by Troy Soos
“Hmm.” He made a final assault on the tie and succeeded in twisting a passable four-in-hand. “Close enough,” he sighed.
“Anyway, could you ask Connie to get her father’s things—including the gun?”
Landfors looked at me blankly.
“Don’t have to ask her tonight. Just whenever it seems like a good time.”
“Yes, certainly. I’ll try to slip it into the conversation.” His sarcastic tone and scowling face gave me the feeling this was not going to be a fun evening.
The waiter must have thought he was serving at a wake when he came to take our orders. Most patrons of the rooftop nightclub were flirtatious couples and carousing parties who’d come to drink and dance under the stars. Amid the good cheer, our table was an island of gloom.
Despite Margie’s and my best efforts, there’d been little conversation during the ferry ride. After awkward introductions, Landfors and Connie barely spoke to us. Margie asked me several times with her eyes what the matter was. I had no answer, other than Landfors’s grouchiness was apparently contagious and Connie Siever had come down with a dose of it.
It had been my idea to come across the river to Windsor. I thought it would make for a more relaxed atmosphere, being in Canada, and able to have a few drinks without worrying about Treasury agents swooping in to enforce prohibition. But Landfors and Connie were determined not to relax; they sat stiff and solemn, their clothes and bearing making them look like a black-and-white newspaper sketch of defendants at a trial.
The waiter asked again, “What will you have?”
Before Landfors could order us a pitcher of vinegar, I said, “Champagne and oysters. All around.”
Margie laid her hand on my arm. “You remembered!”
“No champagne,” said the waiter. “Beer. Labatt.”
I suspected they did have champagne, but didn’t want to waste it on people who didn’t look like they’d enjoy it. “Anything but Moxie,” I said.
“Beer is fine,” said Margie.
The waiter looked at Landfors. “Same for you?”
While Landfors cleared his throat to speak, Connie answered for him, “That will be fine, thank you.”
“No oysters, neither,” said the waiter. “Pretzels do?”
In one voice, the four of us answered, “Yes.”
Margie laughed, and even Connie cracked a small smile.
When the waiter departed, quiet overtook our table again. The only sounds were nearby conversations, the music of a “ragtime” quintet that had no concept of rhythm, and the whistles and bells of barges and ferries navigating the Detroit River.
The silence was almost paralyzing; I looked around, seeking something to comment on in the hope of sparking a conversation. From our location twelve stories above Goyeau Avenue, the lights of Detroit sparkled in the distance, shining brighter than the stars overhead. Candles on the tables flickered in the fresh, outdoor air.
Margie beat me to it. With a twinkle in her eye, she ventured, “Good band.”
Taking her seriously, Landfors nodded. “Very.”
Connie wrinkled her nose. After another awkward silence, she said to Margie, “I understand you’re in show business of some kind.”
Of some kind? I thought everybody knew who Marguerite Turner was. She was a movie star.
“Yes, I am,” Margie said sweetly. “Vaudeville. I wrestle lions and alligators for people who buy tickets hoping to see me get my head bitten off. Our show opens at the Rex tomorrow if you’d like to come.”
“No, I’m sorry. I, uh, I have other plans.”
“Too bad. There’s a fire-breather in the show, too. Sometimes it gets pretty exciting.” She winked at me, then asked Connie, “What do you do?”
“Connie’s a suffragette,” I said.
“Suffrag-ist!” she quickly corrected me. “‘Suffrag-ette’ is what men call us. It’s a diminutive.” Landfors bobbed his head, agreeing with his date.
The band switched to a simpler number, some kind of fox trot, and couples around us got up to dance. I had an urgent desire to get onto the dance floor myself. Then it occurred to me that Margie might not be able to with her bad leg.
The waiter returned with four overflowing beer glasses and a large bowl of pretzels.
I lifted mine and said, “Here’s to, uh ...”
“Good times,” finished Margie.
