Five O'Clock Lightning

by William L. DeAndrea

  “Of course I do, Rex. It’s just that we can’t risk jeopardizing the whole destalinization process by making ourselves look foolish with a stalled investigation.”

  “Hmmm,” the congressman mused. “If we only weren’t so damned understaffed ... Well, I guess we’ll just have to do it on our own again. Tell Cheryl to set up a meeting with Mrs. Klimber on ...” he went to consult his calendar but never got to lift a page.

  “Mrs. Klimber won’t help us this time, Rex. She’s getting impatient, too. She told Cheryl she wasn’t sure she was getting her money’s worth lately.”

  The congressman was astounded. “Why, that fat old bitch! Just who the hell does she think she is?”

  “Dam-dam-dammit, Rex!” Tad had a tendency to stammer when he got worked up. It was the only thing that kept him from running for office himself.

  Tad was worked up at the moment because he knew exactly who Mrs. Klimber thought she was, and he knew Rex knew it, too. Mrs. Klimber was the congressman’s secret sponsor. Her husband had accumulated some ridiculous number of millions during World War Two by manufacturing the nuts that held the propellers on airplanes. He died in 1947 upon hearing the news that his only son had been slaughtered by Communist Huk rebels in the Philippines.

  Mrs. Klimber had inherited both her husband’s fortune and his blazing hatred of Communists. She’d been more than willing to underwrite the campaign of a young man who felt the same way. And since they were doing the Lord’s work, so to speak, she saw nothing wrong with continuing to support him after the election, either with money or with the services of the more-or-less-legal information-gathering system her husband had put together during the war. He’d built it to guard his manufacturing secrets both from enemy agents and from the rest of the industry. Wartime cooperation was all well and good, but the war wasn’t going to last for ever, and after that it would be every man for himself. Of course, if Mr. Klimber’s agents happened to uncover a secret or two that belonged to somebody else, he wasn’t going to complain.

  The little spy network was good for finding Commies, too. Mrs. Klimber always said her husband would have been pleased at the use Congressman Simmons had made of it. She was disappointed at Tad’s insistence that the organization’s tie to his brother remain secret but went along because he said it worked more effectively that way.

  But it made her impatient.

  Tad didn’t have to tell his brother any of this—all he’d had to say was, “Come on, Rex. We still need her.” The congressman had gotten the message. He didn’t have quite enough power yet to do without Mrs. Klimber. But it was coming.

  The letter would do it. He was sure of it; he had an infallible nose, and that nondescript little envelope had the smell of Fate. The letter had hinted at great secrets to be revealed, linking “someone who is a switch-hitter in his politics as well as in his playing” to un-American activities in baseball.

  Simmons soaped his chest and prayed it was true. He’d love to nail that draft-dodging son of a bitch.

  A later letter contained four tickets to a ball game (three together in a field-level box and a single in the upper deck) and a plan for a safe meeting, isolated in the midst of thousands, to exchange the evidence for one thousand dollars of Mrs. Klimber’s money.

  Then he’d shake this country up a little, by God. He’d hold hearings as soon as Congress reconvened. Maybe sooner, if he could convince Eisenhower to call a special session. Get the hearings on television, too. He’d tell Tad to arrange it. It shouldn’t be too hard. It would be a great show for the public.

  In fact, the public would get a great show even if all they got out of it was a look at Cheryl Tilton. Cheryl was by miles the smartest and best-looking secretary in politics. The best lay, too, but the voters wouldn’t learn that out on TV. That part of Cheryl was for private times like last night ...

  The Honorable Rex Harwood Simmons blushed through his suds when he became aware of where he’d started washing himself as soon as he thought of last night and Cheryl. Hastily he grabbed the hot-water handle and twisted, standing under a spray that turned first cool, then icy.

  He’d been satisfied—and more—last night. He didn’t need to do things like that. It was beneath him, and it took away from what he and Cheryl had together. He was going to make it official as soon as possible, though Cheryl didn’t know it yet.

  Simmons stood under the stinging cold water until his passion cooled. Then he continued to take the icy needles until he could control his shivering.

