Strike Three You're Dead (13 page)

“Who sent you here?” Harvey said.

“Guys who want to know what you think you’re doing, so why don’t you go ahead and tell me?”

“I don’t know anything.”

Ronnie got up again and came toward Harvey. “I feel myself getting very angry with you.”

Harvey flinched.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to touch you yet. It won’t look good if you go on national TV tomorrow night in Boston with something wrong with your face. I’m just using the gentle arts of persuasion.” He stood in front of Harvey and squeezed out the words: “Tell me what you know.”

Harvey breathed deeply. “All I know is about some typewriters in Rudy’s apartment. That’s it.”

“Typewriters,” Ronnie said.

“Yeah, he had some typewriters in his place when he was murdered.”

Ronnie’s mouth imitated a smile. “So what’s a few typewriters?”

“Right, what’s a few typewriters?”

“Maybe the guy collected typewriters.”

“Sure.”

“Maybe he was starting a typewriter repair business.”

“Sure.”

“What else do you know?”

“That’s it.”

“You’re making a mistake if you don’t tell me now. It don’t count if you decide to tell me later what you could tell me now. Am I right?”

“That’s all I know.”

“Just the typewriters?”

“Why, is there something else?”

Ronnie rolled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “How should I know? I’m just the guy asking questions. Look, Professor, I don’t know what happened to your roomie, but I would think that what you called the mob, whatever that is, would have a better way to ice somebody than to stuff him in a whirlpool. Would you agree that there’re better ways to take someone out? And three thousand bucks—that’s not the mob’s kind of money, would you agree? Those guys tip more than that in a week.”

“Sure.”

“And would you agree”—he tucked his shirt in in back to give Harvey another look at his gun—“that whenever you think that what you call the mob has something to do with your roomie’s untimely departure, when you have such thoughts, Professor, you will now know that these are not good thoughts to have, and that you will keep your mouth shut about what you don’t know nothing about? Am I right?”

“Sure.”

“I enjoyed the beer,” Ronnie said and cast a glance around the apartment. “I figured a class guy like you for a nicer place.”

“Next time I’ll bring out the good silver,” Harvey said.

“And the crystal.” Ronnie picked up his empty tumbler and heaved it against the wall, where it shattered. “Good arm, huh?” he said and left the door open behind him.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang, and Harvey rose from the love seat to pick it up.

“It’s Linderman.”

“Oh, hello,” Harvey said in a voice he didn’t quite recognize as his own.

“I’m just calling to say that was a stupid thing you told Bob Lassiter in the papers today.”

“I know. Someone was just here expressing similar sentiments.”

“Who’s that?”

“Ronnie Mateo. I think we acted out a scene from
The Big Heat”

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. He didn’t get physical, I hope.”

“Basically he just threw beer in my face and showed me his gun collection.”

“I see,” Linderman said. “You want to press charges?”

“What do you think?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Look, Harvey, I know you want to get to the bottom of this thing, but talking to reporters about this and that doesn’t help anyone, understand? It just makes my job tougher, and I don’t think you’re making any friends. You play baseball, and I’ll run the investigation. And stay out of Ronnie Mateo’s hair, for Christ’s sake.”

“But, Linderman, if he’s got something—”

“But we don’t know that, do we? My boss wouldn’t like it if I took a guy off the street without evidence.”

“What’s he doing always hanging around the park?”

“What do I know?” Linderman said. “Maybe he’s a baseball nut. Harvey, stop asking questions. Stop talking to reporters. Stop worrying about this thing. Let me handle it over here. Keep your mind on the game. You guys can still make the first division.”

“Thanks,” Harvey said. “I appreciate the support.”

B
OSTON’S FENWAY PARK WAS
like Rankle Park—small, misshapen, a compilation of architectural afterthoughts. It was six-thirty on Monday evening, September 3, two hours before game time, and the bleachers were dotted with a few shirtless worshipers of the sun, which hung above the grandstands along the third base line. Harvey had played five years in this park, knew the contours of its strange outfield, the feel of its infield dirt, and he wished more than ever that he still played in Boston.

