Reviews of Troy Soos’s Mystery Novels

“Full of life.”

– New York Times

“Baseball and mystery team up for a winner.”

– USA Today

“A richly atmospheric journey through time.”

– Booklist

“Rawlings turns double plays and solves murders with equal grace.”

– Publishers Weekly

“Troy Soos does a red-letter job of mixing the mystery into a period when all baseball was played on fields that had real grass.”

– St. Louis Post-Dispatch

“An entertaining double play. . .  The plot will appeal to mystery fans, baseball purists will appreciate Soos’s attention to detail.”

– Orlando Sentinel

“A perfect marriage between baseball and mystery fiction.”

– Mystery Readers Journal

“You don’t have to be a baseball fan to love this marvelous historical series.”

– Meritorious Mysteries

“Equal parts baseball and mystery are the perfect proportion.”

– Robert B. Parker

“Authentic old time baseball atmosphere and absorbing stories.  Troy Soos captures the period perfectly.”

– Lawrence Ritter, author of The Glory of Their Times

Also by Troy Soos

Mickey Rawlings Historical Baseball Mysteries:

Murder at Fenway Park

Murder at Ebbets Field

Murder at Wrigley Field

Hunting a Detroit Tiger

The Cincinnati Red Stalkings

Hanging Curve

Marshall Webb – Rebecca Davies Historical Mysteries:

Island of Tears

The Gilded Cage

Burning Bridges

Streets of Fire

Nonfiction Baseball History:

Before the Curse: The Glory Days of New England Baseball

Mystery Short Stories:

Decision of the Umpire

Pick-Off Play (Mickey Rawlings)

Pick-Off Play was originally published in the baseball mystery anthology Murderers’ Row, New Millenium Press, 2001

Kindle Edition of Pick-Off Play copyright 2012 by Troy Soos

Pick-Off Play

       From where I sat—kneeled, actually, in the on-deck circle near the Beaumont Oilers’ dugout—it looked like Archie Hines was out by a mile.  The five or six hundred fans scattered about Magnolia Ball Park’s weather-beaten grandstand probably saw the play the same way.  If so, we were all wrong.  The plate umpire’s arm was extended toward first base, awarding Hines the bag.  The only thing that prevented him from taking it was the fact that he was dead.

       I’d been coached since childhood to keep my eyes on the ball, and that’s exactly what I had done, watching the Houston Buffaloes’ third baseman as he scooped up the two-hopper and threw to first.  I hadn’t noticed that Hines had never left the batter’s box where he now lay motionless.

       As soon as I spotted Hines on the ground, I dropped my bat and ran to him.  The potbellied old umpire and the Buffaloes’ catcher, masks in hands, were standing helplessly over the young shortstop.  Murmurs rippled through the stands as the fans began to realize that something was terribly wrong.  My fellow Oilers and several of the visiting Buffaloes soon joined the circle around the fallen ballplayer.  All stood immobile, at a loss for a way to aid him.

       The umpire finally grunted, “He ain’t movin’.”  It was one of the few calls he’d gotten right all day.  He spat a shot of tobacco juice toward the backstop.  Some dripped onto his ill-fitting blue serge suit as he bellowed to the crowd, “There a doctor here?”

       I stared down at Archie Hines, my teammate and roommate.  The wiry nineteen-year-old, just off a 1912 season in which he’d led the Texas League in stolen bases, was known for his speed.  It seemed he was always in motion, dashing around the base paths or ranging for grounders at short.  Now he lay like a pile of dumped laundry, not the slightest twitch from his limbs.  Nor from his open glassy eyes.  The only thing moving on his body was the blood that trickled from his crushed left temple and seeped into the clay around home plate.

       His very life seemed to be evaporating in the July sun, shimmering off on ripples of steamy air.  As I looked at Hines, at his broken skull and his blond hair now stained red, I could almost hear the echo of the ball that struck him and in my mind’s eye I replayed his last at bat.

