The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant

by Tee Morris

  “Some hallucination,” I huffed. “You’re not real, and you’re flinching at an imaginary baseball bat.”

  “I know this may seem a little weird,” the second Goblin said, his ungloved hand reaching down to scratch his balls. (I didn’t know what was weirder—this whole dream, or the fact that this Goblin didn’t know that Goblins didn’t have balls!) “We’re here to let you know, you should consider taking it slow. Rest up a bit, pal. Give yourself time to heal.”

  Now it was my turn to snort. “Really? Why, by the Fates, would my brain summon a pair of Goblins to one of my dreams and give me the advice to slow down? Goblins?”

  They looked at one another, and knew I had them on that point.

  Ballscratcher’s brows cocked upward. “Okay, Sigmund, you tell us why we’re here and what this dream’s all about.”

  “Yeah,” huffed the other one. He was wearing a glove on his right hand. A left-handed Goblin? Eh, it’s a dream. “Are you taking a figurative or a literal interpretation here?”

  My lips pursed together as I watched an Orc warm up in the bullpen. His pitch knocked the glove back into the catcher’s chest, lifted said catcher off the ground, and propelled the poor dink through the wood barrier behind him. The Orc winced, looked at McCarthy, and mouthed with a shrug, “Sorry.”

  “You know what all this is telling me, boys?” I asked after taking a good look around. “It’s telling me that I’m noodling the case through, even as I sleep; and with what’s around me I’m beginning to figure out a few things. For one thing, no one here—either from Acryonis or from Chicago—is wearing the Pendant of Coe. Otherwise, this dream would be less of a surreal look at how I’m putting things together and more like a replay of what happened behind the Jefferson.”

  “And how about the Jefferson?” asked Southpaw. “You still think Flyball’s doublebacked on you?”

  My mouth opened to give the affirmative, but then I paused. “He’s high up on the list, sure, but I’m uncertain on the whys behind it. The kid wants out of this bad deal he’s got himself into. I’m sure of that.”

  “Why?” countered Ballscratcher.

  “He risked a call from the ballpark. I’m not thinking Archie’s that good of an actor nor that cool a customer. If pressed, he’d probably fold, but he took a chance and called me the moment he was out of Trouble’s ear-shot.”

  “Not bad, Billi,” Southpaw nodded.

  “Doesn’t mean he’s off the hook, though. If it wasn’t Flyball, who was it?” I looked around Wrigley. The pitcher was also absent. “I’m also thinking that I’m not ready to stand toe-to-toe with Sledgehammer or Big Joe, but I’m good enough to make one last ballgame. If I catch that game, I just might figure out who’s calling the shots, or at least who’s got the Pendant. How’s that?”

  Snap-snap-snap-snap…

  It was a purposeful, simple rhythm, coming from far behind me. One by one, everyone—Dwarves in battle armor, Humans both brandishing swords and Sluggers, and creatures and critters of all races—stopped where they were and looked in the direction of the sound.

  I tipped my ball cap back, tilting my head toward the sound. Snap-snap-snap-snap…

  No, it wasn’t slapping. It was clapping. A pair of hands, clapping together in slow, mocking applause.

  Clap-clap-clap-clap…

  I removed my hat and turned to face the only spectator in the seats of Wrigley Field.

  From between pudgy lips a stogie smoldered, light puffs drifting skyward as he nodded his head. I could tell by his smile and the way the flesh undulated around the layers of fat at his neck that he was laughing. He wasn’t laughing at me, but he appeared to enjoy my dream-noodling. His hands continued their exaggerated clapping for a few moments, and finally stopped. The cigar came out of his mouth, as the other hand waved a beefy finger at me.

  I noticed something stuck in between his pinky and his ring finger. What the hell was that?

  “You…yoooooooouuuu…” Capone said, nodding slowly. “Very good, you. You never stop impressin’ me, ya Brownie you.”

  Even in my dreams, Capone was going to make with the jokes on my height?! Unbelievable.

  I caught another glance at what was stuck between his fingers, and that was when I remembered…

  “Wait a minute! I do have a—”

  A female voice calling my name compelled me to turn around, and the sun blinded me once again. I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. I thought it was at least noon, but for a moment everyone was gone. Turning my back on Capone felt about as safe as turning my back on the Goblins, but this was a dream—my dream—so I doubted if I was going to be facing any of those terrors you’d find in a Poe short story. No pits. No pendulums. Just Goblins playing for the visiting team.

