Hanging Curve

by Troy Soos

  “I guess. When?”

  “Soon as you have your clothes on.”

  I agreed. But I left Karl with a warning as I headed to the showers: “Don’t try to interview any of the other players.”

  He agreed on the condition that I later answer his question about second base.

  I explained it to him on the trolley down to Compton Hill, a racially mixed neighborhood on St. Louis’s near south side. Karl admitted to me that while I was in the shower, he did pass the time by counting the stitches on a baseball, and found there were 108. That discovery virtually doubled the sum total of his baseball knowledge.

  When we arrived at the Aubury home, a narrow, two-story redbrick house overlooking Compton Hill Reservoir, Franklin Aubury greeted us at the door. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Sorry to take you so far out of your way, but I decided not to go to the office today; after the news about Denver Jones, I wanted to remain with my family.”

  Aubury’s family consisted of his short, buxom wife Ethel and two pretty daughters, ages about four and six. The girls were clearly enjoying having their father home, and stayed close on his heels.

  After the introductions, Ethel said, “Ten minutes till dinner. Hope you’re hungry.”

  While she went back to the kitchen, Aubury led Karl and me into the parlor, the girls following. From the enticing aroma that filled the house, I was glad that we were meeting here instead of at the law office.

  We talked about that day’s ball game while we waited to be called in to supper. Aubury’s younger daughter stayed close to him, playing with his watch fob. The older girl developed a fascination with Karl; to his obvious discomfort, she kept trying to peer up his cavernous nostrils. I egged her on by telling her that he kept spare change in his nose.

  Ethel’s announcement that dinner was ready came none too soon for Karl. We all filed into the small kitchen and sat down around an oak dining table laden with thick pork chops, baked apples, green leafy vegetables, and pitchers of lemonade and iced tea.

  It was rare that I had a family meal, and I enjoyed watching and listening to the interactions of the Auburys. I’d like this for myself someday, I thought, a home with a wife and children. I began to picture myself with Margie and a couple of kids, but the image shattered when I suddenly wondered if maybe she already had children, too, that she hadn’t told me about.

  “Go on, eat your greens,” Ethel said.

  I looked up and was relieved to see she was talking to the girls, not me. I was planning to hide as much of the vegetation as I could under the pork bones and apple skins.

  “Look at Mr. Rawlings,” she went on, trying to convince the girls. “He’s a baseball player, and he eats them.”

  So much for my plans. With the girls’ eyes upon me I dug into the greens, and tried to pretend that I liked them. Karl watched also, with great amusement; he knew that popcorn was the closest thing to a vegetable that I would normally eat.

  After we’d all cleaned our plates, Franklin Aubury pushed back his chair. “Shall we adjourn to the den, gentlemen?”

  I asked Ethel, “Can I help with the dishes?”

  She laughed, “Well, there’s a first!” More to her husband than to me, she added, “Never heard a man ask to help with dishes in this house before. Thank you, Mr. Rawlings, but you all go ahead into the ‘den’—and if you find any straight pins, it’s because that used to be my sewing room.”

  Whatever the tiny room was called, it looked like a smaller version of Aubury’s law office, and was similarly packed with books and papers. “I do some work here when I’m home,” he explained.

  There was barely space enough for Karl and me to wedge ourselves into a couple of straight-backed chairs. Aubury half sat, half leaned against a sewing-machine cabinet that served as a desk.

  Karl spoke first, “I told Mickey about what happened in Brooklyn.”

  “Brooklyn?” I asked.

  “Not the one with the Dodgers,” said Aubury. “It’s a village north of East St. Louis, almost entirely Negro, and where Denver Jones and his family used to live.”

  “Franklin and I have been talking,” Karl said. “We’re wondering if somebody is going after the Cubs’ team. Slip Crawford beat the Elcars and he was lynched. Franklin tells me that Jones performed well in that game, and now his home gets burned down—”

  Aubury put in, “No doubt he would have been killed, too, had he been there.”

