by Troy Soos
“We’ve been arguing some.” I tried hard to sound indifferent.
“But that’s okay, doesn’t matter. Oh—could you do me a favor, Karl?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Bring dinner. And some beer.”
When the taxi pulled up, I thought for a moment it might be Margie returning. It was Karl, lugging a bundle of groceries and a bucket of illegal beer.
When I let him in, Karl looked quizzically around the parlor. “What happened?”
“I put away some stuff that was cluttering up the place.”
He handed me the bucket. “I meant what happened with Margie.”
“I told you. She left.”
Karl hung his derby on the hat rack and followed me into the kitchen. “What happened before she left, you dolt.”
“Oh, she was mad that I didn’t call her when I went with you to Aubury’s house.”
“I suspect there was more to it than that.”
“Then you’ll have to ask her. Damned if I know why she was acting the way she was.” I unpacked the grocery bag, happy to see that Karl shared my notion of what constituted a balanced meal: Swiss cheese, boiled ham, and a loaf of bread. From the icebox, I added a jar of mustard and half an apple pie to the dinner spread.
We sat down and began to eat, Karl washing his sandwich down with Moxie, and me quaffing beer.
Karl refrained from asking more questions, but when he finished his first sandwich, he said, “I always thought you two were meant for each other.”
“Looks like you were wrong.” I pushed my plate away. “And so was I, because I thought the same thing.”
“Perhaps she’ll—”
I cut him off, “I’m just glad I found out now instead of later.” Pouring another glass of beer, I asked, “What’s the story you’re writing about?” The best way to divert Karl was to give him a chance to make a speech.
He obliged, telling me every detail of his article on the status of the antilynching legislation.
Although I found his discourse less than riveting, I did marvel at his passion for the issue. “How do you do it, Karl?” I asked. “Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been fighting battles—against sweatshops, for the suffrage amendment, in defense of Sacco and Vanzetti, and now for this antilynching law. You hardly ever win, and even when you do, you just go on to another fight. Where the hell do you get the energy?”
He pushed up his glasses. “It’s the battle that counts, not winning or losing. Take this bill, for example. Even if it never becomes law, the struggle to pass it will accomplish a great deal—by focusing national attention on a problem, exposing the Klan’s activities, getting public leaders to speak out against lynchings. Of course, if it does pass, that won’t be sufficient to solve the problem, either; there would still be a struggle to get the law enforced and have violators prosecuted and convicted.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “So I have to keep fighting because the battles never end.”
“Don’t you ever get tired? Don’t you ever want to forget about changing things, and just make things as good as you can for yourself? At least relax a while?”
“Sometimes,” Karl admitted grudgingly, as if it was a sign of moral weakness. “But then I learn about a problem that makes me want to fight on. Not to solve something necessarily, but to fight for something.”
One of the things that amazed me was that he could fight so hard for things that would never benefit him personally. “You ever feel like an outsider?” I asked. “Like with this law—it’s mostly colored people working on it, right?”
“Yes, but should I stay out of it because I’m white?”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” I wasn’t sure how to explain what I meant. “They know it will help them, but how do they know what your interest in it is? You’re not one of them, so do you think they trust you?”
“I’d like to believe that anyone who gets to know me comes to trust me. It’s true that some might initially be skeptical or suspicious of my motives, but eventually ...” His brow furrowed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know how accepted I am. I think Franklin Aubury accepts me and trusts me—I’ve certainly never given him cause not to—but you can never know for sure what’s in someone else’s heart.”
We talked about the Crawford lynching, and the Klan, then about Prohibition. We kept talking into the night. Margie’s departure didn’t come up again, but Karl seemed to catch on that I didn’t want to be by myself. He eventually said he was too tired to go back home and asked to spend the night on the sofa.
I went to bed, grateful that Karl had come over, but I’d have preferred that Margie Turner was with me instead.
