The Legend of Mickey Tussler

by Nappi, Frank;

  Murph felt sick, deep in the pit of his stomach, as the boy unburdened his mind; not because Murph believed he could really have done anything to prevent what had happened, but because it was all just so damn ugly. They all seemed to share the same feeling. The room fell absolutely silent, except for the squeaking of Mickey’s sneakers, scraping nervously on the floor. Nobody knew what to say, or do, and they all would probably have remained that way indefinitely had Rosco not come in, blustering about “unanswered questions” and “good old country justice.”

  “I need him, Arthur,” he instructed curtly. “Right now.” Mickey stood, defeated and exposed. His chest began to heave as if there were not enough air in the room for all of them to share.

  “Let’s go, big boy,” Rosco said flatly. Then he pinioned Mickey’s arms behind his back, and just like that Mickey was gone.

  Later that afternoon, Murph and the Brewers had a casting off of their own, bidding farewell to their dream season. The Rangers made fast work of their archrivals, defeating them in just under two hours by the score of 5–1. With the image of Mickey being dragged away in cuffs still fresh in his mind, Murph found the sight of Chip McNally and his club celebrating on the pitcher’s mound intolerable.

  “Look at that jackass McNally,” Matheson said, draping his arm over Murph’s sagging shoulder. “Christ, if dumb were dirt, that shithead would be about an acre.”

  Murph forced a grin. Then he frowned and his lids narrowed with disappointment. “That may be the case, Farley,” he said with resignation, “but that shithead is going to the play-offs.”

  The loss was so much more than just a loss. For Murph, baseball was the center of his universe. He had come to the game years ago, young and naïve, with the feeling that he was to be, always, at the very heart of it. It was in his blood. He knew no other way. It’s why saying good-bye for the winter at each season’s end was so painful.

  “I’m sorry, Murph,” Boxcar said on his way out later that day. He, like all the others, had the contents of his locker in a tan bag flung over his shoulder. “It should have been different.”

  Murph shrugged his shoulders, as if to suggest that it didn’t really matter. But in the darkest, most remote corner of his soul, hanging restlessly from a single strand of sticky filament like an anxious spider, was the unmitigated, undeniable truth.

  In the deepening night, ensconced in grotesque shadows, Mickey still struggled with his good-bye. His prison cell was putrid. Cockroaches. Pungency of urine. Animal feces. And lurid scrawlings on the walls all around: skull and crossbones; demoniac sketches; the haunting message G.L.R. was here. From the moment the cold metal doors slammed behind him, he sat in his cell like some overwound automaton, talking to himself and rocking uncontrollably for hours before finally getting up from his cot and looking out the small window on the far wall, his eyes roving across the burned bed of grass outside to the faint line of trees and rooftops that dozed just beyond Borchert Field. He wiped his eyes with the corner of a dirty rag he found stuffed between the slipshod mattress and wire bedframe and tried to catch a glimpse of something familiar.

  “Hey, chucklehead,” Rosco’s deputy shouted through the rows of black metal bars. “I stand to lose a heap of money ’cause of you. You know that? All because of you. ‘The Brewers are a sure thing,’ they all said. A sure thing. Right. That was the plan. But then you go and fuck it all up with your goddamned retard rage. It’s just like you reached your fat fucking paw in my pocket and robbed me. How do you reckon we square that?”

  Mickey remained facing the window, his entire body enveloped in spasmodic convulsions.

  “ ‘Slowly, silently, now the moon, walks the night in her silver shoon.’ ”

  “What’d you say, boy? Turn around when I’m talking to you.”

  Mickey just continued to recite, his eyeballs swerving from side to side, lost in the crossing shadows of past and present.

  “ ‘This way, and that, she peers and sees, silver fruit upon sliver trees.’ ”

  The baleful deputy burned with agitation, his heart beating furiously beneath his potbelly. In between the cascading folds of fat running from his neck beads of sweat began to form. He swiped at them nervously with a napkin already stained with cooking grease.

  “Don’t you be mocking me now, boy,” he demanded, banging his billy club against the iron bars. “Ya hear now? You is gonna be here awhile, till they sort this whole mess out. So we best come to a goddamned understanding! You got that!”

  The clanging of the bars and the vituperative voice of the deputy only made Mickey rock more ferociously and speak louder, with even greater urgency.

  “ ‘One by one, the casements catch, her beams beneath the silvery thatch. Couched in his kennel, like a log, with paws of silver sleeps the dog.’ ”

  Mickey’s words seemed to the deputy to be nothing more than mockery. His pupils narrowed and his lips trembled. Outside, it was completely dark now, save for the blurred glow of two naked exterior lights just outside the tiny jailhouse. The irate officer checked the clock on the wall and unfurled a devilish smile. Rosco would not be back for another hour, and the cell next to Mickey’s was empty.

  “Batter up, freak show,” the Deputy called out loudly. Mickey turned and let his eyes fall dead on the deputy’s slackjawed face. For a moment he thought he heard Oscar—a soft, playful grunting coming from just inside the other room. His heart leaped. But the notion faded quickly, leaving only the sound of jingling keys. Then, in the lurid shadows of early nightfall, Mickey watched blankly as the deputy turned the rusty lock and swung open the door, pounding his palm with the billy club in violent rehearsal, certain that no one would be the wiser.

