Fourth Down to Death

by Brett Halliday

  “Joe’s picking me up here when they’re done, so we might as well sit down. Mr. Shayne, if you want to do me a favor… I know you don’t feel too loving toward Joe at the moment… but if you’d just listen to what he says? Tell him you’ll suspend judgment till tomorrow? He won’t sleep unless you can relieve his mind, and it’s when he’s tired that he gets hurt. He needs a solid nine hours.”

  Shayne sat down. “How did you happen to be with him at the Zacharias’s?”

  “I made him take me along,” she said grimly. “I’m the one who answered the phone when the bitch called, and I’ll call her ‘bitch’ to her face, because that’s what she is. All she has to do is snap her fingers and Joe comes running. I told him I didn’t approve of it. I didn’t raise my voice. I merely pointed out quietly that if he went off to make love to another woman the Saturday night before a game, considering that he makes such a fetish of not making love to his wife on Saturday night to save his strength, I intended to lay the entire matter before Mr. Lynch. And you know Mr. Lynch. He doesn’t make much of a habit of asking questions. Around here his word—is—law! So Joe had to let me go, as the lesser of two evils.” Her husband walked in while she was talking, his nose reset and freshly bandaged. The cut above his eyes had been stitched, and he was now wearing his front teeth. He gave Shayne and his wife a sour look.

  “If I’m interrupting anything—”

  Bea bounced up to meet him. “I’ve just been telling Mr. Shayne. We realize he has us over a barrel. Start with last Sunday.”

  Truck scrubbed his fingers through his close-cropped hair, sat down on one of the benches, and sighed. “I don’t know if I did the right thing or not.”

  “You did the wrong thing,” his wife said. “That goes without saying.”

  “You blew those two plays, didn’t you?” Shayne asked.

  “Well, yeah,” Truck said uncomfortably, “and I hated to do it. That guy beats me sometimes, but I usually get a piece of him. There’s this way he moves his hips, I can key on him. But I’ve had this James kid for two seasons now and he’s running out my ears.”

  “Joe,” Bea said, “for the good of the club, for your own good—”

  “Shut up,” Truck said mildly enough. “I’m the one they hammer on. I try to do a job out there. In my time I’ve torn up a few people who thought they were tough. I try to be a credit to football. I keep my weight right on the button and any time they want somebody to show up at a dinner to help ticket sales—”

  “OK,” Shayne said without sympathy. “—while Ronnie drinks and doesn’t come to practice and gets most of the endorsement income. It’s a cruel world.”

  “You know it,” Truck agreed. “And you left out a few things… Am I allowed to ask a question? All they’ll tell me about Reddick is it was a one-car accident. Was there anything—well, out of the ordinary about it?”

  “Quite a few things.”

  “I mean, it’s bad timing from my viewpoint, and I don’t know if it was a coincidence or not. He was looking for extra income, Stitch, that stuck out, and if he was trying to cut himself in on Ronnie’s or somebody’s action… Because you may not realize it, but Ronnie’s got a very big thing going here, as far as I can make out.”

  “Tell him about it,” Bea urged.

  “Like in the K.C. game last year,” Truck said. “If we’d took that one, it meant a minimum of four thousand per man, more than that depending on how far we went afterward. Four thousand to me and Bea is pretty good bread. But up there where Ronnie is—his tax bracket—he loses it all to the government. But if he gets it in the form of a payoff, and some people say you can’t blame him, even if it’s only four thousand—and it couldn’t hardly be that little—he’d come out ahead. So last year, as I say, he had water on the elbow. That was legit, you couldn’t fake the inflammation, and Doc Bishop had to draw some of it off and stick in some butazolidin. That much I can vouch for. Ronnie built on that. There was some grumbling afterward among the guys. It wasn’t so much that he was missing passes, it was how he was doing it.”

  “He was paid,” Bea said flatly.

  “Who do you think paid him?” Shayne said.

