The Cincinnati Red Stalkings

by Troy Soos

  Curt Stram, standing to my right, nudged me with his elbow. “You know,” he said, “she don’t look like much in the daylight, but at night, with the lights out, she don’t feel a day over eighteen.”

  “Who?”

  “Katie Perriman. I tell you, she’s a wild one all right. Get a couple glasses of wine in her and—”

  I couldn’t believe he was talking about Ollie Perriman’s widow that way. After I recovered from the shock, I warned him, “You say anything like that again, and you’ll be tasting my cleats.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t know you were a milk-and-water—”

  This boy didn’t know when to shut up. I dug an elbow into his ribs, hard, and he finally closed his mouth.

  Lloyd Tinsley took over at the megaphone again. He mentioned in closing that the “setback”—again avoiding the word “death”—would delay the opening of the exhibit somewhat, but that it would be worth the wait. And he added that the bat Bonner had just donated would be part of the display.

  The truck circled around the infield. When it turned, I saw that on the other side of the bat, in larger print than Perriman’s name, was painted Queen City Lumber Company.

  I didn’t like the way people were cashing in on the exhibit that Perriman had planned. It was supposed to be a tribute, a way to pass history along to another generation, not a commercial venture.

  As the dignitaries left the field, and the bat was carted off, I was thinking about Perriman. His death was more than a “setback,” and his life had been more than the collection. There was a personal side to him that I knew little about.

  In most homes these days, about the only wine you could hope for was made from a kit. In a clever way of circumventing the Volstead Act, vintners sold grape bricks, solid blocks of concentrated grape juice that came with detailed instructions on exactly what you should not do with their product or you would end up with wine—and that would be illegal.

  Katie Perriman was serving the real stuff, though, bottled before Prohibition. I’d have preferred beer, or a sweeter wine, but the dry white I was sipping wasn’t bad. In fact, it was the most enjoyable aspect of the gathering.

  This wasn’t the way I’d planned to spend Saturday evening. But after our 2–1 victory over the Dodgers, Lloyd Tinsley came into the clubhouse and announced that Mrs. Perriman had invited the entire team to her house as a thank-you for the “tribute” to her husband at the ballpark.

  I felt obligated to go, and Margie agreed to come with me; we figured we’d put in enough time to be polite, then leave for a late dinner and dancing.

  The Perriman home was a rambling three-story Victorian that would have been considered a mansion in most parts of the city. Situated on fashionable Price Hill, however, it was one of the more ordinary residences.

  Inside what the butler called the “drawing room” half the Reds team stood awkwardly around a lavishly stocked buffet table. The antique furniture, Oriental rugs, and gilt-framed paintings that filled the high-ceilinged room made for an intimidating atmosphere, and it seemed that the main goal of every ballplayer there was to avoid coming into contact with anything breakable.

  While Katie Perriman sat on a daybed at the far end of the room with several other women to keep her company, her guests stayed near the food and drinks, exchanging few words. The lack of conversation among the players wasn’t unique to this occasion, however. Although the club could play well enough together on the diamond, there was little social interaction once the games were over. Some preferred to keep to themselves, like Jake Daubert, who had the personality of a blank lineup card, and my road roommate Bubbles Hargrave, who had a stuttering problem—he’d been given his nickname because of his trouble saying B’s. And there were those who were avoided by others, like the arrogant youngster Curt Stram, and temperamental pitcher Dolf Luque, “The Pride of Havana,” who sometimes challenged his teammates to duels. Absorbed in the refreshments were manager Pat Moran, who was gulping wine at a pace to make it the alcoholic equivalent of whiskey, and bony old coach Dave Claxton, who kept stuffing down shrimp and crackers.

  Completely absent were Garry Herrmann, Lloyd Tinsley, and the businessmen who’d been at the game; this wasn’t a public event, and they wouldn’t get their names in the papers for coming, so why bother.

