In Front of Fifty Thousand Screaming People

Chapter 1

Tony Mancini was not ruthless enough to be a Mafia Don. He knew it, the Family knew it, and Colt Washburn sensed it. That was why Washburn chose Mancini's turf for expansion into the New York underworld.

The resulting gangland war—or rather the end of it—had brought Mancini from New York to Chicago to make the peace. Washburn's luxury box at Wrigley Field served as a suitable venue: public enough that each felt safe, yet private enough for earnest discussions. Still, each Don had his team that maintained a multi-point protective vigil over their family head.

Negotiations went well. Kissinger and Lee Duc Tho could have learned from these no nonsense thugs, who recognized that killing on a wide scale was bad for business. An occasional takeout was necessary when someone got out of line, but accommodation was better than wholesale murder. Washburn had fulfilled many contracts as he earned his bones, and was more likely to use elimination as a business solution than was Mancini, who for years had learned how to survive in the divided New York market. His methods as an enforcer were more subtle.

Well, well, well, Washburn said. Accommodation reached just before the opening pitch. Turn up the monitors and let's listen to Dan and Johnny on the radio. Ladies, drinks for everyone. Tony, a twenty says the lead off Yankee will strikeout.

The finest luxury box at the ballpark was quickly transformed from tenseness to joviality. Liquor flowed to all, except a few whose only job was to watch their Don's back. A specially furnished side room allowed intimate socializing between New York and Chicago. Five innings were completed in the blink of an eye.

It's not the Cubs' day today, Dan. Pitching, once again, is their bugaboo. High quality speakers projected the radio with almost no static.

6 to 1 will be difficult to overcome, but the Cubbies have the bats to do it.

"Yes, but without a stopper and a closer, the bats are useless.

A lead-off double looked good for the Yankees.

All right! Mancini's inebriation enhanced his enjoyment of the game. A C-note says the Yanks get two this inning.

Sure thing. Double or nothing if they don't score. Washburn was a notorious sports better, who never let his heart govern his wallet. Behind each of these powerful men, an assistant drank a cola and made entries in a betting book, for in some worlds even drunken fun must have its tally. Had they run the numbers, Chicago was probably ahead of New York in the flow of dollars. A walk raised the no-score odds to 3 to 1.

Standish has had enough. He indicates the right-hander—Thompson will be the Cubs' third pitcher in this game.

Talk about a baptism of fire, this kid was just brought up on Thursday. Let's see, twenty-four years old, Wichita State; academic All-American. Oh my, 12-1 in double A last year and 8-0 in triple A this year.

He's listed as 6-2, Dan, 190 pounds. Kinda skinny. Says he's a starter.

Well, Standish wants him to get rid of his butterflies in relief in a game with no pressure. Smart move.

Says he led Wichita State to Omaha his last two years there. Decent batting average for a pitcher. Man, this kid looks promising.

Yeah, but the college World Series ain't the big leagues. We'll see pretty quick what he's got. All right, folks, Davis steps in, as young phenom Ronald Thompson will face the Yankees' 3-4-5 batters in his first major league inning, with two on, nobody out, Cubs down by five, and a subdued Wrigley crowd hoping for an inter-league miracle.

All-star Chuck Davis hugged the plate, confidently eyeing Thompson. Everyone in the park knew he would take one to watch the new man's motion. With runners on base, Thompson threw from the stretch—a strike down the middle. Davis stepped out of the box, never taking his eyes off the rookie, hoping to unnerve the young man. He returned to his batting stance and leaned in a bit more, menacingly twirling his bat in a loose grip. Aiming for the outside corner, Thompson was jerky in his motion, and uncorked a wild pitch low and away. Instinctively he charged from the mound to cover the plate, while his battery mate chased down the ball and the runners advanced.

Oh ho! Let's raise that bet to a grand. Whaddaya say? Mancini slapped his knees.

Washburn hesitated, waiting on the radar result to show. Sure. Let's raise my odds to 10:1.

You're on.

Did you see the radar on that last pitch? Eighty-eight, from the stretch. I think the kid can do it.

It won't matter.

Just missed the corner this time. 2 and 1 on Davis, runners at second and third. Think they'll walk him?

Not a chance with the hot hitters up next.

