He was wrong.
“Bad news, boys,” the manager said once they were all assembled in the smoking car.
“How’zat, boss?”
“There isn’t any money to pay you with,” McWhortle announced.
If the man was looking for dramatic effect, he damn sure found it. There was a disbelieving silence among the shocked ball players. And almost as quickly there was anger to follow the initial disbelief.
“What the hell d’you mean by that? We all seen the size of that crowd. There has to’ve been a good gate. More than enough.”
“There was a good gate all right,” McWhortle agreed, “but while that fight was going on some son of a bitch snuck into the ticket booth and stole the cash box.”
“But …”
“I know. I know, dammit. The men in the booth should have been watching it, but they weren’t. Once the fight started they both went running to see. They neither one of them gave a thought to the money though they should have. They realize that now that it’s too late, of course.”
“But what about our money? How can we get along without our pay?”
McWhortle didn’t look a lick happier than the complaining team members. He scowled and shook his head. “I have enough left over from our earlier stops to make our expenses for another couple days. After that we should have the gate from the next game. We’ll make it through. But there just isn’t anything in the kitty to provide for pay. I’m sorry.”
“What about the guarantee? Didn’t we have a guarantee for the game today?”
“Sure we did. The local organizers said they don’t owe it because the gate receipts were well above the minimum they guaranteed we’d draw. They say it isn’t their fault that the gate was stolen. And of course it isn’t. I told them we’d sue. They said that’s fine and told me where I could file. They know good and well we can’t afford the time or the money to do that.” McWhortle sighed. “I guess it wasn’t much of a bluff. I’m sorry. Really.”
Most of the men looked disappointed, but only two or three looked all that put out by the loss.
Later Longarm asked the manager about the pay. It was something he hadn’t considered before, not being a legitimate member of the club.
“We pay five dollars a game and found,” McWhortle told him. “Expenses are higher than you might think and the gates are never all that big. So, as a team we don’t make much in the way of a profit. Enough to cover what’s necessary, usually. Not a whole lot over. This time …” He shrugged and shook his head.
“Tough,” Longarm said.
“Tell me about it. Oh, I have something for you.”
“For me?”
I didn’t want to give it to you until we were alone,” McWhortle explained, digging into a pocket and coming up with a somewhat rumpled square of paper that had been folded and refolded. “From the sheriff back there.”
Gene Darry wasn’t the county sheriff but Longarm didn’t bother trying to explain the difference between a sheriff and a town marshal or police chief. It was a distinction few civilians bothered to make.
“Thanks.” He glanced around to make sure none of the other players was paying attention—they weren’t; for the most part they were concentrating on the several bottles of cheap whiskey McWhortle had brought aboard with him as a consolation for not having their pay in hand—and unfolded the note, which proved to be pretty much what he expected.
NO ACTION IN TOWN DURING GAME. STAKEOUT CAME UP EMPTY. NO STRANGERS REPORTED TODAY EITHER. FIGURE TICKET BOOTH THEFT UNRELATED TO YOUR STRING OF ROBBERIES. SORRY. BETTER LUCK NEXT STOP.
DARRY
Longarm grunted and folded the paper back along its original creases before stuffing it—or trying to—into a pocket.
Damned baseball uniform. For a little while there he’d forgotten he was wearing the silly thing.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m gonna find my bag and change into something human.”
“All our gear is back in the luggage car. Oh, come to think of it, poor Jerry doesn’t know about the theft yet.”
“You want me to tell him?” Longarm asked.
McWhortle shook his head. “He should hear it straight from me. Just ask him to come up here and see me.”
“Can do.” Longarm began moving back along the clattering, swaying string of Plains and Pacific R.R. cars. He would feel better once he was in his own clothing and had some cheroots and matches handy in his pockets, he was sure. Pockets. Damn. Helluva idea, pockets.
Chapter 19
There is a rule, surely written down somewhere and probably carved in granite, too, that requires all desired objects to be placed at the bottom of whatever pile is being searched. Longarm wasn’t sure just who decreed that this be so, but he was pretty sure the rule existed somewhere, somehow.
And sure—damn enough, his carpetbag was smack on the bottom of the jumble of bags, boxes, duffels, and pokes belonging to the ball players.
“You want me to fetch it out for you, Mr. Short?” the equipment boy offered in a tone of voice that was half-hearted but nonetheless decent of him.
“No thanks, Jerry. Mr. McWhortle wants to talk t’ you, and you wouldn’t want t’ keep him waiting.”
The clubfooted kid looked relieved as he hurriedly made his way forward into the next car and out of Longarm’s sight.
Longarm paused for a moment—but only for a moment; after all his cheroots were inside that bag—then began tugging and shoving at all the bundles so as to extricate his own gear from among all the rest.
Once he had it the first order of business was to find, quickly trim, and gratefully light a smoke. After that he pulled a decent set of clothing out. He hated having to wear the damned clown suit that the baseball players found to be so comfortable. Or seemed to. At least none of them seemed interested in changing clothes.
With proper clothing in hand he glanced around the baggage car with some small amount of concern. It was unlikely anyone would wander in while he was changing. But there were some ladies present in the passenger coaches forward and it was not inconceivable that one of them would choose to traipse along to the baggage car to replenish an empty perfume bottle … or to sneak a nip of Lydia Pinkham’s mostly alcohol elixir.
Unlikely, sure. But somewhere on the same slab of granite that held the immutable rule about wanted items being on the bottom of available piles there surely was a closely related law proclaiming that any embarrassment that could happen surely would happen. Same author, same chisel.
So he figured the sensible thing would be to step out of sight before dropping his drawers.
In no great hurry he finished his smoke, then picked up his clothes and carried them down to the far end of the car where a stack of crates labeled MacEachern’s Ready to Wear, Fine Fabrics at Reasonable Rates, extended nearly to the ceiling. A little pushing and shoving gave him room enough to slip in between the crates and the end wall of the boxcar.
Longarm dropped the stub of his cheroot onto the floor and ground it out underfoot, then took his things into the makeshift dressing room.
Uh huh. Damn good thing he’d slid out of sight, all right. He was still buttoning his shirt when he heard the door at the far end of the car open with a thump.
Longarm peered around the side of the crates and saw he needn’t have been concerned. It was only the left-field player, Nat. Nathaniel something-or-other, actually.
Longarm quickly finished with the shirt and tucked it into his trousers, slipping his galluses over his shoulders and intending to step out and speak to the man.
Before he could do that, though, the door opened again and a young man in regular clothes, not one of the ball players and no one Longarm had seen before, came into the car.