by Troy Soos
The fellow J. D. Whalen had called Clint lumbered out of the garage wiping his greasy hands on a rag. “Can I help you?” He was wearing only denim overalls, no shirt. Even if the day had been cool, he wouldn’t have needed anything more than the thick black fur on his body to keep warm. He looked like a grizzly bear, only stronger.
I didn’t want to admit that I was only looking at his sign. “Is J. D. here?” I asked. “I talked to him about three weeks ago.”
Clint ran the rag across his cheek, making a rasping sound on the dark stubble that covered much of his broad face. “He’s over the river, trying to make a deal on some cars. Anything I can help you with?”
“I was just at Enoch’s dealership,” I said. “I’m in the market for a new car, and I thought I’d see what you and J. D. had before I made a decision. J. D. mentioned you might be getting some Hudsons.”
Clint chuckled. “One day he’s talkin’ Hudsons, the next day it’s Studebakers. Today, he’s looking at Gardners—figures since they’re made in St. Louis, we’ll get a lot of customers wanting to support local industry. I don’t know what we’re gonna end up with. How soon you lookin’ to buy?”
“No hurry. I can wait a while and see what you get.” I pushed the charade further. “I figure I’d rather give you my business seeing as how you’re just getting started.”
“Appreciate it,” Clint said. “It’ll mean a lot, especially to J. D.—he’s got a lot invested in this place.” He grinned. “And he sure would love taking a sale away from Roy Enoch.”
I pointed up to the Waverly Motors sign. “You don’t have the same advertising advantage as Enoch.”
“What do you mean?”
“His sign says, ‘Komplete Kar Kare’—so he’ll be getting business from the Klansmen around here.”
Clint grunted. “Yeah, I know. And the way the Klan’s growing, that kind of advertising’s probably a good idea. But all I want to do is work on cars.” He studied me a moment. “You a Knight?”
I wanted to sound neutral until I determined where he stood. “Not yet, but they been after me to join.”
“Take my advice: Think it over before you do. Ten dollars to join, then they sell you the robes and books ... comes to a lot of money.”
“I don’t have to pay,” I said. “Not the membership, anyway. I play for the St. Louis Browns, and they’re looking to recruit big-league ballplayers.”
Clint’s eyes widened. “The Browns? You for real?”
I nodded.
He began flexing his right arm as if loosening up to throw. “I love baseball. Used to play myself—and wasn’t half-bad. I was J. D.’s catcher when he pitched for Aluminum Ore.” His arm dropped to his side. “Seems like a million years ago. I’ve hardly played at all since the riot.”
“With what’s going on between the Elcars and the Cubs,” I said, “it looks like there could be another riot soon.”
“Nah.” He leaned back against an old Nash. “The Klan’ll keep things under control.”
“From what I read in the papers, Klansmen are the ones who get out of control.”
“Remember,” said Clint, “there was no Klan during the 1917 riot; it was a mob that did the killing and burning. A lot of good men got caught up in it and did some awful things they never would have dreamed of normally. But now the Klan will keep order and keep the hotheads in line—like the ones at Enoch’s place. I’m glad J. D. is out of there.”
“They cause a lot of trouble?”
“Don’t know if they cause it, but they’re always looking for a scrap. Especially with the coloreds. One of their salesmen got killed in the riot, and they won’t ever forget it.”
That came as news to me; Aubury had mentioned that a couple of whites were shot in the days before the riot, but not during the killing spree. “I thought it was only Negroes who were killed,” I said.
“Most of the dead were colored, but there were a few whites who ended up the same way. Some of the Negroes fought back, and I don’t blame them. I’d have done the same thing. You know, I got nothing against coloreds. Never did. And I hate what was done to them in ‘seventeen. I think the Klan will stop anything like that from happening again.”
It seemed a safe guess, but I thought I’d ask. “You in the Klan?”
“Well, I joined, but I’m not active.”
“Why not?”
Clint slid down to sit on the Nash’s running board, which squeaked in protest at his weight. “Basically, I agree with the goals of the KKK—patriotism, clean living, good old-fashioned values. And I like the fact that they’ll punish people who need it—like bootleggers and wife beaters. By the way, the Klan mostly keeps white men in line; it don’t go after coloreds much—not in this part of the country anyways.”
“If you joined the Klan, and believe in it, why aren’t you active?”
He spit. “I knew a couple fellows who needed to be taught a lesson; one of them let his family go hungry while he drank his paychecks, and another one used his wife for a punching bag. So I went to a Klan meeting, and joined up. There was a whole ceremony—naturalization, they call it—to initiate new members. Everybody was in hoods and robes, and it was real fancy. When it was over, everybody took off their hoods. Turned out the men I wanted straightened out were Klansmen. I ain’t been back since.”
“You still think the Klan is going to keep order if guys like that are in it?”
He spit again, targeting a radiator cap that was lying on the ground a few feet away. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure anymore. Guess if I was, I would have put a slogan on the sign by now.”
“How about J. D.—is he still active?”
“We’re not supposed to say nothing about other members.”
“All right. Well, thanks for the talk. I’ll hold off on buying a car till I see what you get in.” Before I left, I added that if he ever wanted seats to a Browns’ game to let me know and I’d leave him a couple of passes.
