Tyler filled a shot glass with amber liquid from a decanter and gulped it down. Emitting a satisfied sigh, he picked up another glass, filled it to the brim, and brought it to where I was still standing just inside the door. “Drink this. It will do you good.”
I took the glass, tentatively took a sip, and shuddered at the taste.
“All of it. Drink it right down.”
I tilted my head back and obeyed. My first attempt at drinking liquor, when I was about twelve, had made me sick. This second attempt had the same result. I did make it to a cuspidor though, and I did feel somewhat rejuvenated by the liquid fire that poured in and out of me.
Meanwhile, Tyler moved behind his desk and into a high-backed leather chair. When I looked as if I’d safely finished with the spittoon, he told me to have a seat. I sank into an armchair on the other side of his broad desk.
I had the feeling we weren’t alone. I looked around and noticed three pairs of eyes staring at me—the dead glassy eyes of one moose and two deer whose heads were mounted on the walls.
Tyler took a neatly folded white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead, and finally introduced himself, “I’m Robert Tyler. I’m one of the owners of the Red Sox. Officially, I’m the treasurer.” He didn’t extend his hand, and I didn’t offer mine. I suppose meeting over a corpse allows for dropping some of the social graces.
My new boss went on, “I handle most of the business activities of the ball club. Ticket sales, player contracts, travel arrangements.” He thought for a moment, then suggested, “Why don’t we take care of some business now, and try to forget about that situation out there until the police get here. I have your contract somewhere ... Yes, here it is. You need to sign at the X.” He slid the paper to me, pulled a gold fountain pen from a desk drawer, and slid that to me, too. He didn’t say how much I’d be paid, but I saw on the contract that it would be $1,400 a year—more than a hundred dollars a month!
While I quickly signed, Tyler continued, “Everybody knows what a terrific outfield we have, but we can use some shoring up in the infield right now. Injuries. A week into the season, and we already got injuries. Jake saw you with the Braves last year, said you looked pretty good, figured you could help us.
“We could use another pitcher, too. And maybe somebody to give Jake some time off at first—he’s not getting any younger. We’ll get whoever we need. I don’t plan to come up short at the end of the year because of bad luck at the start.”
I pushed the signed contract back to him.
He settled deeper in his chair, and muttered mostly to himself, “New ballpark ... best outfield in baseball ... Honey Fitz is crazy about us ... we should be all set.” Tyler was no longer looking at me; his thoughts were obviously elsewhere. I wondered what a “Honey Fitz” was.
Three delicate raps joggled the door, and the attendant stuck his head in. Before he could speak, an overweight policeman wearing captain’s insignia elbowed past him into the room.
The officer and Tyler exchanged nods of recognition and curt greetings.
“Bob.”
“Tom.”
The captain turned to face me and asked, “Is this the suspect?”
Suspect? Me? I was too astonished at the question to say anything.
Tyler answered, “This is Mickey Rawlings. He just joined the club today. He found the body.”
O’Malley grunted in response and squinted hard at me, trying to make his eyes look penetrating. “Was he dead when you found him?” he demanded.
“Yes,” I answered. “I think so ... I’m sure he was. I didn’t really check him. I mean, he was so ... He must have been dead. I yelled at him but he didn’t answer. He was dead.”
“Do you know who he was?”
“No. Who was he?”
“I’m asking the questions!” the captain bellowed angrily. “Did you see anyone?”
My first impulse was to answer that I hadn’t. But after a moment’s thought, I wasn’t so sure. Once I set eyes on the dead man’s face, I was oblivious to all else. Perhaps there was someone there, and I just hadn’t noticed. I answered, “I don’t think so.”
O’Malley rolled his eyes. “Did you hear anything?”
“No—well, yes. I mean I heard a noise—like something fell, but that was before I went in the hallway.”
“Like something fell,” the officer repeated. “Did you hear footsteps? Somebody running away? Anything else?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Didn’t see anything. Didn’t hear anything. That’s a lot of help.”
I shrugged in apology.
Tyler spoke up again. “Do you need Rawlings for anything else?”
“Not right now,” O’Malley answered, but as a final note he warned me, “Don’t leave town.”
Tyler overruled him. “He has to leave town. We start a road trip tomorrow.” O’Malley scowled, but silently capitulated. Ignoring the captain, Tyler swiveled toward me. “You’ve had a helluva day, and we’re leaving for New York in the morning.” He scribbled on some stationery. “Take this to the Copley Plaza Hotel. Get yourself a good night’s sleep and make sure you’re at South Station by ten sharp.” He held out the note, and with a token attempt at a smile said, “See you in the morning.”
I stepped around the glowering O’Malley and took the paper without returning the smile. Mumbling, “Thank you,” I picked up my bags and stepped out of the office.
The attendant was waiting outside the office door. Without exchanging a word, he escorted me all the way to the stadium exit.
Chapter Three
The whitecaps of Mystic Seaport sparkled through the window to my left; less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d admired them through a window to the right. Since Boston and New York both prohibited Sunday baseball, today was used for travel, with the entire Red Sox team on the train heading to Grand Central Station.
Tyler’s generosity in putting me up at Boston’s newest hotel had been wasted. Last night was a sleepless one—every time I closed my eyes, I was jolted awake by the full-color image of a viciously battered face. Exhausted from yesterday’s catastrophes and drowsy from lack of sleep, I dozed off after boarding the train and napped until the sunlight skimming off the water penetrated my eyelids.
Before leaving the hotel this morning, I had stopped at the newsstand for a paper. The lobby had been surprisingly tranquil—I’d expected to encounter newsboys shrieking lurid headlines, “Murder at Fenway Park! Red Sox Rookie Stumbles on Stiff! Read all about it!”
I now scanned Page One of the Boston American and saw that the crime didn’t make the front-page news. Most of the articles were still about the Titanic, although it had been two weeks since it sank. The death toll was up to fifteen hundred, but I was unaffected by the enormity of that tragedy. I was concerned with just one death, one victim who had lain shattered before my own eyes.
I turned the pages, puzzled to find no mention of the crime. Eventually, a small item headed GRISLY DISCOVERY caught my eye. But the story turned out to be about a robbery victim who had been found beaten to death in Dorchester. There was nothing about the body at Fenway Park.
I felt a need to know something about the man I’d found. I wasn’t looking for a particular piece of information, just something that would humanize him: his name, where he lived, his work. Anything would do. If I could associate him with some other aspect of his identity,