Good Year For Murder (11 page)

There were no real surprises in the baseball game this year either. It went just about the way everyone expected, even with the new rules. One of them allowed the City Council pitcher six balls instead of the customary four, but Mayor Trutt still managed to load the base on balls twice in the first inning.

By the time the politicians came to bat, the score was 17 to 0 and they had lost one of their players. Ammerman had collided with a friendly English sheep dog in mid-field chasing a fly ball that Lucifer Taz had subsequently caught and dropped. So that when Tretheway arrived back refreshed, he found old Ammerman beside Jake, sitting on the grass.

“What happened?” Tretheway asked.

“Slight collision.” Jake nodded at Ammerman. “Just knocked the wind out of our friend.”

“It was a good clean check,” Ammerman wheezed.

“What's the score?” Tretheway asked.

“Seventeen to nothing,” Jake said.

“Hm.” Tretheway watched the politicians at bat.

Pennylegion got a hit and held at first base, but Trutt, Wakeley and Bartholomew Gum went down two, three, four. In minutes the City Council was out in the field again.

What Mayor Trutt lacked in pitching ability, he made up in shouts. He shouted at all the infield for being out of position (which they were) every time a run was scored; he shouted at Henry Plain for all his unfavourable calls; and he shouted at Controller Pennylegion every time he dropped a wild pitch. Pennylegion knew baseball, particularly the betting odds, and had an accurate, strong throw. Unfortunately, there was no one to throw it to. F. McKnight Wakeley played first base as though he were on parade and wore his glove backwards on the wrong hand. Gum
and Emmett O'Dell made fewer errors than anyone except Pennylegion.

In the outfield, Valentini, now playing Ammerman's position, accounted for a few outs on easy fly balls, but Taz and Morgan were an athletic detriment to the team, until Morgan made his decisive play. At the top of the fourth, score 32 to 4, an ox-like sanitation worker with muscles bulging from years of throwing garbage over the side walls and backs of high trucks, smashed a line drive into the unprotected mid-section of Alderman Morgan who, at the time, was looking at something in the sky. The thump was heard back at the pavilion. Morgan Morgan sat down heavily and threw up on his plus fours.

Everyone ran to the outfield to make sure Alderman Morgan was all right—including the garbageman who had hit the pitched baseball. Morgan recovered almost immediately, physically unharmed, but Umpire Henry Plain decided it was best to end the ball game without further chance of injury.

As the crowd started to drift away from the baseball diamond, Zulp materialized beside Tretheway.

“Where's Wan Ho?” Zulp whispered hoarsely in Tretheway's ear.

“Eh?” Tretheway jumped.

“I think we've got our man.”

“What?”

“Dammit, Tretheway! Our man. The killer.”

“Who?” Tretheway tried desperately to second-guess the Chief. Mac and Jake leaned forward. Ammerman remained seated on the grass.

“Constable.” Zulp looked at Jake. “Arrest that man.”

“What man?” Jake asked.

Zulp surreptitiously jerked his head in the direction of the shuffling crowd. “That one.”

“Which one?”

“The big one, dammit!” Zulp said impatiently. “The one that struck down Morgan.”

“Hold on.” Tretheway saw Wan Ho in the crowd and beckoned him over. “I'll stop him if necessary. How do you know he's the one?”

“Didn't you see him attack Morgan?” Zulp asked.

“With a softball?” Tretheway said.

Wan Ho entered the circle. “Can I help?”

When Wan Ho heard Zulp's off-the-cuff theory of the garbage-man's premeditated attack on an elected official, he took a deep breath and explained why such a conclusion was unlikely.

“Nobody, not even a professional ball player, is that accurate with a ball and bat. And from that distance, a blow in the stomach, especially with a softball, would never be lethal. And another thing,” Wan Ho continued, “if Morgan had been on his toes, nothing would've happened. He would've caught it or got the hell out of the way.”

Zulp, undaunted, wore what he considered a knowing look. “Here's the clincher.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “I happen to know, from a source I can't reveal” (Zulp's well-known source was a sycophantic washroom attendant who had dreams of becoming a City Hall elevator operator with white gloves) “that the garbagemen have it in for the politicians.”

“Surely not enough to murder?” Tretheway reasoned.

Jake nodded in the background. Mac showed interest.

“Well …” Zulp hesitated.