Davis is ready. Thompson checks Carter at third. The stretch, Davis squares to bunt, and here comes Carter on the suicide squeeze!

The play should have worked. The percentages said it would, and all the elements were in place. A speedster was on third, a man who had scored eight times on similar plays in seven major league seasons. The batter was as good a bunter as there was in the junior circuit. And the pitcher was a rookie, thrown into a hopeless game to work out his willies. But his pitch rose ever so slightly, and Davis lofted the ball a little too much. Thompson charged from the mound the second he released the pitch. Knowing where it was going, he angled to the third base side. The runner was committed. Thompson dove, just got his glove under the ball, and held on. In a move worthy of an acrobat, he rolled once and jumped up a few feet away from the helpless base runner.

An unassisted double play! What a way to break into The Show!

Mancini swore. What's the chance of that happening? How much is the bet?

One thousand.

Ten thousand.

Each clerk responded with what his boss stood to lose.

Bad luck, Tony. But there's still one out left. You wouldn't want to double the bet, would you?

You're on. No way this kid can get past Moncton and Brown. That's a sucker bet.

Well, if you don't want to make it—

Write it down, the New Yorker said, looking over his shoulder.

The next batter was not about to bunt. Bufe Moncton didn't believe in infield hits, and had few of them in his long career. The fences were where he preferred to put fast balls. He loved to duel the pitcher, fouling off curves, waiting for an errant fast ball to be in just the right place. The count quickly went to 3 and 2, then he hit six straight balls out of play foul. Thompson was finding the corners. The handful of Yankee fans in attendance kept up the chant that always greeted Moncton: Bufe, Bufe, Bufe, Bufe….

Oh, I can't believe he called that a ball! The home plate ump just gave a break to the veteran.

Now, now, Johnny, Don't let your home town bias come through. A ball is a ball.

And that was a strike. How in the world did inter-league play ever lead to inter-league radio teams?

Strike one swinging. Ernie Brown tried to take the first one deep and get his second homer of the game, this time batting from the left side against the right-handed rookie. Runners are at the corners.

Thompson looked at both runners, and delivered a perfect curve ball that dropped steeply across the plate. Brown was caught looking.

0 and 2. Thompson checks McGovern at third, Moncton at first. Now Brown asks for time and gets it. He takes a couple of cuts. The wind is still blowing in from left. The home plate ump motions him back. He takes his stance…and the pitch…popped up to the mound…Blaine calls off Thompson…and the second baseman puts it away for out number three. No runs, one hit, no errors, two stranded, as Thompson gets the Cubs out of a jam in his first major league inning….

Mancini cursed long and loud—something he rarely did—at his bad luck. Bartender, set 'em up again. Help me forget my misery. Oh, well, it's only twenty grand. I just hate losing it to a limey.

Neither of these men fit the stereotype of a Mafia Don. Tony Mancini had grown up rich, son of a Don, grandson of a Don. In private schools plus two years at Columbia, he had learned manners. He claimed they were a handicap in the underworld, but his upbringing served him well. He presented himself as cultured—a patron of the arts, to his mother's delight. Her influence on him had been great and, had she another son, she would have succeeded in steering Tony to a legitimate occupation. She took solace that he cussed less than the typical associate of her late husband, and seemed less prone to violent ends. Although, it was said that the concrete steps of a small art gallery in Greenwich Village hid a skeleton or two.

Davis Addington Washburn was nothing more than a Chicago gang member who moved on to bigger things. Only thirty-five years old, born to parents who had hoped for something better for their son, he controlled a large part of the Chicago rackets, no small feat for someone with no family ties to the mob. A dozen murders and a hundred pistol whippings with a Colt special had earned him his nickname and reputation. He stood poised to control a larger empire than Al Capone had at his peak, and was making all the right moves—that is, until his attempt to muscle into New York almost set the two cities on fire. He considered himself fortunate to have found a like-minded counterpart in Mancini. Washburn admired Mancini's cultured manners, something he knew he must acquire if he were to move up in Chicago society. Right now, though, he saw a way to get the better of his heavily drinking friend, as he had in the negotiations. He knew the significance of the Cubs' new pitcher.

Gee, Tony, I hate to take advantage of you like that. Neither of us knew about this kid. Let's call that one off.

Nope, fair and square. I owe you twenty Gs.

