Strike Zone

The Midgets’ Club might have been any Chicago saloon: a bar at the left, booths at the right, scattering of tables between, pool table in back, wall-hung celebrity photos here and there, neon beer signs burning through the fog of tobacco smoke, patrons chatting, laughing, over a jukebox’s blare. But the bar was sawed-off with tiny stools, the tables and chairs and booths all scaled down to smaller proportions (with a few normal-sized ones up front, for tourist traffic), the pool table half-scale, the celebrity photos of Munchkins, the chatter and laughter of patrons giddy and high-pitched. As for the jukebox, Sinatra’s “Tender Trap” was playing at the moment, to be followed by more selections running to slightly dated swing material, no rock or R & B — which suited me, and was a hell of a lot better than “Ding Dong the Witch Is Dead.”

I had known the club’s proprietor and chief bartender, Pernell “Little Elmer” St. Aubin, since he was, well, little — a child entertainer at the Midget Village at the Chicago World’s Fair back in ’33. He’d been tap dancing and I’d been busting pickpockets. Elmer had been in his teens when he appeared in The Wizard of Oz, so now — as he stood behind the bar, polishing a glass, a wizened Munchkin in an apron — he was probably only in his mid-thirties. But as was so often the case with his kind, he looked both older and younger than his years.

I selected one of the handful of somewhat taller stools at the bar and said to Elmer, “For a weekday, you’re doing good business.”

“It’s kind of a wake,” Elmer explained. “For Eddie Gaedel. People coming over after visitation at Keurtz’s. You knew Eddie, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. I was over there myself. Paying my respects, and Bill Veeck’s.”

Elmer frowned. “Couldn’t Veeck make it himself?”

“He’s pretty sick. So was Eddie ornery as ever, up to the end?”

“Christ yes! I hated serving that little bastard. Sweet enough guy sober, but what a lousy drunk. If I hadn’t been secretly watering his drinks, over the years, he’d have busted up the joint long ago.”

“I hear he may have been rolled by some juvies. Think that’s what killed him?”

“I doubt it. Eddie carried a straight razor — people knew he did, too. I think these young punks woulda been scared to get cut. Funny thing, though.”

“What is?”

“His mama said that straight razor didn’t turn up in his things.”

I thought about that, then asked, “So how do you think Eddie died?”

“I have my own opinion.”

“Like to share that opinion, Elmer?”

“The cops weren’t interested. Why are you?”

“Eddie was a friend. Maybe I’m just curious. Maybe there’s a score to settle.”

“Are you gonna drink something, Heller?”

I gave the Munchkin a ten, asked for a rum and Coke and told him he could keep the change, if he stayed chatty.

“Eddie was playing a puppet on a local kids’ show,” Elmer said, serving me up. “But he lost the gig ’cause of his boozing. So lately he was talking to some of my less classier clientele about going out on the carny circuit. Some kinda sideshow scam where they pretended to be Siamese triplets or something.”

“Work is work.”

“See that little dame over there?”

Every dame in here was little, but Elmer was talking about Betsy Jane, the Living Doll in her blue satin prom dress. I hadn’t spotted her when I came in — she was sitting alone in a booth, staring down into a coffee cup cupped in her dainty hands.

Elmer leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s Betsy Jane Perkins, the actress — Eddie was crazy about her, and she felt the same about him. She was trying to straighten him out, and I think she might’ve succeeded, if it hadn’t been for that ex-husband of hers.”

“Yeah?”

“Guy named Fred Peterson. He’s a shrimp.”

“A midget?”

“No, a shrimp — a ‘normal’-size guy who stands just under five feet. He’s a theatrical agent, still is Betsy Jane’s agent; specializes in booking little people. Makes him feel like a big man, lording it over us.”

“He is a regular?” I swiveled on the stool and glanced around. “Is he here?”

“Yes, he’s a regular, no, he’s not here. He wouldn’t pay his respects to Eddie, that’s for goddamn sure.”

“Why?”