I drank deeply and put down the glass half-empty. Margie’s was at nearly the same level after her first sip. We looked at each other, then grabbed up the beers again and raced to finish them. I beat her, but it ended up close. We slammed down the empty glasses and wiped our mouths.
Clearly not amused by our contest, Connie Siever took a dainty sip of her beer. “How did you two meet?”
“I threw a pie in his face,” Margie said. “Mickey was with the Giants back then, and he was making a movie at the studio where I worked. Poor boy looked so serious about it that I had to loosen him up.” She leaned forward and whispered, “A pie in the face will do wonders.”
“I can imagine,” said Connie. She shot an appalled glance at Landfors. I could tell that from now on she was going to be keeping an eye on Margie for flying pies.
“And how did you two meet?” Margie asked.
Connie lifted her chin. “Karl accompanied Mickey when he paid a call on me to claim that he didn’t kill my father.”
“Claim?” repeated Margie. Under the table, she put her hand on my knee and gripped hard; it felt like she would have preferred to have been gripping Connie’s throat. “If he says he didn’t do it, he didn’t. Are you saying he did?”
“Not necessarily. But no one else has been caught, have they?”
Margie’s fingers dug in more firmly. As I pried them loose, I said, “No. No, they haven’t. Not yet.”
We all paused while the waiter brought fresh beers for Margie and me. Landfors waved him off when he asked if he and Connie wanted more.
“Well,” Connie said, “whoever did it, my father’s still going to be dead. Can’t change that, so it doesn’t really matter, I suppose.”
Landfors put his hand on her arm in what he apparently intended to be a consoling gesture. But Connie Siever didn’t need any consolation. She seemed totally comfortable with what had happened to her father. And that fact bothered me at least as much as anything else about his death.
I took a swallow of beer and asked Margie, “May I have this dance?”
Her eyes lit up, and she nodded eagerly.
“Excuse us,” I said to our company, and took her hand to lead her to the dance floor. I sensed eyes turning to look at Margie. She was stylishly dressed, wearing a belted, golden yellow smock with a long, pointed white collar. Her flowing skirt was emerald green, and a silk scarf of the same color was loosely tied around her neck.
We easily fell into some step pattern that consisted mostly holding each other close and rocking back and forth in time with the music—it worked even better once we followed the rhythm of the same instrument. She bobbed a little with her limp, giving our swaying a syncopated beat.
I caught sight of Landfors and his date in conversation. I didn’t know how I came up with the crazy idea for the four of us to get together. We had almost nothing in common.
Margie must have been having similar thoughts. Affecting a snooty British accent, she whispered, “I don’t think Miss Siever cares for me at all.”
“It’s her loss,” I replied. “That woman is about as much fun as taking a bad hop to the—uh ...”
“To the ballocks?”
“That’s the spot.”
“Her problem is that she’s just too serious.”
“Perfect match for Karl.”
“It’s not healthy to be so serious all the time.” Margie broke her hands free from me and shot them up under my arms, tickling me till I laughed and squawked for her to stop.
Feigning annoyance, I grabbed her and held her closer and tighter to prevent any further tickle assaults.
/> “You know,” Margie murmured into my shoulder as we resumed dancing, “I worked for the Suffrage Amendment in California. Wrote letters, marched in a couple of parades ... I loved doing it. Especially when we won. But I’m damned if I’ll tell her that. I don’t need her approval for what I do or who I am.”
“No, you don’t. And anyway, I think you’re—” Failing to come up with a suitable compliment, I said, “Just fine.”
She laughed softly. “You sure know how to flatter a girl.”
The music stopped. We added to the sparse applause that the band was given, and stayed on the floor for the next number.
I looked again at Landfors and Connie Siever. Their heads were close together in deep conversation. Landfors looked as delighted to be talking with her as I was to be dancing with Margie. I felt a little more kindly to his date; she was making my friend happy. I only hoped that he wasn’t setting himself up for a fall.
