He was the heart of this team. He made us play our best because winning was all that mattered to him. He was respected by every hitter in the league.

“You all loved them, too, so I guess you know what all of us guys on the team are feeling. We will do the best we can to honour their memory, but we will miss them, on and off the field.”

There was scattered applause, quickly shushed, from some fans who forgot where they were. Then Sloane stepped to the microphone.

“Let us pray,” he began, and heads bowed around the infield, a ragged collective movement.

“It’s a prayer wave,” I whispered. Glebe shushed me.

Sloane shut his eyes and raised his arms to the sky.

“Lord. You have taken two of our brothers from us. You know why You had to do it. It is not our place to ask why. Thy will be done. They are not truly gone because they live on in all of us.

“We stand before You not in sorrow, not to weep, but to thank You for letting them be with us for a time, for enriching our lives.

“We knew them well. We knew Pedro Sanchez and Steven Thorson as teammates. We knew them in joy and in sorrow. We knew them as brothers. We were soldiers together in a daily battle. And we will not shirk the battle because they have left us.

“Lord, we dedicate ourselves to finish what our brothers helped us begin. And we will dedicate our victory to them. We will prevail. We will triumph over our foes and become World Champions and dedicate our championship to their memories.”

“Yeah, but where are they going to send the World Series rings,” whispered Jeff. I fought back a giggle and Sloane, incredibly, began to sing.

“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!”

Ten thousand voices joined his as the airplane banked over right field.

“And here I was hoping for ‘Onward Christian Shortstops,’” I said.

“It always happens at funerals,” I explained to Jeff on the way to the reception. “Even real ones. My dad’s a minister, so I’ve been to a lot of them. I always get the giggles.”

“You cry at weddings, I take it.”

“And in movies, at hockey games, tractor pulls, and shopping centre openings. It’s only funerals that make me laugh.”

“This one would have made a corpse laugh,” Jeff said. “I wonder what Father Guerrero said?”

“Probably that Sultan’s giving 110 percent in heaven.”

The reception, which was private, was in the Batter’s Box, the bar and banquet area of the stadium. The lineup snaked down a concrete stairwell that smelled faintly of hot dogs, popcorn, and beer. Everyone looked a bit odd dressed in their Sunday best. Just as we came to a bend in the staircase, Sam Craven tapped me on the shoulder.

“I was hoping I would see you,” he said. “It’s a terrible business, isn’t it? That was a nice piece you did on Sandi. I’m sure she appreciated it.”

“Thanks, Sam.” I introduced Jeff. “When did you get in from New York?”

“Just now. I’ve been getting Steve’s affairs wound up. Talking to insurance agents, things like that. Tragic business.”

“Who gets the money?” Jeff asked.

“Most of it goes to Sandi. His parents inherit some, too. I had a small policy on his life, of course, as did the Titans. But they’ll have to pay the remainder of his contract to his estate.”

“Would they have had a policy on Sanchez, too?”

“I would imagine so.”

We had made it to the Batter’s Box. I let Craven go in first. I wanted to watch him go through the receiving line. Ted Ferguson faked it, shaking his hand warmly, but passed him on quickly to Father Scanlon and turned his attention to us.

“Kate. Jeff.” He nodded, then took my hand in both of his. “Thank you so much for coming. What did you think of David’s comments? Very moving, I thought.”

“Indeed,” I said. “Very inspirational.”

There was a small commotion just ahead of me. As Craven leaned to embrace Sandi Thorson, she twisted out of his arms.

“I can take care of myself,” she hissed at him. “You just take your cut and leave me alone.”

Craven glanced quickly around to see if the exchange had been overheard, then smiled and moved on. It was my turn.

“Are you all right?”

“Just stand here for a minute, would you?”

“Of course.”

“I hate that man so much. Why did he have to come?”

“It would have looked funny if he didn’t, Sandi. He was Steve’s agent, after all.”

“He’s horrible.”

Surprised at her vehemence, I changed the subject.

“Will you be leaving Toronto now?”

“I’m flying to California tonight. The funeral is tomorrow.”

“What about Stevie?”

“He went home with my parents last night. I didn’t think he should have to go through this.”

“I think you’re right.”

“It’s hard enough for me. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’ve got my mom and dad. They’ll help.”

“And you have lots of friends.”

“Baseball friends. They forget pretty quickly. There will be a new pitcher. And a new wife. But some will stay friends, I hope.”

I started to move on, but she stopped me.

“I wanted to thank you for the article you wrote yesterday. My parents thought it was real nice.”

“You’re welcome. Take care of yourself. Let me know where you end up. I’d like to keep in touch.”

“I will,” she said, then suddenly, clumsily, embraced me, embarrassing us both a little.

Sultan’s wife Dolores, whom I had never met, was lovely. Tiny and dark, she had extraordinary eyes and a great deal of style. Her English was not very good, but her teenaged son Eduardo helped interpret. He was tall and handsome, very like his father. The Titans had signed him to a minor-league contract early in the season. They each shook my hand formally.