  “A fellow named Knapp was around at the time, and he’s always making these crazy bets—like how many blackbirds are going to light on a stretch of telephone wire. Against New Orleans two weeks ago—somebody jaked the bookies on that one, and here we get into what I know for a fact. There’s this Holiday Inn outside of Fort Lauderdale. We’re not close pals, Ronnie and me, and that’s known. I got a tip that Ronnie had a room there, and if I went up for an hour or two on such and such a morning, I could learn something. Well, with my size I can’t sit in a coffee shop and hope they won’t notice me. So I stayed in the car and Bea did it. First this Knapp. He pulled up and went in one of the rooms for just long enough to turn around. He had a kind of dispatch case when he went in, and he didn’t have it when he came out. Fifteen, twenty minutes later—”

  “More like an hour,” his wife put in.

  “More like an hour… Ronnie drove up in that flossy car, I don’t even know the name of the make, and he went in the room and came out with the dispatch case. No two ways about it—he was collecting the payoff for calling the New Orleans game so it ended up in the middle and the bookies got beat coming and going.”

  “You got a tip,” Shayne said. “How did that work?”

  “In the mail,” Truck said. “Typed, with no name on it.”

  “I thought it was kind of cuckoo,” Bea said, “but when Joe showed it to me, I thought—why not drive up to see? And sure enough, first Knapp, then Ronnie James. The same dispatch case, I’ll swear to that. How else can you explain it?”

  “And that’s why you decided to knock Ronnie out of the Boston game?”

  “I wasn’t trying to get him concussed, understand. It was more of a warning. I was going to take him aside later and say, ‘Look, remember you depend on me and the guys on the line if you want to stay healthy.’”

  “Were you planning to ask him for a piece of the payoff?”

  “No,” Truck said indignantly. “I don’t go in for that kind of crap!”

  Bea moved uneasily. “Honey, Mike’s not like some people. He won’t automatically condemn a person. When everybody else is making a fortune—”

  “That’s the thing,” her husband said. “When Sid sells the club he’s going to pick up five or six million clear profit, and when you think about it—is that fair? Ronnie’s a great draw, but put him behind some offensive lines I could mention and he’d never complete a pass. I’m the one who got the two All-Pros.”

  “Now what about Lou Mangione?”

  “What about him? He called me up on the subject of the best way to get to Maxie, the kicker, and that son-of-a-bitch Stitch Reddick had a bug on my phone, as it happened. I still don’t know what Stitch had in mind—what he was intending to do with that tape. I didn’t tell Bea about it, and that’s where I made my mistake. She’s been nagging me all year—”

  “Joe, I have not.”

  “Yes, you have,” he said reasonably. “About the paycheck. I thought the thing to do about Stitch was to go into it with him and keep the old eyes open. And if somebody in this room hadn’t busted up his receiver, we could have worked out something.”

  “What kind of protection are you giving Ronnie tomorrow?” Shayne said.

  He got an astonished look from both Truszowskis.

  Joe cried. “You mean he’s been dogging it all week? Why, that dirty—and here I’ve been feeling I knocked us out of the playoffs.” Another thought struck him. “The points! Bea, they’re giving seventeen on New York, and if Ronnie’s going to be in there—”

  “Stay out of it,” Shayne told him coldly. Then, less harshly: “You’re already in one betting jam… Look, a couple of direct questions, and then you can go get some sleep. Did you get the feeling the Boston defense was reading you last week?”

  “I’m the wrong one to ask. All I see is
the guy in front of me. One of the coaches was beefing afterward.”

  “Who’s Ted Knapp’s connection on the team?”

  “I didn’t know he had one.”

  “He has one.”

  Truck considered, but in the end he shook his head. “Ronnie’s the only one I ever tied him in with. If you mean somebody who’s feeding him information—a player would cost too much. A trainer, or Doc Bishop—” He stopped, and said slowly, “Bishop’s got this new girlfriend, hair down to here. You don’t go out with a doll like that without money in your pocket. And old Doc—” He shrugged. “I’ve seen his wife, and she’s let herself get heavy. This blonde. Mmmh, mmh. It’s lucky I’m happily married.”

  “Don’t brag about the ‘happily,’” Bea said coldly.

  “How is he as a doctor?”

