Twenty minutes later, a fair-skinned man with thinning black hair hastened into the room where the interns were twiddling their thumbs. He carried a clipboard in one hand and a rubber ball in the other, which he squeezed continually until he’d worked out what ever had him trapped in a pensive mood. The diminutive white-on-white starched cotton uniform he wore, buttoned up to his Adam’s apple, could have doubled for a child’s Halloween costume but that fact was lost on the other men who jumped to attention when they recognized him as the great Hiram Knight, in the flesh. “Right on schedule,” he stated boldly. “Gentlemen, if you wouldn’t mind lining up so I can get a look at the finest class of promising interns on God’s green earth.” The men quickly assembled shoulder to shoulder. “Dr. Marion Kennesaw Phipps,” Dr. Knight read aloud, from his clipboard. Although Ollie wanted to bust a gut over M.K.’s given name, he dared not make a sound. “I’m glad the good Lord saw fit to bring you back to us in one piece.”
“I am as well, sir,” M.K. answered, while holding in a scowl over his given name having being openly shared.
“Because you’ve seen more than your fair share of acute war injuries, the previous time you spent here has been reinstated. You’ll work an abbreviated rotation for three months and then join the resident’s program already in progress.”
“Thank you, sir,” beamed M.K.
“Don’t thank me so fast. Remember, of whom much is given, also much is expected, sayeth the good book, which means I plan on working your ass like a Hebrew slave.” Noting the burly intern withheld his gratitude, the director glared up at him. “You’re welcome.”
“Dr. William Browning?” he called next.
“Here, sir,” Bill answered sharply.
“Hell, I can see that. You’re standing right in front of me,” Dr. Knight commented irritably. He was noticeably annoyed as he went back to his clipboard, bothered that Bill had stated the obvious; the one thing that the seasoned surgeon despised most. He couldn’t stand having his valuable time wasted. After he’d called everyone’s name but Delbert’s, Dr. Knight searched the floors from wall to wall. On cue, Nurse Robinson sauntered through the doorway carrying a brown leather bag. She placed it at the administrator’s feet then exited as suddenly as she had appeared. “Ah, yes, Dr. Delbert Gales,” Knight sighed as if he was severely displeased.
A lump about the size of Texas formed in Delbert’s narrow throat. “Sir?” he managed to say, eventually.
“How do you plan on dazzling us with your talents when you can’t remember to hold on to your drawers?”
At a loss for words, Delbert expressed his confusion. “Sir?” was the only thing that came out of his mouth.
Knight looked Delbert up and down in a curiously manner. “You do wear drawers, don’t you, Dr. Gales?”
“Well, yes, sir?”
“And we’re all the better for it, son. I’ll chalk this up to your exuberance to get started, although forgetfulness will not be tolerated from any of you. Nor will my patience suffer your incompetence, lack of sleep, stubbornness, thickheadedness, lewdness, drunkenness or whiny half-baked excuses. Technical errors are inevitable but only acceptable in minimal quantities. However, failure to acknowledge those errors is immoral.” Dr. Knight had the complete attention of each man standing in that room and the one woman listening closely just outside the door. Nurse Robinson hadn’t missed out on one “first day” grilling in over eight years and she wasn’t about to miss this one either. “Furthermore, Knight continued, “you have all taken the Hippocratic Oath and you will live up to it. ‘First, do no harm,’ gentlemen. Do no harm. There are six hundred and eighty-five beds generally filled with six hundred and eighty-five patients under my care. Those are my patients, entrusted to me. I’m only allowing you to administer your knowledge and efforts to heal them.” Dr. Knight laid his clipboard on a small brown table behind him then he wiped his brow with a crisp handkerchief. His countenance was more deliberate than before.
“Just in case there may be one of you who doesn’t know of the man’s legacy that you’ll be honoring as well as the inspiration behind his dream, I want to share a story.” Ollie almost snickered when Knight used the exact same words M.K. had earlier to get a rise out of his contemporaries, but the solemn manner in which their chief spoke deterred him from making the biggest mistake of his fledging career.