  “You think somebody’s trying to wipe out their entire lineup?” I was skeptical of that notion.

  “Do you have another idea?” Karl asked.

  Not really, but that didn’t stop me from speculating. “Tater Greene told me there was bad blood between the teams for a couple of years. Maybe the attacks are over something that happened a long time ago.”

  “I suppose that’s a possibility,” Karl said.

  Aubury removed his pince-nez and rubbed the indentations they left on his nose. “A slim one,” he said. “Remember, Crawford was never part of the team; he only pitched that one game for them.”

  I considered the theory that Cubs’ players were being targeted because of the game. “If they’re going after the best players first,” I said, “I can guess who’s next on the list: Bell, the center fielder. Fast as lightning.”

  “Jimmy Bell,” said Aubury. “He’s actually a pitcher, not an outfielder; he was moved to center for that game because of Slip Crawford being brought in to pitch. The ironic thing is, with Crawford being killed, the St. Louis Stars have signed Bell to take his spot on their pitching staff.”

  I thought a bit more and decided the idea of the entire Cubs’ lineup being knocked off was too far-fetched anyway. “My guess,” I said, “is that Jones’s house being burned down wasn’t part of any big plan. More likely, the Elcars just wanted to get back at somebody for bustin’ up their automobiles; they didn’t know who was really responsible, so they put the blame on the Cubs.”

  “I suppose that would be a simpler explanation,” said Aubury, and Karl agreed.

  It occurred to me that the two of them probably never placed any stock in the other theory; they just wanted to draw me into discussing it—and into getting further involved, no doubt. “What is it you want me to do?” I asked.

  Aubury said, “We’d like you to make some further inquiries—about the arson at the Jones house. It may not be clear exactly what the connection is between that incident and Crawford’s lynching, but it seems likely that there is some relation. Whatever information you can obtain about Jones’s home being burned down might also be helpful in solving the Crawford case.”

  “The other side’s trying to recruit me, too,” I said.

  “The Elcars?” Aubury asked.

  “The Klan.” I gave them a report on my encounter with kleagle Buddy Vaughn. “Vaughn didn’t come just to talk to me,” I added. “He came from Evansville to build up KKK membership in St. Louis.”

  “Damn,” Aubury said. “This is one of the few cities in the Midwest where they haven’t been able to establish a foothold. I was hoping it would remain that way.”

  “I have an idea,” said Karl. “Perhaps Mickey should join the Klan. It would be a good way of finding out what they’re up to.”

  I immediately said, “No. I won’t do that.” Hell, I couldn’t even keep my identity secret playing as a ringer in a baseball game; I certainly wasn’t going to risk going into the Ku Klux Klan as a spy.

  Karl and Aubury both tried to convince me, but I remained adamant. “You know,” I said, “I don’t even understand what the goal of all this is.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Aubury.

  “Suppose I do learn who burned down Jones’s house, or even who killed Crawford. What does that accomplish? Are they going to be arrested? Will they be brought to trial and put in jail?”

  Neither Aubury nor Karl answered.

  I went on, “If mob action is legal, what’s the point of investigating it like it was a crime?”

  Afte
r a few moments’ thought, Aubury said, “I wish we had antilynching statutes. And I wish we had police and prosecutors who would enforce them. But we don’t. All we can do for now is attempt to remain informed—and use what information we can garner to try to prevent further violence. Perhaps we can get a warning to an intended victim. Or put one or two of the mob agitators out of commission.” He didn’t specify what he meant by that last sentence, and I wasn’t going to ask.

  “All right,” I decided. “I’ll do some more asking around. But I’m not joining the Klan.”

  “Fair enough,” said Aubury. “Whatever you can do, and whatever you can learn, will be appreciated.” He then squeezed between Karl and me and pulled a short stack of newspapers from a bookshelf. “These might be useful to you. There isn’t much about colored issues or colored baseball in the white newspapers. You might want to read these and get some background information.”