“Lately Fred’s been trying to get back in Betsy Jane’s good graces, among other things. Why don’t you talk to her? She’s a sweet kid. I think she’d do anything to help out where Eddie’s concerned.”

I took Elmer’s advice, and my rum and Coke and I went over and stood next to the booth where the painfully pretty little woman gloomily sat. She looked up at me with beautiful if bloodshot blue eyes; her heavy, doll-like makeup was a little grief-smeared, but she was naturally pretty, with a fairly short, Marilyn-ish do.

“Miss Perkins, my name is Nate Heller — I was a friend of Eddie Gaedel’s.”

“I don’t remember Eddie mentioning you, Mr. Heller,” she said, almost primly, her voice a melodic soprano with a vibrato of sorrow.

“I’m an associate of Bill Veeck’s. I escorted Eddie to that famous game in St. Louis back in ’51.”

She had brightened at the mention of Veeck’s name, and was already gesturing for me to sit across from her.

“I saw you at the funeral parlor,” she said, “talking to Helen.”

“Helen?”

“Mrs. Gaedel.”

“Yes. She feels the circumstances of her son’s death are somewhat suspicious.”

The blue eyes lowered. “I’d prefer to reminisce about Eddie and the fun times, the good times, than...”

“Face the truth?”

“Mr. Heller, I don’t know what happened to Eddie. I just know I’ve lost him, right when I thought...” She began to cry, and got in her purse, rustling for a handkerchief.

I glanced over at Elmer, behind the bar, and he was squinting at me, making a vaguely frantic gesture that I didn’t get. Shrugging at him, I returned my attention to the Living Doll.

“You’d been trying to help Eddie. Encourage him to stop drinking, I understand. Not run with such a rough crowd.”

“That’s right.”

I’d hoped for elaboration.

I tried venturing down a different avenue. “I understand some j.d.s have been preying on little people in this neighborhood.”

“That... that’s true.”

“Eddie might have been beaten and robbed.”

“Yes... he might have.”

“But you don’t think that’s the case, do you?”

Now she was getting a compact out of her purse, checking her makeup. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Heller — I look a fright.”

And she went off to the ladies’ room.

I just sat there and sipped my rum and Coke, wondering if I would get anything out of Betsy Jane except tears, when an unMunchkin-like baritone growled at me.

“You got a fetish, pal?”

I turned and looked up at the source of the irritation, and the reason for Elmer’s motioning to me: he was short, but no midget, possibly five foot, almost handsome, with a Steve Canyon jaw compromised by pugged nose and cow eyes; his hair was dark blond and slicked back and he wore a mustache that would have been stylish as hell if this were 1935. Deeply tanned, his build was brawny, his hairy, muscular chest shown off by the deep V-neck cut of his pale green herringbone golf shirt, his arms short but muscular.

I said, “What?”

“You got a scratch to itch, buddy?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He leaned in, eyes popping, teeth bared, cords in his neck taut; he reeked of Old Spice. “You some kind of pervert, pops? Some kinda letch for the midget ladies?”

Very quietly, I said, “Back off.”

Something about how I’d said it gave him pause, and the clenched fist that was his face twitched a couple times, and he and his Old Spice aura backed away — but he kept standing there, muscular arms folded now, like a stubby, pissed-off genie.

“And you must be Fred Peterson,” I said.

“Who wants to know?”

Not offering a hand to shake, I said, “My name’s Heller — friend of Eddie Gaedel’s, and Bill Veeck’s.”

He blinked. “What, you were over at the funeral home?”

“That’s right.”

“Paying your respects.”

“Yes. And looking into Eddie’s murder.”

He frowned; then he scrambled across from me into the booth, where Betsy Jane had been sitting. “What do you mean, murder?”

“He was beaten to death, Fred. You don’t mind if I call you ‘Fred’...?”

His hands were folded, but squeezing, as if he were doing isometrics. “The cops said it was natural causes. Why’s it your business, the cops say it’s natural causes?”

“I’m a private investigator, working for Veeck. When I get enough evidence, I’ll turn it over to the cops and see if I can’t change their minds about how ‘natural’ those causes were.”

