“Which of course you do. I know that because you’ve told me at least a hundred times.”
“If memory serves, oh man of letters, you have enjoyed more than a few of our fine T-bones and filets here yourself, often at that very stool,” the Killer responded good naturedly as he swiped at the surface of the bar with his ever-present rag. “And I cannot recall ever hearing a single complaint on the subject from your corner. Anyway, I’m getting Diz to send me an autographed picture that I can put up in the front window. Be a fine bit of publicity, and t’will serve to burnish our already sterling reputation as a culinary oasis. Under the picture I’ll have a sign: ‘The steaks preferred by Dizzy Dean.’”
“Might be even better for your business — and certainly for the Cubs’ success as well — if you can find some way to repair Dean’s arm,” I observed, keeping my voice low. “You know as well as I do that he hasn’t appeared in a game in several weeks now.”
Kilkenny nodded somberly. “I do indeed, Snap. In fact, you’ll be interested to hear that he was expounding on that very subject only minutes before you darkened my door.”
“Is he drunk?” I asked. The noise level down the bar had if anything increased.
“By no means. In point of fact, Mr. Dean is apparently not much of a drinker. Lord, I even tried to buy him a shot of my best Irish — again, it’s good business, you know. But he told me that he doesn’t touch the hard stuff, only a beer or two. Says it helps him keep up his strength after a game, poor lad. Come on down the line, and I’ll introduce you.”
“Well, all right. Just don’t say that I’m a newspaperman,” I told the Killer. “Dean hasn’t been all that happy with the way the local papers have gone on about him not playing — particularly the Trib.”
“What career would you like to invent for yourself?” the Killer asked. “A salesman, perhaps?”
“Why not? If the subject even happens to come up,” I told him as I rose, grabbed my beer, and walked over to where Dean and Reynolds were seated. Diz, big and square-faced and good-looking, with his brown hair slicked back, was turned sideways on his bar stool talking to Morty Easterly, one of the regulars in the Killer’s establishment, who had stopped in to get an autograph and exchange a few words with the man who had only four seasons earlier won thirty games in a single season for the Cardinals.
“...so anyways,” Dean was drawling, “this friend of mine, a night club comedian by name of Johnny Perkins, you may have heard of him, goes out to one of our games last year up there in Boston when I was still with the Cards, o’ course. And listen to this: He bets me two bits that I can’t strike out Vince DiMaggio — Joe’s older brother, ya know. ’Cept he ain’t near the hitter Joe is. I strike him out first time up, and Perkins yells to me from the stands that he wants to double the bet.
“I say okay, and I strike Vince out again. Perkins, he wants to raise the bet another two bits, and sure enough, I fan Vince a third time. So now he’s comin’ to bat again in the ninth, and Perk and me raise it another quarter. Damned if this time Vince don’t get ahold of a pitch and pops it up foul, toward the ol’ backstop. Our catcher, Brusie Ogrodowski — we called him Ogie — chases after it and I yell for him to let the damn bawl drop. Well, he does let it drop, and shoot, I end up gettin’ Vince to strike out again. Won me a whole dollar.” Dean slapped his leg and let out a whoop, while the group that had clustered around him laughed its approval.
“Diz, I’d like to have you meet a grand old friend of mine, a first-rate fellow and a regular patron here, Steve Malek,” the Killer said effusively. “We call him ‘Snap’ because he has this fondness for snap-brim hats, which he thinks make him look sophisticated. Some of us think otherwise, but that’s neither here nor there. What’s really important is, he loves the Cubs.”
“So do I love these here Cubs now, Mr. Snap,” Dean said with a wide grin, pumping my hand. “Glad to meetcha. Now you have yourself a seat on this stool right next to me. Over here, this is my teammate, Carl Reynolds, the best durn outfielder in the whole league, not to mention the way he can powder the ball. And he loves steaks as much as I do. Carl, meet Mr. Snap.”
Reynolds nodded, smiled slightly, and lifted his beer in salute, then ordered another. “Good idea,” Diz said. “I’ll have another one of them St. Louis champagnes to go with my steak, which is cooking back there in the kitchen. St. Louis champagne, that’s what we call Budweiser,” he added, winking at me. “Can I buy ya one? It’s better’n that there Schlitz.”
I said sure, and the Killer set us up. “I saw you shut out the Cardinals at Wrigley that Sunday back in April,” I told Dean. “That had to give you a lot of satisfaction.”
“Doggone right it did,” the big pitcher boomed. “Them Cards, they really screwed me up last year. After I got hurt — my busted toe in the All Star Game, y’know — Frisch had me out there pitching again too soon, way too soon. Mebbe I shouldn’t blame Frankie all that much, though, he’s jest the manager. He takes his orders from Mr. Rickey upstairs and also from Breadon, that tightwad miser which owns the team. But somebody’s gonna pay, I can tell ya that.”
“Pay? How do you mean?” I asked.
He scratched his forehead, then nodded his approval as a plate with T-bone steak, baked potato, and salad was plunked in front of him on the bar by Doris, the Killer’s sullen waitress.
“I ain’t said so much on this subject yet, and I sure as heck wouldn’t tell the papers in this town about it jest now, ’specially that Trib, the way they been ridin’ me about not bein’ able to pitch, as if it was my fault! Huh! But ah’m gonna sue the Cards and that Breadon for a quarter of a million bucks ’cause of the way they messed me up last year. A quarter of a million. And ah’m gonna give Mr. Wrigley a hunnert and some thousand of that for all the trouble’s that’s been caused. He’s been good to me, that man has. Yessir, he has.” Diz pumped a fist to underscore his feelings and then tore into his steak as if he hadn’t had a decent meal in a week.
“When do you think you’ll be able to pitch again?” I posed, trying to make the question sound nonchalant despite the knowledge that I’d just gotten a scoop handed to me — or at least to the paper.
“Next month — July,” Dean said as he chewed his steak and nodded his approval. “My arm ’n shoulder are both feelin’ a darn sight better now than they was, and I feel ah’m getting my rhythm back, too. Dontcha think so, Carl?”
The taciturn Reynolds nodded while tying into his own steak, but I didn’t read any enthusiasm into his affirmative gesture. And nothing figured to make any Cub teammate more enthusiastic than to have a healthy Dizzy Dean back in the starting rotation, particularly with the way the club was sputtering in its attempt to keep pace with the Giants and now the Pirates, who were coming on strong, along with the Cincinnati club.
“So, when are you going to sue?” I asked, keeping the tone casual.
“Soon, real soon. Say, what line of business are ya in, Mr. Snap?”
“I’m in sales — steel.”
“You out on the road a lot?”
“A fair amount, yeah.”
Dean’s wide face grew even wider as he broke into a grin that showed teeth as white as piano ivories. “With steel as your game, that would mean you’d get to Pittsburgh a lot, right? What with all them there mills they got sending up smoke and all.”
“From time to time,” I answered off-handedly.
“Good town, right, Carl?” Dean laughed and winked, getting another nod and nothing more from the impassive Reynolds, who was doing a trencherman’s job on the steak.