Murder at Ebbets Field

by Troy Soos

  “Oysters and champagne make the best meal in the world, don’t you think?” Marguerite Turner said.

  “I haven’t had the two together before,” I answered. Actually, I’d never had champagne at all and still hadn’t touched the full glass in front of me. Not all forms of alcohol agreed with me, and I wasn’t sure if this was the time to experiment with a new one. I did like beer though, and the bubbles that percolated in the hollow-stemmed glass made me think champagne might be similar.

  I hadn’t really been able to try the oysters, either. The fork was too small or the oyster too slippery.

  Marguerite wasn’t having much success with her fork, either. “Aw, the hell with it,” she finally muttered. She lifted a shell to her mouth and slurped its plump contents. After chewing rapidly, she chased the oyster with a gulp of champagne. A disapproving Harrrumph came from across the table. Marguerite dropped her eyes and her cheeks colored.

  I quickly scooped up an oyster the same way that she had and let it slide down my throat without chewing at all. Marguerite smiled. When I emptied my champagne glass in one draught, her smile turned to a grin.

  The champagne was good stuff, I thought, sweeter than beer and with a more refreshing fizz.

  Marguerite Turner and I were both more relaxed now. “How do you like playing for John McGraw?” she asked. I was glad she brought up baseball. The other talk at our table was about whether there would be war in Europe, a topic I didn’t find particularly engaging.

  “It’s hard to say. I’m not sure that you’re supposed to like playing for McGraw. I think I do, though. You have to play smart when you play for him. I like that.”

  “Is this your first year in the majors?”

  “Oh, no. I played for the 1912 Red Sox most of the season.” That team was one of the best ever; after breezing to the league title, the club beat McGraw’s Giants for the world championship.

  “Really?” Marguerite said, sounding impressed. “I was at the World Series that year. The first game, anyway, at the Polo Grounds. My brother took me for my eighteenth birthday. Did you play?”

  “Did I what?” I was busy registering the new information: so, she would be twenty in October, almost two years younger than me.

  “I said did you play in the Series?”

  “Oh ... uh, no. I got injured a couple of weeks before the end of the season, so the Sox released me.”

  “That’s awful! You get hurt working for them, and that’s how they show their appreciation?”

  “Mmm. It was disappointing.” I didn’t see any need to mention that the injuries that ended my 1912 season didn’t happen on the baseball field. “But I’ll get into the World Series this year.”

  As we talked, we continued to inhale oysters, without the use of forks and without concern for what our table companions thought of us.

  I thought it would be good manners to ask my date a question about herself. “You like baseball?” I asked.

  “I love baseball.”

  “And you’re a Dodger fan.”

  “Yes, but they’re not my favorite. I still like the Boston Braves. I saw them play at the South End Grounds once when I was a girl.”

  “I played there! For the Braves, in 1911. That was my first time in the big leagues. Cy Young was on the team.” That fact was the highlight of my two-week tenure with the Braves.

  She pursed her lips. “1911.... The Braves finished fifty games out of first place that year, didn’t they?”

  “Worse. Fifty-four.”

  “You should watch out for the Braves this year.”

  I laughed. “Three years haven’t turned them into pennant winners.”

  “They have the pitching,” she countered. “That’s ninety percent of the game.”

  Save me from women who think they know baseball. Pitching isn’t more than seventy-five percent of the game. Eighty at most. “We’ll see,” I said skeptically.

  “Would you play for the Feds?”

  “No, I don’t think they’ll last. And it would kill my career. We can be blacklisted just for going to a Federal game.” Besides, although the upstart Federal League had been raiding the established leagues for every player they could get, they’d never contacted me.

  “Oh. That’s too bad. I like going to their Brooklyn games. Washington Park is just a couple blocks from my flat near Red Hook.” She said my flat. That means hers alone. As in no husband or mother—maybe not even a roommate.

  She leaned toward me. “Would you excuse me,” she whispered. “I have to go to the toilet.” No decorous nonsense about nose powdering. I liked that. This was a girl it was easy to feel comfortable with.

