“But surely, Mugs, they can catch this Big Jim Dolovo in—”
“You watch,” Mugs Magoo said, “and see how hard it is to figure. The average cop of today with his lie detector and his fingerprint outfit ain’t going to be smart enough to pick it up. You watch the next time the crowd goes mad. You’ll see him hold up his hands... Wait a minute. Here we go...”
The count on the batter was now two and two, and as the pitcher sent his fast ball sizzling across the plate, headed for a third strike, the batter exploded into motion. The bat caught the ball square on the nose, sent it in a line drive, hissing directly over the pitcher’s head.
The crowd came up with a roar. By an effort, Paul Pry tore his eyes from the running player and watched Big Jim Dolovo instead. The big man was yelling like a maniac, but, as he yelled, he was holding up his left hand with three fingers extended, while his right hand, with all five fingers open, was beating the air.
“You get that?” Mugs Magoo asked, as the runner managed to beat the throw to third by the flicker of an eyelash. “It’s a big job. He’s holding up three fingers of his left hand, and he made five separate paws at the air with his right. That means five times five plus three — twenty-eight grand. And when Big Jim Dolovo is ready to go to twenty-eight thousand for a bunch of sparklers, you can gamble they’re worth over a hundred in any man’s money.”
Paul Pry said, regretfully: “Damn it, Mugs, you’ve caused me to lose interest in this ball game.”
“I can’t help it,” Mugs replied. “Those were your instructions. I’m following them. If you don’t want me to tell you about crooks when I see them—”
“No, no, that’s all right, Mugs,” Pry said. “Who’s he signaling to?”
“I haven’t found out yet. I can probably spot him before the game’s over.”
“How long’s he been signaling, Mugs?”
“For the last three innings. He started at twenty thousand. The last two grand have been like getting blood out of a turnip. Someone’s holding him up good and proper. He—” Mugs broke off as the batter hit a short grounder, tried to beat it out for first and failed.
Paul Pry, watching Big Jim Dolovo, slowly dropped back into his seat in the grandstand, said: “He doesn’t seem particularly happy.”
“No,” Mugs said. “Apparently the twenty-eight grand was no dice.”
“Will he come up?” Paul Pry asked.
“You can’t tell,” Mugs said. “He may, but I doubt it. If he does, he’ll wait until the last inning to do it. He’s mad now.”
“Wish I could find who’s on the other end of the conversation,” Paul Pry said. “He’s looking over toward the left pretty steadily.”
“Then the man he’s really signaling will be over on the right,” Mugs said decisively.
The visiting team came trotting in. The first batter up hit a long, high fly, the fate of which was virtually a foregone conclusion, but the crowd, half hysterical with emotion, came to its feet to watch the course of the leather sphere against the blue vault of the afternoon sky.
Mugs Magoo said: “There he is.”
“Who?” Paul Pry asked.
“‘Soup’ Scanlon. The guy over there right next to the chap who’s waving the straw hat and yelling.”
“I get you,” Pry said.
The ball thudded into the fielder’s glove. A well dressed individual, accompanied by a girl whose face and figure would have done credit to a front-row chorine in a high-priced revue, yelled, “Right in the old basket, just like that,” and with both hands extended, the fingers wide apart, made three pawing motions at the air.
“There you are,” Mugs Magoo said. “It’s Soup Scanlon, and he wants thirty grand for the job.”
The crowd sat down and Paul Pry watched the icy indifference of Big Jim Dolovo’s motionless frame. “Evidently,” Paul Pry said, “it’s no soap with Big Jim.”
“Looks that way,” Mugs Magoo grunted. “But you never can tell about Big Jim. He’s mad, but when he starts dealing with Soup Scanlon, it’s a case of Greek meeting Greek. Soup is the best box man in the game. He can get a box to drink soup where you couldn’t get the edge of a piece of waxed paper between the door and the safe. It’s a gift.”
Paul Pry said: “He seems to be looking over this way. You don’t think he’s spotted you, do you?”
“Naw,” Mugs said. “Whenever I saw him, it was in a shadow box. I was back where he couldn’t see me, and he was under the bright lights. He’s just looking at us because Big Jim Dolovo is between him and us, and he don’t want to miss any move that Big Jim makes.”
“And you mean to say that they carry on their negotiations like this?” Paul Pry asked.
“Matters of price, yes,” Mugs Magoo said. “Picking out the gems Soup is to cop, has all been handled before the deal gets to this stage.”
“How was it done?” Paul Pry asked.
“Through the personal columns of the paper, probably.”
Paul Pry’s eyes ceased to be interested in what was taking place on the ball diamond. Narrowed into thoughtful slits, his eyes became level-lidded with concentration as he studied Big Jim Dolovo, Soup Scanlon, and the possibilities of the situation.
“Who’s Soup’s lady friend, Mugs?” he asked.
“That’s ‘Merva’ Bond — short for Minerva. She’s class.”
“Does she have a record?”
“Sure. It sure does beat hell how that girl keeps her youth. She looks to be about twenty-three or twenty-four, but she’s seen lots of action, that gal. She was moll for Spider Murphy’s right-hand man. He was rubbed out, and then Spider took her over. She—”
A fast grounder brought the crowd to its feet. Paul Pry, shouting wildly, held up his right hand with the fingers spread wide apart. His left hand, high above his head, remained stationary with two fingers extended. The right hand pawed the air three times.
Mugs Magoo, watching him apprehensively, said: “What the hell are you doing?”
“Signaling Big Jim Dolovo,” Paul Pry said.
“Oh, my God!” Mugs exclaimed, and slumped down in the chair as though his muscles had lost their strength.
Slowly, the crowd subsided. Paul Pry sat down with a satisfied smile on his face.
“Did he see you?” Mugs asked apprehensively.
“I’m not certain,” Paul Pry said, “but Merva Bond did, and she’s pointing me out to Soup Scanlon.”
Mugs Magoo wiped perspiration from his forehead. “Serves me right,” he said, “for going out with a damn lunatic.”
“What’s the matter now?” Paul Pry asked. “I was just underbidding Soup Scanlon for the job.”
“You’re signing your death warrant,” Mugs said gloomily. “Don’t put my number up at the same time. Go push up your own daisies. For God’s sake, quit talking to me. Don’t let on that you know me.”
He turned his head partially away, took off his hat, and mopped his forehead, taking care that his hat shielded his lips from the eyes of Soup Scanlon.
“That whole thing,” he said, “was loaded with dynamite. Whatever deal Big Jim’s putting across, if it’s worth twenty-eight grand to Big Jim, a human life more or less ain’t even worth considering. If Big Jim gets wise that you’ve spotted the signals, he’ll rub you out just like stepping on a bug. Of all the damn-fool things you’ve ever done in your life, you’ve won the first prize right now. You’ve been a good pal, and I ain’t trying to say I haven’t appreciated what you’ve done for me, but just because you’ve decided to commit suicide is no reason I’m going to make it a double play. When I die, I want it to be from drinking too much whiskey and not from stopping bullets. You got yourself into this. Now go ahead and get yourself out.”