Alan Resnick was standing next to him behind home plate with his hand mike clutched between his knees, fidgeting with the knot of his gold tie. An associate producer from ABC had phoned Harvey at the Sheraton Boston earlier that afternoon to arrange the taped interview, to be used later during that night’s national telecast. Harvey recognized an opportunity to redeem himself after his indiscretion with Bob Lassiter over the weekend; he would show viewers across the country how little he knew about the murder of Rudy Furth.

“I’m delighted to see you batting three hundred,” Resnick said, wrestling with his tie. “I’d always assessed you as having that potential. Andersen was telling me today that he can’t figure out how to pitch to you anymore. When he was with the Angels, he owned you. Now you’re batting something like four hundred against him. What’s the difference this year?”

“I guess he’s just not aging as well as I am.” Harvey smiled.

“Heh, heh. But seriously, has Strulowitz changed your stance?”

“No, except we’ve been trying to get rid of a little hitch in my swing.”

“Well, you know what Strulowitz says about hitches.”

“Yeah, that bad hitters have them, but good hitters have rhythm.”

“Don’t step on my lines, Harvey.” The crew signaled to Resnick that they were ready. “Why don’t you use that line about aging better than Andersen? I’ll set you up.”

The cameraman, dressed head-to-cuff in prewashed denim, flipped the switch on the Ikegami, and Resnick slithered a long arm around Harvey’s shoulder.

“You’re hitting over three hundred this season, a dramatic improvement over your career average,” Resnick began, assuming his public cadence, “and you’ve suddenly become one of the batters whom American League pitchers are averse to seeing up there in critical situations. Frank Andersen, whom you’ll be facing here tonight, and who has overpowered you in games past, confided in me earlier that he’s baffled by you this summer. What’s the difference?” He squeezed Harvey’s shoulder lightly.

“Frank’s not aging as well as I am,” Harvey said.

Resnick chortled dutifully. “In fact, despite its recent tailspin the entire Providence squad has performed with a continuity of excellence beyond most people’s expectations. Are you surprised?”

“Not really, Alan. The team drafted wisely, and any time you’ve got as many veterans on a club as we do, you’re going to win a few ball games.” Just relax, Harvey thought to himself and cleared his throat. “I’m pleased, Alan, but not surprised. Of course, we haven’t exactly been tearing up the league lately.”

“And no wonder. Last week, your team experienced a tragic, tragic incident. A relief pitcher on your team, a superb athlete with many good years of baseball ahead of him, a genius with men on base, was found senselessly slaughtered in the team clubhouse in Providence. I’m speaking, of course, of Rudy Furth, who was liked and admired by all who had the pleasure of playing with or against him. Over the years, baseball has had its share of tragedies—the fatal beaning of Cleveland shortstop Ray Chapman in nineteen twenty, the shootings of Eddie Waitkus and Lyman Bostock, the deaths of the great Roberto Clemente and Thurman Munson in plane crashes—but it’s hard to say whether the game has ever witnessed anything like this.

“Harvey,” he went on, “you knew him well; you knew him perhaps better than most, being, as you were in this, the first season for both of you with the Jewels, his roommate. Not only that, but tragically, you were the one to find his body. I know how you must feel, how difficult it is for you to talk about it.”

Had he asked a question? Another squeeze on the shoulder notified Harvey.

“I guess I don’t have to say what a great loss and a horrible thing Rudy’s death was,” Harvey said. “There seems to be no explanation.”

Resnick shook his head solemnly. “Harvey, there’s one last thing I want to ask you. The Jewels’ manager, Felix Shalhoub, a gentleman I’ve admired for years, not least for the way he handled that much publicized drug problem on his San Diego club a few years ago, is married to a fine woman and a knowledgeable baseball fan, Frances Shalhoub, who, in an arrangement unique in baseball history, has been sitting in the Providence dugout during many games this season. It is some reporters’ opinion that she is not only sitting in the dugout, but is in fact contributing managerial decisions, in effect acting in the capacity of baseball’s first female coach. Is there some truth in this, as you see it?”

