PART II:
A Zombie Lawyers Up
Can there be pep in a glacial step?
The musty corporeal being of 2023 Connie Mack, humming a remix of the 1927 chart-topper “California, Here I Come,” tipped his hat at perplexed receptionist Coco Gentilly on his way out– did old boy just wink at me??– and decamped the Oakland A’s offices, lurching outside. Late morning sunlight perforated the marine murk like buckshot and scattered gaudy coins on the estuary. Mr. Mack’s humming got louder and his stride grew bolder.
His crumbling jaw was set as he moseyed by tourists and vagrants and contemplated his new goal. This new acquaintance Demetrious Adair was most assuredly right– he would need legal assistance if he was going to make this unlikely transaction happen. Unfortunately, the Philadelphia lawyers he knew were thousands of miles away and presumably six feet under. Reluctantly, the reanimated teetotaler considered that he would do well to find a watering hole and engage the citizenry about his need.
Mr. Mack recalled that the esteemed batsman Lefty O’Doul of the Phillies and other clubs had opened a saloon in his hometown of San Francisco in the last century. And also, Lefty owes me a favor– because he once fleeced me out of $25,000 for a no-hit shortstop. However, a detour across the bay seemed overwhelming at the moment. Despite his recent good fortune in hitch-hiking across the great swath of America– Rube would be so proud of my gamboling spirit–Mr. Mack found that he was down to just a pair of Ben Franklins in his billfold.
Most fortuitously for his present circumstances, he had been buried in Philadelphia’s Holy Sepulchre Cemetery on a rainy Sunday in 1956 with 500 dollars and the documents secreted in his suit– and here he was, inexplicably resurrected and somehow on the verge of meeting with the current A’s ownership! The metaphysical mysteries could be investigated later, but right now it was baseball season, and a challenge was before him! But he required a lawyer if this obstacle was to be surmounted.
The solution to this dilly of a pickle, although obscure, must be under my nose… just like Ehmke, he indulged in a smirk to himself, reveling in a managerial memory from the glory days of 1929.
The 35-year old journeyman, Howard Ehmke, had been Mr. Mack’s surprise starting pitcher in Game 1 of the World Series. The nation’s sports reporters were flabbergasted by the unlikely selection, but in the end, it was the bats of the mighty Cubs which were most flummoxed. Ehmke twirled a dandy, the A’s won Game 1 and never looked back, rolling on to an impressive championship.
A few strides later, it was the name of the tavern that caused him to stop undead in his tracks. “Heinold’s First and Last Chance.”
Perfectly poetic.
Mr. Mack crinkled a grin, ravaged flesh cascading over outpost cheekbones. “Established in 1884,” read a plaque just inside the door, where the dark wood and old framed photos made the visitor feel more in his element.
“That was the last year I had a strong spirit,” Mr. Mack cracked, hooking a long, gnarled finger back toward the plaque as he strode in, traversing the ancient, bowed floor. The bartender nodded stoically, while a few patrons chuckled. When asked if Mr. Heinold was present, the barman informed him that the owner was long extinct. Mr. Mack got straight to the point, removing his hat, clearing his desiccated throat and asking if anyone present happened to be, or know, a well-connected barrister. Silence. Maybe they didn’t know what “barrister” meant?
He then made piercing eye contact with each person in the room, shuffling around in a resolute semi-circle, and an epidemic of goosebumps broke out. “I’m an honest, God-fearing baseball man, and seeing as how I’m back in the game, back on this plane, somehow,” Mr. Mack said, “I see fit to seek some justice for the Oakland A’s.”
Those assembled in Heinold’s First and Last Chance that weekday afternoon may not have been the finest minds of this or any generation, but they knew exactly how to respond to a perfectly calibrated stump speech. Soon, though, the cackles and whoops and cries of “Let’s go A’s!” dimmed down, and after a few more pregnant pauses, it became clear that no helpful answer was forthcoming.
Once the heady intoxicant of false hope wore off, Mr. Mack’s spirit and spine sagged. He realized with a disquieting jolt that he felt the gravitational pull of his deserted tomb. He was starting to think the “Last Chance” was the more apt half of the bar’s name at this point and planning to turn on his heel and find another public house, a robust potato of a man caressing a vodka and tonic beckoned him over.
As Mr. Mack approached, the human spud, nearly twice his weight and encased in a polo shirt and a cheap windbreaker, dramatically extended his left fist for a bump. Not wise to the social conventions of the day, Mr. Mack regarded the meaty paw, creakily sighed at what he interpreted as a hostile invitation, and, flaring his hat-rack shoulders, squared up into a classic Marquess de Queensbury pose.
“You’re a bit stout for the job, my good man,” said Mr. Mack, “but I daresay I’ll mop the floor with you if I must.”
“Oh shit!” called out an observant grad student to his friends, who whipped out their phones in tandem. The bartender tilted his head sideways and sighed, then suddenly remembered something in the back office that needed tending to. Continue reading “”
