Dead Ball

by R. D. Rosen

  “I know you probably don’t want to delve into the past,” Harvey said. He laid his old leather briefcase—a birthday present from Mickey many years before—on top of his thighs. An air conditioner over his shoulder sounded like it had emphysema.

  She plopped into an armchair, saying, “Edward’s dead”—as though those two words were all that needed to be said on the subject of the past and the putting of it in its place. “Can I get you something to drink? Hell can’t be any hotter than Georgia in July.”

  “I’m fine. Thank you, ma’am—”

  “Connie to you, young man.”

  “All right then, Connie, I’ll get right to the point.” Out of his briefcase he slid a Kinko’s copy of the eight-by-ten and propped it up on his lap for Connie Felker to see. “I need to know who the man in this photograph is.”

  “I’ve been through this, dear. I don’t know who he is.”

  “No idea?”

  “If I knew, don’t you think I would’ve told Charles Fathon at GURCC? I gave them the damn photos, hoping they’d know who the other guy is.”

  Harvey nodded. “I assumed that, of course, but I wanted to ask you myself.”

  “Ed had a lot of associations in those days I knew nothing about. He’d go out most nights and run around with friends he’d never bring home and introduce me to. He had another life, and other women, for all I know.” It sounded memorized, like a stump speech.

  “As far as you know, who were his best friends?”

  “The only ones I ever saw him with were two old high school pals, Dave Womack and Jimmy Schott.”

  The sheriff’s report indicated they had both been interviewed during the investigation in 1971 and were either not talking or didn’t know anything. They had strong alibis and were never under suspicion. “Where can I get hold of them now?” Harvey asked.

  “Oh, I’d have no idea. My recollection is that they both left this area shortly after Ed’s trial. When Ed went away, that changed life for them around here.”

  “Their families still around?”

  “I imagine their folks are dead and buried by now. I don’t know who’s left.”

  Harvey despaired of finding Womack and Schott after all this time without a major effort, and he doubted they’d have any more to say than they did before.

  “Connie, does the name Cubberly mean anything to you?”

  She thought for only a second before shaking her head. “Sorry.”

  “Can I ask you why you provided an alibi for Ed on the night of the lynching?”

  “Why the hell not?” she said. “He was my husband, after all, and he asked me to, and in those days I did what he asked. If I didn’t, he’d pop me one.”

  “He’d hit you?”

  “Sure as you’re sitting right there.”

  “Was he active in the Klan at the time?”

  “Well, his daddy had been the Exalted Cyclops of the Snellville Klavern until about a year before we were married, when he had a bad accident and lost the use of his legs, so Ed was brought up in that environment. But was he active during the first two years of our marriage before that thing he went and did? Yes, I’m sure he was, but I never knew to what extent.”

  “The sheriff’s report included an undercover cop’s statement saying Ed had a spotty attendance record at Snellville Klavern meetings.” He was probably one of those rednecks who operated in the shadowy world between the law and official Klan activities.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Connie Rush said.

  “Would you know—can you remember if Ed seemed to you at the time to need to prove anything to anybody?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, young man. Ed usually didn’t say boo to me.”

  “Did he mention to you at the time that Isaac Pettibone had been promoted at the store?”

  “I believe he did.”

  “Was he upset about it?”

  “Well,” Connie said, picking at the fabric on the arm of the chair, “I don’t believe that I ever told this to the sheriff’s people at the time, but he did complain about it and—I’m using his words now—he said some nigger at work was being made a salesman and making almost as much as he did.”

  “Did he say that other whites at the store were upset?”

  “Not specifically, but you can probably bet they were.”

  “You remember the names of his coworkers, besides Isaac Pettibone?”

  “No, dear. And I don’t believe Allison Brothers is still in business.”

  “It’s not,” Harvey said. “It went out of business in nineteen-seventy-nine.”

  “Well, I know the sheriff’s people talked to everyone who worked at the store.”

