Hanging Curve

by Troy Soos

  “Maybe because Crawford embarrassed him during the game. Whalen looked awful bad, first backing down against him when he went to the mound, and then striking out in a critical spot.” I poured a couple mugs of coffee. “It might fit with what happened to Denver Jones, too. Jones plowed into Whalen during that game, so maybe Whalen got the Elcars to torch his house.”

  “That sounds awfully extreme to me,” Margie said. “Ballplayers look bad in games all the time. They don’t kill or burn down a house because of it.”

  “I know. It doesn’t really make sense to me, either.”

  Margie flipped the pancakes over. “Maybe Whalen instigated things but never expected them to go as far as they did.”

  “Could be. Padgett did say they only intended to beat Crawford, not kill him.” Unless, I thought, Whalen was the one who’d said, “Hang him.” Maybe he did want the pitcher killed all along.

  After we sat down and began eating, Margie asked, “What’s the next step?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Seems like I’ve run out of ways to get information. Tater Greene is dead, and none of the other Elcars will talk to me now. I can’t pretend I’m interested in joining the Klan; they won’t buy that story anymore.”

  “Brian Padgett told you quite a bit last night. Maybe you could try him again.”

  “I think we got as much as we can out of him. He only talked last night because he thought Karl Landfors was a Grand Titan in the Klan. If I show up asking questions, he’ll just be suspicious—and he won’t tell me anything.”

  Margie paused from stirring sugar in her coffee. With a look of concern, she asked, “Aren’t you worried about the Klan finding out that somebody impersonated them?”

  “It will be a while before they find out. Padgett will be too embarrassed by what happened to him to want to tell anyone.” I know I certainly had been.

  We worked on the food for a while, then Margie suggested, “If you’re out of leads, why don’t you let me try something?”

  I thought of what the Klan had done to me in Forest Park. “I really wouldn’t like for you... it’s too dangerous.”

  Margie pushed her plate to the side. “A couple of months ago, I told you I had an idea for getting some information and you wouldn’t even hear me out. At least listen to me now—please.”

  Eventually I learn. “Of course,” I said. “What’s your idea?”

  She smiled slightly at my response. “You remember during the Elcars’ game, I sat with the other women in the stands?”

  I nodded.

  “Most of them were wives or girlfriends of the players. Doreen was there, and so was Enoch’s daughter Jessalyn. Let me talk to them.”

  “That’s a great idea, but if you show up asking questions, they’re sure to get suspicious.”

  “I don’t have to question them, and they don’t have to know who I am,” she said. “I’ll just go to their next game, and sit near them again. They spent most of the game gossiping, so with a little nudging, I’ll bet I can learn a few things.”

  That did sound like a good idea. “I’ll find out when their next game is,” I said.

  This meant, though, that Margie had something to do, while I was still at a loss for my next step. I wondered if perhaps I should take the risk of talking to Whalen directly to find out why he’d lied to Padgett about Slip Crawford. I thought it over, and suddenly realized that Whalen had told me a lie, too.

  I got up and refilled Margie’s and my coffee cups. I told her, “When I asked Whalen why he backed down after Crawford threw at him, he told me Crawford apologized for the ball getting away from him. But when Franklin Aubury and I were in Indianapolis, the ABCs players told us that Crawford would knock down his own mother without saying he was sorry.”

  “Maybe he mellowed when he joined the Stars?” Margie suggested.

  “No, I don’t think so. Plunk Drake—he pitches for the Stars—he told us that Bill Gatewood orders his pitchers to throw at batters for target practice. Crawford would have probably become even tougher with the Stars, not softer.”

  I began to clear the dishes. What had Crawford really said to Whalen, I wondered. Was it something that would make Whalen want to kill him?

  It wasn’t until I’d settled into my parlor chair with the morning newspaper that I thought of a way to find out. Now Margie and I both had something to pursue.