       Hines had led off for us in the bottom of the fourth inning.  With a one-strike count on him, Jake Pruett’s next pitch came at his head.  Hines ducked, and it appeared that he’d evaded the ball—the sharp crack that split the air sounded as if his bat had taken the impact.  The ball quickly bounded up the base line, where the Buffaloes’ third baseman fielded it.  What had confused everyone, I realized, was the terrific distance the ball had traveled.  Once more the crack reverberated in my ears, and I could detect the subtle difference in sound of horsehide on bone instead of on wood.

       A gangling young man in a straw boater and a seersucker suit hopped the railing and approached the ump.  “Perhaps I can help.”  He had no black bag with him, but I could tell it didn’t matter—nothing in any black bag could help Archie Hines now.

       “You a doctor?” demanded the ump.

       “No, but my father is.”

       “My mother was a seamstress,” said the ump.  “Don’t mean I can sew a stitch.”  Then he shrugged.  “Go ’head.  Take a look at ’im.” 

       The young man began to kneel, then decided against messing his trousers in the bloody earth.  He squatted instead, and took Hines’ wrist in his hand, feeling for a pulse.  The sad shake of his head indicated that he detected none.  Next he looked into Hines’ ghostly eyes while muttering softly to himself.  When he picked up the shortstop’s cap and placed it gently over his face, the action informed everyone in the ballpark that Archie Hines was dead.

       While gasps of disbelief whooshed about the stands, the Houston Buffaloes’ first baseman realized that he’d been holding the ball that had killed Hines.  He placed it on home plate as if it had suddenly become hot to the touch.

       I backed away from the others and turned toward the mound.  Hulking Jake Pruett, who’d delivered the fatal pitch, stood lazily with his hands on his hips.  A smirk creased his unshaven face, and his pale eyes sparkled with amusement.

       “You think this is funny?” I yelled at him.

       Pruett tilted back his cap at an arrogant angle and the smirk broadened to a grin.

       “You sonofabitch!”  I took off for the mound, determined to alter his expression.

       A couple of strides from my target I was tackled from behind and wrestled to the ground.  A number of hands were soon pinning me down.  While I struggled to break free and get at Pruett, I noticed that the uniforms of my captors were all home whites—it was my own teammates who were holding me in place.

       One of them was our catcher, Stump Williams.  “It happens, Mickey,” he wheezed, while trying to grab my flailing right arm.  “Leave it be.”

       “Bastard is smiling!  He killed Archie and he’s happy about it.”

       “C’mon, Mick,” Williams said.  “It was an accident.  Can’t blame Pruett.”

       I twisted my head to look at the pitcher.  If it was an accident, he showed no signs of regretting the result.  Seeing me secure in the clutches of my teammates, he raised a finger to the bill of his cap and touched it like a salute.  A salute of triumph.

       I renewed my struggles to get at the gloating pitcher, while two more Oilers joined the others trying to hold me down.

       “Rawlings!” George Leidy barked at me.  “Get your ass over here!”

       I finally calmed down enough to obey the manager’s order.  With teammates close on either side of me to make sure I didn’t go after Pruett again, I returned to home plate.

       Leidy said to me, “Don’t go making things worse than they are already.”  Then he shot Pruett a look that indicated he wouldn’t mind getting in a couple of punches at the pitcher himself.

       Players of both teams began to mill about home plate restlessly.  One of the Buffaloes looked down at Hines and said, “Gonna hafta move him if we’re gonna finish the game.”  I wondered how he could even think of continuing, then realized it could matter to Houston’s pennant hopes.  They were ahead 5-1 in the fourth inning; if the game was called off, it would have to be played over completely and they’d lose that lead.

       The umpire finally conferred with the two managers.  He began by pointing out that Hines was entitled to first base but would need a pinch runner if we played on.  I glanced at my teammates; not one appeared willing to pinch run for a dead man.

       Despite a token protest from the Houston manager, the plate ump eventually decided to call off the game.  I’d been in lots of games that ended early because of darkness or rain, and once in North Carolina because of a swarm of bees.  This was the first time I’d been in a ballgame that was called on account of death.

*  *  *

       Since Magnolia Ball Park had no changing facilities, I walked the three blocks home in full uniform having only swapped my spiked shoes for bluchers.  As always, I carried my gear—three homemade bats and a Spalding mitt—in a canvas bag slung over my shoulder.  What was different was that Archie Hines usually made the walk with me.  Today I carried the glove that he would never use again.

