LITTLE MISS
MURDER
Ed Noon Mystery #22
Michael Avallon
STORY MERCHANT BOOKS
BEVERLY HILLS
2014
Copyright © 2014 by Susan Avallone and David Avallone. All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author
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Author Up!
On August 22nd of last summer, I stood up to be counted along with twenty-four other loyal souls at home plate in Shea Stadium, to be honored as one of The 25 Greatest Mets Fans. The Rheingold Breweries, Inc., people had sponsored a contest whose ground rules were very simple. You had to write a letter nominating your idea of the Greatest Met Fan and I had responded to the challenge by picking myself. I won a TV set, a radio, a watch, cuff links, an autographed baseball, and scads of other prizes including a stainless steel plaque which now hangs on the wall of my den and is a remarkable trophy considering I didn't discover penicillin or radium or invent the wheel. Cleveland Amory was a winner that night too, and I saw him taking notes all evening. He probably wrote an article on the whole affair. My wife, Fran, thought I should do the same. (Amory DID, for the Saturday Review.)
It was a glorious night all around. Koosman pitched just fine, Swoboda smashed a three-run homer, and the Mets beat Los Angeles 5–3. The Miracle of the '69 Mets was well on its way. They burned up the league the rest of that season and went on to cop every prize there is for a club in the Bigs.
As is occupational with a writer, and especially one who thinks in terms of the mystery story, the whole evening lent itself to the birth of Little Miss Murder.
Fittingly enough, poetic justice after all, I should like to dedicate this novel to Richard D. Johnston of Redondo Beach, California, because he is one of the Greatest Ed Noon Fans of them all. In point of fact, he's in a class by himself.
Long may he read!
MICHAEL AVALLONE
Home Plate, New Jersey
Opus Twenty-two
"There's a newness in the air, Noon," Bill Daprato said, spearing the olive in his martini with a toothpick. His large eyes glittered and his larger nose sniffed the atmosphere of the Theatre Bar knowingly. All around us, glasses clinked.
"What kind of newness?" I asked wisely. After all, we had been both hitting the sauce for about a friendly hour, and actors and private detectives are maudlin company when partly oiled. But interesting all the same. As well as eccentric.
"A dread newness," he intoned solemnly. When a man has a face that you'd expect to find on an Etruscan vase or a stone Aztec idol, you listen to him. Especially if he's a fine actor and a very good friend.
"What kind of newness is that?"
He winked knowingly, poking a thumb in the air like a spear from the third act of Julius Caesar.
"Beware the Ides of August," he said with a laugh.
I blinked. I was between cases, the evening was hot, and you don't get an image and then have it talk to you. But I laughed. There is no more glorious ham between Shubert Alley and Off Broadway than William James Daprato.
"Okay," I said. "I got that. But tell me about this newness—this dread newness?"
"Can't you feel it in the air?" He was amazed. "Can't you sense it all around us? Like vibrations. Live wires—look, men are walking on the moon, they can transplant a human heart, five hundred people at one time will fly on the same plane to Europe, authors are getting a million dollars before they even write one line down on paper, and lastly—and far from leastly—a certain group of very young men are about to upset the pre-season predictions of a bunch of very old experts. That's newness, Noon. Dread newness. Don't tell me it isn't all dreadful—why, man, it's counter to all the normal things in this miserable old world of ours. You just can't be safe, feel safe anymore. Everything is upside down, topside up, and black isn't black anymore. It's Le Roi Jones shouting: 'Get Whitey!' " He tapped ominously on his almost empty glass. His strong face wavered right before my eyes. I was tight enough to think he was going to cry. He didn't.
"Well——" I hedged.
"Wait and see. Tomorrow. The day after. Next week. Or next month. It's coming. And nothing we can do will stop it!"
"What's coming?"
"The dread newness, dummy. Forget the Bubonic Plague, the Beatles, Tiny Tim, and campus riots." He slowed down and once again winked one of his luminous brown eyes. "Remember the Dread Newness. Look for it. Watch for it. And remember to write your Congressman."
