Big League Dreams (Small Worlds)

by Allen Hoffman

  Ignoring Mack, Matti stood there, suddenly enlightened as to what the shadow in Dufer’s eyes was all about, why Dufer never seemed to be carousing with the other players on Friday nights, and why, for the last month, Penny had found it impossible to get off duty every Saturday night.

  “Don’t do anything foolish, Sirdy. There’s a lot of fish in the sea, believe me. And they’re all alike.” Mack tried to ease the pain and assure his twenty victories. He was only two short.

  “Thanks, Mack,” Matti said curtly and turned toward the showers.

  “Don’t mention my name to nobody,” Mack whispered.

  “Have I ever let you down?” Matti called over his shoulder.

  “Not you, Sirdy. No sir, not you!” Mack called back loudly, with a hearty conviction that he hoped would convince both of them.

  “No sir, not me,” Matti muttered to himself with bitter irony.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MATTI SHOWERED AND DRESSED QUICKLY. ON HIS WAY out of the clubhouse, he bumped into Dufer. Don’t get mad, Matti thought to himself, get even.

  “Dufer, what are you doing tonight?” he asked innocently.

  “Not too much,” the near-twenty-game winner answered.

  Matti studied Dufer for nervousness, uneven voice, or any of the other telltale signs of prevarication.

  “I thought you might want to join me at my mother’s for supper tonight. Some good home cooking might be what you need before tomorrow.”

  “Gee, thanks, Sirdy. She’s a great cook, too. You bet she is, but I thought I’d better take it real easy tonight so I’ll be ready for the Tigers. They’re a rough bunch.”

  “All right, we’ll make it some other time.”

  “Sure thing, Sirdy. I’d appreciate that. Give your mother my best.”

  “Sure,” Matti said and continued on his way. He was impressed. No doubt about it, the witless Dufer Rawlings had carried it off perfectly. He could lie as well as he could pitch, a real all-around natural.

  Dufer had never turned down a free meal before, much less a home-cooked one. Matti was embarrassed. He was so smart, and he still wanted to believe that it wasn’t so. Matti wondered whether Dufer could tell a cheating lie like that to one of the other players. Was it so easy because “Sirdy” was a Jew? If a small Jew had no business with a lovely Christian Miss Pinkham, then Dufer was neither cheating nor betraying but rather upholding the laws of decency and nature. After all, Matti reminded himself, as the Talmud puts it, he who steals from a thief is not culpable.

  The way his Jewishness was showing was not lost on Matti. The next thing you know, he would be running around with the nutty old Krimsker Rebbe and dancing with the Osage Indians instead of playing ball against the ones from Cleveland.

  But the interesting question of Dufer’s attitude toward Sirdy’s Jewishness would have to be filed away for investigation at a later date. Matti had to decide a more immediate and crucial question: how much money could he safely put down on the Tigers for tomorrow’s game without any chance of getting caught? Greed, Matti knew, was his enemy as well as his ally. If it weren’t for greed, he would never be doing such a thing, but if he tried to reap too great a profit, then someone somewhere would become suspicious.

  Matti liked his chances up to ten thousand dollars, the sum total of his parents’ savings from fifteen years in the butcher shop and the money Matti himself had managed to save from his paltry baseball salary. In fact, ten thousand dollars was five times his annual salary as second-string catcher for the St. Louis Browns. The money would have to be bet at four or five different places so it should not attract too much attention. Yes, that was a good round figure. Large enough to be interesting to Matti, but small enough not to be very interesting to anyone else.

  If the syndicate were fixing things, they would make a fortune. After all, the rich get richer. Matti was not rich yet, although deep in his heart, he was certain that in America Matti Sternweiss was destined to die wealthy. He had always been a master of strategy, and now the clever attack had ten thousand dollars written on it, no more.

  In fairness to the syndicate, if it weren’t for their suggestion, he might never have attempted what had come to seem so obvious. On their last road trip to New York, he had been approached by an ex-fighter, Abe Levin, whose name had since popped up in the rumors about last year’s World Series. He was reputed to be well connected with the Arnold Rothstein gambling syndicate. Levin told Matti that he was interested in using him for “charity” and invited him to be his guest for dinner at a folksy Jewish restaurant, where he introduced him around as if he were Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig rolled into one.