       Like many of the Oilers, Archie and I lived at Mrs. Kitzler’s boarding house on

Hazel Street.  I had no intention of finding more permanent housing in Beaumont.  To me, the Gulf town was nothing more than a brief detour on my way back to the major leagues.  I had spent most of last season as a utility infielder with the World Champion Boston Red Sox, and ached for another shot at the majors.  I even paid my rent by the week instead of by the month because I kept hoping that I would soon be called to play the rest of 1913 with a big league club.

       Back in our room, which Mrs. Kitzler furnished in a style that would be considered stark by most prison standards, I sat on my lumpy iron-rail bed and stared down at Archie’s old mitt.  I noticed that the palm of the black leather glove was worn clear through, and the seam where the thumb was attached had been crudely restitched at least twice with different colored threads.

       Archie Hines was the most frugal young ballplayer I’d ever met.  He told me that he grew up in a Pennsylvania coal town, living in a company shanty.  Until two years ago, the most money he’d ever made was $1.50 a day for mining anthracite plus a dollar on Sundays for playing semi-pro ball.  Now he was earning an almost princely salary—eighty-five dollars a month, the same as me—but he still refused to pay two bits for a new shirt collar.  Instead, he rubbed clean his old celluloid collar until it was almost transparent.  His one suit, hanging among the row of pegs that Mrs. Kitzler called a “closet,” was ten years out of style and shiny at the elbows.

       I ran my thumb across the repair stitches on his glove and wished I had thought to buy him a new one.  Although I was only two years older than Archie, from the time we started rooming together he had looked up to me.  I knew it was largely because I had already achieved his dream of playing big league baseball.  He often pressed me to tell him about playing against Ty Cobb and Walter Johnson and Joe Jackson—stories I was always happy to repeat—and he’d tell me eagerly how he couldn’t wait to face them himself.  Also, since I had traveled more of the country than he had, Archie thought me “worldly” and asked my advice on everything from how to sleep comfortably in a Pullman car to which fork to use in a restaurant.  Sometimes when I didn’t know an answer, I made one up because I hated to be a disappointment to him.

       I’d felt responsible for Archie, and somehow it seemed that I had let him down today by failing to protect him.  He was a good roommate—didn’t smoke or drink, and most importantly didn’t snore—but more than that Archie Hines was a decent kid, and he didn’t deserve to die so young.

       I wasn’t the only one who thought well of Archie.  In an oval wooden frame next to the washstand was a photograph of a plain, well-fed girl with a kind face and curly hair.  It was Ella, his girl back home and the main reason for Archie’s thriftiness.  He was saving up to marry her.  Archie planned to make their engagement official the day that he made it onto a major league roster, and with his ability I had no doubt that they would have become engaged soon.  Who was going to tell Ella, I wondered, that it was now never going to happen?  One pitch, one split second, and lives were changed forever.

       I tried to suppress it, but the image of Archie Hines’ final at bat came fresh to mind.  Then came the memory of Jake Pruett’s smirking face.  I couldn’t reconcile Pruett’s pleased expression with the circumstances of the tragedy.  There was no reason for him to bean Hines intentionally—he hadn’t been crowding the plate, nor had he been hitting Pruett well enough for the pitcher to want to shake him up.  So the pitch must have simply gotten away from him.  But then Pruett should have looked embarrassed at his wildness.  Or sorry about the result.  Maybe even defiant, as if to say, ‘Don’t blame me, it happens sometimes.’

       I’d seen more than a hundred pitchers over the years and studied them closely.  What I saw of Pruett today stood out as the most peculiar reaction I’d ever witnessed.  I could think of no way that any pitcher would look so satisfied about what had happened to Archie Hines.  Perhaps I was missing something, I decided.  Perhaps a player who’d faced many more pitchers than I had could explain it to me.

