by Troy Soos
Stan Zaluski got to the hall first. He had worry on his face and his hand trembled when I returned his key.
“Whitey Boggs is dead,” I said. “I killed him.”
Zaluski stiffened. “Explain.”
“Boggs was a spy, planted by Hub Donner. He thought Leo Hyman suspected him, and so he killed Leo. He tried to kill me in the pantry. I had to shoot him. It was self-defense.”
“I don’t understand how—”
There was a rap at the door. I opened it to let McGuire in. For the first time, he looked warm, with rivulets of sweat coursing over his freckles. He and Zaluski eyed each other suspiciously.
I made the introductions and gave McGuire the news about Boggs. Then I said, “Here’s the thing: nobody’s going to believe that I killed another Wobbly in self-defense. Especially not in the same place where I’m supposed to have killed Emmett Siever. Do either of you have an objection to saying Boggs was killed by a burglar? And that I was never here?”
They both chewed on my proposal. McGuire spoke up, “Considering the way everything’s been twisted around the last couple of months, I think that just might the best way to put an end to it.”
“No,” said Zaluski. “It won’t wash.”
Damn.
“You’d still be on the hook,” he explained. “Having the cops say a robber did it doesn’t help since most of us don’t trust what the cops say There’s fellows who are still gonna jump to the conclusion that you killed Whitey, the same as they think you killed Emmett and Leo. And if they believe you killed three of their comrades, it’s only a matter of time until they get revenge.” He tapped his pipe stem on his teeth. “How about if / killed him. I found out about him killing Leo, and had to shoot him when he drew on me.” Directing the question to McGuire, he said, “Self-defense okay with you?”
McGuire thought for a moment. “Hell, I just want this mess over with. I’ll be damned if I ever let myself get caught up in anything like this again.”
“Boggs’s gun is probably the same one that killed Hyman,” I said. “Sounded like he had a long list of people to kill, and I don’t expect he’d have been buying a new gun for each one.”
“What about yours?” said Zaluski. “I’ll need the gun that killed Whitey.”
I pulled the .45 from my pocket and promptly handed it over. It wasn’t a memento that I really wanted to keep. “Got this in the army,” I said. “There might be a record that it was issued to me.”
McGuire spoke up. “No problem. We’ll match the bullets that killed Boggs to this gun—Zaluski’s gun. That’ll be enough to confirm his story. Then the gun will disappear from the evidence room.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
Zaluski nodded. “Let me go back there and see what it looks like. You two better get out of here.”
McGuire started to protest to Zaluski, “I’ll have to take you in. Just until we can determine it was ‘self-defense.’”
“No,” I said. “We have to go. There’s somebody else we have to see.”
His freckles sagged. “I remember when the police got to give the orders.” He said to Zaluski, “All right, turn yourself in at headquarters.”
“I’ll be there,” Zaluski answered.
Less than an hour later, Calvin Garrett and I were crammed into Detective McGuire’s fetid office. With the IWW rally taking place, I was sure that Garrett would be nearby, and McGuire had no trouble getting in touch with him. McGuire had insisted to Garrett that he meet us, and that the meeting be in his office at police headquarters. The detective was finally taking charge, something I wished he’d done in April.
“I am reopening the Emmett Siever case,” McGuire informed the GID man. “As a murder investigation.”
“You’re what? Who the hell do you think—I‘ll—You’ll—” Garrett’s voice trailed off into incoherent sputtering.
“There’s been some new evidence,” McGuire said. He gave me a nod. “I believe you have something to say.”
I turned to Garrett. “Whitey Boggs is dead. I killed him.”
Garrett’s eyes darted about; it looked he was trying to figure out what the ramifications of Boggs’s death could be.
I immediately suggested some. “Before we started shooting, we had a nice chat. Boggs was working for you, on loan from Hub Donner. He knew what happened between you and Emmett Siever, and he told me all about it.”
Garrett’s entire body drooped. “Siever pulled a gun on me,” he said. “I had to shoot him.”
I asked McGuire, “Did you search the hall?”
“Thoroughly.”
“Find a gun?”
“No.”
To Garrett, I said, “Then you must have killed an unarmed man.”
He started sputtering again.
I cut him off. “Here’s the deal. No matter what really happened between you and Siever, I’ll keep my mouth shut and drop the whole thing. The official story can remain that I killed Emmett Siever in self-defense. You’re off the hook.”
“Sounds good so far . . .” said Garrett.
“Actually I should say you’ll be off the hook after you do something for me: you get Karl Landfors released from jail.”
“Hell no! I’m not making any deals.”
“Ask yourself two questions,” I said. “Do you believe I know enough to cause you serious trouble? And, with the convention starting Monday, is this the time Mitchell Palmer would want your name all over the papers for assassinating a labor leader?”
McGuire added, “Which is exactly the conclusion my investigation might lead to.”
Garrett took his time thinking it over. It was an excruciating process to witness. Finally, he said, “I don’t like it, but it’s a deal.” He then added, “But I’m going to keep a file on you.”
