The Legend of Mickey Tussler (39 page)

The clanging of the bars and the vituperative voice of the deputy only made Mickey rock more ferociously and speak louder, with even greater urgency.

“ ‘One by one, the casements catch, her beams beneath the silvery thatch. Couched in his kennel, like a log, with paws of silver sleeps the dog.' ”

Mickey's words seemed to the deputy to be nothing more than mockery. His pupils narrowed and his lips trembled. Outside, it was completely dark now, save for the blurred glow of two naked exterior lights just outside the tiny jailhouse. The irate officer checked the clock on the wall and unfurled a devilish smile. Rosco would not be back for another hour, and the cell next to Mickey's was empty.

“Batter up, freak show,” the Deputy called out loudly. Mickey turned and let his eyes fall dead on the deputy's slackjawed face. For a moment he thought he heard Oscar—a soft, playful grunting coming from just inside the other room. His heart leaped. But the notion faded quickly, leaving only the sound of jingling keys. Then, in the lurid shadows of early nightfall, Mickey watched blankly as the deputy turned the rusty lock and swung open the door, pounding his palm with the billy club in violent rehearsal, certain that no one would be the wiser.

It would have been ugly. No doubt. But just outside the prison door emerged the outline of a figure, maybe two, hidden against the blackening night sky. It moved slowly, stealthily, inside and stood silently by the front desk. Then, becoming conscious of what was transpiring, the figure finally moved, clicking the switch on a dusty lamp. The deputy spun around as if he had been rocked by a violent wind and, with eyes that struggled to adjust to the sudden light, saw a yellow glow falling across a silver-haired man dressed in a neatly pressed suit. He was standing there with a little boy.

“Evening, Deputy,” the man said. “Hope I'm not interrupting anything. I'm here to see the young man you have locked up there— and to relieve you of your responsibility for him.”

The deputy brushed off the man with a blanching smile. “Well, I'm afraid visiting hours are over, Grandpa. And you're confused. I think you best turn right around and be on your way.”

The man released the boy's hand, placed his newspaper on the desk, and reached into his breast pocket, removing a piece of folded parchment. He stood staring at the abrasive officer, his eyes unchanging.

“I'm not going anywhere, sonny, without Mr. Tussler.”

The angry deputy sighed and puffed out his cheeks. “And what makes you think that's going to happen?” He laughed scornfully as his hand strayed involuntarily to the revolver affixed to his hip.

Mickey heard the contentious exchange and moved forward, pressing his face up against the bars while straining for a better look.

“Do you know who I am, Deputy?”

The officer shrugged his shoulders and started toward the man.

“The name's Walter Harrigan.
Governor
Walter Harrigan.”

The deputy halted dubiously, his heart rocking tumultuously like a boat in a stormy sea.

“And this paper I have, Mr. Deputy, is an official pardon—from my office—that allows me to walk out of here with Mickey—Mr. Tussler.” The governor unfolded the white sheet and pointed to its contents as if the deputy could read it from a distance. “Now be a good little soldier and start taking care of that for me.”

The disgruntled officer stood momentarily in silent deflation, then went about the jail grumbling to himself and uttering curt laughs. He struggled mightily with his unforeseen loss of authority while the governor and the boy just watched and waited.

Then, neither convivial nor exanimate, Mickey emerged from the darkest recesses of the foul dwelling. He sighed loudly and looked at the governor like a purblind tourist negotiating a once traveled street, trying to place the face. His head swam in confusion, then cleared when he caught sight of the boy.

“Mickey, good to see you again,” the governor said. “Remember us?”

Mickey smiled. He came forward and patted Billy on the head. “Yes. Yes. Mickey remembers.” Then he sighed again. So many thoughts that had been harbored in the darkest corners of his mind suddenly leaped forward in this moment.

“I told you I would never forget,” the governor continued. He smiled with growing satisfaction. “I'm here to take you away from here. Your time here is over.”

Mickey blinked nervously and rubbed his head. He thought about the gruesome reality that had touched him so mercilessly. Then he cried.

“Thank you, Mr. Harrigan,” he said, wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeve. “Mickey thanks you.”

“Not at all, son. It's my pleasure. Truly. I'd do just about anything to see you on that mound again, mowing 'em down.”

A shadow fell across Mickey's face. His eyes traveled around the room, looking everywhere except at the governor. “No more baseball,” Mickey said, choking on the words. “I reckon Mickey will just have to go back home. To my farm. It ain't so bad. Maybe not. I got me some swell pigs there.”

“Go home?” the governor questioned. “You can't do that. You've got the whole world at your feet here. Are you crazy? The sky's the limit. People would die to be in your shoes.”

Mickey stood gaunt, hollow-eyed, tugging at his shirt collar. “Mickey doesn't know if he wants to play baseball anymore.” He just stood there, in the thickening darkness pouring through the windows—a mere child, lost in the vast and oppressive gloom of the dissolute wilderness that lay just outside the door—just a child, caught up in the rattle of everything, big and small, that had led him to this one moment. The unpleasant vision paralyzed him.

“Well, you have time to decide all that,” the governor said. “Things change. Relax. A lot has happened. You're tired. It makes sense. Anyone would feel the way you do. But give yourself some time to think about it. To put all this behind you. Don't rush into any hasty decisions.”

The governor laid his hand on Mickey's back and, together with little Billy, guided the young man toward the door. Silently, Mickey continued to sink into the depths of his memory until he appeared to lie lifeless, like a stone at the bottom of a swift river. “Mickey will have to go back to the farm,” he whispered again. “I got me some pigs there. The farm. Yeah, farm.”

The governor's spirit sagged. He sighed and moved slowly, methodically, toward the door. Mickey took small steps, relying on the governor to steady his erratic gait, as the door to this most troubling chapter closed behind him.

Thanks to Steve Cohen, for his continued friendship, wisdom, and encouragement.

To the many marching feet that nobody ever heard: Frank Luisi, Penny Ellis, Pat DiBlasio, Don Williams, Stevie Cohen, Suzanne Dwyer, Andy and Kelly Morris, Jared Florin, Joe Bonin, and Joe Bonin Jr.—thank you.

For my editor, Michael Homler, whose imagination and resourcefulness nurtured and sculpted these words and ideas until a remarkable story emerged.

For my boys, Nicholas and Anthony, whose unconditional love and unbridled enthusiasm remain the wind in my sails.

And much love to my beautiful wife, Julia, my eternal sunshine, always warm and bright.