The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant

by Tee Morris

  My friend scoffed, shaking his head. “I wish it were that easy.” He pointed to the darkest spot of one bruise the stiff sported by his left hip. “One.” His index finger hopped to the stomach, again at the darkest point of the bruise. “Two.” And so he counted, each time pointing to the blackest of the black-and-blue, his last gesture stopping at the guy’s face. “Seven.”

  Lucky seven, huh? Not for this ball player. “You’re saying whatever did this only landed seven hits on this guy?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” he said, gathering up the sheet. “That’s what the guys here are saying.”

  Jer went to replace the sheet, but I placed an open hand against his closest wrist. “Hold on a minute, Jer.” I looked at the body again, and took a deep breath. “What I’m about to do is going to look weird.”

  “Between the body in the ceiling and this, I don’t know how things could get weirder, Billi. Do what you need to do,” he said, “so we can get out of here.”

  I gave Jer a final look, and then leaned in close to one of the bruises. The warmth was what bugged me. Even with the bruising, this body should have been colder than the summit of Death Mountain. The heat hinted to something not right with the true nature of things, and that kind of nature-tampering usually meant one thing.

  Sniff-sniff. Yeah, there it was. Faint, but still there.

  “Well, okay,” I could hear Jerry say behind me. “That’s something they don’t teach you at the Academy.”

  I shrugged. Maybe the Academy graduates could learn a thing or two from this Acryonis war veteran. “Did the coroners narrow down a time of death?”

  “Best they could give me was an educated guess on account of the bruises still warm and all, but within twenty-four hours.” He nodded when I looked at him. “Yeah, that was my reaction, too, but they were going by the places where he had been left alone. The arms and legs were a lot colder than where he had taken these hammer blows.”

  So now I had magic at the ball game, signs of magic at a crime scene where a man was used as ceiling décor, and now here with…

  “The shortstop,” I finally said. “This is the shortstop for the Mariners.”

  “William ‘Shuffle’ Patterson. This team was his big break. First season in the big leagues, and the guy was not bad for a rookie. We’ve put a call into the Commissioner’s office, asking to postpone tomorrow’s game so we can keep the Mariners in town. If we get it, we’ve bought some time to investigate this murder properly.”

  All three events—the ball game, the attempted robbery at Waterson’s, and this brutal murder—connected by magic.

  “All right,” Gertie had said, concerning the robberies and heists following the Mariners, “I wouldn’t call this coincidence anymore.”

  I had a feeling—a really bad feeling—I knew where this magic was coming from.

  Jer leaned in a little closer to me. “You okay, pal? You look like you just got some bad news.”

  “I did,” I grumbled. “My past. It’s catching up with me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Murder...A National Pastime

  Being part of a team—doesn’t matter if it’s on a battlefield or in a ballpark—creates a special bond. Especially if you got the right people leading the charge, the camaraderie can reach beyond cultures, sex, and race. The incredible ties that a team forges cannot be broken by spells, torture, or greed. It’s a code, a code that is upheld without question or hesitation, even if you know what you’re keeping a tight lip on is breaking so many laws that you keep seeing a condemned man trapped in your mirror.

  Keeping this in mind, I knew it wasn't going to be easy questioning the Baltimore Mariners over William “Shuffle” Patterson. Trying to work through the Mariners “oath of honor” was going to pose a real challenge, especially as everything happening today was a reminder of their fallen teammate. His murder was the reason why they were practicing today instead of playing. (Looked like the League Commissioner was playing ball with the Chicago Police.) The practice was to get their minds off what happened to him, and the postponement of game was in memoriam, as well as a chance for local law enforcement to figure out what happened to the rookie player from out east.

  William Patterson was nicknamed “Shuffle” on account of the quirky dance he would do just as the pitcher kicked back. I remembered snorting a bit at his skip, thinking the rookie must’ve had Vulkanos lava ants in his pants.

