Hunting a Detroit Tiger

by Troy Soos

  The prospect of a fight gone, the rest of the players started for the door, too.

  I wrapped the bird’s body in my ruined trousers, scooped up its head with my cap, and tossed the entire bundle in a waste can. I noticed there was hardly any blood from the bird. It had probably been dead already when my teammates decided to behead him. I felt somewhat better that at least it hadn’t been killed on my account.

  On the way out to the field, I stopped for a new cap. All Jake had was one that was a little too small. Between the cap and the oversize pants, I had the feeling I was bringing the Charlie Chaplin look to baseball.

  Despite the “turmoil” on the Tigers, we played well enough together to drub the visiting Philadelphia Athletics 9-1 behind the two-hit pitching of Howard Ehmke. The Athletics were the mostly likely team to take our place in the American League cellar, and we’d played with that goal foremost in mind. I’d boosted my batting average slightly by going 1-for-3 with two walks; one of the walks was with the bases loaded, so I picked up a cheap RBI as a bonus.

  After the game, I stopped at my apartment before going to Margie’s evening show at the Rex.

  Karl Landfors was seated on the sofa, meticulously folding his nightshirt. His Gladstone bag and suitcase were open on the floor in front of him, and both were more than half-packed.

  Restraining a smile at the prospect, I said, “Moving in with Connie?”

  “No.” He proceeded to roll a pair of socks. “I’m going to Boston. I decided to look into that Sacco and Vanzetti situation I mentioned last night.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t sorry to have the apartment to myself again. “What’s Connie think about you going?”

  He pushed up his glasses. “Let’s just say that she’s less than ecstatic about my decision.”

  “I’m sorry. You two were getting along so good.”

  “We were. Past tense is correct.”

  “She said you two had some plans . . .”

  “They were her plans. Not mine.” He jammed the socks in his bag. “Connie Siever is a strong-willed woman. She wanted me to go to Tennessee with her and work for the Suffrage Amendment.”

  “You didn’t want to?”

  “I certainly did. But I couldn’t resist the appeal from Boston. There are thousands of men and women fighting for suffrage. These Sacco and Vanzetti fellows have no one. I prefer to work on issues where I can have an impact. On suffrage, I’d be merely one more body in the fray. For these anarchists ... I don’t know what I’ll be, but I might be the only help they get.”

  “You gonna be okay in Boston? I’d hate to see you getting yourself in trouble.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He strained to produce a smile. “And, I have a going-away present for you.”

  “You didn’t have to—”

  “I found out who ‘Detective Aikens’ is.”

  “You did? Who? And how?”

  A bit of the old self-satisfied look came into his eyes. “As to how, let’s just say I was able to pressure certain contacts that I have. And—” He smiled sheepishly, “Well, I did use my contacts, but you set me on the right path by mentioning the GID. Your description of the man was also helpful.”

  “Let’s get to the who,” I prodded.

  “I have been able to ascertain that ‘Detective Aikens’ was in actuality Calvin Garrett, special agent with the General Intelligence Division of the Justice Department.”

  “Jeez. A government agent.”

  “Yes, the GID used to be—”

  I remembered what Whitey Boggs had said. “The Anti-Radical Division.”

  Landfors looked mildly impressed. “That’s right.”

  “And they organized the Palmer raids, so they’re probably still watching the IWW halls.”

  “I would say that’s a reasonable inference.”

  One thing bothered me: the idea of an agent of the United States government committing a murder. “You don’t think Aikens—I mean Garrett—coutd have killed Emmett Siever, do you?”

  Landfors stroked a finger along his nose. “Until last week, I’d have said no. They might deport you, slander you, or frame you. But not murder you. Legally, the GID men aren’t even allowed to carry guns. As it turns out, however, they don’t need them.”

  “Meaning?”

