The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant

by Tee Morris

  An interesting reaction, and unexpected. There were whispers on the street that Al getting busted for the firearm charge was prearranged by Al himself. The details were sketchy at best, but word on the street was Al’s business trip up to Atlantic City left a sour taste in the mouth of some other bosses. Word was that he knew this, so he set himself up to be arrested for gun possession.

  Catching the smirk on his face, I also found it hard to accept Capone slipping up like that.

  “Well, from what I understand, your stay in Eastern Pennsylvania was a working vacation.”

  “They took good care of me dere,” he said.

  “So I heard.” I scoffed lightly at the thought that popped into my head. Why not share it with him? “And you could not have picked a safer place to lay low. Right, Al?”

  His smile faded as we started walking again. “The view from my cell left a lot to be desired, Small Fry.”

  Well, at least he didn’t hold me responsible for the arrest. Maybe a change of subject was at hand.

  What had he said—Cubs fan to Cubs fan? “Tough game to sit through, huh, Al?”

  “You ain’t kiddin’ dere, Short Stuff.” Capone snorted, taking a drag on the cigar. He removed it from his mouth, and I could see the teeth marks in its tips were a little deeper than they had been a moment ago. “Never heard of dees guys, the Baltimore Mariners. I mean, what’s a ‘Mariner’ anyway?”

  “A fancy word for somebody who sails or navigates vessels at sea,” I replied automatically. “Baltimore’s one of those coastal towns. Maybe they’re not right on the Atlantic, but they’ve got a pretty busy harbor.”

  “Eva’ been dere?”

  “Nope,” I said, sighing heavily. “But I’ve read a bit about it.”

  We climbed into Capone’s tank masquerading as a luxury ride. While it was heavily armored and probably the safest place with wheels in Chicago, it was hard to deny its creature comforts. Fully stocked bar, plush seats, enough room for a grand old grundle’malk in either the seat facing to or away from the driver. This was going to be one nice ride to Mick’s.

  “Where are we headed, Small Fry?” Capone asked.

  “You know Mick’s?”

  He nodded, the smile returning to his face as he took a final drag of the stogie. The door slammed shut as the car rumbled to life, roaring like a dragon facing off against a brave slayer who should have stayed in bed.

  The driver didn’t have to ask where Mick’s was. Everybody in Chicago knew where to get the best chili.

  “So how did you get such good seats, Baddings? Where you’s was sittin’ don’t come cheap.”

  Yeah, anybody passing by would have been able to figure out I was new to the first class view. It wasn’t until the third inning I became aware of my face aching slightly on account of the goofy smile that had plastered itself there. Then there was my own private castle servant. His trips back and forth with topped-off soda, hot dogs, and even the indulgence I always looked forward to at Wrigley Field—Cracker Jacks—had caught the attention of the people around me. Why not Alphonse Capone on a glance down the First Base line?

  “A case I’d worked on. A client was saying thank you,” I said, keeping my eyes locked with his.

  “Dat’s some ‘thank you’ with the treatment you’s was gettin’.”

  My head tipped to one side, and I felt a smirk form on my mouth, “You watching me instead of the game, Al? I don’t know whether to be flattered or worried about that.”

  Capone wasn’t smiling back. “I don’t know either, Baddings. You an’ me still got unfinished business between us.”

  “We do?”

  “Yeah, we do,” he repeated, a slight sting peppering his voice. “I’m still not sure what exactly happened dat night wit’ you’s and me and dat cockamamie Singin’ Sword…”

  “Speaking of that, how are your hands?”

  Capone paused for a moment. My concern was genuine, but I was also curious. I wanted to make sure Capone wasn’t suddenly sporting any new talents like moving things without touching them or turning into a Troll, though the latter wouldn't have been a far stretch for him.

  “Not bad,” he said, flexing his fingers back and forth. “Maybe when dat winta’ wind picks up they get a little tingle, but I was taken care of by da’ best. Only da’ best.”

  The skin was healed as much as it could be; and while I don’t think Capone’s paws had been delicate and dainty-smooth before the night he discovered magic, his palms did appear to have a surface similar to parchment. To the untrained eye, the skin looked as if it knew a hard life, which I’m sure it did; but that night had been harder than any night he’d known in Chicago.

