by Troy Soos
Three days till Donner’s deadline, I thought, three weeks until Leo Hyman’s. I was going to have to get a scorecard and start keeping track of who was going to be coming after me, when, and for what reason.
Chapter Twelve
Sunday morning, half past nine. Karl Landfors was still out, hadn’t phoned, and I was starting to worry. I hadn’t seen him since the previous morning, when he’d left for Constance Siever’s house. His dreamy manner and fastidious preparations had given the impression that May Day was more of a Valentine’s Day for radicals than a political observance.
When I first woke up and found Landfors missing, I worried that he might have been in trouble—perhaps caught up in another Palmer raid on “Bolsheviks.” But after I got the morning newspapers, my worries diminished. According to the headlines, there had been no revolution yesterday. No bombings, no assassinations, not so much as a firecracker. Some papers went so far as to pronounce that the Red Scare was over. I wasn’t so sure.
Mitchell Palmer maintained a defiant tone, claiming the revolutionaries had merely postponed their attacks in an attempt to discredit him and lull the nation into a false sense of security. Invoking the appeal that President Wilson had made to him last fall—“Palmer, do not let this country see red!”—the attorney general reaffirmed his intention to stop “the blaze of revolution” while it was still an ember. He also vowed to continue his campaign for the Democratic nomination for president. I briefly wondered if Palmer might try to create a confrontation in order to justify his predictions and regain his credibility; but I decided that was a question for someone with a stronger interest in politics than I had.
Having more or less convinced myself that Landfors’s absence simply meant that he and Connie Siever were getting along better than ever, I moved on to the sports pages. Yesterday’s game at Navin Field was summed up by the headline Tigers Handed Twelfth Bump. A dozen losses without one win. I was starting to wish that it was to be a short season like last year, when the owners cut the schedule to 140 games in the mistaken belief that the war had eroded Americans’ interest in baseball. We were now back to a full 156-game season which, on the positive side, meant that the Tigers still had 144 chances to win a ballgame.
The extension of the Detroit losing streak wasn’t the day’s biggest baseball news. At Braves Field in Boston, the Dodgers and Braves had played the longest game in major league history: twenty-six innings. Nearly three games in one, and all for naught, as darkness put an end to the contest with the score tied 1-1. Joe Oeschger, whose fastball had sent me home early from spring training, pitched for the Braves, and Leon Cadore for the Dodgers. Remarkably, both pitchers went the distance. Their catchers needed to be relieved, but not Oeschger and Cadore, neither of whom allowed a run during the game’s final twenty innings.
The Braves-Dodgers marathon brought to mind another pitching duel, another one that I hadn’t seen in person but remained the ballgame I remembered most fondly. It took place on July 4, 1905, in Boston’s Huntington Avenue Grounds with Rube Waddell of the Philadelphia Athletics matched up against the Boston Americans’ Cy Young. I was thirteen years old that summer and idolized the colorful Waddell. I found out the next day that the game went twenty innings, both pitchers going all the way, until Waddell himself drove in the game-winning run.
To my mind, it was the perfect baseball game with the perfect outcome. I replayed it over and over the way some boys reenacted Civil War battles with toy soldiers. In my case, I used the box score and accounts from the game that appeared in New York and Philadelphia papers that my uncle got for me. I was already convinced that I was going to be a big-league ballplayer someday, and readily put myself in the spiked shoes of the men who played that game. One day I might be Socks Seybold or Harry Davis of the Athletics; on another I might be Boston’s Freddy Parent or Jimmy Collins. Sometimes I’d let myself be Cy Young, and on special occasions I would be Rube Waddell.
My reverie dimmed. I did become a major-league player, but I never got to meet Rube Waddell. In 1914 he died from pneumonia after helping flood victims in Texas. That ended something for me, but it took years more until I realized what it was: when a boyhood hero dies, it means boyhood is irretrievably lost.
