The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant

by Tee Morris

  “So I figured I’d play under a made-up name, see if people would appreciate me for what I loved to do, not because of what happened…”

  Shoeless Joe knew the game. He loved the game. I also knew, though, that he was coming from a simple background. He was street smart, a Grand Wizard when wielding the magic wand from Louisville. But he was also pretty naïve in how the world worked, and how things beyond it worked.

  “I started to play again, started to get some attention. That was when I was approached to be a Baltimore Mariner. Brand new team, fresh start—it was what I wanted.”

  That was how magic worked. “You wanted to play while the guys around you wanted to win. Not just the guys on your team, but the other team as well. You all are brothers, and that’s why I didn’t see through your disguise. Not right away, anyway.”

  Joe looked at me for a second, noodling that one through, then continued. “Well apparently, Sledgehammer figured out there was something to my good luck charm. Not sure when he figured it out, but he did. He threatened to call the Commish, make it all stop. I asked him what he wanted, and that’s when we made this arrangement. I’d loan him the charm, and then pick it up the next day.”

  “Your signal was Archie, right?” I could see the pictures in my head clearly. “I was looking at some photos and noted that the night before every robbery, he would wear his hat backwards. That was the drop signal for you, right?”

  “I was supposed to leave it in my locker, tucked behind my jersey top. They’d…” Joe paused. He was beginning to piece together that he was, in fact, a silent member of Sledgehammer’s crew. “They’d do what they do, and then I’d pick up the piece the next day like there wasn’t a problem.”

  I walked over to Joe and took a seat next to him. “When did you figure out what they were doing?”

  Joe shook his head, screwing his eyes shut. “I saw pictures in the paper of what happened at that jewelry store, and that was ‘my lucky charm’ kind of weird. When Shuffle was killed, I figured something was up.”

  He fell silent as we sat there, the rain just audible outside. We both stared ahead at nothing in particular. I was trying to commiserate with this fallen legend sitting next to me, but nothing I could say would really help. Shoeless Joe had found himself in a tight situation for the second time in his life. I wasn’t blaming him, of course, but would he really understand how magic—at least, the magic of Acryonis—worked? Even my understanding of sorcery had its limits, and was perhaps tainted a bit with personal opinion and a smattering of bitterness at how it had cost me everything I knew as home. Joe was not really up on the supernatural, so all I could do was assure him his game was unaffected by the pendant. I’d done that. Nothing more was left to be said.

  Or, maybe something was. “So,” he asked me, still looking ahead. “What happens now?”

  I looked up at him. “This is the good part, Joe. You go home.”

  He blinked again. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. Safe passage. Go home to Katie. I’ve got Landis basically closing up shop on the Mariners. You might have been enjoying a great season, but you were the only one. The ‘good luck’ your charm was generating was affecting your teammates, and the stats were probably not as honest as they would have been if you ever forgot to wear the Pitcher’s Pendant.”

  Joe laughed. “Is that what it’s called?”

  “Well, by someone I know,” I answered. “So you all are heading home later tonight. Back to Baltimore. The League is going to handle this as an owner thing, which really isn’t that far from the truth, and the team—sans Trouble and yourself—are stepping down to the Minors.

  “But the Commish doesn’t know you’re involved. To him, you’re just another Mariner. I wasn’t around for that Series, but I’ve read enough about it to know you don’t need or really want that kind of attention a second time. I came up with an alternative for Landis, for everybody, and for you. Take it.”

  Joe looked around us, and smiled. He was taking in every detail of the locker room, committing the dim, smelly place to memory. To him, this place was as much a part of the game as the diamond itself, the four bases contained within it, and the cheers of the crowd.

  My own smile faded away as I grew conscious of the Pendant of Coe in my pocket. What had this magic done to him? He must’ve been exerting a lot of effort, will, and desire to make his illusion happen. All this “bending of nature” shit came with a cost, and magic didn’t care if you were a Dwarf, an Elf, or one of the greatest ballplayers to grace the game.

  I gave Joe a friendly pat on his forearm, and then hopped down to leave.

  “Hey, pal,” he called out to me.

  “Yeah, Joe?”

