by R. D. Rosen
“Hold that thought, Norm,” Harvey said to his brother and met Cubberly about thirty feet from home plate in foul territory.
“Hey,” Cubberly said, leaning on his bats. “We could’ve used you in New York.”
“I took the weekend off. Anything happen in my absence?”
“I hit a triple.”
“How about that?”
Cubberly chuckled. “How ’bout dat?” he repeated in Snoot Coffman’s signature style. “By the way, Snoot was looking for you in Yankee Stadium after the game yesterday. I think he wanted you to be on his show again.”
Harvey looked off toward home plate, where Moss hit a screamer down the left-field line and sauntered out of the cage. “Here in Chicago?”
“Go ask him yourself.”
Twenty minutes before game time, Harvey and Norm climbed to the press box, where a dozen print reporters were already at their laptops and another dozen were feeding their faces at the complimentary buffet table.
“Is that food free?” Norm asked.
“I’m afraid it is.”
His brother took a plate and approached a chafing dish filled with tortellini.
“Norm, didn’t you just have braised lamb shanks an hour and a half ago?”
“That was someone else.”
“Norm. If you had to pay for this food, would you be standing in line?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Harv. Studies show that the sight of complimentary buffet food causes the body to accelerate its digestive and metabolic processes, instantly causing secretions.”
“Secretions?”
“Appetite-inducing secretions. I’m surprised you’re not familiar with the work of Dr. Leonard Risotto.” He piled some tortellini and a breast of roast chicken on his plate.
“You’re pathetic, Norm.”
“Nonetheless,” he said, popping a tortellino into his mouth, “it beats peanuts and Crackerjack.”
“And I don’t care if you never come back.”
“This is good,” Norm said, chewing. “I think it’s got mushrooms inside.”
“Listen, you stand there and get fat while I do an errand.”
Harvey made his way toward the series of enclosed broadcast booths at the far end of the press box, edging past the back row of baseball writers. Bob Lassiter of the Providence Journal was hunched over his Toshiba Satellite, thinning gray hair flecked with dandruff, as he pecked a sidebar—Harvey read it over his shoulder—about relief pitcher J. C. Jelsky’s impending rotator cuff surgery. When Harvey tapped him on the back, Lassiter said, “One second,” and finished typing the sentence before turning.
“Just wanted to say hi, Bob,” Harvey said.
Lassiter twisted his body and shook Harvey’s hand. He had an unlit Garcia y Vega jammed in the corner of his mouth. He was like something found in a time capsule marked “Beat Sports Reporter, circa 1962.”
“Good to see you, Professor. I’ve been meaning to catch up with you. Maybe I could do a little story about one of the original Jewels returning to motivate his old team.”
“We should make time for that, Bob.”
Lassiter lowered his voice. “But I hear rumors.”
“Oh yeah?”
“That you’re here on an entirely different assignment.”
“No kidding?”
“That Levy brought you in to baby-sit Moss.”
“Who told you that?”
“Snoot Coffman. He says he found out that Moss may have gotten mixed up with the mob.”
“I have no idea what he’s talking about.”
Lassiter lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Snoot says he discovered that Moss has a nasty habit. A taste for female escorts. Two, three at a time that he likes to entertain in Cranston. Well, you know these services are all mobbed up. So Moss hurt one of the girls, then punched out some wise guy who objected. So Snoot says some mobsters have been threatening him and his girlfriend, and he found out through some connection of his own they’re planning to teach Moss a lesson by getting to her.”
“Oh, for chrissakes. When did he tell you this?” It was a little late in the day to be dealing with Snoot’s rogue theories.
“Last night in New York.”
“I can honestly say that the rumor is incorrect, and I hope you’re not planning to run with any part of it.”
“Okay, okay. Although it does help explain one thing.”
“What’s that?”
Lassiter yanked the wet dead cigar from the corner of his mouth and examined it as if its state of illumination were an issue. “Why Moss would end his relationship with that group in Atlanta.”
“I don’t see.”
“Because who has time for charitable work when the mob’s after you?”
