The Man Who Killed by Fraser Nixon Read Free Book Online Page A

play.
    I rose and went for a Frankfurter covered in mustard and onions, followed by a Coca-Cola. I wiped my mouth and drained the green glass bottle. As I stood and watched the next inning a short Jew in a raccoonskin coat sidled over. Unbidden he offered me a small cigar. He waggled his eyebrows and smiled.
    â€œDid you see the Babe hitting them out of the park?” he asked.
    â€œSure did.”
    â€œToo bad he couldn’t do that in the series.”
    â€œI thought he had three homers in one game,” I said.
    â€œOne game. Then he loses the whole damn thing trying to steal second. The Cards nailed New York to the cross, you’ll forgive the expression.”
    I laughed and looked at him, blowing smoke.
    â€œWell, someone’s always the scapegoat.”
    He hiccoughed. I asked him his line of work.
    â€œBrassieres. A very uplifting profession.”
    I laughed again and he winked back. The Beaurivagers had a rally at the bottom of the second and were up three runs by the end of the inning. Ruth moved to shortstop and barehanded a fast zinger to beat a steal at second to end the run. He struck out his next at-bat and someone shouted: “Va chier, Babe!”
    There was a tremor of nervous laughter. The Jew pulled out a flask and offered me a slug. I croaked it down and asked its pedigree.
    â€œA special mixture.”
    Playing an American I asked him if I could get it in the States. He told me that I could, in the Middle West. Some countrymen of his ran it down from Regina.
    â€œWhere’s that?” I pretended.
    â€œSaskatchewan.”
    â€œMan alive. How’d they do it?”
    â€œIt’s classed as a patent medicine, for doctors to carry a bottle in their black bags. If you’re interested maybe I can facilitate an introduction.”
    â€œSwell. Can they get into Vermont or New York?”
    â€œThat I don’t know.”
    â€œI know some folks’d be happy for help, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œTell you what,” he said, “I’ll give you my card. You can come by to talk.”
    â€œI’m not here too long.”
    The strange import of that phrase suddenly struck me.
    â€œWell, neither are they. Come by and talk and I’ll call Solly. You can speak to him.”
    â€œSolly?”
    â€œHe’s the smartest of the brothers.”
    â€œBrothers?”
    â€œThree of them.”
    â€œOke.”
    I took the card. This was a mere coincidence in a crowd. There was no hint of a provocation. It was that phenomenon where you’d never heard an arcane phrase before, then upon learning it you overhear it in conversation at the next table in a café. Bootleggers. Maybe I looked the part. The weight of the gun now at the small of my back, changing my carriage, lending me an air. If I met some other exporters it could throw a little light on Jack and the organization he was involved with.
    Over the years I’d taken it as a given with Jack. He’d vanish, cook up a scheme, materialize with money, a ’car, a girl, the latest joke, a yarn. It was in stark opposition to myself, his hustle and drive. I’d brood, my mouth shut. He was outgoing, gregarious, a good time. Well, it wasn’t too late. The circumstances demanded an effort on my part. I was mixed up in trouble and I cursed myself for not pumping Jack when I’d had the chance at the Derby or in Griffintown before we rode off into the woods. Now I might never find out what had led me to this stand.
    There rose mingled cries and loud cheering and I saw a player running hell-bent for leather, sliding safe home to a roar and a tiger. Guybourg had scored two runs. I shook the Jew’s hand, pocketed his card, and resumed my seat.
    Next time Guybourg came up Shocker tried to lay down his teammate. Ruth fanned on the first pitch, fouled the next, and with a crack banged the next ball over the left field fence into a tree, startling a flock of pigeons. For a