The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant

by Tee Morris

  “Well, I heard from Pamela that you met this…fellow…at the door, walked arm and arm with him…”

  “How could I have done that, Trevor? He was a Dwarf, like that stupid circus clown my dad hired to be here.”

  “Well, yeah,” he muttered, “but Pamela said—”

  “Maybe you should have gone out with her tonight!” she spat. “Sounds like you two get along swimmingly!”

  So I made an impression on her circles in my visit here back in ’29. Now, there was something quite flattering in that. And from Eva’s reaction to her date’s curiosity, she’d been explaining herself ever since.

  Nice to know I had gotten in the last word, after all.

  Chapter Three

  Batter Up, Billi Boy

  The sky was playing tricks with me. I could swear the cerulean blue expanse high above drew back further and further the longer I stared at it. There was enough of a spring chill that I wore a coat, but nothing so heavy that I would be suffering through the afternoon. If my seat was somewhere in direct sunlight, I probably wouldn't even need it. The light breeze, the crispness in the air, and that clear blue stretching upward the way Kiki Cuyler would when denying Buster Chatam that in-field homer the Braves so desperately needed for a win—it was that same euphoria I felt after stepping through an enchanted portico, emerging from between pillars into a realm leagues away from where I had been. This time, the portal was not made by the hands of Elves, skilled sorcerers, or even malicious warlocks, but by the hands of man. This was a day of days, and once in the embrace of Wrigley Field there would be no talk of the Crash. That world was gone, at least for the next nine innings. For the afternoon, reality was defined by a flawless diamond, the battlefield for gladiators of this realm and the far-off shire of Baltimore, their weapons crafted of wood, leather, twine and canvas.

  Did I happen to mention that I love this game?

  After a day of Waldorf gigs, this was exactly what I needed. (Actually, this was a dream come true—a case that required me to go to ball games.) The seats offered by McCarthy were a real treat. Fit for kings and queens, or at least high nobles, right along the base line. Sadly, Miranda had given me that look when I extended her the invitation. Suddenly there were things needing her immediate attention at the office.

  It was her loss, and not just because she was missing out on the charming company that would have graced her afternoon. My vantage point was exceptional, close enough to see the afternoon sheen of sweat on Charlie Grimm’s neck as he warmed up on First Base. That battlement was his post for the day, and I could catch the fierce glint in his eye that said he would defend his corner of the field right down to the final pitch. Sure, that should be every player’s attitude before any game, but Charlie had that look my boys harbored before a charge. Catching glimpses of the players going in and out of the dugouts, I could see that everyone had that stare: the sharp, intense look of wanting—not planning or hoping, but a deeply-seeded wanting—to kill anything that got in their way.

  I didn’t think that my Cubs would be taking any lives today, but I ventured a safe assumption that they were determined to put the rookies from out east in their proper place. They were also probably looking for a spot of redemption. The Cubbies had just finished a four-day stretch with the New York Giants, three of those games ending in big, fat losses. Now they were facing the league’s latest addition, the new team everyone was talking about. The Cubs weren’t hungry for a win. They were ravenous.

  “Hey, mac,” the voice spoke from behind me, “you, uh, Billi Baddings?”

  I turned around to see a pair of pages of the Wrigley manor, their outfits neatly pressed and clean, yet to be stained with the wares they would peddle throughout the day. Both were carrying sodas and hot dogs, the sight of the food reminding me that I was getting a little hungry. A pair of binoculars hung around the neck of the guy talking to me.

  “Mr. McCarthy wanted to make sure you found your seats okay,” he said pleasantly, handing me the dog and drink. He removed the binoculars and set them underneath my seat. “On the house, Mr. Baddings.”

  “I appreciate it,” I said, tucking the drink between my legs. I glanced at the other guy still holding on to the unclaimed dog and drink. “Tell you what—on your way back up, pass that grand meal you got there to the first kid you see in the stands.”

  “Sure,” the second page replied.

  Yeah, any extra points I can score with the Fates are good points, if you ask me.