Was it possible that the threat was coming from an entirely different direction? That Harvey had been looking in the wrong part of the woods? He quickly reviewed what he knew, or thought he knew, about Moss, and wondered whether the man who had neglected to tell him about his association with GURCC for so long also concealed a shameful secret about his recreational and sexual habits. With a sinking feeling, Harvey thought about the photo of Cherry Ann in Moss’s cubicle. Wasn’t a man who kept a nude photo of his girlfriend in his locker a man who might also be suffering from a kinky compulsion to party with multiple escorts? Had Harvey been overthinking it? After all, there was nothing yet to connect the man in the lynching photo at GURCC to anyone in Providence, nothing linking Clay Chirmside and his charade to either of the two warnings to Moss, except the curious coincidence of Chirmside’s presence at GURCC the same day Moss and Cherry Ann came to visit. Could Chirmside’s efforts to lay his hands on the lynching photos be unrelated to Moss’s predicament?
“Listen, Bob,” Harvey said, “it’s completely fucking bogus.”
“Now you sound to me like you doth protest too much.”
Harvey felt his temper going. He jabbed a finger at Lassiter’s rosacea-riddled face. “It’s bogus, Bob. Stay away from it.”
Lassiter pushed Harvey’s finger aside. “So there is something going on?”
“Do I have your word, Bob?”
“Yes.”
“Because if you cross me, I guarantee you that Moss will never talk to you again. That would be a hell of a handicap for you.”
“I said yes, Professor.”
“There’s something going on.”
“That’s all you can tell me? I could use a scoop, Harvey,” Lassiter said with sudden emotion. “I’m dying a slow death at the Pro-Jo. I’d like to get one of those commentator gigs at Fox or ESPN. Like Pete Gammons. A scoop would make me more attractive.”
“Losing that stogie would make you more attractive.”
“You’ll let me have the story?”
“I’ll give you a twenty-four hour jump on it. Fair enough?”
“Shake,” Lassiter said with an eager brown smile, holding out his hand. “Maybe you could talk to Mickey Slavin for me, put in a good word at ESPN. I’ll send you clips. I did a little television back in the seventies. …”
Harvey was gone, headed for the WRIX radio booth further down the press box, ready to confront Coffman. But through the Plexiglas he saw only WRIX radio color man Jack Sadler sitting at the desk with the Chicago Tribune’s Don Kollisch. They both wore headsets, and Sadler was asking Kollisch a question. Harvey waited impatiently, watching the Comiskey groundskeepers drag the infield fifty feet below, until Sadler went to a commercial and both men removed their headsets. Harvey knocked, and Sadler motioned him into the booth.
“If it isn’t the Motivator,” he said with a smile when Harvey stepped inside.
“Hi, Jack.” Harvey nodded at Kollisch, whom he knew vaguely. “Where’s Snoot?”
“He’s not here,” Sadler said. “But he wants you to call him.”
“Where is he?”
“He had to go back to Providence. He had some sort of family emergency and flew back this morning.”
“He did?”
/>
“So I’m doing the play-by-play, and Don’s going to play the role of me tonight. Snoot didn’t know how to get hold of you. He left his cell number for you. Here.” Sadler held out a card.
Harvey grabbed it and raced back through the press box. He found his brother standing at the buffet table.
“Harv, you got to try these burritos.”
He put his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “Norm, I have to go—”
“The game hasn’t even started.”
Harvey’s pulse felt huge in his chest. “I’ve got to get to Providence.”
“Now? Sometimes I wish I had your life, Harv. Anything I can do?”
“Yes. Move away from the buffet.”
Harvey stepped outside the press box to call the number on the card Sadler had handed him.
“Harvey!” Coffman said breathlessly. “Where are you?”
“Comiskey Park. Where are you?”
“Listen, I couldn’t find you. Where’ve you been?”
“I was out of town, Snoot. What’s going on?”
“You’ve got to get back to Providence. You’re not going to believe this.”
“Believe what?”
“Our friend Moss hit some bimbo a couple of weeks ago. One of those escorts. He had her at his house. He had a couple of them there. Jesus, Harvey, you’ve got to get here and help me.”