  Finally, happy with himself and clean of purpose, body, and mind, Simmons stepped from the shower ready to face the day.

  5

  The smartest and best-looking secretary in politics had spent perhaps thirty minutes in her own room in the Bentley that night; just long enough to wash the congressman off her and redo her makeup before sneaking off to his brother’s room down the hall. It was something they’d been doing a lot lately. For Tad it was a chance to do his big brother in the eye without the congressman’s knowing about it. Tad hated his brother. Cheryl supposed she was the only person who knew that.

  It made Tad a whole new person. The first time she’d played this kind of doubleheader, Tad had been a virtual madman, laughing and touching as if he couldn’t get enough of it. Forbidden fruit and all that.

  Cheryl didn’t know what she got out of it. She guessed it was the decadence of it that she liked. It was sinful, and forbidden, and ostentatiously lewd. It was exciting.

  That was the first time. Things did not excite Cheryl Tilton for long. Now sneaking off to Tad was a habit, like the after-sex cigarette smoldering in the bedside ashtray.

  “... Now, to throw a fastball,” Tad was saying, “you grip it like this.” He reached out a smooth, manicured hand to demonstrate.

  Cheryl’s voice was icy. “Telford,” she began. She knew that the younger Simmons brother hated his nickname—Tad was for kids, in his opinion—and that he put up with it only because his given name was worse.

  “Telford,” she said, “take your hand off my breast.”

  Tad grinned at her. Damn him, Cheryl thought, he has a good face for grinning. A fox’s face, bright-eyed and sly enough to get the joke everyone else misses.

  Tad didn’t move his hand. “I thought you wanted to learn something about baseball,” he said. “Don’t you want to enjoy the game this afternoon?”

  Cheryl looked at him. Tad liked games. He laid out his life like a bridge hand or a chess game. There was a family resemblance between the Simmons brothers—features, coloring, things like that—but when it came to attitudes and behavior, they might as well have belonged to different species.

  Cheryl was one of Tad’s favorite games—he’d been playing with her one way or another ever since the day five years ago when Cheryl had walked into the office of the brand-new congressman, crossed her long legs, and asked him in a silky voice if she might apply for a job as the congressman’s secretary.

  Tad had told her she might. Cheryl had class, and that was a very important qualification. Congressman Simmons was unpolished and volatile (it wasn’t smart to say crude); he needed someone cool and smooth to run the office.

  Cheryl was cool and smooth, all right, and looked it. She had skin like ivory; hair like jet, cut in the silky dome of a page boy that never seemed anything but perfect; and glittering deep blue eyes.

  She’d come to the job with excellent references, even though she was only twenty-five at the time. She’d proven herself to be as competent as she was lovely. She was smart enough to read political angles for herself, and she was willing to use all her talents to further the interests of her employer.

  It had been inevitable that Congressman Simmons would fall in love with her. And Cheryl had gone along—it made things cozier all the way around, and it increased Cheryl’s fringe benefits enormously. It occurred to her sometimes that with the influence she had on Rex, she was, next to Mrs. Klimber, probably the most powerful woman in the United States.

&nb
sp; Tad had been delighted to share Cheryl with his brother—and with anyone else, for that matter. He knew more political power is gained or lost in bed than in all the legislatures in the world.

  Besides, Cheryl made it easier to keep an eye on Rex. Rex was ten years older than Tad’s thirty-four, but Rex had to be watched. Rex would find something he wanted to believe, embrace it with the zeal of a missionary, then crush anyone or anything that tried to make him believe it wasn’t true.

  Not that there was anything wrong with that. Hell, Tad thought, it was his brother’s number-one political asset. Rex had a special mission: to expose and destroy Commies in this country, wherever they might be found. The country needed Rex to continue his work. Therefore, nothing could be allowed to get him out of office. As far as Rex was concerned, it was exactly that simple. It fell to Tad to think of ways to carry the plan out.

  Not that the election part had been much of a worry. Rex was up for his fourth term a year from November, and the voters of his congressional district had sent him back to Washington with bigger majorities every time. There was no reason to think that wasn’t going to continue. They might even make it unanimous, if this baseball thing was as big a sensation as it seemed it might be.