That didn’t sound like much of a threat—how could a file hurt me? “One more thing,” I said. “Boggs told me that you and Hub Donner were next on his list to be killed. So be sure to mention that to Donner—and that I expect him to leave me alone from now on. If he does start trouble for me again, I’ll make sure we’re all in trouble.”
“I’ll pass along the message. And I’m sure he’ll be agreeable to letting this entire matter drop.”
“Anything else?” McGuire asked.
“Just a question,” I said. I asked Garrett, “Why did you go to Fraternity Hall in the first place?”
“It’s the only place Siever would meet me. Said he was going to give me information on how the IWW rigged the primary vote. I had to meet him.”
“I have one more thing, too,” said McGuire. He leaned toward Garrett. “Don’t you ever try to interfere with my department again.”
Garrett gave an affirmative grunt.
McGuire shuffled some papers on his desk. “Well, I think this investigation is closed.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Over the next few days, events settled down much more quickly than my insides did. There is something awful about killing a man, whether justified or not. It’s a human life that’s been ended, and I didn’t feel I was the one who should be making the decision to end it.
I talked it out with Margie, repeating myself endlessly. She was patient in listening, told me that I had no choice in what I’d done, and continued to be patient when I repeated myself yet again. I knew what she was telling me was correct, but I couldn’t get my head to convince my heart.
I started to pull out of the doldrums when Karl Landfors phoned on Monday with the news that he’d been released from jail. He was back to his old arrogant self, crowing that, “They finally realized how futile it was to try putting a journalist behind bars. Not even the GID can impede freedom of the press!” He sounded like the Landfors I knew and liked, and I wasn’t about to spoil his mood by telling him about my deal with Calvin Garrett.
There was no uproar among the Wobblies over Whitey Boggs’s death, and I started to feel I was safe from them. Margie heard from Connie Siever that Stan Zaluski had earned a kind of her
o status for discovering Boggs’s treachery and killing him.
The more I thought about it, I grew to accept what I’d done as necessary. I wasn’t going to lose any more sleep over Whitey Boggs. He wasn’t going to haunt me like that young German kid I’d shot.
Wednesday was the last day of June, an off day for the Tigers. I called Stan Zaluski and I asked him if he wanted to catch the Stars game at Mack Park.
The two of us watched the first four innings, concentrating solely on the game, until each team had made a hit. The Kansas City Monarchs’ Bullet Joe Rogan had yielded a home run to Pete Hill, and the Stars’ Bill Holland was nursing a two-hitter and a 1–0 lead.
“Things going okay for you?” I asked Zaluski. “None of Boggs’s friends trying to get back at you?”
“What friends? By now everyone of them is claiming that he always knew Whitey was a rat. Some are even speculatin’ that he was really the one behind Emmett Siever’s death.” Zaluski shook his head. “Still don’t know how Whitey fooled me. He passed every test we gave him.”
“That’s because after Donner planted him in the IWW, he really changed—he crossed over to your side.”
“Hmmph. Pretty big jump.”
“Any bigger than Charlie Comiskey switching from being a pro-union player to being the worst owner in baseball? Or Mitchell Palmer going from supporting labor causes to ordering the raids?”
“You really think Whitey came to believe in the cause?”
“Maybe. A little, I think. Or he could have been one of those you were telling me about, who can be on either side of an issue just to feel like they belong.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Whitey.”
We watched the Stars execute a flawless, fluid double play on the Monarchs.
“You still haven’t told me all you know,” I said to Zaluski.
He pulled his pipe from his mouth. With a laugh in his eye, he said, “Son, it would take years to tell you all I know.”
“Be time well spent, I bet!” I took a swallow of ginger ale. “When we were here with Leo, I told him he knew I didn’t kill Siever because he was the only one not to accuse me of it. Everybody else did—including you. Remember when Landfors and I first went to the hall? That threw me.”
He nodded. “I remember. As I recall, it was just after Whitey Boggs and the others came out and said you did it. Figured I better join in.”
“But you knew I didn’t kill him. You knew exactly what did happen.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes. The night Siever was killed, people in the hall were yelling ‘Siever’s been shot!’ Even if Hyman signaled you, how would you know from seeing a lightbulb go on that there’d been a shooting—and that Emmett Siever was the one who’d been shot?”
“Hmm. You got me. That was my part in the plan. And it was about the only part I knew about. Hyman didn’t tell me most of what happened until afterward.”
“Calvin Garrett told me that Siever asked for the meeting so that he could give him information on the primary vote being rigged. Is that true?”
Zaluski laughed. “It’s true that that’s what Emmett told him. But the vote wasn’t rigged—it’s what the GID wanted to hear, so Emmett used it to coax him into the hall.”
“But why?”
“It was a trap, set by Leo and Emmett. The idea was that Garrett would be caught ‘red-handed’ having committed an assassination. It would be a blow to the GID and maybe win us some sympathy.”
“Emmett Siever knew he was going to die that night.”
“He wanted to. Part of the change he went through, I suppose. Wanted to make up to Connie as best he could for what he did when she was a youngster. He didn’t have long to live, anyway.”
