Brownie Bribery by Bruce Harris

The envelope appeared like a floater. I sprang from bed, unchained the lock, and checked the hallways. Nothing. Whoever slipped it under the door was gone quicker than Hal Skelly, the Browns’ best base stealer. I’m back one day in the major leagues, and now this. Half of a hundred-dollar bill and a dozen words on a scrap of paper:

$100 is just the start. Interested?

Horn & Hardart

Times Square

10:00

Strange things happen when you’re on the road, and New York is a big road. I got dressed. The front desk was unattended. The switchboard operator sat in an anteroom behind the desk. I questioned her. “Where’s Mabel?”

“Hold, please,” she said before plugging a hole above number 208. Mutated octopus-like cords stretched out in front of her. She spoke without turning her head. “Who? I’m Wanda,” she muttered.

Made sense. It’d been half a dozen years since I’d been in the big leagues and stayed at the Pierre. “Hi, Wanda. You see anyone run out of here?”

She pulled a phone plug from the 611 jack, let it drop, picked up another, stretched the cord, and jammed it in the 322 jack. “Hold, please.” She moved like a skilled puppeteer. Quick hands. I wondered if she could turn a double play. The Brownies could use a shortstop with her dexterity.

“No,” she finally answered. “Too busy.”

I had less than an hour to get to the automat if what killed the cat drove me. I took a cab instead. He found me, hands folded at my table, while I refilled a second cup of coffee. He could have been a salesman.

“I don’t need a new hat,” I said.

His look didn’t change. The unlit cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, as fat and smooth as his double chin, rotated.

“Bowties? Typewriters? What are you selling?” I asked.

“Saturday, Frankie Henderson is scheduled to pitch for the Browns.”

“You a baseball fan?” I sipped coffee.

“To answer your first question, I’m not selling anything. I’m an investor. At the moment, I’m investing in you.” He removed the cigar, examined it, and screwed it back into his mouth. “More specifically, the Browns. I need for them to lose Saturday.”

“So, I guess that answers my second question, too.”

“And you can help,” he continued as if I hadn’t said a thing. “I need you to throw the game.”

The coffee stopped midway to my mouth. I should have gotten up and walked out, but thoughts of the Ben Franklin weighed me down “That’s what this is about? I see several problems. First off, even if I was to say yes, the chance of me even playing in Saturday’s game is…is less than me agreeing to cheat.”

“There’s no problem. You’ll play. Next.”

“Maybe you don’t read the papers,” I said. “The Browns brought me up as a third-string catcher. I’m not here to actually play in a game.”

“I read. They’re paying you a hundred a month.” His face soured. “Talented player like you. Bring all that experience to the club.” He shook his head. “Not right.” He pulled a gold lighter from his vest pocket and lit the cigar. “Then there’s…you know…your reputation. Forget that. I’ll make things good. You help me, I help you.”

He was right about my salary. If he read the sports news like he claimed, he also knew of my intention to retire after the season. As far as my reputation, this guy referred to long-ago rumors. I was a Cardinal. A number of Cardinals players were suspected of betting against the team. I was friendly with a bunch of them and, in the eyes of some, became guilty by association. Nothing was ever proven, but the stench of scandal hung over my career. A dozen years playing a kid’s game is enough. I guess I deserved whatever I had coming by showing up for this meeting. I wiped my mouth and began sliding my chair back. He tossed two nickels on the table.

“Get yourself a slice of honey pie. They got the best pie in the city here,” he said, standing. “The best piece is on the top row, far right. I’ll be here tomorrow. Same time. Same table.”

“You have a name?” I asked.

“Pouncey.” He disappeared onto the street, but not before tipping his hat, bowing, and holding the door open for a woman wheeling a baby buggy.

I made my way to the desserts, slid the two Indian heads into the slot, turned the knob, lifted the little glass door, and removed the pie. Two bites later, the other half of the hundred-dollar bill showed itself under the pie’s crust. Only in New York.

***

“Tough loss yesterday,” he began. A fat cigar again protruded from pink lips. “Enjoy the pie?”

“Like I said yesterday,” I began, “I’m not playing. I can’t help you.”

“You’ll be in the lineup. Interested?”

“Interested in what?”

“In making real dough?”

 “Even if I played Saturday, which I won’t, I couldn’t impact the game’s outcome,” I said.

“Players get injured…on and off the field. That’s why there are guys like you on the bench to take their places. You’re a catcher. You control what pitches are thrown.”

“The catcher suggests a pitch. The pitcher makes the final decision.”

He shook his head. The double chin looked like pink gelatin. “Not with Frankie Henderson on the mound. Kid’s first game. Old Pops may be a lousy manager, but he knows better than to let the kid call his own game. The catcher will call every pitch. That’s you.”

