by Pascal Marco
Stan stared at Brian, his mouth agape.
“It’s gotta be why we moved to Arizona. We all thought it was because of his health and that he wanted to retire in the sun, get away from the Chicago winters. But it was because he was watching you, Stan! He was still protecting James Overstreet, the kid he let down. His eyewitness who got screwed!”
“You really think your dad moved you and your family out here to be by me?”
“It makes perfect sense. It has to. Dad was married to his job. And after we moved out here, our family could never figure out why he’d always take us to watch kids play baseball all the way out in Fountain Hills. Then years later, he took us to watch the baseball team at Chaparral High School. Come to think of it, you’re the only black kid I remember seeing on those teams now.”
Stan stared blankly at Brian then replied, “So someone was watching over me all those years. I really wasn’t alone, was I?”
Stan flashbacked to all the years he felt alone in Arizona, abandoned, discarded, just like the pieces of trash strewn all over him the day Pick and his gang turned the wastebasket on top of him in Burnham Park.
He sat back at the table, thinking of the effort Stick Hanley made to keep on eye out on his witness, to “cover each other’s back,” as he had often told the boy. Overwhelmed with the emotion of knowing someone cared for him that much, he dropped his head in his hands and sobbed.
CHAPTER 31
Stan cried for a few minutes before choking back his tears. Head in his hands, he remained seated at the kitchen table. After he had come forward as a witness to Manny Fleischman’s attack, Stick Hanley often told James they were “partners in this now” and partners always had to watch out for each other—watch each other’s backs wherever they were, wherever they went. What Brian conjectured made sense. That’s the kind of cop his father, Stick Hanley, had been.
He could only imagine now what Brian must feel, knowing that his dad uprooted his entire family to make good on his promise to James to always protect him. Was he angry with his father? Or was he proud? Maybe he was a little of both. Nonetheless, Stan was thankful whatever the reason. Thankful to have Stick Hanley’s kid today as his best friend.
Stan thought back to the first day after Manny Fleischman’s murder and recalled more details for Maxine and Brian. “Your dad knew, Brian, that I was his only hope for a conviction. But there was a lot of pressure on these cops to find the killers fast.”
Brian shook his head. “That’s just not like dad,” he said. “He went by the book. He woulda offered those kids counsel. I know it.”
Maxine dabbed her eyes with a napkin she pulled from the holder on the table. “You saw the crime with your own eyes. You IDed them all. And Brian told me the cops found the bat used to kill Fleischman in that Pick kid’s apartment. What could have gone wrong?”
“DNA gathering wasn’t around then,” Stan shrugged, getting up from the table. “Not only that, but they never took me to the crime scene before the trial to corroborate my story. I guess they heard what they wanted to hear.” He nodded toward Brian. “And, it didn’t help that his dad’s partner, Timbo Boscorelli, was a racist fat prick son of a bitch. He didn’t trust blacks. Not even me, his star witness.”
Stan paced back and forth in the huge kitchen. “I don’t think he ever really believed anything I said.” Stan shook his head, staring off into the distance. He then recounted to Brian and Maxine how he had inadvertently overheard the hurtful words Boscorelli had spoken the day Stan came forward to the police. How the two detectives had left him and his parents in the witness interview room. He was thirsty and decided to slip out of the room to get a drink of water from a fountain in the hallway. When he pulled open the door, he heard the two cops discussing his description of what he had witnessed the day before and heard Boscorelli’s cruel words, accusing him of making up the story so his family might cash in on the reward money.
“Your dad defended me and my family against Boscorelli’s accusations. And your dad was right. We didn’t even know Fleischman’s daughter had offered any reward money,” Stan told Brian and Maxine. “But the truth didn’t matter to his partner, I guess. I’ll never forget how painful it was when I heard Boscorelli’s hateful words. He was supposed to be on my side!”
