Five O'Clock Lightning

by William L. DeAndrea

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  5 O’Clock Lightning

  A Novel About Baseball, Politics, and Murder

  William L. DeAndrea

  For Dr. Lewis J. Orphanof, scientist and friend.

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter One Warm-up

  Chapter Two Hit and Run

  Chapter Three Squeeze

  Chapter Four Errors

  Chapter Five Road Trip

  Chapter Six Curveball

  Chapter Seven Hot Corner

  Chapter Eight Rundown

  Chapter Nine Five O’Clock Lightning

  Foreword

  THIS IS A WORK of fiction. A work of history must be as true as the author can make it; a historical novel, because it is a work of fiction, can be as false as the author needs it to be. Geography and architecture, as well as time itself, can (and have) been changed to suit the needs of the story.

  In writing this novel, I have incorporated some well-known real people as characters and certain public events, such as baseball games, into the narrative. However, no implication should be drawn (and certainly none is intended) that any of these real people used as characters said, did, or were involved in the things written in the novel. My purpose was solely to evoke an era and create a real-seeming 1953, not to report events.

  I hasten to add that most of the characters (including all the bad guys) are totally fictitious. Therefore, simply because a character may have been portrayed in the novel as occupying a certain position or job, the reader should not construe this to mean that the character was meant to represent in any way whatsoever the person who actually held that position or job at the time described in the novel; any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

  Finally, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank some people: Carol Brener, Read Evans, and Steve Fabian, for making the contents of their libraries available to me; Janice Young Brooks, for showing me Kansas City; and especially Meredith Bernstein, who stayed with the pitch until she connected.

  Chapter One

  Warm-up

  HIS HANDS WERE TREMBLING as he lowered them from his face. Slowly, he raised his head to look at himself in the small shaving mirror that hung crookedly from a nail above the only sink in the cottage.

  As he had last night, he nearly jumped at his own reflection—it had been so long since he’d seen it. Like an amnesiac, he was surprised to recognize himself. But there it was, looking back at him from the flawed circle of silvered glass. His eyes; his coloring; his very own bone structure. This was his face, the face of David Laird. He turned his head slowly, letting the sunlight that poured through the open windows strike his head at constantly changing angles. It put his face through phases, like the moon’s.

  He raised his rough, red hands again and touched his face. He touched lightly, as though he were afraid to break it. Gently, he traced the line of his high cheekbones; his strong, square jaw. He brushed a lock of hair the color of cornmeal from his forehead. He was mesmerized.

  This is a good face, he told himself. An honest face. Jenny used to tell him it was a beautiful face. Since just before midnight, it had been a killer’s face.

  He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the reflection, at least not yet. For years now he’d avoided mirrors, had needed to make a conscious effort to look at one. Now it looked as if he’d have to make an effort to turn away.

  He hadn’t even owned a mirror until yesterday. He’d driven his old, prewar—World War II, that is—Chevrolet (the driving mirrors adjusted so they never showed him his own reflection) to a town fifteen miles to the north, to one of those big, impersonal, modern drugstores. He almost gave up and drove right back. For some reason he couldn’t understand even now, Laird had just stood around pretending to read a promotional leaflet for Sal Hepatica. When a clerk had asked him what he wanted, he’d coughed and stammered like a teenager trying to work up the nerve to ask for his first box of condoms. He was literally unable to say the word—he had to point to get what he wanted.

  It was a truth that had become an instinct: mirrors were his enemy. Like a vampire. No, like a zombie.

  He smiled. He felt a mixture of joy and anguish at seeing it was his old smile again, David Laird’s smile.

  A zombie. That was very good. A walking corpse, resurrected through the power of black voodoo and sent to kill at the whim of its master. Laird’s smile widened. This zombie had a will of his own.

  His “master” would not even know, for example, about the first murder, the one last night, not until it was too late. Killing Ed Bristow had been easier than Laird had anticipated. Bristow had been a friend; but he’d turned out to be a coward and a traitor. He’d gotten nothing worse than he deserved.