*  *  *

       A single bathroom at the end of a dingy hallway was shared by all of Mrs. Kitzler’s residents.  As I entered, I almost laughed at the sight in the ancient zinc bathtub.  Only a reclining face was visible above the surface of the water, looking like a craggy, leathery island.  Towering from the mouth was a lit black cigar, giving the impression of a lighthouse.

       “Stump!” I called, but the sound didn’t reach his submerged ears.  I banged on the rim of the tub and he popped his head up, the cigar almost falling from his teeth.  With his moon face and flattened nose, Williams’ head resembled a lumpy catcher’s mitt.  His body was even less attractive, showing the scars and knocks of twenty years and more than a thousand games.

       “You mind if I shave?” I asked.  The bathroom was Stump Williams’ exclusive domain after a ballgame.  In deference to the veteran’s age, the rest of the team always let him have a long soak alone before taking our own turns.

       “Nah, I don’t care,” the old catcher growled.

       My scant whiskers could easily wait another week, but it gave me an excuse to be here.  “You been in baseball a long time,” I said, stirring my shaving brush in the soap mug.

       “Yup.  And I’m gonna be in baseball a long time, too.”  That was wishful thinking on his part.  Stump Williams was sliding back down the ladder of organized baseball; in a couple of years he’d be lucky to be playing semi-pro for a couple bucks a game.

       “You see Jake Pruett much?” I asked.  Williams and Pruett were both veterans of the game, I knew, and about the same age.

       Williams puffed hard on his cigar until the tip burned brightly.  “For a few years I did.  Back when I was with Pittsburgh and he was pitching for Brooklyn.”

       “What do you know about him?”

       He gave me a baleful stare.  “Look kid, I been around long enough to know how easy it is to get hurt on a ball field.  Hell, I been spiked, beaned, and got broken bones from my nose to my toes.  It happens.  Leave it be.”

       I put down the shaving brush, giving up any pretense that I was here for any reason other than to ask him about the man who killed my roommate.  “I expect you’re right,” I said.  “But I can’t leave it be.  Not yet.”

       He exhaled a cloud of acrid smoke.  “Suit yourself, kid.  But I tell you:  You’d be better off thinking about tomorrow’s game than today’s.  Archie is dead, and he’s gonna stay dead.  Don’t worry about things you can’t change.”

       I nodded, but pressed on, “So what do you know about Pruett?”

       Williams sighed in surrender.  “Can’t say I knew him well.  Didn’t run into him off the field much—didn’t particularly want to.”

       “Why not?”

       “Jake Pruett didn’t only pitch for Brooklyn.  He was born and bred there, and wanted everybody to know it.  Thought he had the reputation of the city to keep up, so he always tried to act the tough guy.  Always had a scheme going, too—cheating at cards, hustling pool, you name it.  Oh yeah, and he’d sell ‘gold’ watches that weren’t worth two bits.”  Williams shook his head.  “Pruett was small-time, though, and harmless enough as long as you kept a firm grip on your wallet.”

       “What about on the field?  He like to throw at batters?”

       “No more’n any other pitcher.  The plate was his, and he’d let you know it.  Crowd too close, and he’d sit you on your ass.  But that’s the way the game is played.”

       “How was his control?”

       Williams puffed noisily before answering.  “Pruett could put the ball wherever he wanted—fastball and curveball both.  Never tried a spitter, as far as I know.  But even the best pitchers can get wild now and then.”  He took the cigar in his fingers, but it slipped and fell into the tub with a sizzle and a splash.  “Damn!”  He groped frantically in the tub and pulled up a soggy mess of tobacco.  “Get me another, would you?”  He gestured toward his jacket hanging on the back of the door.

       I wiped the lather from my hands and dug into his pocket for a fresh cigar and a match.  “Why do you think Pruett was smiling the way he was?”

       “Hell, kid, I dunno.  I wasn’t really looking at him anyway—I was looking at poor Archie.  But you can never tell how somebody’s gonna react to something like that.”  He bit the end off his cigar and I gave him a light.  Then he submerged himself again, the conversation over.

       I still had the image of Pruett’s smile in my mind, and still could make no sense of it.