The next tune was “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” the kind of slow, schmaltzy song I don’t care to hear but like to dance to. As the singer crooned the lyrics and we wound our way around the floor, I noticed that Margie’s limp produced a marvelous grinding motion against me. There was something I liked even more than slow dancing, and I found myself wishing that we weren’t on a public dance floor or stuck with another couple for the evening.
The bandleader announced a break, and Margie and I headed back to the table.
Landfors was finishing a story, “... so the Justice Department raids this little Italian social club in New Jersey, and find what they think is a stash of bombs. They put all the men in jail, and send the bombs to be examined. The police can’t understand it when all the ‘bombs’ turn out to be duds. They weren’t bombs at all—they were bocce balls!”
Connie almost doubled over with laughter. At least she has some kind of a sense of humor, I thought.
Laughing hard himself, Landfors said to Margie and me, “We were just talking about the Palmer raids.”
Yup, this was sure a fun couple to spend a Saturday evening with.
Margie and I ordered a couple more beers. When the waiter pointed out to Landfors and Connie that beer didn’t taste good if you let it go flat, they agreed to another round, too.
When the fresh brews arrived, Landfors took a clumsy gulp of his, then said into the glass, “Speaking of Italian anarchists ...”
Jeez, Karl, you sure know how to enliven a conversation.
“... I got a telegram today.”
“Yes?” Connie prodded him. I was curious myself to find out at last what it said.
“Two men have been arrested in Brockton, Massachusetts. Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti are their names. Both Italian immigrants, both avowed anarchists. They’re going to be charged with murder, but it looks like their political leaning is the only ‘evidence’ against them.”
“That’s awful!” said Connie.
Landfors went on, still talking low, “The fellow who sent me the telegram has set up a defense committee on their behalf. And ... And he’s asking me to go to Boston. He wants me to report on whatever happens to these men.”
Connie didn’t look pleased at this possibility. “Are you?”
“I haven’t quite decided yet. I would prefer—”
“What about what we were planning?” she demanded.
“Well, as I was saying, I would prefer to stay here, but this sounds like something I want to cover. So far, outside the Boston Italian community, these men aren’t getting any kind of support. If they’re being railroaded, public exposure might be the only thing that can free them.” He pushed up his spectacles. “But, as I said, I haven’t decided yet.”
As Connie opened her mouth to speak again, I asked Margie, “Would you like to dance some more?”
She smiled. “There’s no music.”
“Oh. Right. A walk, then?”
“We’re on a roof.”
“A short walk?”
“I’d love to.”
We worked our way through the crowd toward the east side of the building. A low brick wall topped by a wrought-iron railing ran around the roof’s perimeter to make sure the club didn’t lose any of its customers to a free fall. The view was splendid: the dark Detroit River, dotted with sparkling lights from passing boats, split around Belle Isle with its stationary lights.
“Now that we’re alone,” said Margie.
I put my arms around her. “Yes?”
“Tell me what happened last night.”
“Oh. Okay.” I took her hand, we began pacing along the wall, and I filled her in on my meeting with Leo Hyman and Stan Zaluski. “I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere,” I concluded. I didn’t mention that I had only two weeks from tonight to come up with something.
“Why don’t you ask Connie?” Margie suggested. “Maybe she knows who would have wanted to kill her father.”
“Karl’s going to ask her for me—eventually. I don’t know how much she’ll say, though. She might be pretty loyal to the IWW.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I think the Wobblies are involved somehow. Not that they necessarily killed him, but they must know something about what happened. They’re so protective of themselves that I can’t imagine somebody being killed in their own headquarters without one of them knowing what happened. Also, there must be a reason for Siever being killed in Fraternity Hall. Why not someplace easier, like on the street?”
“I don’t know.” Margie smiled. “But I’ll bet you find out.”
“Hope so.”
For the rest of the night, we left Landfors and Connie to their political talk, while we remained on the dance floor.
