by Soos, Troy
I still had the image of Pruett’s smile in my mind, and still could make no sense of it.
* * *
Two days later, I got another look at Jake Pruett’s face when I stepped into the batter’s box to face him. Texas League officials had ruled that Saturday’s game was suspended, so the teams were picking up from where we’d left off. And since local officials had ruled Archie Hines’ death an accident, Pruett was free to continue pitching.
Although it was technically the same game, there were some noticeable differences from Saturday. One was the size of the crowd. Magnolia Ball Park was packed to overflowing with fans who had arrived early to pay tribute to Hines in a pregame ceremony—and with some people, I suspected, who came out of morbid curiosity to see where a ballplayer had been killed. Of course the big difference today was in the lineup. Oyster Joe Martina, a pitcher, had to fill Archie’s spot because no other player was willing to take the place of the dead shortstop. In fact, none of us really wanted to continue the game at all, with the memory of the tragedy weighing as heavily on us as the muggy air.
But since the game was to go on, I was going to do my best. As the first up, I tried to shake off all thoughts of Archie, digging my cleats into the clay and twisting the bat handle in my grip. That’s when I glanced up to see a thin smile on Pruett’s ugly mug. And I knew exactly where his first pitch would be directed. I wasn’t sure if it was because I had charged at him after Archie was killed or because I’d dug in a little too close to the plate. Or maybe because Pruett needed to demonstrate that the death of Archie Hines wasn’t going to deter him from throwing inside. Whatever the reason, I was going down.
The same umpire from two days ago called “Play ball!” and Pruett peered in for the catcher’s sign. He then looked straight at me while he went into a windmill windup. I forced myself to remain fixed in my stance. Just as he had to prove that he was still willing to pitch inside, I had to act like I wasn’t going to be scared by what his last inside pitch had done. It took all the acting ability I could muster.
Pruett released quickly, snapping off a fastball that traveled directly toward my left ear. My brain issued the order to duck, but my body froze, unable to obey. At the last possible instant, I managed to jerk my head back. The ball grazed the bill of my cap, taking it clear off my head, and earning me first base. Although I wasn’t hurt, the close call had me shaken. Knowing that the knockdown was coming is what had made it even more hazardous, I realized. Normally, reflex takes over and the body pulls away immediately. Thinking about what to do slows down the movement.
Martina trotted to second, and I took first base with some feeling of achievement. All Pruett had managed to do was move a runner into scoring position and put me on base.
As the next Oilers’ hitter took his turn, I noticed that Pruett’s pitch actually had served a purpose: intimidation. The batter bent in an awkward stance, his rear end partway back to the dugout, obviously ready to hit the dirt. With three feeble swings he struck out on three straight tosses. The Oilers who followed him fared no better; all of them were tentative at the plate, more interested in their survival than their batting averages.
Throughout the game, I continued to watch Jake Pruett and the Oilers batters closely. Only one of my teammates faced Pruett with no sign of fear: our young leftfielder Floyd Geer, who managed to hit a pair of doubles. We couldn’t capitalize on Geer’s hits, however, and Houston held on for a 7-1 victory. Although the game was a somber one, and a loss for our team, at least this time there were no deaths in the box score.
* * *
The smallest moves can sometimes reveal the most about a ballplayer. A pitcher cocks his wrist a certain way, it might mean a curveball is coming. A catcher hoists up a little on his haunches, it might mean a pitchout. A batter twists his hip a split second early, maybe he’s about to lay down a bunt. I always watched for these small signs and tried to interpret their meanings. Since nature hadn’t endowed me with an abundance of natural ability, I had to rely on observation and strategy to have any chance of success in the game. And when I spotted something unusual, it would gnaw at me until I’d figured out the cause.
Floyd Geer’s batting style today, when he kept digging in against Jake Pruett, was exactly the type of unexpected behavior that piqued my curiosity. Could Geer have been oblivious to the fact that the Oilers’ pitcher had killed Archie Hines only two days earlier? Could he have missed seeing Pruett try to stick a fastball in my ear? It simply wasn’t possible. Yet Geer had stepped into the batter’s box showing as little concern as if he was about to take batting practice. I wanted to know why.