  Besides, Laird needed to see how the gun worked and how the silencer affected it. Dr. Bristow, alive and dead, had been very helpful. And with any luck his body wouldn’t be found, or at least identified, until Laird was back among the dead and out of reach.

  The clock-radio blared to life, startling Laird and breaking the mirror’s spell. The radio was Laird’s one and only extravagance, the most expensive thing by quite a bit in the one-room cottage that passed for his home. It was an Emerson, sleek and shiny, the streamlined cabinet laminated with two shades of wood. It had a lighted dial, and its tubes’ humming was hardly audible. Laird had bought it brand new two years ago, took it with him all during his wanderings. He’d never regretted it—1951 had apparently been a great year for radios.

  He’d set the alarm last night before going to meet Bristow, believing, like a fool, that he’d be able to sleep when he returned.

  It was a good thing, though, that he had set the alarm, Laird decided. He might have stood at the mirror for hours and destroyed his schedule. Now he’d be sure to stay right on time.

  The ten o’clock news began. Laird played the radio constantly, when his headache subsided enough to let him stand it. He paid little attention to the drama programs, or Fred Allen, or those new “disc jockey” programs, but he always listened closely to the news.

  “The first story this August Saturday is the riots in Iran,” the announcer said. “Thousands of Iranians took to the streets again today to demand the return of the young Shah Mohammed Riza Pahlevi and the ouster of General Mossadegh, the man who deposed him. United States Government officials said ...”

  Laird reloaded the pistol his “comrade” had given him, the one Dr. Bristow had helped him learn so intimately. It was a target pistol, .22 caliber—a light weapon but easily sufficient to kill a man if properly used.

  The newscast cut away to an advertisement that tried to convince the listener that frozen peas were as tasty and nutritious as fresh or canned. Laird knew as much about frozen food already as he would ever care to and turned his full attention to his work.

  The newscast resumed. “... House Un-American Activities Committee member Rex Simmons is in New York City today, on the trail of what he calls irrefutable evidence of the most shocking infiltration by the International Communist Conspiracy into a beloved American institution yet discovered. Our reporter, Roger Milbank, asked the Missouri Republican what that evidence might show. Here is the congressman’s transcribed reply:

  “‘Well [Simmons’s voice began], like my fellow Republican and patriot, Senator McCarthy, I prefer to do my speaking where it counts, on the floor of the House, with my evidence before me. But I will say this: when once the American people have heard of this new threat, they will be shocked; they will call on their
Government to save the beloved American Way of Life from those who would ...”

  The congressman went on. And on. Laird had been expecting—even hoping, to hear this statement, in these very words, but the sound of Simmons’s voice seemed to burn him like air from a blast furnace.

  Laird ground the heels of his hands against his head, trying to crush the pains that grew there. Then, with a wordless scream, he took the mirror off the wall and raised it high over his head. He’d shut that evil, conniving bastard’s mouth, smash the mirror and radio together, crush the hateful sound of Simmons between them, and ...

  Simmons said, “... but this afternoon, all I plan to do is go to a ball game. Thank you, young man.” The announcer went on to give the weather—hazy, hot, very humid, with a chance of thundershowers late tonight.

  The pains subsided. Breathing like an asthma victim, Laird lowered the mirror. Carefully, almost lovingly, he placed it far to the back of a drawer in a cheap fiberboard bureau. He might have a need for that mirror again.

  There were better ways to use his hatred, better things to smash. He’d made such progress already; his plan was working well, so far—the time lag he’d caused by sending his anonymous letter to Simmons’s Kansas City headquarters instead of his Washington office had given Laird a chance to know his weapon and perfect his plan.

