Hunting a Detroit Tiger

by Troy Soos

  I thought guiltily that my reluctance to buck the owners might have something to do with the fact that I wanted to go on to coaching or managing after my playing days were over. “I am going against the owners,” I maintained. “Like I said, they want me to go public against the union, and I won’t.”

  “Let me raise another point,” he said. “A players’ union is good for baseball.”

  I was always leery of things that were supposed to be “good for baseball.” “How so?” I asked.

  “It might avert a situation such as the one that transpired during last year’s World Series. I believe that the lack of representation for the players contributed to their conspiring to throw the games. Charles Comiskey paid his players half what any other team would have—and even charged them for laundering their uniforms. But the players were not free to sell their services elsewhere. Because of the reserve clause, they were bound to Comiskey.”

  Ward spoke as if it was a fact that the White Sox had thrown the Series. Although the rumors and newspaper stories were growing more numerous and more specific, I wasn’t yet ready to accept them as proof. I didn’t accept Ward’s assumptions about either the Sox’ conduct or their motive. “The reserve clause is what made them sell out?”

  He shook his head. “Not directly. And don’t misunderstand me: I do not condone the players’ actions for any reason. I am simply saying that the circumstances were ripe for such an occurrence. An example: in 1917, Comiskey promised Ed Cicotte a bonus of $10,000 if he won thirty games. But when Cicotte won his twenty-eighth, Comiskey benched him for the rest of the season. That is an outrageous misuse of power. The Chicago players did have legitimate grievances; they did not have recourse to address those grievances. Total control of their careers rests with Charles Comiskey and the other owners.”

  “Comiskey was with your Players League, wasn’t he?”

  Ward frowned slightly. “Yes. Sometimes those who switch sides in a war become the most extreme partisans of their new camps.” He shook off whatever thoughts Charles Comiskey had brought to mind. “Allow me to make one final point. I understand you suffered a wrist injury during spring training.”

  “Yes, but it’s all better now.”

  “What if it wasn’t? If your injury had been permanent, what would you do?”

  I hesitated. “I don’t know. I’d probably try to get a coaching job or something. Or—” I thought a little more. “Or I might end up working in one of those same factories that I did when I was coming up.”

  “You mentioned a cotton mill,” Ward said. “Did you know that Emmett Siever’s daughter worked in one of those? Starting at age ten.”

  “Uh, no, I didn’t know that.”

  “There is no provision in baseball to care for players—or their families—after retirement. It’s easy to ignore such things when you’re in your prime—young, healthy, living well—but then, like Siever, you discover too late that you have nothing to show for your career.”

  “Is that why Emmett Siever got involved in the union so suddenly?”

  “Let’s just say that he finally came around.”

  I took a sip of water and a deep breath. “Mr. Ward, I respect you—as a player, as a man, as somebody who really believes in his cause. But I just don’t feel it’s my cause. Not enough to go out on a limb for it. If the players really started a union, I’d probably join, but I wouldn’t be a leader. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I give you my word, though: I’ll never do anything against the union, either.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Rawlings. And, although I do not agree with your position, I do understand it.”

  “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Ward?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Emmett Siever was trying to tie the players’ union to the IWW. Aren’t they pretty radical for baseball players to get mixed up with?”

  He answered slowly, “You mentioned a concern about child labor. Do you know who said, ‘The worst thief is the one who steals the playtime of children?’ ”

  “No, who?”

  “Big Bill Haywood, one of the founders of the IWW. You’d be surprised where you might find your allies. The Wobblies have been in the forefront of some very admirable efforts—including child-labor reform. While I admit that I am not entirely comfortable with the more radical element of the IWW, I will not condemn the organization out of hand, either.”

  I repeated Haywood’s quote to myself and tried to commit it to memory.

  “One more question for you,” Ward said. “Is your concern for injustices in the mines and the mills merely an excuse to do nothing, or are you working to rectify them?”

  “Uh, no, I’m not—I just ... No.”

  His face showed disappointment in my response. “I do hope that someday you’ll find something to believe in and that you’ll fight for it, Mr. Rawlings. If not for yourself and your fellow ballplayers, then perhaps for those children in the mills. I’m sure they’d appreciate having you on their side.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Margie’s rose chemise was exactly the right shade to compliment her tawny skin, and sufficiently sheer to reveal every feature of her figure. She sat cross-legged on her hotel room’s spacious brass bed, facing me, brushing out her waist-length hair.

  I rested back against the pillows, my fingers locked behind my head, watching Margie perform her morning ritual. I was both amazed at how comfortable I felt with this woman and worried that we wouldn’t be together like this much longer. Margie would be in town only as long as her engagement at the Rex Theatre lasted. I was only here when the American League schedule had the Tigers slated to play at home. Simultaneously, things seemed so settled between us, yet still so fleeting.

  I didn’t want to think about it. It was too early in the day to worry about what might happen tomorrow.

  The brush snagged in Margie’s hair. “Ack!” she cried as she yanked it free. “Someday I’m going to cut this all off.”

  “Don’t do that! I like it long.”

  “You don’t have to take care of it.” With a teasing look in her big eyes, she said, “Maybe I’ll leave just a strip of hair down the middle, like an Indian.”

