Barley rested an oil lamp on the gravel behind the car and opened the trunk. The stench made them gag, but Barley quickly got down to business and they lifted the bulky sack out and onto the cart.
Johnny asked, “So are you gonna tell me who Dooly McDowell is?”
“Man I once knew,” Barley said. “Now grab that corner and hush.”
Together, they pulled the cart toward the hammer mill.
Once inside the mill, Johnny unzipped the sack to reveal the deceased’s head. He was a dark-haired man, wide eyed, with a face that looked like it had been in the boxing ring.
Johnny fell back on his butt. “He’s looking at me!”
“Johnny,” Barley hissed. “Quit being a wise guy.” He drew his hand across his face. “It’ll be best if you turned your heads.” He shucked down to his shirt and suspenders. Johnny turned away as soon as Barley raised the bat; William did too, but the sound—not the sight of it—nearly forced his dinner up. On the second, third, fourth strike, he covered his ears.
“That should do it.” Barley wiped the bat with a towel and handed the Slugger to Johnny, who took it with reluctance. Then he pulled a pigskin wallet, with Dooly’s identification, from his pants and slid it into the pocket of the old suit he’d put on the dead man before he’d ruined his face.
“Father’s gone off the track,” Johnny whispered as they watched Barley slide a switchblade into one of the dead guy’s pockets.
“He knows what he’s doing, Johnny.”
But the lantern glow did give Barley’s deep-set eyes a catatonic look. And when he removed a piece of wire from his shirt pocket and staged a stranglehold, William unwillingly composed a sentence in his head: “The look on his face could have been construed as insane.”
“He said this would be duck soup.” Johnny cringed. “It ain’t easy at all.”
William already regretted suggesting this plan. Barley clapped his hands together—job well done—and told them to get the feet while he got the arms, and together they shuffled “Dooly McDowell” back in the trunk.
Barley wiped his face, took two long pulls from a flask, and slipped his jacket and hat on. “Ready, boys?” He closed the trunk and patted it like a dog. “Next stop, Rose Island.”
By the time they parked in the trees flanking Fourteen Mile Creek, William’s hands were cramped from clutching the steering wheel and his shoulders had grown stiff from stress. Barley smoked in the front while Johnny leaned forward with his elbows propped on the seat backs. Then Barley peered through the trees at the mouth of the creek where it entered the Ohio River. “The Devil’s Backbone.”
William looked at the ridge of exposed rocks jutting above the water. Most of Rose Island’s visitors arrived by ferryboat or steamers, like the Idlewild and City of Memphis. Some of the wealthier businessmen from the city hired private speedboats for quick lunch trips. Boats weren’t an option this time of night, and crossing the Devil’s Backbone was out of the question. Barley looked upward to the swaying footbridge for passage.
The suspension bridge stretched fifty feet across the mouth toward the peninsula. Across the black water a craggy hill rose up the Indiana bank to the seven-acre bluff upon which the popular Rose Island Amusement Park had been built a decade before. William had gone there three times, and the park, every time, teemed with people swimming, riding rides, and taking pictures of the caged animals. But at night it was eerily quiet.
As the three of them inched across the footbridge with Dooly McDowell in their arms and the wind swaying the rickety boards side to side, William brooded on the island’s legends, dating back before the time of Christopher Columbus. Indians told stories of yellow-haired Welsh giants roaming the dark and forbidden land. The natives buried their dead on the bluff overlooking the river. Children were told not to scale the walls because they were cursed by the Devil. Don’t look down, he told himself as they closed in on the middle of the bridge. He could feel it sag from the weight of four men. Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look—
“Look at that owl down there.” Barley pointed with a nod.
Johnny made a hooting sound and the owl flew off toward the tall ferns.
William glanced down, long enough to see the water rushing underfoot. He quickened his pace, which nearly made Barley trip.
“Easy now.” Barley backed his way to the end of the bridge. Over his shoulder in the distance, lit by what moonlight the clouds let through, was the entrance to the park. Two stone pillars twenty feet apart held a rainbow-shaped sign above the bluff that read ROSE ISLAND in large white letters. Barley directed them away from the entrance. “To the tennis courts.”
