Hanging Curve

by Troy Soos

  I opened my mouth to give him an explanation, and saw him wince after I’d only gotten two words out. Damn. I should have taken a mint or something for my breath.

  He held up his hand to cut me off. “Don’t talk, son. Just listen.”

  Listening would be the easy part; remaining vertical was the challenging task. I kept shifting to match the way Fohl wobbled in front of me.

  The manager’s fleshy face relaxed somewhat, but his dark eyes remained stern. “You got a good reputation, kid,” he began. “Never been any trouble that I know of, and you’re a team player.”

  “Thanks, Lee. I—”

  He held up his hand again. “I’m gonna tell you three things. You better listen, and you better remember.”

  I nodded, my lips firmly sealed.

  “First,” he said, “I can smell that you been putting rubbing alcohol on that bum knee.”

  “It’s not—” I cut myself off this time, realizing that he knew full well it wasn’t rubbing alcohol he smelled.

  “My point is, that ain’t gonna help it heal any faster, so I don’t ever want to smell it on you again.”

  I nodded that I understood.

  He went on, “Two: When you got a bad leg, don’t walk so far from the hotel that you can’t get in by curfew. I don’t want to see you coming in this late again. If I do, I’m gonna fine you.”

  I nodded again.

  “Three: Whatever that bug is that crawled up your ass, you better get rid of it. You been ornery for days now, and it’s gonna end. Get your head back on baseball. Got it?”

  I was starting to feel too dizzy to risk nodding again. “Yes,” I said meekly.

  “Good. Now hit the sack.” With that, Fohl spun about and headed for the elevator.

  I was grateful that he was giving me a second chance. But I wished he hadn’t turned around so fast, because I almost lost my balance from watching him move.

  I didn’t have another drink for the rest of the time we were in Detroit. In fact, the headache I woke with Saturday morning caused me to swear off anything stronger than ginger ale for the rest of my life—a vow which I fully intended to keep at least until my head cleared up.

  I made sure that I arrived early at the ballpark every day and early to the hotel every evening. The only outings I made were to the movie theaters, and only to pictures that didn’t involve love stories—I didn’t want to be reminded of Margie.

  My company for the weekend was limited to my roommate Marty McManus. The lessons I was supposed to give him weren’t limited to the playing field. As the veteran, I was also supposed to give him tips on life on the road and warn him of the temptations that were better avoided—like the one I’d succumbed to Friday night. Lately, it seemed that some of the best lessons I was giving McManus were in what not to do.

  We dropped two out of three to the Tigers and were packing for the return trip, when I finally called Margie to let her know when my train would be getting into St. Louis. I hadn’t phoned her once during the road trip and hadn’t returned the several calls she’d made to the hotel.

  I apologized for not calling earlier, claiming that McManus kept getting in trouble and I had to keep getting him out of it. She had the graciousness to accept the fib and the apology, and said she was looking forward to my return.

  So was I. Because although I’d straightened out my behavior in Detroit, what was bothering me couldn’t be remedied until I got back to St. Louis.

  CHAPTER 12

  There are always fans on hand to greet a ball club when it arrives in a city, especially when the city is the club’s hometown. On the road, welcoming committees tend to be small, mostly young ladies willing to provide short-term companionship for visiting ballplayers. Returning home, crowds are larger and predominantly male, with boys seeking autographs and men wanting to get in a few words of encouragement—or criticism, depending on the team’s most recent performance.

  The Browns’ train pulled into St. Louis too late for many boys to still be up, but a dozen or so men were gathered at the end of the platform as we trudged our way, suitcases in hand, into majestic Union Station.

  I barely gave the fans a glance. When I first came to the big leagues, I used to search the crowds as eagerly as they looked for the star players; I’d even dawdle and try to look approachable, hoping to be asked for my autograph or have somebody call my name. Not anymore. I was still more than happy to talk with a fan or sign a ball on the rare occasions when I was recognized, but I’d given up on acting like a puppy in a pet-store window.