*  *  *

       Two days later, I got another look at Jake Pruett’s face when I stepped into the batter’s box to face him.  Texas League officials had ruled that Saturday’s game was suspended, so the teams were picking up from where we’d left off.  And since local officials had ruled Archie Hines’ death an accident, Pruett was free to continue pitching.

       Although it was technically the same game, there were some noticeable differences from Saturday.  One was the size of the crowd.  Magnolia Ball Park was packed to overflowing with fans who had arrived early to pay tribute to Hines in a pregame ceremony—and with some people, I suspected, who came out of morbid curiosity to see where a ballplayer had been killed.  Of course the big difference today was in the lineup.  Oyster Joe Martina, a pitcher, had to fill Archie’s spot because no other player was willing to take the place of the dead shortstop.  In fact, none of us really wanted to continue the game at all, with the memory of the tragedy weighing as heavily on us as the muggy air.

       But since the game was to go on, I was going to do my best.  As the first up, I tried to shake off all thoughts of Archie, digging my cleats into the clay and twisting the bat handle in my grip.  That’s when I glanced up to see a thin smile on Pruett’s ugly mug.  And I knew exactly where his first pitch would be directed.  I wasn’t sure if it was because I had charged at him after Archie was killed or because I’d dug in a little too close to the plate.  Or maybe because Pruett needed to demonstrate that the death of Archie Hines wasn’t going to deter him from throwing inside.  Whatever the reason, I was going down.

       The same umpire from two days ago called “Play ball!” and Pruett peered in for the catcher’s sign.  He then looked straight at me while he went into a windmill windup.  I forced myself to remain fixed in my stance.  Just as he had to prove that he was still willing to pitch inside, I had to act like I wasn’t going to be scared by what his last inside pitch had done.  It took all the acting ability I could muster.

       Pruett released quickly, snapping off a fastball that traveled directly toward my left ear.  My brain issued the order to duck, but my body froze, unable to obey.  At the last possible instant, I managed to jerk my head back.  The ball grazed the bill of my cap, taking it clear off my head, and earning me first base.  Although I wasn’t hurt, the close call had me shaken.  Knowing that the knockdown was coming is what had made it even more hazardous, I realized.  Normally, reflex takes over and the body pulls away immediately.  Thinking about what to do slows down the movement.   

       Martina trotted to second, and I took first base with some feeling of achievement.  All Pruett had managed to do was move a runner into scoring position and put me on base.

       As the next Oilers’ hitter took his turn, I noticed that Pruett’s pitch actually had served a purpose: intimidation.  The batter bent in an awkward stance, his rear end partway back to the dugout, obviously ready to hit the dirt.  With three feeble swings he struck out on three straight tosses.  The Oilers who followed him fared no better; all of them were tentative at the plate, more interested in their survival than their batting averages.

       Throughout the game, I continued to watch Jake Pruett and the Oilers batters closely.  Only one of my teammates faced Pruett with no sign of fear: our young leftfielder Floyd Geer, who managed to hit a pair of doubles.  We couldn’t capitalize on Geer’s hits, however, and Houston held on for a 7-1 victory.  Although the game was a somber one, and a loss for our team, at least this time there were no deaths in the box score.

*  *  *

       The smallest moves can sometimes reveal the most about a ballplayer.  A pitcher cocks his wrist a certain way, it might mean a curveball is coming.  A catcher hoists up a little on his haunches, it might mean a pitchout.  A batter twists his hip a split second early, maybe he’s about to lay down a bunt.  I always watched for these small signs and tried to interpret their meanings.  Since nature hadn’t endowed me with an abundance of natural ability, I had to rely on observation and strategy to have any chance of success in the game.  And when I spotted something unusual, it would gnaw at me until I’d figured out the cause.

       Floyd Geer’s batting style today, when he kept digging in against Jake Pruett, was exactly the type of unexpected behavior that piqued my curiosity.  Could Geer have been oblivious to the fact that the Oilers’ pitcher had killed Archie Hines only two days earlier?  Could he have missed seeing Pruett try to stick a fastball in my ear?  It simply wasn’t possible.  Yet Geer had stepped into the batter’s box showing as little concern as if he was about to take batting practice.  I wanted to know why.

