The Dead Pull Hitter

by Alison Gordon

  “Were you there this afternoon? What a game! I cheered so hard I can hardly talk. Tiny’s here, with Darlene.” Sarah was dithering. “I put them in the back room. And some of the Red Sox are here, too.”

  “Slip some ptomaine into their okra, and do us all a favour,” I said, then introduced Christopher.

  Sarah greeted him warmly, showed us to a table in the corner, took our drink orders, and left us alone.

  “She’s a bit nuts,” I explained. “We’re not used to winning in Toronto. We’ve got a bad hockey team and a football team just good enough to break our hearts year after year.”

  “I don’t know what anyone’s worried about. You’ve got four good starters and great hitting. The Yankees are done. Jimmy Fox has burned out the bullpen in the last two weeks.”

  “Don’t confuse me with logic. This is the biggest battle since the War of 1812. That’s the last time we beat you guys.”

  “Well, we could use a bit of that,” Morris chuckled. “God knows the Yankees could. I’m rooting for the Titans.”

  The waiter came with the menus. I reached absently for one, then did a double take. Tiny Washington, with a napkin draped over his arm, bowed.

  “The Martini is for you, I believe, Miss Henry. And the Scotch is for Mr. Morris. We are honoured that you have chosen to grace our city with your presence.”

  Morris got up to greet him.

  “How are you, Tiny? I haven’t seen you in years.”

  “No complaints. The old body’s slowing down a bit, but I don’t need speed for my homerun trot.”

  “You’re being too modest, Tiny,” I said. “Tell him about the bunt you beat out last week in Chicago.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” he laughed. “Only in the interests of honesty I have to point out that the third baseman was playing me halfway to second. The old Washington Shift. But don’t let me disturb you folks any more. I’ve got to get my rest.”

  “There’s one wonderful guy,” I said after he left. “I don’t know how I would get along without him.”

  “The Titans are lucky to have him in the clubhouse,” Morris agreed. “I remember him when he first came up with the Mets. He had that avuncular quality at nineteen.”

  Dinner was relaxed and pleasant. Morris was almost twenty years my senior, but he was neither world-weary nor stuffy. He was a small island of humanity in the sea of cynicism that is the press box.

  Over sloppy ribs and collard greens, I filled him in on the colour he was looking for, about the team and the town.

  “What’s the story with Steve Thorson?” he asked, when the pecan pie arrived.

  “Who knows? Maybe he’s washed up.”

  “He’s been a great pitcher for so long it’s hard to believe he’s mortal.”

  “I figure it looks good on him.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  “Do you?”

  “He’s always pretty quotable, and not stupid about the game. I’ve had some good conversations with him.”

  “Well, you don’t see him every day. The endless analysis gets tedious. Besides, it all always comes down to how everybody else is to blame.”

  “I thought he was popular.”

  “The fans love him. He’s always ready to front a charity or sign autographs, but it’s all phony. I’ve never seen a spontaneous gesture out of the man. He goes to visit Sick Kids’ Hospital, you can be sure there’s a television camera there.”

  “Do you know the problems he’s having with his agent?”

  “Sam Craven? Just that he’s dumped him. What else?”

  “That’s enough. You don’t dump Sam Craven, especially when you’re negotiating a new contract. Sam wants his piece.

  “His ego is also at stake. He prides himself on representing the best athletes in all sports. The people I talk to say that if Thorson gets away, the others are going to be watching very carefully. And if Thorson can get the contract he wants without Craven, a lot of them will walk.”

  “What can Craven do?” I asked.

  “Do you remember a basketball player named Danny Marx? He signed with Craven when he was still in college. “

  “He was a first-round draft pick in the NBA about five years ago, wasn’t he? Whatever happened to him?”