  It wasn’t until I was almost upon them that I noticed Tater Greene and a horse-faced man who looked like a smaller, older version of Connie Mack standing at the edge of the crowd.

  They appeared to be studying each member of the Browns as he passed by. I tried to hide behind Baby Doll Jacobson, who at six-foot-three and more than two hundred pounds, was probably the largest “Baby Doll” in the world. But he wasn’t big enough to keep me out of view.

  “Mickey!” Greene called, exposing his stained gums in a smile.

  I stopped and grunted hello. At least my unhappiness about Margie had kept my thoughts off the Slip Crawford lynching for a few days. The sight of Tater Greene now brought it freshly to mind.

  Greene introduced the man with him. “This is Buddy Vaughn, a good friend of mine.”

  A ready smile cracked Vaughn’s long, craggy face. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rawlings,” he said in a soft Southern drawl. “I’m a big baseball fan.”

  We shook hands, his grip proving stronger than I expected from his appearance. Vaughn’s lean build was clothed in a blue-seersucker suit, with a high, tight collar and a small polka-dot bow tie. A fringe of white hair was visible under his Panama hat.

  “I hate to impose,” Vaughn said, “but do you suppose we could chat for a minute?”

  I shifted my suitcase to my other hand. “Wish I could, but I really got to be getting home.” My eyes were on Greene, trying to discern what this encounter was about.

  “Of course,” Vaughn said. “I understand.” Then he sighed, and added, “But I sure would be grateful if you could give me just a few moments of your time.” He made it sound like his dying request.

  What the hell; I wasn’t going to learn why they were here from looking at Greene. “All right,” I said.

  Greene and I followed the older man into the station’s magnificent central pavilion. The interior of the hall was as ornate as its castlelike exterior. Frescoes and ornamental moldings decorated the walls, a splendid pictorial window was above the north staircase, and an enormous chandelier, twenty feet across, hung in the center of the arching chamber.

  Because of the hour, there were relatively few people in the pavilion. Vaughn pointed to an empty bench near an elaborate marble sculpture. We didn’t need to sit if it was really going to be only “a few moments,” I thought, but I joined them on the seat.

  The three of us had barely sat down when Vaughn turned to Greene. “Say, Tater, I got a hankering for a good cigar. You mind going to see what kind of stogies they have here?” Greene promptly hopped up and headed off to the tobacco stand. “Take your time, son!” Vaughn called after him.

  He’d already used up more than a few moments. “Why’d you want to talk to me?” I prompted him.

  Vaughn smiled benignly. “First, allow me to complete the introduction. Tater told you my name, but not who I am.” He paused for effect. “I’m an officer with the Invisible Empire, Knights of the Ku Klux Klan.”

  He wasn’t invisible enough for my liking. “Like I said, I got to be getting home.”

  “I’m a kleagle, son.”

  I had to stifle a laugh, both at his reverential tone—as if “kleagle” was the equivalent of pope—and at the word itself. To me, it sounded like a Klan name for a beagle.

  “And,” he went on, “it is my pleasure to offer you membership in the Empire. I think you’d enjoy being one of us.”

  “No,” I answered. “I’m sure I wo
uldn’t. Just because I played one baseball game for a team that’s owned by a Klansman—and I wouldn’t have if I’d known about it—that doesn’t mean I believe the same things you do.” I was about to let loose and tell this kleagle what I really thought of his organization, but I knew that would accomplish nothing. Instead, I said, “See, the only people I hate are the New York Yankees, and they’re about the only group you’re not against.”

  Vaughn chuckled good-naturedly. “We don’t hate anyone, son. We simply believe that people are happier with their own kind. Prevents ill feelings and keeps life peaceful.”

  Okay, I couldn’t make light of this. “Running around in hoods terrorizing people, burning their homes, lynching them—that’s a real peculiar way of keeping things peaceful.”

