by Troy Soos
“How could I forget?” A bottle had been smashed over my head while I was acting in one of Margie’s movies six years ago. It had taken nine stitches to close the gash.
“Those were fun times, weren’t they?” she said.
“You have a strange idea of fun. But, yeah, except for getting conked on the noggin, they were great times.” I lay back down, and she nestled her head on my shoulder. “Wish we could go back to those days. Everything seemed easier then. Easier to understand, anyway. The world made sense.”
“Can never go back,” she said. “Times change.”
“Well, I want them to change back to the way they were when we first met. I thought that was the reason for going to war: defeat the bad guys and then everything would be peaceful and happy again. Sure as hell didn’t turn out that way. All that happened was some boundary lines got changed and a whole lot of kids got killed in the process. What was the point?”
Margie draped her arm around me. She asked softly, “Something happened, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
Until she asked, I hadn’t realized just how much I did want to talk about it. I told her about me killing the German boy, and some of the things I’d seen during the war. Then I went on to tell her things that I hadn’t mentioned to Karl Landfors. I told her that I felt guilty about taking the life of another human being. And that I hated being called a “hero” because of shooting that boy. I said that I regretted having gone to war at all, and at the same time resented the fact that it had ended so soon after I’d joined the battle—I was there long enough to be horrified but too briefly to become hardened to the bloodshed.
Margie uttered some soothing words, then said, “You can’t expect to go through something like that without being changed forever. Both you and the rest of the world are going to be different. Can’t pretend it never happened and simply set the calendar back a few years. Everything changes. You can’t go backward.” She stroked my arm with her fingertips. “Forward can be a nice direction, too, you know.”
“I suppose. Just seems so hard to make sense of things sometimes.”
We were silent for a few minutes. Then Margie said, “Speaking of change ... and going forward ...”
Helluva time to tell me about her show closing its run, I thought. “Yes?”
“I want to go to Tennessee with Connie Siever. Help get the Suffrage Amendment passed. Some changes are good, and I think women getting the vote is one of them.”
“When? I mean, so do I, but what about—When would you go?”
“Noon tomorrow. I’ll be gone a week.”
I calculated the date. “But then I’ll be on the road again. We won’t see each other for at least two weeks. And what about your show at the Rex?”
“They got another actress to fill in for me. Theda Bara. Poor thing’s trying to make another comeback. But vamps are another thing that’s gone forever.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Some changes are good.”
Margie laughed.“You don’t mind me going?”
“No, not at all,” I lied.
Then we proceeded to make the most of the last night we would have together for a while.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Margie and I woke early Thursday and went down to the hotel restaurant for a breakfast of pie and coffee. On the way, I picked up the morning edition of the Detroit News.
As soon as we’d given the waitress our orders, I flipped open the paper. My interview was prominently featured in the sports section, under the headline Rawlings Won’t Buckle. I’d told how Hub Donner was working for the American League and pressuring me to go public against the players’ union. I swore in the article that I would never do so. I even mentioned that I’d turned down Donner’s offer of a bribe.
The piece came out exactly as I’d hoped, and I gloated to myself that Hub Donner was not going to be at all happy when he read it.
I showed the article to Margie, who shared my delight with the results. “I think it’s wonderful that you exposed what Donner was doing,” she said. “The players are sure going to be happy with you now.”
“I hope so.” I wouldn’t have the chance to find out until tomorrow since this was an off day.
She frowned slightly. “But this says he only offered you $500. You told me it was $1,000.”
“It was.” I’d adjusted the figure downward when I’d spoken to Bingay.
We hurriedly finished the meal, then headed back to Margie’s room so she could pack for her trip. The telephone rang shortly after we stepped inside.
Margie answered and listened for half a minute. Then she passed me the phone, whispering, “It’s for you. Frank Navin. He sounds angry.”
“Hi, Mr. Navin,” I said. “How’d you know I was here?”
“Never mind that. What the hell were you doing talking to the press?” Margie’s choice of the word “angry” was an understatement; the Tigers’ owner was furious.
“I didn’t have much of a choice,” I said. “Donner kept pressing me and wouldn’t let up. I talked to you about it first, remember? And I figured if you couldn’t get him to leave me alone, nobody else could. After he planted those stories about me in the paper, it seemed only fair for me to fight back the same way.”
“It is not wise to publicize internal baseball business,” he said.
“Well, I never mentioned you or Ban Johnson. Just Hub Donner. And everything I said about him is true.”
“That’s another thing. It says here Donner offered you five hundred dollars. Is that true?”
“Cash. In hundred dollar bills. I counted them.”
“Five hundred dollars?”
“Like I said, I counted. Then I handed it back and told Donner to go to hell.”
“This is a very serious situation,” Navin said. “I’ll have to speak with Mr. Johnson about it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Navin. I felt I had no choice.”
“Actions have consequences. I’ll call again and let you know whether to show up at the park tomorrow.”
I suddenly didn’t feel so smug about what I’d done.
After seeing Margie off at the train station, I went home to wait for Frank Navin’s call and fret about possible “consequences” that Navin and Ban Johnson could subject me to.
