Hanging Curve

by Troy Soos

  The only aspect of the event that might have been a disappointment to the politicians—and to Phil Ball—was the size of the crowd. Nearly half of the park’s twenty thousand seats were empty. Attendance had always been a problem for the Browns, although the club generally did draw twice as many fans as the rival Cardinals. A year and a half ago, ticket sales for the Cards had been so sparse that they had to abandon their own ballpark and move into Sportsman’s as tenants of the Browns.

  When the band stopped its noise, St. Louis mayor Henry Kiel took the mound to throw the ceremonial first pitch. Not wanting to give the mayor all the glory, the president of the Board of Aldermen carried a bat to the plate, intending to hit one of Kiel’s deliveries. It probably sounded like a good idea in the planning stage, but to the vocal amusement of the crowd, whenever Kiel managed to put the ball over the plate, the alderman failed to get any wood on it. As they continued their exercise in futility, I looked around the park. When I spotted a cluster of black faces in the right-field bleachers, I was reminded that, as in East St. Louis, fans were segregated in Sportsman’s Park; Negroes were only permitted to sit in that distant bleacher section. After more than a dozen pitches, the alderman finally popped weakly to catcher Hank Severeid, and I stopped thinking about the ballpark’s seating arrangements.

  Once the real baseball game began, my teammates fared little better than the politicians. The way they played, they must have been as tired as I was from the late arrival the previous night. Chicago took advantage, and got back at us for spoiling their opening day by ruining ours with a 7—2 win. Since the score didn’t make it into double digits, I never made it into the lineup.

  In the clubhouse shower, I decided it was probably just as well that I got to rest on the bench. Because I had an ordeal waiting for me after the game: Karl Landfors.

  Karl’s body was almost obscured by the strand of spaghetti he was slurping into his mouth. He would never die, I thought—someday he’d simply complete the gradual transformation from human to skeleton that he’d been undergoing ever since I met him ten years earlier. And he wouldn’t even need to be laid out; Karl’s pale, bony frame was already draped in the kind of severe black suit favored by corpses and undertakers.

  “You’re looking good,” I lied. “What have you been up to?”

  “A little bit of everything,” he said. “You know me—there’s always a windmill somewhere in need of someone to tilt at it.”

  I certainly did know him. Karl, a muckraking journalist and diehard Socialist, championed just about every Progressive cause that came along, especially the hopeless ones. And he’d gotten me involved in more than one of them.

  A mustachioed waiter came by, holding a straw-shrouded bottle. “More grape juice?” he asked in a thick Italian accent.

  Karl nodded, and the waiter filled Margie’s and Karl’s wineglasses with Chianti. The “grape juice” pretense was the restaurant’s only acknowledgment of the Volstead Act. Here, in the Little Italy section of downtown St. Louis near Columbus Square, Prohibition was paid little serious attention—just as in most American cities.

  The waiter turned to me. “Another root beer?”

  I said, “Please,” and he soon brought me a fresh lager.

  Margie asked Karl, “Have you written anything lately?”

  “I have a piece coming out in the next American Mercury.” Karl pushed his black, horn-rimmed spectacles higher on his long nose. With his balding scalp, sunken eyes, and pinched cheeks, the nose and glasses were the only things that kept people from mistaking him for a skull. “It’s on the need for antilynching legislation.”

  “I’ll look forward to reading it,” Margie said.

  I was aware that the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People was trying to get a federal antilynching bill enacted, but didn’t know that Karl had taken up the issue. “Will they pass the law, you think?”

  He sipped his wine and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I’d like to believe so. It’s finally through the House of Representatives. But the Senate will be quite a challenge. Those Southern senators ...” He shook his head. “In any event, I’ve been trying to get state legislatures to endorse the bill. It appears that Massachusetts will pass a resolution of support next week.”

  Margie asked, “What brings you to Missouri?”

  “I’ll be doing some work with Congressman Dyer’s staff.” The St. Louis representative, I knew, was the antilynching bill’s chief sponsor. “And with a friend of mine,” Karl added, “a lawyer who works with the NAACP.”

