Blackmail at Wrigley Field

By Christopher Geoffrey McPherson

James Murray is a young man with a dream -- he wants to be a writer just like his idol, Dashiell Hammett. He pens his first novel while working as a clerk at a swank downtown department store. He writes his second while working at a famous movie studio turning his first novel into a screenplay. His third novel chronicles his adventures trying to find a kidnapped scientist.

And now the fourth, and perhaps most dangerous adventure, brings him perilously close to someone who is blackmailing baseball players, threatening to take their money and expose their secrets. But James has other troubles: he’s not done very well since his girlfriend left him to pursue her own career. He’s fallen on difficult times and fallen hard. Can he help himself as he tries to help his new friends discover the identity of the blackmailers?

“Blackmail at Wrigley Field” -- like its predecessors “Abduction at Griffith Observatory,” "Sabotage at RKO Studio" and "Murder at Eastern Columbia" -- is unlike any other book you've read: Not a single novel, it's two parallel novels, featuring two heroes, working two mysteries in two different versions of 1930s Los Angeles. Join James and his alter ego as they each try to find the person behind the blackmail. His hard-boiled alter ego -- neither a private detective nor a police officer: just someone "who wants to help" -- needs to find out why ballplayers keep getting threatened and who might be behind it all.

Along the way, they encounter a rich cast of characters including a handsome young baseball player who’s been leading a secret life, a girl reporter with her own agenda, a hardworking man from China who lost his family in the influenza epidemic, a young deacon, a man with a drinking problem who might have the answer, a mysterious girl from Italy who harbors a tragic secret, an unsavory gangster with whom they have crossed paths before, and the beautiful girl who works at a boarding house who might be the one they’re looking for.

“Blackmail at Wrigley Field” is filled with twists and turns, leading to a final showdown in a spectacular mansion high above the city in the Hollywood Hills.

Come along for the ride in this, the fourth James Murray mystery: the story of a young man who dreams of something better.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Geoffrey McPherson
• Release date: Jan 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311889409

Christopher Geoffrey McPherson

In more than three decades as a professional writer/journalist, Christopher has covered myriad subjects and interviewed thousands of people from the famous to the unknown. He brings these years of experience to each of his novels.In his career, his work has appeared in daily newspapers, monthly magazines, extensively on radio and the occasional dalliance with television. He has written advertising copy and radio commercials – and continues to write.Prior to this new novel, "Sincerely, Dina Lamont," Christopher wrote novels about the most famous cat in ancient Japan who had special powers in “A Cat in Time,” and “22: The Biography of a Gun,” a tale set in the near future where guns are strictly controlled yet where one manages to make its way into the hands of those who want it. Previously, Christopher spent more than five years creating a series of novels that take place in 1930s Los Angeles called “The James Murray Mysteries.” Books in the series are "Murder at Eastern Columbia," “Sabotage at RKO Studio,” “Abduction at Griffith Observatory,” “Blackmail at Wrigley Field,” and “Haunting at Ocean House.”Other writing featuring his byline includes "The Babi Makers" – a science fiction tale about a world where the most important resource is babies; "Sarah & Gerald" – a novel about Paris in the 1920s; "Forever - and other stories" – a collection of short stories; "The Life Line" – the novel of the big one that levels San Francisco; "News on the Home Front" – a novel of two friends during World War Two; and "Mama Cat" – a book for children. Also, several short plays, a few radio plays and a boatload of radio documentaries.

Book preview

Chapter One

I opened my eyes.

I found myself standing in a lush, green park. I figured it had to be Pershing Square, but I couldn’t tell for sure.

Children in the distance were running, laughing.

I could feel drops of rain touching my face. I looked up. I couldn’t see clouds; the sky was dark, somehow, but not ominous.

I turned my head and saw the raven-haired girl standing near a tree. For a moment, I was surprised. I thought she was dead.

Apparently not.

Next to her stood the Mexican girl, smiling, her hair pulled into a pony tail, wrapped with a bright yellow scarf. Again, I was surprised. I thought she, too, was dead.

Apparently not.

Between them stood the teacher I had known in grade school, the one who had introduced me to sex. Not dead? Again, surprise.

