The Stranger City Caper
Page 5
We ate in silence.
After a while Rube said how many left-handers you reckon I got?
Cemetery said oh they is all left-handed.
Rube nudged me.
He said there just ain’t nothing like good ole rural humor.
He turned back to Cemetery.
He said what you really mean is they is all left-handed except the catcher and three or four infielders and some pitchers.
The shurff said no that ain’t what he really meant.
He said what he really meant was they is all lefthanded.
Rube nudged me.
He said only trouble with good ole rural humor is there is times when it is funny and there is times when it ain’t.
He said this is one of the latter.
He lit a cigar and his Zippo trembled noticeably.
Cemetery said you got yourself one hell of a pitcher.
He said name of Timothy Glumphwick.
He said most fokes call him Tim on account of Tim is short for Timothy.
The shurff said he can really bring it.
Cemetery said ooo-eee.
The shurff said he struck out over three hunnert last year.
Rube said how many did he walk?
Cemetery said six hunnert and ninety-two.
The shurff said he hit a hunnert and thirty-eight with baseballs.
Cemetery said no it was only a hunnert and thirty-six because two was umpires.
The shurff said that’s right.
He said kilt one and maimed one fer life.
Rube spilled a bit of his coffee.
He said foul tips?
Cemetery said no they was umpiring at first base.
Rube said pickoff plays?
The shurff said no there wasn’t nobody on base neither time.
Rube’s brown eyes were dilated.
His cigar was in ribbons.
His voice was fuzzy.
He said how many teams in this league?
Cemetery said two.
The shurff said us and Creepy Hollow.
Cemetery said they play all the games in Stranger City.
The shurff said that’s because baseball is illegal in Creepy Hollow.
Rube stood up slowly.
He clutched the counter top.
He said well boys let’s get out to the ball yard.
He said a feller could laugh hisself plumb to death over all this good ole rural humor.
22
…you show me a man what is allus watching birds and I’ll show you a man with a crick in his neck…
Monroe D. Underwood
Stranger City had the sweetest little ball park in the world.
It was old but carefully manicured and lovingly painted.
It cuddled close to the foot of a high green hill at the south end of town.
A low-roofed ten-row grandstand ran briefly down the baselines to drop abruptly into the five-row open-bench seating that continued to the walls and then into center field.
I calculated capacity to be in the vicinity of twenty-five hundred.
Rube and Moose and Count Frazzlewitz headed for the clubhouse and I started up the hill.
It was a tough climb.
Something like two hundred feet at a forty-five-degree pitch.
The nights in Wallace’s tavern hadn’t done my wind any big favors.
At the top I found myself confronted by The Stranger.
He stood on an enormous granite block to tower some twenty feet above me.
He was thrice life-size and green with age and covered with bird droppings.
He was impressive as hell.
His craggy face was a mask of fury and his eyes were hate-filled slits.
His lips were peeled back from his teeth in a wolfish snarl.
His huge six-guns were held at hip-level in clawlike hands that could have throttled a tyrannosaur.
Affixed to his granite block was an engraved bronze plate.
HERE SLEEPS THE STRANGER FROM WHOSE GIANT SHADOW EMERGED STRANGER CITY A PROUD AND PEACEFUL PLACE TO LIVE.
I turned to look down over the little lilac town with its six or eight business buildings and its tidy tree-lined streets with red-shingled white bungalows.
I could make out the shurff’s blue Model A and Brandy’s silver-gray Porsche.
I ambled toward a densely wooded area that crowned the hilltop.
It shot up suddenly in poplar and pin oak and pine and from it poured a shrill torrent of sound.
Birds.
Feathered fury advising me to get out and stay out.
As I approached the forest the din grew more strident.
Then it stopped.
Under the trees I found a cathedral coolness.
The rocks were mossy and the sun managed only a few ineffectual penetrations.
Then I stepped into blinding sunlight and the birds got back to cussing me out.
I had reached a narrow open span on a rocky ledge.
I walked to its lip and looked down.
I drew back instinctively.
Far far below was a sullen yellow river.
I was standing on the edge of Darby’s Jump Off and I knew why Darby hadn’t jumped.
23
…there is lots more ants than there is people…which is probly a very good thing for people…
Monroe D. Underwood
The pitchers loosened up in the right field corner and the outfielders shagged fly balls in left field and the lefthanded infield was hard at work.
Rube and I watched the activity through the backstop screen.
I said I wonder who ever assembled an all left-handed baseball team.
Rube scowled darkly.
He said well first off you almost got to assume he was left-handed.
I said what’s more he had to be crazy.
Rube said all left-handers is crazy.
I said where does that put switch-hitters?
Rube said switch-hitters is usually confused transvestites.
I said I didn’t know that.
Rube said neither did I till I figgered it out.
