Strike Three You're Dead

by R. D. Rosen

  “I care about what happens to all the players. I make it my business to care. But I think I’ll leave the investigation to the guys who get paid for it.” She smiled without parting her lips. Her left hand fished for his knee and found it. “I’ve always liked you, Harvey.”

  “Part of the nucleus, right?”

  “I also like a man who drinks Bass ale.”

  Harvey took her hand and returned it to her own knee.

  “Forget it,” she said. “I told you I was unreasonably drunk.”

  “Can I buy the manager’s wife another margarita?”

  “No, thanks. But unless you’re waiting for someone, why don’t you walk me upstairs to my room? I don’t think I could find the elevator in my present state. In fact, in my present state, I couldn’t tell you if this place has an elevator.”

  She signed for the drinks, and they rode up to the fifth floor like strangers, staring at the illuminated numbers. Harvey held her lightly by the elbow in the carpeted corridor. She turned to face him in front of her door.

  “Come in for a second. I’ve got something to show you,” she said.

  Frances disappeared into the bedroom of the suite while Harvey sat down in a brocaded French provincial chair. He was pulling some stray threads off his jacket when Frances came back into the room. She was wearing a white cotton nightgown with a low-cut lace yoke. Her feet were bare, and her toenails were painted pink.

  “What did you want to show me?” Harvey said with a nervous smile.

  “I’m showing it to you.” The lace yoke of the nightgown barely covered her nipples.

  “That’s not what I expected,” he said.

  “I thought this was pretty good for a forty-year-old woman.”

  “I meant, I thought you said you were going to—I thought it might have something to do with—”

  “How else was I going to get a shy boy like you into my room?” She stood so that the light from the bedroom backlit her body through the nightgown.

  “Now don’t you think Felix—” Harvey began.

  “No, I don’t think Felix. Felix goes out drinking after the game. You know that. Even if he walked in, he’d be too loaded to notice you. I like you, Harvey.”

  “You said that before.” He got to his feet.

  “But now I’m sober,” she said and stepped toward him. She let her arms fall lightly around Harvey’s neck and bent her head to one side to look at him, like someone peering around a corner. Harvey watched her face, breathing slowly through his nose. She had no scent.

  “Older women don’t scare you, do they?” she said.

  Harvey said nothing, and Frances locked her arms around his neck and pulled his face to hers. Her lips on his were as soft and warm as a cheek. She moaned and tried to force Harvey’s mouth open. “That’s the way,” she murmured.

  Harvey felt as if he were being instructed about a lifesaving maneuver. She tried to push her tongue into his mouth and it wouldn’t go, but she kept her lips against his, and finally Harvey, despite himself, felt her tongue winding around his.

  “That’s good,” Frances whispered. “You taste good, Harvey.” Her hand clawed the back of his shirt. “That’s good,” she said.

  Harvey ran his hand up her back and played with the top of her nightgown.

  “Everything’s good,” she was saying.

  He kissed her on the side of the neck, brushed her hair aside, then moved his fingers along the border of the nightgown and toyed with the label. With a circular motion, she rubbed her breasts against his chest. Suddenly, he pushed away from her.

  “I want to talk about Rudy, Frances,” he said.

  “Let’s talk about you,” she breathed. “Let’s talk about you and what you like to do.”

  “I like to talk about Rudy.” He dropped down into the chair. “I guess you knew him pretty well.”

  “What are you talking about?” She stood over him, threading her hand through her hair and then tucking it behind her ears. “I thought we were busy with something else here.”

  “I said you knew him pretty well.”

  “I try to know as much as I can about all the ball players.” She sighed.

  “You knew more about him than most.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’re getting at?” Two voices in the hall passed the door and faded.

  “I’m not kidding, Frances. I want you to talk about Rudy.”

  She went over and sat in the companion French provincial chair and drew her knees up under her chin and pulled her nightgown down over her ankles. “You’re a funny fellow,” she said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  The expression on Harvey’s face, or rather the lack of one, must have meant something to her. She exhaled, rolling her head down and then upward, as though coming up for air. “You tell me what you think you know. Then I’ll tell you the truth about it.”