  “So, what was I sayin’?” he asked, his full attention back on me. “Oh yeah, dat Singin’ Sword…I was jus’ about ta’ say dat I may not be sure what I saw dat night, but I do rememba’ leavin’ you dere wit’ dat bitch all glowin’ and shit. Den the warehouse lights up da watafront, and we watch from da’ car dis’ fire dat we didn’t t’ink no one was gonna walk away from. Come to find out somebody did, and dat somebody was you.”

  “So maybe I’ve got some sabertooth blood in my veins and eight more lives left.”

  “You wanna see if dat’s true, Baddings?”

  I took a deep breath, just letting that question take hold. Maybe claiming I had nine lives was kind of stupid, considering whose car I was getting a lift in. “Okay, let’s say I’m luckier at escaping burning warehouses than I am at betting on Cubs games.”

  “So you can unda’stand my curiosity here. This is why I’m thinkin’ we got unfinished business.”

  “That wasn’t what you said at the courthouse.”

  “Nah, I didn’t. I told you that I’d be watching you. And that was part of what I was doing ta-day—watching you.”

  I gave a chortle as I sat back against the comfortable backseat cushion, my legs now sliding up to fill the bottom seat. My feet were just at its edge. “Well, Al, I can’t say that I blame you. Wasn’t much of a game.”

  “Really? Den why did you stay for the entire t’ing?” He leaned forward, and then lightly tapped the tip of my shoes. “Might as well had a docta’ attach dem binoculars to ya’ seeing as how you used ‘em so much.”

  Damn, Al, I was holding your attention. “You mean to tell me you weren’t at all curious about the Mariners? Who these no-names were? Where they were coming from? Or more to the point, how they were playing ball the way they were?”

  “Not really.” Al flicked the sole of my left shoe, giving the balls of my feet a slight jolt. Didn’t realize I needed to see the cobbler already. “And I don’t think you need ta’ be all dat interested in da’ Mariners either.”

  You’ve got to be kidding me. “Hey, Al, I’ve been keeping tabs on these guys in the Sports pages and I have a tough time believing that they really are that good. Brand new team, breaking reco—”

  “Hey, hey, HEY!” Al snapped, his face getting just a hint of that red that always meant trouble for the poor dink about to get an earful from him. “Baddings, I t’ink you lack faith in our boys.” Capone’s tone was now controlled, even, and that blush his skin took on disappeared, along with his anger. “I mean, dees are da’ Cubs we’re talkin’ about, right? Dey still got anotha’ game in ‘em, and I’m thinkin’ it ain’t over yet. After ta-day, dose Cubs are gonna come back and come back with a purpose.”

  “Spoken like a true fan, Al,” I answered carefully.

  I wasn’t too thrilled about Al encouraging me to look elsewhere when it came to the Mariners. I had thought my biggest challenge was going to be getting into the Wrigley dugouts or, more to the point, into the locker rooms; but now it seemed that Al himself wanted me to avert my eyes and ask no questions.

  Suddenly, the gigs as Waldorf weren’t looking so bad.

  We turned a corner and the warm glow from Mick’s bathed the street. The sun was hardly close to the horizon, but with the surrounding skyscrapers the evening shadows came a little earlier
for that crazy Polack and his business, a business that was so deeply rooted in the community that he still managed to keep things running at the same level of quality even after that stupid glass bubble on Wall Street popped.

  “Here we are, Billi.”

  Capone called me “Billi” for the first time since we'd met up at Wrigley. He did this to grab my attention. Oh sure, he knew what buttons to push with me, just like I knew which buttons—or the button, in his case—triggered that temper of his. Now he was using my name. He was a monster, sure, but he wasn't an idiot. Capone could see that the “Short Stuff” and “Small Fry” jabs had lost their power.

  Not that I was numb to it. I just figured I would go down to the gym and get in a good workout on the bag. Every insult equaled a punch. Nice thing about a punching bag—it couldn’t order other punching bags to take you to the outskirts of town and leave you there as a treat for the vultures.

  Calling me “Billi” was a new battle tactic. And I admit—it worked. He had my undivided attention.

  “The fact you’re still walking—Hell, the fact you’re still breathing—reminds me dat I’m keepin’ you around for a reason.”