“I already told you—”

“You’ll play. Think about it,” he said before getting up to leave. “Tomorrow morning. Same table.”

***

Not surprisingly, we’d lost another one to the Yankees. I sat at the Pierre’s ornate bar, sipping beer. Chet Merriweather, our third base coach, sat down next to me. His clothes, like his uniform, were creased and appeared two sizes too large for his gaunt frame. He signaled a cocktail waitress and pointed to my beer.

“Shame what happened to Hill,” he said.

He could see by my expression that I didn’t know what he was talking about. He continued. “You don’t know? Him and Wharton was walking back to the hotel from dinner. Hill took a step into the street when some sedan comes screeching around the corner and clips him.”

“What? Is he okay?”

“He’ll live,” Merriweather said, leaning back as the server placed a drink and a fancy napkin in front of him. “Broke his leg, though. Looks like you’re our number two catcher.”

“It was an accident?” My question sounded ridiculous.

“What else?”

“Did the guy stop? Do they know who hit him?”

“No, and no. Just drove off. Dark sedan was the only description Hill or Wharton could give.”

“Thanks. I gotta go,” I told Merriweather. Sitting on my bed, I didn’t like where this was heading. I decided to meet Pouncy in the morning and return the two bill halves. I wanted out. The phone’s ring jarred me.

“It’s Pouncey,” the voice said. “The kid Henderson has a good, live fastball. It’d be a real shame for him to throw fastballs on Saturday.”

“Huh?”

“Ten o’clock tomorrow,” he said before hanging up.

***

Friday morning. The usual bustle engulfed the automat. Pouncey sat at our table. I placed the two bill halves, one honey pie-stained, on the table and slid them across to him.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“I’m finished,” I said. “Not interested. First off, I don’t like what happened to Hill. He—”

“Purely an accident,” Pouncey said, feigning concern. “He’ll recover. Just not in time for tomorrow’s game,” he added as an afterthought.

“I’ve spent my life in baseball. I won’t be a part—”

“Spare me,” Pouncey interrupted. “And where has it gotten you? You haven’t had a hit in the major leagues since 1944.”

“There’s something called personal pride,” I said. “Not to mention the sanctity of the game.”

Like a confused dog, Pouncey tilted his head. “Sanctity of the game? The Browns are thirty-two games out of first place. The Yankees have practically clinched another pennant. It’s a meaningless game. It has no implications for anything. Its only purpose is as a money-making opportunity for you and me. Pride, personal or otherwise, doesn’t pay the rent.” He slid the money back across the table. “Think about it. Hungry?”

I shook my head.

“The hundred dollars is a gift. Me to you. If you want more…a lot more…I’ll see you here tomorrow before the game.”

He excused himself. I sat at the table, fingering the torn Ben Franklin. I watched Pouncey dig into his pockets for change. He pulled a hamburger steak, macaroni and cheese, and mashed potatoes from three separate windows. I guess he wasn’t a vegetable fan.

***

I was restless. The phone in my room rang. The Browns manager, better known as “Old Pops,” his gravelly voice on the other end, told me I’d be starting catcher in Saturday’s game against the Yankees.

“What’s wrong with Mackanowski?” I asked.

“Sick as a dog, puking his guts out. Something he ate, I guess. Anyways, he ain’t gonna be in no shape to play tomorrow. You’re it. I already spoke to the coaches. That rookie Henderson is chucking for us. His first game.” Pops hesitated. “He can’t do no worse than some of the veterans on this team, for Chrissakes. Anyway, the kid is nervous, shaky nervous. I want you to call the game…every pitch. You know the Yankees hitters. Damned Nervous Nellie don’t know his ass from his elbow. I want this game. We’re the laughingstock of the league, and Henderson is our future.” He reviewed pitching strategy before ordering me to get a good night’s sleep.

***

Pouncey looked like a kid on Christmas morning. “You made the right decision,” he said to me. “Sit.”

I watched coffee pour out from a silver dolphin spout. “I’m not committing to anything,” I told him, carefully placing my smoking mug on the table.

He ignored me. “Here’s the plan,” he began, but I stopped him.

“Look, Pouncey, you don’t need me or anyone else cheating for you. The chances we beat the Yankees are not very—”

It was his turn to interrupt. “I’ve told you before. If I wanted to make a straight bet, I would. I don’t like gambling. I like sure things. You are my sure thing. This is easy, and there’s two grand in it for you.”

“What’s in it for you?” I asked, surprising myself.

He looked amused but didn’t answer me. “Like I was saying, this will be easy. If the Yankees have a weakness, it’s pitching them up and in. I mentioned on the phone this kid Henderson has a decent fastball, but his curveball needs work. When it doesn’t break, even a number-eight hitter can hit him hard. When it does break, he can’t control it. He’s got damned good command of the fastball, so he’ll want to consistently throw it. You’ll call for the curveball over and over, like ninety percent of the time. Got it?”

