A Handy Death

“As I said, I was out of the country at the time — arranging an exhibition schedule in Tokyo. All I know is that Billy fired him, which was his privilege, of course. And picked up Al Hogan, God rest his soul, for whatever improvement Billy thought that was. Anyway, Al Hogan was attorney of record at the time the boy was sentenced.”

“The ball club didn’t provide better counsel than that?”

Quirt’s voice was emotionless.

“Our top management decided to keep hands off. I wasn’t around; I couldn’t do a thing. I knew Al Hogan for years; we were friends, but I never had any illusions about his ability.”

“Seems a bit rough on the boy, though. I would have thought the club would have done better by him, a brand-new bonus baby...”

“You know the game of baseball, Hank,” Quirt said almost wearily. “You know how all organized sports are today. We’ve got to be holier-than-thou. Our boys chew gum now; no more tobacco, for God’s sake! We have to make the Boy Scouts look like little muggers in comparison. I pushed for the kid, but — well, the decision from upstairs was no dice. Strictly hands off.”

“It seems you people tried the boy even before the jury did,” Ross said quietly. “And poor Al Hogan, bless him, was probably in his cups as usual, so Billy Dupaul went up to Attica for a long time...”

Ross considered the telephone as Quirt remained silent. Sharon McCloud’s fingers were poised over her notebook, her pencil ready to attack again at a moment’s notice. Ross nodded to her to be prepared to begin her stenography and spoke into the instrument.

“Charley, if Dupaul gave the money back to the club, how could he afford a high-priced talent like Louis Gorman in the first place?”

Quirt almost exploded.

“Damn it all, Hank, what the devil difference does it make? If you want to ask a lot better question, ask me how we can afford a high-priced talent like you!”

Ross grinned. “All right. How can you afford a high-priced talent like me?”

“We can’t. Are you happy? Anyway, Louie Gorman wasn’t all that big or all that expensive in those days. Especially not all that big. Any more than he is today,” Quirt added under his breath.

Ross’s grin widened. “I heard that.”

“You didn’t hear anything. Anyway, the whole thing happened eight years ago. If you hadn’t been out of the country, Billy probably wouldn’t have spent more than a night in jail.” Quirt seemed to calm down. “If it makes you happy, nobody paid Billy’s legal bills. Or rather, you did and I did, and all the good people of the State of New York did. Billy’s counsels were court-appointed. Not that I’m saying court-appointed attorneys are any less dedicated to the job than any other.”

“No?”

“Hell, Hank, you know that! You’ve taken enough court appointments yourself in your time.”

“And expect to take more,” Ross agreed pleasantly. “Especially as long as there are clients like Charley Quirt to make up the cash register—”

“Whoa, Hank! Let’s not get carried away on this fee business!”

“I promise not to charge more than the Mets can afford,” Ross said piously. Across the desk Sharon bit back a smile. Ross became serious. “All right, Charley, what’s the story on Dupaul?”

“He’s in this jam — damn it, Hank! Haven’t you been listening for the last half hour?”

“I don’t mean that. I mean, why your sudden interest in him now? Eight years ago you people didn’t want to touch him. You didn’t want to pay for a decent lawyer for him. Now, if you’ll pardon the modesty, you want the best. Or at least the most expensive.”

Quirt hesitated a moment.

“Well, hell, Hank — the boy’s only twenty-six. I’ve kept track of him in prison. He keeps in shape, he works out regularly, or as regularly as you can up there since the troubles last year. And he pitches every time he gets a chance in one of the prison games...”

Ross frowned at the telephone in utter disbelief.

“Charley, are you trying to tell me you’re interested in getting this fellow out from whatever charges he’s up against — murder, riot instigation, or whatnot — because your team needs more strength in the bull pen? What happened to that gum-chewing, All-American-image spiel a minute ago?”

“God damn it, Hank, that’s not what I said! You don’t understand—”

“I don’t and that’s a fact,” Ross said candidly. “When the boy represented a large investment for you, and before he was even tried, you dropped him like a hot potato. Now that he’s a second-offender with a murder charge against him and a good possibility of having been involved in a riot that indirectly may have resulted in the deaths of three men, you want to pull all the stops and save him. As you say, I don’t understand.”

“Look,” Quirt said. “It’s simply — well, eight years ago I wasn’t in a position to try to help the boy—”

“Eight years ago you were vice-president of the Mets, and today you’re still vice-president of the Mets,” Ross said. “What happened? Or were you promoted since I talked with you last?”

Quirt paused a moment and then spoke, but now his voice was no longer apologetic. Now it was cold and hard.