I declined coffee and cookies and went up to the press box. The ground crew had dismantled the dais and taken up the chairs and were rolling the batting cage into position. A few Tigers were waiting for early batting practice.

There was no one else around but the technicians setting up for that night’s broadcast. It was very peaceful. The players on the field were horsing around in the sunshine. Life goes on. Many of the mourners who had just left the park would be back in a couple of hours, dressed in jeans and Titan sweat shirts, eating hot dogs and drinking beer. The voices that had sung hymns would be screaming at the umpires.

In this philosophical mood it didn’t take long to write my piece on the memorial service. The team provided transcripts of the speeches. I even managed to quote David Sloane without mocking.

When I finished, I rested my head on my arms.

“Sleeping on the job?”

It was Moose’s voice, and his strong hands massaging my neck and shoulders.

“That’s heaven. Never stop.” I felt like Elwy. If only I could purr. “You may be saving a life here, Moose. I’ll do what I can to get you the Order of Canada.”

He laughed and dug his knuckles into the really sore part between my shoulder blades. I groaned.

“Time’s up. I’ve got work to do,” he said, giving me a last hearty thump.

“Maybe it’ll be a short one tonight.”

“I wouldn’t bet the rent on it.”

The game wasn’t short, but it was so much fun that no one cared. A day that had started in tears and sombre reflection ended in jubilation. The Titans were winning 14–3 and still at bat in the bottom of the eighth when Jeff Glebe leaned over to check on a fine point of sportswriting.

“Does this qualify as a trouncing?”

“Not yet. You need a twelve-run lead for a trouncing.”

“A drubbing?”

“Yeah, you only need ten for a drubbing.”

Every Titan had at least one hit. Tiny Washington, David Sloane, Joe Kelsey, and even Alex Jones had hit home runs. Kelsey also had a triple and a single. He was due up next, with two out, and looking for a double, if Wise got on base.

The count was full, but Owl fouled off pitches to stay alive. He finally tapped a single between first and second. The crowd was excited, aware how close Kelsey was to hitting for the cycle: a single, double, triple, and home run in the same game. He would be the first Titan ever to do it.

He hit the first pitch hard to left field. It looked like a home run, but hooked foul at the last moment. There was relieved laughter from the fans. They wanted the double.

He gave it to them on the second pitch, a ball hit solidly into the gap in left centre. The fans stood and applauded for so long that Kelsey was forced to tip his cap, embarrassed. Dummy Doran signalled for the left fielder to give him the ball and pocketed it to give to Preacher.

The cheering finally stopped and the game resumed. No one was disappointed when Tiny Washington grounded out to end the inning. And when the Tigers went down in order in the ninth I even had half an hour left to my first deadline.

Downstairs in the clubhouse it was as if a spell had been broken. The memorial service had closed a door. The mourning was over. And the one-sided win had put the fun back in the game.

“Bring on the A’s!” shouted Costello, wearing a towel and waving a beer in the air. It was hard to hear him over the music booming from the tape deck in his locker. Bruce Springsteen.

“Turn it down, Bony,” I yelled. “I can’t hear you.”

“Bring on the playoffs! The season’s over!”

He was right. It was his last start.

“Not too shabby—twenty-three wins! That’s a two and a three. Two-enty the-ree. Whee hee!”

He’d drawn a small crowd of reporters, all laughing at his antics. He downed his beer and danced to the cooler to get another. He came back with three and jumped up on his stool.

“I’m going to party tonight,” he said. “But first, I will accept questions from the media.”

He turned down the music, but it didn’t make much difference, there was so much yelling going on around us.

“You want to know the secret of my success? Food! All my career they’ve been telling me to lose weight. This year I just ate. Burgers. Fries. Ice cream. Pizza. Spaghetti. Lasagna. Manicotti. Canelloni! Gnocchi! And vino! Gallons of vino!”

His accent grew Italian as he talked, and he began to wave his arms around. By the end of his list, he was almost operatic.

“Eating to excess is the secret of my success!”

His teammates burst into applause. He bowed deeply, then turned his back and bowed again, dropping his towel.

There was no point asking a serious question. I went in search of more sensible folk.

Joe Kelsey was sitting in front of his locker, a huge smile on his face. He shook his head as I approached him.

“He shouldn’t have done that in front of you,” he said.

“I’ve seen a naked bum before, Preacher. Don’t worry about it. It’s his big day.”

“It’s the kind of year you dream about.”

“What about you? Hitting for the cycle isn’t exactly an average day at the office.”

“It’s just a fluke, you know. You just get lucky one day. Not like twenty-three wins. Now, that’s truly something. He was blessed this year.”

“And it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Do you think he’ll stop being so gloomy?”

Kelsey’s smile broke out again.

“Bony? Are you kidding? He wouldn’t be happy if he wasn’t unhappy!”

We both laughed.

“What did you think about at the plate during the last at bat?”

“To tell you the truth, I was worried I wouldn’t even get the chance. Then Owl got that seeing-eye hit and I felt like it was meant to be. I’ve never felt so relaxed at the plate.”

