Downstairs in the clubhouse it was as if a spell had been broken. The memorial service had closed a door. The mourning was over. And the one-sided win had put the fun back in the game.
“Bring on the A’s!” shouted Costello, wearing a towel and waving a beer in the air. It was hard to hear him over the music booming from the tape deck in his locker. Bruce Springsteen.
“Turn it down, Bony,” I yelled. “I can’t hear you.”
“Bring on the playoffs! The season’s over!”
He was right. It was his last start.
“Not too shabby—twenty-three wins! That’s a two and a three. Two-enty the-ree. Whee hee!”
He’d drawn a small crowd of reporters, all laughing at his antics. He downed his beer and danced to the cooler to get another. He came back with three and jumped up on his stool.
“I’m going to party tonight,” he said. “But first, I will accept questions from the media.”
He turned down the music, but it didn’t make much difference, there was so much yelling going on around us.
“You want to know the secret of my success? Food! All my career they’ve been telling me to lose weight. This year I just ate. Burgers. Fries. Ice cream. Pizza. Spaghetti. Lasagna. Manicotti. Canelloni! Gnocchi! And vino! Gallons of vino!”
His accent grew Italian as he talked, and he began to wave his arms around. By the end of his list, he was almost operatic.
“Eating to excess is the secret of my success!”
His teammates burst into applause. He bowed deeply, then turned his back and bowed again, dropping his towel.
There was no point asking a serious question. I went in search of more sensible folk.
Joe Kelsey was sitting in front of his locker, a huge smile on his face. He shook his head as I approached him.
“He shouldn’t have done that in front of you,” he said.
“I’ve seen a naked bum before, Preacher. Don’t worry about it. It’s his big day.”
“It’s the kind of year you dream about.”
“What about you? Hitting for the cycle isn’t exactly an average day at the office.”
“It’s just a fluke, you know. You just get lucky one day. Not like twenty-three wins. Now, that’s truly something. He was blessed this year.”
“And it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Do you think he’ll stop being so gloomy?”
Kelsey’s smile broke out again.
“Bony? Are you kidding? He wouldn’t be happy if he wasn’t unhappy!”
We both laughed.
“What did you think about at the plate during the last at bat?”
“To tell you the truth, I was worried I wouldn’t even get the chance. Then Owl got that seeing-eye hit and I felt like it was meant to be. I’ve never felt so relaxed at the plate.”
“And then you almost blew it by hitting a home run.”
“Yeah, I was praying for it to go foul!” He stopped suddenly. “Don’t put that in the paper. I don’t really pray for things like that.”
“I know. What about the service today? Did it help get the team back together?”
“I think it did. We put the tragedy behind us. Now we just have to win it for them.”
“Think you will?”
“I don’t see why not. But that’s not the important thing.”
“What’s more important?”
“Finding the man who killed Sultan and Steve. And making sure he can’t get anyone else.”
“Of course. Sorry. It’s just hard to remember that here tonight.”
“We don’t mean any disrespect, Kate.”
“I know.”
Constable Donny was waiting for me outside the clubhouse, so excited by the game that he couldn’t shut up, even in the press box while I was writing. The story, under the circumstances, wrote itself, and we were out of there by midnight.
“What are your feelings about drinking on duty, Don?”
“I shouldn’t, why?”
“We’ve got time to hit last call at the Fillet of Soul. Do you mind?”
“I’d like that. I’ve never been there.”
“Let’s just call it semi-duty, then.”
“You’re the boss.”
He was grinning.
The bar was crowded. We found a table in the corner and the constable unbent enough to have a beer.
“One won’t hurt,” he said
“I promise I won’t let you drive drunk, okay?”
Sarah brought our drinks. I introduced her to my companion, with no explanation. She’d go nuts trying to figure out what kind of cradle-robbing I was into. It would do her good.
Like most fans, the constable had strong opinions about what was right and wrong with the team and its management. It was good to listen to him. We sometimes forget who we’re writing for. But when our second round arrived, I changed the subject.
“How long have you been on the force?”
“Almost three years.”
“Are you assigned to homicide?”
“No. This is my first time.”
“Are you enjoying it?”
“Well, I wish I was more involved in the case.”
“Have you worked with Staff Sergeant Munro before?”
“No. I’ve just heard about him.”
“What have you heard?” Subtle, Kate, subtle.
“That he’s tough. That you’d better not screw up. He’s hard to work for, but he’s the best.”
“He has a bit of a temper, doesn’t he?”
“I’ve never seen him really mad, but I’ve heard it’s something.”
“I know.”
MacPherson shot me a sly look and smiled.
“He chewed you out pretty good, didn’t he?”
“How do you know?”
“I saw him when he got there. He was steaming.”
“No secrets, eh?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“On the contrary. I love gossip. What else do you hear about Munro? What about his personal life?”