It wasn’t difficult to find Geer that evening, primarily because there were so few places we were allowed to go in Beaumont. The Spindletop oil boom a few years back had attracted a rough element to the town, and they had taken over many of the places typically favored by ballplayers. After a few of the Oilers had been beaten up in saloon brawls and mugged in the red light district, the team’s management declared most of Beaumont’s night spots to be off limits. Church socials, band concerts, and moving picture shows were among the few amusements still permitted us.
Since the nickelodeon was playing the same Bronco Billy pictures that had been running all month, I doubted Geer would be there. And I knew he wasn’t one of the players who went for church activities, so I checked the Beaumont Enterprise for the concert schedule.
Keith Park was an oasis of cool green in Beaumont, with leafy shade trees, sparkling fountains, and a band shell that had attracted a couple of hundred people to hear the nightly music program. On stage, a brass band honked its way lethargically through a John Philip Sousa march.
I skirted the edge of the crowd and spotted Floyd Geer near a lemonade vendor. The handsome teenager was nattily dressed in white duck trousers and a striped blue jacket. A silk handkerchief overflowed from the jacket’s breast pocket and a straw boater topped his pomaded black hair.
Stepping up behind him, I asked, “The one in pink, or the one in yellow?” His attention was clearly directed at a couple of young ladies in pastel frocks, and I doubted that he was even aware of the trombone solo being played on the bandstand.
Geer turned to me, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his face flushing. “I can’t decide. I think I like them both.”
I cast an admiring look at the girls. “Well, you got good taste, I’ll give you that. Wouldn’t mind having either one of them on my arm.” I doubted that he would get beyond the looking stage anyway—Geer was the shyest player on the team. “Say,” I said, “you sure took the batting honors today.”
The young man beamed; there’s not a ballplayer anywhere who doesn’t like to be complimented on his hitting. He was probably relieved at the change of topic, too; discussing baseball was much easier for him than talking about the fairer sex. “Yeah, I was seeing the ball real good,” he said.
“Showed guts out there. You’re the only one who didn’t look worried about where Pruett might throw the ball. How’d you do that?”
“Why should I worry? Hell, Mickey, I spent most of my life working on my uncle’s farm—milking cows at dawn, slopping the pigs, plowing behind the orneriest mule that ever lived . . . and always worrying about whether we’d have a good enough crop to tide us over the winter. Compared to that, playing baseball is like a permanent vacation.”
It was a good answer and I almost bought it. Then a guilty scowl twitched at his face, a small sign that something wasn’t quite right. “But Archie Hines was killed by a pitch from Pruett,” I said. “There’s no way you could ignore what that baseball might do to your skull if it hit you. How did you step in against him so easy?”
Geer hesitated. “I told you.”
I snapped at the nervous youngster. “You haven’t told me anything. Come on, what’s the deal?”
He struggled with himself. “If you don’t know already, then it don’t concern you.”
“If I don’t know what?”
Geer’s hand reach
ed for his watch chain and he began toying with the fob. “Hell, I’m not the only one. I know there’s others, especially among the rookies. You’ll probably find out sooner or later, when he tells you to pay up.”
“What? I don’t—”
“Jake Pruett.” Geer spat the words. “He told me I had to give him five bucks a game whenever he pitched. If I didn’t, he’d bean me.”
Jeez. “And you paid?”
“What the hell else am I supposed to do?” His voice had risen to a squawk and he paused a moment to compose himself. “Listen, I face Pruett ten times a year at most. Fifty bucks is worth it to stay in one piece—and to keep playing baseball. One pitch to my head or a broken hand, and I could be back on my uncle’s farm.” He turned to me with eyes that pleaded for understanding. “I hate milking cows.”