“And then you almost blew it by hitting a home run.”

“Yeah, I was praying for it to go foul!” He stopped suddenly. “Don’t put that in the paper. I don’t really pray for things like that.”

“I know. What about the service today? Did it help get the team back together?”

“I think it did. We put the tragedy behind us. Now we just have to win it for them.”

“Think you will?”

“I don’t see why not. But that’s not the important thing.”

“What’s more important?”

“Finding the man who killed Sultan and Steve. And making sure he can’t get anyone else.”

“Of course. Sorry. It’s just hard to remember that here tonight.”

“We don’t mean any disrespect, Kate.”

“I know.”

Constable Donny was waiting for me outside the clubhouse, so excited by the game that he couldn’t shut up, even in the press box while I was writing. The story, under the circumstances, wrote itself, and we were out of there by midnight.

“What are your feelings about drinking on duty, Don?”

“I shouldn’t, why?”

“We’ve got time to hit last call at the Fillet of Soul. Do you mind?”

“I’d like that. I’ve never been there.”

“Let’s just call it semi-duty, then.”

“You’re the boss.”

He was grinning.

The bar was crowded. We found a table in the corner and the constable unbent enough to have a beer.

“One won’t hurt,” he said

“I promise I won’t let you drive drunk, okay?”

Sarah brought our drinks. I introduced her to my companion, with no explanation. She’d go nuts trying to figure out what kind of cradle-robbing I was into. It would do her good.

Like most fans, the constable had strong opinions about what was right and wrong with the team and its management. It was good to listen to him. We sometimes forget who we’re writing for. But when our second round arrived, I changed the subject.

“How long have you been on the force?”

“Almost three years.”

“Are you assigned to homicide?”

“No. This is my first time.”

“Are you enjoying it?”

“Well, I wish I was more involved in the case.”

“Have you worked with Staff Sergeant Munro before?”

“No. I’ve just heard about him.”

“What have you heard?” Subtle, Kate, subtle.

“That he’s tough. That you’d better not screw up. He’s hard to work for, but he’s the best.”

“He has a bit of a temper, doesn’t he?”

“I’ve never seen him really mad, but I’ve heard it’s something.”

“I know.”

MacPherson shot me a sly look and smiled.

“He chewed you out pretty good, didn’t he?”

“How do you know?”

“I saw him when he got there. He was steaming.”

“No secrets, eh?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“On the contrary. I love gossip. What else do you hear about Munro? What about his personal life?”

“He doesn’t have much, they say. He was married, but his wife left him. Since then, he’s been a real loner. Too bad, he’s pretty good looking, for an older guy.”

I winced. He noticed.

“I don’t mean old. It’s just that . . .”

“How ancient is he? In his forties?”

“Oh, no. He’s not that old.”

“Well, I’m glad. I’d hate to think he’d have to retire before he solved these murders.”

“I think I’ve said something wrong.”

“Not at all. I used to think forty was old, too. I changed my mind my last birthday.”

“Oh, gee. I thought you were a lot younger.”

“Thank you, Donald. Maybe it’s time to take this old bag home. It’s way past my bedtime.”

He apologized all the way there, and walked me to my door again.

“Miss Henry, you won’t mention to Staff Sergeant Munro that we were talking about him, will you? I was out of line.”

“I’m just old, Constable, not stupid. It will be our secret.”

“Thanks. Good night.”

I didn’t notice the parcel at first. I was greeting Elwy and setting down my things. It was a large manila envelope with the rest of my mail on a small table just inside my door. Sally had left a note with it.

“This was waiting when I got home at six. It’s not ticking.”

It might as well have been. A sheaf of papers was held together with a paper clip. On top was a clipping from a paper in Nashville, Tennessee, dated in June, 1982. It was the report on a raid of a homosexual bath house. Listed among the found-ins was one Kelsey, Joseph Baines.

“Oh, God. Poor Preacher.”

The second page was a photocopy of a confidential memorandum from the security chief of the Southwestern Inter-Collegiate Baseball Association. It stated that during the 1973 season, a number of players from Oak Park College in Texas had thrown games for a payoff. As the offenders had graduated, the report suggested that no action be taken. The first name on the list was Steve Thorson.

“I don’t really want to know this,” I told Elwy.

The third document was a photocopy of a year-old police incident report filed in Toronto. It described an assault by David Sloane against the persons of Marie Sloane, Merlin Sloane, and David Sloane, Junior. The final notation, following a pedantic description of the incident, was that the charges had been dropped by Mrs. Sloane.

“That sanctimonious bastard!”

Elwy’s response was to roll over on his back for a stomach scratch.

“And what am I supposed to do with this?”

He warbled an interrogatory half-purr, half-meow.

I drew myself a hot bath. A half-hour soak later, I wasn’t sure what I had learned, except some pretty juicy answers to a few questions. All I knew was that things didn’t look too good for one David Sloane. Or Joe Kelsey, for that matter. But who had sent the parcel? And why?