  The village of Brooklyn, north of East St. Louis, on the Mississippi River, was nothing like the one in New York. There was no Coney Island, no Ebbets Field, no Greenlawn Park. Virtually the only structures were small houses and shacks, occupied entirely by Negroes. One of the larger houses—about the size of a bungalow—was the new home of East St. Louis Cubs catcher Denver Jones.

  He greeted me warmly when I arrived at his doorstep Monday evening. I’d asked Franklin Aubury to call him for me, so the big catcher was expecting me.

  When Jones invited me inside, I looked around the simple parlor. It had a cozy feel, but there seemed to be something missing. “You all settled in?” I asked.

  “Pretty much,” he answered. “But I’m missing the wife and kids. Ain’t really a home without ’em.”

  “They’re not here with you?”

  “Sent them to live with my sister in Chicago for a while. Until things calm down around here.” He offered me a seat in an overstuffed chair. “Oh, thanks again for the help at the ballpark—and for the gear. It helped get us back in business.”

  “Glad to do it,” I said. “As for things calming down, I’m trying to help with that, too, if I can.”

  “Mr. Aubury mentioned that. Says you’re one of the good guys.” A smile lit up his broad, round face. “But I already knew that—I seen how you worked at the park.”

  “Thanks. You probably thought different when you first saw me in an Elcars uniform, though.”

  “Sure did.” He handed me a beer. “But opinions change.”

  I leaned forward. “Let me ask you about that game. When Slip Crawford threw at J. D. Whalen, Whalen started out to the mound to go after him. But Crawford said something that made Whalen back down. You were right on Whalen’s tail, ready to break up a fight if it came to that. You must have heard what Crawford said.”

  “Yeah, I did.” Jones shifted in his chair. “But it didn’t make no sense to me. Slip must have known what he was doing though—he got Whalen shook-up enough to strike him out easy.”

  “What exactly did Crawford say?”

  “He asked Whalen a question: ‘You don’t got a tire iron with you this time?’ ”

  “What does that mean?” Was it some kind of colored slang that I was unfamiliar with?

  “I got no idea,” said Jones.

  Great, I thought. Now all I have is more questions to answer.

  CHAPTER 35

  The new bleacher seats had been added to Sportsman’s Park, and every one of them was occupied. More than thirty thousand fans were on hand for the Browns’ Independence Day doubleheader against the visiting Cleveland Indians.

  Any other year, this occasion would have been one of the highlights of the season for me. A major-league baseball game was as much a part of a Fourth of July celebration as fireworks and flags, and it was always something special to play on the nation’s birthday. It was impossible for me to get excited about these games, though.

  For one thing, Lee Fohl was putting the Browns’ pennant drive into high gear, which meant he was relying primarily on the regulars. My role would be limited to coaching Marty McManus from the bench.

  I was also distracted by the situation in East St. Louis. I had no doubt that Roy Enoch’s klavern—with or without his blessing—would be planning some action to get revenge for the dealership being burned down. I only hoped that I could find a way to get things resolved before we left on our next road trip.

  Most of my hopes rested with Margie. She was in Collinsville, at an Elcars’ semipro game, to find out what she could from their female fans.

  “The game its
elf was terrific,” Margie reported. “The other team was also white, so there was a completely different atmosphere from the game with the Cubs.” She took a bite of her hot dog and washed it down with soda pop. Dinner was informal, on a picnic blanket in Fairgrounds Park, while we waited for the holiday fireworks display.

  “Who won?” I asked, hoping it hadn’t been the Elcars.

  She smiled. “Collinsville, five-four.” After tossing a piece of bread to a nearby pigeon, she said, “I learned some things from the women there. I don’t know if any of it’s useful though.”

  I still had concerns about Margie being involved in this. “Were they suspicious about you asking questions?”

  “I hardly had to ask anything!” Margie laughed. “All they did is gossip—they barely paid attention to the game. Jessalyn Enoch and Doreen Uhler were both there, and they seemed happy to have another set of ears around to listen to their talk.”