* * *
It was no problem at all to find Jake Pruett. The Hamilton Hotel on
Crockett Street was home to most Texas League teams on their visits to Beaumont, and the players could generally be found in the lobby or the barroom. Pruett, dressed in a loud checked suit, was in the latter. He sat at a small table, his only company a bottle of rye and a shot glass. From what I’d heard of his personality, it was no surprise that he was by himself. I recognized other Oilers players at the bar, but they gave no indication that they even knew Jake Pruett. Nor was it a surprise when Pruett tensed at the sight of me. He scraped back his chair, ready to spring up if I made any hostile moves.
I held up my hands, palms out. “Just want to talk to you,” I said. That wasn’t exactly true—I wanted to wring his neck, but for now I would be satisfied with talking.
He wiped the back of his hand across his thin wet lips, making a rasping sound on the unshaven stubble. Pruett’s face was as chiseled as granite but it had less warmth. “Sit,” he said, his pale, slitted eyes watching me warily.
I eased into the chair opposite him, forcing myself to remain calm. Even though his teammates chose not to socialize with him, if he and I were to fight they would have to come to his aid out of team loyalty.
Pruett downed a shot of whiskey and exhaled so hard that I could feel a slight spray. “What do you want to talk about?” he asked.
“I hear you got a little side business going: charging players five bucks a game to keep their heads intact.”
“Now where’d you hear something like that?” Pruett’s small smile indicated that he felt no insult at the accusation.
“It ain’t exactly a secret.” He flinched slightly, and I found it satisfying to have given him some reason for concern. I went on, “I never heard of a protection racket in baseball before. How’d you come up with it?”
After a moment’s thought, Pruett elected not to deny the charge. He answered with pride, “I’m smart. That’s how.” Leaning forward, he went on, “About three years ago, when I was still with Brooklyn, a buddy of mine on the Braves offered me five bucks to throw him a couple of fat pitches—he needed to boost his batting average. I’m not one to turn down a few extra dollars, so I figured why not? Then I realized: hey, why not charge players for staying safe? I don’t gotta give up no hits or runs that way. All I gotta do is collect their money, and then they’re happy if I throw strikes. It’s better for them if the ball is in the strike zone than in their ear.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “Besides, baseball owes it to me. I been playing a lot of years, and this is the only retirement fund I’m gonna have.”
I was astonished at the perverse thinking process this man had. “What if the League finds out?”
“They won’t.” Pruett chuckled. “Not a ballplayer anywhere is gonna admit that he’s so scared of getting beaned that he paid off a pitcher.”
“The ones who don’t go along with you might tell.”
His expression hardened to the point where I thought his stony face might crack. “No, they won’t. They understand that if they do something like that, they’ll be wishing for something as gentle as a fastball to the head. It’s even easier for me to get to a guy outside the ballpark—and there’s a lot more ways to hurt him.”
“Can’t be any worse than what you did to Archie Hines. You killed him.”
Pruett slammed his hand on the table. “Hey, you can’t blame me for that. Even if I wanted to kill the kid, you can’t depend on a beanball for that. All I could be sure of is hitting him, not killing him.”
“So you did want to hit him. Why? He turn down your offer?”
Pruett’s arrogant demeanor faltered for a moment. He answered, “I ain’t saying nothing about Hines.” But after another long sip of whiskey, his natural cockiness seemed to return. “Just for the sake of argument,” he said, “let’s say the kid did turn me down. Then hitting him would have been strictly business. Didn’t have nothing to do with him personally.”
While I pondered my next question, Pruett turned it around. “Now let’s talk about you,” he said.
“What about me?”
“You haven’t donated to my retirement fund yet.” His lips lifted in his version of a smile. “Five bucks a game.”
“Like hell! I’m not giving you a penny.”
“Don’t have to yet. Next series we play—that’s in two weeks, I think—you leave five bucks for me at the hotel desk.” His teeth almost gleamed in a full grin. “Or I drill you.”
I fought back the urge to remove some of those teeth with my fist. “I’ll think about it,” I said facetiously, as I stood to leave. A few more minutes with Jake Pruett, and one of us was going to be badly hurt right here in this room.