  I saw that the publication was the St. Louis Argus. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll take a look at them when I get—” Oh, jeez. I’d forgotten to call Margie to tell her I’d be late.

  From the fire in her eyes, I could tell that Margie was on the brink of exploding. But she restrained herself, waiting to see if I had a good explanation.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said. “I got tied up with Karl and Franklin Aubury.”

  Her eyes flared a little brighter, suggesting I’d better elaborate.

  “Somebody burned down the house of a Cubs’ player—he was the catcher in that East St. Louis game. Nobody died, but Karl and Aubury think that was just a matter of luck. They expect there’s more trouble coming, and they wanted to talk to me about it.”

  “All right,” Margie said, visibly calmer. “I wish you had called, though.”

  “I really didn’t have a chance. Karl was in such a hurry to tell me, he came right into the clubhouse after the game.”

  Margie turned toward the kitchen. “Dinner’s been ready for a couple of hours. I’ll heat it up again, and then we can eat.”

  “Not for me. Aubury’s wife fed us.”

  She spun back. “You didn’t have a chance to call, but you had time to eat? He doesn’t have a telephone?”

  I realized too late that I should have forced myself to eat a second meal. “I just forgot. I’m sorry.”

  “How could you ‘just forget’?”

  “It happens sometimes.”

  “Only lately—like when you were in Detroit.”

  “What are you so upset about? I’m late for dinner once, and you’re mad?”

  “That’s not it. You’ve been grouchy for more than a week now.”

  “Look, I forgot to call. So what? It’s not like I forgot to tell you I had a wife somewhere.”

  Margie took a step backward, staring daggers at me. “I knew you were still mad about that. Tell me now: Are you planning to hold that against me forever?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Fine.” Margie went to the sideboard and got her purse and hat. “I’m going to have a peaceful dinner someplace else.” She slammed the door behind her.

  Let her go, I told myself. If she’s going to be irrational, I’d rather have the house to myself anyway.

  Grabbing the evening edition of the St. Louis Times, I settled into my Morris chair. I proceeded to stare at the paper for ten or fifteen minutes without reading a single word, waiting for a sound at the door. I had assumed Margie would change her mind and come right back. Once again, I’d assumed wrong.

  I tossed down the newspaper. Then I glanced at the sideboard, where I’d put the stack of papers Franklin Aubury had given me, and began to review my conversation with Aubury and Karl. I was almost grateful to have something other than my spat with Margie to occupy my mind.

  It seemed likely to me that Tater Greene would know something about Denver Jones’s home being torched, especially since he’d told me that the Elcars were planning some kind of retaliation for the destruction at the car lot. I decided to give him the impression that I was sure he knew something, and went to the telephone.

  Greene answered with a grumpy, “Yeah, what?”

  “You lied to me, Tater,” I said. “You told me you guys aren’t involved in violence.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Burning down a man’s house is violence in my book.” Then I fibbed a bit. “After what you and Vaughn told me about the Klan, I was starting to think about joining. But now ...”

  “Hey, it wasn’t the Klan,” Greene said. “Enoch and Vaughn really don’t want any violence. This was just some of the boys getting back for the cars being smashed.”

  “Why Jones?”

  “Because it was the Cubs who busted up Enoch’s lot.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “Stands to reason. They thought we killed Crawford—which we didn’t—so they hit Enoch’s place.”

  Some reasoning. Franklin Aubury was right, I thought; the Elcars had simply pinned the blame on whoever was most convenient. “But why go after Jones? Why not the others?”

  “He’s the only one we were able to find out where he lived.”

  “Does that mean you’re still going after other Cubs?”

  “Not unless we have to. This should have been enough to teach ’em a lesson.”

  The we’s Greene kept using confirmed he was involved. “You were there last night,” I said.

  “Sure. I had to be—you know how it is. But I didn’t do nothin’. I just stood by. It’s the other fellows who torched the place.”

  “The ‘place’ was a home,” I said. “His wife and kids were there.”