Even when I knew I wasn’t going to be in the starting lineup, I was always among the first to arrive at the park. Sometimes I showed up more than an hour before any of the other players. In ballparks of both leagues, I’d coaxed ushers into playing catch with me, groundskeepers into throwing me extra batting practice, and peanut vendors into shagging fly balls. I needed all the extra practice I could get, but more than that I simply loved being on a major-league baseball field.
In the days after Margie left, though, I spent every moment I could at home. I barely made it to the park in time to suit up, and was the first player to leave once the games were over. Not that there was a reason to remain at home—Margie didn’t contact me once.
By the time I got to Sportsman’s Park Tuesday, most of the other Browns were already on the field. I tossed my boater onto the locker shelf and was in a battle with the knot of my necktie when Lee Fohl bellowed to me from his office.
It wasn’t much of an office—a baseball manager doesn’t exactly have a whole lot of paperwork to do—and I barely fit inside.
“Close the door,” Fohl said.
Jeez. I’m being released. Nobody tells you to close the door when it’s good news. The manager’s sagging face looked even droopier than usual, another sign that all wasn’t well.
“Sorry I been coming late the last couple of days,” I said. “But I—”
“It’s not that.” Fohl picked up a couple of baseballs and began rolling them around in his huge paw. “I’ve been told that three days before the season started, you played with a semipro club in East St. Louis. That true?”
I answered promptly, “Yes. But I didn’t take any money for it. I just wanted some game practice to be ready for the season.”
Fohl kept his eyes on the horsehides. “I know you weren’t getting much playing time, and I can understand you wantin’ to get in a game. But the point is, you knew you weren’t supposed to. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“And, whether you played or not, you were well compensated. You didn’t play an inning in the exhibition series with the Cards, but Mr. Ball still gave you the same hundred-buck bonus he gave everybody else.”
I bit back the impulse to say that I’d have paid the Browns’ owner a hundred dollars to let me play. Silently, I waited to hear my punishment. Fohl still wouldn’t look at me, so I had the feeling it was going to be severe.
“I’m gonna have to suspend you,” he finally said. “Fifteen days.”
I was actually relieved to hear that I was still with the club.
“Ruth got a thirty-day suspension,” the manager went on, “so you’re getting off light. And it’s because I like the fact that you’re so eager to play.”
At least I finally have something in common with Babe Ruth, I thought. Then I remembered that the Babe’s suspension had come from Commissioner Landis. “Am I being suspended by the team, or by Landis?” I asked.
“By Mr. Ball. But we had to run it past the commissioner. Especially since the team you played against was colored.”
“That matters?”
“Not to me, it don’t. But it sure does to Landis. He won’t say so publicly, but he don’t want major leaguers playing against coloreds—makes us look bad when we lose. He’s probably gonna issue some rules on it later this year. Anyway, t
hat’s why we made it fifteen days—any less and he might have tacked on a lot more. As it is, he figures we’re handling it okay, so he won’t take any further action.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “how did you find out I played in East St. Louis?”
“I heard from Mr. Ball. Don’t know how he heard about it.”
Enough people knew about me playing with the Elcars, I thought, that it could have been almost anyone involved in that game. “When’s the suspension start?”
Fohl put down the baseballs with a thump. “Already has. Go home.”
As I went back to my locker for my hat and coat, I thought at least now I could spend twenty-four hours a day waiting for Margie to come back.
CHAPTER 16
The Capital Theatre on Chestnut Street was almost empty Thursday afternoon. Most people were at work, and those with the day off were probably at Sportsman’s Park watching the Browns play the Philadelphia Athletics. I was among the handful sitting in the dark watching Douglas Fairbanks cavort about in Robin Hood.
Soon after Lee Fohl gave me the opportunity to spend all my time at home, I found I couldn’t stand to be there. For the last two days, I’d been avoiding the apartment, spending most of my time in moving-picture theaters and living on popcorn and ginger ale.