“Don’t think too long. Tomorrow the price goes up to ten bucks.” He slowly poured another shot of rye. “With Hines getting himself killed the way he did, I figure other players will want to be real sure it don’t happen to them. And they ought to be willing to pay a little more for that insurance.”
I was too astonished to summon up the strength to punch him. Almost numb, I pulled myself up from the table and walked unsteadily out the door.
* * *
It wasn’t until I was back in my room that I was able to think clearly again. During the entire walk home, my head had been foggy. Jake Pruett’s scheme hadn’t confused me—he was straightforward enough about what he was doing. I simply couldn’t fathom his utter lack of shame or regret. He was actually proud of his extortion racket and viewed Archie Hines’ death as nothing more than a possible boon to his business.
What I needed to figure out now, however, wasn’t what Pruett had been doing, but what I should do.
I went over to Archie Hines’ bed, where his old glove still lay on the pillow. Sitting down, I grabbed the mitt and stared at the repairs to the stitching. To Archie, every five dollars was that much closer to buying his girl a wedding ring, and he wouldn’t even buy himself a badly-needed new glove. There was no way he would pay protection money to Pruett. And now he was dead because if it.
Floyd Geer, on the other hand, thought paying off Pruett was worth it to keep playing baseball. Archie had made his choice, Geer had made a different one. What, I wondered, were my choices?
One thing was sure: Jake Pruett would take advantage of more ballplayers—the younger ones, who could be more easily intimidated—now charging them ten dollars to avoid his beanballs. More would probably pay; others might refuse—and perhaps end up like Archie.
If I went to the police or the League, the best they might do is start an investigation. That could take weeks, or months, and if no other ballplayers came forward it would accomplish nothing. There wasn’t time to try that route, I decided. Pruett would be pitching again in a few days.
* * *
I had just gotten a table and was racking up when Jake Pruett swaggered into the dingy pool hall. Simply by my presence here, I was breaking two club rules—billiard parlors were off-limits and I was out after curfew. But I wanted to give Pruett my decision tonight.
The pitcher made his way toward me, slogging through sawdust that had been turned into fetid muck from tobacco juice and
spilt beer. “Got your message,” he said. I had telephoned the Hamilton Hotel where a bellboy found Pruett still in the bar.
“Thanks for coming.” I leaned over to break.
He looked around scornfully. “You couldn’t have found a worse dump to meet?”
Probably not, in fact. The reeking clapboard structure near the Neches River differed from an outhouse primarily by its size and furnishings: half a dozen pool tables, a small bar, and a few side tables along one wall. Except for bare light bulbs over the pool tables, and a kerosene lamp behind the bar, shadows blanketed much of the room. The other men in the place were more audible than visible, as they argued over bets and clinked their whiskey glasses. “This seemed like the best place for what we got to talk about,” I answered. “I don’t especially want to be seen with you.”
Pruett proved impossible to offend. “Well, I been in worse joints than this in Red Hook.”
I carefully positioned the cue ball and took a few practice strokes.
Pruett asked with some derision, “You called me for a game of pool?”
“No, I was just killing time. But I’ll play a game if you want.” I tried not to sound too eager.
“All right.” He took off his hat and coat, and went to the rack for a cue. After rolling several of them on the table to check for straightness, he found one he liked and chalked the tip. “Let’s make it interesting,” he suggested. “Say five bucks?”
“Nah, I’m lousy at this game.”
“Two bucks then.”
“Oh, what the hell. Why not.”
“Break,” he said.
I did, but the balls didn’t scatter much.
Pruett took his turn, sinking two balls before missing a relatively easy shot. “Why did you want to meet?” he asked.
“To give you your answer.” I easily pocketed the ball he’d left hanging on a corner pocket, but got no more.
He then opted for a difficult bank shot although there were easier possibilities. “Damn!” he said when he missed it. “So, what’s it gonna be? You gonna make the payment before next game?”