  “That’s right, they did,” Harvey said, looking up now at the photo on the wall. “Who’s that with you in the picture?”

  “That’s my friend Reggie. He’s shaved that beard off. I told him he looked like a dust ball with teeth. He’s a good-looking man, and I wanted folks to know that.”

  “What’s he do for a living?”

  “You just don’t stop asking questions, young man, do you?”

  “Connie,” he said, “it’s a little like eating those smoked almonds for me. Once I get going, I can’t stop.”

  She smiled. Harvey was surprised at how nice her teeth were, and they weren’t false ones. “Anyway, he owns a couple of service stations.”

  “Was that picture taken around here?”

  “At my lake house.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Oh, it’s just a little bitty cottage about fifteen miles from here. I should be there right now in this heat, but I had some errands to run.”

  “Well, I’m sure glad I caught you in.”

  “I don’t think I’ve told you anything you didn’t already know, dear.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Are you sure I can’t fix you some iced tea?” She braced her hands on the arms of the chair.

  “I’m sure.

  She lowered herself back in the chair, disappointed.

  “Anyway, your kids must enjoy having a place on the lake,” he said.

  “I don’t have any children.”

  “No?”

  “No. After the business with Ed, I didn’t feel like doing anything with a man, least of all making a baby. And then the time just got away from me, and I never did find the man I wanted to have children with until it was too late. Reggie’s got a couple of boys in their twenties, though, and they come down to the lake to ski quite a bit.”

  “Reggie keeps a boat there, does he?”

  “The boat’s mine.”

  “Then you’ve done all right, haven’t you?”

  “Things sometimes work out all right, don’t they? The good Lord sees to it.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Harvey said, slipping the photo back in his briefcase, latching it, and rising slowly from his chair. “I can imagine that after a long week of work it’s great to head out to the lake for the weekend.”

  Connie Rush rose too, saying, “I retired a few years ago.”

  “You did?” Harvey poured on the incredulity. “Connie, you don’t look anywhere near old enough to even be thinking about retiring.”

  “I put my time in.”

  “Where was that?”

  She put her little hands on her hips. “Well, dear, I sold notions at the Snellville five-and-dime, I set hair in three counties, and for a while I had my own gift shop.”

  “Good Lord, you’ve been busy.” He walked toward the front door ahead of Connie Rush, past a wall-mounted shelf of china dogs. Connie’s two real ones leaped into action, taunting Harvey’s shoes.

  “Queenie! Prince! Shoo!”

  “Why did you give the photos to the Georgia Unsolved Race Crimes Clearinghouse?” he asked her at the door.

  “I’m trying to get washed in the blood of the lamb. I can’t believe I married that man. The things we do when we’re young.”

  “It takes us a long time to learn about li
fe.”

  “You said it.”

  “You know, you have the prettiest smile.”

  “Honey, you’re too young and good-looking to be interested in me, so I’ll just take that as the innocent compliment I guess it’s intended to be.”

  Harvey pulled off the road a few miles from Connie Rush’s place and dialed the number of Southern Bell. After fighting off five or six recorded instructions, he got a human being on the other end of the line and said, “I’ve lost my phone bill and wondered if you could tell me what the payment due date is on it. The name’s Chirmside. Clay Chirmside.” He spelled it and gave Chirmside’s home number.

  “Payment’s due on August one. Seventy-seven dollars and ninety-four cents.”

  “So I’m up to date on my payments?”

  “You’re showing no previous balance.”

  “One more thing. I can’t remember if my long-distance charges are included on your bill.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Because my son made a call or two that I want him to pay for out of his own pocket. Can you tell me just looking at the screen there if he’s been calling New England? You know these kids.”

  “I can’t access that information, but I’ll be happy to send a duplicate bill to your house.”

  “How about faxing me a copy at work?” He fumbled for Fathon’s business card in his pocket.

