The Case of the Pitcher's Pendant

by Tee Morris

  I knocked on the door, and a few moments later, a suit answered it.

  “Down here,” I grumbled.

  I did mention that being soaked by a downpour makes me cranky, right?

  “Ah, Mr. Baddings,” the page said in a tone much too pleasant to be sincere. “Mr. Wrigley and Mr. McCarthy are expecting you. If you would please follow me?”

  My coat and hat were gathered up by another page, and the gesture along with the unexpected coziness of the office coerced a smile from me. Nothing wrong with a little primping, I suppose. Maybe to these guys, it was just the custom when you have visitors to court; but I liked the special treatment.

  The clock was the first thing I noticed when the pages opened the door that linked the receiving room to the warm, luxurious study. The repetitive tick-tock-tick-tock should have given these dim surroundings a relaxed, perhaps even tranquil, feeling about them. Instead it only seemed to amplify the impending doom that was to come. Two of the people I expected to see were standing here, and the third man was seated behind the desk.

  Then there was the other fellow, looking out the office windows. I couldn’t recognize him with his back to me, and in the intermittent shadows I could only see the snowy white of his hair cutting through the dark. When expecting a hunting party of four, it’s unsettling to find an unexpected guest in the line up. I stared at the mystery man for a second, took a breath, and then proceeded forward into this arranged meeting. Whoever this uninvited dink was, he must have been a guest of the man behind the desk. I didn’t want to start off proceedings by questioning the host’s judgment.

  William Wrigley was the man I supposed should receive a swift punch to the jimmies for Miranda’s broadsword of behaviors: gum popping. The guy was doing so well for himself in the business that he bought my beloved Cubbies and had this stadium built for them. The guy struck the ransom of a king’s only son, and from the build of the throne that surrounded him, he was enjoying the juicy fruits of his labors.

  My client, Joe McCarthy, nervously tapped his fingertips together. I was sure that telling his boss he had hired a private dick to look into the visiting team hadn’t been an easy feat to pull off with clean trousers, but I knew this was going to be a really complicated matter to explain. I wanted to make sure nothing got lost in the translation. I didn’t doubt McCarthy’s ability to communicate to his boss that there was something fishy about the Baltimore Mariners, but in this case the demon resided in the details. This meeting was reassurance that there was no question as to who had done what, and why.

  That was why I had told McCarthy to not only call up his boss and get him into the office on a rainy afternoon, but also to call up Mariners’ coach Barry Barton, too.

  Coach Barton huffed. “Goddamned private dicks.”

  “Good to see you too, Coach Barton,” I said. He blinked quickly. I gave him a shrug and replied, “I took your advice and looked up your name in the papers.”

  “I am to assume,” came the voice from behind the desk, the man’s eyes considering me. What had to be running through his head as I stood there, all the confidence in the world behind my bruised and bandaged four-foot-one frame? Something that did strike me a little odd was the soft nature of Wrigley’s voice. The guy was the owner of the Chicago Cubs and namesake of this stadium. I was expecting a bit more hubrimaz when he asked, “Billibub Baddings, Private Investigator?”

  “Yes, Mr. Wrigley,” I said with a nod. I then turned to the grey-haired geezer staring out the window. “But if you don’t mind, sir, I was hoping to keep this conversation to all the concerned parties of this investigation.”

  That was when the fourth man turned around, and the confidence in his voice caused me to straighten up a little. “When it concerns the National Baseball League, I am a concerned party.”

  Last time I remember flinching like that, a general had dropped in on me and my boys for a surprise inspection of the Stormin’ Scrappies. Unfortunately, we had been celebrating a lieutenant’s bachelor party the night before, and the girls we had…contracted with… were still in our tent.

  When the mystery man stepped into my light, though, I wished I was facing five of those pissed-off generals.

  “Since Judge Landis was available, I thought his presence for this meeting would be…” The word caught in Wrigley’s throat for a moment, but with a quick look to Landis, he turned back to me and uttered, “…helpful.”

