Hanging Curve

by Troy Soos

  “But those are secret,” I said.

  “Yes. That’s why it will come as quite a blow when they find themselves unmasked in print.”

  “I mean, how does the paper get their names if they’re secret?”

  Karl’s lips twitched in a smug smile. “The Chicago offices of the KKK were burglarized last week. Everything was taken, from membership lists to pamphlets to costumes.”

  Aubury and I both grinned. Neither of us asked how Karl happened to know of the robbery.

  Then it was my turn to report. I gave a detailed account of my trip to Evansville and the Klan picnic. I concluded, “I hate to say this, but I got the impression there’s some basically decent people joining the Klan because they think it’s good for America.”

  “They may be decent,” said Aubury, “but they must also be deaf and blind if they don’t realize the Klan’s true agenda.”

  “There was no talk of violence,” I said. “And not much against colored people—they seem more worried about Catholics taking over the country. I brought back some of their pamphlets; thought you might want them.”

  “Thank you,” said Aubury. “I do like to keep tabs on what they publish.”

  “I’ll bring ’m next time I come.” The literature, though, would be awfully flat compared to the speeches and spectacle. “The Klan makes a powerful impression,” I said. “You should have seen all the marchers, and the torches and everything. It was a helluva show, and the crowd ate it up.” I promptly added, “Not that I agree—”

  Aubury waved off the explanation. “I understand.”

  “It was really impressive.”

  The lawyer nodded. “I’m sure it was.”

  Karl asked, “Has there been any progress on the Slip Crawford investigation?”

  “Not much,” I said. I told him it might have been Klansmen, or Elcars, or both, and that I still believed it might prove to be neither—that he was murdered, not lynched. Then I added, “One new thing we found out in Indiana was that Crawford was being pressured by a thug named Rosie Sumner to jump to the Eastern Colored League.” I hesitated. On the way back from Indiana, I’d thought of another motive for Crawford’s death, but was reluctant to suggest it to Aubury.

  He noticed. “There’s something else on your mind.”

  “Yeah, just an idea, probably crazy.”

  “Well, let’s hear it.”

  “The ABCs told us that after Crawford was killed, Sumner contacted them again and said they ought to come east where they’d be safe from lynchings. I thought it was lousy of Sumner to use Crawford’s death as a sales pitch, but what if he did worse than that?” I looked at Aubury. “Could a Negro stage a lynching? Maybe Sumner knew he couldn’t get Crawford to jump leagues, but figured if he killed him and made it look like a lynching, he could get other players to move east.”

  Aubury answered quietly, “A colored man can be every bit as devious and evil as a white man.” He cleared his throat. “However, the same way that you do not wish to believe that a man can be killed solely because of his skin color, I do not want to believe that someone of my race would lynch another Negro—especially not as a recruiting tool for a new baseball league. It is possible, but highly doubtful.”

  “Just trying to cover all bases,” I said.

  Karl spoke up. “That’s the way to do it; you have to consider every possibility.”

  At the moment, I was considering what Aubury had said about choosing what we want to believe. It was probably true for Glenn Hyde, too; he simply didn’t want to believe certain things about the Klan.

  “I think we should still pursue the Rosie Sumner angle,” I said. “He does work for a mobster, and he did use scare tactics with the ABCs.”

  Aubury said, “The ‘mobster’ is Alex Pompez, and he runs the numbers in Harlem. That’s not like a real criminal—numbers racketeers don’t kill or steal. They basically run a lottery that happens to be illegal. It is very popular in colored communities; for as little as a penny, somebody can have a chance at winning a few dollars. The numbers gives people hope, and that is a good thing. There are times when the prospect of hitting the number is the only thing a Negro has to hope for.”

  We all sat in silence for a while.

  Aubury leaned back in his chair. “So, gentlemen, where do we go from here?”

  Neither Karl nor I had a ready answer.