  Cheryl was talking about baseball.

  “Telford, dearest,” she said. Lightly she scratched with strawberry-color nails the back of the hand that cupped her breast. “I never said I wanted to learn about baseball. I have no interest in that asinine game this afternoon. I said I don’t know anything about baseball, and I wish I could skip the whole damned thing!”

  As she spoke, she caught a piece of skin between the nails of her thumb and middle finger. Then she pinched him, hard.

  Tad yowled and put his hand to his mouth, sucking the sore spot. Cheryl shot him a triumphant look, threw the sheet aside, and walked naked to the dressing table, where she stubbed out her cigarette so fiercely she twisted it to shreds.

  Tad Simmons wanted to be furious, but as he looked at her standing naked, angry, and unashamed, all he could notice was how damned sexy she was.

  But he was irritated. “How the hell,” he demanded, “do you get off acting so damned pro-pro-proprietary over your goddam bosom all of a sudden?”

  “When I tell you to stop touching me, you’d better do it.”

  Tad snorted. “A half-hour ago you were begging me to touch you. And telling me where.”

  Cheryl put on the robe she’d been wearing when she’d crept into the room last night. It was made of a thick, velvety material, the same color as her eyes. She wore it now like armor.

  The robe gapped at the chest to show the tops of her small, firm breasts. Cheryl jabbed her pointed red nails against her white chest.

  “This is my body, Tad,” she said. “Mine. Alone. I lend it to you; to your brother. I’ll use it as a bribe when someone we need can’t be reached any other way. But those are my decisions. I decide who’s going to touch me. And where. And when!

  “And I don’t like,” she went on, “being treated like an idiot, or like a ... a toy!” She stormed out of the room without giving Tad a chance to apologize or even decide if he wanted to.

  And that was something Tad didn’t like. Cheryl was getting a little too big for her lacy britches, no matter how sweetly she filled them. Maybe she’d have to be taught a lesson.

  6

  Philadelphia was using a lefty pitcher today, so Mantle concentrated on hitting right-handed in batting practice. He’d wait for the pitch to come in, a straight ball, not too fast—this was batting practice, after all, nobody was trying to get anybody out—then the mechanics would take over. He’d take a quick step forward with his left foot and tighten his grip on the bottom of his thirty-five-ounce bat. Then, smoothly, his whole body would participate in shifting his weight to his front foot; thighs, hips, shoulders all gliding forward to build momentum for the instant when those powerful arms would whip the bat around like a war club and send the ball sailing out of sight.

  Mantle swung mightily and produced a feeble dribbler down the third-base line. Mantle tightened his lips and kicked the dirt.

  Elvin Mantle, Mickey’s daddy, always loved baseball. Mickey was named after his father’s favorite ball player, Mickey Cochrane, whose real first name was Gordon, but who had been called Mickey because he was Irish.

  But Mickey was Mantle’s real name, as you could see for yourself, printed right there in black and white on the scorecard you couldn’t tell the players without. Mutt Mantle (that was Elvin’s nickname) had seen the day when ball players would be platooned, with right-handed batters playing only against left-handed pitchers and vice versa. The idea was each batter would get a better look at the ball. It was getting more and more common in baseball all the time these days.

  Mutt Mantle had seen all this coming, so he’d taken a lot of time and trouble to teach his son to switch-hit, to bat with equal skill from either side of the plate. It was supposed to keep Mickey in the lineup.

  Tell that to Casey, Mantle thought.

  The next practice pitch was low. Mantle lined it to center. Probably be good for a single in the game.

  If he got in the game. As Casey kept telling everyone in his inimitable Stengelese, with the Yankees so far out in front, which they were with a nineteen-game lead on the rest of the American League, it would be silly to use Mantles (Casey always called him Mantles) except as a pinch-hitter, which he does real good, until his leg, which is always giving him trouble, gets a good chance to heal normal.

  All Mickey Mantle knew was that he felt fine and he wanted to play. What was the sense in saving him for the World Series if he was going to be so rusty when he got there he’d strike out every time he came to the plate? Mantle was a free-swinger; he struck out enough as it was. He needed to get in the game.

