Mrs. Klimber had expressed impatience with the progress of the Sports Subcommittee’s investigation, just as Tad had told his brother. What he hadn’t told Rex was how the widow had gone on to smile that horrible motherly smile of hers and tell Tad not to worry, something would happen very soon.
When Tad asked her what that was supposed to mean, she’d grinned a grin that pulled her chins back even farther and said Tad and Rex were too busy to worry over things like that.
Tad shook his head. The last time Mrs. Klimber had made a similar promise, Tad wound up having to help cook up evidence that ruined the reputations of six (as far as Tad could tell) perfectly innocent persons, one of whom, a college professor, committed suicide shortly after the hearings.
Tad had to admit, though, that it was a masterpiece of political drama. The public ate it up. The six looked as red as ketchup, and Rex came across as a hero saving America yet again.
Rex had never known they weren’t really card-carrying Communists.
Sometimes Tad didn’t know who was worse, Mrs. Klimber or that big buck nigger she kept around to do the dirty work, a fellow by the name of Gennarro Kennedy. He had been an army buddy of Mrs. Klimber’s son. He’d come to pay his condolences one day and had just sort of stayed around. Mrs. Klimber had the money and the spy network, but it was Kennedy who had the brains to make them work.
It was Tad Simmons’s opinion that if he weren’t a Negro, Gennarro Kennedy could be President, or a millionaire, or whatever he wanted. Hell, for all Tad knew, he was a millionaire. He could probably get whatever he wanted out of the old lady.
Not a drop of white blood in him, either. His skin was like pencil lead, his nose was flat, and his hair was like tight little springs hugging close to his head. He was six feet two inches tall and weighed two hundred and fifteen perfectly toned pounds. He had imagination, daring, and ruthlessness. Tad would be a lot less nervous about angering Mrs. Klimber if she didn’t have the brain and body of Gennarro Kennedy to unleash on those who did.
He tried to put it out of his mind. Instead he tried to figure out what was wrong with Rex. Rex was in an aisle seat, a first. Sitting on the aisle meant Rex had to be the one to call vendors for hot dogs and beer. It meant Rex had to handle money, had to watch out for people walking by slopping things on him. Rex normally demanded to be protected from things like that—they were beneath his dignity.
It was all pretty remarkable. Even Cheryl had come out of her snit long enough to comment on it.
9
The Yankees scored a run in the bottom of the sixth but still trailed by two when the inning ended. It wasn’t that they hadn’t had their chances. Russ Garrett took a peek at the scorekeeper’s card and saw they’d left nine men on base already. He groaned.
David Laird, sitting quietly in his seat in Section 21, had no idea the Yankees had stranded nine men. He didn’t care, wasn’t even watching the game. The reactions of people around him gave him a vague awareness the home team was behind, but that was all.
Laird was watching Salvatore Vitiello. Salvatore Vitiello worked in his uncle’s liquor store on East Tremont Avenue in the Bronx. Salvatore’s uncle was a kindly man, understanding about most things—for example, he had no comprehension of baseball, but he indulged his nephew’s passion for it. He himself was a dedicated supporter of Inter-Milano in the Italian Football League. Consequently, Salvatore was let off work in the liquor store to pursue a second career—hot-dog butcher at Yankee Stadium.
A hot-dog butcher has nothing to do with the manufacture of the sausage itself; any vendor who roams among the crowd at a sporting or entertainment event is called a butcher. A candy butcher sells candy, a hot-dog butcher sells hot dogs.
Except for the fact that he hated the baggy white uniform and silly paper-and-cheesecloth hat he had to wear, being a hot-dog butcher was an ideal job for Salvatore Vitiello. Not only did it give him a chance to see all the Yankee games (over his shoulder, sure, but at least it was free), it gave him a chance to practice his projection.
