“It’ll be in the papers — there’s no way to keep it out — but there’s no proof if you deny it.”
“If they’re arrested, the details will come out at their trial.”
“No, they won’t,” Marchetti said, “because there won’t be any trial. They’ll cop a plea to a reduced charge. You can bank on it.”
Drake looked at me and I gave him a nod that was meant to be reassuring. “There’s no other way, Tony. Marchetti might be able to scare them off, but you’d still have to explain your disappearing act. Unless you were damn convincing it would make the writers more curious than ever. Somebody would dig out the story and it would sound worse than it actually is. This way you’ll be the good guy — the innocent, indignant victim who wouldn’t stand still for a shakedown.”
Drake thought about it a minute and said, “I guess you’re right.” You could see he was relieved to have someone else making the decisions. “So what do I do now?”
“First get back to Cincy and explain it to McGann,” I told him. “I’ll go with you and help out.”
“After that,” Marchetti cut in, “set up a meeting with them. Tell them you have the money. Set it up for late tonight in the restaurant at their hotel. In the meantime, I’ll make arrangements with the Cincinnati police and we’ll be at the next table.”
“And stay away from other reporters until it’s all over,” I added.
Drake grinned at that. It had been so long I was surprised he still remembered how. “You guys never quit, do you?”
“Not if we expect to keep drawing a paycheck. Now let’s go.”
I rode back to town with him and Marchetti drove back alone. I called McGann from a booth on the outskirts of town, told him I had Drake with me and to meet us at a coffee shop I could see down the road. An hour later he was there with Eldon Braniger, the Stars’ general manager.
Drake made three or four false starts that didn’t get beyond “I... uh—” so I took over and explained the situation. Braniger said Tony would be fined for missing the game, but it wasn’t in the same league with the figure Teresa was trying to pry out of him. He and McGann agreed it would remain confidential — a “no comment” deal — until the arrests were made that night.
It was a Saturday and the schedule makers hadn’t been able to decide between an afternoon and a night game, so they split the difference and settled on a twi-nighter. That was good. It should be over in plenty of time for me to get the story, since I’d be on the scene, but too late for the other papers to pick it up for their Sunday editions.
When we got to the hotel we hurried across the lobby and up to my room. I kept Drake there for the hour and a half before we’d have to leave for the stadium. He called Myra and his parents and I called Ken Knight at his home, made arrangements for a hole on Page One, and told him I might run a little past deadline. He countered with forty reasons why I shouldn’t. I had heard them all before.
After that, Tony called Teresa, and I could hear her sigh of relief clear across the room. She and Schnell must have been really uptight when Tony pulled his disappearing act. He gave her a trumped-up story about having to go somewhere to get the money, and the meeting was set for eleven o’clock. She wanted it right away but he told her he was ready to leave for the ball park. Then she wanted it earlier in the evening but he told her no, it might be an extra-inning game. I shuddered at the idea.
Marchetti called a few minutes later and said everything was set up with the Cincinnati police and all he needed was a time. I gave it to him and then Drake and I slipped out the service entrance and took a cab to Riverfront.
Pat McGann called the writers together while the Reds were taking batting practice. “Tony Drake missed last night’s game because of a personal matter which I can’t reveal,” he said, and was promptly bombarded with questions asking him to.
When they saw McGann meant it about not saying anything more, they rushed out of his office in search of Tony. He had outsmarted them and was in the trainer’s room, which is off limits to reporters. He skipped batting practice and stayed where he was until the writers were cleared from the field, then he hurried out to take infield with the team.
Drake started but McGann pulled him after four innings and sent Freddy DeAngelo out. Tony had been like a zombie out there, but his presence must have ignited the rest of the club, or something did because the Stars hit the ball all over the park and hammered the Reds, 10-2.
The game ended a little after eight, so I had all kinds of time to write my story before going to the restaurant. I cheated and went ahead and wrote the arrest story ahead of time, figuring how it was likely to go. I sent it over along with the game story and instructions to hold it until they heard from me.
Marchetti slipped Drake into the restaurant through the kitchen half an hour early so he would be waiting at the table they had picked for him when the others arrived. A Cincinnati detective and Marchetti were at the next one, but I was told to sit across the room in case Teresa or Schnell recognized me. Drake had an envelope with a stack of paper in it and a hundred-dollar bill at each end of the stack.
The con artists came in a couple of minutes before eleven and went straight to Drake’s table, all smiles. They made a real production of it. Schnell had some kind of a phony release he had Teresa sign and he handed it to Drake at the same time Tony passed him the envelope.
Schnell ran a finger under the seal but before he could open it the detective had a hand on his shoulder. Marchetti was standing behind Teresa in case she decided to play rough, but she didn’t. It was all over before I finished my salad. Drake joined me when the others had gone, shaky but happy.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Don’t mention it. Keep an eye on things till I get back.” I went to a phone, called Ken Knight, and told him it was O.K. to go with the story the way I sent it over. Poor Brophy, I thought. He’d catch hell over the phone in the morning.
Drake was a terror the next afternoon. Three for four at the plate, a couple of runs batted in, three great plays in the field. Brophy sulked through the game, so I knew he had gotten that phone call. We were staying in Cincy overnight and catching a morning flight to Pittsburgh, so I told him dinner and drinks were on me at the Maisonette.
That snapped him out of it fast. Nobody appreciates good food and drink more than Brophy and, knowing his capacity, I figured the evening was going to set me back seventy-five or a hundred. I had that figured too. Since my expense voucher was going to be on the heavy side anyway, Ken Knight wouldn’t mind a little extra to buy dinner for a downhearted rival.
I was dead wrong about that part. But, hell, nobody bats a thousand.
Reform Movement
by Carroll Mayers
Frankie Coll, heister, wanted to get out and settle down...
Sure, I’ll tell you the whole story. You’ll have to realize, though, some of it’s rather wild.
First off, I couldn’t believe my ears that night. Frankie Coll was one of the best partners I d ever had. Since we’d teamed up five months ago — our mutual penchant had surfaced during a casual bar conversation — we’d had a string of tidy scores. Suburban banks, mostly. Right now there was fifty-two grand tucked in a satchel in our hotel closet. And yet Frankie had just told me he was pulling out.
“You’re what?”
“I’ve decided to quit, Lou,” he repeated. “I’m packing it in.”
I gaped at him. “Why, for Pete’s sake? We’re going great—”