  “We got them out first. Didn’t hurt ’em a bit.” Greene breathed deeply. “Hell, Mickey, I didn’t want to be part of anything like this. I even tried to talk the guys into burning down the ballpark instead if they were dead set on burning something, not somebody’s home.”

  “Were the guys who burned Jones’s house the same ones who lynched Crawford?”

  Greene said firmly, “I told you before, I don’t know who was mixed up in that. And I’ll tell you something else: We all agreed beforehand that nobody was going to get hurt last night.”

  “If Jones had been home, he’d have tried to stop you,” I said.

  “Somebody would have got hurt. And now his wife and kids don’t have a roof over their heads—that’s being hurt, too.”

  “You ever seen them shacks in Brooklyn?” Greene asked. “It wasn’t much of a house anyway.”

  I changed my mind about Tater Greene. I used to believe he was a basically decent man.

  I continued to think about Greene after we hung up. Since he admitted being involved in the arson at the Jones house, maybe he was telling the truth when he said he didn’t know anything about the Crawford lynching. Then I realized there was one major difference between the two events: Nobody died last night.

  Margie had been gone for a couple of hours. If she only went out for a meal, she should have been back by now, I thought. But I wasn’t going to worry about it.

  I went into the kitchen for a drink and noticed that the dinner Margie had made was lasagna, one of my favorites. I started to put the dish away in the icebox, then decided to try a plateful. I wasn’t at all hungry, but I didn’t want her to think that our argument had diminished my appetite any.

  Back in the parlor, I picked up the stack of the Argus. The newspaper was a slim, weekly publication with the masthead slogan, “Published in the Interest of Colored People.” The issues Aubury had given me covered most of the last six months. It was a six-month chronicle of atrocities.

  I didn’t get past the front pages. A banner headline in the most recent issue read: Three Men Burned at Stake in Texas. The three were Negroes accused of assaulting a white woman, and the mob that killed them came from several counties to join in “the fun.” The headline of the week before was: Colored Boy Burned at Stake in GA. This victim was fifteen years old, and was tortured over a “slow fire” before an enthusiastic
crowd of several thousand onlookers; the mob then shot more than two hundred bullets into the boy’s body.

  A front-page article headed Bloody Record of the Ku Klux Klan summarized a number of similar outrages against Negroes. A dentist in Houston was castrated in front of his wife; a man in Dallas was branded with acid spelling out KKK on his forehead; and in North Carolina, the United States senator from that state, Lee Overman, along with two congressmen, was among the spectators when three Negro men were hanged by a lynch mob.

  I read of numerous incidents of stoning, branding, and tarand-feathering, mostly in the South. Colored colleges were routinely being set afire, and a church in Texas was dynamited. Other articles in the Argus reported that the Klan was getting more violent as the antilynching bill moved through Congress, as if to demonstrate that they would not be stopped by legislation. Klansmen had also recently adopted burning-at-the-stake as their preferred method of lynching because hanging killed their victims too quickly. The Argus dubbed the fire-loving KKK the “Knights of the Kerosene Kan.”

  There were also front-page editorials condemning “Negroes who ape lawless whites,” and urging colored people to work peacefully for passage of the antilynching law instead of retaliating against whites with violence. The St. Louis Board of Aldermen made no similar urging to the city’s white population, however, and refused to condemn the Klan.

  I was horrified by what I read, and incredulous that there was so little coverage of the atrocities in the major white papers. When I couldn’t absorb any more of the horror stories in the Argus, I put the papers away. Maybe that’s why the white papers didn’t print the stories, I realized; people might get upset if they read them.

  Then I went over to my desk and pulled out the pamphlets Buddy Vaughn had given me. They portrayed the Ku Klux Klan as a patriotic group in favor of the Bible, Prohibition, purity of womanhood, and “100 percent Americanism.” The organization was opposed to “bootleggers, gamblers, and moral degenerates.” These innocuous generalities sounded like they could have been put out by the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. What a difference between what the Klan claimed and what they actually did, I thought.