  “He committed suicide in prison last year, after being convicted of possession of heroin. He swore his innocence right to the end. That much is public knowledge. What isn’t known is that Marx was a clean-living, God-fearing kid who made the mistake of trying to wriggle out of his contract with Craven.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He wanted to put his money into a Christian Action investment plan. Craven tried to fight it, but Marx had the fervour of a born-again and wouldn’t listen. He said Craven was an agent of Satan. The summer before he was arrested, Marx began dating a young woman he had met at church. They planned to marry that fall.

  “She was at the trial every day, quite the devoted fiancée. When Danny went to jail, she dropped out of sight. Now she has surfaced as the owner of a small casino on one of the smaller Caribbean islands. She didn’t buy it on her salary as a stenographer. And, needless to say, she had a key to his apartment, where the evidence to convict him was found.”

  “Craven?”

  “Or one of his mob buddies. I hope Thorson knows what he’s getting into.”

  The conversation was starting to give me the creeps. I live a fairly sheltered life. In my world, the really bad people park in spaces reserved for the handicapped. This stuff was straight out of Elmore Leonard. I wasn’t ready for it to leap off the pages into the life of someone I knew. Still, I was fascinated.

  “What’s Craven like? I’ve never met him.”

  “He’s charming,” Morris said. “He doesn’t wear black shirts and white ties. His aides don’t carry violin cases. He’s very smooth, very amusing, an excellent storyteller, and he just walked into the restaurant.”

  “He just what?”

  “He’s standing at the door with Bert Nelson from ABC.” Morris smiled at my discomfort. “Do you want to meet him?”

  “Oh, Jesus, I don’t know. I guess so. Yes, why not?”

  Morris stood up and waved, as I turned to look. I recognized Nelson. The man with him was tall, tanned, and handsome, dressed in an oxford-cloth shirt, jeans, and a good tweed sports jacket. He looked to be in his forties, with a few lines softening the angles of his face. When he spotted Morris, he smiled, with his mouth and his eyes, and crossed the restaurant with his hands outstretched.

  “Chris, good to see you. In town for the big game?”

  Morris performed the introductions, and the smile swung around to include me in its beam.

  “Ah, the famous Ms. Henry. I’ve been reading your stories for years. You write rings around most of the men.”

  I could feel the blush rising up my neck, an unfortunate affliction I’d never been able to conquer. Craven didn’t seem to notice.

  “Is this a private party, or can we join you?”

  Not waiting for a reply, he motioned to Nelson and pulled out the chair next to me and ordered cognacs all around.

  “I’ll turn it around, Sam,” Morris said. “What are you doing here? Toronto’s not your usual weekend haunt.”

  “I’ve come to watch my favourite client pitch tomorrow. I have to keep track of my investments.”

  I bit my tongue.

  “I think the Titans are going all the way. Thorson’s going to prove what a money pitcher he is in the next few weeks. Bert and his network might not like a Canadian team in the World Series, but I think it’s good to shake things up.”

  I couldn’t ignore a second opening.

  “I’m surprised at your interest,” I said. “I thought Steve Thorson was no longer a client.”

  “That’s just a game, Kate. Steve and I are e
ngaged in a bit of ceremonial sabre-rattling.”

  Christopher was right. I spent a lovely hour listening to the three of them tell stories, each one funnier than the last. When Craven called for another round, I looked at my watch.

  “Not for me, unless you want to watch me nap with my head on the table,” I said. “I have to be back at the ballpark in less time than I care to think about. Thanks anyway.”

  “We’ll do it another time, then.” He stood up and extended his hand. “Maybe dinner during the playoffs.”

  “If the Titans make the playoffs, I’m afraid it’s going to be sandwiches on the run for me.”

  “That is almost enough to make me root for the Yankees,” he said, finally letting go of my hand. I simpered like an idiot.

  “Christopher, I’ll let you find your own way back to the hotel, if you don’t mind.” I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you all at the ballpark tomorrow.”

  I stopped in the bar to say good night to Tom and Sarah. They were sitting at their usual corner table with a blonde I’d seen before.

