Dreams Bigger Than the Night

by Levitt, Paul M.

  In age, they ranged from fifteen to sixty-five, in education from zero to a Ph.D., in background from the cabbage patch to Back Bay. Mostly they came from the lower depths: generously tattooed, eating food out of a can with a knife, and using the double negative. Many of the men seemed to know each other and addressed their pals by monikers fashioned from some physical characteristic adjoined to a city, for instance, Chicago Slim and Denver Dopey. Generally, though, they used confected first names like Red, Whitey, Blackie, Shorty, Heavy, Crip. Jay gathered that they eschewed last names because they didn’t want friends and kinsmen to know their condition or their whereabouts. As one man said, “Tellin’ the truth can only get you into trouble.”

  For over an hour, T-Bone and Jay watched the colored man beat the pants off all comers. Unable to resist the temptation, T finally jumped in and challenged the fellow to a game.

  “I’ll pay you in hard cash if I lose,” said T, “but if I win, you give me your board. It looks special.”

  “That’s jake with me,” said the fellow, who introduced himself as “Memphis Mike.” “This board is special, so let’s begin with a deuce.”

  T threw down two dollars, to the oohs and aahs of the crowd. While their hands flashed, Memphis Mike broke into song.

  Hand me down my walking cane,

  Oh, hand me down my walking cane.

  I drank and whored and used cocaine.

  I’m gonna catch that Jesus train,

  ’Cause all my sins have caused me pain.

  As the action heated up, Memphis repeated this refrain ever faster until Jay could hear the train and feared the chant would have a mesmerizing effect on T. To his credit, though, T got on top of the game and Memphis by intoning his own verses.

  I’m gonna win Mike’s checker board,

  I’m gonna win Mike’s checker board.

  Carry it home as my reward

  For all the sins I done abhorred.

  With a flashing display of jumps and captures, T at last prevailed, but not easily. In a gracious gesture, T told Memphis to keep the deuce and walked off with the board under his arm and the box of checkers in hand.

  T-Bone was to repeat his winning ways wherever they stopped for the night, collecting a few bucks for an evening’s play. The gamblers included the full range of the human bestiary, from professor to priest, all wearing the rags of poverty. Their floating checker game attracted two college boys, as broke as everyone else, who whined about FDR infringing on their personal liberties but took umbrage when T reminded them that the bribe of big business—whose bread I eat, his man I am—had done more to undermine a person’s rights than any FDR program.

  Once they had extricated their car from the mass of tin cans that passed for automobiles, they drove through town, past boarded buildings and innumerable for-rent and for-sale signs. East St. Louis looked as if the entire place could be let or bought for a song. Jay could understand why its residents flocked to the medicine show. In hard times, liquor sales go up, also gambling and quackery, not just medical but political and spiritual as well.

  They’d intended to bunk in St. Louis to catch Joe Frisco’s show at the Commodore Club and hear Louis Armstrong play the horn. But in light of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch cover story about the polio epidemic in the city and across the state, they decided to drive through the night to Kansas City. A pelting rainstorm made the roads difficult, particularly since some drivers slowed to fifteen miles an hour in the downpour. As they poked along, T began to reminisce about his playing days with the Kansas City Monarchs.

  “Baseball meant I didn’t have to work in the stone quarry, or the meat-packin’ plant, or the steel mill. I’d sweated in all those places, even on a celery farm. The other black boys felt the same way. They knew baseball would give ’em more dignity than washin’ dishes or workin’ in a dinin’ car or bein’ a Pullman porter. Yessirree, I told myself, baseball will put money in my pocket and let me see America. But the America I saw was from a bus, which I slept and ate in ’cause white-owned hotels and restaurants in small towns refused to serve Negroes. But at least I didn’t have to earn a livin’ shovelin’ snow, or haulin’ coal, or scrubbin’ saloon floors.

  “’Course since ’31, the Monarchs ain’t played in a league, only barnstormin’ and the players workin’ for a percentage of the gate.”