  Karl finally said, “I haven’t eaten yet today, so I suggest we go to lunch.”

  That was the best idea any of us could come up with. But we decided to send out for sandwiches instead when we realized there might not be a restaurant that would permit the three of us to eat together.

  CHAPTER 24

  As good as it was to have Franklin Aubury and Karl Landfors back in town, I was even happier that the Browns had returned and that I was again one of them.

  I was also pleased to have the Red Sox in town—not because I’d once played for Boston, but because they were now one of the easiest teams in the American League to beat. Not a single player remained from the 1912 club of which I’d been a member. Gone was the superb outfield of Tris Speaker, Harry Hooper, and Duffy Lewis, their positions today taken by Nemo Leibold, Pinky Pittenger, and Elmer Smith. Red Sox owners had sold or traded away the club’s best players, many of them, including Babe Ruth, going to the New York Yankees. The only reminder of Boston’s glory days was Hugh Duffy, their manager, who’d starred with the champion Boston Beaneaters of the 1890s. This season, Duffy was struggling, and failing, to keep his team out of the league’s cellar.

  There weren’t many fans in Sportsman’s Park Tuesday afternoon, about two thousand at the most, but to me it felt like Opening Day, because Lee Fohl had put me in the starting lineup at second base.

  Once the Browns came to the plate in the bottom of the first, it was more like batting practice. Red Sox hurler Herb Pennock, one of the few pitchers in baseball who had no fastball at all in his repertoire, had control problems from the start; every pitch was either outside the strike zone or down the middle of the plate. Johnny Tobin led off for us with a single, and Frank Ellerbe walked. Then George Sisler, Ken Williams, and Baby Doll Jacobson each doubled to put us up 4–0. I came up next and surprised everyone, including myself, by belting a triple on Pennock’s first offering. The Boston left-hander didn’t get out of the inning until we’d batted around.

  Our pitcher, young Hub Pruett, held the Red Sox to only a few scattered hits over nine innings, and we romped to a 12–1 win.

  The celebration in the clubhouse was boisterous, and I was part of it. I’d gone 4-for-5 in the game, plus a walk. I was slow to strip out of my uniform; it had felt so good to wear it again that I didn’t want to take it off.

  As George Sisler jokingly asked me for batting tips, one of the stadium cops brought me a note. I was annoyed at the interruption until I read the message. It was from Margie, and it said that she would be at the Jefferson Hotel if I’d like to see her.

  I almost ripped my flannels taking them off, and raced for the shower. After a quick soaking, I went back to my locker and started to dress. Then it occurred to me that I might have washed too quickly to be sufficiently clean. To the bewilderment of my teammates, I showered again. Finally, still damp, I fumbled my way into my Palm Beach suit, retied my necktie half a dozen times before I got it right, and ran out of the clubhouse to hail a taxi.

  There might as well have been a spotlight on her. The spacious lobby of the Jefferson Hotel was crowded and bustling, but as soon as I went through the revolving door, I saw Margie. She was seated alone on a divan, dressed in an elegant frock of shimmering yellow silk and white lace.

  I was hesitant to approach. For one thing, from her note, I couldn’t tell why she wanted to meet—was this to be a reunion, or did she only want to tell me to my face that it was over between us. For another, I found that I was enjoying the opportunity just to drink in the sight of her; I’d been thirsting for it too long.

  Margie turned her head in my direc
tion, and I gathered my courage to find out where we stood.

  I walked over to her, but the moment I opened my mouth, my mind went blank. I had no idea what to say.

  Margie saved me by speaking first. “You could have stretched that triple into a homer easy.”

  She sure knew how to break the ice and put a smile on my face. “Probably, but with no outs, Fohl would have killed me if I didn’t make it.”

  Patting the cushion, she asked, “Would you like to sit down?”

  I’d been hoping for something more along the lines of a kiss or a hug, but I was happy to settle for a seat next to her. “You were at the game?”

