The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant

by Tee Morris

  My eyes quickly scanned across the desk for any kind of report from the night before. Hopefully he wasn’t one of those creative geniuses who knew no equal in his element, but was a village idiot when it came to paperwork. I didn’t have much time to rummage, and if he had things neatly organized for me, it would make my job that much easier.

  I swallowed hard when I saw the mountains of parchment that overwhelmed his desk. A break would have been really nice.

  Three stacks deep into this organized mess, I found the Room Service log, with a report from the assistant chef slipped carelessly inside the front cover. From the title of the form and the looks of the notes, the second to the Jefferson’s Top Chef had resigned over Room Service.

  The door swung open. “I told you to heat that oven to 425, not 375!”

  Shit.

  Since he was still shouting something to his crew, I was able to slip underneath the desk unnoticed, log in hand. Provided he didn’t drop a pencil or take a seat and try to tackle some of his paperwork, I would be able to remain unseen…

  …and wouldn’t you know it? Like something out of a dock whore’s day job, I was eye to eye with his crotch as he took the office chair. His knees were coming toward the desk. They paused just shy of me. (Thank. The. Fates.) Papers rustled back and forth.

  “Dammit,” he hissed. The legs disappeared from view and the chef’s voice faded off as he bellowed, “Speddings! Where’s the Room Service log from last night?”

  Clutching the now sought-after log a bit tighter, I crept to the door, took one more peek around the corner, and then returned to the shadows of the kitchen and the access corridors.

  I glanced at my watch and noted the time. 5:03. I might as well grab a quick look at the log now instead of trying to find a quiet spot. The servants would be returning from their duties, the loading dock would still have their crew on the last round of goods, and the kitchen staff—as I’d just seen—would be gearing up for the busy evening.

  The Baltimore Mariners were staying at the finest hotel Chicago had to offer, but this did not necessarily mean they would be living the lifestyle of the wealthy and privileged. These guys were usually oat-fed workhorses. They had refined their talents for a game and turned it into their profession, but that didn’t change their needs and wants to anything above their station. The clientele that usually stayed here would be set in their ways, and so would the Baltimore Mariners.

  An order for a cheeseburger on the third floor, but only one. Someone’s kid must have gotten hungry while Daddy was out at a business meeting. Nothing out of the ordinary on the following page, either. Then on the fourth page, another cheeseburger order, followed by a couple of steak orders. Another steak. Hamburger, hamburger, steak, steak…chicken.

  Chicken? What was with the chicken?

  Sixth floor. Even with the chicken, a lot of meat and potatoes were heading up to the sixth floor. I saw the servants’ stairwell in front of me; but to make sure Speddings didn’t lose his job, I waited for a chopping block to clear and slipped the Room Service log onto it.

  My hand had just opened the door to the stairs when I heard someone behind me shout, “Chef, found the Room Service log!” Speddings would keep his job after all. Now it was time to keep mine, by getting a closer look at the sixth floor.

  ###

  I took another glance at the watch. 5:32, and things were picking up on the Mariners’ floor. There were a few door slams, a few playful shouts and dares coming from one side of the hallway, and the odd casual invitation out on the town.

  Boy, they were all just shook up to no end over their fallen teammate.

  The pen scratched across my memo pad as I tried to pick up any voices I recognized. In particular, I was listening for Trouble. My foot propped the servants’ door open just wide enough for me to catch the quick quips swapped between teammates. As I waited for either Big Joe or Sledgehammer to pipe in, I considered the lack of remorse I was picking up from everyone. It may have seemed callous, but it was also reminiscent of how things were handled on a battlefield. Sure, we mourned our dead, but not until the end of the day; and some days were longer than others, depending on the battle. Maybe they were all setting that grief aside until they got home to Baltimore.

  As if on cue, I heard a couple of guys passing by. “So, how long you think we’re here?” came the question from the hallway.

  “I dunno,” the other voice replied. “Until we play that last game with the Cubbies and the cops say we can go?”

  “And we stay here?” The voice chuckled. “If whatshisname was still kicking, I’d thank him.”