  In the current hard times, white major leaguers had expressed an interest in playing against some black teams—for the drawing power and money. But Judge Kenesaw Landis, the baseball commissioner, had a policy barring “regular” teams from playing black ones. Landis, fearing that if the latter won, the white major leagues would be undermined, sanctioned only barnstorming teams, composed of so-called all-stars; then if the barnstormers lost, he could always say that they were nothing more than a motley collection of players, not a unified, well-organized team.

  T’s memory waxed warmer the closer they got to K.C. “Know what Satchel Paige said about James ‘Cool Papa’ Bell? He was so fast he would flip the switch and get into bed before the room went dark. And as for Satch, you can’t hit what you can’t see.”

  Jay remarked that Arietta was hoping to win over Longie by getting Satch to endorse the boycott. Then other black athletes might follow suit.

  “He ain’t political,” said T, and then fell into a reverie. On the outskirts of the city, T remarked, “I once tried to hit against Satch. No luck. He struck me out on four pitches. Him and Hilton Smith . . . the best pitchers who ever lived. Satch could make the ball invisible with speed or come in on a change-up so slow you could fall asleep waitin’. He threw bloopers, loopers, and droopers. He had a jump ball, bee ball, screwball, wobbly ball, whipsy-dipsy-do, a hurry-up ball, a nothin’ ball, and a bat dodger. But his best pitch was his fastball. Why, Satch could smoke the ball across the plate so fast, the friction with the bats almost caused them to catch fire.”

  T directed Jay to Eighteenth and Vine: Street’s Hotel. Jay could see that the Depression had really taken its toll in the Negro areas. “The Monarchs and the other black teams,” he said, “must be hurting badly.”

  “Hard times ain’t gonna matter that much to the teams ’cause they’ve had a depression most of their lives.”

  They checked into the airless and silent hotel. One man sat reading a paper in a parlor chair next to a potted fern and a floor fan. The deskman took a while to appear, even though T banged the bell a few times.

  “What you been doin’,” T asked, “stealin’ the brass spittoons?”

  The humorless deskman shoved a ledger in front of them and told them to sign. Perspiration dripped from his head, staining the book and causing the ink to run. The man seemed dumbstruck when T requested one room with twin beds, and tentatively inquired, “You isn’t a couple of nances, are you?”

  “You don’t see us wearin’ red ties, do you?” T snapped.

  “Just askin’. Where’s your valises?”

  “We’re parked out front,” T replied. “We can bring ’em in ourselves.” The dejected deskman looked ready to cry. “But you can carry ’em up to the room,” T said, handing the guy a quarter, which elicited a reluctant smile.

  After a number of calls, Jay learned the address of Satchel Paige’s house. But before they left the hotel, he gave the deskman a five spot, in exchange for five dollars in nickels, and called his parents in Newark. His mother answered the phone with a spiritless voice.

  “Mom, it’s Jay. I’m in Kansas City . . . on business. What’s wrong? You sound different . . . upset. Is something wrong?”

  “The business is failing,” she said.

  “I’ll send you some money.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “I’ll send it anyway.” She didn’t object, but she did ask when he’d return. “As soon as I finish the . . . assignment I’m on.”

  “We tried to reach you at the tobacco company.”
<
br />   “What did they say?” he inquired, suddenly overcome with self-loathing.

  “They said you were traveling . . . and as soon as you called in they would tell you to phone us.”

  He apologized. “I’ve been delinquent in not keeping you posted about my whereabouts. From now on, Mom, I’ll stay in regular touch.”

  “Hurry up and finish what you’re doing. I miss you.”

  “I promise to be home soon.”

  They motored to Paige’s house without calling first. A teenage boy answered the door and said that Satch had gone out with Mr. Wilkinson and two others. Where? Likely Muehlebach Field. Jay’s optimism became was palpable, and T said some homemade pie would be jsust the thing.

  “Let’s go to Luther’s,” said T. “He’s got the best diner in K.C., and lots of important black folks eat there.”

  They pulled up at an old railroad car that had been converted into an eatery. On top of the place, a sign badly in need of paint said, “The Heavenly Diner.” Jay parked in back, and they walked along a gravel path to the front of the joint. The exquisite smells inside made up for the shabby exterior. With most of the booths along the side occupied, they took seats at the counter. A hefty colored lady with gray hair pulled back in a bun and wearing a rakish red beret wiped an imaginary spot from the table and asked:

  “What kin I get you?”

