"Curse of Wrigley Field" is a prequel to KING OF HARLEM. A novella set in 1929 during the World Series, it recounts Sassafras Winters and Chinaman’s first adventure.

 The body of a friend of Sas’ is found hanging in her apartment. The scene walks and quacks like a suicide, but Sas and Chinaman smell foul play. With a little help from Sas’ teammates—joes likes Hack Wilson and Roger Hornsby—the pitcher and the penguin take on Chicago’s elite, Potawatomi Indians, and Connie Mack’s Philadelphia Athletics as they search for the truth.

“Curse of Wrigley Field” is scheduled to appear in Volume I of the ALL ABOUT MURDER anthology in 2005.  The anthology’s editor is Anthony Dauer, publisher of the award-winning hardboiled e-magazine JUDAS.

 AN EXCERPT FROM "CURSE OF WRIGLEY FIELD":

 Patricia Harrington was the day clerk at the front desk of the Carliss Hotel in Chicago. The Carliss, less than three blocks north of Wrigley Field on North Sheffield Avenue, was the home to most of us single Cubs during the baseball season, and there wasn’t a favor a one of us wouldn’t have done for Pat if she asked us. No matter how long a road trip or stretch of losses, Pat was always ready to welcome us with a smile, listen to our grouses, and give us a genuine word of encouragement. Pretty enough to date, with her dusky skin and Black Irish eyes and hair, none of us ever asked her out; she was a sister, not a tomato, if you know what I mean. I have no idea if she liked baseball, but she liked people, and most people liked her.

 There was no need for Pat’s smiles or encouragement on Monday, October 7, 1929, though. Not to cheer up the Cubs anyway. In fact, the whole city—if you didn’t count the White Sox faithful on the South Side—was in a good mood. The Chicago Cubs, winners of 104 regular season games, had captured the National League pennant and a trip to the World Series for the first time in 11 years.

 The Cubs had finished the regular season in Boston, and we were returning to Chicago the morning before the World Series was to begin in Wrigley Field. I was sitting in the dining car of The New England States along with half my teammates and a small gang of sportswriters as the train pulled into Union Station. My forehead was throbbing, a casualty of celebrating beyond the boundaries of practicality after our last game against the Braves. As our train slowed to a stop, I heard Robert "Hack" Wilson whistle then saw him grin.

 "Get a load of that, will ya’? You’d think Dempsey was on this train ‘stead of us knuckleheads."

 Everyone in the dining car peered through a window. A delirious hometown crowd was waiting to welcome the Cubs home with a full compliment of cheers and waves.

 "Look at ‘em! They’re rooting like we’d already won the World Series!"

 "Well, the Cubs are going to win it, aren’t you, Hack?" Robert "Doc" Armstrong, one of the sportswriters, asked. "Most folks expect you sluggers to sweep the A’s."

 I returned to my seat to grab my valise, long coat, and hat, commenting: "That ain’t going to happen." Which got Doc’s attention: "You don’t think the Cubs can beat the A's?" I gave him this quote: "We’ll beat them. But `sweep’ them? Uh-uh. Nobody sweeps one of Connie Mack’s teams. Not in the World Series."

 "Mack’s an old goat." This from Kiki Cuyler, an outfielder and my least favorite teammate. Cuyler was every Cub’s least favorite teammate.

 "No, Sas is right," Wilson corrected Cuyler without turning from his window. Judging by how eagerly he was scanning the crowd, Hack must have been searching for his wife and four-year-old son. "Mack’s a son of a gun. That’s what makes him one of the best. Even with those bums he calls pitchers, he’ll figure out a way to spit in our eye. Don’t take ‘em lightly, boys."

 Even Cuyler, who generally liked his opinion better than anybody else’s, nodded agreement. He nodded because Hack Wilson wasn’t Sassafras Winters. Except for George Herman Ruth Jr., Hack was the best batter playing the game and probably its best overall centerfielder at the time. Only Joe McCarthy, our top-drawer manager, had won more respect from us Cubs than Wilson.

 I slid open the dining car’s door to make my escape. "See you jokers at the Carliss." I never have been thrilled about crowds, especially after traveling in a Pullman for over 20 hours. Besides, these fans were here to see our stars, the Cubs’ sluggers, not a middle-reliever and utility third baseman. A couple of the revelers did slap me on the back and shake my hand, which I appreciated, though not as much as I appreciated walking into the Carliss’ lobby a few minutes later. All I wanted was to pick up my key from Pat so I could go to my room and take a nap to try and sleep away the stubborn residues of my Boston hangover.

 But I had to wait. A middle-aged Caucasian man with salt and pepper hair and wearing a black redingote was chatting with Pat. There was something familiar about his voice, nasal and twangy like a Jew’s harp, which piqued my curiosity. Pat looked up from her conversation with the man about then and noticed me.

 "There he is, sir. You can talk to him yourself."

 "Honestly?" The redingote man turned around and recognized me. "So it is! Hello, Mr. Winters."

 Aw, nuts. I thought it, but I didn’t say it. Now that I could see the man’s face, in particular his big beak, I recognized him, too. "Chinaman! What are you doing here?"

 "Where else would I be, Mr. Winters? I would certainly be lax in my duties if I were anywhere else. There must be dozens of details that need attending prior to your championship tomorrow."

 From behind Chinaman Pat asked, "Would you like me to get your friend a room near yours, Sas?"

 "He’s not my friend." I thought that sounded inhospitable, which was my intent. Chinaman didn’t seem to notice or care as he added, "Indeed. I am Mr. Winters’ valet."

 That surprised Pat almost as much as it did me. "Is this some kind of bonus from Mr. Wrigley for going to the World Series?" She knew better, of course.

 "Look, I don’t even know this guy! Not really. We met in Boston and…and…" And what the heck am I doing, explaining all this to Pat? "Just give me my room key, please."

 She did, smirking while repeating her question about getting Chinaman a room. I was going to answer, "No," but made the mistake of glancing Chinaman’s way first. He looked so eager to be of help. This was a crazy situation, but…Dang it! I’ve got to play in the World Series tomorrow! I need this like a hole in the head! "I’ll be back down in a little bit to let you know."

 "I can’t wait."

 I waved for Chinaman to follow me so we could hash this out. Before I could lower my hand, he picked up my valise. "What are you doing?"

 "Carrying your bag, sir."

 "Put it down."

 "But…"

 "Put it down now."

 Pat stepped in from behind the front desk. "Let the man do his job, Sassafras."

 "But…"

"You two go on now. I’m sure you have lots to catch up on."

Chinaman carried my valise towards the stairs. What could I do but follow? They had me outnumbered.