The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant

by Tee Morris

  Eddie Faria. There was something familiar about it. Somehow, I knew that name.

  Several pitches and two outs later, the Mariners took the field. They fielded, hustled, and loosened up from their stay in the dugout. I switched my gaze over to the bullpen where a relief pitcher casually threw a ball back and forth with a teammate. Their manager’s strategy appeared sound: Keep rotating the pitchers in and out, to keep the Cubs guessing. The line-up was being announced, but instead of making my usual notes I was watching the opposing team, looking for anything really outstanding, anything that would trip them up.

  Then Shadow passed by the Third Baseman and Shortstop, breaking into a run for the lone mound in the center of Wrigley’s diamond. I refocused my binoculars on the Mariners’ pitcher and watched him warm up. Shadow’s grin could have been easily misinterpreted for that same smug smirk that some of the other Mariners wore, but the binoculars revealed the depth behind it. Shadow loved the mound, perhaps one of the loneliest outposts a soldier could hold. With every pitch he threw, his grin softened. I would not have been surprised if he’d suddenly burst out into tears.

  “Now batting for the Chicago Cubs,” the unseen voice cheerfully announced. “Gabby Hartnett.”

  With the name “Hartnett” repeating until it finally faded into infinity, the voice of Wrigley began to rise like waves lapping up against the hull of a ship. Three runs down, the boys needed some encouragement, and their fans knew it. The bleachers exploded with exultation. You can do this, their collected war cry told Gabby as he dug into the dirt and sand surrounding Home, taking his stance. These dinks are just rookies! You guys are the goddamn Chicago Cubs! Give ‘em what for!

  The bat came up like a two-handed vorpal sword, and a nostalgic part of me believed the Louisville Slugger glowed with a magic only Gabby could call. The crowd’s elation muted expectantly as the bat twirled ever so slightly in the batter’s grasp.

  It whistled. Even from where I sat, I heard it clearly. The high-pitched whistle was, in fact, the ball Eddie “Shadow” Faria fired to his catcher. At least, I’m pretty sure it was the ball, because I sure as hell didn’t see it. Shadow’s arm came around, and then there was the ball’s shrill scream, still echoing in the air even after the hard, sharp snap of contact with the catcher’s mitt.

  Instead of the catcher whipping his hand free of the mitt the way Gabby had done earlier in the inning, the Mariner merely stood, threw the ball back to Shadow, and returned to his crouch. Business as usual.

  Gabby kept looking back and forth between Shadow and the Mariners’ catcher. I was getting the impression he was still waiting for the first pitch. A slight shake of the head—probably to clear it—and he finally returned his attention to Home, bringing his bat up and waiting.

  The second pitch was so powerful, the ball whined this time. I know there’s an expression “Knock the cover off the ball...” but could you possibly pitch it off? A second perfect fastball, provided you could see it.

  Even the ump had to wonder about it. “Strike,” he uttered, his voice possessing a slight lilt that almost made the call a query.

  Then there was a shift in the wind, and that was when the scent tickled my nose: the sharp, acrid scent of copper baked by the noonday sun. The smell of electricity.

  Magic. Somehow, Shadow Faria was practicing magic!

  And it was working. The question was how well it was working.

  The third pitch burned its way by Gabby. Not as fast as the second, but still as effective as the previous ones. Faria’s incredible skill showed no signs of faltering on the second Cubs batter. Or the third. The inning ended quickly.

  I lowered the specs and swallowed hard. “Hey, mac,” I barked to the usher who had served me the pre-game meal. “Anyway I can get—”

  “Whatever you like, Mr. Baddings. On the house.”

  “Another dog and Coke,” I grumbled.

  He gave his cap rim a touch and a pleasant smile. “Be right back, Mr. Baddings.”

  I watched the next Mariner, his smirk begging to be slapped off his face with the flat of my battle axe, take up the batter’s stance. Mudcat’s jaw twitched. He was grinding his teeth, and I caught glimpses of his bone-white fingertips clutching a baseball tightly.

  It was going to be a long game.

  ***

  Bottom of the ninth. Baltimore Mariners—11, Chicago Cubs—2.

