Hanging Curve

by Troy Soos

  Much of what Aubury had brought me about the riot was newspaper clippings, which I read thoroughly. Then I opened a few ponderous official reports that resulted from several government investigations. One of the reports was from the Military Board of Inquiry, which had held hearings on the conduct of the National Guard. Aubury must have gone to some lengths to obtain a copy, because according to an attached letter, it was considered too “inflammatory” ever to be released publicly. Since the report concluded that numerous militiamen had actually aided in the killing of Negroes, I could see why the board didn’t want that information to become public knowledge.

  The congressional report that I read next was a public document. It included testimony regarding the actions—and inaction—of local law enforcement during the riot. According to one eyewitness:

  Two Negroes came out of a house in the middle of the block, on Broadway, between Fourth and Fifth Sts., about half-past seven in the evening. They fell on their knees before some policemen, and begged to be saved from the mob. “Keep walking, you black—,” ordered a police sergeant. Both Negroes fled, only to be shot down half a block away. An ambulance came, but drove on again when the sergeant shouted, “They’re not dead yet, boys.”

  It was passages like that one that kept me from reading the material for any length of time. When I needed a break from the accounts of tragedy and turmoil, I picked up the Sol White book Franklin Aubury had brought and read instead about the rich history of colored baseball.

  On Saturday, in the company of Margie, Franklin Aubury, and Karl Landfors, I got to witness a new chapter in that history: the grand opening of Stars Park, the first Negro League ballpark owned entirely by colored people.

  Although my back wasn’t quite healed enough for me to be up and around, it was important for me to be there—both to support the Stars and to show that the Klan wasn’t going to scare me off. My only regret was that I wouldn’t be able to stay for the game, because I’d have to leave for Sportsman’s Park immediately after the pregame festivities. Lee Fohl, I knew, would expect me to attend the Browns game if I was well enough to be at Stars Park.

  The Negro National League’s newest stadium, at the corner of Compton and Market Streets, wasn’t entirely completed yet—tarpaulins were being used as a temporary grandstand roof, and there was no fence in left field—but it was clearly going to be a splendid ballpark. It was filled with more than five thousand fans, of both races, and a stellar array of dignitaries that included St. Louis mayor Henry Kiel and Missouri governor Arthur Hyde. Thousands more had cheered the team during a morning parade through the neighborhood.

  When Mayor Kiel began to give a speech at home plate, I noticed there was no segregation in the park’s seating, and wondered if that was due to the presence of the mayor and the governor. It wouldn’t have looked good to have the white and Negro dignitaries sitting on opposite sides of a rope.

  As the mayor droned on, Franklin Aubury leaned toward me, and whispered, “You were interested in Rosie Sumner, the fellow who’s recruiting for the Eastern Colored League.”

  “Yeah, what about him?”

  “I have made some inquiries. I assumed that since he was in the Midwest, there was a strong likelihood he might come here.”

  “And?”

  Aubury pointed to a beefy, light-skinned colored man sitting in a box seat not far from our section. “That is Sumner. In the white-linen suit.”

  I checked my pocket watch. I had to leave for Sportsman’s Park in ten minutes at the latest. Then I looked again at Sumner. I didn’t want to miss a chance to talk to him, even briefly.

  “I better go,” I said to my companions. “I’m just gonna talk to Sumner a minute, then I gotta get to the park.”

  “Want me to come with you?” Margie asked.

  I shook my head and got to my feet. “No, you stay here. I’ll just be riding the bench today anyway.”

  Margie seemed content to remain with Karl and Aubury, and I didn’t blame her. She would be getting to see the visiting Indianapolis ABCs face Cool Papa Bell, who was slated to pitch the first home game in St. Louis Stars’ history.

  I edged toward Rosie Sumner, who appeared to be alone. He was fanning himself with a scorecard and studying the players who stood along the foul lines. As I drew near him, I saw that Sumner had the fashion sense of a riverboat gambler and the face and body of a prizefighter.

