Vineyard Shadows by Philip R. Craig Page A

next two years; and they said Canseco wasn't producing and let him go, and all he did was hit forty home runs the next year; and then they let Mo, their best player, go, after his best year in the majors! And then they have the gall to raise ticket prices up to the moon. You tell me. Is this any way to run a professional baseball team? Hi, J.W.”
    â€œWhat a golden tongue you have, Quinn,” said the sportswriter. “You should come over to our side of the room and write sports news.” He smiled at me.
    â€œShake hands with Jack Thorn,” said Quinn. “He's conned the editors of this mighty metropolitan newspaper into paying him to watch grown men playing kids' games. Jack, this is J. W. Jackson, who does nothing but loaf and fish on the Vineyard. Worse yet, he's married to a beautiful woman who's really in love with me.”
    Jack and I shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” said Thorn. “Well, I got a story to write, and I have to make some calls first.” He walked to a nearby desk, sat down, and reached for the phone.
    Quinn led me to his own desk. “I presume that you haven't gotten any smarter than when we talked before.I was hoping you'd changed your mind or had second thoughts about meeting Whelen. How are Zee and your daughter?”
    Images of Zee's bruised face and Diana's bandaged throat appeared in my mind. “They'll be all right. Did you find out what I want to know?”
    â€œYeah, I found Sonny Whelen at least. It wasn't hard.”
    â€œWhat about Graham?”
    â€œNot yet. You want half a loaf, or none?”
    â€œI'll take the half you got.”
    â€œOkay. Charlestown is like a castle for Sonny Whelen. It's his private fortress. He goes where he pleases and does what he pleases. He's right out in the open as often as he wants to be, but he doesn't have to worry about the cops or anybody else, because half the townies look out for him. Nobody can get close to him unless he wants them to. They should call him King Whelen. Of course, uneasy lies the crowned head, even in Charlestown. Pete McBride, as I believe I mentioned, apparently aspires to the throne.”
    â€œTell me about Pete McBride.”
    â€œA courtier, you might say.”
    â€œThe man who would be king?”
    â€œYes, but Pete isn't big enough to make any moves on Sonny, not that he wouldn't like to. Someday, maybe, but not yet. He may be hatching plans, but he's not ready to make his play.”
    â€œLord Peter and King Sonny. How Shakespearean. Maybe you should write a play. How can I see Whelen?”
    Quinn tapped his fingers on his desk. “You can't see him. Not alone. You sure you want to go through with this?”
    â€œI'm sure. How can I do it?”
    Quinn sighed. “By going with me. I know Whelen. Ieven interviewed him once. Wrote his side of things. Series we ran on police corruption. He denied being any kind of criminal, of course.”
    â€œI remember.”
    â€œI quoted him straight, and he appreciated that. He knows I'm not his pet reporter, but he also knows he'll get a square deal from me. I've talked with a couple of his flunkies. Told them I had a friend who wants a few words with Sonny. Asked them to tell Whelen.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œHe likes to eat lunch at the Green Harp. It's a brewpub up by the monument. You Irish?”
    â€œOn St. Patrick's Day, at least.”
    â€œYou dressed? If you are, shed it here. You can pick it up when you go home. I won't take you if you're carrying.”
    â€œNo. No gun. I'm not planning on shooting anybody. All I want to do is talk.”
    â€œGood. Last chance, now; you're really sure you want to do this?”
    â€œYes.”
    He tapped his fingers some more, then looked at his watch, picked up his phone, and dialed a number.
    â€œThis is Quinn, over at The Globe. Tell Mr. Whelen that the friend I mentioned and I are heading over to have a beer and some lunch in the Green Harp, and