  “Say hi to Ginny,” Tom said. “It’s her birthday.”

  At least her forty-fifth was my guess, although her leather miniskirt and low-cut silk blouse denied it. Her hair was freshly tinted and tousled and she wore enough gold to dazzle a blind man, but nothing could disguise the softness of her jaw line and wrinkles around her eyes.

  Sarah walked me to the door.

  “I could kill Sultan Sanchez,” she said.

  “Why, because he struck out?”

  “No. Ginny. He stood her up tonight, the prick.”

  “She should know better. He’s a sleaze.”

  “I know, but still . . . By the way, who is that man?”

  “I introduced you. Christopher Morris.”

  “No, not him. The gorgeous one who was drooling all over you when you were leaving.”

  “His name is Sam Craven, he’s Steve Thorson’s agent, and he wasn’t drooling.”

  “Kate, trust my eyes if you don’t trust yours. The man is definitely interested in you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, as a cab pulled up. “He’s not my type even if he is.”

  “Whatever you say, sweetie,” she said, hugging me.

  As the taxi bounced along the streetcar tracks heading home, I thought about Sam Craven. I had been expecting Edward G. Robinson and got Paul Newman instead. And Sarah had been right. He had certainly seemed interested.

  If half of what Christopher had told me was true, he wasn’t someone I wanted anywhere near me. But still, it was a bit of a kick. Maybe I would have dinner with him. If nothing else, I might get a story out of it.

  Chapter 8

  Sunday morning was grey, with rain in the air, and by eleven it had started to drizzle. When I got to the ballpark, the players were in a chapel meeting in the clubhouse—a weekly exercise in hypocrisy for half of them and evangelical overkill for the rest. I waited in the dugout, smoking cigarettes and reading the paper. I wanted to see Thorson before the game.

  When the meeting broke up and the pious and pseudo-pious came out, I went into the clubhouse to find him. He was sitting by his locker, but when he saw me coming he got up and headed towards the hall, brushing past me on the way.

  Steeling myself, I followed him, catching up in the hall.

  “Sorry to bother you, Steve,” I said, ignoring his mood. “I’d like to talk for just a minute.”

  He whirled around and glared.

  “Can’t it wait until after I’ve pitched?”

  “It will only take a few minutes.”

  He folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

  “I thought you said you and Sam Craven were through.”

  “We are.”

  “Not according to him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He’s in town. I met him last night.”

  “He’s here?”

  “He said you’d have everything straightened out by the end of the week.”

  “That bastard.”

  “He said he was corning to watch you pitch today.”

  “I can’t talk about this horseshit. I’ve got to get ready to pitch.”

  He went back into the dressing room as Moose Greer came out.

  “What was that all about?”

  “I think it might have something to do with my telling him that Sam Craven is in town.”

  “Yeah. He called me for a ticket,” he said. “Listen, have you seen Sultan?”

  “Not today. Hasn’t he showed up?”

  “You know Sultan. There’s a right-hander pitching. He’s not scheduled to play.”

  “Still, that’s cutting it a bit fine, even for him. Maybe he’s sick. He stood up a date at the Fillet last night.”

  “He probably had a better offer. He’ll show up.”

  I went back into the dressing room. It was full of players who would have been taking batting practice except for the rain. Instead, they were hanging around inside, full of nervous energy, playing cards or horsing around. There was an edge to all the activity, a tension. Voices were just a bit loud, the banter a bit forced. It was exciting.

  I went to talk to Tiny.

  “All ready for the big game?”

  “I’ve been here before. Worry about the youngsters.”

  “I just wish it was game time right now,” said Joe Kelsey, from the next locker. “I can’t stand the wait. I was up at six o’clock this morning.”

  “You’re lucky,” said Eddie Carter. “I didn’t sleep at all. The baby was sick.”