  Then I’d watch him move when a line drive came his way. The kid’s grace could have attracted scouts from the Chicago Ballet. His numerous double-plays possessed a fluidity about them, like watching a heavy potion drop and blossom into a crystal clear liquid, its stunning clarity consumed by a billowing opacity. His movements were effortless, poetic, and just another piece to this seemingly unending puzzle. This kid should not have been fielding for some new team of unknowns. Any scout worth his charmed armor would have snatched him up faster than a pickpocket liberating a nobleman of his purse, but instead he’d stayed undiscovered until the Baltimore Mariners appeared on the scene. I didn’t know who was luckier; the kid for being blessed by the Fates with such talent or the Mariners for discovering him.

  Then, as I descended closer to the field where the boys from Baltimore were warming up, I decided. His teammates were above ground. They were definitely the lucky ones.

  “Excuse me!” I barked out to the bulbous individual chewing his cud like a cow.

  The old man’s tobacco-chewing paused, and then resumed slowly as his eyes narrowed on me.

  “This ought to be good,” he grumbled as I got within earshot.

  “Comedy don’t come any better than this,” I said, producing my credentials. “My name’s Billibub Baddings. I’m a private investigator.”

  The cud-chewing stopped. The old codger leaned over in my direction and spit a revolting wad of what appeared to be Goblin shit (only not as foul-smelling), which landed with a sickening splat by my foot. The fluid arms extending from the point of impact were just shy of my recently polished shoes.

  I had a feeling this was a guy who, in his day, could pitch a fastball while in the heart of a tempest and still nail the strike zone without a worry or care. The wad was obviously the old man’s opinion, if not a warning.

  “I’m looking into—”

  His chest puffed out as he talked, “My team wins their games fair and square. You dicks are starting to really piss me off.”

  So McCarthy wasn’t the only coach hiring gumheels to look into the Mariners.

  “Look, that’s not why I’m here, Coach.” I looked past him at the team swapping pitches and limbering up for their practice. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  He looked me up and then turned back to the field. “It’s in the papers if you want it. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy.”

  I watched him chew his cud for a moment before giving my belt a tug upward and breaking the uneasiness around us. “I hope your mouth is the only place you put that tobacco, Coach, because if that shit’s in your ears you’ll miss the fact that I’m here about a player of yours—William ‘Shuffle’ Patterson.”

  “Good kid,” he said, not even bothering to look at me as he spoke. “Hell of a shortstop.”

  Wow, Coach, try to keep it together. Your outpouring of emotion is overwhelming. I may join you in a good cry.

  “Yeah, I know that. I was here Tuesday for the game. You all gave the Cubbies a run for the money.”

  “No we didn’t,” he said, before spitting another Goblin’s turd out of his mouth. “We beat the pants off of you, is what we did.” He turned around, and again his chest swelled, lightly jostling his crossed arms. “How about you go and tell that to Joe next time you see him?”

  I didn’t know how plain I had to make it to him that I was not grilling him on behalf of the Chicago Cubs. Yes, I was still on McCarthy’s bankroll, but I was here now to do a hint of moonlighting for my friend Jer and (unofficially) for the Chicago Police.

  “Coach
, I’m more interested in what Shuffle was up to when he wasn’t doing his shortstop jig. I’d like to find out why such a talented kid would meet with such an…” Unnecessarily violent? Bizarre? Grotesque? “…untimely death.”

  “My job is to coach these guys and lead them to a pennant. That’s what they pay me for. I’m not their mommy, and I don’t give a rat’s ass what they do off the field until I get a call from the cops, and even then I’ve got to do what the owner tells me to.” He spat again, and then his face contorted as he chewed in silence for a second or two. “If I had my way, I’d bus ‘em back to whatever cornfield they were found in, pitching fastballs at scarecrows.”

  The crack of a bat tore my attention from the back of the coach’s head toward the diamond. The Mariners’ pitcher, Eddie “Shadow” Faria, was sending out pop flies to some of his teammates, and even in the casual warm-up exercise he presided with an authority. The look on his face struck me as nostalgic. Even something as simple as hitting pop flies to teammates brought him a peace, a comfort that you might find in a woman’s arms. However, this joy was not as fleeting.