  As barefaced as it was, Matti had enjoyed the flattery and adulation. Over coffee, Levin asked what he thought of the Series the year before. Matti and everyone else in the American League knew that last year’s Series wasn’t on the level, but all he answered was that the Cincinnati victory came as quite a surprise. His host answered laconically, “Not to everyone.” Yes, Matti said that he had heard that, too, but what about the rumored grand jury investigation in Chicago? Might not indictments come as quite a surprise, too? “Not to everyone,” Levin admitted. He added contritely that the whole business had been very sloppy, but in spite of that, they weren’t going to get anyone higher than the players. Levin’s joyous certainty that only the little fish would wind up in the net seemed an unsavory augury to Matti. The coffee suddenly tasted as bitter as a prison term.

  “I’m a second-string catcher,” he responded.

  “No, not now. Since Swede got hurt, you’re first string, but if you don’t collect now for turning the club into a winner, you never will.” Levin had hammered the table for justice.

  The whole thing was idiotic. Half the Chicago White Sox team was under investigation. Given the character and education of the simple farm boys, under any sort of severe direct examination they were sure to crack. Especially if the rumors of a double cross were true. One rumor had it that the syndicate never came through with the remainder of the dough. The other, that the former first baseman, Chick Gandil, didn’t deliver to his own teammates. Either way, Chick was in trouble; everybody had him on the other team.

  “You want Chick to have a minyan in Alcatraz?” Matti asked.

  “Too many were involved, and they were stepping on each other’s toes. But with the Browns’ bozo pitchers, you can control the game. With just one man in one game—you. Nothing bad can happen.”

  Matti looked at him noncommittally, then shook his head. “It’s not for me,” he said.

  “There’s a lot of money in it,” Levin promised.

  Matti shook his head again.

  “In advance, and it would be a game against a good club. One that would be favored over the Browns anyway. We aren’t talking about a risky long shot; we’re talking about a sure thing. No one would suspect a thing.”

  “No, it’s not for me.”

  “Why not?” Levin asked in earnest disappointment that suggested poor Matti just did not realize what a true and righteous friend Abe Levin could be.

  “Baseball’s been good to me,” Matti said in quiet simplicity.

  “It could be better,” the ex-fighter rejoined enthusiastically, as if he were upping the bids.

  “I hope so,” said Matti with an innocent smile that said he wanted no part of it. “Thank you for supper, Mr. Levin,” he added.

  “Abe, call me Abe. Sure, kid. And they say you’re the smartest man in baseball,” Levin said in bitter jest.

  Matti shrugged modestly, as if to suggest that it was not his problem. That was for others to decide.

  On the teeming streets of the Jewish Lower East Side, Matti thought to himself that baseball had been good to him—but not good enough for him to marry Miss Penny Pinkham. Abe Levin made sense. Especially the part about the Browns’ bozo pitchers and one man in one game. Only one part didn’t make sense; Matti didn’t need Abe Levin, a proven incompetent and an admitted fair-weather friend. Matti could do it alone
with much less risk. He went down the street whistling like—well, like ten thousand bucks.

  Even as he jauntily counted his projected winnings that night, he was aware that the fix involved some risk. Matti could never go to any bookmaker and bet against his own team. Nor could he send someone who would be recognized as his agent. He trusted his cousin Herbie, who had taken over his father’s butcher shop, but the only book where Herbie could place a sizable bet knew that he was Matti’s first cousin. Matti needed someone who bet often enough so that he would be a welcome customer in any number of shops. Ideally, he should be a foolish, unsuccessful bettor whose thousand or two on a favored team would not change the odds and whose winning would be attributed to dumb luck. After all, any dummy could bet on a favorite. Above all, it had to be someone whom Matti could trust and control.