In front of the three women stood the young Mexican boy whose life I had saved in that alley near the trolley stop. He looked up at me with those big brown eyes of his and smiled. He was holding the hand of a young Mexican girl about the same age who looked a lot like him. Perhaps it was his sister who had died because their parents didn’t have the money for an operation. Okeh, I knew she was dead, but she stood there, holding her brother’s hand, pretty, smiling.

Just off to one side, alone, stood the girl with the blue pumps looking every bit as beautiful as she did the day she was shot. The day she died. She was standing next to the beautiful blond boy, the one with the shiny black shoes, the one who had fallen off the Bradbury Building. Blood was still dripping onto one of his shoes, yet he stood there, smiling at me.

The girl with blue pumps smiled at me, beckoned me to come closer.

I slowly began walking along the path toward the tree. The tree got closer; the people didn’t -- they remained the same distance from me.

I stopped.

I turned my face to the sky again and felt the gentle drops of rain. The drops started falling harder and faster. I began to worry that maybe there was going to be a storm, that maybe it would be bad, that maybe it would end the same way it had for the people who lived downriver from the San Francisquito Dam back in 1928, or maybe like all the poor souls lost during the La Crescenta New Year’s Eve flood just a few years ago.

I turned and looked at the people again.

Run, I said, almost under my breath.

They just stood there.

Run!

I shouted at them to run to higher ground, but they didn’t move.

RUN!

I shouted again, louder, trying to make them understand that something bad was going to happen, that they had to take the children and seek shelter. Still, they stood there, all of them, smiling at me as if nothing was wrong.

Frustration mounted in me. I knew these people were all in danger, yet nothing I could say seemed to make them realize it.

I felt the force of the rain increase. It was pounding my face so hard I could hardly keep my eyes open, so I closed my eyes.

I opened my eyes.

Around me there was cool white tile. On my face I felt the rain. I moved my head a little and moved out of the water. I tried to sit up, but the pounding in my head prevented that. I leaned up a little, propped up my body with my arm, cleared the water from my face with my other hand.

I looked up. There was water hitting my face, but it wasn’t rain: it was coming from a shower head. I looked around me. I was sitting on the floor in a communal shower, the kind of thing you would find in a boys locker room in high school or college. The wall was lined with shower heads and faucets. Water was pouring down from all the shower heads.

My clothes were soaking wet.

There was a huge splash of blood against my white dress shirt.

I felt the red area. No pain.

Apparently, the blood wasn’t mine.

With a lot of effort, I managed to stand up. I stumbled over to the faucets and turned off all the showers. I leaned my exhausted body against the cool tile wall. After a moment, I looked up. I saw lockers in the distance, with benches evenly spaced on the floor in front of them. To the left there was a large fenced-in area. Behind the fence were baseballs and bats, gloves, shoes, a mask like those used by umpires. I figured I was in a boys locker room at some school. I had no idea how I had gotten here.

Slowly, my strength returned, I took a few steps and got out of the shower area. I walked over to a wooden bench and collapsed onto it. My legs were dead tired. I haven’t felt this tired in a hundred years.

So, the girl said, softly, with that smoky voice of hers. You’re finally awake.

I slowly turned my head toward the sound of her voice. I saw her, standing there, leaning against one of the lockers.

She stood a little under six-feet tall -- sure, I liked them tall -- tall and slender. She had a figure that looked like it could knock down ten pins without so much as breaking a sweat. Her generous breasts were shoe-horned into her brassiere behind the sheer silk fabric that looked like it would burst from the strain at any moment. The silk clung to her waist and her curvy hips like a drowning man clung to a life preserver. The fabric flared out and stopped just below her knees. From there, her shiny pink stockings took up the race, sailing down into her shoes like a cliff diver plunging into the churning surf. She leaned against a locker, smoking a cigarette. She knew I had quit smoking, yet took every opportunity to light up around me. She was a mean one, she was, but still, I loved her.

Sorry, I muttered, my voice a little froggy. Was I keeping you from something?

Oh, not at all, she said, quietly. She finished her cigarette and flicked it into one of the water puddles in the shower area. She walked over to me, slowly. I was enjoying watching you sleeping, she cooed. I always like watching you sleeping. You know that, don’t you?

I gave her a glance. There I had been, sprawled on the floor of a shower room, near likely drowning and the best she can do is observe how much she enjoys watching me sleep.

