The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant

by Tee Morris

  I heard the passenger door moan open, and O’Malley stumbled out into the field to survey the damage. Jer also got out, but walked in the direction of the oncoming reinforcements that barreled toward us. Maybe we’d gotten lucky and they had caught the tall assassin before he disappeared into the cover of night.

  The flames dancing before us reached high into the night sky. It could have been a welcoming bonfire for travelers to a celebration or soldiers returning victorious from a great battle. Instead, this fire was someone’s tomb. I swallowed and felt the dryness tear at my throat. If our man had been lucky, his killer was a professional through and through.

  “So, have you seen enough?” I asked, turning toward the backseat.

  With O’Malley’s loss of faculties, it probably stank back there. Still, our other passenger was motionless, just watching the safe house burn. He hadn’t bothered to make a break for it while the three of us were dazed from my driving. He knew the leg irons would have slowed him down enough for the cops to catch him. Again. “Sledgehammer” Sammy Saint was a real mix of emotions, part of his bottom lip now trapped underneath his top teeth. Since the first bank job, he had probably been thinking that he was the one calling the shots. After all, Sammy was one Trouble answered to. He was the Alpha Troll, the mountain of a man that was going to lead them to bigger, better, and brighter things, even better than being part of the unstoppable Baltimore Mariners. He was going to lead them to the best parties, the classiest dames, and all the right places to be seen.

  That illusion was gone. Up in smoke, as it were. Sammy had never been a leader. He wasn’t even a follower. He was just a stepping stone. A means to an end.

  “Yeah.” His voice was one of a man beaten. I wished I could feel sorry for him, but it wasn’t going to happen. “I’ll tell you guys everything.”

  O’Malley was now walking the perimeter of the fire, still checking for signs of life. I would never have pegged him as the optimistic type. Jer was flagging down the paddy wagon, no doubt hoping the same thing I was. Another hunch—and dammit, I really didn’t like this one creeping into my noggin—was convincing me that the assassin had gotten away. Whoever he was, he had known exactly what he was doing.

  “Well, Sammy, you almost got that right.” I turned back to him, my eyes narrowing on his. “In the trunk of this car is my battle axe, and I’ve really not used it properly tonight. Seeing as you and I are all by ourselves, I think you’re going to tell me everything first. Otherwise, I’m going to have to show you just how versatile that axe of mine is.”

  Sammy tore his gaze away from the fire. His head tipped back, and he looked down at me past the tip of his nose. “Is that a threat, Small Fry?”

  “No,” I replied.

  The ballplayer-thief huffed. “Eh, what the hell do I got to lose?”

  “When you talk to O’Malley and the cops—back at the precinct—you tell them everything, and it’ll be jake with the lawyer types. Maybe not an R.B.I., but definitely a walk to First.” I placed my hands on the top of the driver’s seat, took a deep breath, and pushed back that growing anxiousness. “But I need to know the details now. Ya’ follow?”

  He cleared his throat, glanced one more time at the fire, and then turned back to me. “I got a record.”

  “Kinda figured you did,” I answered. His eyes narrowed on me, and I shrugged. “Joe probably did the odd nickel-and-dime crime, but you? Your clothes, at the Jefferson, were orderly and immaculate, and you didn’t like people touching your stuff. That’s a different kind of behavior altogether. Either you were a military man, which I can usually spot, or you had done some hard time.”

  His face softened. “When I got out, I played ball because people didn’t care about my record. They just cared about how I knocked the cover off it. I got lucky when a scout for the Mariners saw me. It happened to be one of those games where I didn’t pick a fight.” He took a deep breath. “If we had just kept it simple, none of this would have happened. You know, just kept it to the basics. Robbin’ banks. You go where the money is. But I guess, when someone tells ya’ you could be doin’ better, you begin to think you can get away with just about anything.” Now I was feeling sorry for Sammy. Murder had never been in the scheme he had cooked up for Trouble. I caught the remorse, along with the fire, reflecting in his eyes. “Just about anything.”