No, it's not fair. Plus, you're drunk, and—

Listen, pipsqueak, I was holding my liquor just fine when your mama first told you about sex.

Washburn sought to ease the momentary tension he had purposely created. Okay, okay. Tell you what; I'll give you a chance to win it back. What say we put that on a season bet? The Yankees have, what, sixty wins now?

Sixty-one after today.

You hope. Double or nothing says the Yanks won't win a hundred this year.

I'll take that bet.

Want to parlay it? Double or nothing again that the Cubs will win seventy-five games this year.

Are you kidding? They don't have forty wins now. You're throwing good money away.

Well, if you don't want to do it, he shot back.

Nope, you're on.

Inspired by what Thompson had done, the Cubs rallied for two runs in the bottom of the sixth and one each in the seventh and eighth.

Thompson has shut down the Yankee bats since he came in. He even helped himself by drawing that walk and scoring in the seventh. You folks at home can't feel it, but there's an air of excitement in the park right now.

Yeah, Johnny, but the Cubs don't have a closer. They'll probably take Thompson out for the ninth, and that will be the end of it.

The Dons barely noticed the excitement building on the field and in the stands, even when, with one run now separating the two teams, Thompson stayed in the game in the ninth inning and retired the Yankees in order. The men talked about business, about families, about cars and women, about guns they had known and loved. About how their business had suffered after the 9-1-1 attacks as security got tighter year after year. Each batter brought a new bet—for chump change, as Washburn called it: ten dollars here, twenty there. As Washburn had a new thought, he added to the big bet, now being kept on dedicated pages by the dutiful clerks. The Yanks won't have a twenty game winner this year; the Cubs will have a fifteen game winner. The Yankees won't make it to the World Series; the Cubs will finish third in their division. Next year the Cubs will make the playoffs, and the Yankees will get in, but not as division leader. The Cubs and Yanks will face each other in the World Series next year, and the Cubs will win. Double or nothing, triple or nothing, quadruple or nothing. Mancini thought Washburn foolish, throwing away 20,000 dollars already won for a strung-out parlay that could not possibly work. Neither man checked with his clerk, though Washburn's mental multiplication told him it was something with possibly eight figures.

So, it all comes down to two batters, Dan. Bottom of the ninth, one out, tying run on second, winning run at the plate in Martinenza, and also in the on-deck circle in Hampton. The Yankees have baseball's best closer on the mound in Borman. Martinenza takes strike one up high on the inside corner."

Johnny, who would have thought the Cubs would have two chances to win a game that the Yankees could not lose. Thompson has been magnificent in his first major league appearance, allowing one hit in four innings, striking out two, giving up just one walk.

I have a feeling that he's not up for a cup of coffee. If he can do this in his first game, he can really have an impact on the Cubs' season.

The count goes to 2 and 1, as Borman missed badly on the last two.

What about it? A hundred bucks says the Cubs win on the next pitch.

You're on. It's like taking candy from a ba—

The crack of the bat was solid, but Martinenza got under it more than he wanted. The wind held it up in left field. It would be close.

Davis is at the wall…he leaps into the ivy…HE CAN'T GET IT! Home run for Jorge Martinenza, and the Cubs pull it out 7 to 6. Oh my!

Mancini laughed it off, and without waiting for the tally, tossed Washburn a hundred, then waddled off to get rid of some beer and find a girl. Washburn gathered his men together and left quickly. He would allow his guests to use the suite on into the evening if they wished before they flew back to New York. He paused to say to one of his blonde female operatives, Show the boss man a good time.

The two clerks checked their notes. On the casual bets, the Chicagoan had pulled out a close one, just like his club. On the parlay, each man had the same result, but added his figures twice more to be sure. After double or nothing many times over, Mancini stood to lose 80 million dollars.

Chapter 2

The post-game press conference at Wrigley was more crowded than after most of the games that season. A 29-52 record at the All Star break told all. Without a miracle turn-around, the Cubs would not play in the post-season, after several promising years that had given fans hope that the long streak of bad luck was over. Could Ronny Thompson be that miracle?

Manager Bill Standish brought him in to a curious press corps swelled by the New York newspapers and TV stations, and by the national cable network that had televised the game. All wanted to know who this kid was who had silenced the mighty Yankee bats for four innings in his first appearance.

