Murder at Ebbets Field by Troy Soos Read Free Book Online Page A

officer, I went to the trolley station to go back to Manhattan.
    By the time I got home, my headache was back with a ferocious intensity and my apartment was sweltering with the heat of another scorcher.
    I first went into the kitchen. After I threw some wood into the belly of the stove and lit a fire, I overloaded the coffee pot to make a brew powerful enough to do battle with the champagne bubbles still percolating in my brain.
    While the pot heated up, I stripped off all my clothes and flung them on the couch. Then I plugged in an industrial-sized electric fan to stir the air.
    When the coffee was done, I brought a mug of it in to the sitting room and settled into My Chair—a deep oversized wing chair with green leather upholstery and brass tacks studded around the seams.
    I took a sip of the gritty black liquid and waited for my brain to come back to life. While I waited, I chewed on the grounds that stuck in my teeth and tried not to think of Florence Hampton, not even of Marguerite Turner. I didn’t want to dwell on anything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours because I didn’t want to imagine their consequences. Right now I wanted to focus on the familiar surroundings of home and be comforted by them.
    Having a place of my own was relatively new to me, and I relished the independence that came with it. For years, I was a gypsy infielder, playing for factory teams and barnstorming squads, never spending more than a few months in any one place. My only homes were cheap boarding houses and hotels with low enough standards to take ball players.
    Now the Giants were paying me $2,700 a year, more money than I ever thought I’d earn at baseball. Enough for me to lease a one-bedroom apartment on 158th Street near Broadway, a few blocks from the Polo Grounds. It wasn’t cheap—$42 a month—but it had all the modern amenities: an electric outlet in every room, all-night elevator service, and guaranteed fireproof. I even had a view of the Hudson River from my fifth-floor window.
    Most important, though, it was self-contained, with a kitchen, a bathroom, and a telephone in the parlor. No more nosy landladies to sneak past, no more sharing bathrooms with other boarders. I was now king of my own castle. If I wanted to, I could spend the entire day sitting naked in the parlor. All in all, for a little ol’ country boy from New Jersey, I was doing pretty well for myself.
    The only problem with the apartment was that I wasn’t quite sure what I should put in all these rooms. At least hotels and boarding houses were furnished. My white walls were as bare as the hardwood floors. And with the exception of my chair and bed, the only furniture was what had been left by previous tenants: a ratty brown horsehair sofa, a small bookcase that looked as if it had been constructed from old packing crates, a pine dresser with drawers that stuck, and a few small mismatched tables. “Early American Abandoned” would best describe the decor. But it was home and it was mine.
    The lack of sleep from the night before sent a welcome wave of drowsiness over me. I put the half-full coffee cup on the floor and closed my eyes.
    The gas bubbles were trying to beat their way out of my skull. And they had organized now, hammering away in unison like the waves that crashed against the pier behind the Sea Dip Hotel. Three bangs at my head then a pause. Three more bangs, harder. Wait a minute... waves don’t break in sets of three.
    My eyes popped open. With the next pounding attack, I realized the knocking wasn’t internal. It was my door. Who the hell would be here on a Sunday morning—was it still morning?
    I ran into the bedroom and slid into a robe. “Coming!” I yelled, trying to forestall any more raps. I made it to the door just as the knocking resumed and yanked it open.
    There stood the grim reaper, come to claim me. Just like in the pictures: a skeletal figure garbed in somber black, with a death pallor on his gaunt face.
    But