by Troy Soos
I remembered one more thing Landis had said: Rufus Yates used to be a ballplayer. Since I’d never heard of him, I assumed his career was probably limited to semipro or the minor leagues. Yates had appeared to be about thirty-five years old, so he’d have been in his prime ten years ago. I checked a Reach Guide from 1912, and found him listed with Corpus Christi of the Southwest Texas League. The 1911 Guide had him with the same team. Before that, nowhere. I skipped ahead to 1913 and subsequent years. As an outfielder, Rufus Yates had a six-year career in professional baseball, never playing at a higher level than the Class A Western League. And that was with Wichita in 1915 and 1916. I’d heard something about that place recently ... Lloyd Tinsley! Heinie Groh had told me Tinsley was Wichita’s business manager before the war.
My first reaction was suspicion of Tinsley. Were the two of them still in contact? Did they have any shady dealings together in Kansas? Then I caught myself. Professional baseball is a small world, and paths keep crossing. Just because Joe Jackson once played for Connie Mack, for instance, didn’t mean Mack was in on the deal to throw the World Series. Not everyone Yates met would be crooked, either—hell, Yates himself might have been completely straight back in his playing days.
Still it was something. And when you’ve got nothing, you can’t ignore any possible lead. At the very least I might be able to get some more information about Yates from Tinsley.
When Margie came home, it was obvious that our moods had reversed from this morning. I was enthusiastic about pursuing a few more ideas I’d had about Rufus Yates, and she was in the doldrums.
“What happened?” I asked.
She collapsed onto the sofa. “You remember I told you about that litter of leopard cubs where most of them died?”
“Yes ...”
“The mother died last night, too.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
Margie’s eyes teared and she started to speak, then her voice caught and she lifted a handkerchief to her eyes. I knew how much she loved animals, and she seemed as upset about the leopard as if the cat had been a household pet.
“Let me get you something to drink,” I offered. “Lemonade?”
As I stood to go into the kitchen, she waved me down. “Not thirsty.” She collected herself and went on, “I went to see Mr. Stephan, the superintendent, and spoke to him about the cats being underfed.”
“What did he say?”
“At least he didn’t dismiss me as a dumb actress, like the keeper did. Mr. Stephan told me that animals are different in cages than they are in the wild. He said they develop unnatural habits, nervous conditions, and it affects their appetites and their health.” She looked up at me. “Do you want to hear the dumbest thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Mr. Stephan said he’s studied the way they operate zoos in Germany, where they have natural, open settings instead of cages. He even sent his son Joe to live in Hamburg to learn the techniques they use there. During the war Mr. Stephan wanted to try setting up areas without bars in the Cincinnati Zoo, but there was such an uproar he wasn’t allowed.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was a German way of running a zoo. And anything ‘the Huns’ did had to be evil. He says it’ll probably be years before he can try it again.”
“Jeez.”
“Mr. Stephan took a look at the cats himself, though, and he checked the records of their feedings to make sure everything was right.”
“And?”
“He’s says they do seem a little thin, but it’s all being done the way it’s supposed to be.” She sighed. “I don’t know ... I like doing the shows, and teaching the children, but I hate to see the animals that way. Oh, and now the keeper in the Carnivora House is mad at me for going to Mr. Stephan.” “Why not quit? You don’t have to work there.”
She gave me a sharp look. “Because I still think something is wrong, and I’m not quitting till I find out what it is.”
I couldn’t help but smile. I always did like her determination.
Margie finally smiled a little, too. “How about you? Any word from Judge Landis?”
“No, but I have an idea how I might be able to find out about Rufus Yates.”
“How?”
Besides talking to the Reds players and Lloyd Tinsley, there was another possible way of getting information. “Well, at first I thought I couldn’t talk to any gamblers about him, but maybe I can.”
“But if somebody finds out about it ...”
“I don’t think they will—as long as the fellow I meet with is colored.” Maybe I could take advantage of the way black baseball was invisible to whites. There were colored gamblers and bookies, too. All I had to do was find one.
That was Margie’s next question, and in answer, I showed her the amusement page of the morning Enquirer. There was an ad for the new vaudeville bill at the Palace Theater, including six acts of “Vodvil” and a movie “Fotofeature.” Among the acts were The Ragpickin’ Minstrels playing their “Darky Music.”
“You said vaudeville managers know of bookies where visiting performers can go,” I reminded Margie. “What about for the colored acts—would the manager know where they can lay down a bet?”
“Probably. We’re not as segregated as you are—as baseball is.” She thought a moment. “I played the Palace a couple years ago. Manager’s name is Ralph something, I think. Would you like me to ask him?”
“Yes, please.”
“Okay. So ... why don’t I smell food?”
I’d been home all day and had forgotten to get something for dinner. “Thought we’d go out to eat,” I said.
Margie smiled. “And then afterward we’ll go to the Palace.”
The line to get into the Palace Theater stretched from its entrance on Sixth Street around the corner onto Vine. The Palace was more popular than the other major vaudeville house in the city, Keith’s, with much greater variety in the acts it presented.