  He leaned back and took a deep breath. “Eight weeks ago, the Justice Department picked up a couple of men who printed anarchist literature. Just picked them up—didn’t charge them with anything. They held the men in the Justice Department’s New York office for eight weeks, trying to beat confessions out of them for a bombing. By the way, detaining someone for eight weeks without charges is completely illegal.” He swallowed hard. “Last week, one of the men, Andrea Salsedo, was found on the sidewalk, dead. He fell fourteen stories. The official version is that it was a suicide. I think—a lot of us think—that he was murdered by his interrogators.”

  “Damn.”

  “That’s another reason I want to see what happened in Boston. I don’t want another ‘suicide’ if I can help stop it.”

  I was stunned by his story. It took a few minutes until I asked, “How would I get in touch with Calvin Garrett?”

  “Don’t. Stay away from the GID. They may not kill you, but they have a hundred other ways to ruin your life.”

  “But he might have seen who really killed Emmett Siever.”

  “Perhaps he did. If so, he certainly won’t tell you what he knows.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he would.” I sank into the rocker, trying to figure out how else I could use the information on Garrett without contacting him directly.

  “One more thing,” Landfors said. “I did ask Connie to get her father’s personal effects, including the gun he supposedly had. Perhaps that will give you a lead.”

  “Thanks, Karl.”

  He closed the bags and stood up. “If you see her, would you let me know how she is?”

  “Of course.”

  I accompanied him in a cab to the train depot. When I returned home to change for Margie’s show, I found that he’d left me with another present: the icebox was stocked with a dozen bottles of Labatt beer.

  I thought more kindly of Landfors as I hurriedly dressed for Margie’s show. I also felt badly for him that things had hit a snag with Connie Siever. Landfors was always going off to try to right whatever wrongs he encountered. He seemed to take them so personally, as if the responsibility for fixing them was solely his. In a way, I admired his energy and convictions. Perhaps I needed more of those myself.

  I’d just opened the door to leave when the phone rang. After briefly debating whether to answer, I picked up the receiver. And was promptly sorry that I did.

  “Mickey! Hub Donner here.”

  “Oh.”

  “See today’s paper?” Donner asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So did your teammates, from what I hear. Looks like you’re going to have to pick a side, Mickey. And my side is the one you want to be on.”

  “Not a chance. What you’re doing to me is a perfect example of why players have to stick together. If I join any side, it will be the players’ union.”

  “You think they’ll ever trust you now?”

  The answer was no. Instead of admitting that to Donner, I hung up on him and left for the vaudeville theater.

  I spent Sunday night and Monday with Margie, doing nothing that would help determine Emmett Siever’s murderer. Most of what we did was intended to sustain us during the separation caused by the Tigers’ upcoming road trip.

  Tuesday morning, I was home packing for the trip, when the phone rang. Not Donner again, I hoped.

  The voice was female and businesslike. “Mickey Rawlings, please.”

  “This is me.”

  “This is Connie Siever. I have that item you requested.”

  “Huh?”

  “Karl told me you wanted me to acquire my father’s effects. There was one item in particular you were interested in ...”

  “Oh! Th
e gun, yes. You have it?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Not in English, she hadn’t. “The police gave it to you?”

  “Yes. I had no difficulty at all. Would you care to come by and see it?”

  “Sure. Oh—I’m leaving town tomorrow morning. We have a road trip.”

  “Today then. You remember where I live?”

  “Yes, but, uh ...” Margie and I had other plans for my last night in Detroit. “I have a game this afternoon, and I promised Margie I’d go to her show tonight.”

  “After the show is fine. And bring her along if you like.”

  After the way Connie had behaved Saturday night, I couldn’t imagine Margie wanting to visit Connie Siever at home. I’d have to go alone then; I couldn’t resist seeing the gun. “I’ll be there. I’ll ask Margie if she wants to come, too.”

  “Very good. Call me later and let me know what time to expect you.” She took a breath. “By the way, have you heard from Karl? Has he gotten to Boston all right?”

