by Alan Gratz
“Yes. Perhaps that’s what’s wrong. Well, my story’s written regardless.” He stood and arranged his hat on his head. “Besides,” he said, “I can always go in tonight and change it at the last minute if I need to.”
Down on the field, Babe Herman hit his tenth home run of the year.
At least, Frankie thought it was his tenth home run of the year. Now she wasn’t so sure anymore.
The next morning, Frankie read John Kieran’s story about yesterday’s Brooklyn game. It left out a few things, but everything in it was right. She didn’t know if he’d just made a lucky guess or if he had gone in late, like he said, and changed something. After digesting all the box scores on the page, Frankie flipped to the Belmont take to see if any of her players had hit the numbers.
“Jeepers!” she cried.
Her father jumped, dropping the knife full of jam he was about to put on his toast. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Frankie couldn’t believe what she was reading.
The last three digits on the Belmont takes were one, two, and three. In that order.
3
Frankie dashed to the newsstand on the corner of Rogers and Fenimore, grabbed a Daily News, and flipped to the sports pages at the back.
“Hey, no reading,” said the guy behind the counter.
Frankie read anyway, skimming until she got to the Belmont numbers. The last three were not one, two, and three. She slapped the Daily News back on the stack and pulled out a Telegraph.
“Hey, this ain’t no library, kid.”
Frankie found the Belmont numbers just as the newsstand keeper rounded on her. Seven, seven, two—just like in the Daily News. Just like everywhere, she expected, everywhere except the New York Times.
Frankie shoved the newspaper at the stall keeper and took off, hearing him curse at her all the way down the block. She didn’t care. She suddenly understood what Kieran was trying to tell her yesterday. He was trying to tell her he could fix the numbers game.
Frankie ran up the steps to Mrs. Radowski’s front door and knocked.
“Mrs. Radowski! Mrs. Radowski, it’s Frankie!”
The locks and chains clicked and clinked, and the door opened up to the nice old lady who lived next door.
“Hello, Frances. You would like to come in for a biscuit, yes?”
“Um, sure, Mrs. Radowski.”
The inside of the old lady’s place was dusty and smelled like mothballs. There were little white doilies all over everything too—the tables, the chairs, even the mantel. Frankie looked at the pictures there while Mrs. Radowski went into the kitchen. There was a picture of her husband, mugging for the camera in a picture booth at Coney Island. Next to that there was a picture of her son, in his army uniform. Frankie barely remembered him.
Mrs. Radowski set a tray of cookies on a table by the fire-place. For some reason she called cookies biscuits, but they were real cookies, and good too. She asked if Frankie wanted some milk with them, and Frankie nodded.
“You’re here for my numbers, I suppose,” she said, and she started to look for her change purse.
Frankie stopped her. “Mrs. Radowski . . . why do you play the numbers? I know you don’t have much money.”
“Oh, well, I play because I have so little, you know?” She toyed with her necklace. “I think if I win big, maybe I never have to worry about money again, yes?”
“But the odds are terrible,” Frankie told her. “How many times have you won in the last year?”
“Well, none,” she conceded. “But you have only to win once, yes?”
Frankie thought about laying it all out for her, the way she had for Kieran, but she didn’t think Mrs. Radowski would understand. Or care. She was already opening her coin purse.
“Mrs. Radowski, if you won once, would you stop playing?”
“Well, I don’t know—”
“If you won big, I mean.”
She fiddled with her necklace again.
“Well, if I win, why should I not keep playing?”
Frankie sighed. It was going to be like this no matter who she asked, she was sure.
“Same numbers, then?” she asked. “Four-zero-six?”
Mrs. Radowski nodded and pulled out a penny. Frankie waved it off.
“Let’s make it a quarter,” she told her. “It’s a good day today. I feel it.”
Frankie made her rounds, having similar discussions with a few of her favorites on the block, then checked the clock on the jewelry store at Bedford and Linden. They would expect her numbers at the blind pig within the hour, but she had one more person to talk to first.
Frankie found her father walking his beat near the hospital, but she was so tired from running she didn’t even try to jump on his back.
“Whoa there, Frankie, what’s the matter? Take a deep breath.”
Frankie clutched her knees and waited until she stopped panting.
“Is something wrong, Frankie?” her father asked. He lifted her chin so he could see her face.
“No, Pop. I just wanted—I just wanted to see—if you wanted to play the numbers game today.”
Her father frowned. “You know I never play the game, Frankie. It’s a sucker’s bet. You told me so yourself.” He leaned down to look her in the eyes. “You’re not playing the numbers, are you?”
“No, Pop. Of course not. It’s just that today, well . . .” She couldn’t decide how to tell him. “Today . . . today would just be a really good day to place a bet.”
Her father narrowed his eyes. “Frankie, what have you gotten yourself mixed up in?”
“Nothing I can’t handle, Pop.”
Her father crossed his arms, looking bigger and tougher than ever, but he didn’t say a word. In her head, it was like Frankie could hear the minutes ticking away.
“I’m due at the blind pig any time now,” she told him. “I just thought you might want to bet a little something is all.”
Her father gave her the eye, then pulled his change purse and counted out two dollars in coins.