Since we weren’t planning on seeing the shows, Margie led the way past the crowd. A young usher in a resplendent maroon uniform was near the front door trying to keep the crowd in line; the theatergoers were perfectly orderly, but the young man appeared to enjoy flaunting his authority and kept barking orders to “straighten it out” and “keep to the side.”
When he tried to tell Margie to go to the back of the line, she asked sweetly if Ralph was still the manager. The boy answered that he was, and Margie gave him a quarter to relay the message that Marguerite Turner was here to see him.
The boy sputtered, “I’m sorry, Miss Turner. I didn’t recognize you.”
He came back a few minutes later with a large round gentleman who was badly in need of having his blond mane trimmed. “Margie Turner!” he said, beaming. “It’s so good to see you again.” He bowed, took her hand, and kissed it. I felt a pang of jealousy shoot through me.
After Margie made the introductions, Ralph invited us into his office, a small room filled with posters, rolls of tickets, and photographs of the various acts that had passed through his theater.
“I read about you appearing at the zoo,” the manager said to Margie. “You know, I’m still hoping you’ll come back to vaudeville. There are a lot of troupes who would love to have you.”
“Maybe someday,” Margie laughed. “I have a strange favor to ask you now, though.”
“Of course,” he agreed. “You know I always keep seats available for visitors like yourself. Best in the house.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But we didn’t come to see the show.” Ralph looked disappointed to hear this. Margie went on, “We’re looking for a bookie. A colored one.”
“Somebody in particular?”
I spoke up, “No. Just as long as he’s not white.”
“My, that is a strange request.” Ralph looked puzzled. “But I have a few names.” He checked a slip of paper tacked on the back of the door, then suggested the name of a man who did business out of a West End hotel room.
I p
referred a different meeting place. “You know any who might be at a Redland Field game?” If I was seen at the ballpark, at least I could try to claim that I’d only been there to watch the ballgame.
“Oh, sure! Spider Jenkins is a regular at the Stars games. You want me to write his name down?”
“I’ll remember it. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Tell him I sent you, and you should have no trouble.”
I thanked him again, and offered to get him tickets for any Reds games he wanted. He said he’d take me up on it. Margie then asked if the offer of theater seats was still good.
Twenty minutes later, Margie and I were in the orchestra section as the Walsh Trio, billed as “Harmony Funsters,” performed on the stage. Their singing was dreadful and their jokes worse. This was a high-class vaudeville house, meaning the audience didn’t throw rotten vegetables at the acts, but they made their displeasure known the same as a crowd letting an ump know when he’d made a bad call.
Still, I enjoyed it. The Walshes were so bad, they were unintentionally funny. I was feeling relaxed when it occurred to me: would giving Ralph tickets to a Reds game in exchange for fixing me up with gambler cause me more problems?
As Countess Verona, “Musical Genius of the Czimbalon,” took the stage, I decided to hell with it—I’d done enough fretting lately. For the rest of the night, I’d allow myself to concentrate on the show and have a good time. I could go back to worrying tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty
I handed the usher my ticket stub and a silver dollar. “I’m looking for Spider Jenkins,” I said. “Know where I can find him?”
The elderly colored man gave me back the coin. “Don’t know nobody by that name.”
“I hear he’s the man to see about getting down a bet.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out another dollar.
He studied me closely. “You a cop?”
“Do I look like one?”
“Not particularly. Except you’re the color of a cop.”
“I’m a ballplayer.”
“You don’t look like one of them, neither.” After a few seconds’ deliberation, he took the money and nodded in the direction of the third-base dugout. “Spider’s in the front row box ’tween home plate and the dugout. White hat. Can’t miss him.”
I looked at the area where Spider Jenkins was seated. No matter how invisible Negro baseball was to the men who ran the white game, I was uncomfortable meeting a bookmaker in full view of everyone in the park. I asked the usher, “Could you ask him to meet me at the concession stand?”
He chuckled. “It don’t work that way. You got business with Jenkins, you go to him. ”
“All right. Thanks.”
I stopped to get a bag of peanuts and a root beer before going to meet with the bookie. When I was near Jenkins’s box, I made a show of examining my ticket, then sidled into the seat next to him. If anyone was looking, I hoped to appear as if I was simply sitting down to watch the game. From the corner of my eye, I saw that Spider Jenkins was dressed in the same style as white gamblers: flashy. His cream-colored suit was impeccable, the yellow tie he wore was bright enough to cause a player to lose a fly ball in its glare, and his white cap was cocked at such an angle that I didn’t know how it stayed on his head.
“Seat’s taken,” he said.
Keeping my eyes on the field, I dug into the peanuts and cracked one open. “Hear you’re the man to see about making a bet.”
“You hear wrong.”
I’d almost forgotten to use the name of the theater manager. “Ralph at the Palace says otherwise.”
“All right ... how much you want to get down and on who?”
I took another sidelong glance at Jenkins. He had long, skinny limbs and a face that was one of the darkest shades of brown I’d ever seen. He looked younger than I expected, possibly in his late twenties. “I don’t want to place a bet. I’m looking for information.”