He was doing it now. “Getcha red-red-red-red hot dogs here!” Beautiful. You could hear it over a tidal wave. The maestro would be pleased. Because, in addition to being a liquor-store clerk and a hot-dog butcher, Salvatore Vitiello was in training to become the finest operatic tenor New York City had ever produced. His uncle said so, and more important, so did his teacher.
Section 21 was part of Salvatore Vitiello’s territory. The young vendor was the fourth reason David Laird had chosen the seat he now occupied.
10
It had been the original murder, the murder David Laird was supposed to be committing, that had led him to Yankee Stadium in the first place. He hadn’t had anything special in mind, just going through the motions in case anyone had been monitoring him. (He was sure now that no one was.)
Once he’d sat through a few games, though, it had dawned on Laird what a wonderful place a ball park would be for an assassination—provided, of course, the assassin had anything like a brain in his head. Laird had no worries on that score. He had a brain—it was, in fact, nearly all he had left.
So he had started thinking, way back in July when the matter had first come up. He’d gone to every Yankee game at the stadium until he was sure he’d gotten a look at all the vendors. As soon as he saw Salvatore Vitiello, with his medium build, high cheekbones, square jaw, and sandy hair, Laird knew he didn’t have to look any farther.
Laird studied the young man. He watched his routine; where he went to get his frankfurters, and when. He watched the way the young man moved. He learned his name. He listened to his voice. Vitiello had a marvelous voice.
David Laird was confident the impersonation would carry if he avoided situations where he had to speak. Laird’s voice wasn’t what it once was, and it had never been likely to be mistaken for an opera singer’s.
It didn’t matter. The masquerade wouldn’t last too long.
It was time to begin.
One thing Laird had learned over the course of the summer was that fans bought hot dogs and peanuts and the rest much more slowly during an exciting game than during a dull one.
Apparently this game was very exciting. Laird’s target had gone off for a refill just twice since he’d started selling, unless he’d made a trip during the time Laird had slipped out to attend to a closet door in the corridor. Even so, if Vitiello didn’t leave the stands soon, Laird would have to try to force the issue.
Laird could feel himself starting to panic. He realized suddenly that he had no idea of how he might force the vendor to do anything. The pains returned to his head. He pressed his hands to his forehead to squeeze them out. He cursed himself, told himself to think.
He could buy out the vendor’s stock. He ... he could say it was his birthday, and he was going to treat everyone in his section to a frankfurter.
But that would call attention to him. It didn’t matter if people remembered him afterward—it was part of the plan, in fact, that they should—but he had to remain unnoticed until the job was done.
Maybe he could tell the vendor there was an urgent message for him—no, that wouldn’t work, either. Fool. It was inexcusable not to have learned more about the boy than just his name. That kind of careless stupidity deserved to fail.
Laird pressed harder against the pain and almost told himself aloud to shut up. He wasn’t going to fail!
He thought of bribing a stranger to use the birthday ploy for him, but that would be as bad as doing it himself—the stranger would have too much reason to notice him. Laird didn’t want to have to kill a total stranger ... But still, he was not going to waste months of preparation (to say nothing of the murder he’d already committed) because people weren’t buying enough frankfurters!
Then all the worry suddenly became unnecessary. Vitiello was in the act of selling his last two frankfurters to a teenage couple who, apparently, could not exist if their heads were to stop touching. Laird had been so close to panic, he’d nearly missed seeing it
.
Vitiello completed the sale and headed up the aisle. Laird closed his eyes and counted to five while he gathered his resolve. Then he left his seat and followed.
The walkways around the rim of the second deck were quiet but not deserted—there were always people making their way to or from the rest rooms or souvenir stands. Laird had foreseen that and had decided not to let it worry him. He had to time his attack to take place just outside the door of the broom closet, the door he’d gimmicked earlier. He stopped at it briefly, placing his travel bag inside. Laird wanted to have both hands free for what was coming.
Salvatore Vitiello reached the concessionaire’s kitchen, handed in his receipts, and filled his basket with more frankfurters, buns, and mustard. “Well, let me head on back to the stands,” Laird heard him say. “There’s still a few bucks to be made.”