  Finding him had proven more difficult than Matti had thought, but Matti had been patient. He had always been patient—until he met Miss Penny Pinkham. But even though Penny was the initial stimulus for this wild project, Matti kept calm. He had no desire to become the cantor in Chick Gandil’s synagogue behind bars. When Matti had almost despaired of finding the right man, it came to him in a flash. The perfect accomplice had been there all along under his very Krimsker nose.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE AMERICAN METAMORPHOSIS OF BARASCH LIMP LEGS fascinated all of Krimsk in St. Louis; even Matti succumbed to the general interest. In Krimsk the cripple had been the model of self-effacing, sober loyalty, a veritable human watchdog at Beryl Soffer’s match factory. He had even remained at the match factory for several years after the rebbe had led the migration from Krimsk. Then Boruch Levi had sent his sister Malka a fine dowry, enough money for a first-rate wedding and passage for the new couple to America. To everyone’s surprise, Barasch Limp Legs accepted the proposal and appeared in St. Louis on the bride’s beefy arm.

  Barasch arrived in Beryl Soffer’s old hand-me-down clothing, looking like the Barasch Limp Legs of old, but almost immediately a new, unimagined personality emerged. A gambling, womanizing, drinking dandy, he always wore a tie and a vest with a gold watch chain, and he specialized in the houndstooth check patterns favored by lively young bachelors and drummer salesmen. In addition, he sported a neat derby that managed to stay on his head through the bobbing gyrations of his unchanged gait. There were limits to New World magic; in America he remained a cripple, but even that no longer seemed so disabling, and it certainly did not appear ludicrous, merely unfortunate.

  In Krimsk, where he had always wanted to please, his sycophantic actions had appeared horsey, grotesque, foolish, and awkward. In St. Louis he did not try to curry anyone’s favor; as befitted one on the frontier, he was very much his own man and after his own fashion took to heart Jefferson’s Declaration of Independence: he loved life, reveled in liberty, and pursued happiness. Enjoying the good things in life with a frolicsome verve, he exhibited a patrician detachment, a particularly American aristocratic mien.

  There were moments when a crippled foreigner pursuing his pleasures might meet with laughter, even ridicule, but he refused to let such things wound him. He treated such incidents with a dignity and distance that gave little pleasure to his persecutors. He had that invulnerability that protects the aristocrat in the marketplace: he is believed to be different by his possession of some unique knowledge of life, and therefore the normal standards—and barbs—are inappropriate.

  This dignity never deserted him, even in the most undignified situations. In bordellos, he was continuously drawn as if by an unseen magnet to any wispy blond young woman; such a female reminded him of his Krimsk employer’s wife, Faigie Soffer. The delicate midwestern women who stirred this remembrance were treated to a rare gentility. Only at that brutally sensitive moment when the wave of passion receded, giving way to remorse and memory’s bitter return, did Barasch lose his composure and moan, “Faigie, Faigie! Oy, yoy, yoy.”

  The providers of his pleasure and pain were offended to have the truth told that they were the wrong persons and further insulted to have it uttered over their naked bodies in such Old World melancholy. On his future visits they would exact their revenge by greeting him with, “Want to make a little ‘Faigie, Faigie, oy, yoy, yoy?’ ” Even that taunting Barasch could handle with a distant, gentle, honest dignity; that was, after all, what he wanted. And if he did not return, those blond, wispy women missed him and envied the mysterious Faigie, for he was a strong, respectful lover, and very, very gentle. “Faigie, Faigie, oy, yoy, yoy.” Yes, that was their Bernard.

  Although he responded to “Barasch,” he called himself Bernard. Local Krimskers, naturally, continued to call him “Barasch” to his face (Matti, of course, very calculatingly called him Bernard), but behind his back, he became known as “Bernard Limp Legs.” Had he heard the nickname, it would not have bothered him; it would be their problem, not his. Krimskers called him “Bernard Limp Legs” not as a nasty jibe so much as a well-earned tribute. They were rooting for him. He was living, drinking, whoring, gambling, elegant proof that they had come to the right place at the right time. You want to know what America is? Just look at our Bernard Limp Legs! God bless America!

  Matti shared this enthusiasm and had been delighted with the idea of having the most amazing New World success of the older generation as his betting accomplice. With his dignity and humane charm, coupled with his unabashed pursuit of gentlemanly vices and that awful wife, Malka, Barasch was the perfect partner. Or so it had seemed.