He leaned forward, hands still clasped, a vein in his forehead jumping. “Listen, that little prick had a big mouth and a lot of enemies. You’re gonna get nowhere!”

I shrugged, sipped my rum and Coke. “Maybe I can get somewhere with Betsy Jane.”

The cow eyes flashed. “Stay away from her.”

“Why should I? She seems to like me, and I like her. She’s a cute kid. She interests me... kind of a new frontier.”

“I said stay away.”

“Who died and appointed you head of the Lollipop Guild? I’m going to find out who killed Eddie Gaedel, and have myself some tight little fun along the way.”

And I grinned at him, until he growled a few obscenities and bolted away, heading toward the rear of the bar, almost bumping into Betsy Jane, coming back from the restroom. She froze seeing him, and he clutched her by the shoulders and got right in her face and said something to her, apparently something unpleasant, even threatening. Then he stalked toward the rear exit.

Her expression alarmed, she took her seat across from me and said, “You should go now.”

“That was your agent, right?”

“...right.”

“And your boyfriend?”

“No... husband. Ex-husband. Please go.”

“Jealous of you and Eddie, by any chance? Did you go to him with the idea for a new act, you and Eddie as boy and girl livin’ dolls?”

She shook her head, blonde bangs shimmering. “Mr. Heller, you don’t know what kind of position you’re putting me in...”

I knew that her ex-husband didn’t want any man putting this doll in any position.

But I said, “I think for a little guy, your ex-husband and current agent has a tall temper. And I think he’s goddamn lucky the cops didn’t investigate this case, because he makes one hell of a suspect in Eddie’s death.”

She began to weep again, but this was different, this was more than grief — there was fear in it.

“What do you know, Betsy Jane?”

“Nuh... nothing... nothing...”

“Tell me. Just tell me — so that I know. I won’t take anything to the police without your permission.”

Damp eyelashes fluttered. “Well... I... I don’t know anything, except that... on that last night, Fred was... nice to Eddie and me.”

“Nice?”

“Yes. He’d been furious with me, at the suggestion that Eddie and I would work as a team, livid that I would suggest that he, of all people, should book such an act... We had two, no three, terrible arguments about it. Then... then he changed. He can do that, run hot and cold. He apologized, said he’d been a jerk, said he wanted to make it up, wanted to help. Sat and talked with us all evening, making plans about the act.”

“Go on.”

“That’s all.”

“No it isn’t. I can see it in those pretty eyes, Betsy Jane. The rest... tell me the rest.”

She swallowed, nodded, sighed. “They... they left together. Eddie lived close, you know, easy walk home to his mother’s house — Fred was going to talk business with him. They went out the back way, around midnight. It was the last time I saw Eddie alive.”

The alley behind the bar, bumped up against the backyards of residences, would be as good a place as any for an assault.

She was saying, “But I can’t imagine Fred would do such a thing.”

“Sure you can.”

She shook her head. “Anyway, Eddie was no pushover. He carried a straight razor, you know.”

“So I hear. But I also hear it wasn’t among his effects.”

“Oh, Eddie had it that night. I saw it.”

“Yeah?”

“He emptied his pocket, looking for change for the jukebox... laid his things right on this counter, razor among them. We were sitting in this very booth... this was... our booth.”

She began to cry again, and I got over on her side of the booth, slid an arm around her, and comforted her, thinking that she really was a cute kid, and midget sex was definitely on my short list of things yet undone in a long and varied life.

But more to the point, what had become of that razor? If Fred had attacked Eddie out back, maybe that razor had been dropped in the scuffle — and if it was back there, somewhere, I’d have the evidence I needed to get the cops to open an investigation.

“Betsy Jane,” I said, “we’ll talk again... when you’re feeling up to it.”

“All right... but Mr. Heller... Nate... I am afraid. Terribly afraid.”

I squeezed her shoulder, kissed her cheek. “I’ll make the bad man go away.”

She put her hand on my thigh — her little bitty hand. Christ, it felt weird. Also, good.

