Hanging Curve

by Troy Soos

  “Hell, Tater, it could have been anyone. How do you know it wasn’t J. D. Whalen wanting to get back at Enoch for firing him?”

  “It wasn’t Whalen. It was a gang. They tied up the night watchman, and he heard them talking.”

  “And they said they were getting revenge for Crawford?”

  “No, but he could tell from their voices they was colored. It must have been because of that pitcher. Why else would they want to smash up the lot?”

  Maybe because of that stupid “Komplete Kar Kare” slogan on the sign, I thought. Then I realized Greene might have a point: Crawford had been lynched after defeating the Elcars, so it made sense that Enoch’s club would be suspected in the killing. And that could make Enoch’s business a target for someone angry over Crawford’s death.

  “Anyway,” Greene went on, “we’re gonna teach them niggers a lesson. Make damn sure they don’t try anything again.”

  I didn’t like where Greene was going with this. “What do you have planned—another lynching?”

  “Hey!” He wagged a finger at me. “I told you we didn’t have nothing to do with that.”

  “Who’s the ‘we’? The team or the Klan?”

  “Neither. I mean both.” He rubbed his stubbly cheek. “I mean it wasn’t the team or the Klan that killed Crawford.”

  “And you know that because ...”

  “Look, I don’t mind telling you: I’m in the Klan. And it ain’t nothing like what they have in the South. It’s a respectable organization up here—no lynching, no branding, none of that crap. I’d have heard about it if there was.” He shook his head. “Hey I’m trying to do you a favor here. Give you a chance to join us.”

  “The Klan? I’m not joining the Ku Klux Klan.”

  “No, you sap. I told you this don’t concern the Klan. This is about the team. We got to stick together—it’s a simple matter of self-defense. We’re gonna get them for bustin’ up the cars. Then they’re gonna come after us again. When they do, we all gotta be ready. They could go after any one of us.”

  “They won’t be coming after me,” I said. “I only played one game, and it wasn’t under my real name.” I suddenly remembered the Cubs’ catcher, Denver Jones, picking up my bat and reading my name. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t as anonymous as I’d have liked, but I still didn’t see myself as a target. “Tater, I’m not having anything to do with this.”

  “But we—”

  I cut him off and tried to talk some sense into him. “Why don’t you guys just stop it now? Some cars are ruined, but so what? At least nobody got hurt. Leave it be, before somebody does.”

  From the expression on Greene’s face, I might as well have been trying to convince John McGraw not to argue with an umpire.

  After a couple more brief exchanges, Greene left, visibly unhappy that I wouldn’t be joining the Elcars in whatever mayhem they were planning.

  I rejoined Margie and gave her a rundown on the conversation. Then I asked her to wait for me again, because there was somebody else I needed to tell about it.

  Back inside the Browns’ clubhouse, I placed a call to the home of the writer friend Karl had been staying with since he’d arrived in St. Louis. No answer.

  Then I had the operator connect me to the law office of Franklin Aubury. His secretary put my call through immediately, and the lawyer got on the line. “Mr. Rawlings,” he said. “A pleasure to hear from you.”

  “You might not think so when you hear what I called about.”

  “And that is?”

  “Looks like you’re right about things getting worse,” I said. “Last night, a bunch of cars on Enoch’s lot were smashed. They think it was a colored gang getting back for Slip Crawford being killed.”

  “How unfortunate.” Aubury didn’t sound particularly sorry to hear the news. Nor did he sound surprised.

  “There’s more. Enoch’s guys are gonna get revenge for that now. Don’t know how they’re going to find out who busted up the cars, but when they do, they’re gonna get ’em.”

  Aubury said dryly, “I doubt that they’ll bother to find out who was truly responsible. They’ll simply strike at any colored person who happens to be convenient.”

  “Well, I just thought you might want to know.” I had no idea what he could do with the information, but hoped I’d accomplished something by passing it along. At least it was out of my hands now. Before hanging up, I said, “If you see Karl, or hear from him, could you ask him to give me a call?” There was a different matter I wanted to talk to him about.