  The brilliance began to subside, and when I moved to block the sun with my hand, I felt the pain in my side. I gave a little growl and then sank back into the pillows behind my head.

  “Billi! Calm down and lie still!” the female voice said. A blurry figure was standing over me. Blurry, but I could see hands resting on hips. “That’ll show you for trying to move before you should.”

  Yeah. That’ll show me. Thanks, Miranda.

  With the sounds of a ballpark replaced by the sound of blinds being adjusted and the chiding from my secretary, I deduced that I was back in the Realm of the Waking. Now that was what I called a deep sleep.

  Thank the Fates for vivid dreams that served as handy reminders. “Miranda, honey, do your boss a quick favor. Would you get me a plate and a pencil?”

  “Hungry for a snack?” she quipped.

  Sleeping on my couch was making her a bit grouchy. “Considering how you sound ready to gnaw through a sleeve of chain mail, I’d be afraid to ask for you to cook anything up for me. Hemlock isn’t my favorite seasoning.”

  She gave a slight snort, shaking her head as she started putting together a pot of coffee. It’s a good thing I hadn’t covered up the word “coffee” with the Elvish labels I’d created in order to stay sharp in the lingo. “Looking at these labels now and knowing what I know, those odd quips of yours are finally making sense. Sometime though, you’ll have to tell me a few stories about what you did in that place…what was it called again?”

  “Acryonis,” I said. “Sounds like Annapolis, only gives the tongue a bit more of a workout.”

  The percolator rumbled to life just as the plate and pencil reached me. “You’re a doll. Now, in my wallet in the left jacket pocket, there’s going to be a sheet of paper. It’ll be a blank sheet from a Jefferson Hotel memo pad. Give me that, and then all I’ll need is the java you’re cooking in the cauldron.”

  Miranda crossed the room, “Seriously, boss, how are you feeling?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “Well, when Doc Roberts was here, I was feeling like I had just gone fisticuffs with an Ogre.”

  “Uh-huh,” she replied, reaching into my coat pocket. “Seeing as we don’t have many Ogres in Leonard, Missouri, how about—”

  “Remember the lummox you dated that first month you were working for me?”

  “Who? Oh yeah…” From the look on her face as she handed me the paper, you would have thought she was sucking on a lemon. “Trevor the Caveman.”

  “Yeah, okay…about three Trevors are equal to one Ogre.”

  Her eyebrows raised slightly. “Billi, Trevor was a big man.”

  “Exactly.” I groaned a bit as I shifted in the bed, then added, “Well, today I’m feeling like only a Troll roughed me up. Trevor’s about the size of a Troll. Well, a scrappy one, anyway.”

  “Gotcha.”

  As I lightly rubbed the edge of the pencil’s lead against the paper, I glanced up to Miranda. “So Trevor was a big man, you say?”

  She shrugged. “Well, in height. I dumped him, remember?”

  Yeeouch.

  Words were now becoming visible through the dark fog bank of lead that now covered the center portion of the memo. I was just hoping that whoever was beh
ind the chicken scratch—be it Big Joe or Sledgehammer—hadn’t used cursive writing. I would have been just as happy trying to decipher Elvish script over sloppy cursive.

  I caught a break on this one, and found that the words appeared to be in a standard, simple English print. Not too refined in the handwriting, but good enough to be legible through a light rubbing.

  “How’s this looking for you, Billi?” Miranda asked, looking at the note with me.

  “Not too sure.”

  My eyes narrowed on the words:

  Cog Hill

  Sunday, 1:00 p.m.

  Wear a tie!

  “Looks like Trouble is hitting the links.”

  Miranda gave a little whistle. “Cog Hill. I’m surprised they’re still open, with all that’s happening.”

  “It’s all in how you handle the lifestyle, Miranda,” I grumbled. “That was made evident at that last party I worked.”

  “You mean that swank shindig out in the country?” Miranda’s brow furrowed. “What about it?”

