The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant

by Tee Morris

  But like I said, I got a pair. “I mean, if you all want to head back to your little encampment, strip down to your jock straps and give each other rub downs, be my guest, but do it on your own time.”

  It’s really funny when Humans try to look as if they’re on the verge of a blood-rage. They wind up looking like Orcs in desperate need of ex-lax.

  “We’re going to give this another try.” I said. “This lapdog was a friend of yours. I would think you want some retribution for this, and that’s what I excel at.”

  Sledgehammer screwed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. He finally looked at me, his expression curious in how pitiful it was. “Must be sad being so damn short, seeing as a lot goes flying over you. I’m gonna say it again—you deal with Shuffle’s death your way. We’ll deal with it our way.”

  Okay, this was getting me nowhere. “Fine. I will. You boys run along and play with your buddies, or play with yourselves, whatever you enjoy most. When you’re feeling more cooperative—” I pulled out a business card and walked up to the wall. Extending up to my tiptoes would probably earn me a chuckle, but they were just watching me as I placed the contact info within their reach. “—here’s my card. Call me.”

  The cover of my memo pad flipped shut before they took off to join the rest of their teammates.

  A “lapdog” was how William “Shuffle” Patterson’s best friends regarded him. I considered this as I made my way up the steps of Wrigley Field. Some friends. If this was the truth, then his death was even more tragic than it already seemed. To be beaten as he was, by sorcery, meant he suffered. I’ve been in full armor and punched by Humans, Orcs, and Trolls. I’ll get the wind knocked out me, but the adrenalin and the moment gets me back on my feet. A punch spiked by magic, especially with whatever intent is behind the magic, can go through armor like a freshly-sharpened battle axe through warm butter. Okay, so it may cushion the blow to an extent, but you’re not getting up. Not right away. You got to take a breath first, and if it doesn’t hurt too much, take another one for good measure. If your ribs are bruised, you’re getting off light.

  A solid Chicago-tailored winter suit wouldn’t have helped Shuffle. The first punch would have been enough to crack a few bones and keep him on the bench until the end of the summer. He had been hit seven times, and from what his corpse showed me, the magic had grown in its intensity with each strike. The last punch was probably the one to his face. I was sure he saw it coming. I was sure whatever was killing him made certain he was conscious enough to appreciate it. I was sure the last thing Shuffle felt was the sting of that last strike, before his nose and bits of his skull caved in and drove deep into his brain.

  I was sure of all this because I’ve seen dark magic up close and personal. It doesn’t do nice things to people.

  The ball struck the seat next to me hard. It bounced between the chair and the back of its brother in the lower row, took flight for a brief moment, and then started falling towards me.

  Slap, and I smiled at the tingling in my palm. If you catch a ball barehanded, you’re running a real gamble. If a finger is too far inward, the ball’s curvature will catch it and bend it against your palm, snapping it like a twig. Too far out and you might bend back a finger or two. Then you have the double pleasure of both needing your fingers reset and lousing up the catch. All this damage, of course, depends on the speed of the ball.

  Then you’ve got the perfect catch, be it barehanded or with a glove. The hand forms a curve the ball can nuzzle into like a woman’s body against your own in the throes of good grundle’malk. The point of impact is at that part of your hand where nerves are either conditioned (or deadened, depending on if you’re an optimist or pessimist…) and can handle any velocity that canvas-covered sphere is sailing at. And when the ball comes to a stop, it’s not you defying the laws of motion and making something stop, but it’s you and the ball both ushering a state of rest.

  The sting in my hand felt good. Really good.

  I turned around and looked back at the field. Eddie “Shadow” Faria was staring back at me from the batter’s box, Home Plate a pristine white just in front of his feet. His bat came to rest across his shoulders as he stared up at me. Faria was hard to read because he didn’t look threatened, pissed, or even slightly perturbed. He was just standing there, content. Content because of the hit? It was a foul ball, you putz! Content that he missed me? Great. Trouble probably appreciated the gesture.

