While the Haymakers themselves were shunted back and forth to the practice field and sequestered tightly at the Gibson, their supporters were boasting how they were going to knock us off.
The downtown streets were a mess, clogged with thousands of visitors. The Gibson’s lobby and saloon were virtually impassable around the clock. Rival luxury hotels, the Burnet and Spencer, were overflowing. Smaller establishments had quadrupled their rates—and were booked solid. Contingents still poured in, trains from surrounding cities carrying dozens of excursion cars. Champion had ordered two thousand additional seats erected. We advertised “Plenty of space for ladies.” Johnny and I had doubled the size of our booth, tripled our foodstuff orders, hired yet another woman, and added five more vendors. The streetcar companies were offering half-fare rates to the ballpark, and a special line had been installed from Western Union’s downtown office to transmit scores in the showdown contest to cities everywhere.
The national game indeed, and we were at its hub. In spite of my preoccupation with McDermott, I lay in bed at Gasthaus zur Rose the morning of the game and found myself dreaming that I had to go in for Allison again; punching out Craver once more; smashing a colossal home run over the fence with two out in the ninth to pull out a deathless victory, my name shouted through the city, wired across the nation. . . .
Well, it was a nice fantasy. In reality, my services would doubtless be confined to the score book, Craver was unlikely to provoke another fight, we probably wouldn’t need last-ditch heroics to win at home, and even if I did come to the plate in that spot, more likely than not Cherokee Fisher’s fastballs would make short work of me.
Restless and fairly certain I’d foiled McDermott by hiding in Over the Rhine, I decided to go out to the park early—it was a little after ten—and help set up the booth.
I had barely reached the corner and was waiting for an omnibus when I heard a voice calling me. I spun around and saw Sweasy running toward me. His clothes were rumpled, his hair disheveled.
“Jesus, where you been?” he cried, his voice edged with hysteria. “I’ve looked all night! Your nigger at the grounds sent me up here.”
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s Andy—they’ve got Andy!”
I stared at him, dumbfounded.
“It’s all your fault, you son of a bitch!” He snatched a crumpled paper from his pocket and thrust it at me. “When I came in last night, Andy was gone and I found this.”
It was scrawled in pencil:
Fowler—
If you want Leonard in against the Haymakers bring the money you stole to public landing at noon. Put it in a satchel by the water post at the foot of Broadway. We will watch, just drop it and leave. If you don’t or try to bring police, the Leonard boy won’t be fit for games again.
I crumpled it, thinking how stupid I’d been. McDermott had intended to take Andy all along, then trade him for me after the game. No wonder O’Donovan feared Cait finding out.
“Where’s the money they’re talkin’ about?” Sweasy said. “You got to get it before noon.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “They won’t let Andy go before the game, money or no money. Who’ve you told about this?”
“Nobody. I was going to Champion if you weren’t here.”
“Come on,” I said. “We don’t have much time.”
“Where we going?”
“Harry’s.” I waved at a passing hack. “But first we have to round up the others.”
Chapter 20
Cincinnati’s public landing seethed in the midday heat. It was far less crowded than it would be later, when fleets of packets would depart after the Haymaker game. Now a dozen steamers along the dock moved with the river’s undulations. Heat shimmered on the vast paved loading area. Across the river in Newport I made out the United States barracks and esplanade. To my left, wagons stood partially loaded with barrels from the hold of a freighter, the job put off until cooler hours. To my right, a street vendor pushed his cart along Front Street. He’d find few customers in these unshaded areas.
My footsteps echoed on the concrete landing. I made my way toward the embankment. Along the levee stretched a line of massive posts, three feet thick and twenty feet high, to which the steamers were moored. At high water the swelling current brought the vessels to the very top of the posts, most of which were marked in footage to gauge the river’s rise and fall. One of the posts stood squarely at the foot of Broadway. I headed for it, forcing my eyes straight ahead. I put the valise down at the foot of the post, arm muscles cramped from the heavy burden. I turned and walked back the way I had come. Sweat glued my shirt to my skin.
Before I had gone thirty feet somebody yelled, “Mister, you left this here!”
The voice was Johnny’s. I kept walking.
“Mister!”
I was nearly to the corner of River Street before I heard another voice. Glancing back, I saw a man approaching Johnny.
“No, it’s his,” said Johnny loudly. “HEY MISTER!”
A hack pulled up nearby, and Charlie Gould stepped down, looming huge and blond. I nodded pleasantly and climbed into the hack as Gould ambled toward Johnny and the other.
“What’s the trouble?” I heard Gould say.
And that was all, for as the hack entered River Street I yelled, “Hit it!” and the driver whipped the horse into a gallop. We clattered wildly for a half block and careened onto Walnut, scattering