  I played along, recalling a drawing of Friar Tuck I’d seen in an illustrated edition of Robin Hood. “Or shaved on top, like a monk’s.”

  She laughed and resumed brushing. I went back to watching her.

  I wondered why Margie hadn’t asked anything about our future. It was women who fretted about such things, so why hadn’t she said anything? Well, I sure wasn’t going to bring it up if she didn’t.

  Besides, I thought, if I didn’t get an answer to the Emmett Siever killing, I might not have a future.

  “I have a question,” I said.

  My tone must have signaled it was a serious one. Margie stopped what she was doing and lowered the brush to her lap.

  “Am I off base here?” I asked. “Doesn’t it make sense that Emmett Siever’s death had something to do with the IWW?”

  “I suppose so ...” Her forehead furrowed slightly. “Couldn’t he have stumbled across somebody robbing the place, though? Maybe it had nothing to do with his labor activities.”

  “Who would rob an IWW hall? There’s nothing there worth stealing. I think a thief would go for a house or a shop. And if it was a robbery, why would there be a cover-up?”

  “I don’t know.” She started weaving her hair into a thick braid. “When you say it had ‘something to do’ with the IWW, are you saying you think one of the Wobblies killed him?”

  “No, not really. Just involved—somehow. There were at least three people back there: one who shot him, one who stabbed him, and the GID man, Calvin Garrett. And I assume none of those three were in on it together.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I don’t see Garrett as the type to kill anybody, definitely not with an ice pick. It makes sense to me that he’d be watching the place, and it makes sense that when the killer—or killers—left, Garrett saw them and
went inside. And that’s when he found me there. As far as the killers, I can’t see them being in it together because why try to kill a guy twice—and with two different methods to boot?”

  “I don’t know why anyone would want to kill him once,” Margie said. “Do you have one motive for killing him yet?”

  “Only to stop the baseball union. And that would make Hub Donner a likely suspect, but there’s nothing to tie him to it. I can’t pin down where he was at all. Although ...”

  “Yes?”

  “If Donner was the man Garrett saw leaving the Hall, that might explain why the GID would cover up for him. They’re both on the same side, trying to bust the unions. If it was a Wobbly Garrett saw, he would want to pin a murder on him, not cover it up.”

  “It seems to me that Connie Siever is the person you should speak to.”

  “No, there’s something about her ... I don’t know how to talk to her. Maybe because it was her father who was murdered.”

  “I think she’s at peace with that,” Margie said. “Give her a try.”

  As far as I could tell, Connie had always been at peace with her father’s death. That was one of the things that bothered me about her. “Maybe,” I said.

  “Why ‘maybe’?” Margie’s voice rose. “You have until Saturday before people start shooting at you again! Connie Siever knows the IWW, and she knew her father. If you think the Wobblies are connected to his death, she’s the best person to talk to.”

  “I suppose ...” There was no argument against Margie’s logic. “You’re right. I’ll talk to her.”

  “Good. Connie will be at the theater tonight. You can talk to her then.”

  “She’s going to see your show?”

  “Yes. She’s really not bad once you get to know her. We’re actually getting to be pretty friendly.”

  “You never told me that.”

  She playfully slapped my leg. “You think I tell you everything?”

  When I showed up at the Rex Theatre’s box office late Tuesday afternoon, I discovered that Margie most definitely did not tell me everything. While picking up the pass she had left for me, I spotted a brightly colored poster tacked on the wall next to the ticket clerk. ALL NEW PROGRAM, the heading promised, Starting July 4th. A new program meant that the old acts were moving on. It meant that Margie was moving on—and she hadn’t mentioned anything about it.

  I met Connie Siever in the lobby and we went into the theater, where she suggested sitting in the front. I agreed, although I hoped she would decide to relocate once the Four Harmony Kings started singing. Her mood was less sour than usual, and her appearance less severe, but I hoped that no one would think the two of us were on a date.

  We sat in awkward silence through Shepp’s Comedy Circus while the rest of the audience groaned at Shepp’s notion of comedy. I wasn’t in a laughing mood anyway, knowing that Margie would be leaving in a little over a month.

  There were still several acts to endure before Margie was due to take the stage. Since it was soon apparent to me that Connie Siever had no more interest in them than I had, I raised a topic that interested us both. “Are you still active in the IWW?” I asked.

  “Very.”

  “But you don’t go to the meetings?”

  “Sometimes I do.”

  “You know what seems odd to me?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You were the one who got your father involved in the IWW in the first place, but the night he gives a big speech at the Hall, you didn’t go to hear it.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” she said, “but I’ve heard my father speak many times. One more speech wasn’t that great an attraction for me. I’ve been busy with my own work, trying to get women the right to vote.”

  “Isn’t the whole idea of the IWW that everybody is in everything together—‘one big union,’ and all that? Leo Hyman was telling me that the Wobblies are the only group that takes in women and Negroes. Why don’t you do your suffrage work through the IWW?”

  “You’re inquisitive tonight, aren’t you?”

  “I’m always inquisitive. I just usually keep it to myself.”