"Daprato," I said, "you're drunk."
He was. We both were.
But I was only about ten hours from the President's phone call and Opus Twenty-two. The twenty-second time I put my life up for grabs.
Mr. Daprato's Dread Newness was as close as ten hours away.
And it all happened at Shea Stadium.
Contents
Opus Twenty-two
1 Sudden Death Finish
2 Inside-the-Park Homicide
3 The Coffin Corner
4 Kill the Umpire!
5 Twin Killing
6 The Dead Ball
7 Murderers' Row
8 Three Strikes, You're Dying!
9 Suicide Squeeze
10 The Late Runner
11 Tinker to Evers to Last Chance
12 He Died on Third
13 Sacrifice Fly
14 The Final Out
15 Last Ball in Play
1
Sudden Death Finish
Shea Stadium was shuddering with noise as I lit a cigarette for Melissa Mercer. The big arena, throttled with some fifty thousand wildly screaming Met fans, was finding El Dorado, the Emerald City, and the pot of gold that waited at the end of all rainbows. The time was four-fifteen. It was the last half of the eighth inning, and Tommy Agee was standing on third base, slapping the dust from his nice white home uniform after a hectic slide into the hot corner, running out the three-base blast he had thundered off the center-field wall on Juan Marichal's first pitch of the inning. With the score tied 2-2 and nobody out, the marvelous Mets seemed on the threshold of one of their very few wins over the pitching ace of the San Francisco Giants.
The hard-throwing righthander had battened like a vampire on the Mets since their birth in '62—something like thirty wins against only five losses—and now he was in trouble. The hoarsely roaring hometown fans couldn't be happier. Delirium was closer to the truth. The din of screams, whistles, and shouts was tantamount to the end of World War Two.
Marichal took his time, measuring Agee's suicidal lead off third base, and carefully eyed Art Shamsky as he stepped into the batter's box. The usual collection of banners, flags, and homemade signs fluttered crazily all over the packed ballpark. The crowd began to chant the old familiar song—part battle cry and wishful thinking—"LETS GO METS!—LETS GO METS!—"
High-kicking Juan fired a fast ball over the outside corner for a called Strike One, and the crowd moaned theatrically. Fiercely derisive catcalls and hoots indicated the status of Umpire Frank Secory's eyes. Melissa Mercer, her own fine eyes excited, drew quickly on her cigarette. As much of a baseball nut as I am, dating back to Ott and the days of the Giants at the Polo Grounds, I was too busy remembering what had brought me and my secretary to Shea in the first place. The President's "man" had not showed up yet. Nor had I become the receiver of whatever it was he was supposed to p
ass on to me. Shamsky riffled his big bat a few times and waited for Marichal's next delivery. Agee danced off third base in the age-old ritual of trying to upset the enemy pitcher.
"Think they'll try a squeeze?" Melissa asked.
"Uh uh," I said. "Shamsky is a long-ball hitter. They'll settle for a long fly ball to bring Agee in."
We were along the first-base line, about fifty feet down from the bag. Field-level box seats, 115 C, 1 and 2, and our presence at this sixty-sixth home game of the New York Metropolitan Ball Club had been accomplished in a manner devious but familiar to the inner workings of the espionage business. The two yellow tickets with blue-and-orange printing had arrived by special messenger at ten o'clock that morning, and about twenty minutes after that the phone on my desk had rung urgently. The extra phone. The one that is a psychedelic eyesore of red-white-and-blue but really is my hot line to the White House. As the only private investigator in captivity who works for the Man, I am on twenty-four-hour call. An eternal Alert that cares little for my general health, other matters, and personal private life. Generally, I don't have time for ball games.
The Chief hadn't minced words or paused for amenities, social or casual. He doesn't have that kind of time, either.
"Did the tickets come?"
"Yes."
"Good. Go to Shea. Take your secretary. She'll be a good cover for the outing."