  Sammy kept talking. Told me everything. With every detail, I felt that anxiousness well up in me.

  Regardless of what time I got back to Chicago, I had a lot to do. The night was still young.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Strike Three, You’re Dead!

  The cab disappeared into the darkness with a rumble, leaving me in front of the stone steps ascending to a tall door. The light coming from the foyer shone brilliantly through glass facets, giving the doorway an almost mystical quality. Well, okay, a somewhat romanticized idea of mystical. There was nothing magical or incredible about this brownstone, apart from the occupant that resided within. I began the climb up to the doorway, and that damn door kept getting taller and taller the closer I came to it. Optical illusions aside, the sweat I felt across my back didn’t instill confidence in what I was doing, but time really wasn’t allowing me to come up with a cunning plan. I had to act, hit my mark hard, and then get the hell out.

  Then there was the other matter I needed to close, concerning the Pendant of Coe. I wasn’t looking forward to that at all.

  Now I was in front of the door, and I could easily reach the doorbell. Granted, I could also whip out the battle axe and make my own entrance.

  There’s showing hubrimaz, and then there’s being a flat-out twat. Best to ring the doorbell.

  My finger had not even reached the button when a shadow materialized on the other side of the door. Locks slid back, and finally the hatch opened to reveal the manor’s butler.

  No awkward reaction. No searching over me for a caller. Not even an “Are you aware of the time?!” His eyes met mine and the smile he gave me was especially cordial for half-past-one in the morning. “Good evening, sir. May I take your—?”

  Now we had a moment of awkwardness.

  “That’s okay,” I said, my grip tightening on the haversack. “I’m bringing my own to this shindig, and I’d like to keep the favors close.”

  “Very good, sir,” this Jeeves replied. “If you will follow me, please?”

  “No problem,” I said with a nod.

  Our footsteps knocked and clicked against planks of polished wood, shadows and faint reflections following us down a long corridor to the parlor. The connected arboretum made it easy to forget we were in the middle of the city. The brownstone was attached to a small courtyard, and this glass extension overlooked the modest sanctuary of green. I could make out the pale granite of a pair of benches, vacant now but patiently waiting for anyone that wanted to sit and enjoy some nature in the middle of a grove of concrete and cement.

  Yeah, it was a beautiful setting promising some well-earned serenity from the hustle and bustle of the Windy City, but while the courtyard was serene, it hardly promised solitude. Anyone who stood in the glass encasement could watch any and all activity happening in the small yard. The arboretum was designed that way.

  Seen this before. And because I knew it for what it was, I took a moment to look over the brownstone’s extension.

  The rulers of Acryonis—same shit, different race and culture when you got right down to brass keys—could not hide their true personality traits no matter how well they played political games. Your respective ruler can be judged by the company he keeps, and the keep in which he keeps himself. Arboretums such as this one, at first glance, were always a pretty addition to a castle, especially on the days where clouds were sparse, the sun so bright you winced at it even through closed eyes, and the sky an even brighter shade of blue. You would find the character behind the crown when you looked at the furniture. If the chairs were turned away from the windows, it was a sign of a benevolent ruler, a man or woman conf
ident in their company and in their supreme guidance over the realm. Their atrium would be a place to mingle, a place to enjoy the warmth of the sun or marvel with a childlike wonder at rain or snow as it fell around them, their own person secure and safe from the elements.

  My host was the other kind of ruler. His chairs faced the large windows, far enough from the glass that whoever occupied them would see anyone else entering the sunlit room. No furniture was arranged in an inviting social circle for friends to gather or share pleasantries. This was less of a sanctuary and more of a glass dais, built to watch people in the courtyard either overtly or covertly. The rulers behind this sort of setting wanted to watch their court and watch them carefully. If usurpers wanted to make a play for the throne, he or she would see them coming. It was part insecurity, part paranoia. Very MacBeth, if you will. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least if that kooky Scotsman had his own atrium built shortly after taking the throne.