  I felt a pair of peepers on me and noticed that the coach was looking at me over his shoulder.

  “Coach, I’m here as a favor to a friend. I just wanted to find out what the story was with Shuffle. Whatever you’ve been dealing with in other cities, you’re in Chicago now. We do things a little different here.”

  “Different, huh?” His eyes went from the top of my hat to my shoes and then back again. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Top notch coach and a comedian. The old man was just bubbling over with talent.

  “Heads up!” Coach shouted, causing me to blink and the players to freeze. “Trouble, front and center!”

  Practice resumed, save for four players that nuzzled their gloves against their forearms and trotted over to me. They were looking at one another, swapping a shared memory and a punch line to a joke only they understood. I recognized two of the four from the game I’d seen. Riley “Scooter” Jenkins and Archie “Flyball” Randalls. The other two were considerably older and, I would even daresay, a touch rougher in their demeanors. Still, they seemed to hustle with the young and showed no signs of their age. I could catch in their eyes, exchanged for Jenkins’ and Randalls’ arrogance, a history of experience and wisdom. Didn’t make them any less cocky than the whelps. Difference was, they had the balls to back up the swagger.

  “Alright, Trouble,” the coach barked, referring to the four of them as one. “This guy is here asking questions about Shuffle and what he did with you all in between games. Tell the guy what he wants to know. The sooner you do that, the sooner he leaves.”

  Their voices replied over one another. “Got it, Coach,” from Randalls. “Sure thing, Pappy,” Jenkins said while the other two guys mumbled, “Yeah, Coach.”

  “Keep it simple, boys.” Another spit, and then he loosed a smirk at me. “Have fun,” the coach scoffed before leaving me with his players.

  Yeah, this was going to be a real laugh riot.

  “How you boys, doin’?” I started off, producing a notepad from my coat pocket. “My name’s Billibub Baddings, I’m a private eye. Been asked to look into what happened to your buddy, Shuffle. I recognize you two from the game I saw on Tuesday,” I said, motioning to Scooter and Flyball, before turning to the others. “Apologies for not recalling you two, but that was a long day for us Cub fans.”

  The four of them shared a chuckle at the mention of their victory, and I was willing to give it to them.

  Then the biggest of them started in. “Well, I need to spell my name for you ‘cause it’s a little hard to pronounce, even for the pros in the press box.”

  “Sure,” I said, poising the pencil. “Shoot.”

  “S-U—” was as far as my pencil wrote before stopping. My head slowly rose from the pad to look up at the broad-bellied man as he continued. “C-K-O-F-F-F-U-C-K-E-R.” As the cronies around him tittered like an emperor’s virginal harem, the big guy kept a straight face. “It’s German.”

  I gave a nod and then resumed writing, “A-S-S-W-I-P-E. Yeah, I think I got ‘Murphy’ spelled right here.”

  Fat boy’s smile melted away.

  “Took me a second to recognize you from the pictures in the papers. ‘Big Joe’ Murphy, right?” I asked. Answered with nothing but the sounds of practice behind them, I turned to the last member of this cute little quartet. This guy was also big, but not portly like “Big Joe”. This one was a stone shithouse with a guest room attached. “That leaves you, Sunshine.”

  Sunshine’s reply matched the chill the remaining company of Trouble now sent my way. “Sam Saint.”

  “Sledgehammer Sammy?” I asked, my bushy brows raising slightly. “You got a hell of a batting average there, Sammy. I can see why they call you Sledgehammer.”

  “That’s not the only reason, Tiny,” he seethed, cracking his knuckles.

  Yeah, like that was going to intimidate me.

  “So you four are a pack called Trouble, huh? That’s really clever, boys. And now one of your fellowship is down for the eternal count.” I was expecting them to swap nervous glances between one another, but they just stood there, their eyes never leaving me. “You all seem as choked up as Coach Grizzly.”

  “Hey, watch your mouth, Shrimp!” Scooter fired off. That got everyone’s attention. “Pappy deals with things on his time. We got to stay in the game right now.”