  I went to tip them, but the lead page merely help up a hand and shook his head, “Like I said, Mr. Baddings: on the house. You’re a guest of the Cubs, and I was told to make sure you were treated like one.” With a tip of the hat, he left me in my prime seat, the surrounding ticket holders asking me in silence, “Who died and made you Emperor?”

  “What?” I barked at one guy who refused to break his stare. “A guy low to the ground can’t have friends in high places?”

  He blinked at me for a second before turning back in his seat to watch the Cubbies warm up.

  My salivary glands exploded at the delightful taste of mustard, ketchup, and relish adorning the hot dog. This culinary delight of the Cubs was easily the equal of roast pheasant, honey basted and stuffed with cheese, wild rice, and assorted vegetables. The dogs of Wrigley Field, especially on game day like this, were a delicacy for the refined palette. Taking a swig of the Coca-Cola, I smiled and gave a little moan of delight. This was the only way to enjoy a ball game. A win for my beloved Cubs would make this day perfect.

  There was a smattering of applause as the Baltimore Mariners took the field. On first sight, they didn’t look all that imposing. They were sporting sharp uniforms with a fancy “B” monogram on the sleeve and the word “Mariners” in the same type arching across the chest. Very nice. These Mariners definitely had the look of a ball team with their act together. Their owner clearly loved the team and spared no expense.

  I gave a defiant snort as I sat back and took another bite out of my hot dog. What was I thinking? Money ain’t everything. You can’t buy yourself a team.

  The rumbling of the near-capacity crowd was now interrupted with occasional snaps of baseballs hitting gloves. I watched Charlie, Footsie, Doc, and Chick appearing to stretch out while they took stock of the visiting team. They weren’t working very hard to conceal their interest in these rookies. They would stretch, then stop and stare for way too long. Stretch, stare for too long. Stretch, stare…well, you get the idea. If I hadn’t known Joe’s issues with the Baltimore Mariners, I would have thought that over half of the Chicago Cubs were pining for the visiting rookies.

  The general banter crackled over the anxious afternoon crowd, introducing teams and making announcements. I was about halfway through my soda when I heard the call for Wrigley Field to stand for the playing of the Star-Spangled Banner. Hats off. Eyes on Old Glory. Maybe I’d not spilt any blood for this country; but I understood the honors, the presentation of colors, and the respect these ceremonies carry.

  I was standing on my chair, but no one seemed to care or snicker over it. In fact, I think I caught a few nods of approval. “The short guy just wants a better look at the Stars and Stripes,” they probably thought. And they would have been right. I could have seen the flag regardless, but I knew that by standing on the chair I would have a better look at it.

  I was also given the opportunity to stare for myself at the ranks of the Baltimore Mariners, now lined up on Wrigley Field’s Third Base line.

  No different than any other baseball team. They had come ready to play. Something seemed to be missing in their collected poise, though. I didn’t perceive that eagerness to get on the field and show their talents, the same desire to win. The home team was like barbarian warlords with the heads of rival generals spitted on the ends of pikes, ready for battle. The visitors came out to take the field like good servants reporting for work.

  “O’er the land of the free…” Not a bad anthem. “…and the home of the brave.�
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  Then came those two words that got my blood going sent the crowd into an uproar: “PLAY BALL!”

  The Cubs took the field, Guy “Mudcat” Bush taking the pitcher’s mound. Joe was serious about giving the Mariners a good afternoon of ball playing. Mudcat had a terrific season in ’29, and his start this year was nothing to dismiss. He had an arm better than a Black Orc catapult, and his fast ball might as well have been the one that gave the pitch its name. As far as Mudcat’s slider was concerned, I swear he had some of the mage’s blood in him. Already, this game was getting interesting and no one had even taken the plate yet.

  I leaned forward in my seat, my Coke nearly done as I watched the first Mariner approach the plate. The rookie’s name was Archie “Flyball” Randalls and he looked like he had cut school to play ball with the grown-ups. The first pitch Mudcat unleashed on him made his skin blanch to match the stark white of his uniform.

  “Striiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike,” the umpire called, his finger indicating “One” to the crowd.

  Thank the Fates. An umpire who could see.