It took another ten minutes of grunting and slogging through the ferns, but eventually they made it to Barley’s precise destination, which was down the hillside from the tennis and horseshoe courts. The net on the closest court was barely visible.
Johnny asked, “Why are we dropping it here, where nobody will see it?”
“Used to bury cases of whiskey here. In this spot.” Barley placed a shovel he’d brought along inside Dooly’s limp hand. “Deals were made here. Hands were shook.” He pointed to the river below, slivers of it visible through the trees. “Close enough to hear the water and tennis balls thwacking at the same time. When Tommy the Bat reads of this body in the paper, this location will make sense to him.”
“That’s it, then? We just leave it here?” Johnny asked.
Barley, hands on his hips, looked up the hillside, where a large hotel towered behind a merry-go-round and Ferris wheel. Twenty summer cottages slept vacant for the season. He looked eager to get back to the Kentucky side of the river. “Let’s go home.”
He started to retrace their steps, moving at a clip that William didn’t like, bracing himself on various tree trunks. The river rocks could make corpses out of them if they fell.
“But who will find the body?”
Barley threw a thumb toward William. “Your brother the Courier reporter, first thing in the morning.”
SEVENTEEN
William stayed up all night writing about Dooly McDowell’s murder. He had the peculiar advantage of being able to check details with the victim himself, and Barley was particular about what he wanted in print. Dooly was a known bootlegger who attempted to legitimize after repeal. Dooly’s network was crushed by the deaths of his three partners—the collective foursome known during the twenties as the “Micks.” Barley wanted nothing mentioned about family or relatives but did allow mention of the recent burning down of Dooly McDowell’s house.
William left right after sunrise, as the believers began to emerge from their tents. He drove to Rose Island and parked twenty yards from the suspension bridge. He was the first one there, but soon others began to arrive. He slid the Kodak Brownie in his jacket pocket and merged with the early birds heading toward the footbridge.
With his new fedora and two-toned wing tips, he felt like an experienced reporter. The cool river breeze shook the bridge as he crossed. The sun was bright, the sky a brilliant blue—perfect weather for the last weekend of the fall season. A full ferryboat—the Idlewild—cut through a patch of low fog, whistle blowing its arrival, the calliope playing “I’m Looking over a Four Leaf Clover.” The City of Memphis approached from the west. The captain sounded the landing whistle with gusto, as if in friendly competition with the Idlewild.
The plan was to take pictures of the zoo animals, roam for a bit, and then “stumble” across the body. Rose Island was a place to take the family for a day of fun, but daily attendance had been on a steady decline due to the Depression. Yet by the looks of the crowds approaching on steamboats, parents were taking a pleasure day without their children. Today looked to be a throwback to the years when men and women had jobs and families had food on their tables. Which was all for the better; “finding” the body would cause that much more fervor.
William’s pace increased when he stepped off the bridge and joined the men and women who funneled from three
directions with picnic baskets. White and cream were the most popular colors—dresses, blouses, skirts, and suits, all with accompanying shoes: wing tips and spats, heels and flats. Men wore fedoras and top hats, walked with canes and bottles of wine and whiskey. Genteel women moved about in dresses that showed waistline curves, toting umbrellas for those wanting to avoid the sun. He saw old cloche hats, small plate-shaped hats, lamb chop hats, cutlet hats—some tilted at jaunty, flirtatious angles—and even a few that resembled fake fruit baskets. Chic and charming, Coco Chanel and Greta Garbo, faces made up and lips painted bright enough to kiss. The smell of fried chicken and biscuits mingled with cologne and perfume, and William was giddy by the time he squeezed through the gate. Signs said it was BUSINESS DAY, and general admission was only fifty cents. William told the ticket taker he was a reporter and showed his camera.
Once inside, he moved along with the crowd. It was too cold to swim—the pool was closed—but he took pictures of the shimmering water. He imagined Polly swimming in it, wearing a skimpy suit. He sidestepped through the crowd and took pictures of the Ferris wheel and roller coaster. He took pictures of the new golf course, the baseball diamond, shooting gallery, and dance hall. The zoo was soon packed. Men and women petted the goats and took pictures of wolves, monkeys, and a black bear named Teddy Roosevelt.
