It’s the McCoy

Chapter One Grandstand Play

It was the last half of the seventh inning. The visitors were two runs ahead, and the heavy batting end of the home team was coming up. The crowd was at that emotional pitch when balls are greeted with cheers, strikes bring forth groans, and a foul ball has spectators jumping from their seats, straining their necks.

Paul Pry and Mugs Magoo sat in the grandstand directly behind the catcher.

Paul Pry was drinking a bottle of soda pop, his eyes sparkling with enjoyment. His entire thought processes concentrated upon the progress of the game.

Mugs Magoo, on the other hand, sat heavily on the pads which had been rented for the occasion to soften the hard contours of the grandstand seat. His slightly protruding eyes were masked behind a film which gave them the lack of expression commonly associated with the eyes of a fish. But those eyes missed nothing. Apparently dead, expressionless, inanimate, they were as efficient as the lens of a candid camera.

Mugs Magoo might or might not have been watching the ball game. Certainly he was not absorbed in it, whereas Paul Pry strained every nerve to follow each move in the game which was changing momentarily with such kaleidoscopic swiftness.

Mugs’ right arm was off at the shoulder, and his coat sleeve was neatly folded back and pinned. The breadth of his shoulders, the thickness of his neck, and the easy motions of his left arm, showed that, before the accident which had cost him his arm, he had been a very powerful man.

At one time “camera-eye” man for the metropolitan police force, he had catalogued every crook who had worked in the metropolis or who had been mugged by other police departments. A political shake-up, the accident which had lost him his arm, and a proclivity for drinking huge quantities of whiskey, had cost him his police career. Now, he found solace and remuneration in putting his encyclopedic knowledge of the underworld at the service of Paul Pry.

And Paul Pry’s nimble wits, as swift in their functioning as the flashing of the baseball which was making history as it zipped its way across the diamond, made much capital of the information Mugs Magoo was able to give him.

The batter made a terrific swing. The bat struck the ball with a crack which sounded like the blowout of a huge tire. The ball went sailing high in the air, and the crowd surged to its feet.

Far above the field, the baseball started to curve back toward the third-base line. Spectators watched it with that tense silence which is associated with baited breath, clenched hands, and taut lips.

With swift acceleration the curve of the ball took it back over and across the third-base line.

The third baseman couldn’t reach it.

The fielder couldn’t get to it.

The ball thudded to the ground for the third foul to be called on the batter.

With a long drawn sigh, the crowd relaxed. Some sat down at once. Others remained standing as though loath to believe that the play was over, feeling that perhaps a miracle could recall that which had already happened.

Mugs Magoo said conversationally to Paul Pry: “Big Jim Dolovo is having a hell of a time agreeing on a price for his next job.”

Paul Pry deposited the empty soda-pop bottle between his feet, and said: “Mugs, what the devil are you talking about?”

“Big Jim Dolovo.”

“I heard you, but what the devil has Big Jim Dolovo got to do with this ball game?”

“He’s buying a bunch of gems,” Mugs Magoo said, “and the guy he’s dealing with ain’t as easy as Big Jim likes to have ’em.”

“You mean he’s buying gems here at this ball game?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But how can you tell, in this bedlam of noise?”

“He’s making signs,” Mugs said.

The pitcher caught the catcher’s signal, wound up, and sent a fast ball hopping toward the plate. The batter braced himself then relaxed.

“Ball three,” the umpire called.

Paul Pry said, moodily: “Do we have to talk business now, Mugs?”

Mugs Magoo deftly extracted a cigarette from a package with his left hand, snapped a match into flame, and lit the fragrant cylinder. “You told me to point out anything interesting in the line of crook activities whenever I saw them, and wherever I saw them,” he said.

The pitcher suddenly wound up, shot his arm back and over. But instead of the fast ball hopping through the air to explode into the catcher’s glove, he sent a delivery which seemed barely to dribble through the air. The tense batter tried to control his swing in vain. He swung so hard that he spun himself through a complete turn, and the swing was fully completed before the hall hit the catcher’s glove.

The crowd roared into noise as the crestfallen batter jogged over to the player’s bench.

While the new batter was stepping up to the plate Paul Pry said: “O.K., Mugs, you win. No good having my attention split up half and half. I didn’t get half the kick out of that strike-out on the slowball I should have. Where the hell’s Big Jim Dolovo, who is he, and what’s he doing?”

“The fat guy over there with the blue coat. The one with the big ring on his hand. You’ll see his hand in a minute. There. He took off his hat to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. See him?”

Paul Pry stared at the man whose thick neck made corrugated washboards of fat over the back of his coat collar.

“You mean the chap who’s just running his handkerchief around the back of his neck now, Mugs?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“And what about him, Mugs?”

“He fences stolen jewelry. Only he doesn’t handle it the way a pawnbroker or someone else would. He knows what he’s going to buy in advance, figures what he’s going to pay for it, and usually has his market ready for resale before he even gets it.”

“Go on, Mugs,” Paul Pry said. “You interest me, and this batter doesn’t seem to be doing very much for himself.”