“Years ago, a very determined individual for whom this great institution was erected worked diligently to manifest his dream, a dream that colored people in the city of St. Louis could receive the best medical care possible, despite the Jim Crow laws or segregation. Homer G. Phillips, a civil law attorney, held the mayor’s feet to the fire until he agreed on appropriating funds for the very place you are standing now. It saddens me to inform you that the honorable Homer Phillips was assassinated, in broad daylight while awaiting a streetcar. He never lived to see this glorious facility and all the miracles performed here. And, gentlemen, that is a shame before God.”
There wasn’t a dry eye among the interns. M.K.’s tears ran free and without regard to what the other men might have thought about it. Obviously he had forgotten the magnitude of his calling.
The head nurse stifled her emotions, as best she could. “God bless you, Dr. Knight,” she said tenderly. “God bless you.”
“Go on and pull yourselves together,” Knight instructed them. “There are a few more items I need to cover before I move on to the rest of your rotation appointments. I am going to expect and inspect, that is what I’m here for. I will expect your best, then inspect to assure that’s what I get, your very best. Watch, learn and heal, gentlemen, in that order. I’d like to think that I have selected the best and the brightest when choosing each of you from a selection pool of two hundred candidates, so don’t prove me wrong. I detest being wrong.”
Afterwards, Dr. Knight informed his prized pupils of their assignments. Bill Browning and Charley Morrow drew pediatrics, Harry Johnson and Claude Babineaux were selected to train in radiology, Ollie Washington was close to throwing a fit when Dr. Knight followed his name with a stint in urology, M.K. was sent to the general medicine wing and Delbert drew the inside straight and the envy of the others by landing obstetrics and gynecology. Only Delbert feared one thing the others didn’t, the little secret which had him quaking in his shoes. Despite Ollie having been slated to spend the next three months fondling other men’s penises, Delbert was convinced he had the worst luck of all. One man’s prison is another man’s paradise, after all, or vice versa.
8
BOTTOM OF THE NINTH
Over the past three years the Blacksmiths baseball team met with their team sponsor, an industrious tycoon named Randolph Bellows, to discuss the upcoming season and schedule. This Monday was supposed to be special because Mr. Bellows had been working diligently to secure a team charter to join the popular Negro Professional Baseball League. Late into the afternoon the players sat around restlessly, not only waiting for the man responsible for financing their future, but also for Henry Taylor, the captain and the soul of the organization.
Baltimore had driven by Henry’s house twice but his wife Roberta insisted he wasn’t home. Out of places to search, Baltimore cruised by Ms. Etta’s, which was typically closed until five P.M. He noticed that several cars belonging to the ’Smiths’ players were parked alongside the curb in front of the Fast House.
Feeling slighted, Baltimore huffed as he pushed the door open, quickly discovering a lively room of athletes reminiscing over old times. Etta and Penny stocked drinking glasses while Gussy, the bartender, offered complimentary sodas to the team while they killed time. When they noticed Baltimore strolling in, they assumed incorrectly that Henry wouldn’t be far behind. Instead they got an earful of Baltimore’s discontentment.
“Somebody want to tell me what this collection of hideaways is up to and how come not one of ya’ll gave me the heads up to get in on it?”
Before any of the men could pony up a response, Henry barged in. “�
��Cause this don’t have nothing to do with you,” he said. “You done gave up on us, remember?”
“Henry, what’s the matter with you?” asked Trace Wiggins. Trace studied Henry’s demeanor over the top of his reading glasses. “I thought you and Baltimore was friends?”
“You tell him, Trace,” Baltimore seconded. “Friendship goes deeper than baseball, unless your woman done stripped you of those privileges too.”
When Etta heard that, she pulled Penny by the arm. “Get your pocketbook, child. We need to leave the menfolk to work a few things out on their own without us getting in the way. Gussy, don’t you let nobody else in here until what ever it is wedged between Baltimore and Henry gets knocked loose,” Etta warned. “Nobody!”
The bartender agreed vehemently, staying close to the two-by-four peace keeper he kept behind the bar in the event of customers getting out of hand. “You won’t need that,” Etta told him on her way out, “’Cause these boys just gonna talk through their growing pains.” The last comment was a bit of advice to the fellows, if they happened to be in the mindset of accepting any. Although that was the first time Henry had set foot inside the Fast House since he got himself hitched seven months earlier, Etta had the same old feelings racing inside her—the deep-seated feelings Henry inspired when he was hers.