William snapped a picture of the popular bear and moved along toward the sound of clanking horseshoes and cleanly struck tennis balls. “Forty-love,” a man shouted.
His opponent, an athletically built woman in a knee-length white dress and shoes, swung much too quickly and the ball thudded off the wooden racquet frame and sailed toward the woods.
“That’s off the court, dear.”
He went to retrieve it, but his wife beat him to the fence.
“I hit it, Harvey. I’ll get it.”
Let her, William thought. She’ll yell much louder than you.
A few seconds later a dirty tennis ball sailed over Harvey’s head and onto the court. Then a terror-filled scream scattered birds from trees and everyone on Rose Island froze.
By the time William made it across the tennis court to the hillside, the husband had already wrapped his arms around his distraught wife and led her away.
William approached the body with trepidation, aware of the quickly forming ring of onlookers. In the sunlight, it looked more gruesome. The hands had taken on a greenish tint, as had the back of the neck. William snapped pictures of the body. He removed the wallet and identification and took a quick picture of the Dooly McDowell ID.
“He’s robbing the poor man!” shouted someone from the crowd.
“I’m a reporter,” William said from his squat next to the body, as if he’d covered dozens of murder scenes, and then added quickly, “For the Courier-Journal.”
“Vulture,” shouted another man.
“It’s the job of the police,” said another.
The crowd, aside from some crying, was mostly quiet as William went about taking pictures, trying to get all he needed before someone ordered him to stop. He flipped the dead man over. The face was unrecognizable, smashed in and disfigured. William lowered his head. He didn’t have to fake disgust. The tumble in his stomach was real. He took the picture.
A baby-faced security guard arrived, huffing. Mr. Rose, the park’s owner, arrived with him. William told them who he was, and suddenly his palms grew wet. His forehead dripped sweat. The camera shook in his hands.
“Do you have credentials?” asked Mr. Rose.
“I’ve only just begun working there. I was here enjoying the—”
“He’s the one wrote the articles about that man,” someone said, stepping forward. “The stories about the Potter’s Field Christ.”
Whispers spread across the crowd. All eyes settled on William. The Potter’s Field Christ. He liked the name and would use it. In any event, it registered credibility with both Mr. Rose and the security guard. Mr. Rose hurried to phone the police while the security guard, all three hundred some-odd pounds of him, navigated the downslope toward the body. A patch on his uniform read SMITH.
Smith said, “We should probably cover the body until the police show.”
William had gotten what he needed. All that remained was to borrow a phone and call Mr. Crone at the Courier.
But then the crowd parted, and a tall, broad-shouldered man in a cream-colored fedora and matching suit entered the circle. In his jacket pocket was a red rose that matched his buttoned vest. In his hand was a Louisville Slugger. His face was tanned and hard lined; his cheeks were hatched with scars and his chin looked chiseled from stone. A busty brunette in a tight red dress had her hand wrapped around his arm. She looked both sophisticated and devilish, her lips painted as starkly red as her eyelashes were black.
William remembered the picture from the newspaper and had no doubt who the man was. Tommy Borduchi. The Hash Man.
Borduchi nudged Dooly’s leg with the bat barrel.
“He’s been coming round here a lot,” Smith said to William. “Like he’s casing the—”
“Shut your head, Fat Pants,” Tommy said to Smith. “Who is this man at my feet?”
William feared his bowels would turn to liquid. At least now they wouldn’t have to hope Tommy read about the body in the newspapers. “According to his identification, sir . . .”
“Sir?” Tommy said to the woman at his side, who laughed as she lit a Lucky Strike. “Have I said anything yet to make these people fear me?”
“No, Daddy,” she said, blowing smoke.
William shook his head. “I’m sorry . . . sir.”
“Drop the sir or I’ll make you a bed next to his.”
“His name, according to his identification, is Dooly McDowell.”