  “Did you find out anything about Whalen?” Before she’d left for the game, we agreed she should focus on him, since he’d lied about Slip Crawford.

  “Some, but I don’t know if it’s helpful.” Margie refolded her legs and smoothed out her skirt. “J. D. Whalen started pursuing Jessalyn soon after her fiance Tim Lowrey was killed in the riot. I don’t know if it was his idea, though. He might have been encouraged by Jessalyn’s father. Roy Enoch promoted Whalen from mechanic to Lowrey’s sales position, and seemed to be grooming him to take over the business.”

  I asked, “Was the falling-out between Enoch and Whalen a couple months ago because of Whalen starting his own garage or because of something between Whalen and Jessalyn?”

  “I don’t know. Whalen pursued her off and on for a few years, but she never warmed up to him, from what I gather.”

  “You don’t think she and Whalen were involved earlier—while she was engaged to Lowrey?”

  Margie shook her head. “The other girls at the park filled me in on Jessalyn when she went to the ladies’ room. She’s not likely to attract many suitors—neither her appearance nor personality is terribly pleasant. The girls seemed to think Roy Enoch was essentially bribing Whalen to court his daughter with the better job and more money.”

  “And it didn’t work?”

  “No, I think she loved Tim Lowrey, and no one was ever going to replace him for her. That’s another odd thing, though: The girls all agreed that Whalen would have been a ‘better catch’ for her than Lowrey. After Lowrey was killed in the riot, he became something of a martyr, but he wasn’t well liked when he was alive. Doreen told me she’d heard that Lowrey was always bragging to the other workers that he had it made because he’d be marrying the boss’s daughter.”

  “Hm. Did you learn anything else?”

  “Nothing new. Doreen did mention Padgett’s temper, but you already knew about that. She said, ‘With his temper, he should have my hair color.’ She also said he never got angry with her, but would get into a jealous rage at any man who showed her attention.”

  I thought over what Margie had told me. She was right; there wasn’t much we didn’t already know.

  “Do you think it was worth me going there?” Margie asked.

  I smiled. “At least you got to miss seeing us play against Cleveland.” We’d lost both ends of the doubleheader, shrinking our lead over the Yankees to one game. “I’m not sure where to go from here.”

  “Well,” Margie said, “what about talking to Hannah Crawford?”

  I didn’t really want to question Slip Crawford’s widow, but I had to concede that it was a sensible idea.

  Once again, I’d called Franklin Aubury, this time to set up a meeting with Crawford’s widow; I didn’t want to show up unannounced and start asking her questions about her dead husband. I’d also told the lawyer about Karl’s and my interrogation of Padgett, and that I thought we were making some progress. I didn’t tell him yet that it looked like J. D. Whalen had instigated the lynching.

  Margie and I arrived at Hannah Crawford’s spacious Olive Street apartment Thursday afternoon. Mrs. Crawford was a pretty, shapely woman with skin almost the same shade as her black hair, which was straightened and cut in a Dutch bob. She greeted us graciously and ushered us into a pristine parlor.

  “I sure appreciate what you’re trying to do for my Sherman,” she said. “You just tell me anything I can do to help.”

  As she poured us tea from a silver pot, I looked around and saw the photos of her husband on the mantel. Many of them were formal portraits of Sherman Crawford wearing a suit and tie; others showed “Slip” Crawford in the baseball uniforms of the Indianapolis ABCs and St. Louis Stars. On the wall above, was a color-tinted wedding portrait of the two of them together.

  I began, “I understand you and your husband used to live in East St. Louis.”

  “Until the riot,” Hannah Crawford answered. “Our house was one of those that was burned down. We moved to St. Louis right after, and never went back across the river again.”

  “But Slip went back to pitch in the Cubs’ game. Why did he do that? Why go back to East St. Louis to play in a semipro game?”

  “The city had been our home for several years. Slip always felt bad about the way we left, and he wanted to do something for the community. He figured pitching that game against the Elcars was one of the best things he could do for the colored people of East St. Louis. Nothing’s ever going to make up for what happened to us during the riot, but every time we get some small victory against the whites, it’s something for us to cheer about.”