“And what about the twenty-fourth?” Wan Ho came to the rescue.

“The what?”

“The twenty-fourth of August. St. Bartholomew's Day.”

“You're right.” Zulp remembered. Tretheway and Wan Ho exchanged relieved smiles. “You're right,” Zulp repeated. He slammed his fist into his palm. “Nothing'll happen today. Damn fine mental exercise, though. Keeps everyone on their toes.” Zulp walked away. “Stimulating!”

Tretheway was first to find his voice. “Hard to believe.”

“Could've been nasty,” Wan Ho said.

“An attempted murder charge,” Mac said.

“With a softball,” Jake said.

“At fifty yards,” Tretheway said.

“Can you imagine what the Toronto papers would've done with that?” Wan Ho asked.

“Did I miss anything?” Ammerman stood up.

“It's time to eat, Harold,” Tretheway said.

It was almost six o'clock. Everyone wandered back to his table, car, piece of grass or wherever he'd decided to enjoy supper. The city, through the generosity of taxpayers, supplied free hot dogs
and pop to anyone who looked sixteen or under, while the adults looked after themselves.

Tretheway made short work of Addie's cold chicken. “Great, Addie.” He then table-hopped and sampled everything from cabbage rolls to kosher corned beef, from homemade dandelion wine to bubbly burgundy.

“Eat up, Tretheway!” Zulp shouted at him across the tables. “We need all the weight we can get!” Tretheway smiled back, not too broadly, and returned to his own table for dessert.

Zulp had referred to what was perhaps the high spot of the day if you were a fireman or policeman: the tug-o-war. It wasn't a big event, really, unless you were a participant, but over the years it had become the pivotal point of the picnic. Parents waited to see it before they carried their sleepy children down to the ferry dock or to their cars. Teenagers past the age of eating sandwiches with their picnicking parents arrived in time to see it before the dance started. Everyone watched it. And the
Expositor
always ran a picture of the winners in the Monday edition.

By the time the shadows had lengthened and the entertainment committee was thinking about hanging lanterns in the pavilion, the crowd had swelled to its largest for the day. They formed a loose, elliptical shape around the area prepared for the contest. A shallow, circular pit had been dug earlier by the Works Department and filled with water (now muddy) from Old Number Thirteen Pumper (Ret.). The crowd waited to see which losing team would be dragged through the mire.

The gladiators pushed their way through the crowd to boisterous cheering. They had changed into their new T-shirts, paid for by themselves, which added a professional touch to the show. The firemen's shirts were bright red with the words “SMOKE EATERS” emblazoned across their chests in yellow and orange flames, while the policemen wore a conservative blue style carrying the words “SQUARE JOHNS” in no-nonsense sans serif letters. Tretheway was the anchor man for the police. His XL T-shirt still showed a generous amount of bare stomach.

The teams lined up on either side of the brackish water. Tretheway slipped into the fixed loop spliced into the end of the rope and felt it course roughly over his right shoulder, down his back, under his other arm and return, following the contour of his stomach. The heavy hemp rope, although two inches in diameter, looked
no stronger in his grip than a substantial skipping rope. In front of him, the other team members spaced themselves down its length.

Mayor Phinneas “Fireball” Trutt, the official referee, stood to one side and carefully watched the golden tassle hanging over the water that marked the exact centre of the rope.

“Make ready to pull,” he shouted.

The rope tightened as both teams leaned backward. Tretheway dug his heels in; so did the large fireman at the opposite end. The tassle moved slowly back and forth. Trutt raised his starter's pistol in the air, his eyes fixed on the golden marker.

“Wait for it,” he said quietly, but everybody heard him in the hush. “Wait for it…”

He fired the pistol. All hell broke loose.

Air blew violently from twenty pair of lungs. The crowd shrieked. For ten long minutes, the rope remained as straight as a poker and moved no more than six inches either way. The participants grunted explosively. Their track shoes scored the earth. The rope creaked. Sweat stained the new T-shirts. Painful muscular grimaces replaced scowls. Sinews, unused since last year, stood out like ropes themselves.