  Kelsey got up from the stool and wandered in his shower sandals to a table in the middle of the room, where he sat down and began signing baseballs.

  “I feel like throwing up and I’m not even starting today,” said Doc Dudley. Flakey Patterson nodded his silent agreement vehemently.

  “Flakey, you’re nuts. You haven’t got anything in your stomach to throw,” laughed Mark Griffin. “If we don’t win today, you’re going to get pretty hungry.”

  He turned around and addressed the clubhouse at large, making grand gestures.

  “All right, guys, listen up,” he said.

  “Listen to yourself, rook,” shouted Stinger Swain.

  “We can’t drag this thing out any longer,” Griffin said, ignoring him. “We’ve got to win it for our own Gipper, Mr. Phil Patterson Esquire. The man is starving.”

  “Veronica could stand to lose a few pounds,” shouted Swain. “It might improve his pitching!”

  Patterson looked mournfully at his tormentor.

  “Might even make him normal!” chimed in David Sloane.

  “Forget it,” laughed Gloves Gardiner. “That would be like the pope getting married.”

  “Or Thorson getting humble,” said Swain.

  Thorson’s sense of humour wasn’t his strong point, especially when he was the butt of the joke. He glared at Swain and left the room, pausing to speak softly to Joe Kelsey, who jumped to his feet, fists clenched. Eddie Carter jumped between them and led Kelsey away. Thorson went into the trainer’s room.

  “What the hell is going on?” asked Tiny Washington in the sudden silence.

  “Nothing, Tiny,” Kelsey said, shaking his head. “I’m a bit jumpy today. Let’s just get the darn thing over with.”

  “What did he say?” I joined the group.

  “Drop it, Kate. I don’t want this all over the papers.”

  “Okay, so I won’t print it. Tell me what he said.”

  “Just a crack about my glove. Forget it. I shouldn’t let him get to me.”

  He walked away. Tiny and I went up the runway to the dugout. He looked out at the soggy field, gnawing on his thumbnail, a sure sign of his tension.

  “I don’t like th
e way things feel this morning,” he said. “Everybody’s too tense. Damn Thorson.”

  “He just won’t let up on Preacher,” I said. “But it’s not just Preacher. Everybody’s nervous when he’s pitching, these days. They’re so afraid to make mistakes they can’t relax and do their jobs. But what’s the big deal? You guys are professionals. You’re paid money to win games. One person can’t change that. Besides, he’s the best pitcher you’ve got.”

  “You’re right. How come you’re so smart?”

  He grinned and went back inside.

  Red O’Brien was in the dugout, sitting by the water cooler with one foot up on the bench. He had a whole new audience of reporters and was loving the attention. Those of us who covered the team regularly had long ago stopped listening to him.

  O’Brien wasn’t much of a manager. He had been one of the original Titans chosen in the expansion draft, an aging third baseman the Yankees could find no compelling reason to protect. But he was a favourite of Ted Ferguson’s so he had played a couple of seasons. When his playing career ended, he was sent to the Titan minor-league system to manage his way back to the big leagues. This was his first season as major-league manager, and there were those who jumped to the conclusion that his leadership had something to do with the team’s success. They were wrong.

  But the reporters from Owen Sound and Thunder Bay didn’t know that. Nor, for that matter, did the ones from the American national magazines. O’Brien was young, he was colourful, and he’d been a Yankee.

  “What about pressure, Red? Can your team handle it?”

  The reporter looked to be about twenty, and nervous. Feeling the pressure, no doubt. O’Brien shifted his tobacco chaw in his right cheek, leaned sideways, and spat.

  “An old manager of mine gave me one bit of advice when I took this job. He told me to play one game at a time. Well, that seemed like pretty good advice then, and it still does. We got lots of time to win two games. One, if the Yankees and Indians co-operate.”

  “It’s a young team, though, Red. They’ve never been through it before. I’ve seen young teams fold under this kind of pressure.”