May I introduce to you, said the exuberant Cub's manager, fresh out of the Kansas prairie, Ronald Reagan Thompson.

They cheered like fans, even the New York reporters. Then questions came like pitches during batting practice. It immediately was apparent that Thompson was a shy, backwards young man. Standish, and pitching coach Dennis Earls, helped fill in when Thompson's awkwardness caused him to stumble. Raised on a farm in Haskell County on the Kansas high plains, he had worked the farm since he was old enough to remember. It was his grandfathers, not his hard-working farmer father, who had taught him to play ball. There wasn't a Little League convenient to his remote home, so he never pitched until he got to high school. He'd had years of drills, though, from Grandpas Thompson and Bingham, and knew all about the game. Ron led his high school the State AA finals his senior year, but they came in runners-up since they had no other pitcher who could win a game on days when the rules said he couldn't pitch.

A scholarship to Wichita State was a dream, he said. A strong baseball school, it was as big a step for him as going to the big leagues. He stayed the full four years, earning his degree in agriculture, and amassing an amazing 50-4 record, and undefeated in post season tournaments.

What did Manager Standish say to you just before you began pitching today? asked John Lind, a reporter for the Chicago Tribune.

Ah, he said, ‘Ronny, remember your fundamentals. This is just high school with a nicer field and a bigger crowd.'

Are you married, Ron? a New York Times reporter asked him.

Ah, no sir.

I'll bet you never even had a girlfriend, added a network reporter.

Um…well…I… Thompson went silent. His cheeks reddened and he slunk down a little in his chair. This brought a room full of laughter from the gaggle of reporters who were almost as uncomfortable interviewing this clean-cut kid as he was facing them. The formal press conference broke up, and Earls whisked Thompson out of the room, while Standish chatted with the media for a while longer.

Thompson had a further introduction to the majors when he left the locker room and ran into a hundred fans with score books, team rosters, ticket stubs, popcorn boxes, and even a few baseballs. He signed them all. His grandfathers had not prepared him for this part of the game. The pitching coach should have stayed with him till he drove away, but was too busy considering revisions to his pitching rotation. In three days the Cubs would begin a series at Citi Field.

* * *

At a farm house in rural Kansas, the six people that mattered most to Ronny Thompson replayed the tape of the press conference and waited for a phone call. This was the first day that the new satellite dish was operational at the Thompson house, and the game was the first program watched. A mild July thunderstorm made the fields unworkable that day, so Walter Thompson had not faced the guilt he anticipated at leaving his livelihood for a few hours to see if his son got in the game. The winter wheat had been late this year, delaying all the other summer farm tasks, and this rain didn't help.

About 8:00 p.m., three hours after the game ended, the phone rang. Edna Thompson got to it first. Hello? It's Ronny! she said. Hi son.

They talked for a half-hour, each one having five minutes, strictly timed by Walter. The game, his teammates, the manager and coaches, his search for an apartment, the city, the press conference—a lot to fit within the limits imposed.

Will you have to play on Sunday?

Yes, Mom. It's just like the minor leagues. There's a game every Sunday. I'll probably pitch in some of them.

You won't get to go to church then? Not even tomorrow?

When we're home I will, and tomorrow if I can find an early service. On the road I don't know. I hear some of the guys on the team get together for a Bible study with a local pastor.

His dad spoke of the farm and how the wheat was late.

I don't suppose you'll be back in time to help drill wheat this fall?

The season ends October 1st. It doesn't look like we'll get into the post-season this year. You have to get the wheat in by mid-September.

Well, maybe I can get one of your cousins to help, Walter said in as neutral a tone as he could manage. He tried to sound excited about his son's success, but could not change his focus, and wondered how he could work his large farm of mixed dry-land and irrigated without Ronny's help.

The grandmothers said the sorts of things grandmothers say on holiday calls. The grandfathers talked only of baseball and the game just completed. They complimented him on all aspects of the game.

Great presence of mind to draw that walk in the 7th, said Adam Thompson, who saw himself as Ronny's personal batting coach. Don't let the opposing pitcher have a weak spot in the line-up.

I won't, Grandpa T, Ronny replied.

Charles Bingham, once a minor league pitcher, couldn't resist a playful dig. You looked awful on—

—on that wild pitch. I know, I know, interrupted Ron, hanging his head in shame as if he were in the room with the man who had taught him to pitch.

