him.
He found that attitude to be amusing in a way. But kind of touching too.
He slapped Dennis lightly on the shoulder, then drifted back through the moving pack until he was beside the baggage cart. He was still hankering for a good smoke and hadn’t had time to finish one in entirely too long.
Chapter 18
The manager was late getting back from whatever errands he’d been on. He barely made it to the station in time to shoo the team onto the train ahead of him. Longarm attributed McWhortle’s grim expression to his concern for meeting the train schedule.
He was wrong.
“Bad news, boys,” the manager said once they were all assembled in the smoking car.
“How’zat, boss?”
“There isn’t any money to pay you with,” McWhortle announced.
If the man was looking for dramatic effect, he damn sure found it. There was a disbelieving silence among the shocked ball players. And almost as quickly there was anger to follow the initial disbelief.
“What the hell d’you mean by that? We all seen the size of that crowd. There has to’ve been a good gate. More than enough.”
“There was a good gate all right,” McWhortle agreed, “but while that fight was going on some son of a bitch snuck into the ticket booth and stole the cash box.”
“But …”
“I know. I know, dammit. The men in the booth should have been watching it, but they weren’t. Once the fight started they both went running to see. They neither one of them gave a thought to the money though they should have. They realize that now that it’s too late, of course.”
“But what about our money? How can we get along without our pay?”
McWhortle didn’t look a lick happier than the complaining team members. He scowled and shook his head. “I have enough left over from our earlier stops to make our expenses for another couple days. After that we should have the gate from the next game. We’ll make it through. But there just isn’t anything in the kitty to provide for pay. I’m sorry.”
“What about the guarantee? Didn’t we have a guarantee for the game today?”
“Sure we did. The local organizers said they don’t owe it because the gate receipts were well above the minimum they guaranteed we’d draw. They say it isn’t their fault that the gate was stolen. And of course it isn’t. I told them we’d sue. They said that’s fine and told me where I could file. They know good and well we can’t afford the time or the money to do that.” McWhortle sighed. “I guess it wasn’t much of a bluff. I’m sorry. Really.”
Most of the men looked disappointed, but only two or three looked all that put out by the loss.
Later Longarm asked the manager about the pay. It was something he hadn’t considered before, not being a legitimate member of the club.
“We pay five dollars a game and found,” McWhortle told him. “Expenses are higher than you might think and the gates are never all that big. So, as a team we don’t make much in the way of a profit. Enough to cover what’s necessary, usually. Not a whole lot over. This time …” He shrugged and shook his head.
“Tough,” Longarm said.
“Tell me about it. Oh, I have something for you.”
“For me?”
I didn’t want to give it to you until we were alone,” McWhortle explained, digging into a pocket and coming up with a somewhat rumpled square of paper that had been folded and refolded. “From the sheriff back there.”
Gene Darry wasn’t the county sheriff but Longarm didn’t bother trying to explain the difference between a sheriff and a town marshal or police chief. It was a distinction few civilians bothered to make.
“Thanks.” He glanced around to make sure none of the other players was paying attention—they weren’t; for the most part they were concentrating on the several bottles of cheap whiskey McWhortle had brought aboard with him as a consolation for not having their pay in hand—and unfolded the note, which proved to be pretty much what he expected.
NO ACTION IN TOWN DURING GAME. STAKEOUT CAME UP EMPTY. NO STRANGERS REPORTED TODAY EITHER. FIGURE TICKET BOOTH THEFT UNRELATED TO YOUR STRING OF ROBBERIES. SORRY. BETTER LUCK NEXT STOP.
DARRY
Longarm grunted and folded the paper back along its original creases before stuffing it—or trying to—into a pocket.
Damned baseball uniform. For a little while there he’d forgotten he was wearing the silly thing.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m gonna find my bag and change into something human.”
“All our gear is back in the luggage car. Oh, come to think of it, poor Jerry doesn’t know about the theft yet.”
“You want me to tell him?” Longarm asked.
McWhortle shook his head. “He should hear it straight from me. Just ask him to come up here and see me.”
“Can do.” Longarm began moving back along the clattering, swaying string of Plains and Pacific R.R. cars. He would feel better once he was in his own clothing and had some cheroots and matches handy in his pockets, he was sure. Pockets. Damn. Helluva idea, pockets.
Chapter 19
