Dead Ball
Authors: R. D. Rosen
A Harvey Blissberg Mystery
R. D. Rosen
A MysteriousPress.com
Open Road Integrated Media
Ebook
To Tom Friedman and David Bloom especially, this time around, for so unselfishly and astutely watching over me and this book.
And for their endless friendship and support: Chuck Dawe, Jim Friedman, Joyce and Lev Friedman, Pam Galvin, Simon Gavron, George Gibson, Gail Hochman, Merrill Markoe, Cathleen McGuigan, Steve Molton, Harry Prichett, Laurence Rosen, Robert and Ellen Rosen, and Paul Solman.
To my remarkable parents, for their ageless example; to Diane McWhorter, for helping shape this novel’s soul; to Peter Gethers, for supplying crucial pieces of the puzzle; to Allyn Reynolds, for her quotability and expertise; to Lou Narcisso and Vince Sullivan, my other reality consultants; to Ben Mondor for his baseball hospitality.
To all my teammates through the years, without whom I wouldn’t know how the game is played.
To the late Ann Hall, who loved the Dodgers for good reason, me despite my faults, and life despite, its injustices.
Finally, and most of all, to my daughters, Lucy and Isabel, beautiful inside and out, who keep lighting the way back to where I am.
A
GAIN, MOSS COOLEY WAS
the last player in the Providence Jewels’ locker room. For over a week now, the press hadn’t left him alone after a game. They hung on his every word as if what was about to emerge from his mouth was the name of the second shooter in Dealey Plaza and not one of the clichés that all major-league baseball players seemed hardwired to recite. Still, it was extraordinary even to Cooley himself, these last seven weeks of freakish consistency. He’d never experienced it before, not even in Little League. The ball looked like a huge scoop of vanilla ice cream out there.
The elderly clubhouse man, a fair ballplayer once in the Negro League, shuffled toward him with an armful of dirty towels, saying, “It’s just you and Joltin’ Joe now, boss. Old Charlie Hustle’s hurtin’ tonight.”
Cooley buffed the toes of his Bruno Magli slip-ons with his towel and tossed it on Jimmy’s load. “I’m not going to get worked up about it. DiMaggio can’t even see me in his rearview mirror. What do I need now?” As if he didn’t know that the greatest record in baseball, maybe in all of sports, was thirteen games away. Provided he hit safely in all of them. A detail.
“Twelve to tie, thirteen to be immortal.”
“It ain’t gonna happen so I’m not gonna worry about it,” Cooley said, reaching into his cubicle for his Armani sport coat. The whole thing made him uneasy—the mounting pressure, the increasing isolation, the sleeplessness. It was enough to make him long for mediocrity.
Jimmy bent over to pick up a jockstrap from the middle of the clubhouse floor. “Nobody accuse you of overconfidence, Cool.”
“It’s not in my hands, Jimmy.”
“You got that right. But there’s no harm in letting the man upstairs know how bad you want it. Here, let me get the back of that jacket for you.”
Jimmy tossed the dirty laundry in a canvas hamper and came over and brushed off the back of Cooley’s coat with his hand.
“Looking as good as you do,” the old clubhouse man said, picking a last bit off the shoulder, “I hope you got something good going on tonight.”
Cooley laughed his wheezy laugh. “If I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell
you.
I tell you, and it’d be all over the American League.” He pulled a silver money clip out of his pocket and peeled off a twenty.
Jimmy raised a big black arthritic hand in protest. “Stop giving me that hard-earned money of yours.”
“Just spreading the wealth, Jimmy.” Cooley stuffed the bill in the breast pocket of Jimmy’s white shirt. “Just spreading sunshine wherever I go.”
“All right then. Much appreciated,” Jimmy said. “You’re a good man, Moss Cooley, and I don’t mind saying so. Some of these boys—” He waved the rest of the thought away in disgust and shambled off to get his mop to begin on the bathroom.