  “He’s here now,” Aubury answered. “One moment.”

  When Karl got on the line, I asked what he was doing there.

  “Working on the antilynching bill. I’m trying to get labor endorsements.” Karl launched into another one of his speeches, “See, we have plenty of support from Progressives and intellectuals. If we can show support from union members—working-class white people—then we can—”

  “She said no, Karl.”

  “What? Who said—Oh! You mean Margie?”

  “Yeah. I proposed and she said no.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. And surprised. I’d always assumed—”

  “So did I. Well, she didn’t come out and say no, exactly, just that we should keep things the way they are for a while.”

  “That’s not bad, then!” Karl tried to sound optimistic. “Perhaps she merely wants some time to get accustomed to the idea.”

  “Could be,” I said. “She has been acting real nice, so I don’t think it’s that she doesn’t care for me. Maybe it was the way I asked her—I just blurted out that I thought we should get married. You think maybe I should have got on my knee and all that?”

  Karl hemmed and hawed. “I don’t know,” he finally decided.

  “Or do you think maybe she’s planning other things that don’t include me?” I asked. “She’s starting nursing school. Maybe she wants a life of her own.”

  Karl again said he didn’t know. I had to give him credit; that wasn’t an admission he made often, and for him to say it twice in the same day was probably a record. Then he suggested, “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Ask her?” I resisted the impulse to ask him if he was nuts. “No. If she wants to give me a reason, she should bring it up.”

  “So you’re going to speculate instead of speaking to the one person who can give you a definitive answer?” Karl sounded like he thought I was the one who was nuts.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  After getting off the phone with Karl, I went back outside to Margie.

  At the sight of her, I almost did blurt out the question, “Why don’t you want to marry me?” Instead I suggested that we get something to eat and then catch the Gloria Swanson double feature playing at the Orpheum.

  She agreed, and we went to dinner, where we talked little. Then it was off to the movie theater, where we barely talked at all.

  While watching Swanson lounging about in the sort of opulent boudoirs and bathrooms that only existed in Cecil B. DeMille pictures, I did use the time and relative solitude to think.

  One of the things I thought about was why my gut was so set against asking Margie directly why she’d turned me down. What I concluded was that I might be afraid to hear her answer. It occurred to me that perhaps the reason she didn’t say yes to my proposal had nothing to do with the way I’d asked, or because of any other plans she had. Maybe she simply didn’t want me for a husband.

  CHAPTER 10

  I left Sportsman’s Park after Wednesday’s game and limped a couple of blocks to LoBrutto’s Florist, where I bought a dozen long-stemmed yellow roses. They were Margie’s favorite flowers, and her favorite color. I brought her that same arrangement before every road trip; it was one of the many small traditions that we’d shared in the last couple of years.

  I thought about that once I’d boarded a Grand Boulevard trolley. I loved the way things had been between Margie and me, and maybe she felt the same way. It co
uld be that she was simply worried marriage would change something that was already pretty terrific. I only wished she would tell me if that was indeed the case; so far, she hadn’t volunteered any explanation for declining my proposal.

  As the trolley rolled south, Karl’s suggestion to ask her directly kept popping into my head. Every time I’d dismiss it as one of his dumber ideas, it would rear itself again. And each time it did, I began more and more to think it made sense. Tonight would be my last night with Margie before the Browns headed to Detroit, and I didn’t want to leave town without knowing exactly where things stood between us.

  First I fortified myself with more flowers, stopping at a small shop on Delmar for another dozen roses and a bunch of white carnations. By the time I arrived home, I was feeling optimistic. Maybe it was due to the heady fragrance of the blossoms, but I’d become convinced that romance would prevail.

  When I entered the apartment, Margie called from the kitchen, “How’s the knee?”

  “Okay. Fohl kept me on the bench.” Since it was obvious that my bruised knee would keep me out of the lineup, Margie had stayed home from the game.

