Mickey was at the game, September 9, 1948, when Rex Barney threw a no-hitter, having chosen to skip an afternoon of stalking some hysterical woman's husband who was cheating on her with an even more hysterical typing clerk. Henry couldn't remember what happened with that case, but he remembered Mickey feeling genuinely bad that he hadn't invited Henry to come along. Mickey liked to play pranks, tease, and give him a hard time, but he knew that the Dodgers were sacred; if he had known it would be an historical game, he would have gladly taken the stakeout duty so that Henry could go. Henry knew this because Mickey had told him about 1,000 times.
Almost two years later, on August 31, 1950, Mickey got a feeling. He had been planning to go to the track that day, and had given Henry the day off. There hadn't been much work. Henry remembered that was about the time he started to think about going out on his own. Mickey called a friend and got two tickets down the first base line. Then he called Henry and said they were going to the game. They had been to games before and seen some good ones, but nothing like the no-hitter. Henry remembered what his friend had said on the phone: “Henry, I know I gave you the day off, but we are going to Ebbets…I have a feeling”. In truth, Mickey had said similar things before, and was usually wrong, but Henry didn't care. He would never turn down a chance to see the Dodgers play.
Only one Brooklyn Dodger in history has ever hit four home runs. He was kind enough to do it for Henry on that last day of August. Or at least, that is how Henry liked to remember it.
He got up from the kitchen table, turned off the radio, and went to his dresser in the bedroom. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a stack of magazines. In the middle of them, perfectly flat, in perfect condition, was the scorecard from that day. He read through every batter. It was as if he was back at Ebbets with his friend and mentor.
He put it away. Henry pulled out his notebook, dated the first clean page, and made a list for the day. His mind seemed clearer now and it was time to get back on the case.
Chapter Twenty
He listened for any shuffling around inside, as he walked past Bobby's office; he slowed up a bit. Henry wasn't interested in one of Bobby's long stories and was sure that if Bobby heard him in the hall, he would be knee deep in a lengthy tale, before he knew what hit him. He checked his watch. Nine o'clock and time to get back to work on Mickey's case. The empty receptionist desk suddenly bothered Henry. Had he really been doing everything Mickey had taught him? He sat down at the empty desk to think.
Thirty minutes passed and he still didn't know why he had never bothered to hire someone. There were countless times it would have been handy. How many clients had he lost because they showed up while he was out? It didn't look professional.
The thought crossed his mind that he might not be good enough to catch Mickey's killer. The doubt washed over him like a cold northerly wind, and it chilled him to the bone. Mickey had wandered into his life at just the right moment, but now he wasn't sure if he had spent enough time learning the ropes. His old boss was always testing him. Henry had loved it.
Could this be the final exam? Henry pushed aside the sick feeling he remembered from school. This test he couldn't bluff his way through.
Footsteps were coming down the hall; Henry hopped to his feet and went to the door. He heard a knocking, but it was a few doors down. He heard voices greeting each other and a door being closed. Henry walked back into his office and made some coffee. The view out the window didn't provide any inspiration, but he looked anyway.
When you are stuck, make a list, he thought, echoing the words of his mentor.
He flipped open his notebook and set it on the desk. The pencil was dull, so he sharpened it. First item...
The fears were strangling his mind. The blank page staring back at him screamed a deafening rebuke. What do you do next? First item, who are the players in the New York art scene? Just getting it on paper was a start, but the fears were coming faster than the ideas.
He opened the desk drawer. There was the card for Mr. Brown, who might or might not be wearing a brown suit today. It was the only item on his list, but maybe if he started at the top of the (very short) list, he may find a few more items to add.
Henry locked the office door and headed out to pay Mr. Brown a visit.
The metaphorical wind, which had chilled him earlier, was replaced by a very real arctic blast in Henry's face. His hat nearly got away from him, but his reflexes were still sharp. Hat in one hand, he used the other to hail a cab. The driver knew the address, and Henry was thankful he wasn't chatty.
Traffic in Manhattan was brutal, but they got there. Henry paid him and, with one hand on his fedora, exited the cab.