Around midnight, the four of us got back on the ferry. It was a smoother vessel than the transport ship that had taken me to France, but I still didn’t like being on water. During the journey, Landfors and Connie continued their argument about whether he should go to Boston, while Margie and I cuddled and kissed in the back of the boat.
When we reached the Detroit shore at Bates Street, Margie and I left the two radicals to their arguing and made a beeline for her hotel.
Chapter Sixteen
Hub Donner had done it again. This time he’d made the front page: Turmoil Tails Tigers was the headline of a small article at the bottom of the Sunday Free Press. According to the story, I was going to denounce the players’ union in an upcoming issue of Baseball Magazine. A preview of the magazine piece had supposedly leaked out, and the Tiger team was “snarling and clawing” over it.
Donner was trying to produce a self-fulfilling prophecy. On the way to Navin Field, I tried in vain to think of a way to stop him.
When I walked into the locker room, I was immediately aware that something was up. Not one of my teammates looked at me as I sidled my way past the stools to my locker. For a moment, I thought I’d gone to the wrong one—Rawlings was no longer chalked above the top shelf. Then fear struck me: was I off the team? I checked the neighboring names: Pinelli on one side, Vedder on the other. But the name above mine was—oh, it wasn’t a new player. The yellow chalk on my locker read: Judas. I used my handkerchief to rub out the word.
An expectant silence filled the room. I’d grown used to my teammates not speaking to me; now they weren’t talking among themselves, either. They were waiting for something.
After I’d taken off my street clothes, I pulled my baseball pants from their hook. I was about to step into them when I saw the legs had been knotted at the ends. “Pretty bush league,” I commented to the room in general. “What’s next—short sheeting my bed?”
A few cold, hard glares were the only response.
I flipped the pants over to work the knot loose. Something thudded on my foot. “What the—?” I looked down to see a pigeon. A dead, headless pigeon. “Sonofabitch!” I turned and looked at my teammates collectively. “Who did this?”
There was no answer. A few of them stifled chuckles.
I looked at individ
uals, from face to face. Most, including Dutch Leonard and Chick Fogarty, appeared amused. Bobby Veach looked sheepish, Harry Heilmann bored, Ty Cobb above it all. Young Lou Vedder next to me was the only one who looked troubled.
I dropped the pants over the bird’s body and went to see Jake, our clubhouse man, for a new pair. As I walked away, I heard laughter and talk behind me. The only extra pants available were at least two sizes too large. “Perfect fit,” said Jake. “Just make sure you tighten your belt a couple extra notches.”
Most of the other Tigers were completely dressed by the time I returned to my locker, but they didn’t head out to the field. They remained in their seats, absently punching their gloves, rubbing their bats, or retying their spikes. Something else had to be coming.
I checked my uniform jersey before putting it on, and looked into each of my spikes for foreign objects before putting my feet inside and tying the laces. Eager to get on to the field, I grabbed my mitt and pulled my cap from the locker shelf. The pigeon’s head fell from out of the cap. I jumped back as it bounced on the floor.
The locker room erupted with laughter. It wasn’t a “what a swell prank” kind of laugh. There was malice in my teammates’ voices.
I looked around and said calmly, “One of you must feel like a really big man, killing a bird. If you got something to settle with me, come after me. But I warn you: my neck ain’t gonna break so easy.”
Chick Fogarty said, “Maybe not. But easy enough.”
I flung my glove on the floor. “Come on. Right here, right now.”
The catcher slowly drew himself up to his full height. He was the size of a small mountain; if he ever gave up catching, I thought, all he had to do was move back twenty feet and start a career as a backstop. We studied each other for a few moments. There was no anger in his eyes, bewilderment mostly; they changed expression as if he was groping to determine what he should be thinking. And I wasn’t really angry at him. Hub Donner was the one I was mad at.
Dutch Leonard urged, “Go ahead, Chick. Give it to him.”
Fogarty took a step toward me. Then he ducked his head and kept walking. “Another time,” he said, as he passed by and continued out the clubhouse door.