  Leaning on the railing next to his arm, I said to him, “I hear you’re recruiting for the Eastern Colored League.”

  Sumner looked up at me, and I noticed the ugly scars on his squat face. If he had been a boxer, I thought, he must have ended up on the losing end of most of his bouts. “Don’t think we can use you,” he replied in a voice so high and reedy that it sounded like he must have taken quite a few punches below the belt, too.

  “You could have used Slip Crawford,” I said. “You wanted to sign him.”

  “Of course I did.” Sumner had an amused glint in his cold eyes. “Crawford was a top-notch pitcher.”

  “But he wouldn’t sign with you.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. What’s it to you, anyway?”

  I ignored the question. “Did you try to force him?”

  “Convince, not force. What are you, a cop?”

  I stared at Sumner for a moment, hoping he might interpret my silence as a yes. “When you couldn’t convince him, did you decide he wasn’t going to play for anyone else then?”

  When he realized what I was implying, Sumner squawked, “Hey, you can’t—”

  “I know you threatened some other players—told them they better sign with you before they ended up like Crawford.”

  “Hey, that was just talk.”

  “And I know you work as muscle for a gangster in New York—Alex Pompez.”

  Sumner slumped back in his seat and worked the scorecard more vigorously. “Let me tell you, I’m a scout, not a hoodlum. And Mr. Pompez is a baseball fan first and foremost. If he thought I hurt a ballplayer, I’d be the one getting hurt.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Yeah, I used Crawford getting killed as part of my sales pitch, but that’s all I did.”

  “All right,” I said, trying to sound official. “If I have any more questions, I’ll be in touch.”

  My prediction proved wrong. Lee Fohl did decide to use me in the ball game. Although he’d let me skip practice, when he needed a pinch-runner for Frank Ellerbe in the seventh inning, he asked me if I was up to it.

  My answer was automatic: yes. I went in, and broke open the scabs on my back sliding into third base on a single by Hank Severeid.

  Soon after the game, I was back at home, belly-down on the sofa again. And, once again, I returned to reading about the events of 1917.

  What bothered me was the five-year gap between the riot and the violence of this year. I couldn’t fill in the time span in a way that made sense.

  I could grasp what happened in 1917, I thought. Franklin Aubury and Ed Moss had both told me about whites losing their jobs and resenting the Negroes who had taken them.

  I could also understand tensions continuing in the aftermath of the riot. Even the anger of Enoch’s workers over one of their salesmen being killed by Negroes, which I assumed was why the Elcars and Cubs didn’t play a game for the next two years.

  But two years ago, the series resumed. That was a sign that the rift was mending. So why would the Elcars wait five years to get back for one of their fellow employees being killed in the riot? That didn’t make sense. Certainly it wasn’t to build up the klavern—the mobs had managed to kill quite effectively without any formal organization in 1917.

  And what about Slip Crawford? He hadn’t been in East St. Louis since the riot, and last year he’d played in Indianapolis. So why was he the target of the Elcars or the Klan? Because he’d won a ball game? The Elcars had lost each of the last two games, and no one was killed because of it.

  The problems seem to have started with the riot, but there was no continuity from 1917 to 1922. />
  I went back to the reports to see what followed in the months after the riot. There were indictments against eighty-two whites and twenty-three Negroes for crimes committed during the riot. Of the white men indicted, however, only nine went to jail, and the first of those was convicted of beating another white who had attempted to save a Negro.

  As for those in law enforcement who’d abetted the rioters, three police officers were indicted for the murder of Negroes, and four others for rioting and conspiracy. They made a deal with the attorney general, however. Instead of facing the murder charges, three of the officers, chosen by lot, agreed to plead guilty to the misdemeanor crime of rioting. They were each fined fifty-dollars as their total punishment, and the fines were paid by the other policemen.

  The trials of the Negroes went on into 1919. Most of the charges were related to the killing of the two police officers the night before the riot. The theory which served as the basis of the case was that there had been some kind of colored army being supplied with weapons by gunrunners from St. Louis.