  I watched closely as she walked away. She didn’t glide with small delicate steps but rather loped, as if still in her jungle attire. She’d seemed more comfortable in shirt and trousers than she did in a dress. In fact, she wore the dress with indifference if not awkwardness. She moved like a tomboy forced against her will to dress as a lady. I would bet that when she was a little girl she could climb a tree faster than any boy—and probably risked going onto higher branches.

  “More champagne, sir?” A waiter held out a bottle with a white cloth wrapped around it. I nodded and he refilled my glass. The waiters were dressed in gay nineties style, in identical pink-striped shirts, black string ties, and green vests. As part of the costume, they all sported bushy black handlebar mustaches.

  The hotel tried to maintain the ambience of two decades ago, from the ornate silverware on the tables to the gilt-framed paintings on the walls to the cut-glass chandeliers that showered flickering gaslight about the room. Unfortunately, the nostalgia even extended to the music. A five-piece band was struggling through a spiritless version of “Bicycle Built for Two” as if the bicycle had a flat tire. My preference ran more to ragtime, something I could tap my feet to.

  As I was looking about the room, Florence Hampton caught my eye. She was at the table next to ours, across from me so I had a clear view of her face. She gave me a friendly smile. I returned it, then felt a small pang of guilt. I’d almost forgotten her in my preoccupation with Marguerite Turner. Then I remembered that she had passed me over for an umpire, and my guilt was assuaged.

  There appeared to be too much competition for Florence Hampton’s attention anyway. Seated on either side of her were two men I had seen earlier in the day at Ebbets Field: Sloppy Sutherland and his battery mate Virgil Ewing.

  Sloppy Sutherland was elegantly attired, as always. He wore a blue cutaway jacket, a wing collar around his throat, and a large glittering stickpin in his necktie. His impeccably barbered black hair was slicked back with so much pomade that it sparkled in the gaslight. It was Sutherland’s Beau Brummell aspirations that earned him his nickname, the same way three-hundred-pound behemoths are so often called “Tiny.” He was better dressed than any of the movie stars, but he didn’t wear his fine clothes easily. He seemed to be straining to appear dapper and graceful.

  Virgil Ewing was also in a suit and tie, but he might as well have stayed in his chest protector and shin guards. With his squat body, he could be one of only two things: a catcher or a fireplug. Ewing’s bullet head rested directly on his shoulders with no neck in between. The coarse brown hair that crowned his scalp looked like he cut it himself without the aid of a mirror. His left cheek was puffed with a massive chaw of tobacco.

  Sutherland whispered something in Miss Hampton’s right ear; she leaned toward him and laughed. Then Ewing whispered in her left ear; she leaned toward him and laughed just as hard. Then it was Sutherland’s turn again. I couldn’t tell which one she was with, but I thought Sutherland was more her type than Virgil Ewing. Hell, I’d be more her type than Ewing.

  Or maybe she was with both of them. The rumors about her again came to mind.

  I also remembered that Coney Island used to be called “Sodom by the Sea,” and preachers and newspaper editors liked to sermonize against the vices they said were rampant here. Being somewhat short of vices in my life, th
at reputation had a lot of appeal for me. Perhaps “nice” people didn’t come to Coney Island, but it seemed the perfect place for movie actors and baseball players.

  I was the only Giant here, though. Unless Tom Kelly counted. Kelly went back and forth between playing first base for the Giants and playing a leading man in motion pictures; he constantly threatened to jump from one business to the other unless he was paid more money. Kelly was dressed neatly but not in anything fancy. His main asset was a ruggedly handsome face, and he wore nothing to distract from it. He was seated at Miss Hampton’s table next to his wife Esther, an actress and perennial ingenue who could have been the model for the Kewpie doll. Kelly never looked at his adorable little wife, though. He seemed interested only in Florence Hampton and the contest between Sutherland and Ewing. Almost as interested as I was.

  “She’s very pretty, isn’t she?” Marguerite Turner had returned without my noticing.

  “Who?”

  “Florence Hampton, of course. You were staring at her.”