“And don’t tell ’em it’s from your old man.”
“I’ll break it up three ways. Bet it for Mr. Wesker, Miss Richmond, and the Coopers down the street. They’ll never know they won for us. They never play.”
“And I don’t suppose I need to pick a number then, do I?” her father asked.
Frankie smiled, which only made her father’s frown deepen.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Frankie. Mickey Fist is no man to cross.”
In the back room of the blind pig, Frankie gave Mr. Jerome her bets. He wondered why seven of her players had chosen the same number, but she told him it was the anniversary of the day Mrs. Radowski’s husband died and everybody on the street was doing it in his honor.
Mr. Jerome shrugged. “Don’t matter to me what excuse they use to give us their money.”
Game time was early that afternoon, and Frankie lost no time getting to the ballpark and taking her seat on Press Row. Kieran sometimes didn’t arrive until the first or second inning was under way, but she was too nervous to wait, and ran back down to the main concourse. He was nowhere in sight. Frankie ran up and down both sides of the concession area, then stood under the baseball chandelier to watch the crowds pour in. In a few minutes she got anxious and went searching again. What if Kieran had decided to spend the day at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens and just make up something about the game later?
Frankie was cursing Kieran’s name when she caught a glimpse of his long prim face and white fedora hat. He was down on the field by the dugout talking to big Babe Herman, the Robins’ notorious slugger.
“Mr. Kieran!” she called. “Mr. Kieran!”
Kieran said his good-byes to Herman and climbed into the stands.
“Believe it or not, Frankie, I was actually interviewing someone for once. You know that double Herman hit that turned into a double play? The big lunk actually blames his bat. Says it’s defective. You’ll never guess what he said he
’s going to do with it—”
“Mr. Kieran, I need to tell you something.”
Kieran crossed his arms. “All right. What’s so important it couldn’t wait for the third inning?”
Frankie looked around at all the people who were listening to their conversation.
“I want you to . . . come buy me a hot dog,” she told him.
“I think you have an elevated idea of what writing twenty column inches a day actually pays,” Kieran told her, but Frankie grabbed his jacket and pulled him up to a more private spot on the concourse.
“All right, now what is this all about?” he asked.
“I just wanted to tell you,” Frankie said. “I sure hope four-zero-six comes up in tomorrow’s numbers game. A lot of my players bet on it.”
“Oh. Oh yes. I see,” Kieran said. “Four-zero-six, you said?” He jotted the number down in his notebook.
“I hope not too many of your neighbors chose that number,” he said.
“Only the ones who really need it,” Frankie said.
Kieran put his notebook away. “Well, I certainly hope the numbers fall their way. Now, you’d better hurry to your seat if you want to see the first pitch.”
“You’re not coming? What about the game?”
He patted the notebook in his pocket. “Why watch it when I’ve already written the article? Besides, I have one or two short errands to run.” He tipped his hat and winked. “Until tomorrow, Frankie.”
Frankie was quiet all through dinner. Her father kept looking at her like he wanted to ask her something, but he didn’t. Frankie knew one thing for sure—she couldn’t keep working for Mickey Fist, not after this. If it worked, if Kieran did his part, then Mickey Fist and Mr. Jerome had to pay out. They had to pay out, or word would get around that they were welchers and no one would play their game anymore. Even so, they’d still see it for a fix, and they were bound to be unhappy about it.
Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough, and by morning Frankie was tired from a fitful night’s sleep. She dragged herself out of bed and splashed water on her face before daring to check the paper. Her father wasn’t there that morning—he must have had to check in at the precinct early—but he had left the New York Times folded to the Belmont numbers under a bowl of grapefruit.
The last three digits were four-zero-six.
Frankie ran her numbers route that morning just in case the whole thing went over without anybody noticing, but she still waited as late as she could to go in. Amos met her at the door, but he wasn’t his usual talkative self and he wouldn’t meet her eyes when she said hello. Frankie got a tight feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she went on inside anyway. There were one or two men at the bar again today, but Mickey Fist and Mr. Jerome were waiting for her when she got to the counting room.
“Here she is,” Mickey Fist said. “Our little girl who’s so good with numbers.” He leaned against the wall behind the accounting table, his thick arms folded across his chest. Mr. Jerome shot Frankie a look of warning.
“I’ve got my daily numbers,” she said. Her voice came out like a squeak, and Mickey Fist smiled.
“If they’re anything like yesterday’s numbers, I ain’t sure I want them.” Mickey pushed himself off the wall and came around behind her.
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you don’t. Seven people on your route bet four-zero-six, and that number just happens to be printed in today’s Times.”
“They just got lucky is all—” Frankie started to say.
Mickey Fist leaned in close to her ear. “Too lucky, little girl.”
“It was the—it was an anniversary,” she stammered. “They were just—”
“Save it.” Mickey Fist picked up a Times, folded almost exactly like her father had folded his, and jabbed at it with a meaty finger. “The numbers ain’t even right. I don’t know how they did it, but somebody messed with the Belmont take. We ain’t paying.”
Frankie didn’t understand. How could they not pay? What were they going to tell all their customers? She knew she should have said something, but she was too scared of Mickey Fist to argue.