  “You two were seeing each other.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Look, Frances. He told me about it. It didn’t matter then because that was between you and him. But he’s dead now, and I want to know about it.”

  “What did Rudy tell you?”

  “You and he had a thing. That’s what he told me.”

  “You’re wrong.” She picked up the imitation marble ashtray on the table between the chairs and held it in her lap. “Yes, I saw him a couple of times outside the ball park, but not socially. I suppose it’s just like Rudy to have hinted that there was something between us.”

  “He didn’t hint, Frances. He told me about it.”

  “He did think of himself as a latter-day Bo Belinsky. Or would Joe Namath be more like it?”

  “I said he didn’t hint.”

  She went on working the ashtray around in her hands. “Actually, he was worried about his status on the team. That was it. As you know, he wasn’t having the season we expected from him, and he was worried we might send him down to Wheeling.”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?”

  “The team. The team might send him down. Felix and Marshall. He was losing games in the late innings. It was getting to him, and he wanted to talk.”

  “Well, that’s funny,” Harvey said. “Rudy and I talked a lot about baseball. Sometimes, it was all we talked about. But he never said he was worried about being sent down. But Frances, why would he talk to you about it? Why not Felix?”

  She had examined the ashtray from every possible angle, and she now started over again. “Felix is a distracted man. Not good with personnel matters. I guess Rudy found me more accessible, so he came to me.”

  “You went to Rudy’s town house to talk about how he didn’t have to worry about being sent down to the minors?”

  “I never went to his house. We went out and had a drink.”

  “I thought you said you saw him a couple of times outside the park.”

  “All right, we had drinks a couple of times. What’s the big deal? He was worried. You know he was a lonely guy. He had no real parents. I think it helped to talk to an older woman.”

  “You’re nice that way, Frances.”

  “Look, Harvey,” she said, clapping the ashtray down on the table. “If Rudy told you he was having an affair with me, he was lying to you. Men do that. You can believe what you want, but I won’t sit here and be grilled by you. Am I getting through? I don’t know anything about Rudy, and I don’t know anything about what happened to him, and I don’t appreciate you bringing it up in the middle of what I thought was a very promising kiss.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she made a strange sound at the base of her throat.

  “Save it for your shrink,” Harvey said. “You’re a liar.”

  She jumped to her feet, walked to the door, and leveled a finger at him. “Get out of here. Right now.”

  Harvey rose and went toward her, feeling a twinge in his right leg from the dive he had taken in the outfield during the game. He stopped in front of her with his hand on the doorknob. “By the way,” he said, “
I like your nightgown. I noticed it comes from one of my favorite stores—The Bare Essentials.”

  “You’re not funny. You’re queer.”

  “You have something else from that store, Frances. A teddy the color of cream that snaps under the crotch. You’re probably wondering how in hell it ended up in Rudy’s closet.”

  Frances’s eyes had grown large and now narrowed again.

  “Anyway, I was wondering about it myself,” Harvey said, opening the door.

  “Wait.” She put her hand over Harvey’s on the doorknob and closed the door.

  “What is it, Frances?”

  “Wait, I, uh—Look, okay, I won’t lie to you anymore. There was something. Not much, but something. You can understand—with Felix—it wouldn’t be good. You can’t let this get out. You’ve got to promise me.”

  “I’m not interested in telling Felix, or anybody else, for that matter. You can hump whoever you want, Frances. I just want to know who killed Rudy.”

  “I wish I knew, too,” she said and paused a long time. Then she asked, “How do you think I felt when he was murdered? There was no one to talk about it with. So now there’s you, but you don’t want to hear about it.”

  “Not the lurid details, anyway. I want to hear about who could’ve killed him.”

  “I’m not very happy,” she suddenly announced, squeezing the bridge of her nose.

  “Save that for your shrink, too. You can’t spend time in bed with a guy like Rudy and not have some idea about what’s going on in his life. About what danger he’s in.”

  “Yes, you can. Just as you could sleep in the same hotel room with Rudy for four months on the road and not know what you’d like to know. Or do you know?”