I coulda drowned back there, I said, giving a slight, unenthusiastic wave toward the shower area.

But you didn’t.

Would you have stepped in to help me if I was in danger of drowning? I asked.

She shrugged one gorgeous shoulder in reply.

Perhaps, she added.

Yeh?

I was thinking about it.

And?

I was still thinking it over. Hadn’t come to a decision yet. I don’t like making hasty decisions, she said with an alluring smile.

She stood there, next to the bench, smiling down at me.

Well? I asked. Are you going to help me up?

Again, I haven’t decided, she said. I kinda like you helpless and all. It’s such an unusual look for you.

I turned and slowly pushed my legs off the bench. That took all the strength I could muster. After another moment I moved to sit up. Boy and howdy, what a mistake that was. The pounding in my head was so intense that it made me momentarily blind. I put my head down on the bench and waited for the pain to stop. Had I been whacked in the head again? Or, was it the other thing: those occasional headaches I had been getting lately without the courtesy of a slug to the head? The occasional blackouts I was having for no reason I knew of. Maybe, I’d been hit in the head one too many times. Maybe, something was wrong.

Hey, the girl said, alarm suddenly in her voice. You really are in a bad way.

I tried to say something clever, but couldn’t manage it.

The girl went behind the bench and sat on the edge. She slowly lifted my head and set it in her lap, cradling it. She gently stroked my wet hair, trying to put it back the way I like it.

There, there little boy, she said, softly. Mommy will make it better.

She continued stroking my hair, humming something soft, while the image of doing this with my real mother made me want to throw up; but it felt good, so I let it go.

After what seemed like a couple hours, the pounding in my head started to subside. I made a more successful effort to sit up. I got into a seated position, turned, and met her face to face. Even in my weakened state, the rumbling started up when I saw those deep blue eyes of hers, the strikingly blonde hair, and her sun-bright teeth smiling at me. Now I remembered why I loved this girl. It all came back to me in a flash.

I love you, I said quietly, sincerely, surprising even myself.

She laughed.

No, I mean it, I insisted.

Of course you do, she whispered, and when you shake off this whateveritis, you’ll forget you ever said those words to me.

No, I won’t, I said. I promise.

Okeh, she added, standing up from the bench, straightening her skirt. We’ll see.

It took me a while, but I managed to rise from the bench under my own power. My legs were a little wobbly, but after a moment, I got my sea legs back. I stood there, happy just to be able to stand. I looked down at my suit coat, the white shirt blotted with blood and my slacks. All of them, drenched.

Looks like you wet yourself, the blonde said with not a little smirk in her voice.

I gave her a nasty glance.

Except for the blood part. That looks bad.

I nodded.

Is it yours? she asked, seeming to be only slightly concerned that it might be.

She tilted her head and looked at me.

Is it yours? she repeated.

The young man stopped writing.

Chapter Two

The young man stopped writing.

Hey, Buddy, the voice repeated. Is it yours? What are you, some kind of deaf?

James looked up from his note pad and was met with the dirty, grimy face of a hobo looming over him, pointing to something on the ground.

What? James asked, bewildered.

That butt, the hobo said again, referring to a stub of cigarette sitting on the ground near James’s feet. It is yours?

I don’t -- James said, still trying to orient himself.

Fagettit, the hobo said as he reached down, grabbed the butt, put it between his lips and scampered down the street.

For a moment, James did nothing. Then, slowly, he moved his body into a seated position. He looked around him and saw a large plaza filled with giant trees and sunshine -- lots and lots of sunshine.

Pershing Square, James muttered to himself. How in the world did I get here?

Just then, a slight breeze pushed past him and he was hit by the smell of stale liquor that came wafting up to his nose. It was a putrid odor made even worse by the acidic smell of vomit.

James looked down and saw his shirt covered in a pasty goo that he immediately recognized.

Ah, shit, he said, quietly. It’s happened again.

It was a blackout, the kind of thing that was happening to James more frequently. He would drink so much that he would lose any memory of what happened. That was scary enough. Worse was that, although he would lose his memory, he never seemed to actually pass out. Hearing other people explain what had happened, it seemed James would still be ambulatory, walking around talking with people, appearing coherent, although tipsy. He would end up in all kinds of places including an all night chop-suey restaurant with his face half in a bowl of sweet-and-sour soup, under a bridge spanning the Los Angeles River down by the movie studios, in the back of a cab after having had all his possessions stolen, and now this: smack dab in the middle of bustling Pershing Square in the heart of downtown Los Angeles.