  She came into the parlor, wearing a silk skirt the same color as the roses and an embroidered white blouse. Her hair was in the old-fashioned style that I preferred, like a Gibson girl’s, and she was wearing the cameo lavaliere that I’d given her on her last birthday.

  Margie’s eyes lit up at the sight of the flowers. “Why so many?” There was no indication in her tone that she had any objection to the quantity.

  “Well, you know, we’re going on the road tomorrow. And ...” I handed her the paper-wrapped bouquets. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  She nodded, and went over to the sofa, cradling the flowers in her arms.

  The notion of getting on one knee briefly crossed my mind, but instead I sat next to her. Once again, I hadn’t planned what to say. Should I ask her to marry me, or just ask what she thought of my earlier proposal? While I went over the possibilities, Margie bit her lip and waited patiently.

  I finally asked, “When you said you wanted to keep things the way they are, did you mean no to getting married? I mean, I know I didn’t ask the right way—it wasn’t a proper proposal—but I did mean it about wanting to marry you.” Damn, I thought, never mind flowers, I should have brought her an engagement ring.

  Margie said softly, “There was nothing wrong with the way you asked.” She ducked her head slightly. “And I do love you. But I can’t get married yet.”

  “What do you mean you can’t?”

  “I mean”—her voice caught—“I mean I hope you’ll ask me again someday, but I can’t say yes right now.”

  “I don’t understand. Why not? What do you mean can’t?”

  She took a deep breath and looked up at me. “I would need to get a divorce first.”

  If she’d slammed a baseball bat over my head, I couldn’t have been more stunned. “You mean you’re ...”

  Margie nodded. Tears welled in her eyes. “It wasn’t anything serious—”

  “You don’t think being married is serious?” I was rapidly getting angry.

  “Yes, of course. But this wasn’t—”

  I cut her off. “So you have a husband, and you’re living with me?”

  “No, not a husband. I was—”

  “Who is he?”

  She put her hand on my arm. “Let me explain.”

  I pulled my arm away. “Go ahead. Explain.”

  “It happened when I was in Hollywood. A friend of mine, another actress, was going to Mexico to get married. I went along as maid of honor. Before the ceremony, she and her fiance suggested that the best man and I get married, too, and make it a double wedding. And we did, but it was just a lark.”

  “So you and him never ...”

  Margie took a moment to answer. “Like I said, it didn’t mean anything. Just one of those crazy things you do sometimes. But it is legal, so I’d have to get a divorce before I could marry you.”

  “Why didn’t you ever mention this?”

  “That was years ago. I hardly ever thought about it until the other night.”

  So I’d been living with a married woman. Whatever the circumstances, I didn’t like that fact. “You should have told me.”

  “I didn’t think it—”

  “I don’t care. You should have told me.”

  Margie continued to explain and apologize. But I was no longer listening. The only thing that diminished my anger at her was annoyance at myself for taking Karl Landfors’s stupid advice.

  CHAPTER 11

  The last time I’d played in Navin Field, two seasons ago, I’d worn the home uniform of the Detroit Tigers. Now, I sat in the opposing dugout, staring out at my former teammates. In the batting cage was the ferocious Ty Cobb, who last year had assumed the managerial reins while still holding down the center-field job. With him at the helm, some newspapers now referred to the Detroit team as the “Tygers.” Behind Cobb were his fellow outfielders Harry Heilmann and Bobby Veach, two of the players who’d been friendliest to me when I was with the club. Warming up along the foul line was Howard Ehmke, slated to pitch against our young left-hander Hub Pruett.

  I wouldn’t get to do more than look at the Tigers today. Lee Fohl had told me that I would again be idle. He even told me to skip batting and fielding practice until my knee was better. It was just as well, because I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on the game anyway.

  My gaze kept drifting from the diamond to a box seat behind the Tigers’ dugout. It was the spot where Margie used to sit. Detroit was the city where we’d first started sharing a home.