  There were extensive investigations of all “known” colored criminals, including a St. Louis numbers racketeer named Ronald Parker. Like most of the others, no evidence was found against him and no charges filed. But what was interesting to me was that his attorney was Franklin Aubury.

  CHAPTER 31

  It was impossible to tell from the mild weather St. Louis was enjoying that one of the most powerful forces of nature had blown into town. Babe Ruth had arrived with his New York Yankees for a head-to-head battle with the Browns.

  Our lead over the Yankees was down to two games, and New York was vowing to sweep the three-game series and topple us from our first-place position in the American League standings. A good part of the population of St. Louis, Margie and Karl among them, was crammed into Sportsman’s Park for the opener Monday morning, hoping to see us fend off the Yankee threat. I’d invited Franklin Aubury, too, but he declined, unwilling to be stuck in the colored section of the right-field bleachers.

  Pitching chores for both teams fell to a couple of youngsters. Rookie Hub Pruett pitched for us, facing the schoolboy from Brooklyn, Waite Hoyt, of the Yankees.

  I began the game on the bench, but spent little time sitting on it. I kept moving around, caught up in the excitement.

  When Babe Ruth came to bat in the top of the first, all of Sportsman’s Park was on its collective feet. Hub Pruett wasn’t intimidated by the Babe’s reputation or lethal swing, however. He struck out the slugger on four pitches, to the wild cheers of the crowd.

  Pruett fanned the mighty Ruth in both of his next appearances also, and the Browns were up 3—2 in the seventh inning. I was fidgeting and pacing, trying to attract Lee Fohl’s attention without actually saying, “Put me in, Coach!”

  He got the hint that I wanted to play. In the bottom of the seventh, Fohl said, “Rawlings! Yer up for Ellerbe.”

  I grabbed my bat and went to the plate, taking a few easy practice swings. My back was pinched and tight from the way the skin was being pulled by the scabs, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to make a good swing.

  Waite Hoyt worked me to a two-two count, as I swung lamely and missed a pair of curveballs. Okay, one thing to do, I decided. On Hoyt’s next pitch, I laid a bunt up the first-base line; it was risky—if the ball went foul, I’d be out automatically—but it rolled just inside the foul line, and I made it to first safely.

  Since that risk had paid off, I promptly took another. With Hank Severeid at the plate, I stole second base, sliding headfirst to avoid landing on my back. I stood up, dusted myself off, and looked around at the packed stands and all the fans cheering my hustle. This was fun, I thought, and the only thing that could be more fun would be doing this in a World Series.

  Severeid rapped a single to right on the next pitch, and I raced for home. With another headfirst slide, I beat Babe Ruth’s throw to put us up 4—2.

  My run proved to be the winning run as the Yankees scored once in the eighth. We had a three-game lead now, and New York couldn’t overtake us in this series.

  In the locker room, we celebrated as if the game had clinched the pennant, and I got plenty of praise for my play. No one was feeling sorry for me now, as they had when they’d first seen my back. Today I was no longer a victim. I was part of the team, one of the guys who helped beat the Yankees.

  Margie, Karl, and I celebrated by going to dinner. Initially, all we talked about was the game and the Browns’ prospects for winning the pennant.

  When Margie left Karl and me alone for a few minutes, though, I shifted to a different subject. “I know why Franklin Aubury was able to identify Rosie Sumner so easily,” I said. “It’s because Aubury works for a numbers racketeer, too, a fellow by the name of Ronald Parker. Five years ago, he did anyway.”

  “He still does,” answered Karl. “However, he doesn’t really work for him.”

  “Then why is he listed as Parker’s attorney in 1917?”

  Karl thought a moment. “This is confidential, but I’m sure Franklin wouldn’t mind me telling you. He is kept on retainer by Parker. There is rarely an occasion when Parker actually needs his legal services, but he wants to support Aubury’s civil-rights work.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a way to funnel money. Numbers racketeers support many community institutions, but they have to be careful about how they account for their money. On the books, Franklin Aubury is paid a monthly retainer for legal services. The legal work he does, however, has nothing to do with Parker’s enterprises.”

