The Dead Pull Hitter

by Alison Gordon

  Jones was still a one-man champagne raiding party. He was going nuts, a nineteen-year-old man-child in his glory. When he ran out of targets, he poured the stuff over his own head.

  Flakey Patterson had found a Canadian flag and stood draped in it, babbling and eating, released from his vows. Thorson was in a corner, surrounded as completely as Kelsey, smiling and talking. Eddie Carter had a tape deck turned up to full volume and was boogying with Archie Griffin in a corner.

  A couple of bat boys were sneaking drinks, looking around furtively. Goober Grabowski and Stinger Swain had lined up bottles in front of them for some competitive chugalugging.

  Moose Greer, sweating profusely, came to the door and bellowed: “Cover up, guys, you got guests!” Then he ushered in the players’ wives and girlfriends.

  Jones, spying new victims, grabbed several bottles and ran across the room, and soon the women were soaking, too, carefully coiffed hair in rattails, mascara running down their cheeks. They found and embraced their husbands in the chaos.

  “Pretty sight, isn’t it?”

  Startled, I turned and found that Joe Kelsey had climbed up next to me on his stool. He had neither wife nor girlfriend in town, but didn’t seem to mind.

  “You did it, Preacher,” I said.

  He turned to me, eyes wet, and said, “I did it, Kate.”

  We shook hands solemnly, then laughed. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek and he hugged me, hard.

  “He gave you the ball?”

  “You saw that? Wasn’t that something?”

  “You both deserved it, today.”

  Just then, Moose shouted to Kelsey from the doorway. “The man who caught your homerun ball is outside. He wants you to sign it for him.”

  “I’ll do better than that!”

  He grabbed a bat and went to the door. He was back a moment later, with the ball in his hand.

  “I traded him,” Kelsey said, “for a bat and a pair of tickets to the first playoff game.”

  Then he walked across the room to Thorson’s locker. I couldn’t hear what he said when he handed it to him, but I could see their faces. They were serious, as though making a pledge. Then they embraced.

  Oh, shit. It set me off again. I hopped down from the stool and began to make the rounds, happy as Elwy in a bowl of cream. I found Jeff, and we split up the team, making sure we got quotes from everybody. I started off with Thorson, fighting my way through the crowd.

  “What did you have to say to Kelsey after the game, Steve?”

  “Jesus Christ, woman, don’t you ever let up? I just pitched the team into the playoffs and you want to know what I said to Kelsey? Get off my case.”

  He turned away from me and kept on answering questions.

  “Charming,” said Christopher Morris.

  “A real prince of a guy,” I agreed.

  “QUIET!”

  Moose’s voice cut through the babble.

  “Can I have your attention, please? The clubhouse is now closed. We ask all players to please stand by for a meeting, wives and girlfriends to go back to the lounge, and all members of the media to assemble immediately in the boardroom for a press conference.”

  There was a general murmur of confusion and protest, but one look at Moose’s face was enough to convince most of us that something serious was up.

  Ted Ferguson was waiting for us, looking uncomfortable. As soon as we were settled, he told Moose to close the door.

  “I regret to have to inform you that Pedro Jorge Sanchez was found dead in his condominium at approximately 3:45 this afternoon.” The announcement was formal and chilling.

  “What happened?”

  Drugs? Heart attack?

  “The cause of death won’t be official until the autopsy is complete, but it appears that he died during a robbery.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Probably sometime last night.”

  “Who found him?”

  “When he hadn’t appeared by game time, and there was no reply to repeated telephone calls, one of our staff went to see if he was all right. The superintendent of the building provided a key and the two discovered his body. The police were then called to the scene.”

  “Was he shot, or what?”

  “We don’t have any details.”

  “Who is in charge of the investigation?”

  Ferguson checked a notepad in front of him.

  “Staff Sergeant Lloyd Munro, of the homicide squad, has been assigned to the case.”