  Whatshisname? I continued to scribble as the two voices faded. Wow. Now there’s a tight team!

  Another click-clack of a door opening, and I clearly heard Sledgehammer. “Scooter’s meeting us in the lobby.”

  Big Joe’s voice came next. “What about Arch?”

  “I think he’s coming down with something. Hell, you saw him today. He was off.”

  “Can you blame him?”

  Silence, and then Sledgehammer said, “Not here, Joe. Let’s not talk about it here.”

  Oh, come on Sammy, let the guy talk. Make my job easier.

  I slipped the mirror out of my coat pocket and angled it to catch a glimpse of them. While their room number wasn’t visible, I did get a clear look at the number on the door next to theirs.

  With their room locked up tight, their heavy footsteps resounded through the hallway. I was back in the concealment of the stairwell, watching their large forms blink out the sliver of light that shone into my hiding place. A single chime, and the gate between them and the elevator slid back. A second clang, its echo still lingering in the corridor, and the whine of an elevator’s winch hummed lightly, carrying them away.

  Beatrice was right next to my breast. I waited. Glanced at my watch again. Another door slammed, and I stepped into the hallway. All was quiet for the time being. The Mariners were either sleeping off what had sounded like a long practice, heading out for a night on the town, or just enjoying the comforts of the Jefferson. My enchanted lock picks were in my hand as I reached Sammy and Joe’s room. The silver instruments easily slipped into the keyhole and waited for me to rap the tuning fork so they could get going.

  I cocked my wrist back and paused. Against the doorframe might attract attention. I rapped the fork against the heel of my shoe instead, evoking a softer tone than I was used to. That was probably why the picks were working slower than usual.

  Still, there was enough sound to make them work. Finally, I heard the catch. The bolt slid back. I looked to either side of me as I slipped the tools back into their wallet and stepped inside.

  I’ll bet that if Housekeeping worked their daily magic here, Sammy and Joe would have to take a step back and check the number on the door to make sure it was, in fact, theirs. It appeared, though, from the rumpled sheets and the unpleasant tinge in the air, that their room had been left alone by the hotel servants. Whatever clues might be hiding in this mix of dirty dishes, empty glasses, and discarded clothes were going to take a bit longer to find.

  The overall smell, aside from the manly odor of locker room, suggested one of the ball players was a smoker. Cigarettes, but not Chesterfields or Lucky Strikes. I took another sniff. No, whatever the smoker was enjoying was of a higher-end tobacco blend. As for an actual brand, there was nothing useful in sight. The butts in the ashtray were keeping their names to themselves. Sammy had to be the human chimney since Joe’s voice didn’t sound like a smoker’s, and he must have taken the pack with him. I took a few more glances around the room, my honker drawing a few deep whiffs. Nothing else of note, save for the pleasant trace scent of expensive tobacco.

  Next to the phone, I found a small memo pad from the hotel and a pencil in need of sharpening. The top sheet of the notepad soon rested inside the wallet with my picks. The unkempt condition of the room told me nothing of what Trouble had been up to or what they were planning for tonight. I could deduce
with a look at the suitcases, that either Sammy or Joe didn’t seem to care if his socks and underwear were folded.

  Both suitcases looked pretty worn from their time on the road. One of them appeared more “sentimental” than the other, its scratched and gouged surface decorated with various stickers. The more vivid, vibrant ones I recognized as cities the Mariners had visited this season. I flipped it open and reached inside the suitcase’s inner pocket, and felt my stomach tighten as my hand touched some kind of linen. Clothing.

  “Do I really want to know?” I asked myself out loud.

  Pair of boxers. From the looks of their size, this was Big Joe’s suitcase. The boxers, from what I could see and smell, were in need of washing. Strike One.

  Sometimes, I just hate this job.

  Since my hand was already sullied by the guy’s undergarments, fumbling through Big Joe’s pants pockets seemed the next logical thing to do. Specifically, I was looking for pants that still had the belt in them. Anything he’d recently worn. He struck me as the type of guy who would shove something in his pocket and then forget about it. Perhaps I might get a piece of the ball and earn myself First Base.