  “Well ...” I wasn’t sure if it was okay to tell your date that another girl was pretty. But if I said no, I’d obviously be lying. So I resorted to an old standby: evasion. “I was trying to figure out who she’s with,” I said.

  The band leader announced the first dance. To my surprise, Tom Kelly hopped up and took hold of Florence Hampton’s arm. He led her to the dance floor, though she didn’t look willing. His wife stared after them, her face reddening and her lips trembling.

  I turned to ask Marguerite what was going on. She was looking back at me expectantly. The other people at our table scraped their chairs back and made their way to the floor. Marguerite smiled, revealing a set of small pearly teeth. Although she wasn’t pretty in the same way as Florence Hampton, there was something about her——especially when she smiled—that! I found powerfully attractive.

  Then I realized what she wanted. And I tried to pretend that I didn’t. Please, anything but dancing.

  “Uh ... do you know who Miss Hampton is with?” I asked, trying to divert her attention from the dance floor.

  “Let’s see,” she replied slowly. “Right now she appears to be with Mr. Kelly.” It also appeared that Kelly and Miss Hampton were arguing.

  “I mean . . .”

  “Yes, I know what you mean. To tell you the truth, I don’t know. But I believe that is her business and hers alone. She’s a friend of mine. won’t say anything about her that could be taken the wrong way.”

  “Okay.” I dropped the subject.

  Marguerite looked over at the band. Somebody must have told them to try some music from this century, for they were now playing a fast rag—not very rhythmically but at least with more energy than they had before.

  I watched the dancers as they moved across the floor, and I tried hard to look too absorbed to realize that Marguerite wanted to join them. I noticed that many of the ladies were wearing slit skirts, some of them cut all the way up to the knees. The new style was supposed to make it easier to get in and out of automobiles, but it also allowed for more movement in dancing.

  When the band launched into the next tune, Miss Hampton broke away from Kelly. Sloppy Sutherland quickly intercepted her. She took his arms willingly and danced with him closely.

  As Tom Kelly returned to his table, his wife bolted past him and went to sit alone at an empty table in the corner of the room.

  Marguerite began tapping her fingers on the table and swaying in her chair. “Gee,” she said. “It’s too bad Mr. Stengel had his card game tonight.”

  I laughed, remembering Casey as he left me at the studio. He’d contorted his face into a huge wink and said, “Good luck, kid.” I was pretty sure he didn’t really have a poker game, and I think I now owed him a favor.

  “What’s so funny?” Marguerite asked.

  “Oh ... uh, the pie. I was just wondering what kind of pie that was you hit me with. It didn’t taste like anything.”

  She answered flatly, “That was movie pie. We make it ourselves. It’s just a paste, no filling. And extra gooey so that it sticks. Real pie doesn’t work so well.” There was a hint of exasperation in her voice, and she was starting to look like she really did wish Stengel was here, maybe instead of me.

  “I can’t dance,” I suddenly confessed. “But if you’re willing to put your feet at risk, I would be honored if you would give me the next dance.”

  Her smile came back in full bloom. She grabbed my hand and said, “Why wait for the next one?”

  With my free hand I downed the rest of my champagne. “I mean it about not knowing how to dance,” I warned.

  “Nonsense. Anybody can dance. You just move to the music.” She made it sound simple, but at the moment I’d have rather been facing a Walter Johnson fastball.

  Under Marguerite’s instruction—I think she was leading—I started to get the hang of it. We worked into an easy step pattern that I could follow without causing her injury. As Marguerite and I maneuvered about, I kept an eye on the others around us, partly to avoid running into them and partly to distract my mind from what my feet were doing—I found the dancing went more smoothly when I didn’t think too hard about each step.

  The courting of Florence Hampton provided plenty of distraction, almost to the point of becoming a floor show. Virgil Ewing and Sloppy Sutherland continually cut in on each other to dance with her; each time the shoulder taps were harder and the relinquishment less willing. Tom Kelly appeared to have given up pursuing her; he sat at his table, his eyes fixed on Ewing and Sutherland, visibly seething.

  “See? You dance wonderfully,” said Marguerite.