  He was looking through his locker one more time, just gathering any belongings he’d left there. “How did you figure out who I was?”

  This was something else I had liked about Shoeless Joe when I’d read up on him. The guy was clever. “ It was your alias. Faria. From The Count of Monte Cristo. An epic tale of redemption.”

  Joe whistled. “I didn’t think anybody would pick up on that. My Katie was reading that book to me when I cooked up this whole idea of getting back into the game.”

  “The sooner you get home,” I said, turning to leave, “the sooner you can find out how it ends.”

  Du-shaw me raishia de Fates für me earnst, I prayed silently as I watched Joe pack up his things. He was ready to head on home.

  Epilogue -- Stealing Home

  The rain was still coming down pretty hard. Trying to pick up a cab was going to be about as much fun as performing dental work on a hydra with halitosis. I stood in the alcove for a few minutes, looking around for the nearest diner I could duck into for a quick phone call.

  Honk-honk!

  My head jerked to one side and there she was: My ride. I knew the car well enough, and I also knew this was no chance meeting on a rainy afternoon. He was there to pick me up. Holding my Stetson down by the brim, I pulled the raincoat closer and made a fairy-line for the car. The door opened and, without looking in first to acknowledge the sole occupant of the limo’s cabin, I hopped in.

  “Thanks, Al,” I said, taking off my hat and tapping it free of excess water. I figured he wouldn’t mind the floor getting a little damp.

  “Don’t mention it, Small Fry,” Capone chuckled.

  The car started rolling just as I took a seat. What could I say that wouldn’t sound like a bad set-up from an incompetent court jester? Hey, Scarface, what brings you to Wrigley? I did not really want to state the obvious, nor did I want to walk in the rain. This was a free ride (to where, I had no idea!), the limo was warm and dry, and I was not going to refuse Al Capone anything.

  Well, almost anything. The Pitcher’s Pendant was growing heavier and heavier in my pocket. The last time Capone was this close to a talisman there had been a lot of death and destruction.

  Now here we were in his limo. Close quarters. Just fucking lovely.

  “I’m telling you,” he finally said, looking out through the curtain of rain water, “I don’t think that second game is evah gonna get played, you know dat?”

  “Maybe it’s best it shouldn’t, seeing as how good those Mariners are.”

  “Awww, come on, Short Stuff,” Capone huffed. Was he actually chiding me? “Now is dat any way for a Cubs fan to talk? Huh? We got to have a little faith in our Cubbies.”

  “Well, you know how this game goes, Al,” I said, not taking my eyes off him. “Anything can happen.”

  “Especially when you’re talking with the Commish, huh?”

  My bushy reds raised slightly on that question.

  “Nah-nah-nah, I don’ got anyone on the inside. I jus’ saw him leavin’ while I was waitin’ fa’ you.”

  “And is that why your boys didn’t frisk me before letting me in here with you?” I asked. “I didn’t think it was because you cared about letting me get out of the rain.”

  “Well, we’re like friends, you know?” h
e chuckled. This was a definite change from the last time we talked here at Wrigley Field. “I mean, you’re not an acquaintance, ‘cause on account of dinnah. Den dere’s the ballgame and jus’ enjoying the afternoon. We’re not, what I would say, good friends…” Capone paused in his assessment, and then nodded. “We’re like friends.”

  Nice to know between “good friend” and “a problem needing a remedy” there’s a middle ground with just enough room for a four-foot-one private dick. Maybe not a comfortable middle ground, but far more comfortable than eight to the ticker.

  I felt the grin across my face. “And I bet, seeing as we’re like friends and all, you’re wanting to have a little chit-chat about one of your good friends.” I leaned forward in my seat. “Or was Miles Waterson more of a business acquaintance?”

  “Now, Short Stuff, what makes you t’ink I’m hobnobbin’ with those upper-crust types, huh?” Capone shook his head, very disappointed in me. “Nah, nah, nah, you’re sma’tah than that. I mean, you’re the private dick and all.”

  “Oh now I think you have a lot more in common with the upper crust types than you give yourself credit.”

  His brow furrowed. “How so?”

