“Good evening, Mr. Phelps,” Gordie said in his Mission: Impossible voice. “The man you are looking at is Lupo ‘The Werewolf’ Barboni, a deranged Wrigley Field security guard. For the last three hours he’s been drinking black coffee and popping bennies. His orders are to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“You think they have security guards?” Billy asked.
“Probably,” Ray said. “But we’re talking rent-a-cops, not former Navy Seals. C’mon, let’s scope it out.”
At the entrance to the bleachers were a pair of imposing metal gates—ten feet tall, five feet wide, and held shut by a heavy metal chain wrapped around the bars and padlocked from inside.
Gordie lifted the chain and glanced down at Ray’s bolt-cutters. “You think that’ll cut it?”
Ray positioned the cutters against one of the chain links. “Let’s find out.”
Snap.
Lou grasped the loose ends of the chain and turned to Billy. “Help me get this off.”
Billy took one end and they pulled the chain loose, careful to minimize the noise.
Gordie peered through the gate into the darkness. “Don’t hear a thing.”
“Let’s get in there,” Ray said.
“Wait,” Lou whispered. He gestured toward the bar across the street.
The four of them stood motionless in the shadows as two guys in jeans and leather jackets came out of the bar. They passed by on the other side of the street, arguing over whether Ron Santo or Ernie Banks was the most valuable member of the 1969 Cubs.
Lou waited, hand raised, until they turned the corner. Then he nodded.
Ray pulled the gate open. “Let’s do it.”
Gordie followed him in, shaking his head. “Remind me to get my head examined.”
A few minutes later, the chain back in place in such a way as to make the cut undetectable unless examined up close, the four of them headed onto the broad concrete ramp that spiraled up two floors and opened onto a corridor formed by a chain-link fence on either side. Above their heads was the night sky. They moved down the corridor to where it opened onto the center field bleachers about midway up the rows of benches.
The four of them stood in silence, staring at the field spread out below. The tarpaulin that covered the infield reflected a blurry image of the myriad stars overhead. Rising behind home plate and the dugouts were tiered decks of empty seats.
Lou scanned the outfield. He could make out the numerals 368 painted on the wall in right-center field. He turned. Looming behind them was the huge scoreboard. According to the clock near the top, it was now three minutes after two in the morning.
“Down,” Ray whispered.
They all kneeled.
“Where?” Gordie said.
“In the stands.” Ray pointed. “There.”
Down along the third-base side a beam of light swept across the empty seats.
Lou could just make out the profile of a heavy-set man walking along the aisle that separated the box seats from the reserved seats. He was moving down the third-base side toward home plate, sweeping his flashlight back and forth over the seats. He turned into an entranceway behind home plate and disappeared inside the stadium.
Ray stood up. “Okay.”
They followed Ray up the concrete steps toward the top row of the bleachers. He stopped directly beneath the scoreboard and turned toward them. A metal ladder hung down from the bottom of the scoreboard. With the flashlight beam, Gordie followed the ladder up to the trapdoor.
“There’s a lock,” Billy said.
“Not for long.” Ray turned to Gordie. “Let me have that flashlight.”
Gordie handed it to him. Ray clicked it off, put it in his pocket, and clambered up the ladder one-handed, holding the bolt-cutters in the other. Lou turned on his flashlight and trained it on the lock on the trapdoor as Ray positioned the cutters against the lock.
Snap.
Ray removed the lock and pushed against the trapdoor, which opened upward into the scoreboard. He took the flashlight out of his pocket, clicked it on, and climbed through the opening and out of sight.
A moment later, he poked his head out and smiled down at them. “C’mon up, boys. Water’s fine.”
Billy went up the ladder first, and then Gordie, who mumbled, “We must be nuts.”
Lou followed them up through the opening into the scoreboard. Once inside, he clicked on his flashlight and swung the beam around the interior. The trapdoor opened into the center of what at first resembled an empty metal shed three stories high. You could look straight up through thirty feet of open space to the ceiling.
As Lou’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out the elaborate configuration of the far wall. That was the wall facing the playing field—or, more precisely, the backside of the wall facing the playing field. The upper half consisted of a dozen or so horizontal rows of rectangles, broken in the middle by the backside of the large panels that flashed the balls, strikes, and outs. Those horizontal rows of rectangles were the places for posting the inning-by-inning results of the Cubs game and games around both leagues.
A metal stairway against the far left side of the front wall led up to a catwalk flush against the front wall. The catwalk was about midway up the scoreboard and ran the full length of the wall. It had guardrails and was maybe three feet wide. Lou could see that it was designed to give a person working the scoreboard access to three or four rows of the inning-by-inning slots. From that catwalk a second metal stairway led up to a second catwalk, also flush against the front wall closer to the top of the scoreboard. It gave access to the rows of slots not reachable from the lower catwalk.
