13 Hangmen by Art Corriveau Read Free Book Online Page A

second of a three-game series. And as usual, Williams refused to bat until the crowd stopped booing him. These standoffs could last five minutes or more.
    â€œGood for him,” said number 27, Solomon Weinberg, signaling to Angelo for a drink of water. Angelo passed him a full dipper. Angelo felt a little sorry for Weinberg, a second-string outfielder who hardly ever got to play—mostly because Williams started every game. “Number 9’s the club’s best hitter,” Weinberg said, handing back the dipper. “He deserves a little more respect.”
    Williams finally stepped into the batter’s box.
    â€œSo why do they hate him so much?” Angelo asked, jerking his thumb up at the disgruntled Fenway fans seated in the stands above the dugout.
    Weinberg shrugged. “He’s a much better ballplayer than showman, which is what the boys in the newsroom care about. He’s pretty tight-lipped when it comes to giving them any copy. So they make it up. Mostly about how much he hates Boston.”
    Williams cracked a smart single into midfield, advancing the only man on base to third. The crowd offered a smattering of begrudging applause.
    â€œI think he’s just shy,” Angelo said. “He’s always nice to me. Which is more than I can say about the
rest
of the starting lineup.”
    Weinberg laughed. “What’s your name, kid?”
    Angelo told him. Weinberg looked oddly startled, then pleased. He held out his hand—his friends called him Solly—and Angelo shook it, grinning.
    â€œI’ll bet it’s your thirteenth birthday soon,” Solly said.
    â€œToday, in fact,” Angelo said, surprised. “How did you know?”
    â€œYou live in Hangmen Court, right?” Solly said. “Over in the North End.”
    Angelo nodded, mystified. Solly laughed. “My parents soldNumber Thirteen to your parents,” he said. “I lived there myself when I was thirteen—when the neighborhood was still mostly Jewish. I slept up in the attic. But I haven’t been back in over a decade—not since we sold the place when I was twenty-one, after I joined the team.”
    Angelo confessed he didn’t know how much longer he’d be living there. Now that Papa was gone, Mama was always behind on the mortgage payments—even with all the boarders she took in. Solly gave his back a consoling pat. He was sorry to hear that Angelo’s dad had passed. He promised to stop by the house someday soon to pay his respects to Angelo’s mama.
    Williams tried to steal second base. It was an amazing slide—and he was clearly safe—but the umpire ruled him out. More booing.
    Williams limped back to the dugout. He took a seat on the bench next to Angelo and asked for water. Solly said, “Tough luck.” Williams nodded, then shucked off his shoe to examine his ankle. It was already beginning to swell. Solly suggested Angelo fetch the team medic from the locker room.
    Angelo returned with both the medic and number 4, Joe Cronin, the team’s shortstop and manager. The medic took a good look at Williams’s ankle and declared it a minor sprain. Williams should probably be pulled from the game so it could be packed in ice. “Just wrap it,” Cronin said.
    â€œBut he shouldn’t be running on that ankle,” Solly said. “It’s turning
purple
.”
    â€œAre you a doctor?” Cronin said. Solly shook his head. “Then keep your big mouth shut!” According to Cronin, Williams
had
to keep playing. The Sox were trailing second in the league standings after their archrivals, the New York Yankees. If they won this game against Detroit, and the Yankees lost theirs against the Cleveland Indians, they would pull ahead. And this was entirely possible. Cronin had just gotten off the phone with Eddie Collins, the Sox’s general manager, who had heard from Tom Yawkey, the owner, that New York’s first