The movies were a mental escape for me, a way to avoid thinking about Margie or the Browns. They’d both abandoned me, so why shouldn’t I purge them from my thoughts? Unfortunately, without Margie or baseball, there wasn’t much left in my life. So I watched the shadow lives of celluloid characters whose problems were always happily resolved in the final reel. I’d seen Foolish Wives, Orphans of the Storm, and the latest Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd comedies. They were a distraction, but reality kept nagging at me from the recesses of my brain.
All of a sudden, while Fairbanks dueled the Sheriff of Nottingham, I decided I’d had enough of watching people who didn’t exist. It was time to do like Karl Landfors, and get back in the fight, back to trying to find out who killed Slip Crawford and why.
At least, with my present situation, I was freer to do so. The question, once again, was where to start.
I decided to concentrate on the possibility that the lynching could have been a cover for murder. That meant find a motive. I had to talk to people who knew Crawford and find out who might have had a grudge against him.
The first person I thought I should speak with was Crawford’s widow Hannah. But I didn’t know what to say to her—“Excuse me, ma’am, but do you know why anyone would want to kill your husband?” Maybe I should start with Crawford’s teammates from the St. Louis Stars or the Indianapolis ABCs. Often teammates know a player better than his family does. But the Stars were on the road and wouldn’t be back for more than a month.
I was stuck for a plan to learn about Slip Crawford, but I did have an idea for getting more information on the Klan’s possible role in his death. It was time for another visit to East St. Louis.
Morning sunshine glinted off the shiny new automobiles on the lot of the Enoch Motor Car Company. It was a different selection from what I’d seen last time, with many new ones to replace the cars that had been vandalized.
Brian Padgett looked the same; the little shortstop was again dressed like a vaudeville comic. He was outside the sales office, with a pretty young lady in an ankle-length summer frock. Her flaming red hair was brighter than any of the automobiles, and she held a lacy parasol to protect her fair skin from the sun. From the way she and Padgett were talking and laughing together, I assumed she was the Doreen that Tater Greene had mentioned. Whoever she was, Padgett was certainly intent on impressing her—he kept trying to lift the rear end of an Auburn roadster, undeterred by repeated failures.
“Can I help you, sir?” Another salesman, older and more tastefully dressed than Padgett, had come up behind me.
“Just looking, thanks.”
“We have quite a few new models just in. I’m sure we could put you behind the wheel of exactly the right—”
“Hey!” Padgett yelled, as he came running over. “This is my customer,” he said to the other salesman. “You better not even think about poaching.”
“I didn’t know he was yours. Besides, you’re on lunch.”
“Well, now you’re on lunch.”
“Fine by me.” The other salesman threw up his hands and walked to the office, shaking his head.
“Pushy sonofabitch,” Padgett muttered.
I thought Padgett the pushy one. “You’re sure devoted to your job,” I said. “If I was you, I’d have stayed with her.” I nodded toward Doreen. “She’s a pretty girl.”
“Yeah, she sure is.” From the grin on his face, I could tell he was thoroughly smitten by her. “But don’t get any ideas,” he added. “She’s spoken for.”
“I wasn’t thinking anything. Besides I have a—” I remembered that, no, I didn’t anymore.
Padgett launched into his sales pitch. “That Hupmobile you were interested in is gone. Coloreds came and busted up most of the cars on the lot. We could have had them refurbished, but we only sell the best. Speaking of which, let me show you a choice Essex Coach we just got in.”
As he led me to the green-and-black sedan, I said, “Damn shame somebody would destroy fine automobiles like that.”
“That’s how them niggers are. Don’t got no appreciation for property.”
“At least you got back for what they did,” I said. “I hear Denver Jones’s house got burned down.”
Padgett smiled. “Yeah, I heard the same thing.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
A scowl darkened his face. “I thought you wanted a car.”
“Oh, I do. But I also wanted to find out about this trouble with the Cubs. I mean, what if they do something now to get back for Jones’s house being burned?”