  “Is there anything you need, sir?” the butler asked me.

  Yeah, Jeeves, I could use a magic talisman handed over to me all polite-like. “Nah, I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, come now,” another voice said, entering from the opposite side of the parlor. “I’m sure we can find a beer, or do you care for something a bit stronger?”

  My eyebrow crooked as my host entered the room, his hair slicked back and sharp as it was when I saw him at the country club.

  “I think tonight, Mr. Waterson, I’m going to keep my wits about me.” I was going to need every last one of them, I feared.

  He stared at me for a moment, his smile a lot of things. Sincere wasn’t one of them. “That you, Jeeves, that will be all. You can go home now. Enjoy your day off tomorrow, with my compliments.”

  The butler’s name really was Jeeves?!

  “Very good, sir,” Jeeves said with a slight tip of his head. He was out of the room in only a few steps, leaving us alone.

  “Please,” Miles said, motioning to the couch that faced a high-backed chair, where he apparently held his own court.

  I unbuttoned my coat. If I needed to move, I’d want the mobility. “That’s okay, I prefer to stand.”

  Miles shrugged, then took that high-backed seat. “Suit yourself, Mr. Baddings.” He considered me for a moment and then gave little chuckle. Apparently, I amused him like a court jester. “You are quite the enigma. And brazen, if I do say so myself.”

  “Brazen?” I asked. “Isn’t that a nice way of describing me as pushy?”

  Miles didn’t flinch. “In some circles, yes.” He laced his fingers together and cleared his throat. “Pushy, however, is not as attractive a trait. Brazen can have many practical applications in the real world, especially for an individual like myself.”

  Oh, was he going to make the play? This should be fun. “I’m not sure I fol—”

  “I don’t expect you to, Mr. Baddings, but I would be more than happy to explain my mind to you.”

  My grip slackened—not by much—on my haversack.

  “It’s a terrible time we’re living in, and tough times require tough decisions and commitments made in order to survive. That is what this day and age is—survival of the fittest. The weeding out of the ‘shouldn’t have’s from the ‘have’s so that they are put back where they belong.”

  “With the ‘have not’s, I assume you mean.”

  Miles leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees. “So you do understand my perspective? I suppose I should add ‘intuitive’ to your list of traits.”

  Yeah, I knew what he was saying, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say I understood it. I’ve heard of people trying to purify a racial pool, but a financial one? That’s a little odd. Despicable, no matter how you cut it; and with how this guy was handling things, it was a particularly disgusting form of despicable.

  “So, what do you need me for?”

  “Mr. Baddings, there are going to be some delicate matters coming up for me, and I will need a representative that will stand in my stead if I am otherwise engaged.”

  “You need a champion?” I asked with a chortle.

  Another huff, and his mouth went crooked. “Hmm, perhaps…although ‘champion’ wouldn’t quite be the word I would use.”

  “But Miles,” I said, my hand casually slipping lower on the strap. “I would think you already have a guy in your corner, and a very reliable resource, if I may add.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Baddings?”

  Oh, Miles, you shouldn’t be planting this seed. You’re not going to like the weed it grows. “It sounds like you’re in dire need of someone to watch your back.”

  I know you’re there, kid. That smell is in the air.

  “I would be hard pressed to find a man of your talents.”

  I had to make this next shot count. For those not physically in the room with us. “With who is in your crew, I’m amazed you’re even talking to me. If I’m reading the papers right, you took these guys under your wing and made them something more than just two-bit bank robbers.”

  “Mr. Baddings, a businessman like myself is always looking ahead, always looking to expand his resources.”

  “Expand? Or replace?”

  Miles wasn’t stupid, but it wasn’t Miles I was trying to fish out. “In an industrial machine, everyone serves a purpose.”

  Gotcha. “And Big Joe—were you done with him once he served his purpose?”

  “What happened to Big Joe?” a voice asked from a supposedly-empty doorway.