  “Easy, Scooter,” Joe said, his gaze shifting from the younger player to me. “It’s like this, Mr. Detective, we’re all shook up about this because Shuffle was part of the team, and part of our gang here. We aren’t wearing black and we’re not crying in our gloves, because we got games to win. Chicago ain’t making that easy what with the Cubs, and now the cops, working us so hard.”

  “Well, you know, when a friend—and a close one to you lot, I might add—gets himself turned into hamburger, I would think an investigation would make you all happy as fishermen catching a school of spawning mermaids. We’re trying to solve Shuffle’s murder here. We should be working together, right?”

  “You deal with Shuffle’s death your way,” uttered Sledgehammer, “and we’ll deal with it our way.”

  The only difference between these guys and cops: the uniforms. Different duds, same code of silence.

  “I can respect that,” I conceded. “Still, I’d appreciate some help here. How hard was it for Shuffle to live up to your gang’s namesake? Did he get himself into any debts—?”

  “You think we’re gambling or something?”

  “Big Joe” seemed to grow in front of me. No, this was definitely not the right avenue to pursue.

  “I didn’t say that, Murphy,” I answered, my eyes narrowing on the posturing ball player. “Debt comes from a lot of things, and gambling is just one of them. I don’t know how much you all like to live it up.”

  “Check the papers a little closer then, Shorty,” Flyball snickered. “We tend to cover a lot more than just the Sports section!”

  This punk was a true-to-life definition of “a singular wit”, as he was the only one laughing. Instead of staring at me, Sledgehammer was shooting the visual frost at his whelp teammate. The sniggering slowed, and finally surrendered to a dry throat-clearing.

  “I just might do that, kid. What can you tell me about Shuffle?”

  Now the guys looked to one another and then Sledgehammer turned to me. “Maybe that jig he did was irritating as hell, but that kid could move.”

  “I mean, outside of the diamond. Out in the real world, what was he like?”

  Sledgehammer bobbed his head back and forth, something I thought must have been pretty dangerous to the pea-sized brain that had to be jostling around in that big melon of his. “Well, he was dedicated to the game, you know? I mean, no matter the circle of friends you keep, someone’s got to be a runt. I’m sure you know what I mean, right, Tiny?”

  He got the crooked bushy red eyebrow for that one.

 
“Some people are leaders. Others follow. Nobody followed like Bill,” Sledgehammer continued. “You told him to do something and like a good lapdog he did what he was told. I admit, I’ll be missing that. A lot.” He smirked and looked around the group. “One of you guys is going to have to be the runt now.”

  They seemed to suddenly slip into the midst of a shielding spell, effectively distancing themselves from me as they started a banter back and forth about who was the likeliest candidate for “Trouble’s Pet Page”.

  Welcome to the other side of the ballpark, Billi.

  This was the counterspell that silently nagged at me when I agreed to take this case. Professional baseball players were more than just grown-ups getting paid to play a game. These guys were icons of the time, heroes of legend and lore. The real heroes of the sport, they understood and respected the responsibility bestowed on them. Maybe they didn’t want that responsibility, but they understood it was the price of the pastime.

  These chumps were the other kind of baseball celebrities. They knew they were minor nobility and they reveled in it. If kids looked up to them, that was fine, so long as the little brats didn’t keep them from getting to the closest speakeasy or brothel when the doors unlocked for the night. They considered themselves better than everybody else on account of a single ball and a crafted stick from Louisville, Kentucky.

  Trouble—what was left of the Frivolous Five anyway—continued to cackle and guffaw. I waited until the jibes on Flyball, the youngest of the four, subsided. Eventually they honored me with their undivided attention.

  “You girls done with your private tea party?” I asked.

  I got a pair for a Dwarf, but that doesn’t make me a complete idiot. One against four—I got a shot. I could pick a fight with these dinks and be confident I’d be walking away from it. Picking a fight during team practice, though, meant I’d need to tread gently. A scuffle between us could grab the attention of the team. One against four, sure. One Dwarf against the entire Baltimore Mariners roster? Not without my battle axe.