  Yeah. So would a hot poker against my testicles if you wanted me to stay faithful to the miller’s daughter.

  Federal Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis was, according to a lot of the Sports writers here in Chicago and elsewhere, proof that tyranny was alive and well in the land of the free and home of the brave. This guy should have been the one sitting in Wrigley’s throne, the scepter in his hand no doubt a gold Louisville Slugger encrusted with pearl baseballs. His Honor and Royal Eminence Presiding was the man brought in to clean up baseball when the Black Sox Scandal tore down the sport’s outer battlements. I had read up on this guy while researching my newfound passion; and I had read that he was, according to some, a guy who believed in the sport and what it represented at its heart.

  That was a beautiful sentiment I could get behind, but beautiful sentiment didn’t necessarily make you a stand up guy. (Remember the Orc with the bulging breeches?)

  Landis was approached to be part of a watchdog group that would preside over the League. He had accepted the appointment under one condition: that he would serve the National Baseball League as sole commissioner, granted unlimited authority over the game, the players, and the owners. It was a hell of a triple play, and the judge knew he could make it.

  The decisions of the Baseball Commissioner’s Office were made “in the best interest of the game” regardless of how miserable the interested parties would be in the end. Landis was “independent and impartial” as long as you agreed to do things his way.

  “Very well then,” I said, motioning to nearby empty chairs. “Gentlemen, please have a seat.”

  McCarthy and Barton took a pair of seats in front of Wrigley’s desk. Landis didn’t move. I don’t know what he had been told to get him here, but he was definitely hot under the hood. He was going to be a hard sell.

  Wrigley pushed the morning’s Tribune to the edge of his desk. “I am assuming you are aware of this morning’s headline?”

  BUSINESSMAN BUTCHERS BALLPLAYERS!

  WEALTHY CHICAGO SUCCESS PLEADS INSANITY!

  Yeah, a night I would be thankful to forget, and forget soon.

  “I am more than aware of the headline. It ties in directly with my investigation into the Baltimore Mariners.” Coach Barton grumbled something about my mother and something I would be doing to her if I changed my name to Oedipus. I continued, “You might have to dig around a bit, but you’re going to find out that a deal was made with one Bruce Halsbrook. Halsbrook, from the Baltimore area, was posing on paper as the owner of the Baltimore Mariners. He wasn’t.”

  Barton now looked at me, the hand that his head was leaning against now falling into his lap as he sat up in his chair. “Then who the hell was—”

  “Miles Waterson. He was signing the checks that kept the team financed. I’m sure at one time, the Mariners were owned by Halsbrook, but I’m also certain that Halsbrook was not planning on being hit so hard by the Crash. After all, it takes a lot for a new team to be established in the League, doesn’t it, Commissioner?”

  Landis didn’t say a word. In fact, I didn’t even think he was paying attention to me.

  “Check Halsbrook’s records, talk to him, and try talking to Waterson. Provided Waterson is able to string together anything coherent, you’ll find out he was helping Halsbrook with some cash flow issues. The original plan was to use team members to smuggle rare antiquities out of host cities and get them to Baltimore.”

  “Baltimore?” Coach Barton asked. “Why Baltimore?”

  “It’s that much closer to the Atlantic and the European Market,” I said. “B
ut that was the scheme—to use the Mariners as a ways and means of getting stolen merchandise out to connections on the East Coast.”

  Joe McCarthy cleared his throat. Yeah, Joe, I was pissing pretty hard in my pants, too. Right with you, brother. “But Mr. Baddings, when I hired you, it was to investigate the Mariners to see if they were rigging their games. Was something odd going on?”

  In my mind, I could hear the clickity-clatter-click-click-clickity-clack of die striking die, as if I was conjuring Mistress Luck in between my cupped hands. I had to be careful here. I was going to tell them the truth, yes, but I had to put it in terms they would understand.