Laird waited outside the door. When Vitiello emerged, Laird made a fist around a roll of nickels and followed the vendor, much more closely this time. About five paces before Vitiello would reach the broom closet, Laird darted forward and tapped the young man on the shoulder. Things were perfect—no people were around. Laird didn’t think they would have noticed if they had been, since people tended to be preoccupied with getting back to their seats and not missing any of the game. Still, it was better this way.
“Excuse me,” Laird said. His voice was an ugly rasp.
“Yeah?” Vitiello said pleasantly. “You want a hot dog?”
Laird nodded, and the young man turned. He put his basket down so he could reach into it more easily. That was when Laird rammed his nickel-filled fist into Vitiello’s abdomen. He wanted to incapacitate both Vitiello and his great voice. It would have been safer for Laird to have punched him in the throat, but that would almost certainly have ruptured Vitiello’s windpipe, and Laird didn’t want anyone to die who didn’t deserve to. His research had shown that the blow to the belly would be sufficient.
Vitiello didn’t know what had happened to him. A heart attack, he thought, with that tiny portion of his brain not filled with pain or fear or the desire to breathe. His eyes bugged out. He choked. He began to sink to his knees.
Laird worked quickly. He caught Vitiello under the arms and dragged him into the broom closet. Working in the dark with hands made skillful by practice, Laird bound and gagged the vendor. When he was sure the knots were tight enough, he grabbed Vitiello’s belt buckle and pulled it slowly and firmly to get him breathing again.
After three or four tugs Laird heard air hissing into the young man’s nostrils. A few more; Laird stopped tugging, and Vitiello kept breathing on his own.
Laird smiled. Things were working well.
Quickly he found his travel bag. He took out shirt and pants of food-service white, just like Vitiello’s. He stripped off his regular clothes, stuffed them in the bag and put on the whites.
Then he took out the .22. He checked to see if the silencer was still firmly attached. He opened the basket and placed the weapon gently among the frankfurter buns. Finally he took the paper-and-cheesecloth cap off the young man’s head and placed it on his own.
Then, this time without even bothering to listen for footsteps on the concourse (why shouldn’t a stadium employee be coming out of one of those doors?), David Laird stepped out of the broom closet and went to attend to his butchering in Section 21.
11
Congressman Rex Harwood Simmons astounded Tad and Cheryl by leaving his seat as Philadelphia came to bat in the eighth inning.
“I should be back before the game ends,” he told them. “Wait here for me if I’m not.”
“Where are you going?” his brother demanded.
The congressman gave him a knowing smile. “Not far, Tad. I’m just going to get some evidence.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You remember the letter we got, don’t you?”
“There was a letter hinting someone you and Tad apparently could recognize was a Red, but that’s all I remember it saying. There was supposed to be another letter.”
The congressman was grinning so hard he could barely move his lips to shape words. “There was,” he said. “I happened to get to it first. I thought it best to keep it to myself. For security. It’s not that I don’t trust Cheryl and you—”
“Bullshit, Rex!” Tad snapped. “You want to have another of your comic-book adventures, that’s all. This could be a trap, dammit. Now sit down and watch the game.”
Congressman Simmons frowned stubbornly at his brother. “No. I’m going.”
“Goddammit!” Tad exploded. A fan a few rows back requested that he shut his foul mouth.
Tad spoke more quietly, but not much. “All right, let’s go and get this idiocy over with.”
Again the congressman told him, “No. The letter said I had to be alone.”
Tad forced himself to be patient. “Rex—” he began.
His brother cut him off. “I know there’s a risk involved, Tad. But it’s important to my work; to our country.” The congressman squared his shoulders. “I’m ready to take a risk for the good of my country.” He turned and started to go.
Tad was upset. “Cheryl, he’ll listen to you. For God’s sake talk him out of this. There’ll probably be no one there but a photographer from the leftist press waiting to take a picture so they can laugh at how they fooled the great Rex Simmons.”
