by Troy Soos
“Quite all right,” he answered, and it sounded like he meant it. Maybe a day at the ballpark had done his disposition some good.
“How’d you like the game?”
“It wasn’t bad, really. As a matter of fact, once I started pulling for the Dodgers, it was almost enjoyable. They really beat you bad.”
I shot him a look. He comes to see me at ballgame and then roots against me? Well, I had to give him some credit—at least he didn’t root for the umpires.
Landfors wanted to find a saloon near Ebbets Field where we could sit down and talk. I didn’t want to risk going into a Brooklyn bar. I might be recognized as the guy who cost Sloppy Sutherland his shutout, and Landfors wouldn’t be much help in a barroom brawl. I did agree on a bar, though. I could use a postgame beer, and Landfors was easier to be around after a few brews.
I wasn’t going to feel comfortable until we crossed the East River back into civilization, so we left the park and hopped a trolley to Manhattan.
As we stood on the packed trolley, grasping onto leather straps, Landfors filled me in on the autopsy results. We talked into each other’s ears, not to be secretive but because we were pressed so close together.
“It’s official,” Landfors said. “Florence Hampton drowned. Period. No evidence of foul play.”
From past experience, I knew that “official” doesn’t necessarily mean correct. “Do you think the report is right?”
Landfors thought a minute. “There doesn’t seem to be anything to indicate that her death is anything but an accidental drowning. Some abrasions on the skin, but that’s from the sand scraping her when she was washed up on the shore. No contusions—uh ... no bruises, that is. And no sign of sexual assault.”
Somewhere there was a flaw with the accident conclusion, but I wasn’t sure what it was. “Why was she naked?” I asked, poking around to find the error. I answered myself, “Either to go swimming or to have sex. But she couldn’t swim.”
Landfors twisted his head so quickly that his spectacles hit me in the nose.
“A friend of hers told me she couldn’t swim,” I explained. “She was deathly afraid of water.” As it left my lips I realized “deathly” wasn’t the best word to use.
“And the autopsy showed she hadn’t had sex,” Landfors added.
“Was she interrupted?” I guessed. “Maybe she met somebody on the beach, and . . . and they stripped, but before they could do anything she drowned.”
“How did she end up in the water?”
“Mmm.... Maybe there was an argument—a fight. The man she’s with gets angry for some reason, and he drowns her. Or how about this: there’s a third party. Somebody catches her with a man, gets jealous, and pulls her into the water and drowns her.”
“A third party?”
“Yeah, you should have seen all the guys going after her at the party.” I quickly filled Landfors in on the party at the Sea Dip Hotel and how Ewing, Sutherland, and Kelly were all competing for her attention. I didn’t leave out anything—except for Marguerite Turner being my date. I preferred that Landfors didn’t know about her. “Maybe Sutherland caught her with Virgil Ewing,” I suggested. “Or Ewing caught her with Sutherland. Or Tom Keiiy—he’s the jealous type. Oh, jeez. Esther Kelly, Tom Kelly’s wife, she left the party early. What if she waited for Miss Hampton to come out, then followed her and killed her because she was jealous?”
“She drowned Florence Hampton and then took her clothes off?” Landfors sounded dubious.
Picturing Esther Kelly, I decided his skepticism was well-founded. “No, I guess not. She’s not big enough to have overpowered her.”
“How about this,” Landfors countered. “Esther Kelly finds her having sex with her husband, so her clothes are off, and she’s in no position to defend herself.”
That was dumber than my idea. “She drags Florence Hampton into the ocean with Tom Kelly on top of her, and he just lets himself be dragged along for the ride?” I scoffed. “Besides, wouldn’t she kill her husband then? He was the one who was cheating on her, not Miss Hampton.” I thought of James Bartlett with distaste and promised myself that I wasn’t doing this to save his political career.
“I don’t know,” Landfors said. “What if Esther Kelly and Florence Hampton got into a fight and Tom Kelly tried to stop it? Somehow she gets killed.”
“But how did she get drowned?”
“I don’t know,” he conceded again. “She would have struggled. And there was no sign of a struggle—no bruises on her and nothing under her nails from someone else.” Landfors was right. She’d have fought like hell.