“ ’Night, Jimmy,” Cooley said, watching him go.
No twenty-dollar tip could begin to close the gap between them, the one who played in splendid obscurity before Jackie Robinson integrated the game and the one the ravenous white press couldn’t get enough of now. But Moss Cooley’s mama hadn’t raised a fool. Black was black, and white was white, and if he ever forgot it, he only had to read his hate mail.
Moss Cooley patted his pocket to make sure his keys were there and headed for the clubhouse door, stopping at the remains of the buffet. A solid hour of postgame interviews had kept him from chowing down with the others. Now he quickly ate a few chicken fingers and meticulously wiped his fingers on a paper napkin.
He heard a noise and looked up. Mike, one of the young attendants from the players’ parking lot, a nice kid with a buzz cut, from Pawtucket, was pushing a hand truck through the clubhouse door. It was loaded with a plain cardboard box, about three feet high, a couple of feet square.
“There you are,” Mike said, wheeling the hand truck up to Cooley. “Special delivery.”
“What is it?”
“No idea. It was sitting outside the gate to the street with your name on it.”
There, on top of the box, in heavy black marker, were the words: “Please deliver to M. Cooley.”
“It’s heavy,” Mike said, sliding the hand truck’s plate out from under the box. “Want me to open it for you?”
“No. Just leave it. Thanks.”
“Twelve more to go.”
“That’s what they tell me. Here.” Cooley held out a folded ten-dollar bill between his index and middle finger.
“Forget it.”
“Better take it, Mike, or I’ll give you even more.” Cooley smiled. He was anxious to get going. It was one of Cherry Ann’s nights off, and she was waiting for him at her loft in the Jewelry District.
“Okay, you win,” the guard said, taking the money. “See you later. Have a good night.”
The crap he got from fans: teddy bears and Toast-R-Ovens and homemade cookies. Nothing this big, though. Cooley tried to push the box with his foot.
He took a chef’s knife from the buffet table and slit the tape over the flaps on the top of the box. The inside was filled with foam packing peanuts. He dipped his hand into them until he felt a rough metal object. Some kind of statue, he thought. With both hands he lifted it slowly from the box, all forty or fifty pounds of it, shedding foam peanuts everywhere. An envelope came out with it and fell to the floor.
It was a cast-iron Negro lawn jockey, about two feet tall and speckled with rust, hunched over in a submissive posture, left hand resting on its hip, right outstretched, holding an iron hitching ring. It was wearing a red vest.
Cooley had grown up around them in Alabama, knew them as “Jockos,” these last public tokens of racism dotting the lawns of white neighborhoods. Under normal circumstances, they were just an unpleasant reminder of another time.
But this one was addressed to him.
And it had no head.
He stared at the decapitated jockey for several seconds, feeling a dense fury gather itself inside him. It rose slowly, spreading to his chest. When it reached his arm, he picked up the chef’s knife and plunged it again and again into the cardboard box.
H
ARVEY BLISSBERG SEEMED TO
be walking a plank of his own making. He had been out of baseball for fifteen years and out of sorts for the last six months. After ten years spent as a private investigator followed by four forgettable ones as a motivational speaker, Harvey felt he was slowly marching himself at cutlass-point toward an early demise. Lately he had spent much of his time on his Cambridge sofa, watching old sporting events on ESPN’s Classic Sports Channel and documentaries about the history of baseball.
When the phone rang, he paused a documentary called
When It Was a Game
that he was enjoying for the third time that week, brushed the tortilla chip crumbs off his shorts, and croaked a hello into the receiver.
“Professor?” a voice said. “That you?”
Professor. No one had called him that for years. It was like hearing a childhood nickname called out at the end of a very long hallway.
“Felix?” Harvey said, meaning Felix Shalhoub, his manager during his last year in the majors with the expansion Providence Jewels, and now—Harvey still followed the game just enough to know this—the franchise’s general manager.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. How are ya?”