“He doesn’t have much, they say. He was married, but his wife left him. Since then, he’s been a real loner. Too bad, he’s pretty good looking, for an older guy.”
I winced. He noticed.
“I don’t mean old. It’s just that . . .”
“How ancient is he? In his forties?”
“Oh, no. He’s not that old.”
“Well, I’m glad. I’d hate to think he’d have to retire before he solved these murders.”
“I think I’ve said something wrong.”
“Not at all. I used to think forty was old, too. I changed my mind my last birthday.”
“Oh, gee. I thought you were a lot younger.”
“Thank you, Donald. Maybe it’s time to take this old bag home. It’s way past my bedtime.”
He apologized all the way there, and walked me to my door again.
“Miss Henry, you won’t mention to Staff Sergeant Munro that we were talking about him, will you? I was out of line.”
“I’m just old, Constable, not stupid. It will be our secret.”
“Thanks. Good night.”
I didn’t notice the parcel at first. I was greeting Elwy and setting down my things. It was a large manila envelope with the rest of my mail on a small table just inside my door. Sally had left a note with it.
“This was waiting when I got home at six. It’s not ticking.”
It might as well have been. A sheaf of papers was held together with a paper clip. On top was a clipping from a paper in Nashville, Tennessee, dated in June, 1982. It was the report on a raid of a homosexual bath house. Listed among the found-ins was one Kelsey, Joseph Baines.
“Oh, God. Poor Preacher.”
The sec
ond page was a photocopy of a confidential memorandum from the security chief of the Southwestern Inter-Collegiate Baseball Association. It stated that during the 1973 season, a number of players from Oak Park College in Texas had thrown games for a payoff. As the offenders had graduated, the report suggested that no action be taken. The first name on the list was Steve Thorson.
“I don’t really want to know this,” I told Elwy.
The third document was a photocopy of a year-old police incident report filed in Toronto. It described an assault by David Sloane against the persons of Marie Sloane, Merlin Sloane, and David Sloane, Junior. The final notation, following a pedantic description of the incident, was that the charges had been dropped by Mrs. Sloane.
“That sanctimonious bastard!”
Elwy’s response was to roll over on his back for a stomach scratch.
“And what am I supposed to do with this?”
He warbled an interrogatory half-purr, half-meow.
I drew myself a hot bath. A half-hour soak later, I wasn’t sure what I had learned, except some pretty juicy answers to a few questions. All I knew was that things didn’t look too good for one David Sloane. Or Joe Kelsey, for that matter. But who had sent the parcel? And why?
Chapter 22
In the cold sober light of day it became obvious that I had to call Andy Munro. He came right over, showing his gratitude in the oddest way.
“When did you get this?” he shouted.
“Last night, late. It was here when I got home.”
“Where was that idiot MacPherson?”
“He’d already left. And he’s not an idiot. I didn’t even see it until I’d been home for five minutes.”
“And you opened it. Just like that. You didn’t think to call me first, of course.”
“How did I know what was in it? I would have felt like a prize dope if it had been a letter from my mother and I got you out of bed at one o’clock in the morning.”
“What were you doing out so late?”
“What’s it to you?”
“When was the game over?”
I decided not to tell him about luring his constable from the straight and narrow.
“I had a story to write. Do you mind?”
“Don’t you ever, ever, pull a stunt like this again.”
He’d stopped shouting, but he was spacing his words ominously, in a coldly controlled voice.
“Now I’m going to take this material to the lab, even though the chances of getting any useful fingerprints are nil now that you’ve pawed over them. And you’re coming with me so I can get your fingerprints for comparison.”
“But . . .”
“NO BUTS. I’ve had it with your meddling. You’re coming with me. NOW.”
I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice calm.
“Look, Staff Sergeant Munro. You can’t just go around yelling at civilians. It’s police harassment. Or something. Badgering a witness. I called you. I gave you the stuff. Now leave me alone. I’ve got work to do. If you want my fingerprints, you can tell Constable Donny to get them tonight at the ballpark. I will not be ordered about by you.”
“Constable Donny?” Munro did a slow take, then cracked up. “You call him Constable Donny?”
“Not to his face.”
“It’s perfect.”
“Well, he is a bit earnest.”
“Earnest? He’s an escapee from Leave It to Beaver.”
“Except he’s too young to have heard of it.”
“He’s too young to have heard of the Beatles!”
“Paul McCartney’s old band, right?”
I guess we weren’t mad any more.
“All right,” Andy said. “You win. You don’t have to come with me. But don’t go out. Whoever sent this to you might try to contact you. And don’t tell anybody else about this.”
“Scout’s honour.”
“Do you think you can get through the rest of the day without meddling?”
“I’ll try, sir.”
“I’ll send Constable Donny to pick you up. Try not to get the boy into any trouble.”
The phone rang. I waved him out the door.
“Nice game story,” said Jake Watson. “And the piece on the funeral was fine. Was it as bizarre as it sounded?”