  “We don’t terrorize anyone,” Vaughn said. “We simply have our little ceremonies and rituals same as the Freemasons or Odd Fellows or Elks or any other fraternal organization. If some folks misinterpret our costumes and ceremonies as something sinister, that is not our fault. As for lynching, we’re not killers. The Empire has a few hotheads, I admit, but when they get out of hand, we take care of them. You see, we have respectable men among our ranks: ministers, police, judges, doctors, businessmen—and baseball players.” He smiled. “You wouldn’t be the first big-league ballplayer to join us. And I’ll make you the same offer I made the others: We’ll waive the ten-dollar klectoken and give you a free membership.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll be honest,” Vaughn said. “Because it’s an attraction for others who might be interested in joining. Doctors and lawyers are all well and good, but baseball players are heroes.”

  “I’m not interested in helping you attract more members.”

  “It’s to help yourself, too, son. We don’t advocate violence, but we do believe in protecting our own. And that might come in handy for you with the trouble that’s brewing in East St. Louis. Like you said, you played for a team sponsored by a Klansman—and that might make you a target for our enemies. So you might as well join us and enjoy the protection and other benefits that come with membership.”

  I was more interested in what he’d said about ballplayers. “What major leaguers are in the Klan?”

  Vaughn smiled. “You’ll find out when you join.”

  “If you intend to use ballplayers as drawing cards, you’re gonna have to say who they are.”

  “All in good time,” the kleagle answered. “But for now, I will tell you that one of the biggest stars in St. Louis is a Knight of the Ku Klux Klan. And Tater Greene pointed out a few more of your teammates who might be good candidates.”

  I stood. “Well, it’s been real nice talking to you,” I said facetiously, “but you’re not going to sell me on this.”

  He tugged at the sleeve of my jacket, then reached inside his own coat and pulled out a couple of pamphlets. “Just take a look at these sometime, Mr. Rawlings.” He put the papers in my pocket. “Might clear up some of the misapprehensions you have about who we are.”

  I knew it would be pointless to argue with him or to tell him what I really thought of his group. “I’m just not a joiner,” I said, and walked away.

  On my way out of the station, I stopped at the cigar stand where Tater Greene was standing idly. “You can go back,” I said. “He’s finished his sales pitch.”

  “Sorry, Mickey. This wasn’t my idea. Vaughn’s all het up on the idea of recruiting ballplayers.”

  “What the hell is a ‘kleagle’ anyway?”

  “A salesman, basically. There’s a couple hundred of them around the country signing up new members. Buddy Vaughn is one of the important ones, from what I hear. Came in from Evansville a couple days ago to build up membership in the St. Louis area.”

  Although Greene and I had never been particularly friendly, I’d always thought he was basically a decent guy, if not a bright one. “What are you doing with these people, Tater? You really believe in what they say?”

  “Some of it.” He fidgeted uncomfortably. “I go along with the parts I agree with, and I ignore what I don’t.” Greene smiled weakly. “Kind of like religion, I guess.”

  I shook my head, at a loss to grasp the attraction of the Klan. “It just doesn’t make sense to me, Tater.”

  “It’s good to be part of something,” my former teammate tried to explain. “When I was in baseball, I was always part of a team. Once I wasn’t in the big leagues no more, I was just me again—and that was the same as being nothin’. I ain’t even got a wife or kids.” He rubbed his stubbly chin. “You know how I got the name ‘Tater’?”

  I shook my head no, although I’d assumed it was because his head looked like one.

  “A little over a year ago,” Greene said, “I was working on a farm, picking sweet potatoes in Georgia. After twelve years as a major leaguer, I wasn’t no better than a sharecropper. Then Roy Enoch came through town on a business trip. He saw me play in a pickup game and hired me for his dealership so I could play for him. Now I got a good job, I’m playing baseball ... and I belong again.”

  I still didn’t understand the appeal of the Ku Klux Klan, but I could sympathize with the desire not to be alone.

  For now, at least, I still had somebody to go home to.

  I flagged a taxi on Market Street, eager to see Margie again. I still hadn’t forgiven her for not telling me about her marital status, but the hurt and anger were no longer as acute.

