“Grunt? That’s not really his name, is it?”
“Gunter the Grunt. That’s what they call him.”
She tittered, flush from her third Planter’s Punch. “I’m not surprised. It appears to be a good portion of his vocabulary.”
Another roar.
“I need to take a look,” Hugo said, and opened the door. He immediately backed in again, though, as Cornelia entered, her pistol drawn.
“Sergeant Weber,” she barked, “You helped kidnap Theodora?”
“No, ma’am,” Hugo said, keeping his gun raised. “If I had been there, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“As soon as he saw me, he knew they’d made a mistake,” Teddy said cheerfully. “You wouldn’t shoot Cornelia, would you, Hugo?”
Hugo looked at the two women, then sighed. “I don’t see a point to it. Sibley is probably sealed away in cotton somewhere.”
Cornelia allowed herself a slight smile. “Let’s go, dear.”
Teddy stood and drained the rest of the alcohol from her glass. “I do hope you don’t lose a lot of money on the game, Sergeant,” she said. “It’s been lovely to see you again.”
“Take the stairs down the back.” Hugo jerked his thumb in the proper direction. “It’ll save you a lot of trouble.”
“Thank you. Come along, Teddy.”
“Kentucky still has a good chance of winning. The Professor says—”
Cornelia grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the room.
When they neared the corner of the building, the ladies discovered the rest of their party was in the process of being thrown out of the club. They quickly ducked back into the alley and waited until the coast was clear before continuing to the parking lot.
Rollo laughed and slapped his friends on the back when he saw his cousin come around the corner.
“Miss Lawless, you should have seen the looks on their faces when Uncle Percy’s cat roared,” he said. “Good gosh, when he came over and started shouting that we were a pack of thieves, and threatening to call the police, the place went wild.”
“Uncle, did you really threaten to call the police in an illegal saloon?”
He smiled. “Worked like a charm. They couldn’t get us out the door fast enough. Lucky I didn’t wear my game suit though. They ripped my jacket on the way out. Speaking of the game, hadn’t we all better get back and change?”
The stairs to the Field House gymnasium were challenging enough for the students, but near-impossible for Uncle Percival to scale. He waved off all help, though, save for Cornelia’s strong arm. Two stout Kentucky boosters followed them, lugging the heavy case.
Teddy climbed ahead, taking advantage of their slow pace to stop and catch her breath. “You know,” she said, when they all reached the doors, “we should have been carried up here in sedan chairs after everything we’ve been through on behalf of the opposing team.”
“Our reward will be in our victory,” Professor Pettijohn said, “Oh, that wind is cold on my chin. Remind me never to shave in winter again.”
They’d arranged to have seats low and on the edge of the Kentucky contingent. The Professor removed his coat, revealing a custom-made suit in the brilliant blue of UK.
“Behold!” he announced, voice echoing above the murmurs of the crowd, and unveiled the Brass Tamale. Everyone oohed and aahed, even the Crimson supporters. He triggered the roar, and everyone went silent briefly before bursting into applause. Several moments went by before Cornelia persuaded her uncle to stop bowing and let everyone settle in for the game.
Kentucky’s pep band played a brisk rallying cry, followed by the new fight song, “On, On, U of K.” This was countered by “Indiana, Our Indiana” from Rollo’s side of the gym. Cornelia’s young cousin wore a red jacket and bowtie, and she noted, with approval, that his pants fit for once. His saxophone gleamed under the electric lights.
With the screech of a whistle, the match began. Everyone stood again to cheer, then retook their seats.
The first few minutes were intense. The squeaks of shoes on the wooden floor and the slap of the leather ball, passed from player to player, blended with the murmuring of the boosters. The Indiana players clapped as one basket was made, then another. The Wildcats tried to rally, but were stymied on all sides.
Teddy peered through her opera glasses. “Why are they all clustered around that one boy?”
“That’s Carey they’re boxing in,” Percival said. “They still remember his performance against them from last year. He was all-American in high school.”
