Billy Phelan's Greatest Game by William Kennedy Read Free Book Online Page B

week later, during a stopover at the Albany station on the Twentieth Century, The Chief received
Emory Jones, who presented him with the day’s final edition, an especially handsome, newsy product by local standards. The Chief looked at the paper, then without a word let it fall to the
floor of his private compartment, and jumped up and down on it with both feet until Emory fled in terror.
    Martin fished up salt, pepper, saccharin, and spoon to garnish his sandwich and coffee and, as he ate, studied the entries in the Armstrong. There in the third at Laurel loomed a hunch,
if ever a hunch there was: Charley Horse, seven-to-one on the morning line. He circled it, uncradled the phone receiver and dialed the operator: Madge, lively crone.
    “Any messages for me, kiddo?”
    “Who’d call you, you old bastard? Wait while I look. Yes, Chick Phelan called. Not that long ago. He didn’t leave a number.”
    “You heard from Emory? He coming in?”
    “Not a word from him.”
    “Then give me a line.”
    Martin dialed home and told Mary the news and swore her to secrecy. Then he called Chick’s home. The phone rang but nobody answered. He dialed the home of Emory Jones, the Welsh rarebit,
the boss of bosses, editor of editors, a heroic Hearstian for almost as many years as Hearst had owned newspapers, a man who lived and died for the big story, who coveted the Pulitzer Prize he
would never win and hooted the boot-lickers and eggsuckers who waltzed off with it year after year. Martin would now bring him the word on the Charlie Boy story, fracture his morning serenity.
    Martin remembered the last big Albany story, the night word arrived that a local man wanted for a triple murder in Canada would probably try to return to the U.S. Which border crossing he had in
mind was uncertain, so Em Jones studied the map and decided the fellow would cross at Montreal. But on the off chance he would go elsewhere Emory also alerted border police at Niagara Falls,
Baudette, Minnesota, and Blaine, Washington, to our man perhaps en route. When the four calls were made Emory sat down at the city desk, lit up a stogie, and propped up his feet to wait for the
capture. We got him surrounded, he said.
    “Em, that you?”
    “Ynnnnnh.”
    “I’ve got a bit of news.”
    “Ynnnh.”
    “Charlie McCall was kidnapped during the night.”
    Emory yawned. “You drunken son of a bitch.”
    “I’m not drunk, nor have I been, nor will I be.”
    “Then you mean it? You mean it?” Emory stood up. Even through the telephone, Martin observed that.
    “I just left Patsy and Matt, and Maloney too, all at Patsy’s house, and I pledged in your name we wouldn’t run a story on it.”
    “Now I know you’re lying.” Emory sat down.
    “Emory, you better get down here. This town is getting ready to turn itself inside out.”
    The editor of editors fell silent.
    “You really do mean it?”
    “Whoever grabbed Charlie meant it, too.”
    “But you didn’t tell Patsy that about no story. You wouldn’t say that.”
    “I did.”
    “You needle-brained meathead. What in the sweet Christ’s name possessed you?”
    “My Celtic wisdom.”
    “Your Celtic ass is right between your eyes, that’s your wisdom. I’m coming down. And you better figure a way to undo that pledge, for your own sake. And this better be real.
Is it real?”
    “Em, are your teeth real?”
    “Half and half.”
    “Then Em, this story is even more real than your teeth.”
    Martin found two more Chuck and Charlie horses in the Armstrong , checked his wallet, and lumped all but his last ten on the bunch, across the board, plus a parlay. Never
a hunch like this one. He called the bets in to Billy Phelan, the opening move in his effort to bring Billy into the McCall camp, not that Billy would require much persuasion. Billy was a Colonie
Streeter, was he not? Grew up three doors up from Patsy and next door to Bindy, knew Charlie Boy all his life. But Billy was an odd duck, a loner, you