Hunting a Detroit Tiger

by Troy Soos

  By the end of the eighth inning, Walter Johnson was on the losing end of a 2—1 score. His only weakness was something else that had remained constant through the years: the inability of the players behind him to score runs. The one run Washington had put across was knocked in by Johnson himself when he’d doubled in Bucky Harris.

  With two out in the top of the ninth, I had my fourth at bat against Johnson. I was 0-for-3 so far, but he hadn’t struck me out once. Donie Bush was on first base, and it would mean an insurance run for Hooks Dauss if I could drive Bush in.

  I looked back at Hughie Jennings going through his contortions in the third base coach’s box. To my amazement, he patted his left sleeve twice. That was the sign for sacrifice. A sacrifice bunt with two outs? It must be a mistake.

  I backed out, scooped up some dirt to dry my hands, and gave him another look. He flashed the same sign: sacrifice. It was ingrained in me that, right or wrong, a manager’s orders should be obeyed. But his made no sense. I looked to Donie Bush at first base. He must have seen Jennings’s sign, for he shook his head, then touched the “D” on his jersey and the brim of his cap. The hit-and-run sign.

  Stepping back in the box, I decided to ignore Jennings and go for the hit-and-run. It was the only reasonable play for the circumstances.

  On Johnson’s first pitch, Bush broke for second base. Washington’s second baseman Bucky Harris moved over to cover the bag, leaving a hole on the right side of the infield. All I had to do was poke the ball ...

  The pitch was exactly where I wanted it—on the outside corner—but just too damn fast. I grounded to Joe Judge at first who flipped to Johnson covering for the final out of the inning.

  I ran quickly past Hughie Jennings to get my glove from the bench. He was fuming and cussing about “goddamn banjo-hitting road apples who think they’re so goddamned smart.” The way his blue eyes drilled me left no question as to who the “goddamn banjo-hitting road apple” was.

  At least he didn’t pull me from the game. I went back to second base for the final inning. When Dauss finished his warm-up throws, Oscar Stanage threw down to second. I fielded it, then flipped to Donie Bush backing me up. He caught the ball and stared at me for a moment. “Don’t worry about Hughie,” he said. “You did right.” Those were the first words any of my teammates had said to me in three days.

  Dauss held the Senators scoreless in the bottom of the ninth, so my failure to drive Bush home didn’t cost us the game. But my failure to obey Jennings’s orders cost me my temporary starting job. He took me into his office, said what they’d have done to me in the old Orioles days—it involved tar and feathers—and told me I was going to be riding the bench for a while. “Only reason I’m not fining you,” he said, “is I know Navin ain’t hardly paying you enough to live on as it is.”

  Back at my locker, I said nothing to my teammates about what had happened. I saw them looking at me when I came out of Jennings’s office; they were probably all hoping I’d been traded or released.

  As I changed out of my uniform, I realized that Cobb, Bush, Veach, and Heilmann had all struck out today. In fact, Walter Johnson had fanned every batter in our lineup at least once—except me. I was the only one on the team who could say that Johnson had never struck me out—and depending on how long Jennings kept me on the bench, I might be able to make that statement for some time to come. That thought improved my mood considerably. By the time I’d showered and dressed, I was buoyant enough that I decided to set a new goal for myself: to get a base hit off the Big Train someday.

  Karl Landfors had warned me to stay away from Calvin Garrett and the GID. But how could I? Garrett, as Aikens, was the only other person I knew for sure was at the scene when Emmett Siever was killed. Immediately thereafter, at least.

  Friday morning, I stood on the northeast corner of Vermont Avenue and K Street, staring up at the intimidating eight-story, stone-block building that housed the U.S. Department of Justice and the Bureau of Investigation. I’d been in local police stations before, and a few municipal buildings, but I’d never been in anything like this. This was a federal institution, and the structure’s very appearance seemed intended to show that the full weight of the United States government was behind it. This place wasn’t going to be staffed by beat cops who could be bribed with beers or low-level civil servants who could be paid off with a few bucks.

  I pulled out my watch: quarter past ten, almost two hours until I had to report to Griffith Stadium. I thought of the date: May 14—eight days to Leo Hyman’s deadline. There was no question about it: I had to speak with Calvin Garrett.