As the others started climbing up the ladders toward the catwalks, Lou surveyed the ground floor. He’d worked one summer during college for the Missouri Highway Maintenance department, and the ground floor reminded him of the work shed where the crew returned for the lunch hour. A dusty water cooler stood near a battered card table on which playing cards were scattered. On the floor near the water cooler were three empty five-gallon Culligan’s water bottles. On the other side of the card table were a few Hefty bags filled with trash, a torn-open package of Jewel’s charcoal briquettes, a can of lighter fluid, a rusty hibachi, a dustpan, a broken fruit crate and an old broom.
He shook his head, amused. He could hear his daughter Katie’s words to him over the phone in the bar the prior night: Go for it, Daddy.
Smiling, he turned toward the back wall, which was the side of the scoreboard facing away from the field. Anchored to the floor along the entire length of the back wall were a row of large rectangular metal containers. Eight in all. Each stood about four feet high, six feet long, and three feet wide. The back side of each container stood a few inches higher than the front side, which meant the hinged lids slanted downward. Lou ran the flashlight beam over the container nearest him. The stenciled black letters on the lid read PROPERTY OF THE CHICAGO NATIONAL BASEBALL TEAM, INC. There was a padlock fastened to the clasp.
Overhead came a loud bang, and then a muffled, “Shit.”
Lou flashed the beam in the direction of the noise. Gordie was up on the first catwalk, his back to Lou, bending down.
“What the fuck was that?” Ray said. He was on the second catwalk, leaning over the guardrail to look down at Gordie.
Gordie turned and lifted a sheet of metal about the length and width of a small window. It was painted green and with a large numeral zero stenciled in white.
“This damn thing fell off,” Gordie said.
He turned back toward the wall to try to put it back in.
“Keep it quiet, for chrissakes,” Ray said.
Lou climbed up the stairs to help Gordie. The metal rectangle had literally fallen out of the front wall. Lou bent to peer through the opening. He was looking down at the center field bleachers and the playing field beyo
nd. He scanned the stands from the third-base side toward the first-base side. He spotted the security guard moving along the back row of seats on the first-base side.
Gordie said, “I think you have to turn these clasps to lock it back in.”
Lou helped Gordie align the sheet of metal. He held it against the slot while Gordie turned the metal clasps and locked it in place.
As Gordie moved on, Lou looked at the array of equipment on the first-level catwalk. Along the back edge was a slanted metal countertop that ran the length of the scoreboard. There were neat stacks of green metal rectangles along the countertop. The rectangles in each stack had a different numeral stenciled in yellow or white—a stack of yellow twos, and then a stack of white twos, and then yellow threes, and then white threes, and so on. In the middle of the catwalk were two battered chairs, presumably for the men operating the scoreboard. The chairs faced the front. On the small table between the two chairs was a black rotary telephone.
“Up here,” Ray called down. “Check it out.”
Lou and Gordie took the stairs up to the second-level catwalk. Billy was already up there, standing at the foot of a metal ladder in the middle of the catwalk. The ladder was bolted to the front wall of the scoreboard and ran up through an opening in the ceiling, where Ray’s legs had just disappeared. They followed him up the ladder.
Lou was last. He climbed through the opening and stepped onto the tar-papered roof of the scoreboard. The flagpole rose above them. A slight breeze made the slack flagpole ropes click against the metal.
Lou turned toward the field, but the view was blocked by a metal façade that rose above the roof of the scoreboard. He turned toward the east. Off in the distance, beyond the high-rise condos, was Lake Michigan. He could see the red lights of a tanker on the horizon. Down below, a southbound El train rumbled into the Addison station. Lou watched from above as the train’s doors clattered open. A young man stepped off the train, and then the doors clattered shut. With a metallic grunt, the train pulled out of the station, heading south down the tracks toward Belmont. As it picked up speed in the darkness, an occasional white spark illuminated the tracks.
“Maybe it’s in one of these,” Billy said.
He pointed at the two metal crates anchored on the roof and partly shielded from the elements by an overhang. Both crates were padlocked.
“Let’s find out,” Ray said.
He positioned the bolt-cutters against the padlock on one of the crates and snapped through the steel. Lou slipped off the lock and lifted up the hinged top, which made a rusty creaking noise. Gordie pointed the flashlight beam inside as Ray and Bill rifled through the contents. There was nothing in there but team pennants and a mildewed sheet of canvas.
Ray snapped the lock off the other crate. More pennants, along with about forty feet of nylon rope and a heavy tool kit filled with rusted tools.
“Damn.” Ray let the lid drop closed with a metallic bang.
“Now what?” Gordie asked.
Lou said, “There are several more of these containers down on the first floor.”
Moments later they were standing in front of the container on the far right side of the back wall. Ray cut through the lock and Lou pulled up the lid. Inside was a collection of dirty raincoats, a rusty teletype machine, and the furred, matted skeleton of an enormous rat.
The second container held more discarded odds and ends, including several leather Chicago Bears helmets—relics from the early years of the NFL—and a cardboard box filled with baseball gloves circa 1930. Lou was tempted to grab one for Kenny.