Near the bar, Smiley Tennyson threw a grin over the whole situation as he was accustomed to doing when a dim state of affairs needed some pep. “Now, hold on! Baltimo’, Henry, I didn’t come here to talk about women, especially not mines. Y’all know the only reason I’m with her is ’cause of her momma’s cooking and her sister’s good looking.”
“When is Mr. Bellows supposed to get here?” another player asked wearily.
“He ain’t coming back here,” answered Henry, putting off his quarrel with Baltimore for more pressing business. “Mr. Bellows ain’t going nowhere else for that matter.” The men grumbled, confused over Henry’s riddling statement. “They sent this here telegram this morning and Roberta brought it to me while I was down at the club house wondering what happened to y’all.” When Baltimore heard that woman’s name, he turned his head away as if he couldn’t stand the sound of it.
Trace shoved his chair back and stood up like a gunfighter in the old west. He stared at the yellow envelope Henry had tossed on the round table in front of him. “Give me that,” Trace demanded, not wanting to put off the inevitable. He adjusted his glasses with one hand and picked up the envelope with the other. “Let’s see what Bellows has gotten himself into. ‘URGENT! Dear Henry Taylor ... stop,’” he read. “‘Please be advised that Randolph Ulysses Bellows was killed on March 19, 1947 in plane crash ... stop. Deepest regrets and sympathies ... stop. It’s signed, Turner Wilson, Attorney at Law ... stop.” Trace removed his bifocals when he couldn’t see the benefit of reading another word. “It goes on, but ...”
Strange, how much that small yellow telegram changed those men’s lives in an instant. Mr. Bellows’ death meant no financial backing, no team management or Negro League Charter. What it also meant was a death sentence to the Blacksmiths. Baltimore wasn’t the least bit bothered, seeing as how he’d moved on with his life, much like the others would be forced to do now. Needless to say, the ’Smiths found themselves disenfranchised and void of direction. Most of the players couldn’t remember a time when they weren’t playing some form of organized ball. Spring was invented for baseball, they believed, instead of it being the other way around and it was simple as that. Without warning, a little yellow piece of paper changed everything.
“Gussy!” Baltimore summoned loudly. “Get these boys something to hold ’em, and put it on my tab. It’s gonna be a long evening.” The bartender exhaled heartily then brought out bottles of hard liquor and drinking glasses. After lining them up on the bar for self-service, Gussy headed out into the back alley to feed his heroin habit.
Shortly after the bartender’s departure the atmosphere quickly twisted into a mangled distortion when what used to be a promising baseball franchise began knocking back shots of liquor, one right behind the other, each of the players looking for a way to say goodbye to their dreams. All but Jinx Dearborn, the most talented pitcher in the state, colored or white, drowned their sorrows with libations on Baltimore’s ticket. Jinx was a baseball player more than he was a man. He didn’t know how to be anything else so his decision came easy. Jinx decided he’d have to scratch out a living until the game found a way to reclaim him. That’s all there was to it. For the others, it wouldn’t be nearly that simple.
After the cocktails began watering down the bad news, Smiley Tennyson lit up the joint with a sporting tale that turned Baltimore beet-red every time he heard it. “O.K., so we’s out to the fairground in Dallas, on this Negro Appreciation Day they had down there, playing a group of boys up from the Austin Tamale League. Ole Baltimo’ was putting ’em to shame. I mean he was slapping that pitcher all around the field. Even hit a curve ball so far, he broke a car window in the parking lot.” Henry’s lips creased, when remembering his friend’s finest hour as a player and exhibitionist.
“After Baltimo’ made a fool of the first fella let outta the gate, they had some fat-headed mug to relieve him, on account of how Baltimo’ was firing his pitches into the deep bleachers. It got to be so much trouble, for the home team you know, because Dapper Dan here went to signing his name for all the pretty women while he was covering first base. Yeah, right while the game was going on, Baltimo’, he’d take a bow before and after he’d hit until something what you might call occurred to mix things up a pinch.”
Baltimore pleaded for Smiley to forego telling the rest of the story, but he wouldn’t hear of it. The jokester had the floor and didn’t plan on relinquishing it until he was good and spent. “Well, now, after his sixth home run, a man came out of the stands. Heck we didn’t know what he wanted until he walked over, all gangly-like, to the pitcher’s mound. And I’ll be damned if that fat-headed pitcher didn’t hand over his ball and glove like he was pulled from World Series Game Seven.” Smiley downed another shot of bourbon then commenced tying up the tale. “All of us laughed at the tall skinny fella with big flapping feet. We didn’t know no better and plus the man had on street clothes. Who was to know it was Satchel Paige, visiting a sick relative?”