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t do that, but if I send you a duplicate, you should get it in a couple of days.”

  “No, that’s all right. Thanks much.”

  “You have a good day now.”

  Next he called the Athens town hall, posing as a new resident, and found out that garbage pickup day was Thursday. It was now Sunday, July 28. Thursday would be August 1. Assuming that Clay Chirmside paid his telephone bill on time and that, like most earthlings, he no longer bothered to keep his itemized phone bills, Wednesday night would be a good night to be in the vicinity of 1719 Crosby Road in Athens, Georgia.

  Then he called Fathon.

  “Charlie?” Harvey said when Fathon picked up the phone at his house. “Or Charles, as Connie likes to call you.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “People lie to me left and right.”

  “That bad?”

  “But one thing I know is that Clay Chirmside isn’t writing a piece for Talk magazine, or any magazine for that matter.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “You ought to run a simple check on these freelancers, Charlie. I don’t mean to chastise you.”

  “Well, shit, I feel like a dentist with bad teeth. None of us thought anything about it. Writers come through here all the time. What was he doing?”

  “Trying to steal the picture of the other fellow in the Pettibone case. Says a mysterious man hired him anonymously over the phone, never gave his name, paid him in cash by mail. Chirmside can’t remember the postmark.”

  “Goddamn. How’d you get that much out of him?”

  “Five hundreds and twenty-five twenties.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Not if you’re interested in finding the guy in the photo. Are you?”

  “Well, when you told me Maurice’s lady friend thought he looked familiar, my interest went from virtually nothing to fairly lively. Now I think it’s spiking.”

  “All right, then, I need a little favor. You ever do much sanitation work?”

  “Sanitation work?”

  “I need you or one of your people to collect a little garbage from Chirmside’s curb this Wednesday night.”

  “You think one of his lies is that he never called the man back?”

  “I’m looking for area codes in Rhode Island, Boston, and southern Massachusetts, and maybe eastern Connecticut.”

  “I’ll have to put one of the white boys on it.”

  “Yeah, of course. Now his phone bill is due on Thursday. Garbage gets picked up on his street Thursday morning, so he’ll probably put it out Wednesday night, but I can’t be sure. Could be an all-night stakeout. I’d do it myself, except I’m nervous about leaving Moss alone too long.” If he flew out of Atlanta today, he could meet the team in Chicago for their Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday set against the White Sox.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to Maurice,” Fathon said. It was halfway between a question and a statement of fact.

  “Of course not. Charlie, can you also run the plates on the Buick Le Sabre in Connie’s driveway? I want to make sure it’s hers. I’d also be interested if there’s a lien on it. I’d also be interested in whether she owns or rents her place in Smyrna.” He gave Fathon the license plate number and her address. “Will you do that for me?”

  “Hell, yeah. This is getting exciting.”

  “Well, don’t go calling any press conferences, Charles. Listen, I’ll probably be in Chicago for the next few days with the team. You’ve got my cell phone number, right?”

  “That’s not all I’ve got. You left your toothbrush on the sink this morning.”

  “Keep it,” Harvey said, “as a token of my appreciation for your fine hospitality.”

  21

  “LET ME SHAKE THE hand of the man who shook the hand of history.”

  Moss Cooley, who was waiting his turn in the batting cage at Comiskey Park before the opener Monday night against the White Sox, took Norman Blissberg’s hand and said, “Thank you, man.”

  “Don’t mind my brother if he’s a little inappropriately poetic,” Harvey said. “Too much academia.” Their conversation was punctuated by the drumbeat of bats hitting batting practice pitches.

  “Don’t mind my brother if he’s a little flip.” Norm, almost fifty now, an inflated, nearsighted version of his little brother in an ill-fitting herringbone sport coat and a dark blue novelty tie bearing schematic drawings of demolished major-league baseball parks, touched his little rectangular eyeglasses. “Sometimes I don’t think he shows the proper respect for the game—or the men who actually accomplish something in it.”