  Truck said cautiously, “Well…when you get an injury, the first thing he has to do is find out where it hurts. He likes that part. I’ve had him for three operations now, and they all came out all right.” He added, “He makes all these little jokes which just aren’t funny.”

  “Does he give amphetamines?”

  “If you think you need it, you get it, and if anybody asks questions, it’s B-12. I’m a candidate for one tomorrow, believe me. I’m half dead.”

  “Couldn’t you let Joe go to sleep now, Mr. Shayne?” Bea asked plaintively.

  “You didn’t answer one question,” Shayne said. “Are you going to protect Ronnie if he plays?”

  “Why not? I made my point Sunday.”

  “All right,” Shayne said, dismissing them.

  “But as far as sleep goes,” Truck said, heaving himself up, “what a laugh. You gave me all these new ideas, and they’ll keep rattling around in my head the rest of the night.”

  Bea whispered a suggestion, but he shook his head.

  “No, Bea. If I told you once, I told you five hundred times—I’ve only got so much strength, and I’ve got to save some for football.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Shayne took the elevator to the fourth floor and made the long trek around to the Bayside Pavilion, where he found Ronnie James’s room.

  The bed had been stripped, and the mattress was turned back. Ronnie had departed, leaving several empty pints that had once held Scotch, candy wrappers, copies of Sports Illustrated, drooping flowers and a large untouched basket of fruit.

  Returning to the phones in the main lobby, Shayne dialed Ronnie’s apartment. There was no answer.

  He asked the girl at the desk if Dr. Bishop was in the hospital. After trying several extensions she found him in surgery, where he was working on one of his football players, who had been brought in with a badly crushed shoulder.

  Shayne heard someone calling his name. It was Squire, the police captain who had taken his phone call about Stitch Reddick’s accident. Squire was small and compact, with an efficient air that was partly due to his heavy horn-rimmed glasses. He came up to Shayne and shook hands.

  “You worried me with that word ‘homicide,’” he said, drawing Shayne out of earshot of the girl at the desk. “And after I thought about the implications, I called the Chief and we decided to see if we couldn’t get the autopsy done tonight. I just picked up the report. Now this is preliminary, Mike. It hasn’t been certified. But homicide we can rule out. The cause of death was definitely drowning. Water in the lungs, lungs collapsed, blood changes. The skull contusions were severe enough to induce unconsciousness.”

  “Was he alive when he went into the water?”

  “He was alive, but he may not have been conscious.”

  Shayne scraped his chin. “I’m interested in how his blood tested.”

  “Very high alcoholic content—one hundred and fifty parts—three times the legal minimum. It isn’t surprising he piled up the car. The surprising thing is he didn’t do it sooner.”

  “I was hoping you’d find barbiturates.”

  Squire gave him a look. He pulled out a typed report, switched to thicker glasses and read for a moment.

  “You’re right—a hefty dose. But even without it, he had more than enough booze in him to put him to sleep.”

  “Would the combination be strong enough to kill him if he hadn’t gone in the water first?”

  Squire hesitated. “Damn it, now you’ve got me worrying again. I’m no toxologist, but I’d say it’s likely. I know you’ve got to take a hell of a lot of those pills to be sure of killing yourself, but it’s easier if you’re drunk at the time. Are you saying he didn’t take those pills himself, that they were administered?”

  “He wouldn’t take sleeping pills—he was right in the middle of something. Anyhow, you’ve got a tentative cause of death, so forget I asked you about barbiturates. Let’s stick to the alcohol. We know he drank that of his own free will.”

  “The Chief wanted me to ask you what Reddick was working on.”

  Shayne looked at his cigarette and chose his words carefully. “He’s been investigating contacts between Miami football players and known gamblers.”

  “Which isn’t covered by any statute,” Squire said unhappily. “That’s what we were afraid of. I’m in contact with a known gambler right this minute—I’ve played poker with you myself. Attempted murder is something else. Do you have any idea how it happened, Mike?”

  “Too many ideas. I think I can tell you something definite tomorrow, when we see how the points move.”

  “The Chief’s staying up to hear about the autopsy. Why don’t you call him?”