It was his fear of the all-encompassing blackouts that had convinced him to sell his car -- the brand-spanking-new car he’d bought with money from his job at RKO Studio, the car that had meant so much to him, given him freedom, a sense of power and a sense of value in a huge city like Los Angeles. All he needed was to have a blackout behind the wheel and cause an accident or kill someone. So, he parted with it, a decision he never regretted but one he hated to have to make.

Another element that seemed to worry him, aside from the drinking to excess, the blackouts and the strange places he’d landed, was that he was able to write as if he had been perfectly sober. He never actually remembered writing, but more times than not when he awoke he found he had been writing something. Occasionally, he was writing gibberish, his handwriting so sloppy he couldn’t make it out; other times, stuff that was actually pretty good. And pretty good was important right now as he was months over deadline to deliver his next novel to his publishers. Letters and telegrams from them were near-daily occurrences. He knew he had to deliver something. He had long ago spent the advance given him by his publisher, and was blowing through his royalties like a sailor on a twenty-four-hour shore leave. He was proud that he had not touched the money he made from selling his first three novels to the movie studios -- at least, he didn’t remember touching that money -- and felt secure that it was all safe in the bank. Even with all the troubles in the depths of the Depression, he still knew his money would be safer in a bank than under the mattress in his rented room.

James looked around him. He couldn’t quite place the angle of the sun, so he didn’t know if it was morning or evening. He tried to avoid meeting the eyes of the well-dressed men and women walking through the square either on the way to work or on the way from it. He tried to ignore the sounds of disgust from the people who saw him, sitting on the park bench, covered in (what he certainly hoped was) his own vomit.

He stood and tried vainly to neaten his shirt and slacks. He reached up to straighten his tie and found he was not wearing one. A reach up to his head informed him that he was also without a hat. He looked down and was relieved to see he was still wearing shoes, although he was bewildered by the fact he was no longer wearing socks.

It didn’t take long for all the memories to come swimming back to him, his long and direct course to the bottom. It all began the night Melody told him she was leaving him, for certain. They had been sitting in a booth at Musso and Frank’s restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard, their favorite restaurant, talking. He was hoping for a reconciliation; she was determined to leave and find someone who could love her for who she was and not what he had hoped she would become.

Shortly after that realization, the tears began. He didn’t care who saw him crying. He let the tears course down his dirt-stained face as he embraced the feelings he still felt for the only woman he had ever really loved.

At first, he avidly followed her career in the newspapers; she was recently named art director at Daily Variety -- a job she loved so much that she left him rather than quit. But, after a while, he stopped. Each successful step she took stabbed at his heart like a knife. Not that he wasn’t proud of her -- he was, fiercely and totally; rather, he had hoped -- selfishly -- that she would fail at her job, realize the mistake she had made in leaving him, and come running back to be the wife he wanted. The day she left him he knew that would not happen; and every day that passed in the last two years proved it. She was successful and happy without him. No wonder he took to drinking. Rather, he took to drinking more and, eventually, to excess. And now this. Was it possible for him to sink even lower? He couldn’t imagine how.

He long ago moved out of the apartment they had shared at the Andalusia, and rented a small room for himself and his typewriter. That’s all he really needed. He had considered going back home, to live with his parents -- they had even suggested it themselves, several times; but he didn’t want to go backward, only forward. Although, if he was being honest with himself, he would realize he was only going downward. He started drinking more when Melody left, even more when he started having trouble constructing his new novel, more with each letter from the publisher, and now more even than eating. He had lost so much weight he shocked himself when he looked in the mirror -- so, he did the only thing he could think of: he stopped looking in the mirror. He stopped shaving and was now sporting a dirty shock of beard.

And that was where he was today, at this moment, as he stood in Pershing Square park crying: a defeated lonely loser who had once shown so much promise and been possessed of so much hope. Where had it all gone? he asked himself, silently. He once had the world on a string and now he didn’t even have a string.

He reached down and grabbed the stained writing pad and his pencil off the bench and shuffled off, back to his rented room.