       It wasn’t difficult to find Geer that evening, primarily because there were so few places we were allowed to go in Beaumont.  The Spindletop oil boom a few years back had attracted a rough element to the town, and they had taken over many of the places typically favored by ballplayers.  After a few of the Oilers had been beaten up in saloon brawls and mugged in the red light district, the team’s management declared most of Beaumont’s night spots to be off limits.  Church socials, band concerts, and moving picture shows were among the few amusements still permitted us.

       Since the nickelodeon was playing the same Bronco Billy pictures that had been running all month, I doubted Geer would be there.  And I knew he wasn’t one of the players who went for church activities, so I checked the Beaumont Enterprise for the concert schedule.

       Keith Park was an oasis of cool green in Beaumont, with leafy shade trees, sparkling fountains, and a band shell that had attracted a couple of hundred people to hear the nightly music program.  On stage, a brass band honked its way lethargically through a John Philip Sousa march.

       I skirted the edge of the crowd and spotted Floyd Geer near a lemonade vendor.  The handsome teenager was nattily dressed in white duck trousers and a striped blue jacket.  A silk handkerchief overflowed from the jacket’s breast pocket and a straw boater topped his pomaded black hair.

       Stepping up behind him, I asked, “The one in pink, or the one in yellow?”  His attention was clearly directed at a couple of young ladies in pastel frocks, and I doubted that he was even aware of the trombone solo being played on the bandstand.

       Geer turned to me, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his face flushing.  “I can’t decide.  I think I like them both.”

       I cast an admiring look at the girls.  “Well, you got good taste, I’ll give you that.  Wouldn’t mind having either one of them on my arm.”  I doubted that he would get beyond the looking stage anyway—Geer was the shyest player on the team.  “Say,” I said, “you sure took the batting honors today.”

       The young man beamed; there’s not a ballplayer anywhere who doesn’t like to be complimented on his hitting.  He was probably relieved at the change of topic, too; discussing baseball was much easier for him than talking about the fairer sex.  “Yeah, I was seeing the ball real good,” he said.

       “Showed guts out there.  You’re the only one who didn’t look worried about where Pruett might throw the ball.  How’d you do that?”

       “Why should I worry?  Hell, Mickey, I spent most of my life working on my uncle’s farm—milking cows at dawn, slopping the pigs, plowing behind the orneriest mule that ever lived . . .  and always worrying about whether we’d have a good enough crop to tide us over the winter.  Compared to that, playing baseball is like a permanent vacation.”

       It was a good answer and I almost bought it.  Then a guilty scowl twitched at his face, a small sign that something wasn’t quite right.  “But Archie Hines was killed by a pitch from Pruett,” I said.  “There’s no way you could ignore what that baseball might do to your skull if it hit you.  How did you step in against him so easy?”

       Geer hesitated.  “I told you.”

       I snapped at the nervous youngster.  “You haven’t told me anything.  Come on, what’s the deal?”

       He struggled with himself.  “If you don’t know already, then it don’t concern you.”

       “If I don’t know what?”

       Geer’s hand reached for his watch chain and he began toying with the fob.  “Hell, I’m not the only one.  I know there’s others, especially among the rookies.  You’ll probably find out sooner or later, when he tells you to pay up.”

       “What?  I don’t—”

       “Jake Pruett.”  Geer spat the words.  “He told me I had to give him five bucks a game whenever he pitched.  If I didn’t, he’d bean me.”

       Jeez.  “And you paid?”

       “What the hell else am I supposed to do?”  His voice had risen to a squawk and he paused a moment to compose himself.  “Listen, I face Pruett ten times a year at most.  Fifty bucks is worth it to stay in one piece—and to keep playing baseball.  One pitch to my head or a broken hand, and I could be back on my uncle’s farm.”  He turned to me with eyes that pleaded for understanding.  “I hate milking cows.”

*  *  *

       It was no problem at all to find Jake Pruett.  The Hamilton Hotel on

Crockett Street was home to most Texas League teams on their visits to Beaumont, and the players could generally be found in the lobby or the barroom.  Pruett, dressed in a loud checked suit, was in the latter.  He sat at a small table, his only company a bottle of rye and a shot glass.  From what I’d heard of his personality, it was no surprise that he was by himself.  I recognized other Oilers players at the bar, but they gave no indication that they even knew Jake Pruett.