  “Norm, this is the last time I get you a field pass. From now on, you can sit home and watch the goddamn White Sox on TV.”

  Norm laughed. “C’mon, Harv, it weren’t for you, I’d have no one to irritate.” He gave a Gallic shrug for Cooley’s benefit. “My son’s in college, and my wife doesn’t care anymore.”

  “It’s nice when siblings can do things for each other,” Harvey said, watching a group of Providence Jewels, including Cubberly, play pepper down the right-field line. After his thirty-six hours in Atlanta, baseball looked strange to him—more like the national distraction than its pastime.

  Norm leaned closer to Moss. “Just tell me my baby brother’s taking good care of you.”

  “I’m still here, aren’t I?” Moss said, not looking at either of them, but surveying the sparsely populated stands. “Though your brother’s friend in New York was a welcome change in bodyguards. This guy Zarg didn’t talk so much.”

  “Moss, I had to get away from you for a day or two. Being around so much greatness was getting to me.” Harvey’s heart wasn’t in the banter; he was on automatic pilot.

  Moss cackled. “Exactly how I felt about being around so much mediocrity.”

  “You won’t be saying that when I bust this case open.”

  “Poor Harvey,” Norm muttered. “Never feels he gets enough credit.”

  “Now, now, boys,” Moss said over his shoulder as Craig Venora stepped out of the batting cage and Moss moved in to take his cuts. “I hate to see grown men bicker.”

  Without an audience, Harvey and Norm dropped their timeworn routine.

  “So,” Norm said, “you’re going to ‘bust this case open’?”

  “My old ex-FBI friend Jerry Bellaggio got me the name of the guy that the bureau uses for computer age-imaging. I sent him a print of the photo of the second lyncher. In a couple of days, maybe I’ll have the picture of a man I recognize.”

  Harvey had let Norm take him out for an early dinner at Greek Islands on Halsted b
efore the game, so Norm was more or less up to speed.

  They watched in mute admiration for a moment as Moss launched a shot over the 375-foot sign in left center.

  “The man’s a god,” Norm said. “Jesus, I’d hate to be the ball when he’s hitting.”

  “You’re so goddamn literary, Norm.”

  “Incredible mechanics.” Norm turned his head and spat copiously on the grass. Stepping onto a major-league ball field had a way of making grown men salivate. “You think Cooley’s out of the woods?”

  “I’m more worried about his girlfriend. She’s the one who thought she’d seen the guy.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Harv, but whoever it is can’t stop the process now by stopping her, right?”

  “It only matters what the guy thinks he can do. He may be desperate enough to want to do anything. Wouldn’t you if you thought you were about to be plucked out of your life and thrown into prison for eternity?”

  “What did you say she did for a living, this—what’s her name?”

  “Cherry Ann, and I didn’t say. But she’s a culinary school student in Providence. She moonlights as a stripper.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “And keep it to yourself.”

  “Moss Cooley dates a stripper?”

  “She’s not a trivial person, Norm.”

  “It’s so corny. Although it’s true I once had a Ph.D. candidate who worked as a dominatrix to pay her tuition.”

  “There you go. Anyway, I try not to pass judgment on other people’s relationships. You’ll notice I’ve never said one word about your twenty-five-year marriage to Linda.”

  “And I know my marriage is the poorer for it.” Cooley launched another long-range missile into the left-field seats. “You’re not worried about someone shooting Cooley from the stands?”

  “No one’s stupid enough to shoot someone in front of thirty thousand potential witnesses.”

  “Thirty thousand?” Norm said. “When’s the last time the White Sox drew thirty thousand?”

  Harvey laughed. “And we’re not even going to be among them, Norm, because, as a special treat for you, I got press box passes for tonight.”

  “You do love me.”

  “Hey, Blissberg!” someone shouted behind him. Harvey turned and saw Andy Cubberly walking toward the cage with two bats in his hand.