  “If I did, Frances, I wouldn’t have come to your room in the first place. And I still think you’re holding out on me.”

  “If I find anything out,” she said, touching Harvey’s nose with her finger, “you’ll be the first to know.”

  “You’re still a liar,” Harvey said.

  WHEN HE REACHED HIS room, the phone was ringing. It was his brother Norm, who knew the name and telephone number of every hotel where the team stayed. “Where you been?” he said.

  “Out.”

  “I hope she was Jewish,” Norm said.

  “That’s great, Norm. What’s up?”

  “Speaking of great, Harv, you guys sure looked sharp out there tonight. I’m glad you all saved your best game for national TV.”

  “Well, look, we’re not exactly—”

  “I didn’t know whether I was watching a game or a game show. You know, like What’s My Line? The panel would’ve had a hard time guessing you guys are baseball players.”

  “Good, Norm—”

  “I mean, I thought they were going to call it on account of ineptitude.”

  “Norm, why don’t you try standing in there against Andersen when his curve’s working?”

  “I tell you, I wouldn’t mind batting against Bobby Wagner. Jesus, what’s wrong with the guy? It’s hard to believe he almost won the Cy Young twice. He looks like he ought to win the Cy Old award.”

  “Let me know when the routine’s over, Norm.”

  “Take it easy, Harv. It’s just the coke kicking in.”

  “You? Coke? My own flesh and blood?”

  “C’mon. You guys know all about coke.”

  “But English professors?”

  “Sure. Harv, I got another statistic for you.”

  “The league ought to hire you, Norm. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t get paid for all the time you waste. What is it?”

  “Did you know that in night games this season you’ve hit three-forty-three, but you’ve only hit two-thirty-nine in day games? You’d win the batting title if you only played at night.”

  “I’ll see if I can get the commissioner to reschedule the rest of our games.”

  “All right, I won’t keep you. Let’s get together when you guys play Chicago.”

  “When’s that?”

  “C’mon, Harv, it’s your schedule. Night games on the twenty-fifth and twenty-seventh and a twi-night double-header on Wednesday the twenty-sixth. But watch out: the White Sox haven’t dropped both ends of a doubleheader all season. Now, if they only played twin bills, they’d be in first place in the Western Division. I’ll buy you dinner at Berghoff’s.”

  “You’re on. How are Linda and the kid?”

  “Fine. Linda sends her love and wants to know when you’re going to get married. Nicky’s favorite Jewel is Cleavon Battle. He’s got six of his cards. I tried to get him to collect yours, but the kid won’t listen to reason.”

  When he hung up, Harvey studied Boston’s dark skyline out the window, then ordered up some shrimp cocktail from room service and called Mickey.

  “I hate to admit it,” she said to him, “but I miss you.”

  “That’s the best thing anyone’s said to me in two days.”

  “I should hope so. What’s the worst?”

  “At the moment, it’s a four-way tie between Ronnie Mateo, Linderman, Bobby Wagner, and Frances Shalhoub. They’ve all told me with varying degrees of menace to stop sticking my head in the Rudy business. Somebody put a dead rat in my locker yesterday. Having great time. Wish you were here.”

  “You might’ve been a tad more circumspect with Lassiter.”

  “Okay, okay, I learned my lesson. Anyway, Mick, I know something new. I think I know who Rudy was in love with, but I don’t know what it means. Ready?”

  “Set.”

  “Frances Shalhoub.”

  Harvey listened to Mickey’s breathing for five seconds. “How do you know?” she said.

  “You know the nightgown in Rudy’s place? The label said it came from a place called The Bare Essentials in White Plains, New York. Tonight I discovered that Frances has a nightgown from said boutique.” Harvey had failed to foresee the implications of that remark, and stopped.

  “I’m only a little more interested in this information than I am in how you came by it,” Mickey said.

  “Right,” Harvey said. “Well, it’s like this,” he began and finished at the point where Frances emerged from the bedroom in her lingerie.

  “I see. And you got close enough to read the label?” Mickey said. “Or did you simply tell Frances that you’re a connoisseur of nightgown labels and would she mind if you had a little peek?”