When I got back home, I tried to sort out all the conflicting information I’d gotten during the past month. There were so many disparities, and they were so extreme, it seemed an impossible task.
The Ku Klux Klan, for instance: I saw no way to reconcile the atrocities I’d read about with the claims that the KKK was dedicated to preventing violence. Was the difference simply a matter of geography, with a Southern Klan that openly tortured and killed Negroes and a Northern faction that instead enforced “morality” among whites and disciplined their own members? If so, did that rule out the possibility that East St. Louis Klansmen were behind the lynching of Slip Crawford?
What about the Elcars’ players: Were they a bunch of racist hotheads capable of killing Crawford for beating them in a ball game, or were they a proud team of better-than-average baseball players who only wanted another chance to beat him in a game? And, if most Elcars were also Klansmen who’d been ordered not to use violence, would they be reckless enough to defy their leaders over a ball game?
I kept coming around to the idea that the motive for Slip Crawford’s murder was personal.
Since the St. Louis Stars wouldn’t be in town for some time yet, I wouldn’t be able to question his teammates. I hoped there might be some information on the pitcher in the back issues of the Argus that Franklin Aubury had given me.
I checked the old newspapers, for the first time getting beyond the front pages. The sports section provided a wealth of information on Negro baseball, which got little notice in white newspapers and was completely ignored by The Sporting News. I was astonished to read how many organized colored clubs there were. In addition to Rube Foster’s Negro National League, there was the Southern League, a minor league for colored players, and many industrial and amateur leagues. Local Negro teams included the St. Louis Tigers, a Southern League entry, and the semipro Compton Hill Cubs, Union Electrics, and Kinloch Stars.
I learned that a new major league, to be called the Eastern Colored League, was being formed in the northeast. Its organizers
were owners of independent barnstorming teams who believed Rube Foster was too dictatorial. One thing both black and white leagues have in common, I thought, is that the owners are never happy.
There was little information on Slip Crawford useful for my purposes, however. According to the Argus, he’d had a terrific 1921 season with the Indianapolis ABCs, and was expected to be a mainstay of the Stars’ pitching staff this year. The paper contained nothing about his personal life, and there was no mention of any problems on or off the field.
Out of curiosity, I began to flip through the other sections of the papers. There were numerous articles attributed to the Associated Negro Press, most on national political issues. There was also social news; I learned that colored people had their own Greek letter college fraternities, such as Alpha Phi Alpha, and fraternal organizations such as the Pythians. Along with advertisements for Dr. Fred Palmer’s Skin Whitener and Strait-Tex hair straightener, were ads for “all-colored” vaudeville shows, motion pictures, and phonograph recordings such as those of Black Swan Records, which featured “exclusively colored voices.”
Colored baseball, colored movies, a colored news service ... There was an entire civilization here, one that was hidden from white Americans—or overlooked by them.
CHAPTER 17
With a few minor modifications I kept to my usual Sunday morning routine. I started with a large breakfast, but since I didn’t have Margie’s talent at the stove, bacon, eggs, and pancakes weren’t on the menu. Instead, I consumed most of a peach pie from the bakery, washing it down with black coffee. Then I settled into my Morris chair by the parlor window to read the newspaper. Again, I deviated somewhat from standard practice; rather than the Post-Dispatch or Globe-Democrat, the paper I chose was the latest issue of the weekly Argus.
I began at the back of the paper, with the sports section. The main headline read: Bell Wins Game For Stars. Jimmy Bell, the speedster formerly with the East St. Louis Cubs, had pitched the St. Louis Stars to their first victory of the season in Chicago. The team he beat was Rube Foster’s American Giants, reigning champions of the Negro National League. I was delighted to see that the kid was making good, and I looked forward to seeing him play again when the Stars’ ballpark opened in St. Louis.
According to the Argus, construction on the park was progressing so well that it was expected to be ready in five weeks. Until then, the Stars would remain on the road, playing series in Indianapolis, Pittsburgh, and Kansas City.
That reminded me of the road trip I was missing. Today, while I sat idle in St. Louis, my teammates were in the Polo Grounds, where Babe Ruth would be making his first appearance of the season. Ruth’s suspension was over; mine had another ten days to run.
I closed the newspaper, and twisted around in my chair to look out the window. It was a beautiful day for a ball game— sunny, warm, and clear. Imagining the Browns and Yankees about to do battle in New York, I ached to play again. Or at least take my usual spot on the dugout bench. Hell, I’d even settle for a seat in the bleachers.
No sense wishing or waiting, I finally decided, neither for the Browns to let me play baseball with them again nor for Margie to return. I picked up the Argus again and checked the Stars’ schedule. I would go to a ball game—in Indianapolis.
By the afternoon, I was still excited about the prospect of a trip, but didn’t relish the idea of traveling by myself. I’d had enough of being alone lately.
I called Karl Landfors and asked if he’d like to take a little vacation.
“A what?”
I should have known that vacation would be an alien concept to Karl. “I’m going to Indianapolis,” I said. “I was wondering if you might want to come along.”