  Mantle was a ball player. That’s what he was. As his daddy had known it would be, baseball had been Mickey’s ticket out of Commerce, Oklahoma, away from a life of back-breaking, spirit-killing work in the lead mines.

  Mickey had already clocked some time in the mines, and he had to admit that swinging a pick through those long, dark days in Blue Mine Number Six had helped develop the powerful arms and shoulders everybody talked about. But Lord, that was no way to spend your life.

  It was Mickey Mantle’s considered belief that the mines had killed his daddy; Elvin Mantle had died last year at the age of thirty-nine. Mickey was twenty-one. He was glad his daddy had gotten a chance to see his son play in the major leagues before he passed on. Maybe he could see him still, from wherever he was.

  Mantle bore down, and the next three pitches disappeared into various parts of the stands. One landed in a portion of the upper deck so remote the crowd, which usually oohed or ahhed after a good shot in batting practice, broke into actual cheers.

  That’ll do it, he thought. Mantle felt good when he was hitting. He started to trot back to the Yankees’ dugout.

  “Hey, Mick,” said a voice.

  Mantle saw the owner of the voice leaning over the railing of a field-level box next to the Yankees’ dugout. Mantle’s face broke into a warm, country-boy grin.

  “Rags!” he said and ran to where Russ Garrett waited. They shook hands. “Russ, you old son of a gun. How’re they treating you in the commissioner’s office?”

  Garrett grinned. “Not bad. Mostly they forget I’m there. The only time Mr. Frick notices me is when I do something stupid.” Ford C. Frick, a former newspaperman and former president of the National League, was the new Commissioner of Baseball.

  A few kids came over with baseballs or scorecards they wanted signed. Mantle signed them while he talked to Garrett.

  “Hell, then I don’t expect you get noticed too much. Maybe you could never hit a sinker ball for spit, but you always were a smart ball player.”

  Mantle realized what he’d said, and a worried look replaced his smile. “Not that you ain’t still,” he added hastily. “How’re your legs?”

  Garrett shrugged
it off; Mantle understood perfectly. Ball players hated to talk about injuries. The worse the injury, the more they hated to talk about it. Mickey was just as glad not to talk about Garrett’s legs, to tell the truth. He knew it was dumb, but he felt kind of guilty about them.

  “I’m still standing,” Garrett said. “How are your legs doing? Casey got you in the lineup today?”

  “No, dammit, and I’m ready, too.”

  Garrett made a thoughtful noise. “Maybe,” he said, “it’s just as well you don’t play today.”

  Mantle scowled and pushed his Yankee cap back on his head with a thumb. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean, Rags old pal?”

  Garrett grinned at him. “Easy, Greasy,” he said. “Mick didn’t you hear the radio this morning?”

  “No, I slept as late as I could, then came right to the ball park.”

  “Late night with Whitey and Billy—don’t answer that. If the commissioner ever asks me anything about the social life you guys lead, I want to be able to tell him I don’t know a thing.”

  Garrett knew that New York was a very exciting place to a kid like Mantle. It was part nightmare, part wonderland. Let him enjoy it.

  “Somebody’s coming to the game today,” Garrett said.

  “Who’s that?”

  “The honorable gentleman from Missouri.”

  Mantle couldn’t believe it. “That hot dog? That skunk?” Hot dog is baseball slang for someone who goes out of his way to attract attention to himself. Skunk was a substitute for the word Mantle actually wanted to say. He’d stifled it because he knew Mr. George Weiss, who ran the Yankees, frowned on players cussing in front of fans, especially kids. It was a shame. Skunk didn’t come close to describing what Mickey Mantle thought of Congressman Simmons.

  Garrett nodded. “That’s who it is, all right, and he says—heads up!”

  Garrett ducked, at the same time grabbing Mantle by the shirt and pulling him out of the way of a screaming line foul off the bat of Irv Noren, who was taking his batting practice now. The ball whistled like a bullet through the space that a split-second earlier had been occupied by Mantle’s head.