  “Let’s just say that I was the victim of a vicious assault that momentarily left me in a position to read it. I ran screaming from her chamber almost immediately thereafter.”

  “I see,” she said. “Well, she does have a good body for a woman her age. But, of course, you didn’t notice her body.”

  “How could I? The nightgown was a floor-length flannel job with a hood. Now look, it took me a while to get it out of her, but she finally admitted to having had a short fling with Rudy. She said she didn’t want to say so because of Felix, but I don’t know whether to believe her. She said she didn’t know anything about Rudy—that is, about what kind of trouble he was in. Maybe she’s hiding something, maybe she’s protecting somebody; but on the other hand, her behavior was perfectly logical for a manager’s wife who was cheating with a relief pitcher. In the same way, if Frances is the one Rudy was in love with—if theirs was the relationship he said was doomed—then maybe all he meant by that was that Frances was already married. To his boss, no less. Then again, Rudy wasn’t the sort of guy to let a detail like a husband get in the way of an affair. Unless he really loved her, of course.”

  “But Frances is in a different class than Rudy, in every sense.”

  “She knew that, but I doubt if Rudy did. He wasn’t exactly into class consciousness. Anyway, maybe she did love him. Rudy had his charms, which even you’ll admit. After all those years with Felix, Rudy might’ve been just the stud an aging beauty like Frances was looking for. Or there might’ve been something else going on. But if so, Frances isn’t saying, and if she isn’t saying, maybe it does h
ave to do with Rudy’s death. Am I going in circles or what?”

  “Rhomboids,” Mickey said.

  “Okay, we’ve got Frances plus Ronnie Mateo plus three typewriters plus Cleavon’s bat plus—plus, wait, the shrimp cocktail.”

  “What’s that have to do with it?”

  “Hold on a sec. My shrimp cocktail’s at the door.” Harvey got up, signed for the shrimp, and tipped the waiter three singles. “Can you believe this?” he said when he picked up the phone. “Eight bucks for four Gulf shrimp. And they’re mealy.”

  “Do me a favor, Bliss. Don’t get wrapped up in this thing.”

  Harvey finished chewing. “First you tell me I don’t care enough. Now I’m not supposed to get involved. It’s one thing for Ronnie Mateo to twist my arm, but it’s something else for you to—Mick, something very weird was going on in Rudy’s life.”

  “I’m not telling you to forget it, but you could get hurt.”

  “We’re talking about Rudy, Mick. Two weekends ago, the three of us were eating johnnycakes in Newport.”

  “I know. But I don’t want you to get into trouble. Remember, you’re not a free agent anymore.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I own part of your contract now, Bliss.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He ate the second shrimp and fell back on the bed. “As long as I get to renegotiate it after the season.”

  “And what does that mean?” she said.

  “It means we could always make the terms more binding.”

  “Now you hold on a second, Blissberg. You know I’m just a rookie in the game of love.”

  “You’re a bonus baby where I’m concerned.”

  There was a pause. “I’ve run out of metaphors,” Mickey said.

  “Have a shrimp.”

  “I got a call from New York today.”

  “ABC?”

  “They want me down there for a second interview.”

  “You think they might offer you something soon?”

  “That’s between God and Roone Arledge.”

  On Tuesday morning, Harvey walked through Back Bay to the Ritz for French toast and coffee and learned from the Boston Globe sports section that he was now batting .302 and had dropped to the tenth spot in the American League batting race. He skipped the account of last night’s loss and skimmed a short feature on Bobby Wagner headlined, “Will the Real Bobby Wagner Please Stand Up?” It was another in a flurry of articles that seemed to appear in every city on the road, all of them provoked by Wagner’s indifferent record. He was now 8 and 16, pitching in the shadow of lesser men like Van Auken and Crop. The Globe article was largely a review of his often brilliant career in Baltimore, plus a few standard paragraphs about the current season, buttressed by familiar comments from players and coaches around the league. One quote came from an unnamed source on the Jewels: “His arm’s shot. He’s been pitching on sheer guts.”