I hesitated. “You’re right,” Pouncey continued. “The Yankees are already heavy favorites. I’ve got to bet a bundle to win back anything substantial. If the Yankees should lose the game…well, let’s not even assume that is in the realm of possibility, shall we?”

***

While the Browns batted, the Cracker Jack vendor hawked his wares inches from where I sat in the dugout. I peeked out, bought a box, opened it, and removed the prize. I replaced the toy prize with the two-hundred-dollar bill halves Pouncey gave me and did my best to reseal the box.

“See that guy over there in the box seats? Behind home plate—heavyset, fat cigar in his mouth?” The vendor nodded. “Give him this box. Tell him my treat. Here,” I said, handing him a silver dollar. I turned back to the game.

I disobeyed Pouncey by calling for Henderson’s fastball the majority of the time. As a result, the Yankees held a slim 1-0 lead over my hapless Browns in the ninth inning.

Even the worst Hollywood scriptman wouldn’t have conjured up the scenario that followed. With two out, the Browns strung together three infield singles. I came up to bat, hitless in my previous three trips, with the game on the line. I’m not sure the Yankees pitcher was born the year I broke into the league. He was wild. I watched three balls out of the strike zone, but he composed himself and threw two fastballs for strikes. Full count. The baserunners were off as the pitcher went into his windup. It was another fastball right down Broadway. Pouncey be damned, I thought. I swung hard but fouled the darn thing back, high into the grandstand seats behind home plate. I guess that swing corroborated my status as a third-string catcher on the worst team in baseball. I expected another fastball. He threw a changeup. Off balance, I swung too early. Ball game over. The New York crowd erupted.

I glanced back toward Pouncey. I thought I detected a smile, but it was less distinctive than Mona Lisa’s. I’d blown the game after all, but not in the way Pouncey wanted. I disobeyed him but figured he might go easy on me since he won his bet. I wasn’t taking any chances. With the bat still in my hand, I decided to make a run for the outfield and exit through the bullpen. I didn’t get very far. The fingers gripping my shoulder felt vise-like. I turned to see Old Pops. His strength surprised me.

“Come with me,” he said. “There’s someone who wants to see you.”

We walked into Pops’s makeshift office. Browns owner Horatio Butterfield stood. “Take seats, gentlemen,” he said.

This was quick, I thought. Strike out and get the news that you’re being sent back down to the minor leagues—or worse. Probably worse if Butterfield was involved.

“We’re expecting one more…oh, here he is now.”

My jaw dropped as Pouncey walked in. He was holding the Cracker Jacks box.

“I believe you two know each other,” Butterfield said.

A demotion to the bushes or my outright release would be improvements over what I feared was about to happen.

“I want you to know,” the Browns owner began, “none of us doubted your honesty and your ultimate devotion to the game of baseball.”

He must have seen the dumb look on my kisser.

“I tried my best,” Pouncey chimed in.

“What’s going on here?” I asked.

“You big dope. For Chrissakes, you don’t know?” Old Pops asked.

“Know what?”

Butterfield laughed. “We hated the way your reputation took a hit years ago. The Browns organization never believed you were a part of that Cardinals scandal, and we set out to prove it. Pouncey here works for us. We figured if you were as honest as we suspected, you’d turn down his offer. I’m happy but not surprised to say you did.”

“You mean, this whole thing was a setup to see if I’d take the bribe and throw the game?”

“See, I told you he was smart,” Pops added.

“That’s right,” Butterfield said. “And despite Mr. Pouncey’s best efforts, you didn’t disappoint.”

Pouncey worked for the Browns. Who would have figured? “Wait! Who exactly slipped the envelope under my door? You?” I directed my question to Pouncey.

He laughed. “Heavens no. Skelly did it. He’s fast, you know.”

“Hal Skelly was in on this subterfuge?”

Pops chimed in. “Not really. He only steals bases. We just used him to give you the note. His room is next to yours. He tucked the envelope under your door, took a few steps, and disappeared into his room.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Well, I’ll be a son of a—”

“What’s so funny?” Butterfield asked.

“Never mind,” I said. “Wait…so Hill’s accident was—”

“Concocted. Made up,” Butterfield said.

“And Mackanowski?

“He’s fine, too. Nothing wrong with him. I just gave him the day off, is all,” Pops said.

“Well, I’ll be…I guess I owe everyone thanks.”

“The only thing you owe me is a hit,” crusty Old Pops said. “Striking out with the bases loaded? My granddaughter could have hit that last pitch for Chrissakes!”