       Nor was it a surprise when Pruett tensed at the sight of me.  He scraped back his chair, ready to spring up if I made any hostile moves.

       I held up my hands, palms out.  “Just want to talk to you,” I said.  That wasn’t exactly true—I wanted to wring his neck, but for now I would be satisfied with talking.

       He wiped the back of his hand across his thin wet lips, making a rasping sound on the unshaven stubble.  Pruett’s face was as chiseled as granite but it had less warmth.  “Sit,” he said, his pale, slitted eyes watching me warily.

       I eased into the chair opposite him, forcing myself to remain calm.  Even though his teammates chose not to socialize with him, if he and I were to fight they would have to come to his aid out of team loyalty.

       Pruett downed a shot of whiskey and exhaled so hard that I could feel a slight spray.  “What do you want to talk about?” he asked.

       “I hear you got a little side business going: charging players five bucks a game to keep their heads intact.”

       “Now where’d you hear something like that?”  Pruett’s small smile indicated that he felt no insult at the accusation.

       “It ain’t exactly a secret.”  He flinched slightly, and I found it satisfying to have given him some reason for concern.  I went on, “I never heard of a protection racket in baseball before.  How’d you come up with it?”

       After a moment’s thought, Pruett elected not to deny the charge.  He answered with pride, “I’m smart.  That’s how.”  Leaning forward, he went on, “About three years ago, when I was still with Brooklyn, a buddy of mine on the Braves offered me five bucks to throw him a couple of fat pitches—he needed to boost his batting average.  I’m not one to turn down a few extra dollars, so I figured why not?  Then I realized: hey, why not charge players for staying safe?  I don’t gotta give up no hits or runs that way.  All I gotta do is collect their money, and then they’re happy if I throw strikes.  It’s better for them if the ball is in the strike zone than in their ear.”  He shrugged his big shoulders.  “Besides, baseball owes it to me.  I been playing a lot of years, and this is the only retirement fund I’m gonna have.”

       I was astonished at the perverse thinking process this man had.  “What if the League finds out?”

       “They won’t.”  Pruett chuckled.  “Not a ballplayer anywhere is gonna admit that he’s so scared of getting beaned that he paid off a pitcher.”

       “The ones who don’t go along with you might tell.”

       His expression hardened to the point where I thought his stony face might crack.  “No, they won’t.  They understand that if they do something like that, they’ll be wishing for something as gentle as a fastball to the head.  It’s even easier for me to get to a guy outside the ballpark—and there’s a lot more ways to hurt him.”

       “Can’t be any worse than what you did to Archie Hines.  You killed him.”

       Pruett slammed his hand on the table.  “Hey, you can’t blame me for that.  Even if I wanted to kill the kid, you can’t depend on a beanball for that.  All I could be sure of is hitting him, not killing him.”

       “So you did want to hit him.  Why?  He turn down your offer?”

       Pruett’s arrogant demeanor faltered for a moment.  He answered, “I ain’t saying nothing about Hines.”  But after another long sip of whiskey, his natural cockiness seemed to return.  “Just for the sake of argument,” he said, “let’s say the kid did turn me down.  Then hitting him would have been strictly business.  Didn’t have nothing to do with him personally.”

       While I pondered my next question, Pruett turned it around.  “Now let’s talk about you,” he said.

       “What about me?”

       “You haven’t donated to my retirement fund yet.”  His lips lifted in his version of a smile.  “Five bucks a game.”

       “Like hell!  I’m not giving you a penny.”

       “Don’t have to yet.  Next series we play—that’s in two weeks, I think—you leave five bucks for me at the hotel desk.”  His teeth almost gleamed in a full grin.  “Or I drill you.” 

       I fought back the urge to remove some of those teeth with my fist.  “I’ll think about it,” I said facetiously, as I stood to leave.  A few more minutes with Jake Pruett, and one of us was going to be badly hurt right here in this room.