  Removing my straw boater as I stepped inside, I ventured through the building’s main entrance. Armed guards stood at attention inside the door. They gave me a visual inspection but didn’t challenge me. I’d worn a conservative three-button blue serge suit, a stiff white shirt with a high celluloid collar, and a dark green bow tie that I’d bought specifically for this occasion. I wanted to look as innocuous as possible.

  The spacious lobby was cold and forbidding. I walked purposefully across the tile floor, trying to give the impression that I knew exactly where I was going. Meanwhile, I cast sidelong glances that failed to detect an office directory or any sign indicating where to find the General Intelligence Division.

  At the far end of the lobby, an impeccably groomed and dressed young man sat behind a broad desk arrayed with half a dozen telephones. He surveyed the room like an alert librarian on the watch for anyone dog-earing books or chewing gum. My shoes clattered on the floor as I approached his post. He frowned, and I thought he was going to shush me.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I’d like to see Calvin Garrett, please.”

  “What department?”

  “General Intelligence Division.”

  “I see.” The young man pursed his lips. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Garrett?”

  I had phoned earlier to be sure that Garrett was in the building but had hung up when the operator tried to connect me to his office. The only thing I had going for me was the element of surprise, and I didn’t want to lose it by warning him that I was coming. “No, but he’ll see me.”

  “Your name?”

  “Emmett Siever.”

  “Let me check.” He pointed to a straight-backed chair well out of listening range. “Wait there, please.”

  I walked over to the chair, but remained standing as I watched the young man place a call. After a minute on the line, he beckoned me with a crooked finger. “What did you say your name was again?”

  I again gave him Siever’s name and he repeated it into the mouthpiece. After a few seconds of listening, he added with a note of exasperation, “That’s what he says.” Another pause. “Very well.” He hung up and said to me, “Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”

  I was sure that the someone would be Calvin Garrett.

  Minutes later, a hulking man in an unflattering gray suit exited a nearby elevator. The young man at the desk pointed me out, and Garrett approached. He was about thirty years old, with a broad flat nose, dull eyes, and a soft pink face that looked freshly scrubbed. His close-cropped medium brown hair was slicked back with something greasy. “Why the ‘Emmett Siever’ name?” he asked.

  “To make sure you’d see me. Why’d you use ‘Detective Aikens’?”

  He frowned slightly, then bobbed his head, acknowledging that I had a point. His expression was not that of a deep thinker, but he must have something on the ball to be in his job, I thought. He extended his hand. “Calvin Garrett.”

  “I know.” I returned his soft grip. “Mickey Rawlings.”

  “I know.” He looked around the lobby. In one corner were several armchairs clustered near a potted plant. “Let’s talk over there.”

  “Okay.” As he led the way, I added, “I’ve got a lot of questions for you.”

  “Fine. We have no secrets here.”

  “Then why did you make up that ‘Detective Aikens’
business back in Detroit?”

  “I didn’t know who you were. Our existence is no secret, but we don’t necessarily advertise our presence. You understand.”

  “Not really. What is it that you do exactly?”

  Once we were seated, Garrett crossed his legs and launched into what sounded like a recitation. “The General Intelligence Division is a division within the Bureau of Investigation of the Department of Justice. The purpose of the GID is to compile and maintain information on radicals and their activities in the United States and abroad. In performing this function, the Division acquires such information in cooperation with the Bureau of Investigation, other government agencies, local police departments, the military, and, uh, private citizens.” He punctuated the end of every sentence with a nod of his head. “It is the policy—”

  I could have read the regulations myself had I wanted to. I interrupted, “In other words, Attorney General Mitchell Palmer runs the Department of Justice. The Justice Department’s office in charge of monitoring radicals is the General Intelligence Division, formerly known as the Anti-Radical Division. Palmer is running for president. He was angry about losing the Michigan primary, and blamed it on ‘radicals.’ A week after the primary vote, a GID man—you—ends up at Fraternity Hall in Detroit. Palmer wanted revenge on the people he thinks cost him the election, so you were sent to crack down on the Wobblies up there. Is that about right?” My tone was more certain than my mind; I didn’t want to show Garrett any doubt or fear.