It was a short walk. Soon, James stood inside the front door to the apartment house where he had been renting a room for more than a year. He turned to walk up the stairs to his room, first floor front, when a voice stopped him.

Good morning, Mr. Murray, the voice said, softly, sincerely.

James stopped and turned his head. He knew who it was; he recognized the voice of the young girl who worked the front desk a few hours in the morning before she went to school.

Good morning, Jenny, James said, trying to remember how it was to act polite, civilized.

I see you’ve been writing, she said, with an enthusiasm in her voice that James had not felt in two long years.

James looked at the pad in his hand.

Trying to, he said.

He turned his body toward the young girl and was startled when she gasped at the sight.

Mr. Murray, she said. Are you all right?

I’m fine, Jenny, he said, softly. I just had a little too much.

I see.

Well, if you’ll excuse me --

Mr. Murray, the young girl said as she walked around the front desk and approached him. I wanted to let you know I just finished reading your third novel, the one about the Griffith Observatory.

Oh, yes?

The girl smiled.

It was wonderful, she said, apparently honestly.

Thank you. James replied so quietly that he wasn’t sure he had actually said it.

You have such a gift for telling a story, for creating characters.

Thank you.

It’s sad that the detective’s girlfriends always die at the end of your novels.

Yes, James said, forcing a little smile. He does seem to have bad luck that way.

Will his luck turn? she asked. I mean, will he ever find someone he can grow old with?

James looked at her standing there, this beautiful young girl, filled with so much life, so much curiosity, so much promise. He had often wondered himself whether he would find the person that he could grow old with. He had thought it would be Melody, but it wasn’t. He wondered whether he would even know that one special person if their paths ever crossed.

Perhaps, was all he said.

After a pause, the young girl stepped a little closer, reached out and put her hand on his forearm.

James felt the familiar pain in his arm, the spot where the bone had been broken in the explosion at the RKO Studio commissary all those years ago; but he welcomed the caring touch of another human being so much that he didn’t flinch from the pain.

I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I think you need to come out with another novel -- soon.

I don’t mind you saying it, James said. It’s true.

Are you making progress on your next story?

James looked at the pad of paper in his hand.

A little, he said, feebly, but progress is slow.

I understand, the young girl said.

They stood in silence for a moment.

You know, my father drinks, Jenny said. Well, used to drink.

Indeed.

Yes, but he doesn’t now. He found a group that helped him stop drinking.

James perked up at this mention. He had heard of groups that helped people stop drinking, but never knew anyone who had gone to one. He didn’t even know if such groups existed in Los Angeles.

It’s called the Oxford Group, she continued. They help people understand why it is they drink. They help them understand so they can stop, she paused, trying to hold back a tear, so they can stop drinking.

Jenny’s voice was so soft, so kind, so caring that James started to cry anew.

I’m sorry, the young girl said. It’s really none of my business. I probably shouldn’t have said anything.

No, James said, offering her the best smile he could manage, which wasn’t much. It’s just that no one has been so nice to me in such a long time that I’ve forgotten how it feels to have another person care whether I live or not.

Of course people care, she said with enthusiasm, wiping at a stray tear that had started down her cheek. I know lots of people who care about you. There’s even a little fan club on campus made up of kids who love your detective stories. People who care about your writing, about your characters, but most importantly, about you.

Is that true? James said, surprised.

Indeed, Jenny replied.

James stood there a moment, one foot on the tread on the stairs, the other firmly planted on the floor of the lobby.

Tell me about this group, James said.

The fan club? Well --

No, James stopped her, gently. Tell me about, he paused, realizing that the next words out of his mouth could change his life forever. Tell me about the Oxford Group.

Chapter Three

Is it yours? she asked seeming to be only slightly concerned that it might be.

She tilted her head and looked at me.

Is it yours? she repeated.

Again, I felt the red splot on my shirt and didn’t feel any pain.

I don’t believe so, I said, taking a few unsteady steps.

I’m glad, the girl said. I’m not sure how you managed to dodge all those bullets and grab the gun out of his hand -- but it was impressive to watch.

What now?

Yeh, and you hit that guy pretty hard. I think you might’ve killed him.

I gave her a quizzical look.

She tilted her head sideways a little.

I followed the tilt of her head. It led to a corner of the shower room. Dark, dank, and