  Only the most loyal of fans and a few scattered optimists had remained, hanging on for this final inning. What had started off as a prayer for the day to last forever had turned into a lament to the Guardians for a quick and speedy end to this cruel and inhumane ass-kicking. The Mariners had only suffered a few moments where their game—and the magic that graced it—seemed to slacken; hence the two runs scored in the fourth. The pitching of the Mariners’ Shadow Faria, on the other hand, never weakened. He was a machine, firing in strike after strike. Perhaps the mercy I’d silently begged of the higher powers had been granted in those innings where three Cubs had stepped up to the plate only to turn on their heels and take their seats back on the bench.

  The magic being utilized by the visiting team appeared to be base enough to maintain them for the afternoon, but powerful enough to generate that signature smell that had tickled my honker. Sorcery tends to take its toll on the caster, and yet I’d not noticed any slips in the game or in the Mariners’ performance.

  “Ball four!” shouted the ump, snapping me out of my own personal Great Depression.

  Chick Tolson trotted to First Base, not that there was a spring in his step or anything. He was just going through the motions now. Scoring nine runs at the end of the game would be nothing short of a miracle delivered by the Fates themselves.

  Then I noticed Zack Taylor on Second. Shadow was slipping.

  The Mariners ’ coach emerged from the dugout. The kid who had been periodically warming up in the bullpen now stood by the gate, just waiting for a nod.

  Through the specs, Faria was looking tired. In the afternoon sun, the shadows of his cap made him look like a completely different person. It was a lot harder to catch his eyes or see his face entirely now that he kept his head down, presumably out of fatigue. The coach motioned for the fresh kid to take the mound, and a polite, respectful applause rose from the Chicago crowd. Visiting team or not, respect had been earned. Faria had pitched a hell of a game.

  The Cubs could have taken the switch as an opportunity to go for broke and make a last push for a win…provided Faria had petered out in the fifth inning, the sixth at the very latest. This game was all but over, but my boys were at least trying to muster up the drive and strength to make this last stand a good one.

  I sat back, taking a sip of the dwindling Coke. There was something poetic in those legendary last stands you sang songs of around the campfire. We were supposed to be inspired by those great military blunders.

  Yeah, you heard me—blunders.

  Any last stand meant that someone made a mistake. Otherwise it wouldn’t be a last stand. I got into a lot of arguments with superiors when I would refer to great last stands as the results of tactical errors. There was a good chance that was the reason I never made it past captain.

  Now, watching my beloved Cubs gallantly giving it their all, my opinion on last stands started to wane. Poor intelligence and poor planning did lead to the downfall of many a champion, sure. But what about unexpected aces-in-the-holes, be they blades-for-hire, renegade warlocks, or that recently unearthed tome of forgotten spells? Magic wasn’t supposed to be in this realm, and to the best of my knowledge, it wasn’t.

  Then again, that assumption had been challenged last year. When the dust settled I had one case solved, and a few unanswered questions about the new security measures in place at the District Attorney’s office. 1929. Hell of a year, even before October.

  So how were the Baltimore Mariners doing this? Could they have somehow found a volume of magic spells chucked into a Portal of Oblivion, evoked the Cooperstown Charm of Grand Slammer
s, and given themselves a one-way straight shot to their dreams? Doubtful. Since the Elves were the grand pooh-bahs concerning magic in Acryonis, the majority of spell books were written in Elvish script. Elvish is tough enough to read, but when it was written in that overly-decorated calligraphy, it looked like Dwarven runes scrawled after a three-day bender. Those few who were blessed with “the gift” (HA!) would face two options. The first would be to go and study with the Elves. This would mean going off to live, breathe, eat, sleep, and shit the Elven culture. While there are some awfully cute lulus in their realm, it’s kind of tough to find a bed big enough for yourself, an Elven maid, and her Elven ego. Hardly worth the poke.

  The other option: Wing it. You could study under another race, but no guarantees the magic would be as solid or powerful as Elven magic. It all depended on how ambitious the gifted ones were. The ones with serious hubrimaz would choose a residency at Arannahs. If they were lucky, they would be seen again a few decades later.