  “Tell him I’ll be in touch with him tomorrow after the game.”

  Squire gave him a direct look. “But will everybody still be alive tomorrow after the game?”

  “I don’t guarantee it,” Shayne said. “But the only way we can influence what’s going to happen is by canceling the game and refunding the ticket money. I don’t think anybody’s ready to do that.”

  “Let’s leave it this way. If the Chief still wants to talk to you, he’ll call your mobile operator and your hotel switchboard. Then if you don’t feel like returning the calls, it’s your ass, not mine… I’m working the game—I may see you.”

  Tim Rourke came in as Squire was leaving.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you, Mike. These little things all add up, right?”

  “Did you pick up something on Dody Germaine?”

  “It was easy. She may be dating Dr. Bishop or Lou Mangione at this stage of her career, but it was different in New York last summer. She was Ronnie’s girl then.”

  Shayne had only partly finished his cigarette, but he threw it down in disgust. “I thought I finally had these people paired off. Are you sure?”

  “No question about it. This buddy of mine saw them a couple of times, at, like, Mets games. He doesn’t know whether they were sleeping together, but if you believe the press releases, he doesn’t throw away any of that valuable personality on chicks who kiss him goodnight at the door. Bishop’s still here, incidentally, if you want to ask him about it.”

  “I don’t want him to feel left out. Why don’t you go home? It’s late.”

  “I’m not sleepy,” Rourke said, covering a yawn. “I can’t quit until I know what I’m going to do about that five hundred I bet on New York.”

  Shayne left him in the waiting room, nodding, and took the elevator to the surgical floor. Only one operating room was in use, and the red No Admittance sign was on. He waited, smoking.

  Five minutes went by before Bishop came out, shaking water off his hands. He glanced at Shayne, then turned back and gave him a second look.

  “You’re Shayne,” he said. “I heard you were around.”

  “Yeah, asking questions. How’s your patient?”

  “In fair shape, but he’s through for the year. A funny kind of impact fracture. He was in a fight, I think, but he claims a car hit him.”

  “I did that,” Shayne said. “Does that disqualify him for compensation?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Bishop said coolly. “Do you want to talk to
me about something? I’d like to change.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Bishop told him to come along, and Shayne accompanied him to the changing room at the end of the corridor. Bishop stepped along jauntily, shaking his fingers and flapping his elbows in a queer kind of disjointed walk. His eyes moved continually, never stopping on any object for more than a second.

  He entered his dressing cubicle and stripped off his bloody working clothes.

  “What do you know about this man Stitch Reddick?” Bishop threw over his shoulder. “I had a session with him this afternoon, and he was already quite smashed. Alcohol and automobiles—one of the two ought to be abolished.”

  “What was he asking you about?”

  “Oh, how I’ve handled injury announcements, mostly. I’ve been handling them exactly as I always have. I turn in the Tuesday list after consultation with Coach Lynch. I oppose that procedure, by the way—we only do it to make things simpler for the point-spread fraternity. I don’t know why we can’t simply establish a pari-mutuel betting system like the race tracks, and let the public set the odds.”

  “That’s an evil suggestion, Doctor,” Shayne said dryly. Bishop looked at himself in the mirror on the back of the cubicle door. He didn’t seem repelled by the eroded complexion or the retreating chin. He smoothed his eyebrows. With a small pair of pocket scissors he trimmed the hair in his nostrils. He poured powder into the palms of his hands and smoothed it on. Then he brushed his hair back vigorously, gave himself a quick spurt of deodorant and began to dress.

  “Well, I used to rail about this,” Bishop said, “but I’ve mellowed, I think. It’s a strange profession these people are in. Is it sport? Is it entertainment? Is it a business? I’m paid a reasonably good salary, but quite a few of the knees I work on belong to men who earn three, four times as much as I do, for a much shorter season. Still, that’s fine with me… I’ve never had any overpowering impulse to be out there struggling and straining and getting hurt in front of seventy thousand people… Reddick asked me about the psychological strain—didn’t I feet tempted to use my insider’s position to win a dollar or two from the friendly neighborhood bookmaker?”