Gradually, ever so gradually, the first fireman slid toward the water. Increased efforts on behalf of the Smoke Eaters stopped the advance, but only for a moment. The partisan crowd around the police end of the rope sensed a swing in their favour and cheered louder. Tretheway pulled harder in response. The first fireman was inches from the water when the Smoke Eaters stopped the slide with desperate back-pedalling. After another moment of strained immobility, the first policeman slid toward the water. Cheers rose at the other end. Tretheway felt the renewed aggression through the rope and, somehow over the tumult, heard Addie shout.

“Pull, Albert! Pull!”

When Tretheway heard Addie shout out his first name for all to hear, he called on his reserve strength the way a thirsty camel calls on his stored water supply. Slowly, as though shifting to a low gear, he pumped his huge legs and pulled backwards. Fireman Number One slipped into the water; followed by Number Two. Number Three's heels skidded into the pond. The policemen had victory in their grasp.

There are times when a small sound will intrude upon someone's senses under any circumstances simply because it's out of place; because the sound shouldn't be there—like the tinkle of breaking glass during a deep sleep; like a baby crying in a business office; like thunder in the midst of a raging blizzard. Thretheway heard an avalanche of paper.

From his viewpoint, he could see over the tug-o-war teams and spectators to where the mountain of newspaper was silhouetted in the low rays of sun. Tretheway thought he saw a head, strangely pointed, or figures, maybe two or three, at the top of the pile. He thought he saw movement there also. Tretheway noticed Jake and other policemen, who were supposed to be part of the Master Plan, cheering their heads off. And he realized that at least four of the police tug-o-war team were bodyguards. He couldn't see Mac, Pennylegion, Ammerman or Bartholomew Gum. In fact, except for Mayor Trutt, who was holding the pistol in the air and trying to look non-partisan despite the firemen's imminent defeat, Tretheway couldn't see any Council members at all. Less than a second elapsed from the time he heard the paper avalanche to the time he made his move.

Tretheway lurched forward and jumped out of the loop. He jogged toward the newspaper pile. The people in front of him appeared to be frozen. To Tretheway, they seemed paralyzed. Their hands were raised, but not moving; their mouths open, but not cheering. Tretheway stopped in front of Jake.

“Where's Mac?” he shouted.

“E … eh …?” Jake stammered.

“Mac! Controller MacCulla! Where the hell is he?”

“I… I don't know.”

“What's going on, Albert?” Addie asked.

“You're supposed to know!” Tretheway shouted at Jake. “Let's go!”

Tretheway, with Jake right behind, pushed his way through the crowd, taking precious seconds to lift children, and sometimes adults, out of his path. Behind him, if he had taken the time to look, the last of the betrayed police tug-o-war team was slithering through the mud hole. The perplexed but jubilant firemen were falling back on themselves with the sudden and unexpected victory. Mayor Trutt, no longer able to contain his firehouse sympathies,
emptied the starter's pistol in the air to celebrate the Smoke Eater win. Chief Zulp was not so happy.

“Tretheway!” Zulp shouted. “Tretheway!” His cries were lost in the uproar. “Stop that man! He's a deserter!”

“Where are we going?” Jake shouted at Tretheway's back.

“Paper!” Tretheway pointed. “Pile of paper!”

“What?”

“Just follow me.”

When they reached the edge of the crowd, Tretheway broke into a gallop. Jake followed. They ran around to the other side of the newspaper mountain. Tretheway stopped and scanned the pile.

“There's no one here.” At the base of the pile Tretheway noticed a lumpy, uneven section as though some bundles had shifted. “Dig!” He tossed bundles of newspaper aside like bits of balsa wood.

“What?” Jake asked.

“Dig! Dammit, dig!”

Jake, convinced Tretheway had damaged something in his reasoning process during the tug-o-war, started to dig anyway. More people arrived, including Zulp.

“Tretheway,” Zulp began. “Have you gone mad? Nine wet and filthy comrades. Lying back there. In the muck. What the hell happened?” He ducked a bundle of newspapers that came in his direction.

“What are you looking for?”

“Don't ask.”

“Eh?”

“Get some help.”

Zulp opened his mouth to shout but changed his mind. He turned toward the crowd. “Get some more men in here. Quickly!”

For five minutes the men laboured wordlessly while whispered rumours spread efficiently through the curious crowd. They found nothing. Tretheway began to wonder whether he had seen anything in the first place; the shadows could have been just shadows or a trick played by the setting sun; wind could have caused the avalanche. Doubt slid under the door of Tretheway's confidence. He straightened up.