  I was the only one who’d brought a date, so at least I had Margie to talk to. But since I was also the only one as far as I knew who’d even met Ollie Perriman, I felt I should be the first to pay my respects to his widow. I excused myself from Margie and approached our hostess.

  Katie Perriman was still in mourning attire, but without the hat and veil. Her round face was heavily powdered and her drab brown hair was in a chignon. By far, her most attractive feature was her vivid green eyes.

  “Mrs. Perriman,” I said, “my name is Mickey Rawlings. I met your husband a couple of times, and ... and I just want you to know that I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rawlings. My Ollie was a sweet man.” She raised a lacy handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes—although they didn’t appear wet. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.”

  The other women immediately dispersed, probably grateful to be temporarily relieved of their duty to stay with the bereaved.

  That meant I was going to be stuck with her for a while. “I, uh, I was going to be at the opening of your husband’s museum. He showed me the things he’d collected. Sure did a wonderful job getting them together.”

  “Well, he certainly spent enough time and money on his hobby. I admit I wasn’t too happy about it at the time, but thinking back I realize a lot of husbands do a lot worse things to entertain themselves.”

  It was a long, awkward moment until I could come up with another question. “What did he do for work?”

  “He didn’t.” She smiled sadly. “Oh, he tried his hand at business a few times—a sporting goods store, a couple of hotels in Covington, even a dance studio once—but it never worked out. I finally told him to stop trying.”

  I looked around at the expensive furnishings. “Then how—?” I caught myself; it was none of my concern how they could afford to live here.

  She answered anyway. “I have enough resources to live quite comfortably, Mr. Rawlings, and I was happy to support my husband as well. You see, my family used to make Catawba wine. Our vineyards were on Mount Adams. By the time the black rot wiped them out, we’d invested in other ventures. So my Ollie didn’t have to work.” She sighed. “The poor man simply had no head for business. It was such a relief to both of us when Mr. Tinsley became his partner in the museum. Ollie needed someone with business sense to take charge of matters.”

  I caught the eye of one of the women who’d been with Katie Perriman. With raised eyebrows, I silently pleaded with her to come and relieve me, but she turned away. I was stuck. “There were other people interested in the collection,” I said. “Your husband told me he had offers to buy it.”

  “Yes, well, from what I know, those offers were all from the same man.”

  “Lloyd Tinsley?”

  “Oh no, the calls continued after Mr. Tinsley bought a half interest in Ollie’s exhibit.”

  I heard somebody step near us and thought I was about to be relieved. It was Curt Stram, a smirk on his baby face and mischief in his eyes. His suit was too flashy for this occasion and, as usual, his appearance was careless. He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Everything will be fine, Katie, I’m sure.”

  She flinched at his touch and shot him a look of admonishment. His gesture was far too familiar and totally inappropriate. He let his hand linger a few moments before withdrawing it.

  I was briefly tempted to use Stram’s arrival as an excuse for me to leave. But Katie Perriman didn’t look like she wanted him there. Her chin began to tremble. Stram then sidled away.

  She turned back to me. Now her eyes were wet.

  Not knowing what to say, I proceeded as if Stram had never come by. “Will you keep the collection?” I asked.r />
  After dabbing her eyes she quickly composed herself. “I don’t believe I have anything to say in the matter. My understanding of their arrangement is that Ollie’s share in the business goes to his partner—Mr. Tinsley.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Another of the women came a little too close to us. Instead of relying on silent gestures, I said “Hello,” forcing her to come over for introductions. She took a seat next to the widow, and I started to make my escape.

  Mrs. Perriman thanked me for coming, then added, “I thought the most senseless thing in the world was for Ollie to spend all that time and money on a collection of old baseball mementos. Now I think the only thing more senseless was for someone to kill him over it. Who would do such a thing?” Her eyes pleaded with me for an answer.

  I couldn’t think of any. “I don’t know, ma’am. Again, I’m very sorry for what happened.”

