Three Strikes You're Dead

Chapter 22

Norma was over in Michigan with Martin Baer and, presumably, his mother. Peter was at camp in the North Woods of Wisconsin, and I was on probation at the Tribune. Welcome to midsummer in the Middle West.

On the positive side, the Cubs were beginning to show signs of life. Dizzy Dean went out and pitched another complete game — his second in a week — beating the Giants, who scored only one run. That gave him five victories, a long way from his glory days in St. Louis but encouraging for the Chicago boys and their new manager, Hartnett.

After staying away from Kilkenny’s for a few days following his beaning of the two hoodlums, Diz was around again, drawn back by the lure of the T-bones and filets — and maybe the camaraderie and the adulation of the regulars. The Killer himself was alert to further incursions from the mob, though, and had bought a revolver — he showed it to me very quickly and quietly one evening — that he kept on a shelf under the cash register. I found the idea of his keeping a loaded gun in the joint unsettling, but after what had happened, in part because of me, there wasn’t anything I could say.

On the evening of the Cubs’ victory against New York, Dean and Augie Galan were at the bar eating when I sauntered in, while the usual knot of regulars hovered around the players.

“Hey, Mr. Snap, how ya doin’?” Diz boomed, waving me over. (It would only be later, and in far different circumstances, that he would briefly raise the subject of the most exciting night Kilkenny’s had ever seen.)

“Just fine,” I answered, “and it sounds like you are, too, from what I’ve been hearing about the way things went out at Wrigley this afternoon.”

He made a face and shrugged. “I didn’t have much on the ball, but them Giants was patsies, real patsies.”

“Don’t let Diz fool you with that kind of talk,” Augie Galan said to me between bites of his filet. “He was plenty tough out there today. I’m glad I wasn’t batting against him.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean said. “The way you tagged me over the years, you’da put one on Sheffield Avenue, or maybe even two.” He swiveled toward me. “My wing’s like t’drop off now, Mr. Snap,” he brayed as he flexed his right arm. “Hurts to beat all heck.”

“You should be home soaking it or something,” I told him. “That’s two good games in a row you’ve tossed, and you need to keep it up. And you’re also making a monkey out of a guy I know who works for the Tribune.”

His face went from puzzlement to a frown. “How’dya happen to know somebody from that doggone paper, Mr. Snap?”

“Uh, I’ve known him for years... from my old neighborhood,” I improvised, hoping nobody around us would give me away. They didn’t.

Dean rubbed his chin. “Hmm. And you say that ah’m makin’ a monkey outta him?”

“In spades, Diz, bless you. He’s a copyreader in the Sports Department, name of Leo Cahill, and he said in the spring that there was no way that you’d win even five games. And now...”

The Killer raised one bushy eyebrow. “Did you have occasion to speak to this Cahill individual today?” he asked as he served me a beer.

“No, why?”

“Let us now give this misguided fellow, Irish though he may be with that surname, a call forthwith and remind him of the comment he made,” the barkeep said, eyes twinkling. “Do you suppose he’s still at work?” (The Killer knew that I was keeping my employer a secret from Dean and wasn’t going to mess things up.)

I checked my watch. “Yeah, he’s there for another hour or so, if he’s on his usual shift.”

“Hey, I got an idea,” Morty Easterly piped up from his stool down the bar (he, too, knew I was keeping my job from Diz). “Go ahead and give this guy a call, Snap, and then put Diz on the line. See what kind of tune he sings then.”

I liked the idea, and so did Dean. He and I went around behind the bar, and I called the Sports Department, asking for Cahill. “Hi, Leo, it’s Malek. Got a friend who’d like to talk to you. Let me put him on.” I handed the receiver to Diz.

