Shoeless Joe & Me by Dan Gutman Read Free Book Online Page B

I’d said the wrong thing.
    â€œPlease don’t call him that,” Katie advised me.
    â€œAh hate that name,” Joe said, placing the bat carefully on the bed. He seemed to have calmed down a little, talking slowly in a deep Southern drawl. “Ah ain’t some dumb country bumpkin. See for yourself. Ah got plenty of shoes.”
    The closet I was still standing in was filled with shoes, many of them men’s.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir,” I apologized.
    â€œJust call me Joe.”
    â€œMy name is Joe, too,” I said, extending a hand hesitantly and stepping out of the closet. “Joe Stoshack. Most folks call me Stosh.”
    â€œPleased to meetcha, Stosh,” Joe said, taking my hand in a muscular grip. “This here’s my wife, Katie.”
    I wasn’t sure if Joe knew I’d seen his wife with no clothes on, and I wasn’t about to tell him. I shook her hand, too, a little embarrassed.
    â€œWhat’re ya doin’ hidin’ in my closet for, boy?” Joe asked. “You an autograph seeker? Katie, make this boy Stosh one of my signatures the way you do so nicely, will you please, honey?”
    â€œNo,” I said, stopping Katie before she could get a pen. “I didn’t come for an autograph. Mr. Jackson, I came here to give you an important message.”
    â€œWhat might that be?” Joe asked, smiling as if to say no message delivered by a kid could be of much importance to him.
    â€œDon’t take the money!” I urged him. “It will ruin your life! You’ll be banned from baseball forever. You’ve got to believe me!”
    â€œWhoa!” Joe said, chuckling. “Slow down, son. What money? Ah don’t know what you’re talkin’ ’bout.”
    â€œThe World Series is fixed!” I informed him. “I overheard some gamblers. They’re paying some of the players on the White Sox to lose on purpose. Then they’re going to bet against the Sox and make a fortune for themselves.”
    Joe threw back his head and laughed.
    â€œThat’s crazy talk,” Katie said.
    â€œNobody could fix the Series.” Joe chuckled. “They’d have to pay off seven or eight guys, a coupla startin’ pitchers—”
    â€œThey did !” I insisted. “I heard them. EddieCicotte and Lefty Williams are in on the fix. And they plan to get you in on it, too.”
    â€œWell, Ah ain’t gonna be in on it.”
    â€œCheap cheap,” the bird chirped. “Cheap Commy.”
    â€œAh don’t care how cheap Commy is,” Joe said. “Ah wouldn’t do that. That’s plain wrong. Ah play to win. That’s the only way Ah know how to play.”
    â€œWho’s Commy?” I asked.
    â€œCharles Comiskey,” Katie told me, “the guy who owns the Sox.”
    The phone rang. It wasn’t the kind of ring I was used to back home. Our phone at home rang sort of like tootle . This one sounded like a little jangly bell. Joe’s wife picked it up. It was one of those black phones I’d seen in old movies, where you pick the whole phone up in one hand and then hold the little receiver to your ear with your other hand.
    â€œIt’s Eddie Cicotte,” Katie said, glancing at me before handing the phone to Joe.
    Joe listened for a few seconds, shaking his head. He looked over at me, too.
    â€œAh want no part of that,” was all he said before hanging up.
    â€œWhat did he want?” Katie asked.
    Joe sat down on the bed, a dazed look on his face. “Eddie said he’d give me ten thousand bucks to help the boys kick the Series.”
    Katie sat down on the bed next to Joe. “ Ten thousand dollars ?” she said, awed. “Joe, that’smore than you earn all season .”
    Joe turned to me suddenly. “How’d you know that was gonna happen?”
    I wasn’t sure if I should tell Joe and Katie that I came from the future and knew