Sophomore Campaign (24 page)

Murph withstood the surging insolence bubbling deep inside him and spoke calmly. “It is taken care of,” he said, drying his damp palms on the front of his trousers. “Uh, at least it will be by tomorrow. I do not want to—I cannot say too much right now. But trust me, Warren—the sheriff is going to help all of us put thing to rest once and for all.”

Dennison sat stoically, eyes tired and fixed on a point somewhere beyond Murph, his head propped up by one hand while the fingers on the other drummed the littered desktop. “It better be put to rest, Arthur. Tomorrow, or you and I will be having a different kind of conversation.”

Later that night, as he lay quietly next to Molly, listening to her rhythmic breathing, Murph was besieged by a senseless, ineffable dread. It startled him, took his breath away. What was this feeling of profound trouble that rushed against his soul with such ferocity that it caused him to sit up, to fight against this pall of unknown catastrophe that had enveloped his senses, invaded his body, and poisoned his thoughts? Surely things would be okay. They had to be. He had thought of everything. Done everything right. His plan was brilliant, and executed to perfection. Yet despite the obvious, he remained, for the rest of that night, caught somewhere between waking and sleep, suspended in the tumult of fitful dreams—caught in crisis to which he could not attach a name.

He awoke early next morning to the sound of a ringing telephone. It was Dennison. Murph's heart sank when he heard the
voice. It was as if the foreboding hours of the night had taken shape before him.

“Arthur, get here early today. We have to talk. And it can't wait.”

“But I have that meeting in a little while,” Murph replied. “I don't know how long I'll be.”

“Go to your meeting,” he said. “Just get here,” the impatient owner continued. “Get here as fast as you can.”

Later that morning, the scheduled meeting took place. Murph, a gentleman from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Lester, and Mickey gathered together in Murph's office and, with the redolence of anger and fear all around them, spoke about Lester and the events of the past few months.

From under the fain't glow of lamp light, Mickey emerged as the focal point. He sat uneasily, eyes round with daunting expectation, his feet tapping uncontrollably. He was chewing at his fingernails and speaking feverishly under his breath. “Couched in his kennel, like a log, with paws of silver sleeps the dog.”

The others exchanged uncomfortable glances, uncertain as to which one of them should take the lead. It was only after the graysuited gentleman whispered something in Murph's ear did the silence finally cease.

“Mickey, there's nothing to worry about,” Murph began. “Mr. Billings here is going to help us. All of us. But please. You need to talk. Now. I know you are holding onto something that we need to know. You have to talk to us. Tell us now. What do you know about what has happened to Lester these last few weeks? Do you know who did some of those things to him?”

The boy was unphased by Murph's plea. He continued to sit with an ardor of turmoil pasted to his face.

“Look, uh, Mickey, I don't want to scare you are anything,” Billings said, removing his glasses and placing them gently in his shirt
pocket. “We're not really too sure that Lester is safe. And maybe even you, or Murph. You follow?”

Mickey's lower lip extended out, and his eyes shot around the room.

“Mickey's not really in tune with that sort of stuff,” Murph interjected. “He's simple when it comes to figuring things like that.”

“Okay, let me try this another way.” The man paused before trying again. “Mickey, do you love Arthur here?”

“Yes, sir,” Mickey answered. “Mickey loves Arthur Murphy just like he were my own Pa.”

“What about Lester? Do you like Lester too?”

“Sure thing. Lester Sledge is a swell fella. I'm always saying that. I said it yesterday. Yesterday, after practice, we—”

“Okay, son,” Billings interrupted. “I understand. And I want you to know that this is your chance to help these two gentlemen who you are so fond of. You can really help me to protect them. And you. All you need to do is tell me everything you know.”

Mickey sat sullenly as lurid images filtered through his mind like some twisted newsreel. He held his stomach in protest against a slight nausea and shut his eyes. His face glistened with perspiration. He sat for some time, locked inside himself, rocking nervously while the others just waited, heads hung in lifeless exasperation, on his response. He was really struggling. Waves of menacing thoughts crashed against the walls of his imagination with wild simplicity, and the boy continued to sit paralyzed for many minutes, joining the others in their silent vigil.