Stan walked to the cabinet above the kitchen sink and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s he only opened for a celebratory toast at Thanksgiving and Christmas. He filled a glass nearly to the top and took a hefty swig. The sour mash liquid burned his throat, bringing a grimace to his solemn face. Glass in hand, he looked at the startled faces of his wife and friend. He wondered if what he was saying was making any sense to them. All he knew right now by seeing their stunned and painful reactions was that it was time to let them know everything, to spill his guts like Brian and he had coerced so many of the perps they had arrested and prosecuted to do. He began pacing the room again.
“Mister Fleischman saved me from that gang a few days before they jumped him. The Oakwood Rangers had me caged inside a trash basket and were pounding on it with my Dick Allen bat.” Stan pointed to the bat Brian once again held in his hands.
“Pick took my bat away from me right before Bobby DeSadier put me inside the basket. Then Pick, Tyrone Witherspoon, and Pokie Turner all took turns, smashing the side of the basket with the bat. I really thought they were going to kill me. I can still hear the crack of the wood on the wire cage, over and over.” Stan clenched his fist and squeezed his eyes shut. “I begged them to stop. That’s when Manny Fleischman showed up and scared them off.”
He blinked his eyes a few times and stared out the large kitchen window, then took another gulp of booze before placing his glass down on the kitchen counter.
“Pick and his gang were going to teach Mr. Fleischman a lesson for that—for saving me.” Stan tapped his finger on the rim of the glass. “They planned his murder.”
“What do you mean planned the murder?” Brian asked.
“It’s the one thing—”
Stan didn’t finish his thought, but instead drained the remainder of his Jack with one big swallow. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another four fingers of the Kentucky bourbon. He was thankful for the liquor’s numbing effect on the pain he felt from his escalating release of emotions.
“What are you talking about, Stan?” Maxine asked as she got up from the table and walked toward him. His back to her, she pulled him by the shoulder, spinning him around. “Stan?” she asked him again.
Their moist eyes looked square into each other’s. Knowing that not answering her now would hurt her even more, he blurted out, “Mister Fleischman had told me how he had regretted not coming forward his whole life. How important it was to tell the truth when you know it.”
Stan saw the puzzled look not only on her face but also on Brian’s as he glanced over at his buddy.
“You see, a few days after the gang had jumped me, Mister Fleischman was trying to console me, trying to convince me to go to the police. I still refused, thinking it was better to keep it secret for fear of more retribution from Pick and the Oakwood Rangers. Mister Fleischman explained to me how it would be the wrong decision to remain quiet. It was right then he told me he knew the fix was on for the nineteen-nineteen World Series.
“What?” Brian cried. “Did you just say what I think you said?”
“I know. It’s unbelievable, isn’t it? Here was a man who was a bench warmer on a Chicago White Sox team with guys so good he knew he’d never get a chance to play. He tells me he overheard his teammates Chick Gandil and Eddie Cicotte plan the championship fix and, if the fix were on, Cicotte, the pitcher for the series opener, would hit the first Cincinnati batter he faced. When Cicotte hit him, Manny never said a word to anyone—not to any of his teammates, not to his manager, Kid Gleason, not even to the team owner, Charlie Comiskey. He told me that in those days, you kept your mouth shut unless someone spoke to you first.”
“He actually confessed all this to you?”
Brian asked.
Stan nodded, staring into his fresh glass of Jack.
“He explained to me how important it was to live your life with no regrets. To tell the truth in everything, no matter what you thought the consequences might be. He hadn’t, and it had haunted him his entire life. He was more ashamed of what he didn’t do than of what a few of his teammates did do. He kept that secret with him, buried forever, eating away at him like a cancer. That’s why he never talked to anyone about being on the Black Sox. Ever. He was glad he was forgotten.”
The kitchen fell silent. The three of them stood there like statues in a park, motionless, until Brian broke the pall.
“But what’s that got to do with you and those five boys?”
“Everything. It’s got everything to do with what I’m talking about. You see, there weren’t five boys in on Fleischman’s attack. There were six there,” Stan said as he sat down at the kitchen table once more, hanging his head, clutching his drink in both hands.