“Outstanding.”
“Good to hear your voice. I heard you were doing some motivational speaking.”
“Not anymore.”
Harvey had been possibly the least motivated motivational speaker ever to address three hundred pharmaceutical salesmen in Orlando or three dozen managers of export documentation for dangerous cargo in Bayonne, New Jersey. How had this happened, that a man who prided himself on his avoidance of cliché should end up peddling platitudes about courage, teamwork, and the will to win? Because a man named Cromarty, who operated a second-rate speakers’ bureau in Boston, had heard Harvey address a group of high school coaches and told him that midsize companies who couldn’t afford Norman Schwarzkopf or Fran Tarkenton would still shell out good money for a tall, personable, former major-league outfielder with good teeth to pump up their troops.
Cromarty’s proposition came at a time when Harvey had lost interest in exploring the bleaker secrets of his fellow human beings. It turned out there was a limit to the amount of evil a man could investigate, even at a certain professional remove, without eventually feeling contaminated by some virus of moral degradation. Before Harvey knew it, he was on a plane to the first of many sales meetings with themes like “Simply the Best,” “The Future Is Now,” and “Tomorrow’s Our Middle Name” to explain to a ballroom of captive employees the fundamentals of a positive outlook that Harvey himself had never quite mastered. When he was through spewing slogans, there was invariably a stampede of grown men to the podium. They peppered him with questions about his baseball exploits, which they remembered far better than he, or tried to solicit his predictions for various pennant races and free-agent signings. It was depressing to Harvey that so many otherwise functional adults would want to shake the hand of a .268 lifetime hitter. And finally, he was out of that game too.
“You still with Mickey Slavin?” Felix asked.
“Still together, still not married. You know, she’s now a sideline reporter for ESPN. She’s on the road a lot.” Fifteen years ago, when they met,
he
had been the star and she had been an oddity—a female sportscaster, albeit in Providence’s tiny market. Now she was on national television, and he was—well, he was on the sofa, merely watching it.
“Now that you mention it, I feel I’ve seen her around the league this year.”
“So how’s the team doing?” Harvey asked.
“Whaddya mean, how’s the team doing? You don’t follow the game anymore?”
“Oh, off and on.”
Where to begin Harvey’s list of grievances with the national pastime? Overentitled players, selfish owners, and soaring ticket prices that left many ordinary Americans outside the ballpark. Worse, the game itself was buried beneath an avalanche of inane sports talk radio, round-the-clock cable coverage, and merchandising of team apparel and vintage sportswear. The game seemed to Harvey little more than a sideshow, the raw material for the finished product, which were the highlights that ran around the clock on several channels, a frenzy of home runs and annoyingly complex graphics. Instead of being a refuge from the clutter of daily life, baseball was now just part of that clutter.
“We actually got a shot,” Felix was saying. “And thanks to Cooley we’re selling out. His streak’s the biggest thing to hit Providence since the hurricane of ’thirty-eight.”
“I see where he’s flirting with history.”
“More like French-kissing it. Last night he pulled even with Pete Rose and Wee Willie Keeler.”
“Twelve more, and he’ll do the unthinkable,” Harvey said.
“The Daig,” Felix said in a reverential whisper. “Joe DiMaggio.”
Whose very visage had appeared moments ago on Harvey’s TV screen. The documentary he’d been watching consisted of 8- and 16-millimeter home movies of baseball players, games, and ballparks shot by players, their families, and fans between 1934 and 1957. It was like opening up a box of old baseball photographs to find they had all come quietly to life in faded color: DiMaggio himself, Gehrig, Ruth, Robinson, Greenberg, Dickey, even old-timers like Honus Wagner, Ty Cobb, and Cy Young, all liberated from their black-and-white prisons, yet still innocent of television and everything it would do to the game, to the very expressions on men’s faces. The home movies gave these players a particular poignancy, a simple clowning humanity.