The congressman hesitated.
“Cheryl,” Tad said, “tell him, all right?”
Cheryl took off her dark glasses and looked with soft eyes in the congressman’s face. “I wouldn’t dream,” she said, “of questioning Rex’s judgment.”
“That’s the spirit!” Rex Simmons said. “If you want to help me, Tad, watch me as I leave and see nobody follows me. I don’t want my man scared off.” He strode up the stairs, looking exactly like a man with a mission.
Tad sat down angrily. To hell with him. Let him make a fool of himself. He couldn’t trust anybody today.
“Thanks a lot, Cheryl,” he said. “That’s two you’ve got coming.”
Cheryl took some paraphernalia from her bag and placed it on Rex’s now-empty seat. She began doing her nails.
12
The pace of Congressman Simmons’s climb to the second deck proved the value of his morning exercises. He was in the reserved seat the second letter had directed him to before the first Philadelphia player was retired; struck out by Allie Reynolds, who was pitching in relief of Whitey Ford. Rex had his breath back before the player had sat down in the dugout.
In a short time he’d have what he needed to fire up his hearings. Carefully he examined the people in the seats around him, trying to decide which of them might be his correspondent.
He had an aisle seat, so there was no one to his left. There was no one, in fact, anywhere around him. Rex figured the person he was meeting had bought a block of tickets so that their meeting could take place with a certain amount of privacy. The congressman approved.
Simmons’s closest neighbor, on this side of the aisle, at least, was a kid about five years old. The kid wore a striped polo shirt and a Yankee cap. He was sitting with a paunchy, balding guy who chewed a fat, wet cigar and who was too tolerant of the kid’s demands for food and souvenirs to be anything but his grandfather. That was one spoiled kid. Rex would have belted him one long before now if he were in charge.
The next two Philadelphia players grounded out to Rizzuto at short, and the congressman was starting to get annoyed. He’d expected the transaction to be over with by now. Tad was going to be unbearable if this turned out to be a hoax.
Meanwhile vendors went by. The kid wanted another cotton candy; the bald guy bought him a cotton candy. The kid wanted a Coke; the bald guy bought him a Coke. The kid wanted popcorn; the bald guy said, “Gary, you’re gonna explode!” but he bought him popcorn.
The only thing the boy wanted that he couldn’t get was a hot dog.
“Lookit,” the grandfather said patiently, “the hot-dog
guy ain’t here now—he’s over there a ways, see him?”
The kid stood up on his seat to look. Simmons noticed the kid wore a fielder’s glove and held a ball tightly in it. “Hey, come here, hot-dog man!” the kid piped up.
“That won’t do no good, Champ,” the bald man said around his cigar. “He’s too far away. The people in them seats got to get their hot dogs, too. I’ll call him soon as he comes close enough. Okay?”
The kid looked suspicious, but he decided it was okay.
The bald man was happy. His smile seemed to say, see, kids can learn; all you got to do is be patient and reason with them.
He said to the boy, “Good for you, Champ, because—run, you dago bastard!”
The boy jumped; so did Congressman Simmons.
The yells had been directed toward the field, at Yankee shortstop Phil Rizzuto, who led off the bottom of the eighth for the Yankees. The Scooter’s throwing arm might have been shot, and he might have lost a few steps off the speed that had earned him his nickname, but he was still the best bunter in baseball.
Rizzuto was now chugging down to first after executing a perfect push bunt. He’d placed the ball so precisely the pitcher and first baseman could do nothing but watch the ball dribble along the ground, just out of reach of both.
There were some stirrings among the crowd, the first in several innings. Charlie Keller pinch-hit for the next batter and drilled a single to right. Rizzuto went to third on the play.
The crowd started to buzz. Simmons became involved in the game and almost forgot his original mission. The bald man started yelling for the hot-dog man, though he really didn’t have to. The vendor seemed to be heading in that direction in any case.
Five O'Clock Lightning Page 5