  When I got home and saw her curled up on the sofa, all I felt was affection. Margie was fast asleep, using my old flannel bathrobe as a blanket.

  I brushed her hair from her face and kissed her awake.

  “What time is it?” she asked sleepily.

  “Late. I’m sorry; the train got delayed in Indiana.” I didn’t mention my meeting with Buddy Vaughn and Tater Greene.

  “S’okay.” She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “How’s your knee?”

  “Back to normal.”

  “So you might play tomorrow?” Margie adjusted the robe around her, and I noticed she was wearing only a chemise underneath.

  “Huh?”

  “Are you playing tomorrow? I’ll come to the game if you want.”

  “Oh, no. I have a feeling Fohl is gonna wait a while before letting me start again.” I didn’t explain why.

  We talked a little while longer. Then, when we were both sufficiently awake, we went to bed and did our utmost to pretend that there wasn’t anything wrong between us.

  CHAPTER 13

  Lee Fohl had to put me in the lineup sooner than I expected. In the fourth inning of Wednesday’s game against Boston, Marty McManus got beaned by a Jack Quinn fastball that left him with blurry vision. I was sent in to pinch-run, and immediately proved to Fohl that my knee was fully healed by stealing second and then third before scoring on a Johnny Tobin single.

  The rest of the game, a 9—2 rout of the Red Sox, was equally successful; I went 2-for-2 at the plate, including a triple, and made no errors in the field. More importantly, McManus turned out to be all right; by the ninth inning his vision was back to normal, and he complained only of a headache.

  In the clubhouse afterward, as we stripped out of our uniforms, I gave McManus some more helpful advice. “Never take a fastball to the head,” I told him. “Always jump up so it hits you in the ass instead.”

  The kid must have still been woozy, because he actually considered that for a moment before he realized I was pulling his leg.

  I was about to hit the shower when a high, whiny voice asked, “Excuse me, but can I trouble you for an interview?”

  There was Karl Landfors at my elbow, the last person I ever expected to see in a locker room. “What are you doing here?” I asked, too surprised to come up with a more courteous greeting.

  Under his breath, he answered, “I need to speak with you.”

  Must be important for Karl to come into the clubhouse, I thought. His natural environment was a musty library or a museum. Judging by his wrinkled nose and s
our expression, the rank locker-room atmosphere wasn’t agreeing with him.

  “How’d you get in?” I asked.

  “I still have newspaper credentials. I came in with the other writers.” The usual sportswriters were in the clubhouse talking with the usual stars. How Karl passed for one of them amazed me; credentials or not, he didn’t look any more like a sportswriter than he did a baseball player.

  I cinched a towel around my waist. “Okay. What’s the problem?”

  Karl took a notepad from inside his standard black jacket and pretended to be interviewing me. Keeping his voice low, he said, “There’s been more trouble in East St. Louis. The home of Denver Jones was burned to the ground. He’s the—”

  “Cubs’ catcher.” The fellow who’d picked up my bat. “Is he ... ?”

  “He’s fine. The Cubs were on the road, so he wasn’t at home. His wife and children were, but they were driven out of the house before it was torched.”

  “Who did it?”

  Karl started to answer, but hesitated when George Sisler came within earshot. Trying to maintain the pretense that he was a sportswriter, Karl asked loudly, “Why don’t second basemen play right next to the base the way first and third basemen do?”

  Sisler burst out laughing when he heard this. When he could speak again, he asked Karl, “Who the hell do you write for—the Ladies’ Home Journal?” Still chuckling, the Browns’ first baseman went to the showers.

  Karl asked me, “That wasn’t a good question?”

  “At least you didn’t ask how many stitches there are on a baseball.” I glanced around to check that no one was in listening range. “So who burned his house? Do you know?”

  “A gang of white men wearing pillow cases with eyeholes. There were no burning crosses or KKK insignia.”

  “Still could have been the Klan,” I said. “Or guys working for Enoch who wanted to hit back at somebody for the cars’ being damaged.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to ascertain,” Karl said. “Could you come with me to see Franklin Aubury again?”