  “What about the Sacco and Vanzetti appeal?” I asked. “And unionizing coal miners?” Those had been his most recent projects.

  “Those battles are all secondary to this one. There is no benefit to having the right to vote or speak or assemble if you are not alive to enjoy them.” He waved his fork, dripping tomato sauce on the tablecloth. “The Declaration of Independence says ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.’ And it’s in that order—life comes first. Without that unalienable right there can be no others.”

  With Karl Landfors, dinner-table conversation often turned into speechmaking.

  He appeared to notice it himself. Karl put down his fork, and asked, “How are you two enjoying St. Louis?”

  Margie and I exchanged looks. She spoke up first. “We’re still getting settled. Mickey’s been out of town for most of the time we’ve lived here. And I’m going to be looking for a job—or maybe school. I’m thinking about nursing school.”

  She hadn’t mentioned that to me. The last I’d heard, Margie was interested in becoming a horse trainer.

  It was my turn to report. “I’m doing all right. The Browns are a good team—may go all the way.” I smiled. “And I’m leading the team in hitting, believe it or not.” My two singles in four at bats gave me a .500 batting average.

  “Not,” Karl said with a laugh. “Remember, I’ve seen you hit.” We chatted a while more, then Margie excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

  Karl and I both watched her walk away. “She looks prettier every time I see her,” he said.

  “To me, too.” My eyes followed Margie until she was gone from view.

  “Is she really going to be a nurse?” Karl asked.

  “Dunno. She’s looking for something to do with herself. It’s got to be boring for her to be alone half the year.”

  Karl toyed with his glass for a few moments. “Mickey, there’s something I need to speak with you about.”

  “I have something to tell you, too.”

  Karl hesitated. “You first.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m going to ask Margie to marry me.”

  A warm smile spread over his usually humorless face. “It’s about time! When are you going to pop the question?”

  I was relieved to see that he obviously thought it a good idea. “Well ... I have to think about it. I mean, I have to figure out how to propose. What words to use, where to ask ... Jeez, I don’t even know her ring size.” I hadn’t given any thought yet to the realities of engagement—or marriage. I just knew I wanted to be married to Margie Turner.

  Karl held up his glass in a salute, and said, “I know you’ll figure it out. And I know you and she will be very happy together.”

  “Thanks, Karl.” Since he’d let me tell him my news first, I felt obligated to ask, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “It’s ... well ...” Karl was rarely at a loss for words, but he couldn’t find them this time. “It can wait until later,” he decided.

  Margie came back and sat down. “What did I miss?”

  I shot Karl a warning look that he’d better not let on what I’d told him. “We were talking about dessert,” I said.

  “Let’s have it at home,” she suggested. “I have an apple pie in the icebox.”

  Karl and I agreed. I was in no hurry, though. I had the feeling that once we got there, Karl would get around to the matter he wanted to discuss with me. And I was
pretty sure I knew what it was.

  By the time we arrived at the apartment, I was eager for Karl to tell me what was on his mind. He kept grinning at Margie and me like an antsy kid bursting to tell a secret, and I worried that he’d reveal my proposal plans.

  Karl’s demeanor remained the same as he wolfed down three pieces of pie and two glasses of Moxie. Several times he appeared on the verge of a giggling fit, and once nearly choked on a bite of the dessert.

  I finally reminded him, “You mentioned there was something you wanted to talk about.”

  “Yes.” His expression gradually darkened, and he fastidiously brushed a small mountain of crumbs from his tie and vest. “Someone, actually: Slip Crawford.”

  I thought so. “Margie told me he was killed.”

  “Lynched,” Karl corrected.

  Out of curiosity, I asked him, “How did you hear about it? I don’t think there’s been much in the papers here. How’d the news get all the way to Boston?”