Nothing we could come up with led us to the final result: Florence Hampton, drowned, naked, and without bruises. It was a you-can’t-get-there-from-here situation. One thing I was sure of, though: she hadn’t been alone. The only way for her to have gotten in the water was for somebody to have been with her. I just had to find out who.
Landfors and I both thought about things silently for a while. We’d crossed the Brooklyn Bridge when he said, “Well, the thing to do is for you to talk to those men who were with her at the party. I think we can omit Esther Kelly.”
“Talking to Sutherland and Ewing won’t be easy, Karl.” Especially not Sutherland, I thought—and especially not after today’s game.
“Why not?”
“They’re Dodgers. I’m a Giant.”
“So? You’re all baseball players.”
“Giants and Dodgers hate each other. Always have, always will.” Landfors was a smart guy, even went to college, but there were some fundamental facts of life he didn’t understand.
“Forgive my ignorance,” he said facetiously. “But the logic of that escapes me.”
I explained to him that the rivalry between Brooklyn and New York baseball teams was already a fierce one when my grandfather saw the Brooklyn Atlantics play the New York Mutuals in the 1850s. Landfors still looked lost. Then I mentioned that the Manhattan clubs were made up of gentlemen and the Brooklyn clubs of mechanics and firemen.
“Ah,” Landfors said. “Proletariat versus bourgeoisie.” He had a satisfied look on his face as if he finally understood.
I’m damned if I did though. All I could think was that next time I’d wait until I had a beer in front of me before enduring another conversation with Karl Landfors.
Chapter Seven
I could feel my collar shrinking, tightening around my throat until it had a stranglehold that barely let me breathe. A clammy shroud of sweat covered my body.
Nobody told me I was going to have to face reporters.
Only four days earlier, Florence Hampton completed her last picture. Now, on Wednesday night, it was being unveiled to the public with enough fanfare and spectacle to make P. T. Barnum proud.
Instead of using its own theater on 44th Street, Vitagraph leased the opulent Strand Theatre on Broadway for the premiere. The marquee proclaimed:
FLORENCE HAMPTON
in
FLORENCE AT THE BALLPARK
Her Final Picture! Her Createst Role!
The sidewalk area under the marquee was cordoned off with purple velvet ropes. I was confined inside them, along with the other guests and stars of the Vitagraph Company. Spotlights set up across the street cut through the dusk, sweeping across the front of the theater with translucent cones of white light, too often pinning me in their beams. I felt like a display in a museum. My only comfort was that Marguerite Turner stood next to me, her hand on the crook of my arm.
I’d finally called her this afternoon and asked her to accompany me. She sounded delighted that I asked and cheerfully agreed. Later I found out that the studio had already told her she was to be my escort.
The army of movie fans that pressed against the ropes outside the Strand was nothing like a ballpark crowd. They were too quiet—no cheering, no arguing, and of course no heckling. Just silent mournful staring. It was like they had come to Florence Hampton’s wake.
I don’t think the mood of the
crowd mattered to Elmer Garvin, though, as long as they shelled out their two bits a ticket.
On a carpeted platform next to the theater entrance stood Arthur V. Carlyle. It was his job to announce the featured guests, who then had to climb the platform and answer reporters’ questions. Elmer Garvin had already faced them, choosing to give a long speech rather than answer questions directly. So had Tom and Esther Kelly; Tom did all the talking, even answering questions addressed to his wife.
With his booming thea-tuh voice Arthur Carlyle introduced Casey Stengel and Constance Talmadge. She was a bit player best known for being Norma’s sister; Vitagraph assigned her as Casey’s date to get her some publicity. I felt some pride that my date was a bigger movie star than his. I also felt my throat constrict a little tighter—Margie and I would be next on the platform.
“What’s it like making a movie, Casey?” a reporter shouted in a practiced voice that sounded insistent and bored at the same time.