  Fortified with a fresh glass of wine, I went to join Margie and found her speaking to Dolf Luque in Spanish. Another talent that I wasn’t aware she had.

  I then drifted over to where Heinie Groh and Greasy Neale were talking together. They were quite a contrast in physiques. Groh, who was about my height, was sometimes called “tiny Heinie” in the press; his hands were so small that he used a “bottle bat” with a thick barrel and an exceptionally narrow handle. The burly Neale was big enough that he played professional football in the off-season.

  “We’re talking about Mac,” Groh said to me. “You played for him, right?”

  “Three years,” I said. “Mac” was New York Giants manager John McGraw; I’d been on his roster from 1914 through 1916, my longest tenure with a single club.

  “I’d never play for that old cuss,” said Neale.

  “Wouldn’t want him for a father-in-law,” I said. “But if you want to learn baseball, you can’t beat having him for a manager.”

  Neale snorted and stepped away. “Think I’ll see what they have to eat here.”

  “He’s outvoted.” Groh chuckled. “I was telling him I wished to hell I could play for McGraw again.”

  Groh had started his career with the Giants a couple of years before I joined the club, and was now in his ninth season with the Reds. He’d held out for two months this spring, hoping to be traded to New York; the trade finally went through, but the new baseball commissioner, Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis, vetoed the deal and forced Groh to stay with the Reds.

  “You’ll get to New York again,” I said. “If McGraw wants you, he’ll get you—never mind what Landis says.”

  “Dunno. That Landis seems like a tough cookie.”

  “So’s McGraw.” And there was another fellow who appeared to be a tough cookie that I was curious about. “Say, Heinie, was Lloyd Tinsley involved in making the deal with New York?”

  He shook his head. “Nah, Bancroft got it started, then Herrmann took over the negotiations.”

  “What do you think of Tinsley?”

  “He’s no Frank Bancroft. Bancroft was a baseball man. Tinsley’s a glorified bookkeeper.”

  Frank Bancroft had managed seven major league teams—including the 1884 world champion Providence Grays—before becoming business manager of the Reds. When he died a week before opening day this spring, he was starting his thirtieth year in that role. “Did they get Tinsley after Bancroft died?” I asked.

  “No, a few years ago. Tinsley was running a ball club in the Western League—Wichita, I think. Then during the war, the minors shut down. Bancroft was already getting sick, so he hired Tinsley to help him out. But I guess after all them years, you don’t give up your responsibilities easy. Bancroft never let Tinsley be anything more than his assistant.”

  I felt a touch in the small of my back and twisted my head to see Margie standing almost on my heels. “Bubbles Hargrave just left,” she said. “So if we go, too, we wouldn’t be the first ones.”

  “Good thinking,” said Groh. “You two go ahead. Then I’ll follow.”

  After saying good-byes to Katie Perriman, Margie and I left and caught a Warsaw Avenue trolley.

  Once we were seated, I asked, “Where’d you learn to speak Spanish?”

  “California. I only know a little.”

  “I didn’t know you could talk it at all.”

  “You don’t know everything about me. If you did, you might get bored.”

  There were times when we did seem to run out of things to say at dinner. But I never felt bored with Margie. “Not with you,” I said. “Ever.”

  She smiled. “Some men know how to talk to a lady. Not like Curt Stram. You can give your teammate Stram some lessons on what to say. And maybe on what not to say.”

  “Why? Was he rude to you?”

  “Not to me. I overheard him talking to Dave Claxton. He made it clear he’d had an affair with Katie Perriman. He was gloating about it—and while she’s mourning her dead husband.”

  I agreed with her that Stram had a lot of learning to do in the manners department.

  But after we got off the car at Haberstumpf’s for dinner and dancing, I forgot all about Stram and the Perrimans and concentrated on our own affair.

  Chapter Seven

  I should have been sound asleep already, like Margie, who was snoring lightly next to me. She’d given me more exercise on the dance floor this evening than the Reds had given me on the baseball diamond all week, and we didn’t get home until well after midnight.