  “What about his wife? Does she know?”

  “We’re still trying to reach her in Santo Domingo.”

  There was an uneasy silence. Finally, I asked the cold, but inevitable, question.

  “What does this do to the rest of the season?”

  “We don’t know. Red is telling the players now, and I expect they will come to a decision about continuing or not. Tomorrow is an off day, as you know, so they’ll be able to think about it overnight.

  “Moose will keep you informed, and we’ll have some sort of press conference tomorrow. And that’s really all I have to say. If you’ll excuse me, I must go talk with the players.”

  When Ferguson left, everyone began to talk at once. Murders were not the normal stuff of our professional lives. I hadn’t covered a crime since I was a junior reporter fifteen years before. I’d hated it.

  I called Jake Watson from the phone in Moose’s office and told him what I knew.

  “It just came over the wire,” he said. “I’ve checked with city side. Jimmy Peterson’s working on it. I’ll get you transferred.”

  Peterson is the cop reporter, an ancient, old-fashioned guy who has held down the beat for thirty-five years and has better connections on the force than the chief.

  “Peterson.” His voice was gruff and impatient, but that’s just his style. He always sounds as if he’s got a fedora on the back of his head, with a press pass stuck in the band. He still smokes cigars, no matter what rules the newsroom tight-asses try to enforce.

  “Jimmy, it’s Kate Henry. I’m at the Titan offices. We’ve just heard about the Sultan Sanchez murder. What do you know?”

  “Beaten to death. The proverbial blunt instrument. The place was a mess. Looks like he interrupted a burglar.”

  “Who’s this guy who’s in charge of the investigation? Lloyd Munro? I haven’t heard of him before.”

  “He’s good. Young. Smart. He’s a little unconventional but gets away with it because he’s Donald Munro’s son. Head of homicide in the fifties. Killed on duty. Before your time.”

  “What’s he like to deal with?”

  “Tough. Doesn’t like the press. He’ll talk to me. I knew his dad. Don’t know about you. He’s at Fifty-two Division.”

  He gave me the number and I asked him to transfer me back to the sports desk. He didn’t say goodbye. In a moment, Jake came back on the line.

  “Jimmy’ll do the murder. You get reaction down there from the players and cover the baseball angle. What’s going to happen with the rest of the season?”

  “The players are meeting right now. I’ll stake out the dressing room and get back to you as soon as I know anything.” Moose came into the office as I hung up.

  “What else do you know? What staff member found him?”

  “It was Jocelyn. She’s freaked out. You can’t talk to her.”

  Jocelyn Mah was Moose’s secretary. Poor kid.

  “Where is she?”

  “She left. The cops told her not to talk to anyone.”

  “Right. What’s the word from the players?”

  “They’re still in the meeting.”

  “I’ll go wait in the hall. See you.”

  “Wait. Do you want to get some dinner after?”

  “I don’t know when I’ll be through, M
oose.”

  “I thought I’d go to the Fillet around nine.”

  “I’ll see. If I’m done, maybe I’ll meet you there.”

  I went out into the corridor under the stands. An equipment truck was coming from the Red Sox dressing room, followed by a few players on the way to catch the team bus to the airport. Teddy Amaro stopped when he saw me.

  “Is it true about Pedro?”

  The two had once been teammates, in Cincinnati.

  “I’m sorry, Teddy. I’m afraid so.”

  I filled him in on the few details I knew until the Red Sox travelling secretary shouted at him that the bus was about to go. He thanked me and ran to catch up.

  Down the corridor to the left, the stakeout was on. A dozen or more reporters leaned against the wall outside the Titan clubhouse door. There were three film crews. I went the other way, towards the visiting clubhouse. There was an unmarked doorway halfway around the curving corridor. I knocked on it.

  Karin Gardiner let me in to the players’ families lounge. A dozen women sat around the room in silence, while the children played with toys on the floor. A couple were fighting, another couple crying, comforted by their mothers.