  “Not for the stimulating conversation?”

  “I don’t think so, Billi. We both know that.”

  I gave a nod. Capone didn’t like to beat around the bush and he’d cut right to the truth of why I was still sucking up his Chicago air. He needed me. He needed me to lead him to the Sword of Arannahs, and he acknowledged the fact that me walking away from what happened on the waterfront meant I wouldn’t be susceptible to the tried-and-true methods of persuasion.

  I was a walking contradiction. I was the safest man in Chicago, the safest man living on borrowed time. I just had to make sure he never knew what happened to that talisman.

  “Now you go pokin’ around inta’ business dat, quite frankly, ain’t yours, even if someone’s payin’ you ta’ make it yours. You keep dis up, an’ my hand might be forced ta’ revaluate our relationship. Capisce?”

  “If you’re worried about me getting in your way…”

  “Dat’s just it. I’m not.”

  Well now, if I didn’t capisce before, I definitely capisced now: Jail had made him better at this kind of standoff. Best tell him what he wanted to hear. “I hear you, Al, and I’m listening to you as if you’re a Siren’s song.”

  He nodded. The expression on his face was one of satisfaction, like a grand master of a Thieves’ Guild with the haul from a king’s coffer spread before him. “I knew you would, Billi. I knew you would.”

  The sidewalk in front of Mick’s never felt so good under my feet. I must have been a record-holder in some scribe’s books: As far as I knew, I was the only man who had crossed Capone three times—twice on his terms and once on his turf—and was still able to tell the tale and not from a hospital bed or coffin. Yeah, that was me: The safest man in Chicago on borrowed time, and blessed with the Luck of the Forest Gnomes.

  “Enjoy ya dinnah, Small Fry,” he called from the back of his limousine, and one of his goons closed the door.

  I stood by the curb, watching Capone’s Caddie disappear down the street. It had been a nice ride in Capone’s chariot, but it had been an even better ride because I’d made it to my destination intact. The Caddie disappeared in a sea of Fords and Chevrolets, and I felt that weight lift off my chest, that same feeling like when a yeoman would remove my breastplate armor after a march. Maybe I had been holding my breath longer than I realized, because that first breath I took on the street—the first one I was aware of—really tasted good, even with the smells of the city tingeing its Spring crispness.

  The jingling of the bells seemed a lot louder than usual, and it didn’t take long to figure out why. Mick’s was quiet. Far too quiet, and not for the lack of customers. It wasn’t the usual packed dinner crowd, but Mick who was behind the counter, the diners at the window tables, and even Mick’s dutiful serving maid Annabelle, were all looking at me silently, some of them with their mouths hanging open wide enough that a sprite-bat could have flown in and made a cozy home. I almost barked, “Yes, I’m short. Is there a problem?” Between the disappointing game at Wrigley and my ride with His Majesty of the Crime Syndicate, I was short-tempered enough to really let loose. Hell, even some of the regulars who knew me were finding some kind of fascination with me and my stature.

  Then my ego took a sword pommel to the gut. They weren’t staring at me. They were staring at a guy who just got out of Al Capone’s car.

  “Billi, what the fu—”

  “Mick,” I interjected, making sure he didn’t piss off any of the Norman Rockwellers enjoying their family outing. With the way times were, an outing to a restaurant was something special. They didn’t need colorful vocabulary ruining it. “I’ll have the usual, but spike it.”

  “How strong ya’ want it?” he asked, still staring at me like I was suddenly growing to Human height.

  Chances are, Mick didn’t know half of what I meant in my hometown references, but he was street smart enough to figure out that Ogres, based on the way I used them in idle chatter, were big, ugly, and stupid. Ogres and Orcs were kissing cousins, which explains why they looked the way they did. Anyway, whenever I’d drop any of my Acryonis lingo on him, Mick was quick enough to figure it out. Ogre-strength meant “I want it to have some punch to it”. Orc-strength meant “Make it mean; so mean that I got enough gas to get me to Pittsburgh and back”.

  “Give me an Orc and an Ogre trying to make a baby.”

  I heard a spoon drop with a clatter. Apparently one of the regulars had also figured out my idioms.