  “Yeah, something very odd was going on. I think Waterson was also into something a little more devious with the Mariners. Along with fencing stolen goods, Waterson was exploring one of his interests—pharmacology.”

  “Pharmacology?” scoffed Landis.

  “Yeah. Oddly enough, this starts with a relatively harmless little libation: Coca-Cola. Had a secret ingredient, once upon a time, that gave people a lot of pep. Turned out that secret ingredient was slightly detrimental to your health, so the company took it out of the drink, but for a while people used it to improve their energy. Waterson was also interested in ‘improving’ athletes.”

  “Hold on a second!” Barton was ready to pounce on me. “Are you saying I was telling my boys to take it in the arm?”

  “No, Coach, I’m not saying that at all. I am saying you all need to know that the group known by the moniker of ‘Trouble’ was actually getting into a lot more than boozing and whoring.” I held up a hand before Landis could speak. “This morning, Your Honor, you ain’t working for the Feds. You’re the Baseball Commissioner, so keep the robes hung up for now.

  “The team was boozing it up because they were a new team on the scene, and a new team to be reckoned with. No denying that. What I’m saying is Waterson was also using Trouble—Riley Jenkins, Archie Randalls, William Patterson, Sam Saint, and Joe Murphy—to try out a few ‘tricks’ that might help them perform a little better on the ball field. That’s how the Mariners were able to perform as they did.”

  “Using drugs to make you a better ball player?” Landis huffed. “That’s disgusting.”

  “It wasn’t the whole team, and Coach Barton was unaware this was going on. My investigation is clear on that. It was these five play—”

  “Might as well have been the entire Mariners roster!” Landis snapped.

  I glanced at Wrigley. He was grinning slightly. McCarthy couldn’t seem to look either Barton or his boss in the eye. Landis was focusing on the wrong element here, and not helping the situation one bit.

  “Gentlemen, please.” I was glad I had paid attention to those Elven arbiters. Sometimes, the little gimmicks they used to calm down a table of pissed-off delegates came in handy. “I’ve brought in all the concerned parties to offer a solution to a scandal.”

  Dropping the “S” word, I knew, would win me back the Council Chambers if I lost them…or get me their attention in the first place if I started without it. Baseball was still under a lot of scrutiny, especially with “Death” Mountain Landis calling the shots. I had to get everyone’s focus back to why I had called this meeting…and how I intended for this matter to be handled.

  “This is a mess, I think we can all agree on that,” I began, “and if you read the stories about Waterson and the Mariners’ Trouble, you know this could eclipse the Black Sox Scandal on a level that would make the Gideon Joust look like a bad day on the Lists.”

  My analogy was lost on this crew.

  “Let me try again,” I huffed. “It’s attention and publicity no one wants and the sport definitely does not need. The thing we got to accept here is that it wasn’t the team at fault. It was its owner, its interim owner, and five guys that figured they would set aside a little easy money for themselves. The papers, provided this is handled properly, wi—”

  “Mr. Barton,” Landis began, “how long have you been a coach in this sport?”

  My baby blues immediately went to the Commissioner. Bad enough he was cutting me off, but the fact he was calling Coach Barton “mister” didn’t fill me with optimism.

  “Been in the sport for thirty years,” he barked back. “I’ve seen a lot of things happen in this game and in this league, Commissioner.”

  Landis’ chin raised a hint at the comment. “I see. And I’m sure you thought the Baltimore Mariners were your ticket, didn’t you?” His eyes narrowed on the man. “Shall I inquire into your background over those thirty years? Find out if you were even in the major league, or just looking for an opportunity? Still, in that time, you come to know the sport. You know the people who play it and why.”

  I didn’t like the direction of his questioning at all. “Commissioner, if you would ju—”

  “Three decades of playing the game, Mr. Barton,” he continued, not even giving me a glance after cutting me off. A second time. “You didn’t know any of this was happening under your nose?”

