Follow-up to Black Cat. Technically these two take place in the HOHW-verse, since it's an incident I mention in Ch4. Murphy's POV.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that nearly every man looks good in a baseball uniform. If you have to ask why, you're not paying enough attention.

Hell, even geeky little Butters was managing to pull off the Boys of Summer look, though I would never, ever tell him for fear it might give him a heart attack.

Our desk clerk struck out swinging for the third time. Crystal was a much better outfielder than a hitter, and far better at roller derby than either. She shrugged apologetically at me and shuffled back to the bench to sit a few feet down from our official consultant and our adopted medical examiner, who were in the middle of a conversation.

Despite looking good, none of our ragtag team really looked the part of professional athletes.

… Except for Dresden, who looked more like something that had escaped from the secret MLB cloning facility beneath Wrigley. The uniform fit him well enough, but he had forgone cleats for a pair of worn-out Chuck Taylors, and had just given me a confused look when I suggested batting gloves and helmet.

Harry had whined and bitched from the moment I asked for the favor, but when game day rolled around, he brought his own bat. I didn't ask why the Louisville Slugger was kind of stained and covered in gouges, and he didn't offer an explanation, which was probably for the best.

Stallings knocked a nice line drive out between second and third. He wasn't the fastest, but not even the firefighters wanted to get between him and the bases; the man had played football in college and was no stranger to unnecessary roughness. He took two, easy.

Next in the batting order, the medical examiner bunted and scooted to first as fast as his legs would carry him, narrowly missing the baseman. Butters was surprisingly good for someone who claimed that his favorite part of the game was the stats.

The stands were packed in the little crackerbox youth community sportsplex that was hosting the last game of the series. A pretty good turnout for a charity event. I had played before as a patrol officer, but this was the first opportunity I'd had to coach.

Opportunity – as if the brass hadn't dumped this in my lap hoping I'd get swamped and slip up and mismanage a case, so they'd finally have a halfway valid excuse to fire me.

Speaking of corruption, all of the police team uniforms for this year's games had been donated by an organization that was part of an umbrella corporation owned by a malevolent — ahem, excuse me, sorry — benevolent local businessman who will remain unnamed.

Strangely, the shipment that arrived in my office held not the solid navy blue of the other police division teams, but twenty pitch-black jerseys with the white letters S.I. where a team logo would go.

Embroidered in the X-Files font.

Someone's idea of a little joke, I guess. I would have thought the man capable of more subtlety, but he was here, in box seats no less, wagering on the game in front of God and everyone with his burly bodyguard and that tall blonde woman who was definitely not a date.

Dresden had — I guess in his own idea of a joke — drawn a number thirteen on the back of his jersey, in white shoe polish. He had joined the team too late to get his own iron-on decal.

I waved him over.

"What's the play?" he asked, taking a few practice swings as I watched, which was… well.

He had really good form. We'll leave it at that.

"Yardwork." I tore my eyes away and glanced at the fire department outfielders, saw them look at each other, unsure whether to move in. It was bottom of the ninth and we were two runs behind. The game was close, but like the man said; it ain't over 'til it's over. "Runners in the corners, so you need to clear the bases. They'll try to tag out Butters first, so put it out by number forty-two, he can't catch a fly ball—"

"Have you ever given any thought to changing careers?" Harry interrupted. "Or is this just not enough of a bloodsport for you?"

I smacked him on the shoulder with my clipboard and he laughed.

"Any more last-minute advice? Stallings says I missed all the really moving motivational speeches last week, think maybe I could get one of those?"

"Sure, okay." I tried not to smile. "Uh. Heroes get remembered, but legends never die—"

"Murph," he grinned, "I can't be held responsible for what happens if you keep quoting The Sandlot at me."

"Just go hit the goddamn ball."

Dresden was a dork on levels I thought previously unachievable, but he could swing away like nobody's business.

… And had been holding back for the whole game. He didn't hesitate when the pitcher hurled a five-alarm fastball at home plate, and hammered it skyward with a crack like lightning.

He stood there for a moment, watching as the ball soared over the outfield scoreboard, towards the parking lot.

Whoops.

"... Go!" I shouted, pointing to first with the clipboard. Harry grinned and took off at an unnecessary sprint, tossing the bat down.

"You can kiss that one goodbye!" the announcer's voice boomed through the sound system over roaring applause. "A three-run homer for Chicago's Finest—"

In the box seats across the diamond, I saw Marcone take out a moneyclip and begrudgingly count a few bills into the blonde's waiting hand. As he did, the big bodyguard put a finger to one ear, listening, then leaned forward between them to mutter something.

The gangster's face went carefully expressionless for a moment, though his eyes narrowed as the applause faded away to the very distinct sound of a car alarm in the parking lot, and the announcer's amused voice:

"Will the owner of a black Mercedes-Benz, license plate number—"

All three stood to leave, and I didn't even hear the announcer rattle off the plate number, I was laughing too damned hard.

There's winning, and then there's winning.

Next: Spider