  “I received a phone call from the lawyer I mentioned, the one with the NAACP. The colored community here is really up in arms about this—almost literally. Slip Crawford was a popular figure. He was not some obscure semipro player; he was a pitcher with the St. Louis Stars of the Negro National League.”

  Huh. So the East St. Louis Cubs had brought in a ringer of their own. I felt some small relief that at least it was a professional pitcher who’d bested me.

  Karl pushed up his spectacles. “When I learned that a St. Louis ballplayer was killed, I decided to call you and see if you knew of him. Then Margie ...”

  She finished, “I mentioned that you played against Crawford in his last game.”

  “And that gave me an idea,” Karl said. “I’d like you to ask around, talk to some of the other players from that ball game, and see if you can learn anything about what happened.”

  “Isn’t it obvious what happened?” I said. “Crawford beat a white team, so the Ku Klux Klan lynched him. They were there at the game, all decked out in their hoods and robes, and carrying rifles.”

  Karl nodded. “So I’ve been told. However, there is some question as to whether the Klan was really involved. They’re usually quick to take credit for their atrocities—it’s a way of flaunting their ‘power’ and helps intimidate anyone who might cross them. But this time they haven’t.” He leaned forward. “All I’m asking you to do, Mickey, is talk to some of the other players on the white team. See if they’ve heard anything. That’s all.”

  “There’s nothing useful they’d tell me, Karl.” I didn’t see much point in talking to the Elcars; after the way I played for them, they were unlikely to share any confidences with me. And, there was another reason to avoid them. “I really wasn’t supposed to play in that game. If I go asking questions, and it gets out that I played as a ringer, I could be in serious trouble.”

  “What would the Browns do to you?” Karl asked.

  “Suspend me, at least. And it’s not just the Browns. Commissioner Landis doesn’t like major leaguers playing against colored clubs; who knows what could happen if he found out.”

  “Do you seriously believe he’d punish you for playing in a baseball game?”

  “He just suspended Babe Ruth a month for playing exhibition games without permission. If he’d do that to Ruth, who knows what he’d do to a”—I almost said “nobody”—“to somebody like me.”

  Margie suggested, “You don’t have to tell them your real name. You could still go by ‘Welch.’ ”

  “What about the police?” I asked Karl. “Aren’t they looking into it?”

  Karl sniffed with disdain. “The police haven’t ruled out the possibility of suicide.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s nonsense, of course. Crawford had been beaten before he was hanged. But that’s the official police position.”

  “Jeez.”

  “It is important that we learn what happened,” Karl said. “In the South, the Klan has been carrying out more and more lynchings the further the antilynching bill progresses through Congress. We want to know if their violence is spreading to the Midwest.”

  “You know what I don’t understand?” Margie said. “Why is it called ‘lynching’? It’s murder. Why not arrest the lynchers for murder? Then you don’t need an antilynching law.”

  Karl nodded. “That is one of the arguments opponents use—that the crime is already covered under state homicide statutes. Legalistically, I can see the point. But the reality is that if a mob of fifty men gets together to hang a Negro, it is virtually impossible to determine afterward which men were actively involved in the killing, which were accomplices, and which were bystanders. No prosecutor is going to charge all fifty with murder, and if he did, no jury would convict them. With so many participating, it effectively diffuses everyone’s degree of responsibility. When charges are filed in a lynch case, the most serious charge the killers typically have to face is disorderly conduct.” Karl pulled several newspaper clippings from his jacket pocket and selected one of the articles. “I’ve been carrying these with me for the last couple of months. This one spells out the real reason the antilynching bill is being opposed.” He adjusted his glasses and read aloud, “ ‘During debate in the House, Representative James B. Aswell of Louisiana took to the floor, and declared, White people of the South have a right to lynch a Negro anytime they see fit without interference on the part of the Federal Government.’ ”

  Margie and I were both speechless.

  Karl handed me one of the other clippings. “They’ve been exercising that ‘right’ with a vengeance.”