“That’s right. I recall that detail in the reports Sal Abbatti sent over to me,” Brian said. “He said you had seen a sixth boy when they first interviewed you but that you weren’t able to recognize him. I never read where you ever positively IDed a sixth attacker, though.”
“Yeah. That’s right. I never did.” Stan took a deep swig of whiskey, then looked right at Brian. “But I could have.”
“What?” Brian gulped.
“Stanford. You could have identified one of Fleischman’s attackers but you didn’t?” Maxine exclaimed. “I don’t believe you. That’s not true. That’s just not like you.” She took a breath, then sighed, “But then I really don’t know you. Do I?”
Pained by her comment, Stan continued on nonetheless. “But it is true, Max. And I’ve lived with that secret and the guilt from keeping it my whole life. Manny Fleischman’s voice has haunted me ever since. There isn’t a day that goes by I don’t replay his words over and over in my head.”
“Stan, do you know what you’re saying?” Brian said. “You’re admitting that you withheld evidence in a lethal felony investigation.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” he snapped back, jumping up from the table, the liquor taking its full effect upon him now. “Why do you think I’ve dedicated my life to upholding the law, doing everything in my power to send guilty people to jail, even to their deaths?” He took a swig from his glass and lowered his head again.
“Honey. It’s okay,” Maxine jumped in. “That was a long time ago. You were just a boy. You did a very brave thing coming forward and identifying the kids who attacked and killed your friend.” She stood up next to him and pulled one of his hands away from the glass, holding his open palm tight. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
“She’s right. There’s nothing that can be done now,” Brian said. “Anyway, if that sixth kid was smart—which I doubt very much he was—maybe he turned his life around, knowing how lucky he was you didn’t ID him.”
Stan shook his head, then threw it back, gulping the remainder of the booze. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stared into the bottom of the empty glass.
“What?” she asked her husband. “What is it?”
“That sixth kid was my best friend. That’s why I didn’t squeal on him,” Stan answered with a blank stare. At this point, he had drunk more bourbon than he ever had in his entire life.
Looking over at them, Stan saw Maxine and Brian look at each other, neither saying a word. Even though his head spun, he saw the unmistakable look in both their eyes, knowing they were wondering what he might say next, afraid that more secrets would come spewing forth.
Stan sat back down and stared into the bottom of the empty glass while he rolled it in his hands on the table. “And you’re right, Brian. He was smart all right,” Stan said, nodding. “And, I guess you can say he did turn his life around.” He paused and looked back up at them. “Does the name U.S. Senator Clayton R. Thomas ring a bell?”
CHAPTER 32
The kitchen at the Scottsdale home of the Kobe’s had become one big confessional for Stan Kobe, as his wife and his best friend listened to him recount his childhood tale, unraveling all the details he had kept secret for the last thirty years.
“Are you shittin’ me?” Brian blurted.
“I wish I were,” slurred Stan.
“The Clayton R. Thomas?”
“Yes, the Clayton Thomas. The one and only. The guy that’s supposed to be the first black to get a real shot at running for president of the United States.”
“Clayton Thomas was at Mister Fleischman’s murder?” Maxine asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying,” he shouted, the whiskey coursing through his body, causing him to speak louder than he intended. He tipped the glass for another gulp, forgetting he’d already downed the last drop.
“I think you’ve had enough,” she said, pulling the glass away from him.
He grabbed futilely for the glass, but the alcohol made his reflexes slow.
“Stan?”
Stan didn’t look up nor respond to Brian’s voice.
“Stan, buddy. Tell us what happened. What else do you know you’re not telling us?”
“I need another drink.” He garbled his request.
“No. No more,” Maxine said. “Talk to us. Finish telling us.”
Stan attempted to sit up straight. He massaged his head back and forth with both hands, then stopped and began cracking his knuckles. Not only had his last lingering swig burned his throat but it had also inflamed his memories. He jumped up from the table and began pacing again. The whiskey’s power released his repressed memories so fast that his words raced to keep up with the flashbacks.