They paused in front of the third container. Like the other two, this one had the PROPERTY OF THE CHICAGO NATIONAL BASEBALL TEAM, INC. legend stenciled on the lid. But unlike the other two, beneath that legend, in red letters, were the words DO NOT DISTURB. Like the others, this container was padlocked. Unlike the others, this padlock was old and encrusted with rust.
Ray got the bolt-cutters into position and snapped through the lock. Lou twisted off the old lock and pulled back the latch. He tried to lift the lid.
“Give me a hand,” he said. “It’s rusted shut.”
Gordie and Ray joined him.
“Ready?” Ray crouched alongside them. “One, two, three.”
They strained in silence for a few seconds and then, with a metallic screech, the top popped free. It groaned as they lifted it. Billy shined the flashlight inside. The four of them stared at a large object that was wrapped in gray burlap and tied with several loops of rope. It took up almost the entire container, one end wider than the other.
“Holy shit,” Gordie said. “You think it’s her?”
Ray leaned into the container and wrapped his arms around the narrow end. He grimaced as he tried to lift it out. It didn’t budge.
“Thing is heavy,” he said.
Finally, with two of them crouching on the lids of the adjacent containers and using loops of rope for added leverage as the other two worked from the front, they were able to winch the thing out of the container and set it down heavily on its side. Carefully, they tilted it up until it stood on its base. Ray used his pocketknife to slice through the two loops of rope nearest the top. He and Lou pulled the burlap wrapping away from the top portion and stepped back.
Billy clicked on the flashlight.
Gordie finally broke the silence. “Wow.”
They were staring at the top half of Sirena’s head. It protruded from the burlap as far down as her nose. Illuminated by the flashlight, it was as if she were emerging, cold and stiff, from a tattered chrysalis. The beam of light reflected in her blank eyes.
Lou leaned back against the empty storage bin, arms crossed over his chest and shaking his head in wonder. He looked at Ray and smiled. “Wow is right.”
Ray nodded. “We need to get her the hell out of here. Fast and quiet.”
***
Almost thirty-five years ago, presumably in the wee hours of a night much like this one, Sirena made her stealthy ascent into the Wrigley Field scoreboard. And now, at 4:47 a.m. on the morning of June 11, 1994—after spending 12,771 days inside a locked metal container in that scoreboard—Sirena left through that same trapdoor, still in her burlap shroud.
Billy was the spotter at the foot of the ladder.
“Careful,” he called up softly.
Sirena swayed at the end of the nylon rope as she slowly descended. Gordie straddled the trapdoor opening and guided the ropes that Ray and Lou, standing behind him, were letting out hand over hand.
Billy reached up to steady the burlap-wrapped statute.
“Five more feet,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Four…three…two…slow…slow.”
She touched down with a gentle clunk. They tossed the rest of the ropes through the trapdoor and clambered down. Lou pulled the trapdoor shut.
“Get down,” Ray whispered, pointing toward a security guard in the grandstands near the bullpen in left field.
Fifteen long minutes passed as the security guard made his rounds and finally departed up the aisle behind home plate.
Ray tilted the statue back toward him. “Move it.”
No one spoke again until Lou had turned the van onto the southbound entrance to Lake Shore Drive at Irving Park. Sirena was stowed in back, still wrapped in burlap and now covered with a blanket.
“Holy shit,” Gordie said. “We did it.”
Lou turned to Ray. “Nice work, Captain.”
Ray grinned. “It only gets better.”
SCENE 47: THE HUTCHISON PRIZE - THE IDEA {Draft 3}:
CUT TO:
INT. DORM ROOM - NIGHT
Ray and Lou are in the outer room smoking a joint and listening to the Grateful Dead’s “Uncle John’s Band” on the stereo. Bronco is at his desk, headset on, underlining passages in his textbook with a yellow highlighter.
The door BURSTS OPEN. In steps a despondent Gordie Cohen.
RAY
(holding out the joint)
Hey, Gordo. Want a hit?
Gordie trudges past them into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
LOU
Shot down again.
RAY
(standing)
Gotta take a leak.
Ray leaves.
BILLY
(taking off his headset)
What’s wrong with Gordie?
LOU
Met a girl at the bookstore today. Asked her to meet him at the student union tonight. Looks like she didn’t show.
(holding out the joint)
You want some?
BILLY
(replacing his headset)
No, thanks.
Ray returns.
RAY
You ready for this? Reggie Pelham is standing in the shower stall. Guess what he’s doing?
LOU
Jacking off?
RAY
Worse. Practicing his speech for that Hutchison competition. Something about the architectural works of Thomas Jefferson.
LOU
Carrying on the grand tradition.
RAY
What tradition?
LOU
They’ve been giving out the Hutchison Oratory Prize since the 1920s. Jerry told me more than half the winners prepped at Choate. That’s why some folks call it the Choate Competition.
Gordie comes out of the bedroom, head shrouded in a towel, toothbrush in his hand. He leaves for the bathroom.
LOU
Gordie should enter that competition.
RAY
And do what? One of his comedy routines?
LOU
Exactly.
RAY
The Sirena Quest Page 14