  Marty McManus abruptly blocked the view. “Hey, Mickey, anything tricky about playin’ in this park?”

  “How the hell should I know?” I snapped.

  He blinked. “I thought ... I mean you used to play here, so I thought you might have some tips.”

  I shook my head, and he quickly found a spot at the far end of the bench from me.

  When the game started, Ty Cobb promptly launched into a sustained verbal assault on Hub Pruett. A week ago, the Tigers had been humiliated when White Sox rookie Charlie Robertson hurled a perfect game against them. Pruett was making his second big-league appearance, and Cobb wanted to make sure the youngster was so off-stride that he wouldn’t come close to repeating Robertson’s feat.

  It worked. Pruett was clearly rattled and gave up two runs in the first inning, while we went hitless.

  Before Marty McManus went to the on-deck circle in our half of the second, I walked over to him. “They soak the ground in front of home plate,” I said. “It’s called Cobb’s Lake and it’s to help him lay down bunts. Early in the game, a ball will really die in the mud. You might want to try laying one down yourself.” It was as close to an apology as I could give him for my earlier behavior.

  When McManus followed my advice, and plopped a bunt single, I knew the apology was accepted. The world would make a whole lot more sense, I thought, if women could communicate as well as men did.

  I spent the rest of the game thinking about Margie. In two days, I’d found no way to feel better about her deceiving me. No matter how often she repeated that her marriage was merely a weekend lark, I still believed that not telling me about it was the same as lying to me.

  It was true that we had never asked each other much about whatever romances might have been in our pasts. But for her to have a husband, however nominal, was something important enough that she should have told me.

  Maybe I’d see about getting some female companionship after the game, I thought. Why not? It’s Friday night, I’m away from home ... and I’m single.

  I didn’t find a girl—not that I looked very hard—but I did find a speakeasy on Beaubien Street, near the waterfront. It was no great feat to find a drinking establishment in Detroit; the city almost flowed with illegal booze, ferried across the river from Canada by a small navy of bootleggers. This was better than most, though—clean,
well-appointed, with a superb ragtime piano player and an extensive selection of fine liquors.

  Usually, I drank nothing stronger than beer, but this night I was in the mood for the hard stuff. I downed shots of Canadian whiskey until almost midnight. That was the team’s curfew, and I knew I’d be in trouble if Lee Fohl spotted me coming in late. But I convinced myself that it would be worse to show up drunk than late, and decided to remain in the speakeasy a while longer to give myself time to sober up. Since I continued to sip whiskey while waiting for the earlier drinks to wear off, it turned out to be a losing strategy.

  Shortly after two in the morning, I teetered into the expansive lobby of the Statler Hotel, my brain clouded by an alcohol-induced fog. After successfully negotiating my way to the front desk for my room key, I embarked on the long journey across the lobby to the elevator. I’d made it only a few steps before I noticed the Browns’ manager in an overstuffed chair, an open newspaper on his lap. I quickly looked to see if there was another route to the elevator. There wasn’t; I would have to pass by Fohl. Since he appeared to be dozing, I thought I might have a chance.

  Walking as steadily as I could, I worked my way forward, watching where my feet were stepping, and occasionally glancing at Fohl to see if he’d spotted me.

  I’d made it halfway across the lobby when I saw that the manager was on to me. He made a show of checking his pocket watch, then folded the paper and stood up.

  In a flash of inspiration, I remembered my bad knee and figured I could use it to disguise any peculiarities in my gait. I promptly tried to affect an exaggerated limp—and almost collapsed on the first step.

  Fohl frowned so hard that his eyebrows almost looked like a mustache. I had no idea what he would do to me. The brawny former catcher had such a reputation as a disciplinarian, that I’d never heard of anyone challenging his rules, so I’d never seen what kind of punishment he could mete out.

  He waited patiently until I’d reached him, then he blocked my path. “You have trouble telling time, son?”