I sighed. I no longer had the innocent faith in baseball that I’d had at age thirteen, and I was angry as hell that I couldn’t get it back.
By late morning, I was mad at Karl Landfors for not coming home without as much as a phone call, at whoever killed Emmett Siever and got me into trouble over it, at Joe Oeschger for nailing me with that fastball, and most of all at Rube Waddell for dying and ending my childhood.
Two hours before game time, Frank Navin was alone inside the main gate to his ballpark, stocking the ticket booths. If yesterday’s attendance was any indication, there would be a heavy demand for the tickets. Fans came out in record numbers hoping to be present at the first win of the season—but more than satisfied with heckling us mercilessly if we extended the losing streak.
I hopped a turnstile and joined Navin. He was in the process of opening a box of scorecards and sweating from the exertion. Frank Navin was not a typical team owner. Not content simply to observe the team’s play from his personal box, he took an active role in the club’s most mundane daily tasks. Navin often manned the ticket booths, ushered fans to their seats, or sold them refreshments. I’d read up on him when I was in the Sporting News office. Years before, he had been the club’s bookkeeper until a lucky streak in an all-night poker game provided him the cash to buy the team. Still a gambling man, he now divided his interests between the Tigers and the ponies.
“Need a hand with those?” I asked.
Navin was struggling to balance a stack of scorecards that came up to his drooping chin. “Over there.” He nodded toward one of the concession stands.
I took most of the cards from him and carried them to the booth, placing them on the counter. Navin reached up to put his pile next to mine. “Weather’s getting warmer,” he huffed.
“Finally,” I said. “I hate the cold.”
The Tigers owner took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped beads of sweat from his bald head. The temperature was only in the sixties, so his perspiration had less to do with the weather than with his flabby condition. Still, he was working hard, and to my mind the fact that he was willing to do manual labor made his penny-pinching ways less onerous.
“I have a problem, Mr. Navin,” I said.
“If it’s money, I can’t help. Barely breaking even this year. You signed a contract, and that’s all you’re going to get paid.”
“No, it’s not money.” I leaned on the counter of the concession booth. “It’s Hub Donner. He’s really pushing me to help him bust the players’ union. I can’t do that. I won’t go against my teammates.” I was supposed to give Donner my answer by tomorrow, but I’d decided to give it directly to Frank Navin instead.
“Then don’t.” Navin removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Son, as far as I’m concerned, you signed a contract to play baseball for me, not help Hub Donner fight the union. Just stick to the deal: you play and I pay you for it—but like I said, not a penny more than you signed for.”
“The salary’s fine, Mr. Navin.” I knew that statement would haunt me when it came time for the next contract, but his biggest worry appeared to be that I was going to try to touch him up for a few bucks. “And I appreciate you saying all I got to do is play ball. But Donner says Ban Johnson will kick me out of the American League if I don’t go along with him.”
“Ban Johnson’s in New York. That’s a long way from here. Don’t you worry about it.”
“Donner says he was here a couple of weeks ago. Said him, you, and Mr. Johnson had dinner. You sure Mr. Johnson won’t kick me out of the league?”
“Ban Johnson hasn’t been out here since January. If he wanted you to help Donner so badly, he’d have told me. So far, he hasn’t said anything. If he does, I’ll let you know. For now, just worr
y about baseball.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mr. Navin.”
I left him with the rest of the scorecards and headed for the locker room, wondering why Hub Donner had lied to me.
The fans who’d hoped to witness the Tigers’ first win of the season were disappointed. Those who’d come to heckle another defeat did so with glee and vigor. A 5-2 loss to the Indians ran our winless streak to a baker’s dozen. One hundred forty-three chances left to win a game this year.
Worse than the loss was the fact that I again had to watch the proceedings from the bench. I appreciated Frank Navin saying that all I had to do was play baseball for him, but I wished he would do more—like tell Hughie Jennings actually to put me in a game.