  Mick whistled, then added, “I know times have been tough, but Jesus Chri—” The hallowed name caught in his throat, and he gave a slight wave to the priest pausing mid-bite in his Red Plate Special. “Sorry, Father Finelli.”

  I watched Mick go to the back, and from the pass-through where he or the odd cook or two were usually visible, I could see him reach up to the shelf above his head and pull down a fistful of spices. He disappeared from view for a few minutes and then reappeared with fresh produce in his arms. I could make out onions, three kinds of bell peppers, two varieties of hot peppers, and the tell-tale white caps of mushrooms.

  Yeah, this chili was going to have plenty of moxie.

  “So, Billi,” my friend called from the kitchen, “you, uh, wanna give up the goods?”

  “What are ya’ talkin’ about, Mick?” I asked, climbing up to my custom-built barstool.

  “No, no, no, Scrappie, you’re not playin’ dumb with me tonight!” he answered, his dark blues seeming to go a shade darker as he waved a rather menacing knife in my direction, bits of onion and pepper still valiantly clinging to the flat of its blade. “What are you doing hitching rides with…you know…”

  I gave a shrug, wearing the most clue-free look I could muster. I wanted to hear Mick say his name.

  He gave a sharp groan of frustration and then said it again, “C’mon, Billi—you know…him.”

  “Him who, ya crazy Polack? I know a lot of people who I can associate with the word ‘him’ so narrow it down for me.”

  He mouthed the name with such exaggeration, a forced whisper with a heavy emphasis on the syllables was just audible over the scraping of the knife against the cutting board. That chili was going to be so thick, Elves could dance on it.

  “Malone?” I asked, flashing Annabelle a smile after she dropped off a fresh iced tea.

  “CAPONE!” he suddenly blurted out, the kitchen knife coming down on the other side of the pass-through with a sharp crack!

  For a second, I thought he had cut off a finger; but when I saw both hands grip the rim of the pass-through, all fingers and thumbs present and accounted for, my sigh of relief became a belly laugh. Mick’s eyes narrowed and finally he joined in my guffawing. Yeah, when I cracked that hardened exterior of Mick’s, his square-jawed profile would soften, although working on his nerves might cost him a few more grays around those tem
ples of his. Maybe he didn’t care to utter the gangster’s name in such a wholesome family place like his. Well, okay, as “wholesome” as it could be with us openly calling one another ethnic slurs. Not that we minded. So long as it was the two of us dealing the barbs.

  “You crazy Scrappie,” Mick huffed.

  “The guy’s a gangster, not some demon you summon up if you utter his name the night the Cubs lose at Wrigley. And that reminds me—” I placed a Lincoln on the bar. “This should settle our wager, right?”

  Another two bucks slid next to my fiver, and I followed the arm behind the Washingtons up to the somber-faced man of the cloth. I was a Guardians-fearing man before I left Acryonis, but since winding up here with no way to go home, my faith’s been a little on the rusty side. That didn’t mean I went out of my way to spit on the stoop of a church. Far be it from me to even tempt the wrath of a deity, be it the Guardians or the God this priest worked for.

  A warmth crossed my cheeks, and I cleared my throat. “Little vices, Father,” I said, motioning to my cash on the counter.

  He looked at his two bucks and sighed. “No need to apologize, my son. My bill, you see, was already paid up before you arrived.” He gave a tip of his hat to Mick, who nodded back in reply. “Little vices indeed, my son, afflict us all.”

  I waited until I was certain the door was shut and Mick was back from the kitchen, on the other side of the bar, before asking “You’re taking bets from priests now?”

  “It was two bucks, Billi.”

  “From—a—priest!” I took a swig of the iced tea before continuing. “You’re just asking for the Express L to the Underworld, ain’t ya?”

  Mick scoffed, tossing a dishrag over his shoulder. “Hey, Father Jay an’ I are on good terms. I go on, give him confession, don’t allow him to bet any more than five bucks, and we’re good until next confession. The man’s not allowed many—”

  “That’s not the Underworld I’m talkin’ about,” I whispered through clenched teeth. “What? Have you got Ogre balls for brains?!”

  Mick furrowed his brow, then finally figured out my sudden, sharp tone. “Billi, a couple bucks from Father Jay, a fiver on occasion from you, maybe a few greenbacks between friends. It’s nothin’.”