"All right by me. I root for the Mets anyway. They're making a great run for the flag."
He almost chuckled in my ear, but he's not the type for double entendres. Running the country in the troubled cosmos of the '70's was a lot tougher than managing a pennant-contending ball club.
"Sometime during the game—I can't say the precise second—" the President said stonily, "my contact will hand you a package. You will take it, return to your office, and wait for my call. What time would the game end if it doesn't go into extra innings?"
"Not much later than five. I'd be back at my desk around six. Six-thirty, for sure."
"Good. Six-thirty, then. Please wait for my call."
I never asked him too many questions, since it was always his ball game and he was calling the shots, but I don't like to fly too blind, either. It doesn't pay. Not even with Presidents of countries. I still had a life to lose.
"The contact, Chief. What does he look like?"
Now he did laugh. "They don't tell me everything, either. But you be there, and he'll be there. Call you at six-thirty, Ed."
"Check."
So Melissa and I were sitting in Box 115 C, another white man and a beautiful black woman, seemingly evidential of the new freedom, enjoying a summery afternoon of baseball, Mets style. Melissa was in the dark about the red-white-and-blue telephone and my strange undercover sideline and I wanted to keep it that way. I loved her too much to risk getting her shot up. But at four-fifteen that day, with Agee on third and the two of us knee-deep in beer drinking, shirt-sleeved Mets fans, the troubled world of spies, and world peace seemed as far away as Ty Cobb's lifetime total of 4,191 major-league base hits is to the average ballplayer. That's got to be something like infinity.
My "contact," if he was in the ball park, hadn't shown up yet.
I got back to the game.
Shamsky was ordered to hit away, of course, and Marichal got him on three straight pitches. The crowd groaned in anguish as he trooped back to the dugout. The Giants fired the ball around the infield briskly. Agee held third base impatiently.
Marichal was Juan helluva pitcher, if I may risk a pun.
Donn Clendennon stepped up, batting fifth—a long-legged, rangy black whose awesome swings at a baseball produced as many long-ball hits as strikeouts. Or so it seemed. Marichal measured him, shook off a sign from his catcher, and then nodded before going into his highest kick. Maybe the highest among big-league hurlers. Clendennon crouched, flailed at the ball. He'd gone after the first one because it seemed down his power alley. But all the mighty swath produced was a soft fly ball off the end of the bat, twisting crookedly up into the infield until it came down in McCovey's big glove at first base. Agee hadn't advanced a step, and the crowd moaned again in collective sorrow. Marichal, on the ropes, was getting off the hook. Melissa wrinkled her elegant nose and sniffed.
"Ed, do something! He'll never score—"
I laughed. "Sure. Maybe Hodges'll send me in to pinch-hit for Swoboda. After all, I did bat four-fifty at Fireman's Field in 'forty-one."
The crowd's groans had fallen to a whisper. Scorecards were still whipping up a frenzy, though. Ron Swoboda took his place in the batter's box, waggling an ominous bat. The young athlete was built like a brick bullpen, his Number Four seeming small on his uniformed back. The Giant outfield fanned back for him, pulled slightly around to left. Big Ron had never fulfilled his promise, but the power was always there, always a factor. Few batters in the Bigs could hit a ball further.
I got caught up in the thrill of the moment, forgetting about my contact man and his parcel, whatever it and he was, and kept my eyes on the neat diamond spread out before us.
You never really lose the diamond-dust fever no matter how old and cynical you get—that is, if you've ever had it once.
Marichal's first pitch was a ball, missing the inside corner of the plate. Secory bellowed the call. Ball One. The crowd came to life again. Hooting, yelling. Banners waved in the hazy daylight. Swoboda looked down to third base, where Agee still pranced, expectantly. Marichal held him close with a throw to the bag, and the crowd sneered, the way crowds have been doing since Casey was at the Bat.