  If they were lucky.

  The idea of a book written in the Human tongue wouldn’t be completely improbable, but highly unlikely. The magic contained within would be limited in scope and power, and it would be noisy. Very, very noisy. Humans loved their magic decorated with all the gaudy baubles—you know, the wacky sounds, the bright flashes, and all the extra trimmings that would make the biggest Fourth of July celebration look like a string of firecrackers popping on a sidewalk. I never understood Humans and their approach to magic. It was one of the few things I agreed on with the Elves—subtlety. Elves kept their spellcasting slick, efficient, and subtle; subtle to the point of clever. I seriously respected that. The only hint of detection (that Elves didn’t know we Dwarves could detect) was that smell of electricity. Granted, we Dwarves didn’t know what “the smell of electricity” was, but we did recognize the scent of magic. When I would wake up on certain mornings after a particularly deep sleep, I would fire up the Vibro-Shave and absently wonder for a moment if Elves were about.

  This was higher magic, possibly Elven, in the hands of a baseball team from Baltimore.

  “Hey, Short Stuff,” a familiar voice called from behind me, the cordial (and somewhat insulting) greeting decorated with a gruff, grunting laugh.

  By the Fates, could this day possibly get worse? Apparently it could, considering the voice that chilled me through. I didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. The insult was as trademark as his voice. The day could get a whole heaping mess of worse. If my friend, who no doubt was lumbering his way to my seat, gave a meaningful look to the Orcs that flanked him from sunup to sundown, I might find myself enjoying the comfortable accommodations of the Six Feet Under flophouse where no reservations were necessary and there was always a room available.

  Seeing him was a surprise because I didn’t expect him to be out of the Big House so soon.

  “Hello, Al,” I said, turning around to stare at the impeccably-dressed, cigar-smoking, doughy-faced killer, Alphonse Capone.

  Chapter Four

  Take Me Home from the Ball Game

  He took a seat next to me and the wood groaned in protest. If the planks had complained any louder, Capone might have ordered the Orcs accompanying him to reduce the seat to kindling. Luckily for the seats, there was no indication that the creaking bothered him in the least. Al Capone considered his appearance not “fat” but “imposing”. It was also a collected sign of good living: excess, luxury, and wealth, even in these tough times. With those three blessings, power was inevitable. I had read about the “hard time” he served in the Eastern Pennsylvania State Pen, and about how he still possessed enough power to run The Business while he reflected on the wrongs he had committed in life. That was power only the strongest of warriors and mightiest of kings could dream to possess, and it belonged to this obese monster in front of me. A monster dressed in a tailored suit topped with a fine fedora.

  “You a Cubs fan, Small Fry?” Capone asked pleasantly.

  “I am. I mean, nothing wrong with the Sox. A Chicago team is a Chicago team, but I just seemed to have better fortune with the Cubs.”

  He laughed while pulling a cigar out of his coat pocket. “A bettin’ man, too, huh? You’re still full of surprises, ya little sprite ya.”

  Sure, he was baiting me. It was tempting to get snippy with Al, but I knew better. A quick glance at his Orcs told me that they were new and probably wanted practice at skillfully removing anything that bothered their boss. If I were to play my ace and use the “S” name on Al, his boys would likely take me somewhere up in the cheap seats and use me as a punching bag, or—since we were in Wrigley Field—batting practice.

  I didn’t care for the insults, but I really wanted to walk home from Wrigley instead of from the hospital. “I don’t mind a friendly wager between friends, Al. I’m not enough of a gambler to work with your boys.”

  Capone had snipped off the tip of the cigar and he nursed a fine, warm glow as I spoke. A few puffs later he nodded, looking over the field. “I’m just surprised ta’ see ya’ here, Small Fry. I love dis game!” He motioned to an area closer to Home Plate, right up on the barrier between the fans and the field. I recognized that section immediately as the seats of privilege, normally reserved for baseball owners, politicians, and the local nobility. “Got some nice seats down there so I can make sure the ump is calling the game correctly. Great seats dere, but I never saw you’s until today.”

