The Cincinnati Red Stalkings
Page 26
Turning back to the sergeant—who had the expression of the hound and the shape of the stove—I again tried to force the newspaper on him. After a slow sip from his coffee mug, he took the paper and cautiously drew it close to his broad baleful face. Squinting, Phelan scrutinized the front page like it was a gold certificate of an unfamiliarly large denomination. First the masthead and date—Tuesday, April 13, 1920. Then the major headlines:
Pickford Fairbanks Honeymoon Delayed
Palmer Blames Primary Loss on Detroit Radicals
Railroad Strike Paralyzing Commerce
“Near the bottom,” I said.
Phelan appeared annoyed at the interruption—he probably wanted to linger on the story about Mary Pickford possibly being a bigamist. But he directed his eyes below the fold, and began to read how I’d shot and killed a Bolshevik.
After a minute, he paused to peer up at me. “You’re Rawlings?”
This, too, I’d already told him. “Yes,” I said with diminishing patience. “Mickey Rawlings. I play for the Tigers.”
“Then why ain’t ya with the team? Season opener’s in Chicago tomorrow, ain’t it?”
I held out my right forearm and drew back my coat sleeve to show him the bandages. “Busted wrist,” I explained, then said yet again, “I didn’t kill Emmett Siever.”
“Sure you did. It says so . . .” He poked a chubby forefinger at the newsprint. “Right there.”
For a police officer, Sergeant Phelan had a peculiar notion of what constituted evidence. “I don’t care what it says. It’s wrong. And I want it corrected.”
“Then go see the editor or somebody.”
“Read the story! It’s the police who are claiming I did it. That’s why I’m here.”
Phelan grunted and calmly resumed reading. “He got shot in Fraternity Hall, eh?”
I was tempted to respond, “No, he got shot in the chest.” Instead I said, “Yeah. Fraternity Hall.”
“Oh! Here, look.” Phelan turned the paper for me to see and pointed to the final paragraph of the article. “It’s being called self-defense—you’re not being charged with nothing. Hell, this story makes you out to be some kind of hero for getting rid of that Red. So what’s the problem?”
“Would you want to be accused of killing somebody if you didn’t do it?”
He pondered a moment. “Well, I don’t expect that would bother me as much as if I did kill somebody, and the papers printed it.”
The basset hound stirred long enough to issue a loud yawn. Phelan promptly echoed the dog. Resisting an impulse to shake him alert, I said, “There was a cop at the hall last night. He talked to me after it happened. Aikens, his name was. Detective Aikens. Is he here? Can I see him?”
“Don’t know no Aikens.” Phelan folded the Journal and slid it back to me. “You better try headquarters.”
“Where’s that?” I hadn’t been in Detroit long enough to know where police headquarters was. The only reason I knew about this station was because it was across the street from the Tigers’ ballpark.
“Bates and Farmer, about a block from Cadillac Square. Can’t miss it.” He reached for his sandwich and lifted it to his mouth. Apparently, as far as Sergeant Phelan was concerned, I was now headquarters’ problem and didn’t warrant any more of his time.
“Thanks.” I grabbed the newspaper, tucked it under my arm, and turned to leave.
Through a mouthful of food, Phelan mumbled, “Still don’t see why you’re so worried. What’s the worst that can happen?”
When I stepped outside the station house, an icy breeze struck my face; it felt like I was pressing my cheek against a cold windowpane. An eastbound Michigan Avenue streetcar approached, its bell clanging and its wheels squealing as it crawled to a stop in front of me. I was about to hop on when I changed my mind about going immediately to police headquarters.
As the trolley resumed its rattling journey downtown, I stood on the corner, debating my next move. Cold began to numb my skin, while a warm, writhing sensation that I couldn’t quite identify started to gnaw at my insides.
I looked across the street to Navin Field’s main entrance, a quaint, two-story structure that reminded me of a small-town railroad depot. Behind the entrance, a ramp led to the right-field grandstand of the ballpark proper. Raising my view slightly, I saw the pennants flying proudly above the roof. In nine days, fans would be streaming into this jewel of a ballpark for the Tigers’ home opener. I wished I could jump forward in time and onto the diamond—and just play baseball again.
Instead of heading downtown, I started up Trumbull. Exasperating as Phelan’s indifference had been, I wanted to believe him, to believe that I could simply ignore the newspaper story, and it would blow over harmlessly.
On the walk home through the quiet residential streets of Detroit’s Corktown neighborhood, I worked hard to convince myself that Sergeant Phelan had the right attitude. After all, how bad could it really be? I wasn’t under arrest . . . I knew that I hadn’t shot Siever, so my conscience was clear . . . And the Detroit Journal would certainly have to print a retraction when it discovered the mistake.
By the time I turned from Pine Street onto Grand River Avenue, my head had almost come around to Phelan’s way of thinking. But my gut remained emphatically unconvinced. By now I’d been able to identify the cause of the turmoil in my belly: it was fear. Fear of what might happen if the Emmett Siever situation didn’t resolve itself as easily as I hoped.
I heard my phone ringing as I started up the steps to my second-story walkup over Carr’s Hat Shoppe. It was still ringing when I reached the landing, and continued while I groped for the door key. As I stumbled inside, my nerves jangled in resonance with the urgent clanging.
Before lifting the receiver, I repeated aloud Phelan’s final words to me: What’s the worse that can happen?
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 1998 by Troy Soos
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-8743-4
ISBN-10: 0-7582-8743-7
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8782-3
eISBN-10: 0-7582-8782-8
First Kensington Electronic Edition: July 2013