“Clayton was my best friend. We used to go to Burnham Park every day when we were kids, walk up and down the shoreline, race the waves along the rocks.” He stopped and aimlessly fingered the table’s placemats. “But all of a sudden, Clayton stops going to the park with me. I thought it was because his daddy used to whoop him. Wouldn’t let him come out to play. His old man drank an awful lot. My momma said Mister Clayton was just on hard times. Hard on his family was what he was, beating his wife and kids at the drop of a hat.”
Stan stopped momentarily. The booze made his mind swirl. He tilted his head down toward the floor. Then he looked back up again. Slurring a bit more, he continued.
“Then one day, Clayton shows up, see, at the park with Pick. Seems overnight he and Pick is best friends. I know this can’t be true. No way. Clayton ain’t no gangbanger.”
Stan turned away from the table. Eyes feeling dry and bloodshot, he leaned back against the sink, staring back past the two of them, hugging himself with arms crossed protectively in front of his chest.
“My friend broke my heart. He joined the gang, and I didn’t know why. But then it all made sense.”
Maxine handed her husband a bottle of water she had taken out of the fridge. Stan took the cold plastic container from her but didn’t drink.
“I didn’t find out why he joined until Clayton called me that same day they attacked Fleischman. It was him who had run off before Pick started beating the old man. He told me he didn’t care if Pick came after him, but he wasn’t going to be part of no murder. That’s why I never IDed him. ‘Cause he didn’t do nothin’!”
“You know he was a material witness to a felony,” Brian said.
“I do now,” Stan said. “But I didn’t know all the legal implications then. All I knew was my best friend didn’t take any whacks at that old man. He didn’t stay there like Bobby D, Pokie, and the others, and pull Mister Fleischman’s bike out from under him. He didn’t taunt him and watch Pick beat him to death with that bat, my bat, and not try to stop Pick.”
Stan picked up the bat Brian had laid on the kitchen table. After more than thirty years without seeing it, he had held it in his hands two times in the past week. He ran the palm of one hand softly along the barrel as the other hand clutched i
ts thin handle. After all these years, some pine tar remained, clinging to the middle of the bat, permanently staining the patina of the ash wood. As Stan held the bat, he thought of Manny Fleischman the first day he met him in Burnham Park and how the old man took swings with his own make-believe bat. He wished at that moment he could be back in the park again, watching the old Jew-man, listening to Manny tell his story about Ted Williams—”The Splendid Splinter— You see, ol’ Teddy, well, he had one of the finest swings in the game—Great hands with the splinter. The wood. The bat.”
Stan looked over at Brian. “Your dad must have kept this after the trial. The prosecution presented it as evidence. Called it ‘Exhibit A.’ When I took the witness stand, the Cook County State’s Attorney asked me if it was mine. I positively IDed it. Said, ‘Yes, that’s my Dick Allen Louisville. Mister Allen gave it to me last year. My initials are on the tip of the barrel.’
“On the stand, Pick admitted he stole the bat from me a week before the crime. But we didn’t have any DNA back then so they couldn’t positively tie in the bat as the murder weapon even though they found traces of Fleischman’s blood type on it. The cops were certain Pick must have washed it clean with bleach when he got back to his apartment. But unfortunately, Manny’s blood type was the same as mine. So the defense raised reasonable doubt that the blood on the bat could have been my own.”
“But you said earlier ‘they planned it.’ What did you mean by that?” Maxine asked.
“Just what I’m saying,” Stan replied, setting the bat down, and finally taking a sip of his water. “Clayton told me everything when he called my house. It was the last time we had spoken to each other. The first time was the day after the gang had put me in that wastebasket. I told him I was angry with him for running with the gang, for not helping me the day I got jumped.
“He told me he had no choice. That Pick had threatened to kill him if he didn’t join his gang. He cried and begged me to forgive him, telling me he’d make it all up to me someday.