“But they will hurt Mickey,” he blurted out unexpectedly, choking back a swell of tears. “And the team will lose. We will lose if we have any more trouble. Murph said so. I don't want Murph to go.”

Billings was speechless, not sure what to make of the sudden outburst. But that was Mickey. He was often stricken with fear, and
the impalpable uncertainty of its meaning and his own inability to place a label on it. It was during these moments when the boy usually disappeared completely, retreated inside himself to a place only he knew.

“You don't have to worry about that, Mick,” Murph said, leaning forward and placing his hand on the boy's quivering knee. “All of us here—me, you, Lester, and Mr. Billings—we will all be fine once you help us get the men who are doing this. No worries. It will all go away once you tell us what you know.”

They watched him, battered and frightened, laboring with scenes of polluted waters illuminated now, once again. He moved languidly, his breathing heavy and erratic, until the words finally came—words that split the still air like a trumpet blast that had all of them shaking their heads for several minutes until the room was quiet once again.

Chip McNally knew all about the private struggles of his arch rival and smelled blood in the water. The fractious relationship between Murph and Dennison was well chronicled, and McNally reveled at the thought of being the instrument behind Murph's ousting.

The Rangers blew into town to kick off an eight-game home stand clinging to a four-game lead over the recently resurgent Brewers. Murph labored a little over who should get the ball, but after only minor deliberation, he decided to go with Butch Sanders. Sanders was fresh and had looked pretty good in his last outing against the Bears. Besides, Murph had more pressing matters to worry about.

The Brewers took the field under a swollen moon that glowed ominously behind an oppressive summer haze. The temperature had reached a scalding 98 degrees earlier that afternoon and the onset of nightfall had provided very little relief. The players ran to their positions with sweat stained shirts and steaming brows, eager to play the inning and get back to the dugout, where buckets of cool water and freshly chipped ice awaited their return.

Kiki Delaney ignited the Ranger attack in usual fashion, laying
down a beautiful bunt that flirted with the third base foul line, only to come to rest in front of a frustrated Woody Danvers.

“Son of a bitch,” Danvers carped, hands on his hips. “I could've swore that sucker was going foul.”

Sanders's next delivery saw Delaney take off for second while the next Rangers' table setter slapped the ball the opposite way, exploiting the hole on the right side of the infield left by Arky Fries after he vacated his normal position to cover the bag. Delaney never broke stride, and by the time Buck Faber had thrown the ball back in, the Rangers were sitting pretty, with runners on the corners and nobody out.

“Oh, holy crap,” Murph griped to Matheson. “Once, just once, do you think we could get out of the first damned inning untouched? I mean, Jesus Christ. Is that too much to ask?”

Matheson worked the inside of his cheek with his wrinkled fingers and removed a wad of chew, adding it to the pile beneath the bench where he sat.

“Yup. Sanders is stiffer than a billy goat. They're all over him like ducks on a June bug.”

Murph shrugged and sighed.

“I'm telling ya, Farley, I think I should just hang 'em up. I'm getting too old for this. It's all wrong. All of it. Hell, I gave it my best shot. Nobody can say I didn't try, right? So what's the harm if I walk away? Huh? Just retire to Molly and my little farm.”

He rolled his eyes as Sanders walked the next batter, loading the bases.

“That may happen, Murph, but there ain't no use in hasty action. And it ain't worth a plugged nickel sitting around here like a bump on a pickle just waiting for misfortune to launch her rockets. If you're going to go down, well then by cracky, go down swinging. Try something. Holy Hannah, try anything. And when the season is over, let them chips fall as they will.”

The Rangers continued to pound Sanders, spraying well-struck balls all over the yard. Two dingers, a couple of triples, four consecutive doubles and a salvo of singles had all the Brewer fielders wilting, matinee idols turned to melting clay in the oppressive August air. They barely had enough life left to limp off the field when, forty-one minutes after the first pitch was delivered, the final out of the inning was recorded.