The strategy seemed to be working; Indiana had eight points before Kentucky made its first basket. Kentucky coach Eklund switched out two players. The Wildcat boosters cheered.
“That’s Mohney, and, good, the other’s Besuden,” Percival informed them. “A great player, although they are about to lose him.”
“Lose him? Are there problems with his grades?”
“It’s probably lack of money, dear,” Cornelia said.
“Family trouble?”
“Worse. Tax trouble,” Percival said. “His parents passed away, and his guardians didn’t pay—there he goes!”
He flipped the key, and the clockwork wildcat’s roar joined the crowd’s. A basket for Kentucky.
The second half of the game was close-fought. Indiana struggled to keep its lead; the Wildcats kept pressing them hard. There were groans of disappointment when Mohney fouled one of Indiana’s forwards. The two points gained through free throws widened a gap the Wildcats couldn’t close before the final bell.
“Sibley scored thirteen points,” the Professor said afterward. “Ah, the sacrifices we make in the name of sportsmanship. Not an auspicious start for my Brass Tamale. However,” he said, pulling a Kodak from a pocket in his overcoat, “we should still commemorate the occasion.”
He posed beside his invention while Teddy took a photo, then was forced to hold the pose while several other people took pictures as well, begging to hear the cat cry one more time.
After graciously excusing himself, the Professor began preparing the clockwork wildcat for transport back to the hotel, but was stopped by an admirer who had lingered on. They spoke for a moment, and Pettijohn broke into a brilliant smile.
“What did he say?” Teddy asked after the man was gone.
“He asked if I could produce a miniaturized version of my invention. He sells Wildcat memorabilia in Lexington, and thinks a joint venture would be profitable.”
“Wonderful! Perhaps your reward for good sportsmanship is financial.”
“Perhaps so, but wouldn’t a win have made a stronger selling point?”
Cornelia patted his shoulder. “There’s always another game to win.”
“And a new patent to be had,” he grinned.
John Wooden
Tony Perona
John Wooden is best remembered as the legendary coach of the UCLA Bruins, but he was born in Indiana and enshrined in the Basketball Hall of Fame in 1961 for his accomplishments as a player.
Wooden played high school basketball in Martinsville, where he led his high school team to the state championship finals for three consecutive years, winning in 1927. He then attended Purdue University where he helped the Boilermakers to the 1932 National Championship. He was the first player to be named a three-time consensus All-American.
After college he spent several years playing professionally. He also coached high school basketball and taught English. During WWII he joined the Navy and left the service as a lieutenant.
He returned to Indiana and coached at Indiana State Teacher’s College (now Indiana State University) after the war. In 1948 he became head coach at UCLA, a position he would hold until he retired in 1975.
Wooden had immediate success at UCLA. The Bruins went from a 12-13 record to become the Pacific Coast Conference champions with a 22-7 record. In 1964, UCLA won the first of its national championships, repeating as champions in 1965. The team fell short in 1966, but in 1967 it reclaimed th
e national title. In 1975, Wooden retired with his 10th national championship.
Wooden married Nellie Riley in August 1932. They had a son, James, and daughter, Nancy. Nellie died from cancer in 1985. Wooden died in 2010 at age 99. Wooden was also an author, having written several books about basketball and life, including Coach Wooden’s Pyramid of Success: Building Blocks for a Better Life.
MURDER IN THE DAWG HOUSE
D. B. Reddick
“Hurry up, Ralph,” I shouted from behind the wheel of my black Cadillac Deville. “Or that damn head nurse is likely to call the cops on us again.”
“Jesus, Jimmy, I’m hurrying already,” Ralph Maloney said as he slid his ample frame across my front seat and closed the passenger door behind him. “Springing Tommy from this joint ain’t easy. Now, get out of here.”
I stepped on the accelerator. My car shot out of the circular driveway at the Golden Moments Retirement Center and fishtailed onto Meridian Street, leaving a fresh set of black tire marks in its wake. After falling in line with southbound traffic, I glanced in my rear-view mirror. Tommy Donahue was sitting quietly in the backseat, staring out the passenger window. It looked like he hadn’t shaved or combed his thick crop of white hair in days.