  “Were you at the game, too?”

  “Sure was. Afterward, we had dinner with some friends who used to be neighbors.”

  “Did your husband say anything after the game?”

  She hesitated. “About what?”

  “You remember when one of the Elcars’ batters—J. D. Whalen—started to go out to the mound? Slip said something to him, and Whalen backed down. Did he tell you what he said?”

  Hannah Crawford thought for a while. “Mr. Aubury says I should feel free to tell you anything. This is the first time I’ve told anybody what I’m going to say to you, and I want your promise you won’t use it in any way to hurt the memory of my Sherman.”

  I promised that I had no intention of harming her late husband’s reputation.

  She said, “The day the riot started, I was home, and Sherman was over in St. Louis trying out for the St. Louis Giants. When word started to spread about what was happening in East St. Louis, he came back over Eads Bridge—almost had to fight his way back, because of all the people going in the other direction trying to escape. Sherman didn’t know it, but I was one of them, along with our next-door neighbors. I figured Sherman was already safe, being in St. Louis; I didn’t know he’d try to come back to check on how I was.

  “Well, by the time he got to where we lived, our house was already up in flames. So he started to search for me, all the while having to avoid the whites who were shooting colored folk like it was target practice. The city was crazy—killing, burning, looting. One of our neighbors was even killed for a pair of shoes.

  “Anyway, Sherman kept looking for me. As he did, a couple of white men passed near him, and went into an alley. Sherman hid until they passed. But apparently, these men weren’t hunting colored people. One of them knocked the other on the head with a tire iron.”

  “Was he killed?” I asked.

  “Sherman wasn’t sure, but he thought so. Said the man’s skull cracked as loud as a gunshot. He never checked though—soon as the man who’d hit him left, Sherman took off before he ended up getting blamed for it.” Hannah Crawford looked down at her folded hands. “He always felt a little cowardly about what happened—that he didn’t try to help the man, and that he left town never to come back. I suppose that’s another reason he wanted to play for the Cubs that day.”

  And that’s when he saw the man who’d swung the tire iron that night: J. D. Whalen. I asked, “So what did your husband tell you after the game?”

/>   “He recognized the man who killed the other fellow in the alley. It was the one who went out to the mound. When he did, Sherman said something to him like, ‘You better have another tire iron with you.’ ” She shook her head, then almost screamed, “That damned fool! Soon as he said that, he was as good as dead.”

  Margie said, “I don’t understand. Why would your husband let Whalen know that he recognized him?”

  “I think I can answer that,” I said. “Crawford was in a tight spot and he wanted to get Whalen off-stride. And it worked—he struck him out.”

  Hannah Crawford nodded. “That’s what he told me. He didn’t really plan to say anything; it just came into his head and out his mouth. He didn’t think of any consequences beyond the ball game.” She began to weep. “We sure started to worry about it afterward though.”

  With good reason, I thought.

  CHAPTER 36

  I pored over the thick transcripts and depositions of the 1917 trials in the basement of East St. Louis’s City Hall. As I did, I wondered how Franklin Aubury had managed to stay awake in law school if he had to read this kind of stuff. It was all in a dry legalese that made it tough to tell if any of it meant anything.

  It took a couple of hours, but I sorted through the material until I’d found the coroner’s reports on each of the six white men who’d been killed in the riot. Most had died of gunshot wounds. The only one who’d been killed by bludgeoning was Tim Lowrey. He’d suffered a fractured skull from “a blunt object, perhaps a metal pipe.”

  It looked like the connection between 1917 and 1922 was confirmed. Slip Crawford had never gone back to East St. Louis until the game against the Elcars. That’s when he saw J. D. Whalen again. And that’s when Whalen learned that there’d been a witness to his murder of Tim Lowrey—and when he’d decided to make sure Crawford could never tell what he saw.