  “I do? I mean, thank you. So do you.” Not that I was any judge.

  When the band took a break, I led Marguerite back to our table. My legs wobbled a little. Not until I sat down did I realize how overheated and thirsty I was. Our champagne glasses had been refilled and we quickly emptied them. I then toyed with my empty glass, silently cursing its small size and wishing for a stein of beer.

  Marguerite and I didn’t say much; we sat quietly, just looking at each other. With the music stopped, it was easy to hear what was being said at Florence Hampton’s table.

  Virgil Ewing loudly suggested that Miss Hampton join him for a swim—no bathing dress needed, he added. He sounded desperate, as if he knew he was coming in second to Sloppy Sutherland and making one last bid to win her favors.

  She glared her answer at him, her face flushing. Conversations hushed and people stared at them.

  Florence Hampton then politely excused herself and went to sit with Esther Kelly. Mrs. Kelly looked happy to have some company, and Miss Hampton looked relieved to be away from her suitors.

  Through the windows, I could hear waves lapping at the shore. Ewing’s manners were awful, but his idea of a dip in the ocean had a lot of appeal. I could feel sweat running down my back, and my severe thirst was nagging me for relief.

  A waiter carrying a champagne bottle on a tray passed our table. I leapt up and tried to hail him. I was sure he noticed me, but he turned away with a toss of his mustaches and headed toward Florence Hampton’s new table instead. Great—just when I was starting to feel at home with this crowd, a waiter decides to remind me that Giants aren’t welcome in Brooklyn.

  I spotted another waiter and almost tackled him to secure a full bottle of bubbly for Marguerite and me. I filled her glass first, then my own. I kept refilling and emptying it, and my thirst was finally relieved. Just in time for me to be tugged back onto the dance floor.

  We danced slower now, oblivious to the beat of the music. I didn’t notice anything or anyone else in the room. All I was aware of was how very close Marguerite Turner and I were dancing. With my right hand on the small of her back, I could feel her body heat through her thin summer dress. And I could tell there wasn’t much in the way of petticoats underneath. I also found that when I angled my head just right, her hair would brush softly against my cheek.

  Actually, I don’t think it was
really dancing at all that we were doing—we simply propped ourselves against each other and swayed. But I did it successfully and without instruction.

  “Tell me,” Marguerite said. “Who’s your favorite movie actress?”

  My favorites were well-established and I answered like a schoolboy showing off that he knows the answer to the teacher’s question, “Mary Pickford. And for comedy, Mabel Normand.”

  Marguerite giggled softly. “Not Florence Hampton?”

  Was she worried that I was infatuated with Miss Hampton? “No,” I said. “She’s a nice lady, but she’s not on my list of favorites.”

  Marguerite Turner was making a place for herself, though, and it had nothing to do with acting ability. Maybe it won’t be her brother taking her out for her birthday this year. A brother... how protective? I wondered.

  When the music stopped between dances, a waiter near the door called for attention, “Ladies and gentlemen!” After a pause, he announced, “Mr. Arthur V. Carlyle.” No one else had been introduced that way.

  Carlyle stepped through the door and stood still, surveying the room as if checking to see that it met his standards. He seemed to be doing an impression of theater impresario David Belasco and was dressed—overdressed—for the role in a crimson-lined opera cape and silk top hat. A black silver-headed walking stick was in his gloved hands. With all eyes on him, he methodically removed his cape, tugged off his gloves and put them in his topper, then handed it all to the waiter.

  “Somebody order a ham?” Marguerite whispered, with a roll of her eyes.

  I laughed, maybe a little too loudly.

  Carlyle put a coin in the waiter’s hand and walked onto the dance floor. The waiter looked down at his open palm with a scowl, then dropped Carlyle’s clothes in a pile next to the door.

  As the band struck up the next tune, I grabbed Marguerite. “Another dance?”

  We’d barely started to move when I felt a hand clapped on my shoulder. “Mr. Rawlings!” Carlyle bellowed cheerfully, as if I was his dearest friend. “How is our newest thespian?”