“We’ll take care of ourselves.”
“I hope so, because I might want to be part of that ‘we.’ Buddy Vaughn asked me to join the Klan. He says we all got to stick together.”
Padgett tilted back his porkpie hat. “For one thing, I didn’t hear nothin’ about the Klan being involved in torching Jones’s place. Was probably just a group of concerned citizens. But why you asking me?”
“It’s no secret that most of the guys here are Klansmen,” I said. “And I’m starting to think joining might not be a bad idea. Jones just caused me some trouble, too, and if there’s any more coming, I don’t want to be on my own.”
“What’d he do?”
I didn’t believe that it was the catcher who’d told the Browns about me—more likely it was the Klan wanting to pressure me to join—but I said, “My name’s Mickey Rawlings, not Welch. I play for the Browns. When I played for you guys, I used my own bat, and Jones saw my real name. A few days ago, somebody told the Browns about me playing as a ringer, and now I’m suspended.”
Padgett shook his head sympathetically.
I went on, “I didn’t have nothing to do with burning his house, so why’d he have to do that to me? Anyway, like I said, if there’s gonna be any more trouble, I’d rather have some friends on my side.”
Padgett’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Hey, what am I doing showing you an Essex? A big-league ballplayer should go first-class. We got a Paige 6-44 over here, a five-passenger touring car—more than you ever wanted in an automobile.”
“And you get more of a commission?” I ribbed him.
He laughed. “I can use it. Saving up to get married.”
It bothered me to hear that; not long ago, I had assumed that I would be in the same circumstance.
As we walked across the lot, I returned to the topic of the Ku Klux Klan. “At first I was bothered by what I read about the Klan being violent,” I said. “But I’m all in favor of self-defense. Sometimes you got to make a show of strength.”
“Exactly!” Padgett clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t know why some people can’t seem to understand that. If somebody’s acting up, you
got to send him a message he’ll understand—and you got to make it convincing enough that he won’t try to answer back.”
“How convincing?” I asked. “Self-defense is one thing, but I don’t want to get mixed up in anything like the Crawford lynching. I’m not going to kill anybody over a ball game.”
“Hell,” Padgett scoffed. “I don’t know anybody who’d kill over a game. And I never heard nothing about the Klan being behind the Crawford hanging anyway.” He smiled. “I don’t mind admitting I’m a member. I’m proud to be a Knight of the Ku Klux Klan. And you’ll be, too, if you join us.” He then went on to point out the features of the Paige—leather upholstery, cord tires, and a six-cylinder engine that could go from five to twenty-five miles an hour in nine seconds flat.
I found myself getting tempted by the luxury automobile. A shiny new car might be just the thing to cheer me up—even though the $1,495 price would set me back about half a year’s salary.
Padgett said, “Tell you what: It’s a beautiful day for a drive. Why don’t you take her out for a test spin? See what fifty horsepower feels like.”
Too embarrassed to admit that I didn’t know how to drive, I tried to think of an excuse to decline his offer.
I was saved when Padgett spotted the other salesman chatting with Doreen. “Sonofabitch,” he hissed. “I’ll be right back.”
Although there was no indication that their conversation was anything but proper, Padgett ran over and railed at the other man until he retreated inside the office.
The sign above the office again caught my eye: Komplete Kar Kare. I couldn’t remember if there was a similar slogan at J. D. Whalen’s garage.
When Brian Padgett returned, I said I’d have to take a rain check on the test drive because I had a dentist appointment in St. Louis.
A brief trolley ride later, I was still in East St. Louis, but on Waverly Avenue, staring up at the shoddily painted sign of Waverly Motors. There was nothing on it that could be construed as a KKK endorsement.
I knew that there were other slogans, more subtle, that meant the same thing. Karl had told me of some he’d seen in Kentucky that read “TWK”: Trade With a Klansman. I walked closer to the garage, treading carefully over the rutted earth, to see if there were any such signs. Again, nothing.