  Content that he got my attention? Now there was a thought.

  I started down the steps when I heard Big Joe call out, “Nice catch, Shrimp!”

  The steps extended out, demarking a change in seating sections. It would be tight but I had enough room. I hurled the ball back into the diamond. The ball disappeared for a second, and then reappeared on its descent.

  Big Joe would not have been a hard target to hit on account of his size, but it was how I wanted to hit him. The ball came straight down on that fat prick and bounced high off the top of his noggin. It had gained some speed after passing the apex I gave it. There was something satisfying about being able to apply some of that science stuff I picked up in the library while on a case. I didn’t hear the rap against Big Joe’s skull, but the impact had been powerful enough to drive him down to one knee.

  I straightened my tie and coat, giving the Baltimore Mariners a quick once-over from my vantage point. A couple of the players were running to check on Joe while everyone else stayed put. They all shot me an Ogre’s glare similar to Coach Pappy’s, all of them save for Faria. He wasn’t giving me anything to ponder on, outside of why he wanted my attention.

  With a final adjustment to my hat, I continued up the stairs, making no indication that I noticed the card I’d left on the retaining wall was no longer there.

  Chapter Ten

  Dial ’B’ for Billi

  The office was the best place to catch a breath in the middle of a case. I’d take a stand on a stepstool and just peer over Chicago between the “Investigations” and “REDford 6500” painted on the inside of the window. Those Baltimore clowns were definitely putting up a good front for whoever was calling the shots. While it doesn’t take a criminal mastermind to rob a bank, I didn’t buy for a second that those dinks were savvy enough to know what to look for in the museums. From greenbacks to Rodin sketchbooks? That was quite a step up. They also didn’t strike me as coordinated enough to do whatever they were doing while on the road. The difficult part was going to be proving how they were pulling these jobs completely out of sight. That was the part that made me most nervous. It was the part that most strongly suggested magic.

  My eyes went to the hiding place of My World Book, and I gave a heavy sigh before taking a quick sip of my coffee. Maybe it wasn’t time to bend the cover on that just yet. It was magic, I had no doubt. The smell of electricity still tickled my nostrils when I thought about everything.

  I was just hoping it wasn’t one of the Nine. Dealing with the one had taken a toll on me. It was hard not to look at the statue of Lady Justice when I passed Chicago’s Courthouse. Seemed she was always looking down and grinning at me, as if she knew something I didn’t.

  There was a connection I was missing apart from how the Mariners were doing it, and the connection was the real brains of the outfit. It certainly wasn’t Shuffle Patterson, since he was out of the picture on account of a severe case of death. The rest of Trouble could have been trying to throw me off by making him out to be a lapdog, but I didn’t think they were that bright. Those four were answering to someone, and if I could find that reigning lord then maybe I could pull out that foundation from under them and make them fold like a bad card player at the gaming tables.

  My train of thought was cut short by the buzz of the phone. A click-click silenced the dull tapping of clapper to bell, and then Miranda chimed in.

  “Billi, McCarthy’s on the line.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, hopping down to the floor. I reached up to my desk and gripped the re
ceiver. “Got it.” With the horn now free from my chest, I spoke into it. “Mr. McCarthy? Billi Baddings here. How are things?”

  “You saw the game on Tuesday,” McCarthy grumbled. “We’re still licking the wounds. I’ve never seen ball played like that before.”

  “I agree,” I said. “I was pretty impressed by what the Mariners brought to Chicago, but not half as impressed as by what your boys dealt back. My Cubs played their hearts out.”

  “That they did,” he agreed, a hint of pride just detectible under the current of regret, “but apparently it wasn’t enough. Maybe that ball player getting killed was a—”

  He caught himself before finishing the thought, but I took a huge liberty addressing it. “You’re only human in thinking that, Mr. McCarthy, but I’d suggest keeping those passing thoughts to yourself.”

  “Geez,” he swore. “This team is really working on me.”