  “Well, there are a lot of stuffed shirts in the opera house, but I’m thinking it’s the man in the box seats who knows what those big ladies in the bodices are pounding out. When the composer’s Puccini or Verdi, who are the upper-crust turning to so they can get the deeper meaning behind the story?” I then motioned to him, a warm smile accompanying the gesture. “You, Big Al. Why? Because you speak the language.”

  “You t‘ink?” Al gave a few grunts as he pulled a stogie out of his coat pocket.

  A quick snip and strike of a match later, he took a few puffs, causing the flame to flare. His face was now shrouded by pearly-white smoke until his hand cut through the haze, clearing the air between us. I suppose it was good I didn’t mind the smoking.

  Then again, this was his limo. I assume anyone complaining would be left at the closest street corner…while the car was still in motion.

  He took another drag before adding, “Never looked at it like that, Small Fry. Not that I would really be in the same business as Mistah Waterson.”

  “Yeah, that’s the only flaw in this hunch of mine. Something tells me you and your Catholic upbringing really don’t have a tolerance for Miles’ chosen…lifestyle.”

  The gangster twitched uncomfortably, his face scrunching in distaste. “Well, let’s imagine for a minute I was associates with him. I could still do business so long as he kept that bit outta it. So long as we kept it to business—provided we was doing business ta’getha—I wouldn’t really care where that fag dipped his wick.”

  I nodded slowly. Let’s see if he’d confirm it. “Not a big hit at your brothels, was he?”

  “Nah, dat’s where I figahed it out.” He shuddered again. “Jus’ ain’t right.”

  You had to love Capone. A man of many contradictions.

  “I bet you want to hear all about what happened the night I went over there, don’t you?”

  “Well, when you showed up like that on Mista Waterson’s doorstep, wearing that backpack ya wore las’ time you were at da docks, I was wonderin’ if you were expecting somethin’…ya know…funny. Like las’ time.”

  No, Al, there was nothing remotely funny in what I saw that night at Waterson’s.

  “Den I read in da’ pay-pahs about Miles goin’ all cracked in da’ head, butcherin’ dose guys from Baltimore. Now dat’s bad business.”

  “But still your business, right, Al?”

  Capone glanced around him, as if the rhythm of the rain, a noise from the street, or part of his limo’s décor triggered a group of gray cells. “Well, see, here’s da t’ing, Short Stuff—breakin’ inta’ places, murder, foolin’ people out of their hard-earned money, and this high society type is all behind it? Ya’ really t’ink I’d be mixed up in business like that?”

  “Like I said before, Al,” I replied, my smile never faltering. “You speak the language.”

  He slowly turned the stogie in his mouth, taking a drag from it before removing it from his lips, his gaze managing to pierce the cloud of Havana’s finest between us.

  “Waterson was Chicago royalty. He was smart enough to put this operation together, but he needed a resource in the Underworld that had the connections. Connections that would get him out of Chicago, maybe even get him set up with a nice villa overseas. When Waterson got working with Sammy Saint, I’m sure he followed the few low-level connections Saint made while in jail. Guys like Waterson know it’s the serfs that lead to the lords, the lords that lead to the princes, and the princes that lead to…” My voice trailed off as I motioned, again, to Capone.

  He nodded, his frown deepening as he scratched his chins. “Dat’s a pretty big hunch dere, Shorty. I mean, yes, Waterson was an associate. He was quite the purveyor of fine jewelry,” he stated, wiggling the pinkie that sported a fine gold ring decorated with brilliant diamonds.

  I took a quick whiff from where I sat. Yeah. The real thing. Miles was, most definitely, a very smart man.

  “But if Waterson did dis here t’ing with the robberies,” he continued, “why would he wanna do business wit’ me?”

  “Al…” Now it was my turn to chide him. “Al…what’s with the humility? You’re Alphonse Capone. I think that is saying more than enough.”

  He gave a few chuckles and turned his gaze back to the world outside the limo. “Yeah, well, that is touching for you to say, Baddings. Very touching.” He glanced at the cigar, seeming to contemplate the ashes at the end of the smoke. Then, “In dis business you claim Waterson and I were dealing in, when he comes ta’ me with this—propasishun —you think he tells me how he’s pulling these jobs?”