All about us, the box-seat holders were standing, shouting, and roaring. The hot dog and soda and beer vendors, their white uniforms stained and sodden with the heat, tried to ply their trades, but nobody was paying much attention to them. Big Ron, Tommy, and Marichal had the spotlight. It seemed like the biggest moment in a ball game that had seen a lot of big moments. Twas ever thus with baseball buffs.
The crowd's instinct was unerring.
Marichal dipped, kicked, fired the ball.
Swoboda swung, back muscles seeming to ripple in his powerful body, all systems go! He rotated like a revolving door.
There was a sharp crack of sound—the unmistakable noise of bat power—and the mob choking the grandstands, box seats, bleachers, and runways came to its collective feet with a roar. Swoboda had caught a fast ball that didn't break and punished it to a fare-thee-well. The ball soared into the outer reaches of center field, heading for the distant wall. Like a rocket in flight. Climbing, climbing. Agee was already across the plate, standing up, looking back. Marichal had whirled on his pinnacle of mound to follow the ball. All eyes in Shea were glued on the green expanse of center field. There, Willie Mays, cap flying off, had bicycled backward like a graceful gazelle, tearing up the center-field fence and coming back down with the ball safely tucked in the webbing of his peerless glove. Shea Stadium became a madhouse. A bedlam of waving banners, shrieks of admiration, and disappointment. The baseball fan's mind is a curious paradox. There was the unmistakable chant of disillusion and the lost chance to rack up Marichal mingled with the universal adulation for the greatest performer playing baseball in the world. Anyplace, anywhere.
Swoboda, rounding second before the ball came down, kicked the sod in disgust, watching his best shot go for nothing. Mays ran in, still holding the ball, legs pedaling, shoulders whipping. Still running like a boy who would rather play baseball than be President of these United States.
Melissa Mercer stood up, shaking the wrinkles out of her pale green mini-skirt. Few females from here to Outer Mongolia could look as delectable in such an outfit. Her cocoa coloring was fabulous, too.
"Oh!" she said, furious. "Highway robbery!"
"Amen."
"Does he do that all the time?"
"He's been breaking batters' hearts since 'fifty-one. I could give you a list of names that would stretch from here to——"
"I'll take your word for it. You know——"
She
began to rattle on about something else, but once more my mind and my attention wandered. The box-seat section we were in was filled to the limit. Not an empty seat. The ninth inning rolled around and still no Contact Man. I began to wonder if maybe what the Chief hadn't talked about had something to do with that. After all, he only employed my particular services when the stakes were bigger than Life and Death, pennant races, and Who's-On-First?
But to all intents, purposes, and appearances, my secretary and I were simply knocking another afternoon off the office calendar. The spy business was at a dead standstill Like Hanoi peace talks.
Not so the Giants and the Mets.
The long, hot day had been hazy and sultry. There was no sign of possible rain—and there were no last-minute heroics or relief for the Mets, either. So it goes. Nobody can win them all.
Marichal won the game 3-2 because he had held the Mets in check for their last licks in the ninth inning, and Mays, leading off the Giant half, had powdered a line drive into the left-field No Man's Land for a game-winning homer. The ball had to have traveled maybe 450 feet on the fly. To add insult to injury, Cleon Jones, pinch-hitting in the bottom of the ninth because his bruised ribs didn't permit him to play full time yet, rocketed a Marichal fast ball to deep center again, not as awesome a clout as Swoboda's, but still, Mays robbed him all the way, cutting over to his right to flag the long drive down. After that, the Mets meekly went down one-two-three, and Juan Marichal had exercised his voodoo hold over them once again.
Still, the Mets were in first place because the Cubs lost in St. Louis that same afternoon. You had to be thankful for small favors.
"Lordie," Melissa said, eyes shining. "So that's Willie Mays! Now I can tell my grandchildren I saw him."
"He's Perfection," I agreed. "They hit the ball, he catches it. They throw the ball, he hits it. Garry Schumacher once said that about Pete Reiser, but I think it applies even more to Willie Mays."
"Schumacher?"
"One-time sports writer. Before your time. The old Journal-American."
Little Miss Murder Page 1