  “I’m a regular, too, Al. My seats, though, tend to get a bit high up in the rafters,” I said, motioning behind us. “My usual perch overlooks the Visitors side. It may seem far up and away from the action, but the wide view lets me catch those subtle choices coaches make during the game. It’s a dance, Al, a real dance.” I scoffed lightly, looking at him in disbelief, “And I’m so wrapped up in the game, I didn’t see you take your seats among the Royal Boxes. Not sure why, but this is something I didn’t expect—Al Capone, a fan of baseball?”

  “I tell ya’ sumptin’, dis’ game is all-American and I love dat. And when you come out on a day like dis’, eh, ya’ can fa-get ya’ troubles and jus’ enjoy da’ game, enjoy life,” he said proudly. It was inspiring. I could see in his eyes and hear in his voice the same passion that I nurtured for the game. “Yeah, sumtimes I like ta’ get outside, get some fresh air with ma’ kid. Pitch a couple. Maybe even get a few swings in with th’ bat.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, Al, I have no doubt you’re good at that.”

  He paused, then turned to look down at me, his mouth slowly pulling back into a smile that sent a shiver through my body. “I am pretty talented in dat respect.”

  A sharp dryness suddenly appeared in my throat, as if conjured by that subtle Elf magic I was just waxing poetic about. I figured this was a good time to make my exit.

  “Where ya’ going, Small Fry?” Capone asked me.

  “Today was a great day for baseball, but a lousy day for the Cubs,” I grumbled, clutching the schedule and program close to me. I was going to need some reference points for my homework on the Baltimore Mariners. “I figured a quick bite and then home, to sleep off today’s disappointment.”

  “Well den,” Al said cheerfully, “how’s about I takes you home, huh? Cubs fan ta’ Cubs fan? We’s can commiserate on da’ trip to wherever you were going ta’ have dinna’.”

  Why me? Well, at least this time, Al was asking me face-to-face and not having his goons flashing their boom daggers at me, motioning to a car that waited to take me to parts unknown.

  “Sure, Al. Cubs fan to Cubs fan.”

  I glanced around me, hoping beyond hope that someone with the press was taking pictures of this moment—Dwarf detective and Public Enemy Number One leaving together from a complete and utter massacre dealt by the Mariners. So long as there was photographic evidence of whom I was last seen with, someone would figure out the party responsible for my sudden disappearance. I did happen to catch a flashbulb bursting bright as Al and me ascended towards the exit, but my heart sank when I saw the tel
l-tale hat of a G-man behind the camera.

  Great. Might as well have been a Forest Pixie or a Valley Gnome taking stock in where I was headed. G-men were about as gregarious.

  We didn’t have much to say as we walked through Wrigley Field. Hell, we didn’t say anything as we walked to his car. I suppose I should have regarded this offer of a ride home as just that—a ride home. What had I done to piss off Al Capone, anyway?

  “You know, Baddings, I took your advice while I was out of town. Stopped in Philly and treated myself to a movin’ picture.”

  Aw, shit.

  The memory slapped me harder than a cranky tavern wench.

  “Headin’ up t’Atlantic City. Business trip,” Capone had told me on the steps of the courthouse.

  “Make sure you don’t work too hard. Give yourself a break. Take in a movie or something.”

  “I might jus’ do dat,” had been his answer.

  “Really? How was the movie?”

  “Eh, not bad…” he said with a shrug, “…until I got arrested in da’ lobby.”

  I tipped my hat back, looking past the man’s gut and up to that pudgy face of his, “Well, when I recommended you give yourself a break from things, I figured you wouldn’t relax so heavily armed.”

  “It was a .38 I had. No big deal.”

  “Al, it was a gun.”

  “Fuckin’ cap gun, Short Stuff,” he sparred.

  “Fuckin’ firearm, Scarface!” I snapped back.

  He stopped, raising an eyebrow at my tone. That was definitely a slip on my part.

  I raised my hands in surrender, “Sorry, Al. I meant no offense.”

  He grunted several times. I think he was laughing. “Nah, nah, nah, no need ta’ apologize, Small Fry. I see ya’ point. I was probably asking fa’ it.”