“That just leaves what we’re going to do with you,” he said. His breath on her neck was warm and smelled like bacon. “I think we’ll start with who put you up to it.”
There was a knock at the door and Frankie’s father burst through wearing his street clothes. She recognized him now—he had been one of the men she saw hunched over the bar on her way in! She almost ran to him, but his eyes told her to stay where she was.
“What is this?” demanded Mickey Fist.
Amos followed in her father’s wake. “Sorry, boss. This fella started raising a stink, then he come busting through the door—”
“Leave it,” Mickey said. He stood face-to-face with Frankie’s pop. Frankie was right—they were almost the same size, but where her father was all chest, Fist was all arms.
“I’ve come for the winnings,” her father said.
Mickey Fist laughed. “And who are you?”
“Sergeant Walt Snider, NYPD,” her father said, flashing his badge. “We’ve had complaints.”
Mickey Fist blew up. “What is this, a shakedown!? I pay good money to keep my operation in the clear. I ain’t paying a red cent!”
“You pay to run an honest game, Mickey. You don’t pay up, people talk and we get calls. How long do you think we can turn a blind eye to you cheating folks out of their money?”
“Me? Cheat? That little girl there, she’s the one running a fix.”
“This little girl?” Frankie’s father said. “You expect me to believe that?”
“She’s smart, this one. But somebody else had to help her out. Somebody at the paper—”
Frankie’s father got up in Mickey Fist’s face. “You gonna let it get around that you run a dishonest game, and that an eleven-year-old girl took you to the cleaners?”
Mickey Fist clenched his fists.
“Go ahead, Mickey. Hit me. See how long that police protection lasts when you nail a cop.”
Mickey grinned. “So you’re in on this too, huh?” He gave them all a few minutes to sweat, then cracked his neck and took a step back.
“Jerome, how much do we owe?”
“Two thousand, nine hundred and ten dollars,” he croaked.
Mickey Fist gave Frankie’s father one last glare, then marched around and opened a cabinet at the back of the room. It was stacked with bills and bags of coins.
“Give ’em their cut, Jerome, and tell ’em I don’t expect to see either of them ever again.”
Mickey Fist brushed Frankie’s father on the way out, but her pop didn’t rise to the bait. Mr. Jerome counted out the cash with shaking hands, even though Frankie could see it hardly made a dent in the stash in the cabinet.
“You could have really made something in the organization,” Mr. Jerome told Frankie as he handed over the money.
“She did,” her pop said. He collected the money for her and stuffed it in his pockets. “And now she’s through.”
Frankie’s father steered her out the door past Amos, who gave them the slightest of nods before letting them by.
“All under control, huh?” her father asked when they got to the street. Frankie said nothing. After a few blocks Frankie couldn’t hold it in any longer and burst into tears. Her father sat on the steps of a brownstone and pulled her into his arms.
“I’m so sorry, Pop,” Frankie whispered.
He held her away so she could see the authority in his eyes. “Don’t you ever do something stupid like that again, you hear me?”
Frankie nodded, and her father wrapped her in his arms again and let her cry it out.
“That money is for you to go to college, and you’re going to make it, do you understand me? You’re smarter than me, maybe the smartest Snider there ever was, and I’m going to see you do something with it, you understand?”
“Yes, Pop,” Frankie said, and she buried her t
ears in his big broad chest.
After the winnings had been handed out to Mrs. Radowski and the others, Frankie’s father put his uniform back on and went to work. Frankie went to the ballpark, where she found John Kieran lounging in the front row of the upper deck with his white hat pulled down over his face.
“You know, I think I can see my house from here,” Frankie said.
Kieran tipped his hat up. “You missed the start of the game. Brooklyn’s got two men on.”
“Oh yeah? Which base?”
Kieran smiled. “I was starting to worry about you.”
“Me? I got everything covered. Thanks to my pop. Lost my job, though.”
“Ah, more’s the pity,” he said. Then he snapped his fingers. “Wait a moment. Now that I think of it, I did just hear a young person is needed to operate the ticker tape sports board at Times Square. She would have to be good with numbers, though. Are you good with numbers?”
Frankie jumped up and hugged Kieran, then sat down beside him. They enjoyed their afternoon quietly for a few outs.
“So, did you already write your story?” Frankie asked. “Who’s going to win?”
“Brooklyn. Four to two,” he said. “Give or take a few runs.”
Kieran ordered two hot dogs with everything from a vendor, and Frankie watched him pull out a wad of bills to pay for it.
She whistled. “Look who’s Mr. Rockefeller now.”
“Well Frankie, it just so happens I got very lucky in today’s numbers game . . .”
Sixth Inning: Notes of a Star to Be
Fort Wayne, Indiana, 1945
1
The reaction to Kat when she walked into the visitors’ locker room was not exactly what she had hoped for. She had come right from the Fort Wayne train station and she was still wearing the clothes she’d left Brooklyn in: her best dress and a pair of her mother’s real spiked heels. The only thing she carried was her mother’s tattered old scorebook, which she clutched with both hands like a life preserver. Everything else was in her suitcase, including her glove.