  Archie tapped the plate and set up for another go. The second pitch made him jump back and lose his balance. The poor kid’s uniform was now decorated with a smear of Wrigley brown, much to the amusement of Mudcat and the fans.

  “Ball,” the umpire barked.

  Mudcat, apparently wanting to play with his food before finishing it, smirked as the ball returned to his glove. The garnish of dirt on the rookie’s once-spotless uniform gave him extra satisfaction; but not enough for this little amusement to come to a close.

  His leg cocked up and the slider I had seen before from first tier seats looked even better from my “special guest” vantage. The sudden crack earned a collected “Ooooohhh!” from the crowd (and even a small one from me) and the ball went zipping between Third Baseman and Shortstop.

  Flyball didn’t risk it. He hit First Base and stayed put.

  “Shit, the binoculars,” I swore.

  The first thing to come into focus was Mudcat’s face. He had just caught the ball, and turned to stare down Flyball on First. That pitch had been Mudcat’s famous Mississippi Mudslider, one of the toughest pitches to hit in the league. Seasoned sluggers were annoyed by Bush’s trademark pitch on account of how tricky it was, and rookies accepted the fact that it was impossible to hit.

  But there, on First Base, was the rookie who had just achieved the impossible.

  Mudcat didn’t even try to hide it—he was pissed.

  The pause was so long that I wondered why the ump wasn’t calling a delay of game, but upon turning the specs to Home Plate I could see that even the man in black was a little dumbstruck.

  Walter “Hound Dog” Hunt took his stance at home plate, and from the looks of him, I wouldn't have expected him to be a ball player. The guy was sporting a little grey around the temples and even in his pencil-thin mustache. He looked better suited to be a coach or a manager than as second in the batting line-up. I turned the specs back on Mudcat, and he looked like he was softening up a bit. Yeah, this old man was just probably living out his dream; only a new team would take him on at his age. Mudcat shook off the first pitch, gave a quick nod for the second, and fired off a curve ball.

  It must have been the movement of my head, trying to keep up with the ball, or some trick of the light while following the pitch through binoculars; but it looked like the ball curved back into Hound Dog’s bat. It was an optical illusion. It had to be. No curve ball flew in an “S” pattern!

  The line drive zipped between the First and Second basemen. Kiki was hustling to try and stop ol’ Walt from reaching Second. It looked for a moment like he was going to go for two, but instead it was Archie coming to stop at Third that had two bases touched. Hound Dog stopped himself and tripped back to First.

  Two hitters up. One man on Third. One man on First. I didn’t need the binoculars to know that Mudcat was about to explode.

  The next Mariner, who from the looks of things didn’t know he was to be the lamb for the slaughter, called himself Riley “Scooter” Jenkins. Mudcat shook off the first pitch. Then the second. On the third, he gave a quick signal of approval, cocked back and fired. The crowd murmured, gasped, and cheered at the speed of the fast ball. It was a blur, and ol’ Scooter never even got a chance to flinch. In fact, all three of them—Scooter, Gabby, and the umpire, barely had time to reset before Mudcat fired in another burner.

  The ump froze for a moment, then called out “Striiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike.” His fingers signaled “Two” for the count.

  Gabby stood up, shouting, “Time out!”

  The catcher yanked his hand from the glove, flexing his fingers a few times before waving it lightly. In the binoculars, I could see Gabby looking at his hand with some concern. That last pitch probably stung harder than a rock wasp. He handed the ball back to Guy, and while I don’t claim to read lips I’m pretty certain, “What the fuck are you doing?” was the first thing Gabby asked. They never got into the sharp gestures often seen in such heated conversations, but I could tell by the way Guy’s head jerked back and forth that he was hopping mad.

  All this, and we were just in the first inning. There were eight more to go.

  A form stepped in front of my line of sight, and on lowering the specs I saw Joe emerging from the dugout, only to be shook off by Gabby. A blanket of silence fell over Wrigley, but the pitcher eventually nodded and tossed the ball in his mitt as Gabby made his way back to Home Plate. The crowd ripped that blanket of silence away with a riled-up roar, representatives of Chicago screaming out support for their Series-winning team.

  Mudcat took a deep breath, cocked back, and let loose his Mississippi Mudslider.