  “What’s she doing here? No press allowed.” It was Dummy Doran’s wife, a former Las Vegas showgirl. She wore a fur jacket over tight blue jeans and stiletto-heeled boots.

  “Maybe Kate can tell us what’s happening, Helene.” Karin said. “What’s the meeting about? Something about Sultan? He’s dead?”

  “Yes. He’s been murdered.”

  Sandi Thorson stood up, her hand to her mouth, took two steps towards me, and fainted.

  There was a great commotion. More children began to cry. Wives gathered around her, ineffectually patting her wrists and cheeks, like they do in the movies.

  “Step back, for God’s sake,” said Helene Doran. She kneeled at Sandi’s head, loosened her shirt, and lifted her head.

  “Get me my bag,” she said, pointing a scarlet fingernail. “There’s a flask inside.”

  I found it and brought it to her.

  “Hurry up. Pour some, don’t be stupid,” she said.

  I poured an inch of what seemed to be vodka into the silver cap. Helene forced it between Sandi’s lips. She coughed and came around. Imagine that. Just like in the movies.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, getting up.

  Steve, Junior, her two-year-old, put his arms around her knees. She sat down and took him onto her lap. He stuck his thumb into his mouth and leaned his head against her breast.

  “Please,” she said. “Tell us how it happened.”

  I told the story, watching for reaction. Most showed shock, horror, all sorts of appropriate emotions, but there were a few who didn’t. Helene Doran looked bored. Mary Mason, the wife of Josh Mason, the back-up catcher, looked somehow triumphant.

  “He was a devil,” she said. vehemently. “He was punished for his sins.”

  The Masons were the king and queen of Born-Agains on the team, and she was pretty hardline, but I was still surprised. Other wives nodded in agreement; Marie Sloane and Sandi Thorson were still stunned.

  “Wait a minute,” said Darlene Washington. “No matter how evil he was, and he was plenty evil, it’s a horrible way to die. Poor Dolores. And his children.”

  Trust Darlene to be as level-headed as her husband. I left them then and headed back towards the clubhouse. The meeting was letting out. I took down a few quotes from the shocked players, then waylaid Gloves.

  “What’s going to happen now?”

  “We’ll get together again late tomorrow afternoon to decide. Red figured that everybody needs the day off to think about it. Between you and me, I think we’ll play.”

  It made sense. With the division clinched, they could take the rest of the week off in mourning and go straight into the playoffs, but it wouldn’t feel right. They’d cloak it in “Sultan would have wanted it this way” clichés, but most of them were probably thinking about their performance bonuses. Besides, they didn’t want an asterisk by their win.

  That was too cold, maybe. Maybe it was just that the best way for them to deal with Sanchez’s death was to throw themselves into their work. Their work just happened to be play for most people.

  Chapter 10

  I went back to the office to work. That was my first mistake. Everyone from the managing editor to the copyboys wanted to talk about the murder while I tried to write a game story, a sidebar about the celebrations, a story about the Titan reaction to Sanchez’s death, and help with the obituary. Four pages of the sports section were being devoted to the peculiar combination of triumph and tragedy.

  I also talked to Dolores Sanchez, in Santo Domingo, and put the junior reporter on the trail of Jocelyn Mah. There were 113 Mahs in the phone book, but he managed to find the right house. Her father wouldn’t let me speak to her, but assured me that she wouldn’t be talking to anyone else.

  I also called Staff Sergeant Munro. When he hadn’t called back by ten, I left the number at the Fillet of Soul with the desk and called it a night.

  Moose was there when I got to the restaurant, sitting at the Jeffersons’ table with Sarah. A moment later, Tom came over from the bar, carrying a very large Martini.

  “You look like you could use this,” he said.

  “It will either fix me up or finish me off,” I said, toasting him.

  “What a day,” Moose said. He had obviously had a few already. His eyes were in soft focus.