That's okay. You didn't hurt yourself. Remember, figure out how hard you have to pitch to win the game, and count on your team for the rest. You've got eight men to back you up.

I'll remember, Gramps.

His dad ended the call, managing a sincere, We're all proud of you, son.

I think they'll put him in the rotation right away, Adam said, maybe this week against the Mets.

I hope they don't overwork him. God knows the Cubs need his pitching pretty bad, Charles Bingham replied.

Well I need him here worse than them, Walter growled. I barely managed last year, and I've got forty more acres of soy and forty more of sorghum planted. How am I gonna get all that done?

Use custom cutters, both of the elderly men said at once.

We went through this last year. Not with perfectly good equipment in the shed. It's bad enough I have to hire out haul trucks.

* * *

At a Turkish restaurant on North Lincoln, Washburn folded a twenty dollar bill, stood, and tucked it under the bikini strap of the shaking belly dancer. He was glad to get up briefly to stretch his legs, as it was difficult to sit at the low tables for long. He felt great from the day's events. Football was more his game, but it was always good for the hometown team to win in any sport. He had bested his New York rival in the accommodation as well as in the betting. It was a long shot, he knew, but the parlay might just happen. None of it was impossible. This Thompson kid could be the spark the Cubs needed to get off their over-paid duffs.

Another belly dancer wriggled by. Washburn reached into his shirt pocket and found the hundred that Mancini had tossed him. He put it halfway into the dancer's skirt.

* * *

Standish sipped a cocktail in his office at home, and watched the baseball wrap-up programs on the national networks. Scenes from the game, and then the press conference, were played on each. Thompson acted like a bumpkin. Didn't he learn anything in college other than running a farm and playing baseball? Would he have to keep the press away from him all year? The kid better grow up fast and learn some media savvy, cause he would see a lot of action the rest of the year.

He switched to the local Chicago station and saw them replay the unassisted double play three times in slow motion. The city was beginning to buzz. The three calls he'd received from reporters that evening were more than he'd had in the previous ten days.

* * *

As his private jet descended to LaGuardia, Mancini slept on, oblivious to all except whatever dream was causing him to toss and turn in the reclining seat. His aids tried to make sense of the day, but could not. He had given up too much turf to that Chicago punk. Totally unnecessary. The Mancinis would have won the gangland war, probably without calling on the other New York families. Now they would have to deal with them, and explain why the Chicago mob would have a small piece of Harlem, while all New York got was a couple of blocks in Chicago's Englewood area, all because Mancini didn't have the stomach for conflict.

During the flight, a clerk couldn't make the Don's key associates understand the significance of a page in the Don's betting book.

Chapter 3

Mancini spent his Sunday in bed, hung over, with swollen knees and ankles. Why did it do that after a bout of heavy drinking? It would take two days for him to stop hurting. He got up in the evening to take some pills and see his children before they went to bed, then turned on the television and watched the early New York news and sports. The Yankees had edged the Cubs today, 4-3, ending the series and inter-league play. Wish I'd been there for this game instead of yesterday's.

Monday morning found Mancini at his office in mid-town Manhattan. He had chosen this location to imply legitimacy. The police were just stupid enough to not suspect evil-doing could come from a fancy, high dollar office. So he forsook his native Brooklyn, lived in Tribeca, and had an easy commute to 51st Street.

The week started as every week did: with a parade of aides who reported the weekend take from each district for each enterprise. This was followed by other aides who reported on legitimate businesses. Last was the police report, listing places where the businesses were raided, who needed bail, where some new payoff could be well spent, and if favors from on high had to be called in. It had been a good weekend—not stellar, but good.

At noon, the four top members of the Mancini Crime Family held their customary meeting at a small bistro in the theatre district.

I'm worried about the take, said Rob Russo, who functioned as a sort of chief operating officer. Three weekends now in a row off-peak.

How about the movie theatres? Mancini countered. A record weekend.

We pay taxes on every dollar we make in the theatres, said Russ Fineman, the organization's moneyman. The other stuff is tax free.

And now we've got a foothold in Chicago, Mancini replied.

More like a toe hold. That's a bad deal for us.

Mancini glared at Russo over a forkful of pasta. "You worry about a slight