  Laird took a deep breath now and forced himself to stay calm. He attached the homemade silencer (basically a stiff rubber tube) to the muzzle of the target pistol and held it in his hand and admired it. He’d never been the type of man who was given to a passion for firearms, but he was beginning to understand the feeling. The pistol looked clean; looked efficient; looked simple and right for what it was designed to do. Laird placed the weapon on top of some clothing in a small canvas travel bag.

  Laird slung the bag over his shoulder and left the cottage. He didn’t bother to lock the door behind him—he had nothing of value but the radio, and even that wouldn’t matter for long.

  Besides, no one stopped here anymore. Laird’s cottage was the last habitation for humans in the middle of what was becoming a technological ghost town—this part of New Jersey’s shore had been given over to great silvered tanks and the piped-in surreal skylines of oil refineries. It was the perfect place for Laird to live—it looked beautiful, and it stank. It was a symbol, he thought, of the entire nation.

  It didn’t matter, he told himself. He couldn’t even smell it anymore.

  He hugged the bag to him and was reassured by the feel of the gun metal inside. Then he got in his car and pulled off his little patch of grass and sand onto the highway. He had a long drive ahead of him; across the George Washington Bridge, across the northern end of Manhattan, then across the Harlem River into the Bronx.

  It would only be wise to leave early—this way he could check all his getaway cars and still make it to Yankee Stadium in plenty of time. Laird patted the bag on the seat beside him. He didn’t know about anyone else, but he was going to enjoy this afternoon’s ball game.

  Chapter Two

  Hit and Run

  1

  IT WAS EITHER A ritual or an ordeal; Russ Garrett wasn’t sure which. But he was painfully aware that whichever it was, it had been his own idea, and it was only his own stonelike stubbornness that kept him to it.

  It wasn’t even noon yet, but already Garrett felt like he’d spent years in some enormous Turkish bath. Still, Garrett ran up and down his selected stretch of twenty steep, gray-painted Yankee Stadium stairs, slapping his sneakers on the cement in the precise rhythm of “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window,” as recently recorded by Miss Patti Page.

  Garrett was sick of that song. He wished mightily that he could come up with something different to time his stair-climbing, but it was too late. Now every time he started to run he heard Patti’s voice echoing inside his head, and every time he heard the lady singing three-part harmony with herself on the “Make-Believe Ballroom,” his knees started to tremble. And his feet got cold.

  Jesus, he used to think that song was cute! Now it was nonstop background music, and sometimes it drove him crazy.

  Garrett reached his three-hundredth step; he tapped the railing with his hand, turned clumsily in the narrow aisle between the banks of reserved seats, and started back up the stairs.

  Just five more times up and back (just!) and Garrett could stop. Until tomorrow. If the pain went away by then. Or the cold.

  The cold worried him even more than the pain did. A catcher learned to live with sore legs the way a housewife learned to live with rough hands—if they didn’t hurt, you weren’t doing the job right.

  Besides, nothing Garrett would ever feel could be worse than the pain he’d suffered when the slugs from the Red Chinese soldier’s Russian-made machine gun tore through the flesh and bone just below his knees.

  In a way he’d been lucky. Two inches higher and he’d have been a hopeless cripple for life. The closest he could have come to baseball then would have been when they pushed his wheelchair close to the railing by the Yankee dugout so all the fans could clap for him between games of the doubleheader on Memorial Day.

  All right, then, Garrett could still walk. He could also run, for short distances, at least; make love as well as he ever could; and even (God knew) climb stairs.

  But his feet got cold. Frequently. And that meant the doctors were right. They’d told Garrett just before he was discharged from the army hospital (and, simultaneously, the army itself) that he’d suffered nerve damage and circulatory damage. He would have some discomfort, but, “Corporal, we want to assure you you’ve sustained absolutely no injury that could prevent you from leading a perfectly normal life.”

  Garrett had snorted in the doctor’s face. He would have snorted again now, but he didn’t have enough breath.

  Russ Garrett didn’t want a normal life; wasn’t about to settle for one. Russ Garrett was going to be a major-league ball player.