  “It may not be that innocent, Karl,” I said. “Aubury might be using his connections with the rackets. He always seems to know right away when something happens—maybe it’s because he has advance knowledge. Maybe he’s even using his connections to get revenge on the Elcars.”

  Karl shook his head. “I’ve known Franklin Aubury long enough to know he wouldn’t do anything wrong.” He pointed to the glass of beer next to my plate. “He isn’t any more a criminal than you are for drinking illegal beer.”

  “I know,” I said, “that bootleggers hijack, steal, and kill in their business. Maybe numbers racketeers do the same.”

  “Even if they do, Aubury wouldn’t be involved in that end of it. Look, I’m sure he’s not happy about having any connection with criminals, but what choice does he have? I’ve always fought for causes that were underfunded because they were against established interests—and sometimes I didn’t look too closely where my money came from. You take it where you can get it and make good use of it. That’s what Aubury’s doing.”

  Could be, I thought. But if he wasn’t doing anything wrong, why did he keep it a secret?

  I sure hoped Karl was right about Franklin Aubury. Because on Tuesday night, the sales office of Enoch’s Motor Cars was burned to the ground. Also torched was the dealership’s garage, destroying the cars inside and killing the night watchman, who was found in the backseat of a charred Auburn. According to the newspaper, the name of the watchman was Melvin Greene, once a major-league baseball player.

  The only thing I now understood was why he’d preferred “Tater.” I didn’t know why he was identified as a watchman when he’d been a mechanic. And the paper didn’t reveal how the fire started, although since it struck two separate buildings, the police believed it was arson—which with Greene being killed, made it a homicide.

  What I wondered was: Who lit it? Greene had mentioned to me that the Klan didn’t trust him anymore. Was he killed by the KKK, who then set the fire as a cover? Or was the fire set by Negroes as revenge for Cubs Park having been burned down, and Greene an unintended victim?

  Whatever the reason, and whatever he’d done in the past, I felt sad about my old teammate. Especially since the last thing he’d said to me was that he was sorry for everything.

  CHAPTER 32

  Without calling ahead for an appointment, I showed up at Franklin Aubury’s law office early the next morning. Despite Karl Landfors’s reassurances,
I wanted to talk to the lawyer directly.

  Aubury looked like he hadn’t slept in days. When I sat down, he took off his pince-nez and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

  “I was reading about the trials from 1917,” I began, “and I came across an interesting item: You were the attorney for Ronald Parker. According to the report, he’s a kingpin in the St. Louis ‘policy’ rackets. That’s numbers, right?”

  “You are correct on all three counts,” Aubury answered matter-of-factly. “Policy is another word for the numbers, Mr. Parker runs a numbers operation, and I represented him—in fact, I still do.”

  “I never expected you to be tied up with the rackets,” I said.

  He spread his hands. “I am sorry to be a disappointment to you. But I have done nothing criminal, and I am not ashamed of my relationship with Mr. Parker.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me about it before?”

  “For what purpose? What business is it of yours who my clients are?” For somebody who wasn’t ashamed, he was sounding pretty defensive.

  “None, I guess. Just surprised me.”

  Aubury pushed a stack of papers aside and leaned back. “When I was in law school, I was determined to help the poor, those who had no voice and no one to defend them. When I started my practice, I took on so many pro bono cases, that I wasn’t providing for my own family. Mr. Parker wanted to support the work I was doing for the community, so he put me on retainer—it enables me to spend all my time working on the issues that will help our people the most.”

  “Not all your time. You did have to defend him on the gunrunning charge in 1917.”

  “That did not require much effort on my part. He wasn’t involved in any such thing, and it never went to trial.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “From what I read, it did seem that the cops were accusing just about all colored people of stirring up trouble.”