As the afternoon wore on, the telephone remained silent. I started to debate whether Navin had meant I should come to the game tomorrow if I didn’t hear otherwise, or I shouldn’t. I decided that I’d show up at the ballpark unless he called and explicitly fired me.
I was about to go out for dinner when the phone finally rang. On about the eighth ring, I warily picked up the receiver.
In a thick Italian accent, a man asked, “Mickey Rawlings, please?”
I exhaled in relief that it wasn’t Frank Navin. “This is me.”
“Aldino Felicani is my name. I am with the defense committee for Sacco and Vanzetti in East Boston.”
“Yes?”
“Karl Landfors tells me you are the person to telephone if anything happens to him.”
“Why? What happened?”
“He was arrested this afternoon. He is now in the jail.”
“Arrested? For what?”
“He has been of great help to us. I believe that is the true reason. But what the police will say, I do not know. They have not yet decided on the charges.”
Jeez. Karl Landfors in jail. “What can I do to help?”
“Sadly, I do not think there will be any help. We will do what we can here, of course. But he only wanted me to tell you what happened. There is nothing you can do for him.”
“Well, will you let me know if there is anything I can do? I mean it, anything. And please call me if anything else happens, okay?”
Felicani agreed he would, and we hung up.
This was a new one. How do you go about getting somebody out of jail? The only thought that occurred to me was to call someone who might know.
First I thought I should call Connie Siever, but she and Margie were probably into Ohio by now. The next person who came to mind was Leo Hyman. My guess was that he’d had lots of experience with arrests and jail.
I tried Hyman’s home number. No answer. Then Fraternity Hall. Hyman wasn’t there, either, so I asked for Stan Zaluski.
When Zaluski got on the line, I said, “Karl Landfors has been arrested.”
I could hear his pipe stem clack against his teeth. “Damn. Where?”
“Boston.”
“For what?”
“Not sure. The fellow who told me about it said there aren’t any charges yet. I think it has to do with him helping a couple of anarchists. I was trying to reach Leo Hyman. I thought he might know how I could help Karl.”
“Leo hasn’t been here all day. You have his home number?”
“Tried it. No answer.”
“Try again. He works in his cellar sometimes and might not hear the phone.”
“All right.”
“But Mickey ...”
“Yeah?”
“There might not be any way to help Karl.”
“I’m gonna try anyway, Stan. Thanks.”
I tried Hyman’s number for an hour without success. Then I grabbed my jacket and headed for Black Bottom.
The exterior of Hyman’s house benefited from the fading light of dusk. It appeared less like an outhouse, but still not quite as elegant as a toolshed.
My repeated knocks on the front door went unanswered. There was no sound of movement inside, and no lights.
I walked around to the rear of the house. The cellar was closed and padlocked; I pounded on the door, again getting no response.
Back to the front door. I knocked once more, then tried the knob. It turned and the door eased inward. It seemed odd that Hyman would lock his cellar, but not his front door. I figured he must be home.
I pushed my way into the dark parlor, calling his name. Dodging around the workshop junk, I searched for a light switch. When I found one, and clicked it on, I saw why he didn’t answer.
Leo Hyman was sprawled belly-up on the floor near the back wall. With his red shirt, the blood that soaked his chest wasn’t obvious until I leaned over him. It looked similar to the wound that I’d seen on Emmett Siever.
I quickly checked for any sign of life. Hyman’s eyes were open and dull; I touched his arm and found it to be a bit stiff. He must have been dead for some time.
I had an impulse to call the cops, but immediately stifled that notion—no way was I going to give them a chance to tag me with another “self-defense” killing.
While I considered what to do, I looked around the room. Everything appeared to be in the same disarray as I’d seen it last. No sign of a fight, just the mess of a sloppy tinker.
Perhaps I could call Detective McGuire. I felt I could trust him, but what about his superiors? Or maybe I should call Stan Zaluski.
Eager to get out of the house, I elected not to use Hyman’s phone at all. A couple of blocks away I stopped in at small hotel and used the public phone to call the police and report the body.
I didn’t give my name.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Frank Navin didn’t need to call me. The Friday morning newspapers carried a statement from American League president Ban Johnson that said it all: “Mr. Hub Donner served merely as an advisor regarding the possible infiltration of the baseball players’ union by radical elements from outside the game. At no time was Mr. Donner authorized to represent the American League, certainly not in the manner recently alleged by Mr. Rawlings of the Detroit Tigers. After reviewing the matter, my office has determined that Mr. Donner acted inappropriately, and the League has therefore severed all relations with him. The League further apologizes to Mr. Rawlings for any misrepresentations that, unknown to my office, may have been made to him by Mr. Donner. I consider this matter closed.”
I was sure that Hub Donner’s dismissal had more to do with Ban Johnson thinking Donner had tried to pocket five hundred dollars for himself than that Johnson was surprised at the union buster’s conduct.
