got himself killed.”
That caught my attention. I wasn’t sure who said it, or what preceded it. I lifted my head and tilted it this way and that, angling my ears to try to extract additional information from the fragmented words and phrases that darted about the room.
“Look at these goddam corns—my feet are killin’ me.”
“Anybody seen my towel?”
Hchoowook. Shptoo. Splat!
So far nothing useful. Come on, somebody ask who got himself killed.
“I gotta get myself some new spikes.”
“Okay, who took my towel?”
“Who’s pitchin’ tomorrow?”
“Found him under a railroad bridge.”
There! That was a strange sentence for a baseball clubhouse.
I began to successfully filter out the extraneous conversations, and pick up only those comments that didn’t fit in with typical locker room chatter. In no particular order, I was able to gather that a baseball player had been killed, the fellow’s name sounded like “Carrigan,” he played third base for Detroit, his body was found under a railroad bridge in Boston, it was discovered after the Tigers’ last series there, and he had died as the result of a mugging. Since Detroit had preceded us in Shibe Park, I figured that’s how this news started to get around.
I was hoping for information about the dead man I stumbled upon in Fenway Park, and was disappointed. The locker room conversation obviously referred to someone else. I remembered the newspaper story I read about the body that was found in Dorchester, and this fit what I heard in the clubhouse.
Instead of going straight to the hotel after leaving Shibe Park, I took an aimless walk through the streets of North Philadelphia. My thoughts were confused and largely incoherent, but they eventually agreed on one frightening conclusion: a deadly trend was developing.
Although my find at Fenway Park was a horrible one, it was the horror of one gruesome sight, one shocking experience. Now, even more chilling, was the possibility that it wasn’t an isolated incident. Two violent deaths—was it two and counting?—had occurred within a short time of each other. And both were connected with Fenway Park. One victim—maybe a fan—was found in the stadium, and the other had just played there. Could the splendid new ballpark be jinxed?
The walk didn’t help me sort things out any, so I grabbed a cheese steak sandwich at a street vendor and went back to the hotel room.
Laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, I realized that I wasn’t going to clear anything up just by thinking. If I wanted to find out what happened, I would have to talk to people, ask what I wanted to know. But talking could get me in trouble.
Tyler had made it clear that I’d better keep my mouth shut about the dead man at Fenway Park. Of course I knew that his main concern wasn’t my protection as he claimed—he probably wanted to avoid bad publicity more than anything else. Whatever the real reason for his orders, Bob Tyler seemed a man who would not tolerate having them disobeyed.
And then there’s the police. If they failed to find the real killer, the cops might decide to clear up the case by convicting the handiest suspect. Having been found at the crime scene, Captain O’Malley already had me pegged for that role. Asking questions would only draw additional attention to myself.
I wasn’t entirely sure which would be worse: facing Tyler’s wrath or O’Malley’s handcuffs.
Wait a minute ... I can ask questions about the Detroit player—it was only the body at Fenway that Tyler had told me to keep quiet about. If Tyler gives me hell for asking about the dead Tiger, I’ll swear I did as I was told, and pretend it never occurred to me that the deaths were connected.
I was still awake when Clyde Fletcher came into our room, much earlier than usual, grumbling about the insufficient nightlife in Philadelphia.
Hchoowook. Shptoo. Ping!
I looked at him as he sat on his bed. His head seemed to list to one side to balance the massive chaw of tobacco that puffed out his cheek. It gave a tilt to the one huge bushy eyebrow that spanned across both his eyes as it tried to stretch from ear to ear.
Although he seemed unpromising as a source of information on anything but vices, I decided to try to talk with Fletcher. If there was no response, at least I wouldn’t be losing out on much.
Trying hard to sound as if I just wanted to pass the time, I asked him, “You know a player named Carrigan?”
“Bill Carrigan?”
I shook my head at the name of the Red Sox catcher. “No, this guy is with Detroit. Or he was, anyway. Some guys in the clubhouse were saying he got himself in a scrap.”
Fletcher looked puzzled, then seemed to remember him. “Oh. Corriden. Yeah, Red Corriden. He was in the last series in Boston. Too bad about him. Just a kid. Musta been about your age.” Hchoowook. Shptoo. Ping!
“You know what happened to him?” I prodded.
“Nah. Just what I heard the boys saying. I guess he was out where he shouldn’ta been. Somebody beat him up and took his roll. Happens sometimes. Shame though.”
“Third baseman, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah, I think so, but he hadn’t played much. Oh yeah, I think I saw him with the Browns a couple years ago. I think maybe he did play third.” Hchoowook. Shptoo. Ping!
Fletcher ended the brief conversation by killing the light and saying, “Well, might as well get some sleep. Nothing else to do in this goddam town.”
Chapter Six
After thoroughly washing my hands to avoid leaving even the faintest smudges, I struggled to attach a new stiff collar to a brilliant white shirt. I almost cut off the blood supply to my head in the process, but I succeeded in getting the collar on, as well as a crimson silk necktie. I was wearing a good part of my first Red Sox paycheck, and looked almost dapper. Even more so when I peeled off the shreds of tissue paper that were stuck to my face. I had only four hairs worth shaving, but managed to inflict five cuts attempting to remove them.
Everything I put on was new: from my socks and the garters that held them up to the blue-striped seersucker suit that had cost me $40. There was something about wearing new clothes that made me feel a new man; it gave me hope of getting off to a fresh start. I topped off the outfit by placing a straw boater over my slicked-back hair, and looking in the mirror, decided never mind “almost,” I did look dapper.
This was the first week of May, back in Boston after the Philadelphia series.
I had started the final game against the Athletics, but since the locker room talk about the murdered Detroit player, and with the silent mystery of the dead man at Fenway Park continually occupying my thoughts, I found myself unable to focus on baseball. After one throwing error and two fielding errors in the first three innings, Jake Stahl demoted me to the bench.
The only positive thing that happened before leaving Philadelphia was that another Red Sox player finally spoke to me, making me feel a little