“Not really, Alan. Frances takes a great interest in the team and apparently feels she can get to know it better by being in the dugout. But this is Felix’s ball club.”

“Do you think baseball will someday see its first female coach?”

“I don’t know, Alan,” Harvey said and could think of nothing else. “I love this game.”

“I’m sure you do,” Resnick said. He thanked him and handed the mike to his sound man. “Well, that was discreet,” he said, leading Harvey toward the Providence dugout.

“What do you mean?”

“Number one, I mean that Frances Shalhoub is helping to run the club, and you know it. Maybe it’s because Felix has a bad case of the shakes, but I’m not sure. When she had her public relations outfit in New York, she’d do anything to get clients. Now that she doesn’t have the business anymore, I wouldn’t be surprised if she wants to get her hands all over the club. Number two,” he said, lighting a cigarette, “someone on your team has got to know something about Rudy’s murder because people don’t simply walk in off the street into a major league clubhouse and kill players. But nobody’s talking. Are you?”

“No,” Harvey said.

“All right, champ,” he said, squeezing the back of Harvey’s neck. “Have a good game.”

He had a bad one, and so did the rest of the team. Bobby Wagner was wild in the first, filling the bases on walks before Tony Jallardio fouled out to Randy Eppich to end the inning. In the second, Boston jumped on Wagner for three straight singles and a 1-0 lead. Keith followed by parking one in the left field net for a 4-0 lead. In the fourth, Randy unloaded on an Andersen curve with Cleavon on base to cut it to 4-2, but Jallardio returned the favor with Sammons on in the bottom of the inning. Boston was up 6-2, and Felix trudged to the mound faster than usual, as though embarrassed to be seen on national television, and pulled Wagner out of the game. He brought in Eddie Storella, a lean kid who had just joined the Jewels from their Wheeling, West Virginia, farm team. Storella walked two batters before finding the strike zone; the Red Sox were only too glad when he did find it, and the score after four was 9-2. When it was over, the score was 13-4, Harvey had gone 0-for-5, the team had lost six in a row, had been outscored 51 to 10, and was only half a game ahead of the seventh-place Tigers.

Harvey ducked the press and stood under the stiff hot spray of the shower, his head tilted back. He soaped up, going easy on the outside upper part of his left thigh, where years of sliding burns had branded a dull ache. His body bore witness to the game he played, but he had been lucky so far. They were mostly little things: a perpetually tender heel, a minor ligament tear in the right knee, a broken middle finger on his throwing hand that throbbed when the humidity rose. Happy Smith came into the shower carrying a bottle of prescription shampoo, looked in Harvey’s direction, then moved to the farthest shower away.

When he was dressed, Harvey passed Bobby Wagner standing at a long mirror by the clubhouse door. Bobby was wearing a double-vented sky blue sports jacket and beige slacks, and he was trying to manipulate his cowlick. Harvey inspected his own face in the mirror and said to Bobby’s reflection, “Shake it off, Wags.”

“I’ll do that,” Bobby said.

“I had a bad year once when I couldn’t hit the fastball. I felt I was waving at bullets up there. It’s funny. The next year, I could hit the fastball all right, but I couldn’t hit the curve.”

Bobby looked at Harvey in the mirror. “The boys are giving you a hard time, aren’t they?” he said.

Harvey thought for a second. “If you mean about talking to Lassiter, I guess I deserve it.”

“Well”—Bobby patted his cowlick down; he wore a fat World Series Championship ring on his left hand—“you should watch it. But you know baseball players, Professor. If we were any smarter, we wouldn’t be playing major league baseball, and if we were any dumber, we’d still be in the minors.”

Harvey lowered his voice. “But Wags, don’t you think it’s all a little fishy?”

Bobby slid his comb into his inside coat pocket. “I don’t smell any fish. With the security they got at Rankle Park, hell anybody could walk in and pick a fight.”