“More. What do you want from me today?”
“I need some stuff for the playoff supplement on Monday. Position-by-position comparisons of the two teams. And a sidebar on what’s happening with the betting odds. Can you call that contact of yours in Vegas?”
“Good idea. I’ll see if I can find him.”
I had done a story several years back about sports betting and dug it out of my files. The guy I had used wasn’t one of the big names, but he was well connected and very helpful. Jerry something. Bergman. Jerry Bergman. His number was in one of my books. It took a while but, luckily, he hadn’t moved.
“The odds have been wild on the American League,” he said. “Up and down like the proverbial toilet seat.”
“That’s not surprising.”
“No, but it’s a headache for the books.”
“I guess. How’s it gone?”
“We don’t set the line until the two divisions are clinched, so that was Sunday for the American League. As soon as the Titans won, we posted the odds at 7–8 for the Titans.”
“Those are pretty good odds, aren’t they?”
“Yeah. The Titans are better, plus they beat the A’s eight games to four this season. But that was before Thorson got killed.”
“One man makes that much difference?”
“Sure. Assuming they go to the three-man rotation for the playoffs, he pitches three times in the seven-game series.”
“I see what you mean.”
“So when he got croaked, the money started coming in for the A’s. What’s happening about that, anyway? Anyone been arrested?”
“Nothing. The players seem to have bounced back.”
“Never saw a ballplayer who would let a little thing like grief get between him and money on the line.”
“You got it. So what happened to the odds?”
“Well, some money came in on the A’s Monday, but when the odds shifted, people began betting on the Titans again. But the action’s been soft. I mean, who cares, right? Not like when the Yankees or Dodgers are involved. Then we get a lot of tourist money coming in.”
“You don’t get a lot of people calling up from Oakland or Toronto making bets?”
“We don’t do phone bets.”
“Really? You’ve got to be there?”
“Strictly cash and carry.”
“I thought people bet on the phone all the time.”
“Only local bookies carry accounts. There are guys here who act as agents for gamblers around the country, but they’re putting cash down at a shop.”
“Hunh. Could you run it down for me day by day?”
“Okay. Sunday, it was 7–8, Titans. Monday, after the murder, it dropped to even money, and that’s a big drop out here. Tuesday and Wednesday, the same. Thursday, we started getting more Titan action and by today it’s back to 6–7 Titans.”
“Okay. Let’s pretend I’m really stupid, here, which won’t be hard. What do these numbers mean? If I bet $100 on the Titans today, and they win the playoffs, what do I get?”
“You’re going at it backwards. I’ll tell you what you’d have to bet to win the $100. All the lines are based on five dollars. You put up more money to bet on a favourite. At 6–7, you bet seven dollars to win five. If you’re betting on the A’s, you bet five to win six. In other words, if you wanted to win $100 on the Titans today, you’d have to bet $140.”
“So I’d end up with $240.”
“Exactly.”
“And on Sunday?”
&
nbsp; “At those odds, you had to put up $160 to make your $100.”
“And why did you change the odds?”
“Thorson’s death, mainly.”
“But you didn’t change them after Sanchez died?”
“The line hadn’t been set at that point. We probably set them a bit lower than we might have because of Sanchez, but a player doesn’t make as much difference as a pitcher. Like in football. A defensive end getting injured doesn’t affect the odds the way it does when a quarterback goes down.”
“I’m stupid again. Why does the money coming in make a difference?”
“Because bookies aren’t in the business to lose money.”
“I’m not that stupid. But how does it work?”
“The ideal situation for a bookie is when he has as much money bet on one team as on the other. Then the losers pay off the winners, and the book collects his percentage from everyone.
“But if more money is bet on one side than the other, we have to compensate. That’s where the odds come in. They are set to reflect what we think the action will be. In this case, we assumed that more people would want to bet on the Titans. So the odds make the Titans a little less attractive and encourage betting on the A’s.”
“So if a lot of people bet one way, the odds shift.”
“Right.”
“If just one person makes a big bet?”
“Same thing, if the bet’s big enough.”
“Do people bet big money on the playoffs?”
“Most of it’s just small stuff, but I’ve had three or four in five figures this week. One shop took a ten-grand bet on the A’s Sunday just after the odds were posted. Nice timing.”
“Be nice to have that kind of money to play with, wouldn’t it?”
“Out here, that doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. I’ve got customers who win and lose that much every day. They’re nuts, of course, but they put food on my table. Who am I to judge?”
“Listen, thanks a lot, Jerry. I appreciate it.”
“You bet.”
I wondered if estate lawyers say “will do” a lot.
I was fixing lunch when the penny dropped.
What if that bet wasn’t just lucky timing. What if someone had inside information? Like that the ace of the Titan staff wouldn’t be in the playoffs. I called Jerry back.
The Dead Pull Hitter Page 16