Mugs Magoo turned his mournful eyes on the batter who had just swung wildly at the second pitched ball to give the pitcher the advantage of two strikes and no balls.

“Big Jim Dolovo,” Mugs said, as the batter stalled for time by dusting his hands, “has about half a dozen big-time crooks working for him. He tells the crooks what to steal, and how much he’s willing to pay for the take after they get it. The crooks go out and lift the swag. Jim Dolovo pays the agreed price, and that’s all there is to it.”

Paul Pry said: “Look here, Mugs. The police would never stand for that.”

“How could they stop it?” Mugs asked.

“They must know about it. If you know about it, they certainly must be able to get some inkling that—”

“They know all about it,” Mugs Magoo said. “That’s all the good it does them.”

“What do you mean?”

“They shadow Big Jim night and day. They’ve got his telephone line tapped. They watch his mail, and they can’t do a damn thing. And don’t think that because I know about things, the police know about them. The cops have changed a lot since I was on the force. In some ways they’re more efficient, and in other ways they ain’t worth a damn. They’re getting soft and lazy because they’ve got machines to do their work.”

“What do you mean machines?” Paul Pry asked.

“Radio, fingerprints, and all that stuff. If they want to know whether a man has a criminal record, they stamp his fingerprints on a piece of paper and telegraph the classification to Washington, and inside a couple of hours they know all about him from the time he was born. But in my time, you were matching wits with crooks all the time. Crooks would change their normal appearance, and you’d have to be on your toes to keep them classified.”

“But surely, Mugs, they can catch this Big Jim Dolovo in—”

“You watch,” Mugs Magoo said, “and see how hard it is to figure. The average cop of today with his lie detector and his fingerprint outfit ain’t going to be smart enough to pick it up. You watch the next time the crowd goes mad. You’ll see him hold up his hands... Wait a minute. Here we go...”

The count on the batter was now two and two, and as the pitcher sent his fast ball sizzling across the plate, headed for a third strike, the batter exploded into motion. The bat caught the ball square on the nose, sent it in a line drive, hissing directly over the pitcher’s head.

The crowd came up with a roar. By an effort, Paul Pry tore his eyes from the running player and watched Big Jim Dolovo instead. The big man was yelling like a maniac, but, as he yelled, he was holding up his left hand with three fingers extended, while his right hand, with all five fingers open, was beating the air.

“You get that?” Mugs Magoo asked, as the runner managed to beat the throw to third by the flicker of an eyelash. “It’s a big job. He’s holding up three fingers of his left hand, and he made five separate paws at the air with his right. That means five times five plus three — twenty-eight grand. And when Big Jim Dolovo is ready to go to twenty-eight thousand for a bunch of sparklers, you can gamble they’re worth over a hundred in any man’s money.”

Paul Pry said, regretfully: “Damn it, Mugs, you’ve caused me to lose interest in this ball game.”

“I can’t help it,” Mugs replied. “Those were your instructions. I’m following them. If you don’t want me to tell you about crooks when I see them—”

“No, no, that’s all right, Mugs,” Pry said. “Who’s he signaling to?”

“I haven’t found out yet. I can probably spot him before the game’s over.”

“How long’s he been signaling, Mugs?”

“For the last three innings. He started at twenty thousand. The last two grand have been like getting blood out of a turnip. Someone’s holding him up good and proper. He—” Mugs broke off as the batter hit a short grounder, tried to beat it out for first and failed.

Paul Pry, watching Big Jim Dolovo, slowly dropped back into his seat in the grandstand, said: “He doesn’t seem particularly happy.”

“No,” Mugs said. “Apparently the twenty-eight grand was no dice.”

“Will he come up?” Paul Pry asked.

“You can’t tell,” Mugs said. “He may, but I doubt it. If he does, he’ll wait until the last inning to do it. He’s mad now.”

“Wish I could find who’s on the other end of the conversation,” Paul Pry said. “He’s looking over toward the left pretty steadily.”

“Then the man he’s really signaling will be over on the right,” Mugs said decisively.

The visiting team came trotting in. The first batter up hit a long, high fly, the fate of which was virtually a foregone conclusion, but the crowd, half hysterical with emotion, came to its feet to watch the course of the leather sphere against the blue vault of the afternoon sky.

Mugs Magoo said: “There he is.”

“Who?” Paul Pry asked.

“‘Soup’ Scanlon. The guy over there right next to the chap who’s waving the straw hat and yelling.”

“I get you,” Pry said.

The ball thudded into the fielder’s glove. A well dressed individual, accompanied by a girl whose face and figure would have done credit to a front-row chorine in a high-priced revue, yelled, “Right in the old basket, just like that,” and with both hands extended, the fingers wide apart, made three pawing motions at the air.

“There you are,” Mugs Magoo said. “It’s Soup Scanlon, and he wants thirty grand for the job.”

The crowd sat down and Paul Pry watched the icy indifference of Big Jim Dolovo’s motionless frame. “Evidently,” Paul Pry said, “it’s no soap with Big Jim.”