“Well, I’d have to say it’s a great deal of fun. Not as much fun as playing on a baseball field, which is of course another kind of performance, but it’s different in its own sort of way. Both of which have their advantages over dentistry, however. Now when I was in dental college in Kansas City, which by the way there aren’t many left-handed hitting dentists ...” Jeez, if Casey kept it up, I might not have to take the stage after all. I’d owe him another favor if he did.
But no such luck. Elmer Garvin beckoned frantically to Constance Talmadge. She tugged Stengel off the stage as he was explaining why tobacco chewers throw the best spitballs.
Arthur Carlyle stared after Stengel, his mouth agape. When he recovered, he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen! I am pleased to present another young man—another baseball player—whose first acting performance is being screened this evening. And with him is a young lady whom you already know as one of Vitagraph’s most popular actresses. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Mickey Rawlings and Miss Marguerite Turner.” I thought it rude of Carlyle not to announce the lady first.
I made it up the platform without tripping. Immediately, I was blinded as photographers put their flash lamps to use, producing little explosions of light and smoke. It reminded me of the spotlight in the Vitagraph studio, and I was grateful that the spotlights here were safely across the street where I had no chance of knocking into them.
“Did you enjoy working with Florence Hampton, Rollins?” a reporter yelled.
I nodded yes and hoped the reporter would check the spelling of my name before he wrote his article.
“A nod makes for a lousy quote,” he followed up.
“Yes,” I elaborated. “I enjoyed working with Miss Hampton.”
“Gee, thanks, Rollins. That’s a whole lot better.”
I hoped the next question would be for Margie.
“Hey, Rawlings!” another reporter called in a shrill voice. “I can see how Stengel got in the picture—he’s a big name. But how did you get a part? You’re not even a starter. Was it Miss Hampton’s idea?”
I said nothing. I wasn’t going to tell him that John McGraw didn’t want one of his starters used for the picture.
“Just how well did you know Miss Hampton?” the high brittle voice continued. “I hear she liked ball players.”
I bristled at the insinuation. Who the hell was this guy? My right fist balled, and I felt Margie slide her hand down my arm. She gently pried my fist open and gave my hand a comforting squeeze.
“You were at a party with her Saturday night, last time she was seen alive. And you left early. Didn’t meet Miss Hampton for a midnight swim, did you?”
Why was he saying these things to me? In front of all these people . . . and Margie . . . ?
More blinding explosions went off as photographers shot more pictures.
Margie led me off the platform. I tried to pick out the reporter’s face, promising myself that I was going to do some damage to it—if not tonight, then someday. But the spotlights and flash lamps kept him shielded by a white glare.
I was still trembling with anger after we were seated in the theater. Margie kept her hand on my forearm, giving it an occasional pat. “Some of the newspaper reporters are just awful,” she said. “The fan magazines are much kinder. Don’t let it bother you.” I tried to smile, but I was bothered intensely.
We were in the front row of the auditorium, seated just behind the full orchestra that had been hired for the event. We sat in roomy armchairs with white velvet upholstery and gilded wood trim.
The Strand Theatre opened in April as the first theater built exclusively for showing motion pictures. It had a seating capacity of 3,000 and every seat was filled this evening. I’d played in major league ballparks with smaller crowds.
Before the show, Elmer Garvin took the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “As you know, we’ve suffered a tragic loss in the Vitagraph family. Since there were no public services for Miss Florence Hampton, it is fitting that I take a moment to say a few words about her.” Garvin then went on to say quite a few words about the virtues of the Vitagraph Company.
After Garvin’s speech, the orchestra burst into a deafening overture. They played at a volume that ensured that patrons in the last row could hear them clearly and almost blew those of us in the front row out of our seats. A rippling burgundy curtain was raised, revealing a dazzling white screen of immense proportion. The house lights dimmed, and the movie program was under way.
Before the main feature, some short one-reelers were shown, including the latest episode of Marguerite Turner’s Dangers of the Dark Continent serial. As it unfolded, I discovered one of the joys of dating a movie actress: I could stare at her on the screen in a way that would be fresh to do in person.
I did stare when I first saw her tonight. She looked stunning, in a shimmering peach gown that fit her snugly. Her hair was done up in a neat bun, and rouge highlighted her cheeks.