  “For the first seven innings. Then I left the note for you and came back here. Did you bat in the eighth?”

  I nodded. “Singled; drove in two runs.”

  “You sure had a hot bat today!”

  For the first time, I’d had a great game and didn’t want to talk about it. “You haven’t had time for dinner then?” I asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Would you like—”

  “I’d love to.”

  We opted to eat in the hotel restaurant. After we’d ordered, Margie said, “I’ve been checking the box scores, but you haven’t played for a while.”

  “I was off the team for a couple weeks. They found out I played in East St. Louis and suspended me.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. ”

  I shrugged. “At least it’s over now.”

  Margie sipped her ginger ale. “So what have you been up to?”

  I told her about my trip to Indiana, pausing frequently to allow her to jump in and tell me what she’d been doing. She passed up all the openings, and we were half-done with the main course by the time I finished my report. I idly pushed what was left of my food around on the plate. “Actually,” I said, “what I’ve been doing most is missing you. I was a damned fool to act the way I did.”

  The look in Margie’s eyes told me I’d finally said the right thing. “I’ve missed you, too,” she said.

  “Where did you go?”

  “California. And then Mexico. I didn’t expect to be gone so long, but the paperwork was more than I expected.”

  “Paperwork?”

  She reached for her purse. “I got a divorce. It’s official.” She pulled out a set of papers and offered it to me.

  For a moment, I was too surprised to react—but I did think this was the nicest surprise I’d ever had. I started to reach out, then pulled back. “I don’t need to see it.” I didn’t want to see it; I didn’t want to know the name of the man she’d married. “So with you not being married anymore, that means there’s nothing to stop us from—”

  “Courting,” Margie said.

  I thought we were beyond that. “Courting?”

  She nodded. “I wanted the divorce so there wouldn’t be any obstacle in case you should ask me—”

  “What I asked before still holds.”

  She shook her head. “I was going to say, ‘in case you should ask me again someday.’ ”

  “Why not—”

  “Someday,” she said firmly. “We still have things to think about and talk about.”

  “Are you coming home?”

  “I’m staying here. Let’s take things slow and see what happens.”

  I agreed, although I wasn’t sure exactly what “slow” meant. “Would going for a walk be too fast?”

  She laughed. “A walk would be lovely.”

  We skipped dessert and went for a stroll. I had no idea what we talked about or where we went. It was enough for me simply to hear the sound of her voice and feel her hand in mine again.

  Back at the hotel, I walked her into the lobby. “Are the, uh, rooms nice here?”

  Margie almost burst out laughing at my less-than-subtle question. “Yes, they are. And I’m still tired from my trip.” She kissed me good night—on the cheek—and went to the desk clerk to pick up her key. I watched her until she stepped inside an elevator.

  So far, “slow” was pretty nice, I thought, but I sure hoped we could pick up the pace soon.

  The first thing I did when I got home was take Margie’s things out of the closet, and put them back in the parlor. I even polished her mantel clock and dusted her pictures.

  I was cranking the handle of her Victrola, when the phone rang. I pounced on it, hoping that she’d decided she wasn’t tired after all.

  Franklin Aubury’s voice put an end to my romantic notions. “I have just learned that Roy Enoch’s son was beaten up tonight,” he said.

  “So? Kids always get in fights.”

  “It began as an innocent fight, from what I understand. But it was with a colored boy. And Enoch’s son told him, ‘You better not mess with me; my father’s a Klansman.’ ”

  “Jeez, that was stupid.”

  “It was indeed. The boy he was fighting rounded up some reinforcements—all colored—and they gave young Enoch a thorough thrashing.”

  I vaguely remembered that I’d seen Enoch’s kid; he’d kept the scorebook at the game with the Cubs. “Is he hurt bad?”

  “I don’t know. I certainly hope not. However, whether he is or not, I am certain Roy Enoch will instigate some kind of retaliation.”