  It would have been ugly. No doubt. But just outside the prison door emerged the outline of a figure, maybe two, hidden against the blackening night sky. It moved slowly, stealthily, inside and stood silently by the front desk. Then, becoming conscious of what was transpiring, the figure finally moved, clicking the switch on a dusty lamp. The deputy spun around as if he had been rocked by a violent wind and, with eyes that struggled to adjust to the sudden light, saw a yellow glow falling across a silver-haired man dressed in a neatly pressed suit. He was standing there with a little boy.

  “Evening, Deputy,” the man said. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything. I’m here to see the young man you have locked up there— and to relieve you of your responsibility for him.”

  The deputy brushed off the man with a blanching smile. “Well, I’m afraid visiting hours are over, Grandpa. And you’re confused. I think you best turn right around and be on your way.”

  The man released the boy’s hand, placed his newspaper on the desk, and reached into his breast pocket, removing a piece of folded parchment. He stood staring at the abrasive officer, his eyes unchanging.

  “I’m not going anywhere, sonny, without Mr. Tussler.”

  The angry deputy sighed and puffed out his cheeks. “And what makes you think that’s going to happen?” He laughed scornfully as his hand strayed involuntarily to the revolver affixed to his hip.

  Mickey heard the contentious exchange and moved forward, pressing his face up against the bars while straining for a better look.

  “Do you know who I am, Deputy?”

  The officer shrugged his shoulders and started toward the man.

  “The name’s Walter Harrigan. Governor Walter Harrigan.”

  The deputy halted dubiously, his heart rocking tumultuously like a boat in a stormy sea.

  “And this paper I have, Mr. Deputy, is an official pardon—from my office—that allows me to walk out of here with Mickey—Mr. Tussler.” The governor unfolded the white sheet and pointed to its contents as if the deputy could read it from a distance. “Now be a good little soldier and start taking care of that for me.”

  The disgruntled officer stood momentarily in silent deflation, then went about the jail grumbling to himself and uttering curt laughs. He struggled mightily with his unforeseen loss of authorit
y while the governor and the boy just watched and waited.

  Then, neither convivial nor exanimate, Mickey emerged from the darkest recesses of the foul dwelling. He sighed loudly and looked at the governor like a purblind tourist negotiating a once traveled street, trying to place the face. His head swam in confusion, then cleared when he caught sight of the boy.

  “Mickey, good to see you again,” the governor said. “Remember us?”

  Mickey smiled. He came forward and patted Billy on the head. “Yes. Yes. Mickey remembers.” Then he sighed again. So many thoughts that had been harbored in the darkest corners of his mind suddenly leaped forward in this moment.

  “I told you I would never forget,” the governor continued. He smiled with growing satisfaction. “I’m here to take you away from here. Your time here is over.”

  Mickey blinked nervously and rubbed his head. He thought about the gruesome reality that had touched him so mercilessly. Then he cried.

  “Thank you, Mr. Harrigan,” he said, wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeve. “Mickey thanks you.”

  “Not at all, son. It’s my pleasure. Truly. I’d do just about anything to see you on that mound again, mowing ’em down.”

  A shadow fell across Mickey’s face. His eyes traveled around the room, looking everywhere except at the governor. “No more baseball,” Mickey said, choking on the words. “I reckon Mickey will just have to go back home. To my farm. It ain’t so bad. Maybe not. I got me some swell pigs there.”

  “Go home?” the governor questioned. “You can’t do that. You’ve got the whole world at your feet here. Are you crazy? The sky’s the limit. People would die to be in your shoes.”

  Mickey stood gaunt, hollow-eyed, tugging at his shirt collar. “Mickey doesn’t know if he wants to play baseball anymore.” He just stood there, in the thickening darkness pouring through the windows—a mere child, lost in the vast and oppressive gloom of the dissolute wilderness that lay just outside the door—just a child, caught up in the rattle of everything, big and small, that had led him to this one moment. The unpleasant vision paralyzed him.

  “Well, you have time to decide all that,” the governor said. “Things change. Relax. A lot has happened. You’re tired. It makes sense. Anyone would feel the way you do. But give yourself some time to think about it. To put all this behind you. Don’t rush into any hasty decisions.”

  The governor laid his hand on Mickey’s back and, together with little Billy, guided the young man toward the door. Silently, Mickey continued to sink into the depths of his memory until he appeared to lie lifeless, like a stone at the bottom of a swift river. “Mickey will have to go back to the farm,” he whispered again. “I got me some pigs there. The farm. Yeah, farm.”

  The governor’s spirit sagged. He sighed and moved slowly, methodically, toward the door. Mickey took small steps, relying on the governor to steady his erratic gait, as the door to this most troubling chapter closed behind him.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Steve Cohen, for his continued friendship, wisdom, and encouragement.

  To the many marching feet that nobody ever heard: Frank Luisi, Penny Ellis, Pat DiBlasio, Don Williams, Stevie Cohen, Suzanne Dwyer, Andy and Kelly Morris, Jared Florin, Joe Bonin, and Joe Bonin Jr.—thank you.

  For my editor, Michael Homler, whose imagination and resourcefulness nurtured and sculpted these words and ideas until a remarkable story emerged.

  For my boys, Nicholas and Anthony, whose unconditional love and unbridled enthusiasm remain the wind in my sails.

  And much love to my beautiful wife, Julia, my eternal sunshine, always warm and bright.