  A moment or two passed before I spoke. He was calling me for a reason, not because he wanted to chat up an old friend and fan. I could only go so far in what I could tell him. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I’m on to something with the Mariners. I know they’ve got one more game coming. I need a little more time to find things out.”

  “Okay, but that’s your job, isn’t it? Finding the time to take care of this?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t call up the Commissioner and have him further postpone your schedule for a few more days on account of a private investigation, now can I? Even if I were to get this past Landis and get him to sit quiet on it—which I doubt he would—”

  “Good guess.”

  “I wouldn’t want to risk the papers catching wind of it. We’re trying to keep this all on the quiet. Careful as clerics, you follow?”

  He paused. “Well, no, I don’t. What the hell’s a cleric?”

  I shook my head and continued. “Phone up the Commissioner and ask for a few more days of mourning. Say it’s so Chicago’s Finest can score more time to go over the evidence, bring a bit of justice to whoever killed an up-and-coming player in the league. He’ll love that, especially coming from the opposing team’s manager.”

  “Yeah, he just might.”

  The conversation was now at a close, at least for me, but Joe cleared his throat. I knew he was waiting for something far more definite than I could give him at that moment, but I thought I would be okay as long as he didn’t—

  “So, Mr. Baddings, what do you think the Mariners are up to?”

  Black magic. That could have been my answer, followed up with, Oh yeah, and a series of bank robberies and upscale heists. I could have revealed all that to a guy who didn’t know what a cleric was.

  Sorry, Coach, but I’m going to go for two bases on this in-field drive.

  “It’s too early to tell. But I can say with certainty that it’s complicated. You’ll just have to trust me when I say this is big, and I need time to see where it leads.”

  From the momentary silence, Joe understood. I didn’t want him to worry, but he had every right to be concerned.

  “Thanks for the candor, Billi,” he spoke finally, his tone sounding a bit deflated. I knew he’d hoped I would have an explanation, but I couldn’t give him one yet. “I’ll be in touch after talking to the Commissioner.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McCarthy. Talk to you soon.”

  The click of receiver to cradle never sounded so loud. I looked up toward Miranda, but she was still typing up the monthly expenses on her Smith-Corona. She apparently didn’t notice the click, so it was just me. What I had told Joe was not a lie, but I needed more information before I could start laying out the whole truth. At least, the truth that would make sense to a world that did not practice nor comprehend true magic. This was becoming complicated, involving a lot more than just the Baltimore Mariners. It could easily become a scandal that might wreck the entire season and maybe even shut down professional baseball as we knew it. Baseball had become a haven for many after the bubble burst. The dark shadow of Depression loomed overhead like a specter of Death, hovering over the damned until its time to reap. This sport had become the glue that held the country together.

  Take baseball away from the masses and a reaping would indeed ensue.

  My head jerked back to the phone as it rang out again. I was still by the desk. Hadn’t moved since I hung up. I reached for the receiver, but my girl had beaten me to it.

  “Billi,” she called from the other room, “for you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Wouldn’t say. Definitely a guy. Wanted to talk to you and only you.”

  Care for a little cloak with your dagger? (Now there’s a saying that made some sense to me!) I picked up. “Got it.” Back up to the ear and mouth. “Billi Baddings. Whadya hear? Whadya say?”

  “Mr. Baddings?” The voice was male, with a gruffness from talking in hushed tones. “This is Archie Randalls.”

  “Flyball?” So he was the one who had picked up my card. The newly-appointed “lapdog” was looking for a friend to talk to, or possibly a way out. “Archie, I apprec—”

  “I got to make this quick ‘cause the guys are hitting the showers right now. I only got a few ticks, so just listen. You wanted to talk a bit about what happened to Shuffle. I can talk when we’re not at Wrigley, so when can we meet?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Meet me behind the Jefferson Hotel. Eight o’clock. I can probably duck out of the whoring tonight. You know the Jefferson?”