  The umpire yelled out, “Strike Three!”

  I gave a gruff laugh on seeing Mudcat’s smile. He enjoyed that. The crowd was with him. So he gave up two hits. Ancient history now. It was time to collect from these rookies, give them an idea of what they were in store for.

  “Now batting for the Baltimore Mariners,” came the gods-like voice, echoing through Wrigley Field the way a wizard’s spell bellows from deep within Stone Guardian Valley, “Number Forty-One, Eddie ‘Shadow’ Faria.”

  The other Mariners, even the older ones, all seemed to carry themselves as rookies. Some of them were walking like they were the big cock of the roost, acting like they were already at Ruth status. Others still showed the wide-eyed awe of stepping into the grand arena, the roar of the crowd only making their smiles wider. Their dreams were being realized. Their innocence was strangely disarming.

  Eddie Faria was very different. He was no stranger to the four-cornered battlefield, to the sand-sprinkled Home Plate, or to staring down the lone warrior on the tiny mound between him and Second. He had been here before. Eddie’s face was calm, even. Underneath his expression, though, I saw something notably absent from his teammates: respect.

  I turned my specs back to Mudcat and his expression had changed, too. The cocky smile was gone. Where once a firestorm of indignation had raged, his entire demeanor was now one of reverence, his eyes now soft. He leaned forward, signaling to Gabby that first pitch would work. I zipped my eyes back to Home Plate and watched as the pitch came in with a hard, sharp snap.

  “Ball,” called the umpire.

  The ball returned to Guy’s mitt, then hopped back and forth between his pitching hand and his gloved one. I watched him look to both First and Third, weighing his options. Was he sizing up Walter on First, seeing if he was the kind of guy to make the break for Second? No. Mudcat kept looking back and forth between First and Home. Whatever he was considering, I didn’t like it.

  Finally, Guy took his customary stance, shook off the first pitch, and then gave a nod. With a quick jerk of his lead leg, Mudcat launched one of his sliders.

  “Ball Two.”

  The common folk were beginning to turn, the protests and disapproval sounding like the rumblings a mob would make before storming the castle of a callous land owner. In my spe
cs, though, Guy’s expression didn’t sway. The rebellious peasants might as well have voiced their discontent in a completely different shire. The pitcher remained content with his choice.

  Eddie straightened up, his eyes never leaving Guy. He gave a slight smile and shook his head. Without the binoculars I wouldn’t have noticed it; but it was enough for Guy to catch. I watched Guy give a nod—this time, to the batter—and then, when the catcher asked for the pitch, he fired in his fastball.

  There was no surprise that it was a strike. Wrigley Field expressed its appreciation for Mudcat as if he'd pitched the strike just for them, like a noble tossing pocket change to the peasants. I, on the other hand, was reeling over that unspoken exchange shared between Mariner and Cub. Guy was holding back. Those first two pitches were “gimmies”. Without trying, Eddie could have easily knocked them out of the park.

  The real chiller for the spine was that Eddie knew it.

  The next pitch was a knuckleball, and Eddie took a swing at it, hitting only air. The count was 2-2, but by the smile on the hitter’s face you could see he was loving every minute of this now. The tip of his cap to Guy told Guy the same thing.

  Mudcat cocked back and fired in another fastball. This time, Eddie’s bat connected with it.

  It was a high-pitched, broadsword-sharp crack that told everyone, “Ain’t no way anyone’s catching this...” and the ball sailed on one of those angles you’d see on sailors’ charts when they plotted courses across the Oreani Ocean. It just kept gaining altitude. Higher, higher, and higher it climbed.

  That ball had one destination—Canada.

  Once I lost track of the ball, I turned back to Guy. Guy watched Eddie as far as First Base, and then looked in the direction of the ball that had cost him three runs. I thought he was going to be angry, but Mudcat was just the opposite. I focused my binoculars twice, and then a third time, just for good measure. He seemed oddly content, as if he had pitched his best. The hit was a well-earned homer, and Guy didn't seem to question in any way, shape, or form what had just happened. Yeah, he looked content, calm, and—strangely enough—honored.