“All right, you guys,” Murph encouraged, with Matheson's words resonating in his head like a gong. “We've been down ten before.” He removed his cap and used his sleeve to dab the beading sweat on his forehead. “Let's go now. There's a lot of baseball left to play.”

The Brewers took their hacks in the bottom half of the first frame, but their bats were just as limp and feckless. Pee Wee waved at three straight breaking balls, Arky Fries went down looking on a pipe fastball, and Woody Danvers nearly screwed himself into the steaming ground when the Rangers' hurler dropped a wicked 2–2 hammer on him.

“This is not good, Farley,” Murph said shaking his head. “Not good at all.”

The sun continued to beat down mercilessly on the beleaguered Brew Crew. In the steady dissolution germane to late summer, and with visible relinquishment, each Brewer capitulated, one by one, to the Rangers' ruthless onslaught. Sanders left the game in a huff after the second inning, having surrendered fourteen runs, and was replaced by Packey Reynolds, Murph's best mop-up guy. The move was ineffectual, and produced a similar effect as gasoline being added to a fire. Reynolds was hit even harder, and failed to retire any of the first six batters he faced. His whole body sagged as he stood on the mound. Then the other eight guys on the field surrendered as well. A routine grounder to Arky Fries skipped through the wickets. Clem Finster dropped a routine pop, Jimmy Llamas lost a can of
corn in the sun, and Woody Danvers collided with Pee Wee as both men tried to execute a run down that would have put a temporary end to the comedy of errors. They were in hot water the rest of the afternoon. When all was said and done, the Brewers had committed nine errors, allowed twenty-two hits, and had watched with painful attention as twenty-nine Rangers crossed home plate.

It was the most lopsided defeat in team history.

But the score was not the most difficult pill for Murph to swallow that afternoon. That was part of the game. Sometimes you ended up on the wrong side of a laugher. It came with the territory. The score he could handle. But the smug, inflammatory postgame comments from McNally? That was a different story. That was intolerable. He wished he could stop hearing the acerbic banter, or at least stop listening. He wanted nothing more than to think about himself, and his team, and where they were going. Christ, he needed to figure it all out. But McNally would not go away. His words kept resonating in Murph's mind like the clatter of cymbals clashing.

“Look on the bright side, old-timer,” McNally said on his way past the Brewers' dugout after the final out was recorded. “It won't hurt as much as last year. You remember, losing on the last day? Naw, this is much better. Give ya a few weeks now to get used to the idea.” Then the surly bane of Murph's existence cackled smugly and jogged away.

Murph stayed. Not because he wanted to, but because Dennison had asked to see him again. This too had become tedious. How many friggin' meetings did they have to have? How many damned times did Dennison have to remind him that his job was hanging in the balance?

With the horizon just about to swallow the drooping sun, Murph shuffled toward his destination, sinking too into an uncompromising apathy.
What's the point?
he thought to himself. Was there any
point to any of it? This ghost of misfortune was relentless, and more alive than he was. “The fight is all you have,” he always said. He believed it too. But as he stood outside Dennison's door, full of unimaginable fear and uncertainty, he shuddered when he considered the course a man's life would take once that was gone as well.

Trailing the Rangers by a full five games with just twenty-five contests left to play, Murph decided to give the entire team the day off. He hoped that a little “R and R” would mitigate the tension under which they were all struggling and restore some of the vigor and resiliency needed to tackle the stretch run. All of them had been pressing, with each individual failure engendering a collective stupor and malaise that had enervated the entire group.

“Listen, fellas,” he announced to the group as they sat sullenly by their lockers. “As Matheson would say, ‘Ain't no use in beating a dead horse.' We've had quite a tough time of late. Real tough.” He paused deliberately, his head throbbing as if there was something else trapped inside his head that was struggling to find the light, then folded his arms and squatted on his heels so that his eyes were now even with theirs. “I think we could all use a day off. Just to relax. I want all of you to do something you enjoy. Listen to some music. Take a drive. Some of you may even want to join McGinty, Mickey, and Lester for some fishing down at McGinty's place. Just do something to take your damned minds off baseball for a while. Then come back tomorrow ready to play ball for the next three weeks.”