Dead Game

by Michael Avallone

  “Carl! Stop all this.” Mimi Tango reached right down to him suddenly. Determinedly. As if to put an end to all of his foolishness. Maybe the tension had been too much for her. But it was the wrongest move in the books. And the worst possible one she could have made.

  Because he pulled away frantically, reflexively, and without even thinking or knowing what he had done. The pin came screeching out of the body of the grenade. For a crazy, teetering instant he stared down at the thing in his hand as if were alive. Then he galvanized, like a wound-up toy suddenly working off its spring. His arm cocked, manacles and all, to hurl it back to our side of the room. Away from him and Mimi Tango.

  Banjo Brice squalled in terror. And everybody moved quickly, madly, without thinking of anything except getting out of the way of that exploding destruction.

  Mimi Tango suddenly realized the enormity of her mistake. It must have come over her in one terrible flash. It takes just a heartbeat to make decisions like the one she made. You can have Joan of Arc and history. I’ll take Mimi Tango any day of the week. That’s more real to me and something I can at least understand.

  She fell over Arongio just as his arm came down. She engulfed him, pinning his hand, the one with the grenade still in it, to his chest. Her long, skinny form locked to his bigger, burlier one. They closed together in a lump of arms and legs with Arongio fighting to get out from under her. The handcuffs cooked his chances.

  He would have been too late anyway. It takes only seconds for a released grenade to go off. And they had used all of them up.

  There was an ear-shattering slam and bang and bang again and slam all over. The room seemed to shake with the ferocity of the blast that had been a long time coming. Flying metal scraps cannonaded the four walls. Shrapnel embedded itself in the ceiling like so much buckshot.

  I came out from behind the desk where I had jumped to get out of the way. I felt sick. Sick as hell. And one quick look at the tangled mass of flesh on the couch didn’t help a damn bit.

  It had been two people—once.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The Polo Grounds sky was washable blue. The grass was greener than St. Patrick’s Day. And the whole stadium was as silent as a big graveyard.

  It was the third day after Lake’s death.

  There wasn’t a ball game going on. The field was deserted. It was a lovely spring morning and a little oriole had the whole damn place to himself.

  Except for me, Captain Monks, Lieutenant Hadley, and a tight little group from Homicide. We were huddled on the third-base side of the infield thanks to the cooperation of Horace Stoneham and the whole Giant front office.

  The fifty thousand empty seats mocked us as we stood there. Lake’s missing twenty thousand dollars was mocking us, too. It was exactly what had brought us. But the Polo Grounds was some big dump to look for a kitty in.

  Monks grunted in the fine morning air.

  “Okay, Ed. Here we are. Now where is the damn stuff?”

  I bummed a cigarette from Hadley. We were real pals now. Tight squeezes can do that to people. Last night’s hand grenade party had been a tight squeeze. Enough of a one to kill two people.

  “Okay,” I said. “Here’s how it is. Lake brought the dough to the ball park with him. He hid it someplace. And I’m pretty certain where.”

  “Tell me how,” Monks barked.

  “Mike, I did some checking. I found out from a good source that Lake was a first-rate amateur magician. Especially good at sleight-of-hand.”

  “So what?”

  “So this. Sleight-of-hand is something a magician uses to fool people. With his hand motions he makes you watch the wrong hand. Meanwhile, the hand you aren’t watching is working the trick.”

  Monks scratched his head.

  “You’re leaving me in Seattle, Ed. What has this got to do with the dough?”

  “But everything. You see, sleight-of-hand is something you do in front of a lot of people. A crowd.”

  A murmur ran through the Homicide bunch.

  Monks made a face.

  “If you’re saying that Lake stashed that cash with eight thousand people looking on, you’ll have to show me where.” Cops are from Missouri, too. They have to be.

  I grinned. “One question more before I stick my neck out. The day of the kill—you put everything under wraps? The park detail didn’t go through its usual paces, did it? You know, cleaning up, evening out the infield grass—”

  “Course not,” Monks growled. “They might have ruined a lot of clues.”

  I breathed easier.

  “What I figured. Okay, follow me.”

  I led them out to the field in a hard silence.

  They stopped only when I did. We didn’t have far to go. Just to the foul line and a square chunk of canvas that anchored down third base on the diamond.

  “Well—?” Monks was eager for the kill.

  I put out my cigarette.

  “A twenty-thousand-dollar kitty, boys. And Lake put it where his home was. With thousands of spectators looking on. And ready to pull the same trick when the game ended.” I smiled. “There’s a kitty in the corner all right. The hot corner. Third base.” I watched their expressions. “Look under the bag. There ought to be a brown Manila envelope …”

  Hadley crouched rapidly, explored. His dirty hand reappeared, clutching a long brown envelope. His fingers tore at it. Clean green bills spilled out. Twenty of them. Hadley whistled.

  “Dig that crazy kitty,” I said.