He said in Scranton I had a switch-hitting outfielder what had a two-foot beard and wore a purple brassiere with rhinestones.
I said could he hit?
Rube said I’ll never know.
He said the sonofabitch eloped with my shortstop.
I said Rube you have a catcher out there with a bad limp.
Rube nodded.
He said yeah I better talk to that kid.
The catcher’s name was Gaylord Messerschmitt.
He was a slender boy with piercing gray-green eyes.
Rube said son it looks like you got a charley horse.
Gaylord Messerschmitt said no I got a wooden leg.
Rube smiled patiently.
He said now young feller I only got me a couple days to get this outfit ready for a opener so leave us save such wild hilarity for the shower room.
Gaylord Messerschmitt said I never take showers.
He said showers would warp my wooden leg.
Rube gave Gaylord Messerschmitt a very frosty stare.
He said that’s twice.
Gaylord Messerschmitt sighed resignedly.
He removed his shin guards.
He spiked himself savagely in the left leg.
Splinters flew in all directions.
Rube stepped back and brushed wood fragments from the front of his shirt.
He said well son I don’t mean to discourage you none but I just got to tell you flat out that left-handed catchers with wooden legs ain’t in particularly great demand this season.
He said furthermore I got some pretty strong reservations about next season.
Moose had arrived.
He said hey a catcher with two wooden legs wouldn’t need no shin guards.
Rube nudged me.
He said Moose don’t say much but you got to admit he makes some mighty pertinent observations.
Gaylo
rd Messerschmitt said what if I was the only catcher in the world?
He said what if all the other catchers went to a convention and it got wiped out by a bomb?
He said you just better consider that.
Rube said I will son I will.
Rube shook his head.
He said it would take a left-handed catcher to think like that.
He squinted into the left field corner.
He said there’s a pitcher down there what is wilder than a tiger with a knot in its tail.
Moose said who would tie a knot in a tiger’s tail?
Rube said at the moment his name eludes me.
Moose said well if he keeps it up he gonna get reported to the SPCA.
He said where will that catchers’ convention be held?
The pitcher stood about six-eleven.
He may have weighed one-fifty and he had bushy hayloft hair and a great many teeth that protruded in approximately the same number of directions.
We stood behind him as he leaned back and fogged a pitch that ripped out a row of benches in the right field seats.
Rube tapped him on the shoulder.
He said boy what’s your name?
The pitcher said Timothy Glumphwick.
He said some fokes calls me Tim since Tim is short for Timothy you see.
Rube said well Tim maybe you better ease up just a mite because we don’t want to got to send to Canada to get your arm back.
Timothy Glumphwick said oh I’m only throwing soft stuff today.
Rube said well what was that last pitch?
Timothy Glumphwick said that was my change-up.
He said you wanna see my hummer?
Rube wheeled and headed for left field.
He was pale.
We crossed the green expanse of outfield and watched the fungo hitter loft the ball high into the blue June sky.
Horsefish Hallahan and Sorehead Hawkins and Barnaby Klutz converged at high speeds.
Rube covered his eyes.
Moose dropped to one knee and made the sign of the cross.
There was a sickening thud.
Like gasoline fumes igniting.
About three thousand gallons’ worth.
The ball plummeted to earth and bounced to the wall.
Rube walked to the scene of impact and studied his three prostrate outfielders.
He said who said baseball ain’t no contact sport?
We went in to watch infield practice.
Rube’s eyes were glued on the kid at third base.
He said I like that youngster’s looks even if he is left-handed.
Rube had spotted a good one.
The boy made diving stops left and right.
He went high for liners and came down like a ballet dancer.
He sucked up ground balls like a vacuum cleaner.
He had a rifle arm and his throws were right on the money.
Rube waved and the third baseman came on the run.
He was Japanese.
He bowed and said good morning Mr. Mountainstir.
Rube said you’re the first ballplayer I’ve seen in four years.
The third baseman said my name Isoroku Yabuki.
He said my father teach me arr I know.
He said my father very fine barr prayer.
He said you hear of great dubber pray combination Yabuki to Watsuki to Fishstein?
Moose said who was that last guy?
Rube said skip it Moose.
We reached the second-base area just in time to see shortstop Dudley Shift range far to his right to flag down a sizzling ground ball.
He fired to second baseman Opus Ganderneck who took the throw as he crossed the second-base bag.
Opus Ganderneck flipped the ball back to Dudley Shift who blazed it to first baseman Attila Honeywell.
Rube skidded to a stop with his arms raised defensively like a fighter teetering on the brink of a TKO.
He grabbed Moose’s elbow.
He said Moose please tell me that I haven’t just witnessed what I’m absolutely certain I’ve just witnessed.
Moose said well if you’ve just witnessed a short to second to short to first double play then you are witnessing just dandy.
Rube called Opus Ganderneck over to him.