  T folded his arms over his chest and smiled broadly at the woman. “Don’t remember me, do you, Mae?”

  Mae put her gnarled hands into an apron pocket and removed a pair of specs. Holding them up to her face, she peered through the glasses. “Luther,” she shouted, “come here!”

  Poking his head through the hatch connecting the serving area to the little kitchen in the back, a short rotund fellow with a patina of silver beard framing his jaw and wisps of white hair perched above his ears inquired, “Yeah, what is it?”

  “Look who’s back in K.C.!”

  Luther stared and blinked and stared some more. At last, recognition dawned on him. “Well, I’ll be blown full of joy if it ain’t T-Bone Searle, the prodigal son, returned home to see his own people.” Coming from the back room, Luther wiped his hands on his soiled cooking apron and extended a paw to T. “How long it’s been, son?”

  “Too long,” said T.

  “Where you been?”

  “Out east.”

  “Playin’ ball?”

  “No, I never got over that torn Achilles tendon. It still bothers me to this day.”

  “And your mamma, how’s she?”

  “Laid to rest.”

  “I’m heartsore to hear that. She was a good woman.”

  Mae shoved a menu in front of them and said, “The dinner’s on the house.” Luther momentarily raised an eyebrow, but Mae glared it away.

  “Just a piece of pie,” said T. “What’s your special today?”

  “Banana cream or apple. But I also got cherry, blueberry, and lemon meringue.”

  “I’ll take the apple.”

  “And you?” she said.

  “His name’s Jay Klug and he’s a friend of mine. Jay, this is Mae and Luther Johnson. Luther and me used to play ball together.”

  Luther immediately declared that he had never had the talent of T. “His arm was so strong, he could scoop up a grounder behind third and throw out the fastest player in the world, Cool Papa Bell . . . and could hit the best pitchers, ’ceptin’ Satchel Paige. Young kids followed him round the ballpark and town just like the man was royalty. Fact, the kids gave him the title T-Bone, right, T?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Bullet Joe Rogan bet that T couldn’t hit five pitches out of ten. T said, ‘not if you throw them in the stands.’ Rogan said, ‘I’ll put them all over the plate’—and darned if he didn’t. And darned if T didn’t hit all but two of ’em.”

  “Submarine balls,” T mumbled.

  Luther continued, “Bullet Joe bet T-Bone a steak dinner. Ever after, the fans called him T-Bone Searle.”

  Jay turned to T. “How come you don’t use your real first name?”

  “Randall? Sounds sissy-like, don’t it?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that, but I much prefer the moniker.”

  “What’s that?” said Mae.

  “A nickname.”

  “Well, why the hell didn’t you say so in the first place? What’s wrong with you, boy, you ain’t even told me what kind of pie you want.” She turned to T and visibly winked. “I think this feller is short of some goods.”

  “No, he’s all right,” said T, “he just got his brain a little muddled in college.”

  Luther whistled. “I never before met a college boy.”

  “Well,” sighed Mae, impatiently strumming the counter, “what’s it gonna be?”

  “Cherry pie, please.”

  While she dished out the two pies, and T and Luther traded stories about the old days on the diamond, a Negro in a Panama hat with a colorful band entered the diner carrying a young boy. Luther looked up and said:

  “How’s he doin’, Ernie?”

  Ernie stood the boy down on the floor and held his hand. Tentatively, the lad took a few steps to the applause of Luther. Jay noticed that one of the boy’s legs was as thin as a toothpick.

  “As soon as we can pay for it,” said Ernie, “we’re gettin’ him a brace. Once it’s fitted, Leroy will walk real good.”

  Mae cut a slice of banana cream pie and slid it across the counter to Leroy, who thanked her in a whisper, made shy, Jay suspected, by his atrophied leg. With every bite, Leroy looked up at her and smiled.

  Jay gathered the kid had been stricken with polio, a fact that he confirmed when Ernie and his son left the diner. “How much do braces cost?” Jay asked.