“I ain’t in the information business. What are you, a cop?”
“My name’s Mickey Rawlings,” I said. “I play for the Reds.”
“Sure you do.” I could feel his eyes studying me. “Then how come you ain’t in New York with the ball club?”
“Trouble with my eyes,” I lied. “I’m here to see you because I’m hoping you can tell me something about a gambler named Rufus Yates.”
“Like I said, I ain’t in the information business. And the business I am in you’re hurting just by sitting there. Folks see a white fella here, they assume he’s with the police, and then I don’t get no customers. How about you move on?”
“Be happy to. What do you know about Yates?”
He started to stand, probably to make me move, then sat back down with a sigh. “Rufus Yates is no gambler,” he said. “Gambling is an honorable profession. You place your bets fair and square and takes your chances—it’s a sporting proposition. Yates is a crook. He’ll steal or sell bootleg or do anything else that’ll make him a buck. And if he takes a bet or places one, you know it’s on something that’s been fixed.” Jenkins shook his head. “Ain’t no sport to that.”
“I hear he’s connected with Arnold Rothstein.”
“Hell, everybody say that. Yates probably never even met the man.”
“But he might have worked for him—like in the 1919 World Series?”
“Maybe. But I don’t know nothing about that Series. Buncha white boys in New York and Chicago screwed us all by fixing that one.”
“Didn’t you take bets on the series?”
“Sure. Everybody did. Couldn’t get one down on the Reds after a while, though. Word got around fast that the fix was in.”
I took a swallow of the root beer. “You know if Lloyd Tinsley placed any bets on the Sox?” Although I knew it could have been simple coincidence, the fact that Tinsley and Yates had been together in Wichita could mean they had other connections as well.
“How would I know that?” Jenkins asked.
“I expect you’d want to keep tabs on things like that to protect your own business interests. If somebody from the Reds management is betting on the Sox, that would be a sure sign something’s wrong.”
“I never heard nothing ’bout him doing any such thing. You ready to be getting to another seat?”
“Yeah. But first I’d like to ask you a favor: could you check around about Tinsley and Yates for me?”
“Why should I? What’s in it for me?”
Good question. What could I give him in return?
“If you really with the Reds,” Jenkins suggested, “maybe you can let me know next time the starting pitcher ain’t feelin’ so good or something like that.”
So he’d have an edge in betting on the games. “Would that be ‘sporting’?” I asked.
“Hey, I don’t fix no games. But there ain’t nothing wrong with knowing as much as you can about the teams.”
“Can’t do that,” I said. “Look, I’ll pay you straight up. If you get information, tell me how much you want for it, and I’ll give you cash.” I didn’t want any debt hanging over me.
He chuckled. “How you gonna tell if the information’s any good?”
I didn’t know. But I had nothing else to go on. “I’ll take your word for it,” I said.
The chuckle turned into a laugh. “I don’t know if you’re a cop or a ballplayer or what, but one thing I know for sure: you ain’t no businessman.”
All the more reason why I better hang on to my career as baseball player, I thought. “If you find out anything,” I said, “give me a call. I’m in the directory.”
I took another look at my ticket, then moved to a seat on the first-base side of the park. I settled back and watched the visiting Indianapolis ABCs beat the Cuban Stars 2–0 behind the pitching of Dizzy Dismukes. And I wished to hell I could have played with them.
The phone rang five minutes after I got home, and I rushed to pick up the receiver.
The first words from the caller were, “Where the hell have you
been? I’ve been calling every fifteen minutes since two o’clock!”
It took a moment for the voice to register as that of Lloyd Tinsley. I was tempted to point out that it was none of his damn business where I’d been. My next impulse was to evade the question. Then I decided to play it safe, in case I’d been seen. “I was at Redland, watching the Cuban Stars game.”
“Well, get your ass to New York. Take the first train out, and I’ll reimburse you when you get here.”
“But I—” As far as I knew, Tinsley wasn’t aware of the reason I’d had to stay home from the trip. “My vision is, uh ...”
“Your vision cleared up this afternoon when Heinie Groh took a fastball in the head. He’s gonna be out for two weeks and we need you in the lineup. Don’t worry: Moran said he wants you, and Mr. Herrmann got permission from the Judge to let you play.”
“That’s great!”
“Don’t get too excited. Judge Landis says you’re still under investigation. You’re only cleared to play until he makes his final decision.”
So Tinsley knew why I was really out. I wondered how many others did. “Do the fellows on the team know why I ain’t been with them?”
Tinsley sounded a little less angry. “No. Mr. Herrmann, Pat Moran, and me are the only ones.” Then he barked, “Now get to the train station!”
As soon as we hung up, I called Central Union Depot and found there was a 6:15 for New York. I’d make it if I hurried.
I was excited as I packed, throwing things I’d never need into my suitcase and not caring what I might have overlooked. I was back on the Reds!
And I even became optimistic about what Landis would decide. I figured the best testimony I could have in my favor was that Pat Moran wanted me. He knew I played to win, and Landis was sure to realize that there had to be a reason for the manager’s confidence in me.