  “And he can claim he’s doing it for his kid, not as a Klan activity, so he won’t get in trouble with the higher-ups in the Klan.”

  “Exactly.” Aubury cleared his throat, and I knew what was coming. “Do you think you could make some inquiries and see what he might be planning?”

  I agreed to find out what I could, and we hung up.

  Then I picked up the receiver again to call Tater Greene. No, I suddenly decided, not tonight. I’m not responsible for what happened, and I don’t have to jump every time Aubury or Karl Landfors calls me with a problem.

  I readily put Roy Enoch out of my mind and spent the rest of the night thinking about Margie.

  CHAPTER 25

  I didn’t call Tater Greene the next day, either. Nor the one after that.

  For those two days, Margie and I were almost inseparable, and she was the sole object of my attention. It was almost like when we’d first started dating, back when she was making moving pictures in Brooklyn and I was playing for the New York Giants. I once again felt a giddiness in my stomach and a vacuum in my head.

  The two of us met for an early lunch each morning, and went to Sportsman’s Park together each afternoon, where I continued to play and play well. Afterward, it was dinner and dancing and long, aimless walks through downtown St. Louis.

  Margie remained firm about not moving back to the apartment yet, but she did invite me to stay with her Thursday night.

  Soon after we woke Friday morning, I found myself wishing that I had a regular job, one that allowed me to call in sick. Because I didn’t want to play baseball; I wanted to spend the day in bed with Margie and do some more reconciling.

  But a baseball player can’t simply call in sick, especially not a utility player who’s coming off a suspension. So I got dressed and left Margie, to meet her later again at the ballpark. As I departed her hotel, I grumpily thought that if Lee Fohl kept me on the bench, I would be royally pissed.

  I caught a trolley for home to get a fresh change of clothes before heading to the park. During the ride to my apartment, I scanned the morning newspaper that I’d picked up in the Jefferson lobby. I was halfway home by the time I saw the small headline on page five:

  NEGRO BALLPARK TORCHED

  Ku Klux Klan Suspected

  Cubs Park in East St. Louis had burned to the ground the previous night, while a wooden cross blazed in the middle of the diamond.

  Damn! I wished I had called Tater Greene when Aubury first told me about Enoch’s kid getting beaten up. Maybe I’d have been able to do something to prevent this.

  At least the newspaper report did pin the blame on the KKK; perhaps Karl Landfors’s efforts were paying off. Although, considering the trademark burning cross, it was hardly a journalistic coup to conc
lude that the Klan was behind the arson.

  As soon as I got home, I phoned the Enoch Motor Car Company and learned that Tater Greene had phoned in sick. Lucky bastard, I thought.

  I dialed his home number. It took eight rings before he picked up. “What?” he moaned.

  “You got what you wished for,” I said. “They burned down Cubs Park last night. Or should I say ‘you’ burned it down?”

  “Hey, when I said that about burning the park, I only meant instead of the catcher’s house.” Greene’s speech was slow and slurred. “I didn’t mean they should torch a park just because some snot-nosed kid couldn’t handle himself in a fight.”

  “You sick?” I asked.

  “Nah, a little hair of the dog, and I’ll be fine.”

  “Were you all drunk when you did it?”

  Greene didn’t deny being involved. “Stone-cold sober,” he said. “Until I got home anyways.”

  “Did Roy Enoch tell you to burn down the park?”

  “I’m not saying who gave the order or who was involved.” He made a belching noise. “You think I’m a dope or something?”

  “Somebody is,” I said. “If the Klan doesn’t want to be connected to violence, then it’s not real clever to leave a burning cross as a calling card. It’s just as dumb as Enoch’s boy was, telling the other kids that his father’s a Klansman.”

  “You know about that?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, that’s why we had to leave the cross. Nobody liked Enoch’s kid saying what he did, but it was too late. Once he told them not to mess with the Klan, we had to back him up. And we had to let folks know it was us, so we burned a cross. Matter of pride.”