“How you doin’ Tommy?” I asked.
No answer.
“For Chrissakes, answer Jimmy,” Ralph yelled as he turned and scolded Tommy.
Tommy slowly turned away from the window, looked straight ahead and said in a low voice, “Who are you again?”
I glanced over at Ralph, “Didn’t take his meds today, did he?”
“Guess not,” Ralph replied, shaking his head.
“How’d you sneak him past the nurses’ station?”
“Only one on duty and she was busy yakking on the phone. Had her back to us.”
“Charlie, the security guard?”
“Didn’t see him,” Ralph replied. “Probably on a smoke break. Where we going?”
“Hinkle Fieldhouse.”
“What for?”
“Murder.”
Fifteen minutes later we turned off of Meridian Street and onto 49th Street. Historic Hinkle Fieldhouse lay ahead on the campus of Butler University.
“Damn, I love that old building,” I said, staring ahead at the twenties era structure.
“Remember our senior year at Shortridge?” Ralph asked. “We were here for the state finals. Crispus Attucks beat Kokomo, 92-54. Third state title in five years. Bill Garrett was the coach.”
“Jimmy Rayl,” Tommy bellowed from the backseat.
“Huh?”
“You remember him, don’t you?” Ralph said, glancing at me. “Mister Basketball in 1959.”
“The Splendid Splinter,” said Tommy.
“How does he…?”
“Who knows?” Ralph shrugged.
The three of us had just stepped out of my car and were headed for Hinkle’s main entrance when we heard a booming voice behind us. “Uncle Jimmy.”
“Hey, Willie,” I said after turning and watching Butler’s Police Chief Willie Dutton jogging toward us. At six foot five, Willie looks like one of the starters on the basketball team.
“Is he really your nephew?” Ralph whispered in my ear.
“Naw, he’s my godson,” I replied. “My old partner’s kid. But he’s called me Uncle Jimmy forever. Got promoted to chief a few months back.”
“Thanks for coming,” Willie said, shaking hands all round. “Uncle Jimmy, this murder has everyone here spooked. The Bulldogs open their preseason on Saturday afternoon against Ball State. The Administration’s worried nobody will show up if the murder isn’t solved by then. Come inside and I’ll show you the crime scene.”
As we walked into the basketball team’s equipment room, Willie explained how one of the players had shown up early for practice yesterday and had found the team’s equipment manager lying on the floor.
“Who was he?” Ralph asked as I knelt down to take a closer look at the body outline and blood spots on the tiled floor.
“Phil Slater,” Willie replied. “Nice guy. Wouldn’t harm a flea.”
“Who’s handling from IMPD?” I asked.
“George McIntyre,” Willie said.
“Damn,” I replied as I stood up. “McIntyre’s a good detective, but he can be a real pain in the ass. What do you want from us?”
“McIntyre hasn’t talked to me since he left here yesterday,” Willie said. “I’ve left him several messages, but he probably thinks I’m just a glorified rent-a-cop. Can you talk to him, Uncle Jimmy? The school’s administrators are desperate to know what’s going on.”
As we left the equipment room a minute later, I turned to Ralph. “Where’s Tommy?”
“I dunno,” Ralph replied. “He was here a minute ago.”
“There he is,” Willie said, pointing ahead to the basketball court.
Tommy was wearing a white Butler ball cap and shooting two-handed free throws from the foul line. Nothing but net.
After dropping off Tommy at Golden Moments, I drove Ralph home and then headed for police headquarters in the City-County Building. George McIntyre was sitting behind a grey metal desk in the homicide squad room. I hadn’t seen him in years. His dark hair now had numerous gray streaks running through it and the bags under his dark brown eyes practically drooped to his chin.
“Well, if it isn’t legendary homicide detective, Jimmy Flynn,” he said, looking up from the stack of papers piled high on his desk. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“Phil Slater.”