“Slow down, Snoot. How do you know this?”
“Okay, okay. Harvey, I’ve got a friend here, a criminal defense lawyer who’s got some mob clients. He called me in New York to say some guys—connected guys—are pissed, and they want to teach him a lesson by hurting his girlfriend. Moss has this white stripper he sees regularly, and this lawyer tipped me off to get her off the street before something happens to her. Her name’s Cherry Ann and I’m—I’m on my way to pick her up. I tried to get hold of you yesterday.”
“Marshall’s got my cell phone number.”
“I didn’t think of it. Listen, can you get here? You know, this is not exactly my line of work. I’d feel a lot better with you here.”
“Where’s Cherry Ann?”
“She’s waiting for me at Teasers. That’s where she works.”
“Where you going to take her?”
“I don’t know yet. I can’t exactly take her home. Cindy won’t go for it.”
“Okay, take her someplace safe. When I get to Providence, I’ll call your cell phone, and we’ll take it from there.” He gave Coffman his own cell number. “What’s this lawyer’s name?”
“Bartoli. John Bartoli. I don’t have the number on me. Listen, Harvey, I know this isn’t my job. I was just trying to help out, calling people I know.”
“It’s okay, Snoot. You done good. I’ll call you when I get to Providence.”
As Harvey raced down the Comiskey ramps, he got hold of Detective Josh Linderman at home. “I need you,” he said.
“What is it?”
“I don’t have time to explain it all, I’m in Chicago right now, but Moss Cooley’s got a girlfriend named Cherry Ann Smoler who strips at Teasers and apparently some wise guys have targeted her to get back at Moss for something he did to another woman. An escort. This goddamn busybody Snoot Coffman, the Jewels’ broadcaster, is on his way over to pick her up at the club, but I need you to get over there and take charge of her, okay? Just protect her until I can fly in to Providence tonight. Then I’ll call you. Here’s Coffman’s cell number, in case he beats you there.”
As Harvey raced down the ramps, his body was awash in adrenaline. It was as if someone had pushed the mute button on reality. The only sounds he heard were his own breathing and, for some reason, the barking of a single concessionaire: Get your red hots, get your red hots. He saw the two managers and the four umpires conferring at home plate, then disperse. The White Sox starting team sprayed from the dugout, and everyone in the ballpark stood for the national anthem.
He stopped in the aisle of the grandstand to call Cherry Ann on her cell phone, but she didn’t pick up. Instead, he left a message telling her he was on his way to Providence and to stay cool. Then he called Southwest Airlines and booked a seat on the last nonstop to Providence out of Midway Airport.
By the time Harvey got down to the wall by the dugout at field level, Art Ferreiras was at bat. Harvey got the security guard positioned at the corner of the dugout to get a message to Moss that he had to speak to him. Within seconds, Moss’s face appeared around the corner.
“What’s up?”
Harvey leaned over the wall to get as close as possible to Moss. “Tell me you didn’t hit an escort.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Snoot says he heard some wise guys are going after Cherry Ann for something you did to some escort from a mob-run escort service.”
“That’s absolute bullshit.”
A fan behind Harvey called out, “Hey, Moss, nice streak!”
“Moss,” Harvey said, “Snoot’s in Providence, and I’m going there as soon as I get to Midway.”
“Snoot? What is this bullshit? I thought you were looking for some guy in a lynching photo. Goddamn it, Bagel Boy—what’s going on?”
“Tell me again you’re not in some trouble you forgot to tell me about.”
Moss lowered his brow and said, “Look at me, Blissberg. I’m tired of your fucking suspicions. I did not do anything to any fucking escort.”
“Okay. Shit, Moss, I don’t know what’s going on. Call me on my cell phone in a few hours and try not to worry.”
“Don’t worry? What do you want me to do?”
“Pray,” Harvey said and was gone, running up the aisle of the lower boxes as Art Ferreiras topped a slow roller to third and beat the throw to first by a step. Moss Cooley climbed out of the dugout and trudged to the on-deck circle.