  I didn’t have to look to know who spoke. Besides, I wanted to watch Miles Waterson’s face for his reaction. A muscle at the back of his jaw twitched, but he never broke his gaze with me.

  “Mr. Randalls, I thought we were clear on your part in tonight’s proceedings.”

  Flyball’s suit wasn’t fitting him well. Not that the ball players were pulling in the greenbacks like ol’ Miles here, but they still made enough to get a decent suit. No, his threads were hanging on him. He was a fully developed coat hanger, and from the paleness he sported I wondered if the Mariners’ fielder wasn’t in need of a serious nap.

  “You okay there, Archie?” I asked. “You’re not looking so hot.”

  He asked again, “What happened to Joe?”

  Motioning to the jeweler before me, I gave a slight shrug and answered, “Well, it’s like this, Arch. Your big boss-man here is the one calling the shots, I think, so it’s kind of inap—”

  From here, my world became a series of Elvish epics, told in the blink of an eye.

  Archie disappeared, or more like he became nothing more substantial than a blur. Suddenly, the air was knocked out of me by something slamming hard into my gut. I would have grunted in pain, but seeing as my liver was now up in my throat and I was gurgling bile, I really couldn’t. The bitter taste in my mouth was quickly overpowered by the stinging in my back. That was the arm of the couch I found myself wrapping my spine around. My feet hit the floor, and the rest of me soon followed.

  I gave a hard cough, and finally air was back in my lungs. That little bit of sweet pleasure was disrupted by the sudden lurch the world took. I had to take a moment and wonder why it felt like someone had pulled the brake on the Earth and I was spinning out of control, but then I realized it was me that had lurched and not the world. That attack left me a little woozy, and the strong scent of electricity in the air didn’t help to stave back the nausea. I spit, and an explosion of violet-red spread out before me. The fact that I could still feel my jaw connected to my skull was reassurance that Archie’s invisible mace had only succeeded in lifting me off the floor and dropping me back against the polished mahogany.

  I smiled. I think I had spit hard enough to get some blood on the expensive couch I now leaned against. There were a few parties we Stormin’ Scrappies had crashed back in Acryonis, catching tyrants and overlords off-guard in their posh palaces and garish boudoirs. Even with the odds against them, faced with starving masses and disenchanted generals armed with everything from pitchforks
to trebuchets, these dinks would do their best to avoid a scuffle. Why? They didn’t want to ruin the furniture. Blood’s a real bitch to get out of fabric.

  My smile widened as I dabbed my hand against my bloody mouth and then flicked it hard. Grab satisfaction whenever and wherever you can, I say.

  “Okay,” I heaved. “You want to know what’s going on. I’ll tell you what’s going on. Coach Moneybags here is terminating your contract, just like he did with Big Joe and Shuffle Patterson.”

  “Nah, Bill was getting cold feet about this last heist. He was thinking about spilling the beans to the cops.” Archie shook his head. “He was going to screw everything up for us.”

  “Try again. He was going to screw things up for your boss here.” My gaze remained on Miles, watching him for a reaction. Still nothing. This guy either had Orc blood coursing through his veins, or one hell of an ace up his sleeve. “Miles had a real hum-dinger of a racket in mind, and unfortunately this lucrative campaign didn’t account for you and the rest of your pals seeing your twilight years. You’ve served your purpose, and now he’s cleaning house.” I winced as I straightened up, giving Miles the once-over. “Apparently, he’s doing it with a good amount of ammonia and bleach.”

  Archie’s jaw twitched in the warm light of the parlor. I had his attention, sure, but his trust? I didn’t think so. “What about Scooter?”

  That was a good question. Scooter was still missing. Had to try for the bunt. “I’m thinking your boss here told you to lay low, right? You and the rest of Trouble needed to hide out somewhere, like a safe house, huh? Safe house on the outskirts of town? All you needed to do was come by tonight, do one more job for Waterson here, and then you were going to high-tail out to the safe house where the rest of Trouble was sitting tight, right? This was, after all, your last job.”