  “Let’s just say there was something in the air.” Now her brow was really scrunched together. “In another life I was a miner. You got paid not only by the size but also by the purity of a lode. When you’re working in the dark, you develop a nose for such things.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.” I chuckled and gave Miranda a wink, “So if a beau happens to give you jewelry of any kind, run it by me and I’ll be able to give you an appraisal.”

  “I’ll do that, boss,” Miranda answered with a smirk. “So, you’re telling me the high society types are keeping up appearances, huh?”

  “As best as they can. Don’t get me wrong—the rich are still rich. They are just not as rich as they once were.” I looked at the note for a moment before continuing, “You get accustomed to the lifestyle; and when the rug is pulled out from under you, you try to figure out how to maintain that lifestyle, or at least the appearance of it. What carries more clout? The membership to Cog Hill, or the rocks hanging from your neck? Which one will offer you more of a chance to be seen, more opportunity to meet others that might benefit you? I may not be originally from around these parts, but there’s a lot both worlds have in common. People are people, and pretense is everywhere. Not much you can say to debate against that.”

  Miranda suddenly shook her head, “Oh, yeah, I guess now’s as good as any of a time to tell you.”

  With the exception of “Billi, you’re a great guy and I really like you…” or “We really need to talk about something…”, “Now’s as good a time as any…” is perhaps the worst way to start a conversation with me.

  My girl walked over to the coffee table and unfolded the newspaper. It was the Sports section, announcing the rescheduled game between the Cubs and Mariners: Tuesday.

  “So, meeting on Sunday. Game on Tuesday,” I said, looking up at Miranda. “Got my ass handed to me on a Queen’s Platter Thursday night. Everything gets foggy from there. So all this makes today…?”

  “Saturday afternoon, boss,” she answered mournfully.

  Damn.

  “Since Doc Roberts said you needed to rest up, I let you do just that.”

  Cog Hill, Sunday, one o’clock in the afternoon. An extra day to heal would have been nice. Really, really nice. Instead, I had to pace myself, hope that Dwarven constitution would come through, and find the strength to walk upright tomorrow. The job Trouble was out to do wasn’t going to happen until this meeting was over and done with. so this was a meeting I had to poke my pudgy honker into. Otherwise, the job would go down and Trouble would be heading for the next city. The next game. The next score.

  “You should consider taking it slow. Rest up a bit, pal. Give yourself time to heal,” Ballscratcher had told me in my dream.

  I hate Goblins.

  Setting the meeting reminder aside, I settled back into my blankets. “I’m serious, Miranda. You make sure I get up bright and early tomorrow, or so help me I will fire you.”

  Miranda chuckled at the threat, but the laugh disappeared when she noticed the stare in my eyes. The silence was awkward, uncomfortable, and downright nasty. “Yeah, sure, Billi.”

  My shoulders nuzzled into a really nice nook in the pillow, and I felt my eyelids close, only to have Miranda’s voice bring me back. “You’re going to pass on lunch?”

  “Yeah,” I groaned. “Going to try and get some more shut-eye. Heal up a bit.”

  There was that awkward quiet again. Sorry, kid, but tomorrow I can’t afford to miss.

  “I’ll be around if you need anything, boss. Sweet dreams,” I heard her wish me.

  With visions of Al Capone dancing in my head? Shit. I hope so, Miranda. I really hope so.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Par for the Course

  Very little green remained following Black Thursday, but the Cog Hill Golf and Country Club was one of the rare exceptions. The playgrounds for the rich were all taking a pretty hard hit, but Cog Hill seemed to maintain its membership, status, and stature as if the bubble had never burst. Two golf courses spread out and away from a gorgeous clubhouse. This “Nineteenth Hole” sported a massive dining hall of high ceilings and roaring hearths that doubled as a tribute to the artisans of stone masonry. This was the kind of palace that would make any prince’s virginal betrothed tingle in all the right places and offer to do whatever it took to move in. Cog Hill’s dining hall led to a smoking room, complete with hearth and Steinway, setting an atmosphere for pipe and stogie connoisseurs. This room, in turn, led to lavish guest accommodations, perfect for those golfers wanting another crack at the club record. And if you liked a bit of the sauce to add flavor to your weekend, a fully stocked bar greeted you in the foyer.