“I heard he had cancer.”
“You heard right, but don’t let it get around.”
“Why?”
“He took out a life insurance policy after he got the diagnosis. Lied about his health to get it. By getting shot, the insurance company paid off to Connie. Emmett called it her ‘inheritance.’ ”
“He got himself killed in order to leave her money?” My read of Connie was that money wasn’t so important to her.
“No. That was just part of it. Mostly he wanted her to be proud of him. He thought getting killed by a GID man would make him some kind of martyr.”
“Did Siever know Leo was going to stab him, too?”
Zaluski lowered his eyes. “No. Neither did I. Leo told me afterward. Even with setting up Siever to be shot, how do you know the bullet’s going to be fatal? So when Leo went into the kitchen to take Emmett’s gun away, he stuck an ice pick in his heart just to be sure.”
“I don’t understand how Hyman got out. I know there was a lot of confusion in the hall, but how did he get past Garrett in the back?”
“That’s something he didn’t plan real well. I swear nine out of ten guys I was in prison with were there because they figured out how to get into a place but forgot to plan how they were going to get out. Hyman got out when Garrett went into one of the offices to make a phone call.”
That must have been Garrett’s second call to McGuire, I thought, the one in which he’d told him to bring an extra gun. “You never told me what you were in jail for,” I reminded Zaluski.
“That’s right.” He clamped his pipe in his mouth to show he wasn’t going to.
I went back to what happened in April. “Do you agree with what Hyman and Siever did?”
“Nope. That’s probably why Leo didn’t tell me most of it till later. I don’t believe in martyrs; I believe in live fighters. But that was Emmett Siever’s choice to make, and under the circumstances, who knows, maybe it was the right one for him. Who am I to judge?”
I decided I wasn’t the one to judge either.
That night I finally asked Margie directly about her plans. “When you came to Detroit,” I reminded her, “you said you had an ‘unlimited engagement.’ I’ve known for weeks that you’re leaving town. Why haven’t you said anything?”
“What makes you think I’m going anywhere?” Her wide eyes had a look of exaggerated innocence.
“It’s in the papers, posted at the theater . . . Your show is moving on.”
“Oh, that. When I said ‘unlimited engagement’ I didn’t mean the show.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. I meant you and me. I was leaving things open.”
“For . . . ?”
“For in case you asked me to stay, you numskull!”
“Oh. Oh!” I took her hand, and promptly added, “Please stay with me.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Between games of the Labor Day doubleheader against visiting St. Louis, while the groundskeepers were applying fresh lime to the foul lines and watering down the infield dust, I was having a catch with Bobby Veach near the Tigers’ dugout.
The season had turned out to be much like that simple activity: easy, enjoyable, but to no great purpose. There was zero chance of us going to the World Series, and not much hope of climbing higher than seventh place. A calm had settled over the team. We played one game at a time, with no pressure and little strife.
I’d become more relaxed, too. No longer having to protect myself from my teammates, I directed my attention to learning from them. I studied the strategies of Ty Cobb and Donie Bush, picked up a few new tricks, and kept my batting average around .260. Most of all, I’d learned to appreciate simply being on the turf of Navin Field, in the sunshine, with my body intact and a friend or two on hand to watch me play. Karl Landfors, back from Boston, would be in the stands this day. He and Connie Siever were spending the morning at an IWW parade, but had promised to be at the park for the second game.
Even the Labor Day parade was expected to be without incident. There’d been enough of a backlash against Attorney General Mitchell Palmer that the labor crackdowns had pretty much ended.
The last two months had been eventful ones on the political front. Palmer failed in his bid to ge
t the Democratic nomination for president. His party instead chose James Cox to face Republican Warren Harding. Harding was promising a “return to normalcy,” a notion which had strong popular appeal. He wasn’t going win me over on a slogan alone, though. I’d taken John Montgomery Ward’s advice to heart and done something to further a cause that I cared about: in July, I’d joined the National Committee on Child Labor, and wrote to both Cox and Harding asking them to support legislation to protect children from exploitation by industry. Until I got a positive response—so far, I hadn’t heard from either candidate—neither would get my vote.
Nor would they be getting Margie’s, she’d told me. And she now had the constitutional right to cast a ballot. The suffrage issue had been settled in August, when Tennessee ratified the Nineteenth Amendment.
Fresh off that victory, Connie Siever had directed her efforts toward getting Stan Zaluski elected the new head of the IWW local; she’d succeeded in that goal in less than a week.
Of all the recent changes, the one that affected me most was a personal development: Margie had moved into my apartment and it had become our home.
It had certainly been a turbulent year for me since I’d arrived in Detroit, but I thought I came through it pretty successfully, and was adjusting nicely to the new circumstances.
From several rows behind the dugout, I heard Margie start to chant, “Raw-lings! Raw-lings!” When Landfors’s and Connie’s voices joined in, I dropped a throw from Veach.
Well, living with Margie Turner was still going to take some getting used to. But the important thing was that I was no longer yearning for things to go back to the way they used to be. I was now looking forward to whatever was coming next.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 1997 by Troy Soos