  “Uh, no. He hasn’t called. You haven’t heard from him either?”

  She hesitated. “No.”

  I waited a moment to be sure that was all she was going to say. “If I hear from him, I’ll let you know.”

  “No need,” she said.

  Then why did you ask in the first place, I thought.

  After getting off the phone with Connie Siever, I bathed, dressed, and had my usual breakfast of coffee and cookies. I definitely wanted to see the gun whether or not Margie came with me.

  I called Margie at her hotel and relayed Connie’s invitation. To my surprise—and mild disappointment—she agreed readily.

  “I hope she isn’t as ornery as she was the other night,” I said as we turned onto Wyandotte Street.

  “Sometimes people just make a bad first impression,” said Margie. “She deserves a second chance.”

  “There was no reason for her to act the way she did.”

  “Maybe she was mad at Karl and took it out on me instead. Or maybe something about me rubbed her the wrong way. Didn’t you ever meet somebody and, for no good reason, dislike him right from the start? And then, once you got to know him, found you could be friends?”

  I smiled. That was exactly how it had been when I’d first met Karl Landfors. “Yes, that happens sometimes.”

  “Doesn’t mean Connie and I can never be friends,” Margie said.

  We’d arrived at the Siever bungalow. “Well, let’s see what kind of a second impression she makes.”

  It was a complete reversal from her behavior the other night. Connie greeted Margie with a hug and invited us into the kitchen for beers. She was off to a good start, I thought.

  Sitting at the small table by the window, the three of us drank our beers and chatted about the weather. Actually, Connie did the chatting, and I didn’t much care about the weather, but at least she wasn’t talking politics.

  Margie gave me a “See, I told you so” smile.

  Friendly as Connie was being, I didn’t want to spend any more of the evening with her than necessary. “You mentioned you have the gun,” I reminded her.

  She nodded and rose. “Yes, I’ll get it.”

  During the minute she was gone, Margie whispered to me, “I think she feels bad about the other night. That’s why she’s trying so hard. Be nice.”

  Connie returned and laid an odd-looking revolver on the table. A zigzag pattern of grooves was machined into the cylinder, and there was a slide mechanism for the barrel and cylinder to move back and forth. I picked up the weapon and read the lettering stamped on the frame: Webley-Fosbery Automatic.

  “I heard about these,” I said. “During the war. It’s an automatic revolver. The British used them for a while, but they didn’t work if they got dirty. Since there aren’t any clean trenches, they had to find another kind of sidearm. I never saw one of these—I heard they’re aren’t many around.”

  “How does it work?” Margie asked.

  “Not sure,” I admitted. “I think it’s kind of complicated.” The only thing I had mastered about firearms was cleaning them. I asked Connie, “You never saw this before?”

  She shook her head no.

  “You’re sure your father didn’t own a gun?”

  She looked about to explode at me, but collected herself. “I’m sure. You think this gun is going to lead to my father’s murderer?”

  “It might. Somebody had to plant it on him. The trick is to find out where it came from and who could have gotten it.”

  “You can take it with you if you think it will help,” she offered.

  “Thanks.” No, I decided, better not. Connie had a legitimate reason to have it. If the weapon was to be “found” in my possession, it might only get me in more trouble. “Actually, all I need is the serial number.”

  She gave me a pencil and a scrap of paper and I jotted down the number.

  “I guess we’d better be going,” I said. “I have to leave early tomorrow.”

  “Oh, well, certainly.” Connie looked disappointed.

  Margie spoke up. “We have time for one more beer.”

  She and Margie talked while I guzzled the second one and waited impatiently for them to finish theirs.

  When Connie walked us to the door, she asked, “If you hear from Karl, will you let me know how he is?”

  “Sure,” I said. To myself I thought, but this morning you told me not to bother.

  As we walked back to Joseph Campau Avenue, Margie explained, “I think she was feeling lonely. That’s why I wanted to stay a little longer.”