  Nothing. Strike Two.

  Time to move on to the other suitcase. Maybe I’d find—

  My grip tightened on the open case lid as I stared inside it. “Holy shit,” I uttered.

  Military precision. The slacks, shirts, and even socks and shorts were folded and organized to an impressive grid-like pattern. The suitcase had taken a beating, but the contents looked like they had been pressed several times over, packed, and then pressed again. This was a lovely sight to behold.

  It was also a trap waiting to be sprung. Anyone this organized would know right off that someone had gone through his stuff, and that would have ordered all of Trouble into a battle formation of the most defensive kind. I had to give Sledgehammer a lot of credit. For a ball player, he definitely had a lot of organiz—

  The key slowly scraped in the lock, and I heard the bolt slide back. I darted for the bathroom, but then stopped short. Why do people come back to their hotel room after leaving? Sometimes, they’ve forgotten something. Sometimes their plans change and they turn in for an early night. Sometimes it’s to answer Nature’s most common of calls. Best not to dare the Fates and challenge Option Number Three.

  I prayed the curtain was no longer billowing by the time they came into the room. Their footfalls were barely audible against the thick carpet, but I could tell it was getting awfully crowded in here. If two of the people I heard in the room were Sledgehammer and Big Joe, then they had a friend along for the ride. Scooter?

  “Come on, Sammy, the cab’s going to be here any minute!” a young voice cracked.

  Yeah, that’s why I get the greenbacks. From the sound of Scooter’s voice, adulthood was still a far-off dream to him. He probably hit puberty at the doorstep of every gin joint.

  “Hey, kid, how about you can it?” Sledgehammer barked back in reply. “I forgot my lighter.”

  “That stupid lighter of yours,” grumbled Big Joe. “Fucking eyesore.”

  “Hey, it works, okay? And I like it.”

  “I don’t think that is such a fair deal, though, for what we do,” Scooter protested. “I mean, we’re doing all the back-breaking and what have we got to show for it?”

  “Kid, if you got a problem with how I’m running the show, then maybe you should think about hanging it all up, you know? The game, the lifestyle, the dames…”

  “Running the show? You?” I nodded at Scooter’s moxie. Unexpected, considering how he came across in my interview with them. “Yeah, tell me another one.”

  The quiet that fell across the room made my hand tingle, and the only thing that remedied that tingle was the feel of Beatrice. I was moving so slowly that no one would even catch a whisper of fabric against fabric. By the time I felt my girl in my grip, still in her holster, Sledgehammer chimed in.

  “What’s that all about, Scooter?”

  The way Sammy used the nickname made it clear: Ol’ Scooter was low in the batting roster with Trouble. Perhaps with Patterson down, that crack about being the “new runt” had hit far too close to home plate.

  “Oh, come on, you think a fancy lighter from Europe and a pack of pricey smokes make you the big man in charge? Come off it, Sammy. What happened to Bill was—”

  It was Joe who cut him off. “A hard lesson learned on Bill’s part.”

  “Who are you kidding?” Scooter sounded terrified, but out of the bunch of them, he definitely seemed to have the best grasp on how bad this situation was.

  “Quit shakin’ like some Miss Nancy!” Sammy grumbled. “It’s under control.”

  “That was a warning, Sammy! A warning to all of us!” Riley sounded scared, and in his fear he wasn’t going to allow Sledgehammer to rap him on the nose like some disobedient pup. “You don’t think it’s a little weird Arch is so damn sick all of a sudden? He’s scared!”

  “You’re exaggerating.” Sammy’s voice sounded unsteady. I could hear him by the bed, and then digging around on the nightstand. I guessed he was resuming his search.

  “Am I? Didn’t we have a job to pull when we got here? Huh? Has that job been pulled yet?”

  “Hey, that wasn’t our fault,” Joe replied.

  “Yeah,” Sammy added. “Bad things happen. But everything’s going to be jake. Arch gets over this bug, we take care of our business, and we’re out. I don’t see a problem.”