  Matti gave Barasch a few tips on which games the bookmakers’ odds might be beaten at. More often than not he was correct, but to Matti’s surprise, Barasch did not get very excited about winning. Matti was perplexed; unlike every other man he knew who loved to gamble, the results neither elated nor distressed Barasch. The act of gambling itself seemed to fulfill him, and his lack of success proved it. Behind Malka’s back, Barasch bet small amounts on baseball without the least understanding of the game, much less of the teams playing any given game. Barasch’s betting on baseball was the equivalent of another man’s buying a lottery ticket. With one important exception, however: people purchase lottery tickets in the hope of winning.

  Why, Matti wondered, did Barasch gamble? Perhaps the thrill lay in Malka’s disapproval. She didn’t mind his going to prostitutes; she even supplied him with the money. This aspect of their relationship shocked Matti as deeply as it did most of the local Krimskers. But, Matti reasoned, if slovenly Malka laughed slyly at Barasch’s other women, his drinking, and his dress, those other endeavors might not provide the essential ingredient that gambling did—the piquant thrill of cheating on his suffocatingly vulgar, possessive wife.

  Matti suggested to Barasch that together, with his information and Barasch’s placing of the bets, they could make a real killing. At the word “killing,” Barasch blanched, as if Matti had suggested that they commit a real murder.

  “I thought you might want some money so you could afford your own pleasure without having to depend on your wife,” Matti said.

  “No, I couldn’t do that. Malka works so hard for us,” Barasch explained, a statement that thoroughly dumbfounded Matti and left him in despair.

  Matti had pretty much given up the whole project when early one morning, his phone rang. Half asleep, he answered, and a voice that at first he did not recognize asked him, “Is that young, slight blond nurse the reason you need so much money?”

  Caught off guard by the early hour and by Barasch’s earnestness, Matti answered truthfully.

  “Then I think we have to get your project moving,” Barasch replied.

  Matti never understood why Penny Pinkham should have had such an electrifying effect on Barasch. So far as he knew, Barasch had never even spoken to her. But Barasch was now burning to fix the game, although Matti could not convince him to put down any of his own money on the sure thing.

  Barasch maniacally insisted that whenever Matti called him, he use rigamarole code words about Krimsk such as “the match f
actory,” “Krimichak,” and “Froika’s violin.” In fact, at times Matti feared that Penny Pinkham had entered Barasch’s head and unhinged his mind. At such moments, Matti suddenly thought he was glimpsing the clownish Barasch Limp Legs of Krimsk. Barasch’s magical transformation seemed to unravel right before Matti’s eyes. Matti remained convinced that Barasch’s honesty and dedication—his Krimsk hallmarks with Beryl Soffer—would serve him equally well with his new American master, but these strange developments made Matti uncomfortable. He felt relieved that he was about to put their plan into motion. Yes, he had better find a private phone to make the fateful call. The sooner they finished with this, the better for both of them.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AS MATTI ENTERED A GRILL ACROSS THE STREET FROM the ballpark, the proprietor greeted him warmly. A combination of nerves and nine innings behind home plate contributed to a dry throat. He had sipped over a quart of cool water in the locker room, but what he really felt like having was a cold beer. Downstairs, they had a speakeasy.

  Prohibition puzzled Matti; it was one of the few things that made him feel alien, even like a worldly European. Instead of serving beer upstairs, as they always had in the clean, bright, well-ventilated grill, they all ran to drink it in a dark, dirty basement at twice the price—like little children closing their eyes and playing blind man’s buff.

  Could America be so simple? Perhaps, Matti had thought, they are so simple that they don’t hate the Jews. Prohibition had amused him; suddenly it did so no longer. Matti was annoyed and not very tolerant of America’s “noble experiment.” After his conversation with Penny, Americans no longer seemed so childlike and innocent. It was worldly Matti who had been going around with his eyes closed, stumbling about like a fool. Matti sensed that if he opened his eyes to Prohibition, it would be more than a silly inconvenience; it would be something ominously corrupt that not only infested the subterranean darkness but also spread it.