  She laughed. “Well, I feel that on women’s issues, women should be in the leadership. The IWW accepts women, yes. And some of the leaders are women—Elizabeth Gurley Flynn and Mother Jones, for example. But not in Detroit. Leo Hyman and his men run things here.”

  “You don’t like Hyman?”

  “I think Leo does a fine job. But women’s suffrage is a higher priority for me than it is for him. So on this issue I work largely outside the IWW.”

  I’d been hoping to get more out of her about the Wobblies. “Stan Zaluski do a good job, too?”

  “He could do a lot more,” Connie said, “if they gave him a chance. Stan is a very wise man. But hardly anyone listens to him. He’s old, and not very strong anymore, maybe, but he’s not stupid. They’ve relegated to him serving as doorman, and a lot of the men treat him like an errand boy.”

  “How about Whitey Boggs?”

  She started to answer, then caught herself. “I think he’s done a wonderful job with the Relief Committee. We feed and clothe a lot of needy people because of his work.”

  “But?”

  “Don’t repeat this, but the man makes my skin crawl. He’s been courting my friend Norma, though, and she seems to like him. I suppose there’s no reason I should have to, as long as she’s happy with him.” She turned to me. “Now a question for you, Mr. Inquisitor: have you heard from Karl?”

  “He called a few days ago. Gave me his number in Boston, and told me things were getting pretty interesting with—” I’d forgotten their names. “—those Italian anarchists.”

  “He didn’t say anything else?”

  Landfors had asked how Connie was, but I didn’t know if I should tell her that. I didn’t think he’d have wanted me to. “It was a real short call,” I said. “And he seemed pretty wrapped up in what he was doing in Boston. You know how he is.”

  Sadness slowly came over Connie’s face, and her pointed features softened. “I was only starting to know him,” she said quietly.

  Wednesday afternoon, the Tigers closed out the series against the Red Sox with a 2—1 ten-inning win. Howard Ehmke had outdueled Bullet Joe Bush in one of the best games we’d played all season, and I’d scored the winning run on a fly out by Donie Bush. The victory completed a three-game sweep of Boston and boosted our hopes of climbing out of last place.

  By the time I left Navin Field and turned up Trumbull to walk home, the elation of the win had worn off, however. I was again thinking about Margie’s impending departure and about her secretiveness. I’d dropped a few hints last night trying to lead her into talking about the future, but she didn’t say anything about her show moving on.

  “Mickey Rawlings!” A meaty hand fell on my shoulder from behind.

  I reached up and pushed it off. Drawing to a stop, I turned to face Hub Donner. “What do you want?”

  “Let’s go someplace where we can talk privately,” he suggested.

  My instinct was not to be seen with him in public. No, I decided, it would be worse if I was seen going someplace private with him. “Let’s not,” I said. “You want to talk to me, we’ll do it right here.” There were stragglers from the ballpark passing by us, pushcart vendors closing up their carts, and newsboys trying to hawk a few last papers.

  “How about if I walk along with you?” he asked.

  “Fine.” I continued on my way, at a brisk pace.

  Donner quickly caught up. Matching my strides, he said, “You’ve been talking to some interesting people lately. John Montgomery Ward, for example. And Leo Hyman again—you even went to his house.”

  It was no surprise by now that Donner knew where I went; I didn’t even feel outraged at being spied upon. “Told you before, I’ll talk to whoever I want to.”

  “We—Ban Johnson and I—have some concerns that you might be thinking of joining the other side.�
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  “Maybe I will.” I noted that Donner didn’t include Frank Navin among those who were “concerned” about me.

  “That would be very unwise.”

  “Look,” I said, “as far as I can tell, there’s not much happening with the players’ union anyway.”

  “Yes, there is,” Donner insisted.

  Of course! Donner had to claim there was union activity—otherwise there was no reason for him to be on Ban Johnson’s payroll. “Why are you pushing me so hard?” I asked. “Planting those stories in the paper, trying to get my teammates mad at me. Why don’t you go after somebody big? I’m not that much good to you even if I did go along with what you want me to do.”

  “Same reason a pitcher bears down a little extra on the lousy hitters: you don’t want to let the banjo hitters beat you. I must admit that your stubbornness has become something of an embarrassment for me. I expected—Ban Johnson expected—that you’d have come around by now.”

  “Sorry to be such a disappointment to you. And to Mr. Johnson, of course.” Not that I believed Ban Johnson gave me much thought one way or another.

  “If you think I was pushing hard before,” Donner said, “I can really play hardball if that’s the way you want to go. I could snap your wrist like a twig.”

  I stopped short. “Maybe you could,” I said. “But before you got hold of it, there’d be a lot more marks on that ugly face of yours.”

  Anger simmered in Donner’s eyes while his mouth formed a weak grin. “No reason to go into what-ifs,” he said. “I don’t think we’re at that point yet.”

  Yet? I didn’t see how things could go much further. I resumed walking and turned east on High Street. Donner kept pace beside me. He seemed desperate, and I wondered just what he might be willing to do to get me to turn against the players. Donner wasn’t the only one under pressure, though. I had three days to give Leo Hyman something on Siever’s death.