  “What did he say the time before last, Mae? Thirty-five dollars for a child’s size?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  Jay opened his wallet and took out two sawbucks. “Here, give them to Ernie. Tell him the money’s from Longie Zwillman.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A crook with a big heart.”

  Luther and Mae exchanged puzzled glances.

  “Goin’ to the game tonight?” asked Luther. “The Dean All-Stars and Monarchs are playin’. The team’s got a portable lightin’ system attached to the back of a truck. But the light ain’t real good, so the players lose sight of the ball. With Dizzy pitchin’, our boys better be wearin’ their specs.”

  T said they would see the game, and slapped a bill on the counter. “Thanks for the pie.”

  “I don’t want your money,” Mae protested.

  “Tell you what,” said T, “put it to the cost of the kid’s braces.”

  Jay and T-Bone drove through a Negro neighborhood to Muehlebach Field, at Twenty-Second and Brooklyn, where they bought two seats for the game. After changing their clothes at the hotel, they returned to the stadium, arriving just before game time. An attendant holding a pennant and wearing a rumpled light green seersucker suit led them to their box seats. A vendor sold them a bag of peanuts and some salted pretzels. When they reached their box, Jay saw his ardent hope realized. Dressed in their Sunday best and seated in the next box were Satchel Paige, Arietta and Piero Magliocco, and an older man. T nearly flew out of his skin.

  “Wilkie,” exclaimed T, leaning over the railing to shake the gent’s hand. “This here man,” said T, “is the owner of the Kansas City Monarchs, J. Leslie Wilkinson.”

  Jay was exultant. Mr. Wilkinson was on Longie’s list of good guys, a pro-boycott supporter and a local legend. Having earned the respect of the Monarchs and the other teams for his fair and generous treatment of the players and his professional conduct in league affairs, Wilkinson was the only white owner of a black baseball team. His appearance was unremarkable, pale and balding, looking more like a banker than a spor
ts figure.

  After shaking his hand, Jay casually introduced himself to the Maglioccos, as if father and daughter were strangers, and asked what brought them to Kansas City.

  Piero replied, “I used to deliver liquor from Windsor, Canada, to K.C. Prohibition had no effect on this stadium. They sold beer under the stands.” Mr. M. chuckled. “You could buy it as easily as you could a bag of peanuts.”

  Jay remembered very little about the game, just that Ed Mayweather, the Monarchs’ first baseman, hit one out of the park against Dizzy Dean and that Leroy Taylor, the Monarchs’ right fielder, hit a game-winning double in the bottom of the ninth. Mr. Wilkinson excused himself to join the players in the clubhouse. Everyone shook hands, and Satchel Paige left. On the way to their respective cars, Jay whispered to Arietta:

  “With Rolf Hahne trailing you, every contact you make for Longie puts that person in danger. You must let me help you.”

  “After Kansas City, I’m through with Longie.”

  She started to walk away. Out of exasperation, Jay grabbed her arm and muttered, “You must trust me.”

  She evinced a pained look and replied mysteriously, “I can’t. You’ll just have to understand. I tried to warn you.”

  At that moment, he knew his intuition was right. “It was you who fired that warning shot at the range. Right?”

  “You were getting too close. We had rented a cabin in the woods nearby.”

  Then she fell silent and the moment was gone. Joining her father, she walked to their car. Jay and T-Bone followed them to a garish steak restaurant near the stockyards, where they sat a few tables away at a large glass window overlooking animal pens. The room admitted a slightly acidic odor from cattle manure.

  The menu made it clear that Kansas City was a meat-and-starch town and that K.C. had the best beef in America. A wheezing fan overhead made it hard to hear. Jay strained just to catch what T was saying. They sat in this tawdry restaurant, with its pink and red striped wallpaper, eating ribeyes and sirloins smothered in onions with a side dish of baked potatoes. No greens, no salad. As Jay expected, T talked about baseball, but Jay hardly listened, keeping an eye on the Maglioccos. Although he needed desperately to see Arietta alone to tell her about Rico and Irv, he worried she wouldn’t believe him. Based on what Hump McManus had said, he figured she wanted to reach Milwaukee. The German population in that city would provide safe haven, especially if she had friends or family there.