  “No problem,” I said. But I grabbed her hand and pulled her along in a fast walk to catch the next streetcar.

  On the ride downtown, I said to Margie, “I wish the gun wasn’t British.”

  “You have something against the British?”

  “No,” I laughed. “It makes it harder to trace. I thought I’d start with the manufacturer and see if I could follow through to whoever bought it. Being from England makes it tough.”

  “Why don’t you let me help?” said Margie.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re going to be away, so you won’t be able to do anything for a while anyway. Why not give me the number, and let me see if I can find out anything.”

  “Well ...” There was no reason not to. I fished the slip of paper out of my jacket pocket and handed it to her. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. She kissed me on the cheek and added, “I’ll try to think of something.”

  Another thing we had in common: we had the same approach to investigating.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kneeling in the on-deck circle of Griffith Stadium, watching “The Big Train” Walter Johnson pitch to Donie Bush, I realized that Hub Donner and I had something in common: I also preferred things the way they used to be.

  It wasn’t only that I yearned for a return to the innocence and optimism that had characterized the American spirit before the war. I also had a specific complaint: I wanted the powers that ran baseball to stop tinkering with my game. I didn’t want small changes like the disappearance of collars from uniform jerseys, nor sweeping ones like the juiced-up ball. There should be some constants in life, and baseball was one of them.

  Until this year, the Washington grounds were called National Park—a fitting name for the capital’s ballpark, though a bit ambitious. Then Senators’ manager Clark Griffith was appointed the club’s president, and following the example of Frank Navin promptly renamed the park in his own honor. No, I didn’t like changes to baseball. Not to the names of the parks, nor to the ball, and especially not to the way the livelier ball was changing the tactics of the game, with every hitter swinging for the fences and making the old strategies obsolete.

  Long-armed Walter Johnson was a reassuring constant in the game, a throwback to the old days. He’d been pitching for the Washington Senators since 1907, back when I was still playing semipro ball in a Rho
de Island mill league. Every season since then, Johnson usually ended up with the American League titles for wins, strikeouts, and shutouts. And the new livelier baseball wasn’t likely to change that.

  Johnson went into his windmill windup and delivered. Donie Bush swung wildly for strike two. No, with Johnson it didn’t matter how the ball was constructed; no matter what he threw, you were unlikely to hit it and lucky merely to see it.

  After Bush fanned, I walked eagerly to the plate. No matter how miserable it was playing for the Tigers, being back in the American League at least gave me a chance to face Walter Johnson again.

  I scraped at the hard earth of the batter’s box and assumed my stance. I’d faced Johnson only once before, in 1912, and was proud of the fact that I had not struck out. That remained my objective in this at bat.

  He wound up, then unleashed a sidearm fastball that seemed to come from the direction of third base. It smacked into the catcher’s mitt before I could determine how it got there. “Strike one!” called umpire Brick Owens. My reaction was not disappointment, but a mixture of sheer admiration for his speed and gratitude that it hadn’t drilled me in the head.

  I choked up higher on the bat. There’s only way to hit Johnson: when his arm starts to move forward, swing the bat and hope the ball hits it. The slow windmill windup again, and the speeding baseball. I swung for the middle of the strike zone—and his pitch went wild, sailing a couple feet over the catcher’s head. The sound of the ball buzzing by was too high. “Strike two!” Owens cried. He then added, “Don’t feel bad, son. I don’t always see them either.”

  Great. More changes: Walter Johnson losing his pinpoint control and an umpire who admits he doesn’t see the ball.

  No balls, two strikes. Will he waste a pitch? If I was him, I wouldn’t bother. But nothing down the middle, either. I guessed fastball, low and away. That’s where I swung on the third pitch and felt the sharp shudder of bat on ball. Just enough to produce a weak pop-up that the second baseman caught to end the inning. Mission accomplished: I did not strike out.