He put his hand on the second baseman’s shoulder.
He spoke in calm and fatherly fashion.
He said now son I only got me about fifty years in this game so I am probly unfamiliar with its more sophisticated points therefore I would be interested in learning why you didn’t throw that little round white thing to first base like you should of instead of back to the shortstop like you shouldn’t of.
Opus Ganderneck said because I am left-handed.
He said the last time I made the double play pivot I busted my collarbone and got a triple hernia.
Dudley Shift said last year we almost pulled that play in a exhibition game here.
Opus Ganderneck said yeah it would of worked if Attila Honeywell had been in position to take the throw.
Rube frowned.
He said where was Attila Honeywell?
Dudley Shift said well at that particular moment Attila Honeywell was engaged in an all-out brawl with about thirty million big black ants.
Attila Honeywell had moved into the conference.
He was a haggard young man with deep dark circles under his eyes.
He said I beg your pardon.
He said in the interests of accuracy it must be noted here that it wasn’t thirty million big black ants.
He said this is because it was ninety-six million big black ants.
Moose said hell what’s sixty-six million big black ants one way or the other?
Attila Honeywell’s haunted eyes bulged.
He said well baby you just get sixty-six million big black ants in your jockstrap and you are absolutely certain to find out.
Rube said where do these big black ants come from?
Attila Honeywell said they got a commune or some goddam thing over by first base.
He said they are holding a election.
Rube chewed on his cigar for a moment.
He inched cautiously toward Attila Honeywell.
He said tell me son how do you know they is holding a election?
Attila Honeywell said because they are galloping around carrying a bunch of teeny-weeny signs.
Moose said well that don’t got to mean it’s a election.
He said maybe it’s a football rally.
Opus Ganderneck said it don’t figger to be no football rally.
He said hell this is baseball season.
Rube said what do these teeny-weeny signs say?
Attila Honeywell said the print is too small for me to read.
Dudley Shift said do you ever hear any speeches?
Attila Honeywell said I wouldn’t know if I did.
He said I probly wouldn’t understand a word the little bastards say.
Opus Ganderneck said I wonder what language ants speak.
Dudley Shift said ant I bet.
Moose said yeah but there is so many kinds of ants.
Opus Ganderneck said man just think of all them dialects.
The center field flagpole came down with a thunderous splintering crash.
We turned to see Count Frazzlewitz standing triumphant at its severed base.
He smiled a German shepherd smile.
Rube stared at me.
He said the idle mind is the Devil’s playground.
24
…a small town is where the man what don’t drink is a sissy and the man what does is a drunkard…
Monroe D. Underwood
We walked toward the hotel without speaking.
A blazing sun rode high above Stranger City.
The little community was wilted and muted.
A yellow mongrel dog dozed in the shade of a huge silver maple.
He opened a glazed eye and flogged the ground with a ratty tail
.
Dust flew.
A few sparrows frolicked in the street.
An old man soaked up sun on the park bench across from the hotel.
The old man who had sat there the day before.
He raised a hand to me.
He said Mr. Purdue I’d like to speak with you.
Rube nudged me.
He said that’s Horatio Brayfuss.
He said Brayfuss owns most of this cookie jar.
He said maybe you better give him a couple minutes.
I went over to the park bench.
Brayfuss gave me a weary smile and a limp cold handshake.
He said pray be seated Mr. Purdue.
I sat.
Brayfuss said how do you like my city?
I said it’s very nice sir.
Brayfuss gave me a skeptical look.
I said I was raised in a small town sir.
Brayfuss nodded and studied me.
At close range he was older than I had thought.
His white hair was thin and his cheeks were sunken.
His lips were withered.
Only his eyes seemed alive.
They were faded but lightning-quick and bead-bright.
If the eyes are windows of the soul Horatio Brayfuss was not a man to be taken lightly.
He was troubled by a hoarse racking cough that made my neck-hair curl.
It came frequently and it left him weak and gasping.
Brayfuss said Mr. Purdue I understand that you have expressed an interest in the legend of The Stranger.
I shrugged.
I said I guess I’ve heard most of it sir.
Brayfuss said are there any points that require clarification?
I said well not really sir.
I said except that he must have been mighty fast on the draw.
Brayfuss said his speed was beyond comprehension Mr. Purdue.
I said twelve men with twelve rounds?
Brayfuss said yes Mr. Purdue and each was shot through the buttonhole of his shirt pocket.
I said you buried them all sir?
Brayfuss said every damned one Mr. Purdue.
I said it must have been a hell of a job for one man sir.
Brayfuss said that it was Mr. Purdue that it was.
He turned slowly on the park bench.
His sharp old eyes twinkled and a corner of his withered mouth twitched.
He said Mr. Purdue do you doubt the story?
I shrugged.
I said sir why should I?
I said apparently nobody else has.