  “Any news?”

  “Nothing.”

  “When did you close up shop?”

  “I didn’t get out of there until nearly nine.”

  “What about the rest?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “I talked to Dolores Sanchez. She’s flying up tomorrow.”

  “Christ, that’s all I need.”

  “Moose!”

  “Sorry, Sarah. But you try getting everything ready for the playoffs, then throw in a murder just to make things really ugly. Pressure? It’s ridiculous.”

  “Maybe we’d better get some food, Sarah. I could use it, and I’m sure Moose could. Steak okay, big guy?”

  “Yeah, okay. Well done. And another double bourbon.”

  “I’ll have mine rare with a glass of red wine, please.”

  Sarah went to place the order.

  “Are you okay, Moose? You look whipped.”

  “I’ll be okay after another drink.”

  “Maybe you should take it easy. Are you going to able to handle everything without Jocelyn?”

  “I don’t know how I’m going to get the playoff credentials done in time.”

  “Isn’t the Baseball Writers’ Association helping you?”

  “Yeah, sure. All Stan Chapman cares about is making sure his friends get good seats in the press box.”

  “If you like, I can come in and give you a hand for a while tomorrow. I know who the legitimate writers are.”

  “No, I can handle it. But thanks.”

  I’d known Moose for a long time and liked him. He could be a boor, but most of his insensitivity stemmed from insecurity. His was a funny, drifting sort of life. Most men in their forties have something to show for it, but Moose’s only history was of failure. He didn’t have much education and no real skills. He’d gone from high school into baseball and never been more than a marginal major-leaguer. He hadn’t made much money, and what he’d made he’d spent.

  He’d been married, but his wife had taken the children and gone just after he was released from his last team. He had a few rocky years then, bitter, boozing times, until Ted Ferguson heard he was down on his luck and hired him. Baseball was all he knew, and he was lucky to have his job.

  Ironically, the Titan players didn’t see him as one of them. He was too old and insignificant for most of the current
crop to have heard of. In July, the Titan visit to Milwaukee had coincided with an Old-Timers’ game and Moose had suited up with the Brewer alumni. He was happier that afternoon than he had been all season.

  I looked at his hands. They showed the scars. He had been a catcher, and his fingers were misshapen, with bulging knuckles and tips bending off in unlikely directions where they had been broken. His soul probably looked the same. Moose was all the baseball dreams that never come true.

  God, I was getting sentimental.

  “I’ll drive you home after dinner, Moose. You’re in no condition.”

  “What are you, my mother? Did anyone ever tell you you’re a pain in the ass?”

  Sarah came back in time to hear the last remark and raised her eyebrows at me as she sat down.

  “This should be a happy night,” she said. “This place should be jumping, but look at everybody. They’re in shock.”

  Dinner didn’t help Moose. He was bagged by the time he was done, and getting belligerent. I decided to take him home.

  “Come back when you’ve dropped him off,” Sarah said.

  The fresh air seemed to have an aphrodisiac effect. He began to paw me as soon as we got in the car.

  “Whoa, Moose. That’s not a good idea.”

  “C’mon Katey. F’r old time’s sake.”

  We had had a brief fling three years earlier, born out of loneliness on a particularly long road trip, but it had ended as soon as we got home. I didn’t intend to start again.

  “For old time’s sake, Moose, let’s keep it friendly.” He looked at me earnestly.

  “I’m being friendly, Katey. This is friendly.”

  I took his hand out from under my skirt and headed up Yonge Street. It was wild. A lot of people either hadn’t heard about Sultan or didn’t care. The drunks were all over the street, dancing and shouting while the cops looked on.

  I bailed out as soon as I could and headed up University. Things were quieter on the pretentious avenue. I stopped at a light next to the Airmen’s memorial, the one we call Gumby Takes Flying Lessons.

  “Hey, Gumby! What’s happenin’?”