  “A couple blocks from the park.” I said, whipping my coat off the rack. “Behind the Jefferson. Got it.”

  “Thanks for leaving the number, Mr. Baddings. What happened to Bill…well, maybe what we were doing wasn’t all that square, but that’s just not right what happened to Bill.”

  “I agree.”

  “Eight o’clock. Don’t keep me waiting, ‘cause I won’t.”

  A sharp click sounded in the receiver and he was gone.

  Are you kidding, kid? I’ll be there before you know or expect it.

  My hat was on my head and my hand was on my office door when I paused. The kid was sharp. Had to be, to play ball like he did. Could he be crafty enough to be a doubleback, as we called them back in Acryonis?

  Doublebacks were the worst kind of traitors. Whether you were in a full company or on a campaign with a group of eight, doublebacks were weak-willed saps tempted either by sex, druids, or rocks of gold. The easy lure of power—financial, primal, or elemental—it didn't matter to them. Usually the encouragement to turn on their brethren and the promise of the reward was their first taste of it.

  Maybe in the Depression, hand-outs were not uncommon. Hell, in my world, hand-outs weren’t all that uncommon. Troll-ravaged towns would need help after a raid, or some conjured plague. All charity aside, there was no such thing as easy booty. You had to earn that charmed weapon, either through hard work or by risking life and limb. If someone were to hand you power without test or question, you were either going to be called on to be a doubleback or you were being handed something loaded with a pain-in-the-ass curse.

  From the sound of his voice, he was already wading deep in this mess the Mariners were making. What would he have to lose?

  I considered this as I popped the clip out of Beatrice. She could do with a topping off.

  Chapter Eleven

  Third Time’s a Charm

  Ace Taxis never let me down. No matter where I needed to be, my driver would have me there before the ink dried on his dispatcher’s message. I had plenty of time to play, and that was exactly what I intended to do. Now that I knew where the team was staying in Chicago, I needed to figure out what floor they were on.

  The Jefferson. Damn. This team was living large in the Windy City. Hopefully, the Cubs didn’t know their visiting opponents were enjoying the lush life at one of the premier hotels in Chicago. A top restaurant, nice rooms, and all around royal service that could break a ball team owner’s bank if the players got spend-crazy in their swanky flops. Maybe this was
the way some team owners were compensating after skinflints like Comiskey caused the Black Sox Scandal, but putting a team up at the Jefferson was really raising the bar for everyone else.

  I walked down the brightly lit alley, casually glancing around the loading dock. There was a delivery crew swapping crates of produce and goods back and forth for the kitchen, suggesting to me that the alleyway was going to change a bit once this delivery truck took off for the night. Keeping my stride wide and with a purpose, I slipped into the back entrance of the posh hotel and followed the skinny corridor to the kitchen where the early evening’s repasts were being prepared. No stone hearths and blood-covered peasants impaling a pig on a spit here. Instead, the castle’s cooking staff were dressed in starched white, bathed in bright light and surrounded by silver implements of all kinds. One thing that was no different from the kitchens of keeps I’d known was the shouting. Back and forth, orders were called across the servants’ heads, and some would call back with an acknowledgment. There was some sort of organization to this chaos, but only the culinary infantry of this army understood its tactics. I was easily able to dodge and weave out of everyone’s way. Their own missions kept them too preoccupied to notice me.

  I stuck close to the shadows, employing those honed infiltration skills of mine…

  Okay, maybe those “slightly rusty” infiltration skills of mine. From the number of double-takes I earned in my cross of the first kitchen, I wondered if I wasn’t in need of some practice. I rarely afforded that many glances and furrowed brows.

  The chef’s office was finally next to me. I peeked over the windowsill and saw the office vacant, but with lights on. He was here, but probably somewhere gearing up the crew for tonight. With one more glance across the kitchen, I crouched low and hustled through the open space between my hiding place and the door. Once inside the office, I nudged the door closed. It wasn’t shut, but it was closed enough to give me a semblance of privacy, fleeting as it might be.