  Landis took a step forward, and I recognized the stare. I’d seen it before. He was deliberately closing the door in my face. In His Honor’s eyes, I didn’t exist. My purpose was done, and now I was mute.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Landis added.

  Coach Barton must have figured he had nothing to lose at this point but his pride. He rose from his chair, intending to go for one final stand. “Oh really? You think I was in on all this? Fencing stolen property? When did I have time for that shit? While the boys were enjoying the good life, I was stuck in my hotel room putting together rosters, working on the next team, trying to understand how they played the game.” The finger Barton was jabbing into his own chest now turned to point at Landis. “Who the fuck are you? A fan with a title! You never played the game. You just watched it from the bleachers!”

  McCarthy watched his peer silently and I saw the camaraderie there. Yeah, they were on the opposite sides of the diamond when the umpire called “Play ball!” and yeah, McCarthy had hired me to do a little digging into how the Mariners were doing what they were doing. That didn’t change the fact they were both ball team managers. They were both part of that brotherhood, and they were equals. Joe was watching in awe and terror at the raw defiance pouring from his colleague.

  “I’ve known this game a lot longer and a lot more intimately than you, pal! You’re not the savior you think you are, and maybe you would figure that out if you pulled your head outta your ass!”

  “You’re making this decision a lot easier for me, Barton!” Landis bit back.

  “Like you didn’t have your mind made up before you walked in here? Before this dick here told you what he had found out?”

  Barton was not backing down, and I admired his hubrimaz for voicing opinions other managers and owners probably felt but didn’t dare express. When you’re talking to a guy described by many as “an autocratic czar, relegating final decisions to his totalitarian will,” you tend to keep those passionate opinions close to the doublet.

  The Mariners’ coach took a breath and then dared another step forward. He was well within slugging distance, but he merely clenched his fists as he spoke, his voice now low and controlled. To a point. “Let’s face it—I was fucked the minute you read the papers this morning. Blackball my team first. Give them the same treatment as the Sox. Then blackball me. Make me some kind of criminal mastermind or something, right? I’m supposed to be all-fucking-knowing, right? That’s my job, after all. And you, someone who didn’t have the strength or the guts to be part of this game, you’re going to do all that, ain’t ya?”

  Landis’ mouth pulled back. I think it was a grin. “With pleasure,” he replied.

  Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock…

  I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but now I became acutely aware of the damn clock. I could not imagine working in this office with that racket.

  “Gentlemen,” I began, “if you would plea—”

  “Bill,” Landis
said, turning his back on Barton to face Wrigley, “I need you to—”

  “HEY! I’M TALKING HERE!” That made even Landis step back. Every eye in the room was now on me.

  I’d not barked like that since my Acryonis days. It was good to know I still had the pipes.

  My voice returned to that Elven Mediator level. “Gentlemen, if you all would please give Commissioner Landis and myself a moment.” I never realized those moderators had to work so hard. Now I felt a slight pang of guilt for every time I’d acted like a Troll’s ass while those guys were trying to keep the peace between the Dwarven Empire and some other race. That pang of guilt dissipated when I saw the expression on Landis’ face. “Mr. Wrigley, if you please. It will only be a moment’s inconvenience.”

  The Cubs owner sized me up (and as I’m four-foot-one, it was a quick sizing up) and apparently didn’t find me imposing. (Your first mistake, Mr. Wrigley.) He then gave a nod to Joe. McCarthy cleared his throat, probably to just break the heavy tension in the air, and then followed his boss into the waiting area.

  Barton was still staring at Landis, who had returned to his view overlooking the rain-soaked diamond.

  “Coach,” I spoke gently. “Come on. Just a moment.”

  The old man’s head whipped around to glare at me. If it wasn’t for you poking your nose into my team’s business… his icy gaze said. I had no way to tell him that it was just my job, and with times the way they were, I needed to be the best at my job or I’d be stuck permanently in the Waldorf gig.