“Looks that way,” Mugs Magoo grunted. “But you never can tell about Big Jim. He’s mad, but when he starts dealing with Soup Scanlon, it’s a case of Greek meeting Greek. Soup is the best box man in the game. He can get a box to drink soup where you couldn’t get the edge of a piece of waxed paper between the door and the safe. It’s a gift.”

Paul Pry said: “He seems to be looking over this way. You don’t think he’s spotted you, do you?”

“Naw,” Mugs said. “Whenever I saw him, it was in a shadow box. I was back where he couldn’t see me, and he was under the bright lights. He’s just looking at us because Big Jim Dolovo is between him and us, and he don’t want to miss any move that Big Jim makes.”

“And you mean to say that they carry on their negotiations like this?” Paul Pry asked.

“Matters of price, yes,” Mugs Magoo said. “Picking out the gems Soup is to cop, has all been handled before the deal gets to this stage.”

“How was it done?” Paul Pry asked.

“Through the personal columns of the paper, probably.”

Paul Pry’s eyes ceased to be interested in what was taking place on the ball diamond. Narrowed into thoughtful slits, his eyes became level-lidded with concentration as he studied Big Jim Dolovo, Soup Scanlon, and the possibilities of the situation.

“Who’s Soup’s lady friend, Mugs?” he asked.

“That’s ‘Merva’ Bond — short for Minerva. She’s class.”

“Does she have a record?”

“Sure. It sure does beat hell how that girl keeps her youth. She looks to be about twenty-three or twenty-four, but she’s seen lots of action, that gal. She was moll for Spider Murphy’s right-hand man. He was rubbed out, and then Spider took her over. She—”

A fast grounder brought the crowd to its feet. Paul Pry, shouting wildly, held up his right hand with the fingers spread wide apart. His left hand, high above his head, remained stationary with two fingers extended. The right hand pawed the air three times.

Mugs Magoo, watching him apprehensively, said: “What the hell are you doing?”

“Signaling Big Jim Dolovo,” Paul Pry said.

“Oh, my God!” Mugs exclaimed, and slumped down in the chair as though his muscles had lost their strength.

Slowly, the crowd subsided. Paul Pry sat down with a satisfied smile on his face.

“Did he see you?” Mugs asked apprehensively.

“I’m not certain,” Paul Pry said, “but Merva Bond did, and she’s pointing me out to Soup Scanlon.”

Mugs Magoo wiped perspiration from his forehead. “Serves me right,” he said, “for going out with a damn lunatic.”

“What’s the matter now?” Paul Pry asked. “I was just underbidding Soup Scanlon for the job.”

“You’re signing your death warrant,” Mugs said gloomily. “Don’t put my number up at the same time. Go push up your own daisies. For God’s sake, quit talking to me. Don’t let on that you know me.”

He turned his head partially away, took off his hat, and mopped his forehead, taking care that his hat shielded his lips from the eyes of Soup Scanlon.

“That whole thing,” he said, “was loaded with dynamite. Whatever deal Big Jim’s putting across, if it’s worth twenty-eight grand to Big Jim, a human life more or less ain’t even worth considering. If Big Jim gets wise that you’ve spotted the signals, he’ll rub you out just like stepping on a bug. Of all the damn-fool things you’ve ever done in your life, you’ve won the first prize right now. You’ve been a good pal, and I ain’t trying to say I haven’t appreciated what you’ve done for me, but just because you’ve decided to commit suicide is no reason I’m going to make it a double play. When I die, I want it to be from drinking too much whiskey and not from stopping bullets. You got yourself into this. Now go ahead and get yourself out.”

Mugs Magoo, holding his hat in his left hand so that it furnished a shield behind which his features were concealed from Soup Scanlon and Big Jim Dolovo, threaded his way across feet and pop bottles to the aisle, and dove for the exit like a startled rabbit popping from a burrow.

Thereafter, there was plenty of excitement on the ball diamond. The visitors got a man on first, then hit into a double play, and the next batter popped up a foul ball which the catcher had no difficulty in handling. The home team slugged its way into a tardy batting rally. The ball was sent skidding around the diamond in a series of grounders, fouls, and line drives. The bases were filled, with none out. The crowd, yelling itself hoarse, spent about half of the time on its feet.

Paul Pry, shouting and gesticulating with the rest, made a series of signs to the coldly unresponsive Big Jim Dolovo’s icy countenance, while Soup Scanlon and his blond companion watched Pry with eyes that held considerably more than mere curiosity.

It was in the last half of the ninth inning, that Big Jim Dolovo surrendered to Soup Scanlon. A local player, favorite with the fans, was trying to beat a throw to first. The shortstop, seeing the play was going to be close, made a wild throw, and as the crowd went crazy, Big Jim Dolovo, with all the outward gestures of wild enthusiasm, held both hands high in the air with five fingers of each hand extended and pawed at the air three times.

Soup Scanlon had won his point, and his price of thirty thousand dollars.