Pick-Off Play (Mickey Rawlings Baseball Mystery) Page 3

  Pruett had left the cue ball so that I again had a sitting duck. “Nope. I’m not paying you nothing—except two dollars if I lose this game.”

  “You sure about that? You know I might get a little wild with my pitches if you don’t.”

  “Like today?” I snorted. “All you did was put me on base. Didn’t hurt me a bit.”

  Pruett winced as I missed the ball. “Damn, you’re having a rough night.” It was no rougher than any other time I’d attempted this game. Hitting a ball with the end of a stick felt odd to me, and I’d never developed any skill at billiards.

  I leaned on my cue as he moved to take his shot. “Anyway, you go ahead and throw at me if you want. I’ll watch out for myself.”

  “That’s your choice.” He paused to watch a couple of roughly dressed men begin a game at the table next to us. They each laid several bills on the rail before racking. Pruett turned back to me. “No hard feelings. Same as I said about Hines: it’s just business.”

  We played on, Pruett trying valiantly to lose to me and growing increasingly frustrated at my failure to capitalize. Finally, he lost the game on a blatantly intentional scratch. “Damn the luck,” he said, pulling two silver dollars from his pocket. “You’ll be a sport and give me a chance to win my money back, right?”

  I took the coins. “Not tonight.” I wasn’t going to be hustled at pool any more than I was going to be extorted in baseball.

  Pruett continued to press me for another game as I returned my cue to the rack. I had been entirely unprofitable, and he was increasing agitated over his wasted trip to the pool hall. Then he gave the other men in the room a quick scan, and seemed to settle his attention on the pair at the adjacent table. Through the dim light I detected a glint in his eyes when he said to me, “Never mind then. I think there might be some players among the rubes here.” He exposed his teeth in a cocky grin. “I bet I can talk one of them into giving me a game.”

  I left the pool hall feeling quite confident that he would have even less success in hustling them.

  * * *

  I had finished suiting up and was about to leave for Magnolia Ball Park when a breathless kid of about seventeen burst into my room. He had a canvas satchel in one hand and a cardboard suitcase in the other. “You Rawlings?” he gasped.

  “That’s me.”

  He dropped the luggage and took off his boater, revealing a thick mop of straw-colored hair. “Erv Olson,” he said, offering his hand. “Your new roommate.”

  I flinched. Here was Archie Hines’ replacement. I knew somebody would have to come to take his spot on the roster, but I didn’t like it.

  Still waiting for me to shake hands, Olson said, “My train was late. Sorry to rush in like this.”

  I wanted to blurt out, “You can’t replace Archie!” but told myself to give the kid a chance. What had happened to Archie wasn’t Olson’s fault. “Welcome to the club,” I said, finally returning his grip. “Where you play? Shortstop?”

  “Short, second, third,” he answered. “I’ll play anywhere they put me. I just wanna play ball.” Olson reached into his bag and pulled out a folded Oilers uniform. “I went right to the park from the station. The manager gave me this, but said I’d have to come back here to change.”

  I sat down on my bed. “I’ll wait for you. We should still make it in time for batting practice.”

  “Thanks!” Olson began peeling out of a cheap khaki suit that was frayed at the cuffs. It reminded me of something Archie would wear.

  As he started to don his new flannels, I said, “You should like it here. Got a decent ball club and George Leidy is easy to play for. One thing you got to be careful about, though, is where you go in town. Stay away from the bars and joy houses, and don’t ever go into the pool halls down by the river. If the toughs there think you’re trying to hustle them, they’ll take a hammer to your hands.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Olson answered. “I heard what happened to that Houston pitcher a couple days ago—smashed his hands to bits. They say he’ll never pitch again.” According to what I’d heard, Jake Pruett would be lucky if he could ever hold a baseball again, never mind throw one.

  “I’m telling you anyway,” I said firmly. “They warn everyone about the pool halls as soon as they join the team. You’ll probably hear it a hundred more times your first week.” Just as I had when I first came to Beaumont.

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