“Larry Dutton’s kid sent you, didn’t he?”
I nodded.
“I’m not sure that big kid could find his way out of a paper bag,” McIntyre said with a smirk on his face. “How’d he get that cushy job at Butler, anyway?”
“Watch it,” I said, leaning my five foot ten frame across McIntyre’s desk. I was within inches of his ugly face. “Willie’s my godson.”
“Alright, already,” McIntyre replied.
My plan to intimidate McIntyre into giving me some information worked. Even though he’s two or three inches bigger than me, he’s never liked people getting in his personal space. Get too close and he begins to squirm.
“Looks like Slater died of blunt force trauma to his noggin,” McIntyre began. “We won’t know for sure until the coroner finishes with him later today or tomorrow. No weapon found at the scene.”
“Any suspects?”
“Not yet, but we’re still doing interviews.”
“Record?”
“Nope. Slater was a regular Boy Scout.”
“Keep me in the loop, McIntyre,” I said as I turned away from his desk.
“Yeah…right.”
The next day, I left my three bedroom ranch house near Ben Davis High School and drove over to the Irvington neighborhood on the near east side. Ralph Maloney lives alone in a rambling two-story Victorian that’s been in his family for a couple of generations. He was waiting for me at the curb.
“Mornin,’ Ralph.” I said as he opened the passenger side door.
“What are we doing today?” he asked. He settled into the seat and struggled to fasten the seatbelt.
“We’re picking up Tommy and then we’re checking out Phil Slater’s apartment building,” I said.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to do it without Tommy?”
“Yeah, but if we don’t spring Tommy from Golden Moments, he’ll end up sitting in front of his TV all day watching shows like Jerry Springer,” I said. “That’s no way to live.”
“You’re right. So, where did Slater live?”
“Broad Ripple. Willie called me last night with the address. Who knows? Maybe one of his neighbors will give us a lead about who killed him.”
When Ralph and I arrived at Golden Moments twenty minutes later, we exited my car and walked towards the front door.
“You don’t have to come inside,” Ralph said. “I can get Tommy on my own.”
“Think of me as backup,
” I replied.
Once inside, Ralph and I quickly walked through the sprawling main lobby before taking an elevator to Tommy’s room on the second floor. As I had predicted, Tommy was sitting in his rocking chair, still in his pajamas, watching TV. Ralph and I helped him to dress before we headed back downstairs.
“And, just where do you think you’re going?” demanded the blond-haired nurse sitting behind the nurses’ station. She was as big as a Colts linebacker and just as mean-looking.
“Police headquarters,” I replied, stepping forward and flashing my old police badge that I’d taken out of my jacket pocket.
“Aren’t you too old to be a cop?” she said, looking at me suspiciously.
“I’m working undercover, ma’am,” I said in the most persuasive voice I could muster. “We’ll have Mr. Donahue back before dinner.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, picking up her phone. “I’m calling his doctor and son. He’s not going anywhere without their permission.”
I turned and motioned for Ralph and Tommy to head for the front door.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I said, leaning across the nurses’ counter. “You can’t interfere in police business.”
“Oh, yeah, just watch me,” the nurse replied as she began punching numbers into her phone.
That was my cue to skedaddle. I jogged out the front door and headed for my car parked in the fire lane of the circular driveway.
“Hey, wait a minute,” I heard a voice behind me yell.
I froze in my tracks. The nurse linebacker must have caught up to me. As I slowly turned around, Charlie, the security guard, was staring at me.
“Taking Tommy for a ride again, Jimmy?”
“Yeah, Charlie, but we’ll have him back in plenty of time for dinner.”
Charlie smiled. “Tommy’s lucky to have good friends like you and Ralph.”
Phil Slater lived in a three-story yellow brick apartment building on College Avenue just south of the main intersection in Broad Ripple.
“Follow me, guys,” I said after parking my Cadillac in the tiny paved lot behind the building. “Let’s get inside and see what’s going on.”
Hoosier Hoops and Hijinks Page 14