“Howdy there, Mr. Cahill, this’s Dizzy Dean on this end. My friend Mr. Snap here tells me you didn’t think ah’d win me even five games this year. Well, ah’m gonna win more than that, and when we get us into the World Series, ah’ll... Yes sir, yes, ah’m him all right. Ya don’t believe me? Well, now, it’s God’s own truth that ah’m Jay Hanna Dean — some folks call me Jerome Herman, but truth is I was born Jay Hanna on the 16th of January ’way back down there in little ol’ Lucas, Arkansas, sir. Well, ah’m sorry you feel that way, sir. Yes sir... yes.” Dean handed the phone to me and shook his head. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Yes, Leo?” I said coolly.

“Steve, where in blazes are you, and what’s going on? Stop playing games, will you? Just who was that you put on the line?”

“It was exactly who he said he was, Leo. We are currently in a convivial establishment not three blocks from Wrigley Field — Kilkenny’s by name; I think you’ve heard me speak fondly of it. And two fine gentlemen by name of Mr. Dean and Mr. Galan are having a well-earned steak dinner here — some of the best steaks in town, by the way. I hope you weren’t rude to Mr. Dean, who put in a very strenuous day at work against a bunch of boys from New York.” That brought guffaws and a chant of “DIZ-ee, DIZ-ee, DIZ-ee” from the customers lining the bar.

There was a pause before Cahill spoke. “Mother of God,” he murmured. “It really was him?”

“That’s what I said, Leo. Weren’t you listening to me? And if you don’t believe me, look up the phone number of Kilkenny’s — it’s on Clark — and call here to check up on us. I’m sure Mr. Dean would be happy to speak to you again and hear your apology.”

“Damn. Well, I got to get back to work,” he huffed. “On deadline.” He hung up.

“Sorry about his manners,” I told Dean. “He doesn’t like to be proven wrong.”

“Pore feller,” he said absently, shaking his head as he returned with gusto to his steak and potatoes.

When I walked into my apartment that night a few minutes past 9:00, the phone was ringing. It was Norma, from Michigan, and the connection was bad.

“What is it?” I asked tightly, figuring that the call must have something to do with Peter.

“I just wanted to tell you that Martin and I have decided to get married, in September.” Her words were punctuated by static on the line. “I felt you should know before anyone else, Steve. Steve... are you there?”

“Yeah, thanks for the alert,” I replied, unable to think of anything else to say.

“And Steve, I have a favor to ask. When you pick Peter up from camp at the depot next weekend, please don’t tell him about this, all right? I’d like to be the one to do that, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” I said woodenly.

“Are you... all right?” Norma asked.

“Sure. I figured this was coming,” I told her truthfully.

“Well, I want you to know that as far as I’m concerned, this will not in any way affect how often you and Peter see each other.”

“Fine,” I grunted, wishing there were some graceful way I could end the conversation. But now Norma couldn’t seem to stop talking.

“And Steve, I think it would be a good idea if you met Martin some time soon, since Peter will after all be living with us.”

“After all,” I repeated. “Yes, I suppose I’ll have to meet him.”

“Oh, Steve, please don’t be that way. You and I both have known for ages that we weren’t ever going to get back together again.”

“No, we didn’t both know it,” I wanted to shout into the mouthpiece. I also wanted to ask Norma how magnanimous she would be if I were calling to tell her that I was getting hitched again. But instead I conceded that “I’m sure I’ll be meeting your Martin soon enough, whether by choice or otherwise.”

That put the brakes on Norma’s attempt at being chatty, but I got no satisfaction from stifling her. She was, I grudgingly appreciated, trying hard to keep the understandable happiness out of her voice.

“Hey, I’m sorry, that was rude, to say nothing of childish,” I told her gently. “You’re right of course — we were through a long time ago. And I’m glad for you, I really am. Congratulations.”

“I appreciate that, Steve,” she said, and I thought I detected a sniffle, but given the connection we had, it was hard to tell. I thanked her for the call and hung up, staring at the receiver in my hand. I had not had any dinner, so I should have been hungry, but I wasn’t. I was thirsty, though, so I turned, went back out, and headed for Kilkenny’s.