       “Don’t think too long.  Tomorrow the price goes up to ten bucks.”  He slowly poured another shot of rye.  “With Hines getting himself killed the way he did, I figure other players will want to be real sure it don’t happen to them.  And they ought to be willing to pay a little more for that insurance.”

       I was too astonished to summon up the strength to punch him.  Almost numb, I pulled myself up from the table and walked unsteadily out the door.

*  *  *

       It wasn’t until I was back in my room that I was able to think clearly again.  During the entire walk home, my head had been foggy.  Jake Pruett’s scheme hadn’t confused me—he was straightforward enough about what he was doing.  I simply couldn’t fathom his utter lack of shame or regret.  He was actually proud of his extortion racket and viewed Archie Hines’ death as nothing more than a possible boon to his business.

       What I needed to figure out now, however, wasn’t what Pruett had been doing, but what I should do.

       I went over to Archie Hines’ bed, where his old glove still lay on the pillow.  Sitting down, I grabbed the mitt and stared at the repairs to the stitching.  To Archie, every five dollars was that much closer to buying his girl a wedding ring, and he wouldn’t even buy himself a badly-needed new glove.  There was no way he would pay protection money to Pruett.  And now he was dead because if it.

       Floyd Geer, on the other hand, thought paying off Pruett was worth it to keep playing baseball.  Archie had made his choice, Geer had made a different one.  What, I wondered, were my choices?

       One thing was sure: Jake Pruett would take advantage of more ballplayers—the younger ones, who could be more easily intimidated—now charging them ten dollars to avoid his beanballs.  More would probably pay; others might refuse—and perhaps end up like Archie.

       If I went to the police or the League, the best they might do is start an investigation.  That could take weeks, or months, and if no other ballplayers came forward it would accomplish nothing.  There wasn’t time to try that route, I decided.  Pruett would be pitching again in a few days.

*  *  *

       I had just gotten a table and was racking up when Jake Pruett swaggered into the dingy pool hall.  Simply by my presence here, I was breaking two club rules—billiard parlors were off-limits and I was out after curfew.  But I wanted to give Pruett my decision tonight.

       The pitcher made his way toward me, slogging through sawdust that had been turned into fetid muck from tobacco juice and spilt beer.  “Got your message,” he said.  I had telephoned the Hamilton Hotel where a bellboy found Pruett still in the bar.

       “Thanks for coming.”  I leaned over to break.

       He looked around scornfully.  “You couldn’t have found a worse dump to meet?”

       Probably not, in fact.  The reeking clapboard structure near the Neches River differed from an outhouse primarily by its size and furnishings: half a dozen pool tables, a small bar, and a few side tables along one wall.  Except for bare light bulbs over the pool tables, and a kerosene lamp behind the bar, shadows blanketed much of the room.  The other men in the place were more audible than visible, as they argued over bets and clinked their whiskey glasses.  “This seemed like the best place for what we got to talk about,” I answered.  “I don’t especially want to be seen with you.”

       Pruett proved impossible to offend.  “Well, I been in worse joints than this in Red Hook.”

       I carefully positioned the cue ball and took a few practice strokes.

       Pruett asked with some derision, “You called me for a game of pool?” 

       “No, I was just killing time.  But I’ll play a game if you want.”  I tried not to sound too eager.

       “All right.”  He took off his hat and coat, and went to the rack for a cue.  After rolling several of them on the table to check for straightness, he found one he liked and chalked the tip.  “Let’s make it interesting,” he suggested.  “Say five bucks?”

       “Nah, I’m lousy at this game.”

       “Two bucks then.”

       “Oh, what the hell.  Why not.”

       “Break,” he said.

       I did, but the balls didn’t scatter much.

       Pruett took his turn, sinking two balls before missing a relatively easy shot.  “Why did you want to meet?” he asked.

       “To give you your answer.”  I easily pocketed the ball he’d left hanging on a corner pocket, but got no more.

       He then opted for a difficult bank shot although there were easier possibilities.  “Damn!” he said when he missed it.  “So, what’s it gonna be?  You gonna make the payment before next game?”

       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.

More of Troy Soos’s books and stories will soon be available electronically.

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