Nodding to Elmer, I headed toward the rear exit, and stepped out into the alley. The night was moonless with a scattering of stars, and the lighting was negligible — no street lamps back here, just whatever scant illumination spilled from the frame houses whose backyards bordered the asphalt strip. A trio of garbage cans — full-scale, nothing midget about them — stood against the back of the brick building, and some empty liquor and beer cartons were stacked nearby.

Not much to see, and in the near-darkness, I would probably need my flashlight to probe for that missing straight razor. I had just decided to walk the several blocks to the side street where my car was parked, to get the flash, when a figure stepped out from the recess of an adjacent building’s rear doorway.

“Looking for something?” Fred Peterson asked, those cow eyes wide and wild, teeth bared like an angry animal, veins throbbing in his neck, one hand behind his back. Though he stood only five foot, his brawny frame, musculature obvious in the skintight golf shirt, made him a threatening presence as he stepped into the alley like a gunfighter out onto the Main Street of Dodge.

I was thinking how I should have brought my gun along — only usually, attending midget funerals, it wasn’t necessary.

“Get some ideas,” he said, “talking to Betsy Jane?”

He was standing there, rocking on legs whose powerful thighs stood out, despite the bagginess of his chinos.

Shrugging, I said, “I thought Eddie mighta dropped something when you jumped him.”

Peterson howled as he whipped something from behind him and charged, it was a bat, he was wielding a goddamn baseball bat, and he was whipping it at me, slicing the air, the bat whooshing over me as I ducked under the swing. Screw baseball, I tackled him, taking him down hard, and the bat fell from his grasp, clattering onto the asphalt. I rolled off him, rolling toward the sound, and then I had the bat in my hands, as I got up and took my stance.

That’s when I found that straight razor I’d been looking for, or rather Fred Peterson showed me what had become of it, as he yanked it from his pocket and swung it around, the meager light of the alley managing to wink off the shining blade.

I didn’t wait for him to come at me: I took my swing.

The bat caught him in the side of the head, a hard blow that caved his skull in, and by the time Peterson fell to his knees, his motor responses were dead, and so was he. He flopped forward, on his face, razor spilling from limp fingers, blood and brains leaching out onto the asphalt as I stood over him, the bat resting against my shoulder.

“Strike zone my ass,” I said to nobody, breathing hard.

Finally I went back into the Midgets’ Club, carrying the bloody bat, getting my share of my looks, though Betsy Jane had gone. I leaned on the bar and told Elmer to call the cops.

But the little bartender just looked at me in amazement. “What the hell did you do, Heller?”

“Somebody had to go to bat for Eddie. Call the goddamn cops, would you, please?”

No charges were brought against me — my actions were clearly in self-defense — and Eddie Gaedel’s death is listed to this day as “natural causes” on the books. Though I shared with them everything I knew about the matter, the police simply didn’t want to go to the trouble of declaring Eddie a murder victim, merely to pursue a deceased suspect. Poor Eddie just couldn’t get a fair shake in any of the record books.

A few days after the cops cleared me, Veeck spoke to me on the phone, from a room in the Mayo Clinic.

“You know, ten years ago, when I sent Eddie Gaedel into that game,” he said, reflectively, “I knew it would be that little clown’s shining moment... what I didn’t know was that it would be mine, too! Hell, I knew it was a good gag, that the fans would roar, and the stuffed shirts holler. But who coulda guessed it’d become the single act forever identified with me?”

“We’re any of us lucky to be remembered for anything, Bill,” I said.

“Yeah. Yeah. Suppose Eddie felt that way?”

“I know he did.”

For years after, Helen Gaedel remembered me at Christmas with cookies or a fruitcake. Betsy Jane Perkins was grateful, too.

Veeck expressed his gratitude by paying me handsomely, and, typically, fooled himself and all of us by not dying just yet. The man who invented fan appreciation night, who provided a day-care center for female employees before the term was coined, who was first to put the names of players on the backs of uniforms, who broke the color line in the American League, and who sent a midget up to bat — and who also bought back the Chicago White Sox in 1975 — lived another irascible fifteen years.

And wasn’t that a hell of a stunt.