I was in a vile mood by the time I got home, and seeing Karl Landfors asleep on the sofa didn’t improve it any. I slammed the door hard enough to trigger a rattling noise in the cuckoo clock.
Landfors woke up with a groan and reached for his spectacles. Once they were securely on his nose, he slithered out from under the blanket. Blinking at me, he asked, “What time is it?”
“I thought you came here to help me find out who killed Emmett Siever, not to court his daughter.” I stalked into the kitchen and checked the icebox. Moxie again. I opened a bottle and went into the parlor.
“Well, yes, that’s true,” Landfors said calmly. He poked a forefinger behind one of the thick lenses and rubbed his eye. “What exactly would you like me to do?”
I gulped some of the pop. First thing I’d like you to do, I thought, is stop bringing Moxie in here. “You could have called,” I said. “Thought you might have got caught up in some anti-Red roundup or something.”
“That was inconsiderate of me. I apologize.” He blinked rapidly. “In the future I’ll let you know if I’m going to be late.”
I was starting to feel like a heel for yelling at him. Leave it to Landfors to take the fun out of being in a bad mood. I waved off the apology. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you and her are getting on so well.”
Landfors stood up. In his dark, floor-length nightshirt he looked like a folded umbrella. “Thank you,” he said. “However, I did come here to help you, and I have been somewhat remiss in that regard.” He went into the kitchen, and I heard him filling the coffeepot with water.
“You have helped,” I said. When he came back in the parlor, I added, “The problem is there’s still a long way to go.”
As he swapped his sleeping garment for trousers and an undershirt, Landfors asked, “Where exactly is it that you’re going?”
That was a good question. “I know where I want to end up,” I answered. “With the right person taking the rap for Emmett Siever’s murder. That’s where I have to end up.” I thought a moment more. “As far as how I get there, I’m not sure. It seems I’m trying to do two things at once: keep myself out of immediate trouble and meanwhile learn as much as I can that might lead me to Siever’s killer.”
With a nod at the newly replaced window, Landfors said, “Is that the ‘immediate trouble’ you mean?”
“It’s one of them. Another is getting dropped from the team—and maybe blacklisted—if! I don’t do what Hub Donner wants me to. There’s no way I’m gonna go along with him, and I’m supposed to give him my decision tomorrow. I might have bought myself a little extra time with Frank Navin, though. Maybe he’ll keep Donner off my back for a while.” I had the impression that Donner was obedient to his bosses. He’d seemed worried about conducting outside business at the Ford plant. Perhaps he’d worry about crossing Navin, too.
“As far as my teammates,” I went on, “things have eased up a little. It’s this losing streak. The players are numb from it, mentally and physically. Barely have the strength to take the field every day, never mind picking a fight with me. But it can’t go on forever, and then who knows what they’ll do.”
The smell of fresh coffee wafted into the room, and Landfors went into the kitchen. “Would you like a cup?” he called.
The bottle of Moxie in my hand was still half-full, but I decided the sink could have the rest of it, and said yes to his offer.
I glanced back at the window again as Landfors brought in the coffee mugs. “Thanks,” I said, and took a sip. For all his flaws, Landfors did make a decent cup of coffee. “As far as the IWW, I think that’s where my biggest worry is. Leo Hyman told me that I have three weeks from yesterday to tell him who really shot Siever. He says he’ll spread the word to the Wobblies that it’s hands off until then, but I don’t know if I can rely on that.”
“Hyman is a man of his word,” Landfors said. He pulled on a clean white shirt and attached a stiff celluloid collar to it. “I have my disagreements with him in certain areas, but I do believe he’s a trustworthy man.”
“Even if he does tell them to leave me alone, what guarantee is there that they’ll listen? I don’t expect anarchists are all that willing to follow orders.”
Landfors opened his mouth, looking as if he was about to protest, then caught himself. “You might have a point.”
“Anyway, that’s it for immediate dangers. Now, as far as solving the murder, I think the place to start—”
“Is with the false Detective Aikens.” Landfors smiled confidently.