Florence at the Ballpark suddenly appeared on the screen in fancy script lettering. Then a title card that read starring Florence Hampton with a smiling portrait of her in an oval next to her name. A wave of applause swept through the audience.
The rest of the credits rolled by, for Tom Kelly and Casey Stengel. When And introducing Mickey Rawlings of the New York Giants came on, Margie gave my hand a quick double squeeze. I didn’t even mind that Casey was “featured,” while I was merely “introduced.”
Then the movie started. And in five minutes I could tell it was going to be awful. The photography was good, in crisp black and white. But the dialogue that appeared on the title cards was sappy, the words supposedly spoken by Florence Hampton making her sound dumb and weak. There were far too many irrelevant shots of her, too, most of them from movies I’d seen before. Elmer Garvin must have taken clips from other pictures to pad the film.
I didn’t like the way people were exploiting her death. Elmer Garvin was using her image and the public’s sympathy to cash in at the box office. That reporter outside was trying to sell papers by smearing her name with scandal. I could imagine what he’d do if he found out about her affair with James Bartlett.
The scene of Casey Stengel and me finally came on, and as 1 watched us go through our bat-tossing routine, I momentarily forgot about Florence Hampton. I looked pretty damn good up there—maybe it was the artificial backdrop of the diamond that made me look better by comparison, but I thought I cut a fine figure on the screen.
When Florence Hampton walked past us with Tom Kelly in his umpire outfit, there was a close-up shot of my reaction. And I couldn’t believe what I saw myself say. The title card read “Shucks,” but three thousand lip readers in the audience knew what I really said and laughter boomed throughout the theater. I looked to Margie at my right; she was doubled over, convulsed with belly laughs. On the other side of her, I could see Casey Stengel grinning so broadly that the tops of his jumbo ears nearly met above his head.
I had an impulse to slip down in my chair and hide. The sight of Stengel gave me an idea, th
ough, one that I clung to as I tried to forget my embarrassment.
The picture was over, mercifully over, and most of the audience had left the theater. The movie people remained in the lobby, waiting to make exits as carefully choreographed as their entrances had been.
The ladies, Margie and Constance Talmadge included, were gathered in a corner of the lobby, fixing each other’s hair and touching up their makeup.
I walked over to Casey Stengel, who was standing next to the popcorn machine hungrily eyeing the few kernels that remained. “Hey, Casey,” I said. “You looked good on the screen.”
“Well, thanks. So did you. Maybe when we’re not playing baseball any more we can go to work for the pictures. Which wouldn’t be a bad sort of business to be in. It’s a whole lot better than wrestling alligators. There was this fellow I knew in Missouri who used to play left field for the Rolla Tigers, or was it Sedelia? Anyway, after he stopped playing ball—”
“Uh, Casey. I wanted to ask you something before the girls get back . . .”
“Oh, sure. What’s on your mind?”
“At the party—on Coney Island—well, Sloppy Sutherland and Virgil Ewing were both dancing a lot with Florence Hampton. Almost fighting over her. But I don’t know who she ended up with. So I want to talk to Ewing and Sutherland and see if they know what happened to her afterward.”
Casey frowned. “Yeah?” he said guardedly.
“Well, it’s not really my idea,” I fibbed, trying to allay his suspicion. “To tell you the truth, Margie—Marguerite Turner—wants me to talk to them. She was a friend of Miss Hampton’s and wants me to see if they know anything. I don’t see what good that’ll do, but Margie . . .” I shrugged. “You know how it is.”
Casey smiled with understanding. I was simply following the bidding of a woman. No further explanation was necessary.
“But I don’t know if they’d talk to me, being a Giant and all,” I went on. “Especially after the game yesterday. I thought you might introduce me to them. If you don’t mind . . .”
“No trouble at all. I’d be glad to. Ewing and I get along pretty well, sometimes play cards together when we’re on the road. Sloppy Sutherland, though, he’s a tough one to find when he’s not on the ballfield. He likes to go with the uptown crowd . . .” Casey’s eyes went back to the popcorn machine. “Damn, I’m hungry. Say, are you coming to the party?”