HE GOT TO THE STRIP club around eight, wearing a plaid cap, tinted glasses, and the little mustache he’d bought for a Halloween costume party a few years ago. He’d phoned ahead of time, so he knew she wasn’t starting until nine. Now the place had more strippers and bouncers in it than customers. What did he expect for a Monday night? Only two young guys in jeans in the seats by the runway, watching a coon girl give them the full monty. She lay on her back with her legs in a V, giving them time to inspect the unattainable merchandise, like a jeweler displaying his best diamond ring on black velvet for the impoverished groom-to-be. Three more strippers lounged on chairs in their ludicrous negligees and hot pants, smoking like their lives depended on it. One was keeping time to the horrible music by patting her thigh. He stood in the shadows against the wall.
The irony of it, finally finding out that Cooley was dating a stripper at Teasers. Where he liked to come and check out snatch once in a while himself, get a secondhand taste of what life had to offer.
All he’d wanted was to get his hands on the goddamn photo, and now he had to do a stripper.
He didn’t think he’d have to do the coon, because he was confident the coon would get the message. Underneath that uniform, Cooley was just another frightened nigger.
Okay, he thought feverishly, sipping his Seagram’s and Seven, I had thirty good years, thanks to Ed, a saint who kept his mouth shut, may he rest in peace. There was a stand-up guy, wouldn’t sell out his buddy. But goddamn, we were stupid. Fuck Connie, though, after all he’d done. You couldn’t count on women, anyway. His own daughter was dating a nigger! It was like a sick joke. You write the premise, and thirty years later God writes the punch line by having your seventeen-year-old show up with a coon whose father teaches biology at Brown! Everything was sucking him back into the past, where he didn’t want to be, but where he had to go to lay it to rest. Okay, so he’d had thirty years in the clear, so what if he had to do a little wet work to nail down the next thirty?
His right hand was shaking though, his drink sloshing a bit over the rim, so he switched the glass to his left. He’d gotten out of the business a long time ago, and he didn’t particularly like being in it ag
ain. He felt soft. What happened to the glib guy who’d do anything with a few drinks in him?
One of the lounging strippers got up and tried to engage him in conversation with a stupid cooing voice and a hand on his shoulder, the hand ending in purple press-on nails. The strobe was going now, making the whole scene look even less real than before. Maybe later, he mumbled, and turned from her. He walked toward the runway, then stopped, thinking these places all had to have hidden surveillance cameras, so he reversed course and left the curtained area, not looking any of the bouncers in the eye, and walked back out to case the parking lot again. He felt in his pockets for the little can of pepper spray.
He’d have to hit her with it while she was still in her car, before she got out. The parking lot was around the side of the converted brick building, away from the bouncer patrolling the entrance under the awning. He’d have to hit her and drive her out in her car.
He’d do her, but where? He had one idea that was too perfect. Once he got her in there, he’d have world and time enough to do what he wanted. The owner, as they say, was away. Of course, the owner would have an alibi. Still, who could deny that the presence of a stripper’s corpse in his bedroom would implicate him? There would be suppositions and inquiries, a smokescreen of hypotheses behind which he would sit, calmly doing his job.
He leaned against a cyclone fence in deep shadow, thinking what could be sadder than a strip club parking lot in Providence, Rhode Island, early on a Monday night. How the hell could this all end in a Providence parking lot? Of all the places he’d been—Nashville, Charlotte, Spartanburg, Philly—he’d never felt safer, further from his deed, than here in this ragged little white-bread corner of the country. Another of God’s jokes.
Well, he had a good one for God.
22
BY THE TIME HARVEY had shown his investigator’s license and gun permit and surrendered his pistol at airport security for safekeeping during the flight, he barely made the plane. Drenched in sweat, he buckled himself into the already taxiing jet, his second flight of the day. Ten minutes later the plane was banking eastward, following the curved foot of Lake Michigan, its waterfront dotted with quiet steel mills. He pulled the Airfone from the seat back in front of him and dialed Linderman’s number.
