By the end of the sixth the Stockings led, 14-4. A laugher. And yet excitement mounted on the sidelines. The pool sellers seemed to be writing slips faster than ever. I was about to ask Millar the reason when my attention was caught by a pale, blade-thin, black-whiskered man leaning close, to McDermott, behind the third-base line. He was tense and grim-faced, unresponsive to McDermott’s frequent guffaws. There seemed an aura of menace about him. I pointed him out to Millar.
He lifted his spectacles, squinted, replaced them. “I hope I’m wrong,” he said. “I think it’s Le Caron.”
“Who’s Le Caron?”
“Fowler, if you truly work for a newspaper—”
“Just tell me, okay?”
He sighed. “Henri Le Caron’s likely the most brutal rough ever to emerge from Five Points. Rumor has him working for Morrissey and McDermott now, but I think he’s not been seen publicly with either before.”
Wondering at the powerful visceral reaction I felt to the man, I said, “How do you know it’s him?”
“He was pictured in Leslie’s and others earlier this year. It made a ripe scandal when he left prison only months into a long sentence.”
“What had he done?”
“Stabbed three men to death in a gambling hell.”
My stomach tightened. “Oh.”
“Not uncommon, of course, but because the mayor and police officials happened to be sporting there at the time, things got a bit dodgy for him. Till Tweed and that rotten Tammany bunch pulled strings.”
“Boss Tweed?” I stared in fascination at the thin, dark man. “What was his connection?”
“Le Caron came out of the Dead Rabbits.” Millar glanced at me significantly. “That give you the picture?”
It didn’t, of course, and I had to pull it from him. What I learned was that political bosses like Tweed intimidated foes and controlled expanding immigrant neighborhoods partly through gangs of street hoodlums. A member of the most-feared gang, Le Caron had fought his way upward in Manhattan’s infamous Five Points slum—as had John Morrissey, former bare-knuckles boxing champ and current representative in Congress—in bloody struggles for dominance. But where Morrissey had gravitated to mainstream channels of power, Le Caron had remained what he was. I studied him as Millar talked. I’d never knowingly gazed at a murderer. For a moment, when Le Caron’s dark eyes seemed to flash directly into mine, I felt a faint chill.
On the field the Stockings’ impressive defense was stifling the Alerts. Waterman smothered drives at the hot corner with his arms or body, snatching the ball and rifling what Hurley jokingly called “finger breakers” to the blond first baseman, who took them casually, possessing, I decided, no pain threshold whatever.
The Stocking catcher also seemed indifferent to pain. Reacting with a cat’s quickness, he snagged everything, even tipped balls, with sure-handed ease. Unlike the Alerts’ receiver, he stood upright, not crouching. Since I’d played mostly catcher myself, I found the technique intriguing—and suicidal. The guy’s body must be a mess.
But the Cincinnati star was unmistakably George Wright. I’d never seen a better shortstop, with or without a glove. He ranged over the field spearing balls most players couldn’t have reached with butterfly nets. He leaped high to knock down liners, drifted gracefully beneath pop-ups, glided deep in the hole to launch white streaks that nipped runners at first. Andy was right. They were fortunate to have him. At any price.
In the bottom of the ninth the Alerts went to bat trailing 18—7. The Stockings’ lead began to look less comfortable when Brainard, tiring, allowed a succession of hits, some of which found outfield gaps for extra bases. By the time two were away, a pair of runs had scored and the bases were loaded.
Millar squirmed and drummed his fingers on the table. Three more Alert runs would bring the score to 18-12, a 3—2 ratio. We would still win the game in all probability—but McDermott would cash in on a far larger scale. Sensing momentum shifting their way, the Alerts were keyed up. So was the crowd. I checked out the gambling booths and saw McDermott whooping it up. Le Caron was no longer in sight.
There was a lull as Harry trotted in from center to huddle with Brainard. “Harry’ll pitch now,” Millar mused. “And yet I can’t imagine he wants Asa in the field, wet as it is. Brainard’s slow afoot.”
“Can’t Hurley go in?” I asked.
“After the third inning, the rules allow replacements only for injuries.
“Third inning? Why is that?”
“So clubs can’t influence betting odds by holding out ace ballists for critical moments. Players on the field may exchange positions any time, however.”
“I get it,” I said. “That’s why ‘change pitcher,’ ‘change catcher.’”
He nodded distractedly. “Asa’s staying.”
Brainard stood rubbing the filthy ball—it had been in use the whole game—and eyeing the Alerts’ cleanup man, a stocky outfielder named Glenn who’d hit him hard all afternoon. The crowd was standing and cheering. The gambling element formed a bellowing fist-waving mass that pushed hard at the third-base restraining rope. Waterman eyed them warily. A few broke through and were pushed back roughly by blue-uniformed cops. One man slipped and toppled backward into the mud. McDermott, standing nearby, laughed uproariously at the sprawled figure.
“They’re drunk,” Millar said contemptuously. “Whiskey sellers been over there all afternoon. Shouldn’t be allowed—we don’t at home. It brings out the worst side of the worst element.”
I’d seen the vendors with their large baskets on leather straps; most of them sold hard candy, peanuts, and lemonade. But the biggest business that cool afternoon had gone to those hawking “Spirits!”
After the police restored order, Brainard twisted into his windup, arm flashing, feet dancing. The ball sped in at knee level. Glenn swung hard and sent a low skittering drive up the middle. In the crowd’s instantaneous reaction I heard Sweasy yell,