Tommy touched William’s chin with the bat. “I smell something foul. Did you just lose your bladder?”
William shook his head, but warm urine trickled down his right leg. He doesn’t know who you are. Stay calm. He doesn’t know what you’ve done.
Tommy handed him a handkerchief from his jacket. “Wipe that forehead off before you drown in it.” He returned his focus to the body, squatted next to the corpse, removed the wallet, and studied the identification. He closed the wallet, slid it back inside Dooly’s pants, and stood. “I heard them say you’re the reporter what wrote about that Potter’s Field Christ?”
William nodded. “Yes, I’m William. William McFee.”
Tommy casually swung the bat, a slow practice swing before stepping into the box. “Do you believe Babe Ruth really called his shot, William McFee?”
Tommy’s woman finished her cigarette and tossed the butt to the ground, not too far from where Dooly’s hand decayed in mud. Flies had started to buzz. “Come on, Daddy. Let’s drift.”
“In a minute, babe. I’m chinning here with my new friend.” Tommy swung the bat again in a slow arc. “Well? Did the Babe call his shot?”
William didn’t know. His wet pants clung to his leg.
“He called his shot, sure as the night, mister!” Someone in the crowd didn’t know when to shut his head. “Wrigley Field, 1932 World Series. Game three against the Cubs. The Chicago bench jockeys were ribbing Ruth hard, and he did it to toy with them.”
Tommy pointed the bat. “Now there is a baseball fan, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Let’s drift, baby,” said the woman, antsy.
Tommy looked back at William. “Of course he called his shot. And do you know why? Because he’s Babe Ruth. The best baseball player to ever live.”
“Darn tootin’,” said the man in the crowd.
Tommy kept his eyes on William but pointed the bat at the fool who kept talking. “See, even that little guttersnipe agrees with me.” Tommy beat the bat barrel against his palm. “Do you believe in miracles, William McFee?”
“Yes . . . I do.”
Tommy pointed the bat at the corpse. “Here lies proof of a miracle.” He turned to the crowd and spoke like a God-fearing preacher. “One of Chri
st’s own has perished before us today, ladies and gentlemen, in a most gruesome and heinous manner. Clear work of the Devil, no doubt. I was once burdened by such evil, but Christ has a way of righting all wrongs and saving the good man from further sin, the righteous man from falling off that track to redemption. Can I get an amen?”
The baseball fan gave him one, but no one else did.
Tommy waved the bat lazily as he talked. “Perhaps, in the eyes of lesser men, this man before me now, this man we now know as Dooly McDowell, deserved to be beaten, bludgeoned, strangled, and left for dead. But even the vilest of men shall be called back to the flock and rest peacefully under the warm embrace of Christ. Let us not judge this sinner, this lost child of God. Instead, let us commend him to the mercy of God. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Let us pray that he will be resurrected to eternal life with Christ.”
Tommy motioned the sign of the cross over Dooly’s body. He bowed his head. Many in the crowd did likewise. The tension faded. Smith had multiple chins, and they were all squeezed together at his neckline, his head bobbing in prayer, although his eyes never left Tommy the Bat.
William prayed as well, prayed like he’d never strayed from God, not even for a thought. He prayed as hard as he could for the police to come. And then Tommy the Bat backed away from the corpse and turned toward his woman. He grabbed her outstretched hand, started up the hill with her toward the tennis courts.
“You’re the man who crushed out of the Eddyville prison!” By Smith’s expression, it was a thought he didn’t mean to verbalize. But once he’d said it, he stood tall with forced confidence. “Your picture was in the paper. Sir.”
“Close your head,” William whispered out of the side of his mouth.
“Keep walking, Daddy,” said Eva Carcolli in a sultry voice.
Tommy pulled his hand free. “I can tell you like to eat, pal. Is it true, Fat Pants? Do you like to eat?” Tommy stepped closer. “Open your mouth. Wider.”
Quick as a snakebite he plunged the end of the bat into Smith’s mouth, forcing the security guard back. Tommy removed the bat and brought it down, ax-like. Smith groaned and whimpered.
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