When I got to Navin Field, one of the articles about Donner was taped to the shelf of my locker. Someone had written across the top of it: WAY TO GO! As I dressed, every one of my teammates except Ty Cobb made a point of speaking to me. It seemed they were trying to make up for shunning me all season in one burst of clubhouse banter.
Only two of the players’ comments weren’t friendly. Dutch Leonard grumbled, “You just like getting your name in the paper. It ain’t gonna happen with the way you play, so you make up a tale about this Hub Donner fellow being after you. Lot of malarkey, if you ask me.”
Chick Fogarty piped up, “Lot of hooey.”
Leonard and Fogarty were quickly told to “can it” and “stuff it” by the other players. I was bewildered by the two men. The articles should have been enough to convince them that I wasn’t opposed to the union. So why continue the antagonism—was there some other reason they’d been riding me?
Once we were on the field, I didn’t give Hub Donner—nor Leonard and Fogarty—another thought. I played second base, making no errors and going 2-for-5 in a hard-fought, ten-inning victory over the White Sox. Throughout the game, I reveled in the fact that I was no longer treated like an outsider.
Donner didn’t come to mind again until I left the clubhouse, stepped out to Trumbull Avenue, and was confronted by his ugly face.
I braced myself for whatever retaliation he might be planning.
He took his time, looking me up and down slowly, before he spoke through clenched teeth, “You must think you’re real smart, don’t you?”
I wanted to say yes, to rub his nose in it, but that would have made him angrier than he already was. Be a gracious winner, I told myself. “Didn’t do anything you wouldn’t do,” I said.
“It ain’t over,” he answered. “You may have given me a little setback, but I won’t be the big loser. That’s gonna be you.” He tugged at his cap, then stepped into a waiting Ford and drove off.
I already had three of the Detroit papers at home. Before I went back to my apartment, I stopped at the newsstand for every other local paper they had. There had been no mention of Leo Hyman’s death in the ones I’d read this morning. I wondered if the cops were being more patient before making his death public. Perhaps they wanted to be sure whether the cause of death was a stab wound or a bullet. Or, perhaps the delay was because they hadn’t yet decided who to credit with his death.
I’d studied two of the city’s minor papers without luck, when I got a call from Stan Zaluski. “What happened?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Stan. When I got there he was dead. Really, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Didn’t think you had. That’s what I told the fellas. You don’t strike me as being dumb enough to call and tell me you were going to see Leo if you were planning on killing him.”
“No, I wouldn’t—uh, what do you mean about telling the fellows? They know I was there?”
“We got a description of a young man visiting his house. The description matched you to a tee, and there was some talk around the Hall that you might have done it. First Emmett Siever, then Leo Hyman. I told them I knew you were visiting him, and I think I talked them out of doing anything rash. For the time being, at least.”
“Thanks. I really didn’t kill him.”
“I believe you. But things are a little crazy now. With Leo gone, there’s gonna be a struggle to take his place. Some of our more hotheaded members might think that killing you will make them the leading candidate for Leo’s job.”
I didn’t need to ask for names. “Well, I hope you end up in charge, Stan.”
He gave a dry laugh. “I ain’t running for anything.”
“You got any advice what I should do?”
“Keep your back to the wall and stay away from windows.”
For the next few days, I followed Stan Zaluski’s ad
vice. On Saturday, Leo Hyman’s death finally hit the papers. The accounts were brief and vague; they referred to him as a “local radical” and simply reported that he was “found dead in his home of a gunshot wound.” There was no mention of suspects or motive.
Monday morning, I paid a visit to Dr. Wirtenberg’s filthy office. I was curious how long Hyman had been dead before I’d found him, and I figured Wirtenberg would be an authority on the conditions of corpses—a lot of his patients had probably died after being treated by him. I described to the doctor the stiffness of Hyman’s arm and asked him how long it would take for that to happen. Wirtenberg hedged, telling me rigor mortis depended on a number of factors. After I agreed to pay him two dollars for the “consultation,” he said it usually took at least several hours for rigidity to set in.
That relieved one of my concerns: that I might have been set up. It had been no more than an hour from the time I’d called Zaluski looking for Hyman to when I found Hyman’s body. I thought of other details of the murder scene—the lack of a struggle, and the fact that Hyman’s body had been far from the door. My guess was that he’d let the killer in, and that it was someone he knew and trusted.
Since the Tigers had a road trip starting Tuesday night, there was little more that I could do about looking into Siever’s or Hyman’s deaths for the time being. That was fine with me. Staying out of Detroit for a week seemed one of the more worthwhile things I could do for myself.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Three days in New York was exactly what I needed, and Harry Heilmann was just the fellow to spend them with. He knew every speakeasy in Manhattan that served up cold beer and hot music. Now that I was accepted as part of the team, he let me join him on his nightly outings. I stayed up too late, drank a little too much, and danced with women whose names I never asked.
In the daytime, I played two of our three games at the Polo Grounds, my home field when I’d been with John McGraw’s Giants. The park was also presently home to the New York Yankees, who had been spending a lot of money buying baseball players, mostly from the Red Sox. I thought that if they could afford to buy players, the least they could do was build their own ballpark for them to play in.
