A Handy Death

And, Ross thought, even Al Hogan could probably get this one off on a charge of complete insanity...

Chapter 17

The long table in Hank Ross’s conference room was well laden with the varied bottles and glasses necessary for a victory celebration, but the atmosphere was anything but cheerful. The only one drinking seriously was Mike Gunner-son; Charley Quirt held a glass in his hands but he was not touching it. Sharon and Steve were sipping soft drinks, Ross had foregone his usual beer, and Billy Dupaul had also refused anything. “I never had the habit, and you sure don’t pick it up at Attica,” he had said. He sat, his face a mask, his feelings under tight control, staring at Charley Quirt as if seeing the man for the first time. His face was pale; his hands were tightly clasped in his lap.

Ross attempted to cheer things up.

“We ought to call this case The Handy Death,” he said conversationally. “If Raymond Neeley had lived, Billy, you would have remained in prison. The fact that he died as a result of your having shot him was what led to your release. An odd case, helped immeasurably by Louis G. Gorman, long may he wave.” He glanced at Charley Quirt. “And not particularly helped by your mystery.”

“I know what you mean. You’re wondering what changed my attitude in eight years.” Quirt was addressing Ross, his voice quiet, ashamed, but he kept his eyes fixed on the glass in his hands rather than risk raising them and facing his newly acknowledged son. Seen together, the resemblance between the two large blue-eyed men was not particularly striking; knowing the relationship, one would not be surprised, but Ross did not feel it exceptional. He waited patiently for the other man to continue; Quirt twisted his glass in his hands and went on.

“Clara was alive eight years ago, that’s the difference. Clara — my wife — watched a lot of Mets’ baseball when Billy was first scouted. I was against his coming with the Mets, dead against it, and it had nothing to do with ability. But I was overruled. I was sure one look at Billy and Clara would know. It must have been my imagination, because nobody at the club ever noticed, but I was sure Clara would. She was sharp, and well, she’d had suspicions of affairs before — but what the hell! I was in the Army, then, but Clara couldn’t see it that way. And she knew I’d been up near Glens Falls in 1944 — I was in a VA hospital in Saratoga and I met Mary Emerich at a dance there — and as I say, Clara was not only suspicious, she was sharp.”

He raised his eyes for one moment, looking at Ross, asking to be understood, but Ross’s face was expressionless. Mike had stopped drinking and was watching Quirt from beneath his beetled brows. Quirt dropped his eyes again to the glass he was twisting in his hands, and continued.

“I guess maybe I felt I’d done my duty to Billy with the monthly checks, and I didn’t want any trouble at home. Clara could be — well, never mind. She wasn’t well, and I didn’t want to upset her...” He stopped abruptly and shook his head. “It’s true she wasn’t well, but the other isn’t the whole truth. The whole truth is that I was a coward. I should have owned up, gotten Billy the best lawyer there was, and stayed there and fought it out at his side. But I didn’t. I knew he had Gorman for his lawyer, and I thought Louie was a fair lawyer, and then I ran out during the trial — ran away to Japan. And when I heard Billy got four to eight at Attica, it was too late. So I said to myself, that’s that, forget it.” He sighed, staring at his hands. “But your conscience doesn’t let you forget...”

Quirt paused. The room was silent, the occupants all watching him. It was with an almost visible effort that he finally raised his eyes, looking at the tall young man sitting across from him.

“Billy? I’m all alone in a big house. Would you consider coming home and living with me? And trying out for the team again...?”

There was the sharp ring of the telephone; it jarred the tense moment, but also relieved it, the interruption giving everyone a moment to adjust. Sharon raised the receiver, listened a moment, and then hung up. She came to her feet, motioning Ross into the corridor. He closed the door behind them, looking down at her upturned face.

Sharon said anxiously, “What do you think Billy will do?”

“I have no idea,” Ross said, and frowned. “You didn’t call me out of the room for that. What was that telephone call?”

“Oh, that,” Sharon said. “It’s Jimmy Carter. I told Molly you wanted to see him, and he just walked in.”

“Good!” Ross said grimly. “I want a word with that man!”

He walked down the corridor with determination, with Sharon hurrying to keep up. In the reception room a rather stocky, pleasant-faced man was leaning over the telephone switchboard, speaking with Molly. At sight of Ross he straightened up, smiling.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Ross?”