  “Well, in this claim, Waterson probably eluded to his crew being exceptionally talented, nothing more.” I sat back, pulling out my travel pipe and a pouch of weed. “You would buy that, I think, until you see me at Wrigley Field. If I am involved, then maybe this business arrangement might be one of those funny business arrangements.” Bowl packed, I asked, “You got a light, Al?”

  Something impressed him in my gumption, asking the Crime Boss of Chicago to light my pipe like some kind of palace page. The match made a hard scratch before its flame kissed my pipe.

  “Thanks,” I said once the taste of the weed reached me. “Now, back to the hunch, I’m thinking seeing me at the ballgame was not as big of a surprise as seeing me show up at Waterson’s when that manager was murdered.”

  The cigar just stopped shy of Capone’s mouth.

  “I’m like friends with you. I doubt if you have your good friends followed, do you?”

  Al smiled a smile I didn’t particularly care for. “You don’t know me as well as you t’ink, Baddings,” and the cigar was back in his mouth, that pig-grunt of a laugh softly setting a cadence.

  “But a guy like Waterson was stuck when he started this caper, a caper that would catch everyone with their breeches down. The con of cons. A string of upper-echelon crimes all leading to an incredible case of fraud, bailing him out of a financial maelstrom.”

  “Mail-what?”

  I swallowed hard. Here we go again. “Maelstrom. A giant whirlpool that pulls you down.”

  “Mail-strom,” he repeated. “Damn, I t’ink I like dat one bettah dan ‘flout’.”

  “Be careful though.” I said, taking a puff from my pipe. “M-a-e-l-s-t-r-o-m. Those first four letters might trip you up.”

  “Thanks for da tip,” he returned with a nod.

  “Waterson needed resources he didn’t have: Underworld networks, interested parties in stolen goods…” I puffed out a few smoke rings. “…and maybe a clean-up crew, for those pesky loose ends.”

  Capone’s expression didn’t change, didn’t flinch.

  “And that’s why this prince ventured into the Thieves’ Den: to obtain resources. Waterson was playing with fire, and he knew it. Had he pulled off this con,
I think you might have caught a bit of heat. Maybe not the full blast from the dragon’s mouth, but enough heat to singe those bushies over your eyes.” I replaced the pipe in my mouth. “Provided my hunch is right.”

  For a minute—maybe longer—Al and I just enjoyed the ride through rainy Chicago. Wherever we were headed, we were taking the long way. We must’ve passed Mick’s twice as we were driving around town. The quiet in the cab wasn’t as unsettling as knowing that one of the Nine Talismans Capone was looking for was in my coat pocket.

  “So,” Al began, first to break the silence again, “in this hunch of yours, was fire the only t’ing Waterson was playing with?”

  I summoned that face I wore at the tables when my hand was so bad it would make an Ogre turn around and wonder who farted. “I went to Waterson’s expecting trouble, and I got shown the servant’s exit. That’s probably why your boys never saw me leave.

  “I think here’s where my hunch is flawed. If Waterson was getting a hand from you, he wouldn’t have panicked like he did, snapped hard, and gone on a rampage. I think he saw the corner he painted himself into and completely lost the marbles.” Let’s score some coin from my lord and master here. “Either that, or he allied himself with Moran; and like the typical Mick that he is, Moran backed out of the deal. Left out to dry, Waterson butchers his crew and then goes for the insanity plea.”

  Capone grinned at that. He reached in front of him and rapped his knuckle against the glass between us and the driver, and sat back, his chuckle now audible. “You…yooooouuuu…dat’s good, Baddings. Very good. Great hunch, but nothing concrete you can take to da courts, huh?”

  “Nah, just a hunch,” I assured him.

  The car was slowing. Well, what do you know…

  “Thanks for the ride back to my office,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  I opened the door to leave, but Capone’s voice stopped me.

  “Hey, Baddings, I meant what I said: We are like friends. You may not be a good friend, but I still got respect for yah. Jus’ wanted you to know…” His cigar was pointing up to my office window. “…I didn’t have anyt’ing ta do wi’ what’s going on up dere.”