minimum.”
“You’re nuttier than ol’ Erma there,” he said, nodding toward the far end of the bar.
“Face it Red. Gooden, for that one year at least, was all but unhittable. He won twenty-four games for a team that had to struggle just to get ninety wins.”
Red stood before me scraping one of his molars with a swizzle stick. “Gooden ? Give me a break. Guidry has it all over him. And I can name you a few others too.”
“Okay. Hotshot. Sing.”
“Koufax for one. He was unbelievable in ‘65.”
“Interesting choice.”
“Interesting choice hell. He won twenty-six games. Threw his fourth freaking no-hitter. Struck out 382 hitters. What does that tell you?”
“It tells me 1965 was one of the worst years for hitters. Hell. That whole decade was a pitcher’s wet dream.”
“Shit Cozz.”
“Look it up Red. By ‘69 they ended up lowering the mound and shrinking the strike zone to bring back hitting.”
“What about Eckersley,” came a voice from behind me.
There, just inside the barroom’s front door, stood Police Chief Joe Gallagher.
Chapter 7
Joe Gallagher had no sooner settled his thick girth onto the stool beside me when Red plunked a quart of Irish Whiskey on the bar before him.
“You can give that a rest for the day Crager,” he said, nodding to my beer. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills which he threw on the bar between us. Then he held two fingers toward Red. “I’ll need a pair of shot glasses too.”
I knew right off that he’d been drinking. For one thing, Gallagher rarely was sober before coming into Red’s. Even on a Sunday with most of the city’s bars closed, Gallagher found places to drink - the VFW or at the barrooms of one of the fraternal groups he belonged to. His eyes had taken on that glass y -eyed look of someone who’s been into the sauce. And now he was ready to really do some serious drinking. Yeah, when Joe Gallagher set you up with a shot it was time for serious drinking.
“Sons of bitches are doing it to me again,” he fumed.
Red and I exchanged knowing smiles. Even Crazy Erma knew what was coming. She took her drink and shuffled off to one of the booths in the dining area.
“What’s that?” Red said with a twinkle in his eye. It was all Red ever needed to say to set Gallagher off on another running diatribe of politics Centre Town style. Gallagher was forever battling city hall over the way he ran his police department. Not that he was doing a bad job from what I could see. But in a town where the city council had a long history of giving the shaft to the police force, especially its top cop, Gallagher was getting his turn to be crapped on. It usually took a few drinks for him to get through with his tirade on city politics and then he would become the jovial Irishman.
“Council voted down new radios for patrol cars,” he said, pounding his fist on the bar.
“How the hell they expect you guys to communicate?” Red said. “Us e donut shop pay phones?”
“Sure Red. Make jokes. But it would be money well spent.”
“Hey. The city’s all but broke.” Red said.
“That’s the thing,” Gallagher said. “They spent two hundred thousand to reconstruct that … that …”
“The dome at city hall?”
“Yeah. That Goddamn monstrosity Supposed to be someone’s idea of historical preservation. I’ll give ‘em some historical preservation.”
“Got to make city hall look good Joe. Good for the tourist trade.”
Gallagher suddenly wheeled around in his seat toward me. “Tourist trade my ass. They can fix up that monstrosity for half the money.”
“What are you suggesting Joe?” I asked with a straight face.
“What am I suggesting? What am I suggesting? I’ll just tell you what I’m suggesting.” His big hand snatched up the shot glass , and he drank off the whiskey. That done, he slowly brought the glass down then motioned with a nod of the head, a conspiratorial wink of the
“You’re nuttier than ol’ Erma there,” he said, nodding toward the far end of the bar.
“Face it Red. Gooden, for that one year at least, was all but unhittable. He won twenty-four games for a team that had to struggle just to get ninety wins.”
Red stood before me scraping one of his molars with a swizzle stick. “Gooden ? Give me a break. Guidry has it all over him. And I can name you a few others too.”
“Okay. Hotshot. Sing.”
“Koufax for one. He was unbelievable in ‘65.”
“Interesting choice.”
“Interesting choice hell. He won twenty-six games. Threw his fourth freaking no-hitter. Struck out 382 hitters. What does that tell you?”
“It tells me 1965 was one of the worst years for hitters. Hell. That whole decade was a pitcher’s wet dream.”
“Shit Cozz.”
“Look it up Red. By ‘69 they ended up lowering the mound and shrinking the strike zone to bring back hitting.”
“What about Eckersley,” came a voice from behind me.
There, just inside the barroom’s front door, stood Police Chief Joe Gallagher.
Chapter 7
Joe Gallagher had no sooner settled his thick girth onto the stool beside me when Red plunked a quart of Irish Whiskey on the bar before him.
“You can give that a rest for the day Crager,” he said, nodding to my beer. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills which he threw on the bar between us. Then he held two fingers toward Red. “I’ll need a pair of shot glasses too.”
I knew right off that he’d been drinking. For one thing, Gallagher rarely was sober before coming into Red’s. Even on a Sunday with most of the city’s bars closed, Gallagher found places to drink - the VFW or at the barrooms of one of the fraternal groups he belonged to. His eyes had taken on that glass y -eyed look of someone who’s been into the sauce. And now he was ready to really do some serious drinking. Yeah, when Joe Gallagher set you up with a shot it was time for serious drinking.
“Sons of bitches are doing it to me again,” he fumed.
Red and I exchanged knowing smiles. Even Crazy Erma knew what was coming. She took her drink and shuffled off to one of the booths in the dining area.
“What’s that?” Red said with a twinkle in his eye. It was all Red ever needed to say to set Gallagher off on another running diatribe of politics Centre Town style. Gallagher was forever battling city hall over the way he ran his police department. Not that he was doing a bad job from what I could see. But in a town where the city council had a long history of giving the shaft to the police force, especially its top cop, Gallagher was getting his turn to be crapped on. It usually took a few drinks for him to get through with his tirade on city politics and then he would become the jovial Irishman.
“Council voted down new radios for patrol cars,” he said, pounding his fist on the bar.
“How the hell they expect you guys to communicate?” Red said. “Us e donut shop pay phones?”
“Sure Red. Make jokes. But it would be money well spent.”
“Hey. The city’s all but broke.” Red said.
“That’s the thing,” Gallagher said. “They spent two hundred thousand to reconstruct that … that …”
“The dome at city hall?”
“Yeah. That Goddamn monstrosity Supposed to be someone’s idea of historical preservation. I’ll give ‘em some historical preservation.”
“Got to make city hall look good Joe. Good for the tourist trade.”
Gallagher suddenly wheeled around in his seat toward me. “Tourist trade my ass. They can fix up that monstrosity for half the money.”
“What are you suggesting Joe?” I asked with a straight face.
“What am I suggesting? What am I suggesting? I’ll just tell you what I’m suggesting.” His big hand snatched up the shot glass , and he drank off the whiskey. That done, he slowly brought the glass down then motioned with a nod of the head, a conspiratorial wink of the
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