The players shouted raucously. None of them had been fortunate enough to face the best pitcher in Negro League history. “Yeah, Satchel didn’t even warm up his arm, just went to work on Baltimo like he’d been taking liberties with the man’s kid sister. Satch used the first ball to brush Baltimo’ back a ways. You know how he likes to crowd when he gets in a heated rhythm. The next pitch sailed across the plate and it was smoking like a runaway choo-choo. That ball was sitting in the catcher’s mitt before the folks in the stands knew it was strike one. Baltimo’ settled in the batting box then and dug in for the next flamethrower. He held out his bat and pointed it toward that car out yonder in the lot with a hole in the window. The crowd roared over the duel going down on the baseball diamond. Satchel cocked his knee up damned near to his chin and hurled his ‘hesitation pitch’. Ole Baltimo’, he was looking for another high heater so he whipped that lumber around with all his might before the ball was halfway to plate. Hell, he almost screwed himself into the batter’s box.
“With only two strikes on him, the umpire called Baltimo’ out. Satchel had pitched the man’s pants down around his ankles and that long tool of his’n done tumbled out of his pants and hit the dirt. While Baltimo’ was busy stuffing it back in his jock strap, the old ump took one look at that thang and accused him of playing with two bats. Damned if he didn’t disqualify Baltimo’ for cheating.” All of the men fell over laughing at the story Smiley told, which actually took place in Peoria, Illinois, but did happen just about the way he remembered. After the game, Baltimore was the most popular bachelor in town until the team’s bus pushed off toward the next city two days later.
Within hours, news of Randolph Bellows’s death had spread thr
oughout the community, and beyond. Clay Sinclair walked into Ms. Etta’s wearing his police uniform. Etta, who hadn’t too long returned, threw a hawking glance at Gussy. She held it just long enough to demand he keep his cool. Baltimore assumed that Clay had come all the way to “The Ville” to relay a message from his brother Barker, but he delivered more disturbing news at their feet instead. “Ms. Etta. Fellas,” Clay spoke cordially, sniffing empty glasses while his partner posted himself by the door. “None of this hooch would happen to be ’shine, would it?”
“Now, Officer Sinclair, you know I’m law abidin’,” Etta told him as nicely as she could, although she was unhappy about his presence. The only reason police came within spitting distance of her establishment was to be paid off for the goods they already had on her beforehand. Luckily, Halstead didn’t get the chance to deliver the order she’d placed before he died, so she had nothing to serve but store-bought spirits.
“Uh-huh, would this meeting have anything to do with a missing pool shark taking murder-for-hire business on the side?” That accusation drew Baltimore’s attention because he was unaware that Gussy cleaned up the mess he’d made in the alley. Seersucker’s body had floated half way down the Mississippi River by the time Clay learned of his disappearance.
“Naw, suh, we’ont know nothing ’bout no shark killers,” Gussy joked. “The Mississippi’s too muddy for anything except for catfish.”
Clay grinned at Baltimore, who was leaning back in the wooden chair without a care in the world and a good deal of Barker’s money still in his possession. “Well, I guess this might be as good a time as any to say how sorry I am to hear about Mr. Bellows’s death. I thought he was a fine man,” Clay said with the utmost sincerity. He paused, helped himself to a sip of whiskey and then smacked his lips. “Oh, yeah, not that any of you care, but the climate in this town is changing.” He tossed the evening edition of the St. Louis Dispatch on the table where Henry sat. “The city council voted today on accepting colored applicants interested on joining the Metro Police Department. Vote passed six to three.” Clay gestured to his partner that it was time to leave. “If you do happen to see that missing shark killer, who doesn’t know he’s missing, let me know.” He smiled at Gussy, who didn’t offer one in return on general principle. “Evening, Ms. Etta, fellas,” the officer hailed, while making his exit. Baltimore was one hundred percent certain that Clay suspected him in Seersucker’s disappearance. He was just as certain that the real reason the cop stopped by was written all over the front page of that newspaper.
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