  Top of the stairs. Plant the foot. Turn. Do the knees feel strong? Better than they were? Well, don’t worry about it. Down the stairs again.

  It was easier going down the stairs than it was to climb them, and not just because of gravity. Going up, all he could see were stairs, seats, exit signs, and a few early-bird fans. And a wall, the one he sometimes felt he might as well be beating his head against. The one he sometimes felt he had been beating his head against since he broke up with Annie and dropped out of Columbia.

  But going down the stairs he could just lift his head and see the whole thing over the rim of the mezzanine. Yankee Stadium, the House That Ruth Built. The bleachers, with the scoreboard towering on stilts above them, its red-white-and-blue Uncle Sam hat symbol telling amnesiacs and little green men from outer space whose home this was. He could see the elegant, lacy facade that rimmed the stadium roof; once bronze, it had weathered to the same pale green as the Statue of Liberty.

  He could see the Bronx over the left center field wall, and the roofs lucky tenants could sit on to watch ball games for free.

  Looking down, he could see the ball field itself. A thing of beauty, impossibly green, with the rich brown dirt of the diamond cut into it like a symbol of something, a hieroglyph designed for only birds or angels to read.

  Goddammit, he belonged down there. Sometimes (and Garrett would have died if anyone ever found this out) he’d ease the tedium of training by imagining himself on a bubble-gum card. He’d picture himself, clean-cut and earnest, gazing into the camera from the half-crouch of his batting stance. Or maybe smiling, with his Yankees’ hat turned backward, squatting to catch some imaginary fastball.

  That part of it didn’t take much imagination—the pictures had already been taken a couple of years ago at spring training in St. Petersburg, by the man from the gum company. The photographer, a gruff and garrulous old character who wore incredibly loud flowered shirts, had called Garrett over during wind sprints. Garrett had wanted to kiss him—he’d figured it could only mean that sooner or later he’d make the
Yankees. The bubble-gum people didn’t need pictures of career minor leaguers.

  Of course, that was before Harry Truman had sent him his greetings, and before General MacArthur had sent him a couple of parallels farther north than it was safe to go.

  But he’d promised himself he wouldn’t brood about the past today. For a change. Right, Garrett? You’re not going to brood about the past, are you? Of course not. Flip the card over, that powdery, sweet-smelling bubble-gum card you carry around in your mind. Read about yourself:

  RUSSELL ANDREW GARRETT

  New York YANKEES catcher/outfield

  6’0” 205 lbs. bats—left throws—right

  Born—June 30, 1929, Port Chester, New York Nickname—“RAGS”

  Reading along (in his mind), Garrett skimmed over his career record, which consisted of not quite one whole season with the Kansas City Blues, the Yankees’ top minor league farm team.

  “Along with Mickey Mantle,” the fantasy-card read, “‘Rags’ is counted as a ‘can’t miss’ prospect by the ‘Bombers’ for either the 1951 or ’52 season.”

  Of course, since this was 1953 (and late August at that) the message was a little outdated. Mantle wasn’t a prospect anymore, he was a star—his batting power had pitchers terrorized around the league.

  Garrett wondered what his card would say now.

  Plant the foot. Spin. Jesus, that one hurt.

  Garrett decided he’d do Topps or Fleer a favor and think of some interesting stuff about himself.

  “Garrett is a rarity among major leaguers ...” That’s a good start, he thought. He tried to ignore the sick, dull throbbing in his legs. His feet were colder than ever, but sweat covered the rest of him like thin, warm jelly.

  “... A rarity among major leaguers, being both a college graduate and a combat veteran. ‘Rags’ (the name comes from his initials) left college for a baseball career, but completed his studies in a military hospital—” Garrett stopped for a second, then decided this was reporting, not brooding, and allowed himself to go on. “—hospital after being severely wounded while fighting with United Nations forces during the Korean Conn—”