  Yeah, it’s Prohibition, but that’s really for the common folk. At this place, you had the society’s posh schmoozing senators and city councilmen alike. Nothing like a splash of bubbly to grease the wheels of progress.

  Cog Hill was a reminder of the Twenties and the abundant good times enjoyed then. While the common man would sneer at the audacity this place showed by still running strong, you had to admire Cog Hill’s hubrimaz for keeping its chin up through such financial dire straits. It was an accomplishment for such a luxury to be able to stay open when bread and soup lines were stretching around street corners everywhere.

  Which was not to say I was setting aside my own hard earned greenbacks toward a membership. I’d clocked in enough time here with the Waldorf act to know I wouldn’t last an hourglass here. Too many stuffed shirts and class struggles for my stomach to handle.

  The cab was pulling up to the clubhouse, and I stroked my beard as the building grew in size. I was not dressed up in my gear this time, nor was I coming in through the servants’ entrance. This time, I was here on Baddings Investigations business; but like I had told Miranda, I still didn’t know what that business would be. All I had was a time, a place, and a reminder to wear a tie.

  I straightened that tie for probably the fourth time. The suit was pressed and the shoes were polished, so I had no worries. Miranda, in her true form, was nothing less than a yeoman of sterling service; and even she admitted that while I looked like I’d been on the wrong end of a mace fight, I was walking well enough to get back on the case.

  However, upon seeing myself in the mirror for the first time since the ambush at the Jefferson, I knew there was no other way to describe me: I looked like hell.

  My face sported a shiner and a swollen jaw, and reviewing the damage after a few days of rest made me seriously consider how lucky I had been. Not just that protection spell, mind you. I got pummeled pretty hard, but I was only a few shots shy of Shuffle’s fatal seven. My attacker had held back.

  Lucky me, I thought, wincing as I felt my cheek.

  So I looked bad. Like I cared. I was going posh today in order to put some pieces together in this case. How I looked really didn’t matter.

  The reaction from the valet opening the cab door for me, though, gave me pause.
Maybe I should have cared. Looking like I’d just walked away from a tavern brawl might complicate things for me.

  The doorman welcomed me (if you could call it that; neither his stare nor his mechanical movements came across as very warm or inviting) to the resort, and as expected I was bringing on the stares; more so than usual on account of the bruises and swelling across my face. A bell rang twice, and I could hear a quick scuffle. The din died down as I stopped at the bar and peered in the direction of the main dining hall.

  A throat cleared from behind me. “Excuse me, sir, how can I help you?”

  Here we go.

  I turned around slow enough for even the clumsiest of Trolls to lumber up and drive its teeth into my noggin. The scarecrow towering over me was the one I’d caught sight of behind the desk, so he was probably the current shift’s lord of the manor. His second was on the phone. The words “I’m talking to the police right now!” across his forehead in black ink would have been more subtle than his stares at us.

  My shoulders dropped a hint after I let go of a deep breath, and then I looked up at the club manager. “Well, you could have been a huge help by not calling the cops on me, but with the way I look I suppose I shouldn’t blame you.” My lip was stuck in a curl on account of the swollen jaw, so I didn’t need to work to give him a smirk. I was already there. “I will anyway.”

  The manager merely lifted his chin up in reply, giving the slightest of snorts.

  I nodded. “Yeah, okay pal, here’s my story—I’m a private eye looking into a murder. I was going to try and keep this visit as low key as I could, what with the height, and a face that would make a pox victim look like John Barrymore. Now you’ve gone and called Chicago’s Finest on me, and that is going to complicate things. How can you help me, you ask? How about this—make like a demon at an exorcism. Scram!”

  This tower of a man huffed and stormed back to the front desk, his mannerisms indicating he wanted the police here yesterday. As I had nothing to lose at this point, I proceeded into the dining hall.

  Whoever was meeting Trouble here, he was willing to meet at peak hours for the kitchen. Interesting choice. I supposed the noon crowd might get too busy, but now with the minute hand at the forty-five, the place was at a lull. It would pick up again around one, and Trouble would be ushered to their seats without too much fuss, provided they kept to the dress code. They might be recognized if the interests of club members extended beyond the Stock Market and eighteen holes, but at first glance I could hardly picture these tea-toddlers and high society types kicking back with a dog and a soda at the top of the fifth.