  I read the headline:

  65 PERSONS LYNCHED IN 1921

  Sixty-five. I stared at that number for a long moment. Then I thought of Slip Crawford, and imagined him on the pitching mound with sixty-five other colored men on the field behind him.

  “I’ll talk to Tater Greene tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll find out whatever I can.”

  CHAPTER 6

  I’d heard it said that the only people who lived in East St. Louis were those who had to. If somebody did have to live there, I thought, Washington Park, in the northeastern part of the city, appeared to be one of the more desirable neighborhoods.

  From a slow-moving trolley that rolled down the center of Kings Highway, I looked out at well-kept homes with spacious yards and stately shade trees. Farther toward the outskirts of town, the houses gave way to businesses. When I spotted the one that belonged to Roy Enoch, I pulled the stop cord and hopped off.

  The auto dealership was about three miles from the ballpark where the Elcars had played the Cubs. Sprawling over most of a long block, the gravel lot was divided into two sections, one for new automobiles and the other for an extensive selection of used cars. All of them appeared freshly waxed and buffed, and they were all parked in neat rows. At the back of the lot was a large brick garage, with tire racks and two gasoline pumps nearby.

  A wood-frame sales office, the size of a bungalow, was situated in the center of the lot. On a rooftop sign above the office, ENOCH MOTOR CAR CO. was painted in the same shade of red that appeared on the team uniforms. The sign also proclaimed:

  Authorized Elcar Dealership

  New Cars! Used Cars! Full Service Station!

  “Komplete Kar Kare”

  The last line answered one of my questions, and I was disheartened to learn that I had played baseball for a Klan-affiliated business. Slogans like Enoch’s had been springing up on signs all over the Midwest in recent years: Kareful Klothes Kleaners ... Kwality Kustom Kraftsmanship ... Kindly Keep Koming. I’d even seen a men’s clothing store in Cincinnati called Ku Klux Klothes. Three Ks on a sign identified the proprietor as a Klansman, and brought in customers who wanted to support the KKK.

  I strolled around the used-car section, wondering what to say to Tater Greene. How could I raise the main question that I wanted answered: Did the Elcars’ team decide to kill Slip Crawford because they couldn’t beat him on the field?

  I
was staring absently at a 1920 Hupmobile roadster when a cheery voice called out, “That’s a beauty there! Yes, sir, you sure got an eye for fine automobiles!”

  Rapidly approaching from the sales office was a wiry little fellow in a green-plaid suit and a porkpie hat. I recognized him as Brian Padgett, the Elcars’ young shortstop. He had a breezy smile on his thin, freckled face, and a bounce in his step. His manner was so different from the last time he spoke to me—when he berated me for the botched appeal play—that I assumed he didn’t recognize me.

  “A real bargain, too,” Padgett continued. “Nine hundred and seventy-five dollars. We’re practically giving it away. The last owner hardly—” His brow furrowed, and he studied me for a moment. “Say, you look familiar.”

  Keeping to my fictitious name, I said, “Mickey Welch. Played baseball with you fellows a couple weeks ago.”

  “Oh yeah, the pro,” he said derisively. “You in the market for a used car?”

  “No, I was”—it occurred to me I might get more information if he thought I was a prospective customer—“I was actually thinking of a new one.”

  “Let me show you what we have!” His voice and eyes were friendly again.

  Padgett guided me to the new models, pointing out every feature of the automobiles and getting in frequent plugs for the Enoch easy-payment plan. As he spoke, I made the effort to appear interested, much as I did when Karl Landfors prattled on about politics.

  When he’d finished his spiel, I said that he’d given me so much to think about that I couldn’t make a decision on the spot.

  “Let’s go see Mr. Enoch,” he suggested. “I’ll bet we can whittle down the price a little. Hell, you played ball with us—that makes you part of the family.”

  I walked along with him, glancing up at the “Komplete Kar Kare” slogan on the sign; I didn’t want to be considered even a distant relation to this family. Since Padgett had mentioned the game, though, I said, “You know, I really felt awful that I couldn’t help you win. I sure had an off day.”