  “Is that all you got to say about it?” Scooter fired back.

  Sammy paused in his search. “Shut up.”

  “No, I’m not going to shut up. We’ve always been open, talking about this ever since he—”

  “I mean it, Scooter,” Sammy growled. “Shut—up.” He paused again, and I followed the sound of his footsteps moving towards…

  I’d forgotten to close his suitcase.

  My thumb immediately released the safety on Beatrice. She was now out of her holster, and I was just staring at the curtain, listening for anyone’s approach.

  “Hey, Big Guy.”

  Joe rapped something against the end table.

  “Remember,” he said, “you put it inside the drawer of the end table so nobody would mess with it?”

  Movement, and then Sammy’s voice came from the other side of the room, closer to where I had heard Joe.

  “I don’t like people messing with my things.”

  “Yeah-yeah-yeah, so you got your lighter and all the birds will be impressed…” Joe took a breath and then punched out, “…provided they’re still around when we get there! Can we go now?”

  Sammy was thinking about something, as that quiet had settled over the room again. Couldn’t have been more than five ticks, but when you’re hiding behind a curtain holding a loaded .45 with the safety off, every second feels like an extra year on you.

  “Yeah, let’s go.” I heard both Joe and Sammy move, but then stop where Scooter’s voice had come from. “And don’t ever—don’t ever—think I’m not calling the shots around here, ‘cause I am. He’s not the only one with connections. You follow?”

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Big Joe pleaded, “you know what this kid needs, Sammy? I think he could use something to eat. I mean, a really hot dish. How about a blonde?” The laugh that followed made me roll my eyes. Did Big Joe think he was that funny? “Get it? Something ta’ eat? Blonde? Huh?”

  Good thing you’re a better ball player than a court jester, pal.

  “Come on,” Sammy finally replied. “Let’s go.”

  There was a rustling of clothing, the door opening, the sound of bolt and latch closing. Even after the bolt slid shut, my breath was still in my chest. I splayed my fingers along Beatrice, took a strong grip of the curtain, and then yanked it back.

  The muzzle pointed forward. I had a clear shot of the door. No one else was about.

  Now, I exhaled. Twice in one night? The Fates were really watching over me.

  I took a glance at my wat
ch. 6:44. Time to make my appointment with Flyball.

  ###

  The sun had just about set, maybe not across the horizon but definitely behind the Chicago skyline. A dull purple-blue hue surrounded me as I returned to the alleyway that served as the Jefferson’s Servants’ Entrance. On my descent from the sixth floor, I stuck to shadows and kept an ear out for any other footfalls above or below me. There was less activity now than before, and since people would actually be taking the time to pay attention to their surroundings, there would be far too many prime opportunities to spot a Dwarf. By the time I reached the loading docks, I had less than half an hour to scout around the meeting place to see if there was anything I needed to worry about.

  Oh, there was plenty.

  The delivery trucks had left behind a few towers of crates. Those temporary fixtures, along with garbage cans in desperate need of dumping, screamed out to me as prime ambush points. This setting didn’t make me feel all warm and cozy about the upcoming chat Flyball and I were going to share; and considering the doubleback anxiety I’d had after his call, I didn’t want to take any chances.

  One tower of crates was empties from the kitchen, and would probably get picked up again by the grocers for refilling, if not by passers-by in need of cheap furniture. I myself could easily tip one back. As they were all stacked bottom-side up, this would be a great place to stash a boom dagger and have it on call when a Dwarf detective wouldn’t be looking. Some of the other crates were still full. Those were fairly heavy and hard to move. Not as easily worked as these empties. So, behind the trash cans and full crates for surprise. Inside the empties for concealed weapons.

  Beatrice was in my grip once more, and my trigger finger tingled lightly. I had owned battle axes and the odd mace or two that insisted on getting in some quality time on an opponent’s skull if they were brought out to play. Beatrice was no different. She didn’t like being out of her holster unless it was a serious situation that needed her undivided attention. I had loaded her up before coming here, so she knew I was expecting trouble. Now, it was her second time out—with the safety off, mind you—and I was alone.