“Uh, no. But speaking of Aikens, I think I have an idea who he is. Well, not who he is, but who he’s with anyway.”
A peeved look started to take hold of Landfors’s features. “Don’t keep me in suspense,” he said.
“I think he’s with the Justice Department. Specifically, the GID. Leo Hyman told me that during the Palmer raids, the General Intelligence Division coordinated the raids and local police helped carry them out. Remember, the police raided Fraternity Hall the night Siever was killed, so maybe there was a GID man there supervising things. Also, I told you before I thought Aikens had to have some kind of authority because he had to give the police my name. And he did have a badge.”
“But you still don’t think ...”
“That Aikens is the killer? No. If he shot Siever, he wouldn’t have stayed there in the back room.” Besides, I didn’t want to believe that a federal agent would kill an unarmed civilian. “He might have seen who did, though. My guess is that Aikens would have been outside the building before the raid, keeping an eye on it. Maybe he heard the shot or saw the killer run out the back door, then he went in to see what happened, and that’s when he found me there.” I was speculating, and didn’t want to include the additional speculation that Hub Donner might have been the man Aikens saw leaving the Hall.
Landfors nodded thoughtfully. “Tell me again what Aikens looks like.”
In as much detail as I could, I described the appearance, mannerisms, and dress of the man who had presented himself to me as a police detective. Then I added, “If he is with the government, he sure isn’t going to want to tell me anything about what he was doing here.
“Anyway, I think the most useful thing to do is find out about Emmett Siever himself. What was there about him that made someone want to kill him?”
“Are you saying Siever is at fault for his own death?”
“No, I don’t mean anything like that. Just that he’s a part of what happened. Part of the puzzle. And if we know as much as we can about him, maybe we know the motive for shooting him, find who had the motive, and ... we have his killer.”
Landfors looked mollified that I wasn’t trying to blame the victim for the crime.
I went on. “I’ve learned a few things about him. For starters, he wasn’t such a great guy. Not always, anyway, certainly not in his playing days. Did you know he ran around on his wife, and after she died he abandoned Connie?”
He nodded, and said softly, “Her grandmother raised her.” That answered one of the questions I’d never gotten to ask Connie.
“Another thing,” I said, “is Siever’s interest in unionizing doesn’t go back very far. A year or two at the most. He didn’t have anything to do with the players’ unions before that. Seems
strange to get so active so suddenly.”
“It might have been because of Connie. He knew how important the labor movement was—is—to her.”
“Leo Hyman told me that she’s the one who got him involved with the IWW.”
“She mentioned that to me.”
“Has she asked anything about her father? Or said anything about who might have killed him?” I wanted to ask Landfors, but couldn’t, why she hadn’t seemed distraught by her father’s death.
Landfors stammered before finding the words, “I’m not entirely sure what she‘s—what we’ve—talked about. It always seems we have a lot to say to each other, but I’m never quite sure afterward what it was that we said.”
There’s something about the lovesick that reminds me of the mentally impaired. “If you have a chance—and if you think you can concentrate on the conversation—could you ask Connie about her father? I think it would help if we knew more about his personal life, and she’s the one who would know it best.”
He agreed he would, then borrowed a tie and left to see her.
After he left, I went to the window, pulled aside the bath towel and looked out at the cars crawling by on Grand River Avenue. Then I looked straight down, to the sidewalk in front of my building. Another shotgun blast through the window wasn’t what had me worried. It was the possibility of a head or belly shot as I stepped outside that scared me.
Chapter Thirteen
I felt like I had one of Eddie Cicotte’s knuckleballs dancing around in my belly. My insides were rocked by spasms of—well, they were spasms of fear, though I preferred to think of them as “butterflies.” My legs were jelly, barely able to support my body or lift my leaden feet. That’s what the first at bat of the year can do to a body. To mine, anyway.