  But I did little better than doze, my thoughts on Ollie Perriman and why he might have been killed. When I’d first met him, I thought he was harmless, obsessed with an innocent hobby that many people might find childish. And since his death, I hadn’t been able to imagine why anyone would want to hurt someone who was so absorbed in preserving the past—it was like killing a librarian.

  The more I thought about it now, though, the more I realized I hadn’t given him proper credit. His wasn’t a childish hobby, it was a passion. Ollie Perriman had something in his life that he loved, and he gave himself to it wholeheartedly.

  From what I’d heard today, he’d also had an unfaithful wife who didn’t care for his hobby, and a pushy partner who now owned the entire business.

  And I started wondering if maybe the reason nothing was stolen from Perriman’s collection was because theft wasn’t the intent of the crime. Maybe the “robbery” was to cover up a murder. But who would gain from such an act?

  Lloyd Tinsley? According to Katie Perriman, he stood to inherit the collection. But why would he kill Perriman before the opening of the exhibit? Tinsley had been pressing for it to be opened soon, and Perriman’s death was only going to delay that. And why wouldn’t Tinsley wait to find out if people wanted to see the collection first—what if it was a bust? Big risk killing somebody when you don’t know what it gains you.

  If it wasn’t to gain something, maybe it was to get rid of something: an unwanted husband. Was Katie Perriman tired of supporting Ollie financially? Or did she want him out of the way so that she would be free to take up with Curt Stram? She could have simply divorced him, though, instead of resorting to something as rash as murder.

  Rash. That practically defined Curt Stram. He certainly had no discretion in his personal behavior, but I didn’t think he was stupid or calculating enough to murder a man. Besides, could he really care about Katie Perriman to talk about her the way he did? What was going on between the two of them, anyway?

  I’d start to nod off, but every time I did, a new scenario would intrude and demand attention. Finally, I decided that putting something in my stomach might help me fall asleep.

  Careful not to wake Margie, I slid my shoulder out from under her head, replaced it with a pillow, then gradually eased myself out of bed.

  In my bare feet, I padded downstairs, through the dining area, and into the kitchen. I was about to hit the light switch, when I heard a rustle behind me.

  Then my skull exploded.

  The blast sent fireballs from the back of my head through to the front, where
they flashed before my eyes. I felt my knees start to melt and sensed the kitchen floor coming up to meet my chin.

  The lights in my head sputtered, replaced by a calm darkness. I was vaguely aware that the pain was fading. So was consciousness.

  The pain came back, pounding and intense.

  Margie, wearing only a chemise, was bent over me. Her hands gripped my shoulders and she was shaking me as if trying to wake me from a sound sleep. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Think so.” She continued the shaking until I added, “I’m awake. Please stop.”

  “Oh, sorry. What happened?”

  “Somebody hit me.” I slowly raised myself on my elbows and lifted a hand to feel the back of my head. It was tender to the touch but there wasn’t much of a lump. “Came up from behind me; must have been in the parlor.” I held my fingertips close to my bleary eyes to check for blood; there was none. On the whole, this was no worse than a nasty beanball—except I wasn’t going to be awarded first base. “How long have I been out?”

  “Not long. I heard the door slam—that’s what woke me. You weren’t in bed, so I came down to see if you’d gone outside for some reason.”

  “No, I wanted cookies.”

  She stifled a laugh, and I realized how silly that sounded.

  I stood up carefully, my knees feeling like they were going to buckle again. My head didn’t want to stay up either; it felt like the dull pounding in the back of my skull was trying to knock it forward onto my chest.

  I struggled to get vertical, then walked to the front door.

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?” Margie suggested.

  “Good idea. Go ’head.” I opened the door and peered outside. Of course, the burglar would have been long gone, but I felt compelled to check. Everything was quiet and calm, not even a passing automobile.