“Indianapolis? Why on earth would you want to go there?”
“The St. Louis Stars will be there, playing the ABCs. I want to talk to both teams about Slip Crawford.” I didn’t mention that I also just wanted to get away for a while.
“I’m sorry, Mickey, but I can’t right now.” He sniffed. “As a matter of fact, it’s an idea of yours that requires me to remain here.”
“Huh?”
“You suggested to Franklin Aubury that we try to get articles in the newspapers linking the incidents in East St. Louis to the KKK. That’s what I’m working on.”
When I recovered from the astonishment that he’d taken my suggestion on something, I asked, “Are you getting anywhere with it?”
“The Post-Dispatch is interested. Last year, the New York World ran an expose of the KKK. It was picked up by a number of other papers around the country, including the Post-Dispatch. I’m trying to convince one of the editors that a story on local Klan activity would be an important follow-up to that piece.”
“All right. Well, good luck with it.”
I was disappointed that I’d be traveling alone, but I was still going to go.
Early Monday morning—so early that I considered it night—the telephone in the hallway shattered my sleep.
I hopped out of bed and ran to pick it up, bumping my shin on the dresser. The sound of a ringing phone still triggered the hope that it might be Margie calling.
The voice was male, with the crisp diction of Karl Landfors, but without his nasal whine. “Mickey Rawlings?”
“Yeah, this is me.”
“Franklin Aubury here. I understand from Karl Landfors that you are planning a trip to Indianapolis.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“May I ask when you were planning to leave?”
I answered groggily, “Not until after I wake up.”
Aubury laughed. “I apologize for phoning so early, but I wanted to be sure to catch you before you left.” He paused. “Would you mind some company on the trip?”
Company was exactly what I wanted. “Not at all. Who?”
“Me. I’d like to meet with some associates in Indiana who are monitoring Klan activities there.”
“Sure, I’d be happy to go together.”
“Karl also tells me you are planning to talk with some of Slip Crawford’s former teammates. If you like, I would be happy to make some introductions for you; I’m acquainted with some of the players.”
I’d actually never thought how I would go about approaching the colored players. “That would be great,” I said.
We agreed to leave the following day.
CHAPTER 18
The last time I’d been in the central pavilion of Union Station, I was getting a sales pitch from Buddy Vaughn, a kleagle for the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan. Today I was with Franklin Aubury, a Negro attorney working for legislation to abolish one of the Klan’s favorite practices.
The change in mood from two weeks ago was as striking as the change in company. Since this would be one of the rare journeys I’d be taking that wasn’t dictated by the baseball schedule, it had the feel of a vacation outing. I dressed casually for the excursion, in a sky-blue Palm Beach suit, with a burgundy necktie and traditional straw boater.
From his dress, I thought Franklin Aubury might be viewing the trip the same way. He’d abandoned the formal black-and-white costume he usually wore in favor of a tailored, three-piece tan suit and a brown derby. A green bat-wing bow tie bloomed from his high collar, and a gold watch chain was draped across his vest.
Fifteen minutes before the train was scheduled to pull out, we gave our suitcases to a baggageman and boarded. Aubury pointed to a couple of seats in the middle of the half-empty car. “Would you care for the window?” he offered.
“No, you go ahead.” I’d made dozens of train trips across the Midwest in the past ten years, and I was pretty confident there wouldn’t be anything new to see.
Once we’d settled in, Aubury began chattering about the Indianapolis ABCs with as much enthusiasm as a Brooklyn fan on his way to Ebbets Field—but with much better diction.
I interrupted to ask, “Does ‘ABC’ stand for anything?”
“American Brewing Company. There is no longer any affiliation, of cou
rse, but the team was initially organized as a promotional tool for the brewery. The club would travel throughout the state of Indiana playing ball games, taking on local teams, and samples of beer would be distributed to the fans.” He smiled. “From that beginning, about twenty years ago, the ABCs developed into one of the premier colored teams in the country, and their rosters have included some of the best players in history.”
Strutting down the aisle came a bloated conductor with a bushy black beard and shiny red face. The brass buttons on his navy uniform were tarnished, as was the badge on his cap. I held up my ticket for him to punch.
He directed his attention at Franklin Aubury, who was reaching into a pocket for his ticket. “You must be confused, boy. This ain’t your seat.”
I said, “We bought tickets.”
The conductor gave me a dismissive frown. “Ticket means you ride; it don’t say where you sit. I say where you sit.” He turned to Aubury again. “And your car is in the back.”
I started to protest, but Aubury said calmly, “It’s all right.” He flashed his teeth apologetically at the conductor. “I must have misunderstood the porter’s directions.” Though his mouth was smiling, I saw rage and pain in his eyes.
Aubury slid past me and headed toward the rear of the train.
I asked the conductor, “If he can’t sit here, can I go back where he is?”
“No.” He punched my ticket. “This ain’t a complicated system, son: Whites ride in the white car, coloreds in the colored car. You look white to me, so here you stay.”
After he moved on to the next passengers, I moved over to the window seat. The engine fired to life, and the familiar rumble of the rails shook through me as we rolled out of the station. I stared out the window, thinking that this trip was sure off to a lousy start.