  Garrett made a gurgling noise and rubbed his nose with the heel of his palm. I wondered if that habit had contributed to its present shape. “Well, yes, I was there.” Not a major admission, considering I knew that.

  “My question is: what were you doing there?”

  He appeared off stride, and his speech became measured. “We have an interest in keeping tabs on radical organizations.” He bobbed his head. “The Industrial Workers of the World is one such organization.” Head nod. “Therefore, it is in keeping with our mission—”

  I tried to interrupt again but failed. Garrett picked up steam and went on a tear about patriotism, free enterprise, and the need to protect American society from “foreign agitators.” It sounded like a campaign speech, but I had the impression he believed every word.

  Once he had the speechifying out of his system, I tried to convince him that I was not his enemy. “I’m not arguing with what it is you’re trying to do,” I said. “My problem is that I’ve been accused of shooting Emmett Siever. I’m hoping you can help get me cleared.”

  “I don’t see how I can help,” Garrett said quickly.

  “You came into the hall just a few minutes after Siever was shot. With the meeting going on in the front, you must have come in through the back door.” I paused to give him a chance to confirm this.

  He considered his answer before saying, “Yes, I did.”

  “Why did you come inside? Did you hear the shot, or did you see the killer running out the back door or something?”

  Garrett rubbed his nose again.

  “Look,” I said, “if you saw the killer leave, then that puts me in the clear. What’s the harm in your saying so? The Wobblies know you spy on them. So what’s the big secret?”

  “I thought I saw somebody slip out the door,” he said.

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “No.”

  “But you must know it wasn’t me. Just tell the cops you saw somebody else. That’s all I’m asking. Please.”

  “I can’t do that. It was dark. I’m not positive that I saw anybody at all.”

  “Well—” I wasn’t sure how to persuade him. “You must know it wasn’t me. Why did you let me go if you thought I might have killed him?”

  “I had no authority to detain you. The GID is not empowered to make arrests. The situation at Fraternity Hall was a matter for the police to handle, and I’m confident that they handled it properly.”

  “But you talked to the police. You told them I was there.”

  “As I said before, we work in cooperation with local law enforcement.”

  Calvin Garrett was as forthcoming with useful information as the stone blocks of the building’s facade. I tried to steer him away from generalities with a question on the details: “How’d you get inside?”

  “Huh?”

  “To Fraternity Hall. How did you get in? I don’t expect they leave their back door open for anyone to wander in.”

  His face made an exaggerated show of searching his memory. “As a matter of fact, it was unlocked.”

  I didn’t believe him. A question as to whether he picked the lock crossed my mind, but I squelched it when I remembered the crossbar on the door. A lock pick doesn’t do any good when the door is barred.

  Garrett leaned forward, his dull eyes sharpening. “Now I have a question for you: How did you find out who I was?”

  It suddenly struck me that letting Garrett know I was aware of his identity might be dangerous for me. “I found out from the Wobblies,” I said. “Somebody must have seen you there.” If Garrett thought others already knew about him, he’d have no reason to shut me up—I hoped.

  “You’re in contact with the Wobblies?”

  “Some,” I admitted. “Just to try to find out who killed Siever. It’s the Wobblies who are in contact with me, really. They believe what the cops told the papers, and they want revenge.”

  “Well, you’re in a bit of a predicament, then, aren’t you?” He didn’t sound sorry about it.

  “That’s why I’m here.” I turned my head to look at a group of men in drab suits walking past us. I tried to guess which ones might be GID agents.

  Garrett said, “Maybe we can help each other out.”

  I didn’t want to “help each other out”—I wanted him to help me. Still, this might be the best offer I was going to get, so I figured I’d better hear him out. “How?”

  “You might have some information on baseball’s union agitators that we can use.” He smiled. “And I might have information that I could pass on to the Detroit police for you.”

  “Why would you care about the baseball union?” I could see the GID being involved in the railroad strikes, or investigating real revolutionaries, but baseball?

  Garrett adopted his speech-making tone, “The attorney general feels strongly that the national pastime should not be allowed to go Red. It would tear at the very fabric of American society if—”

  “He’s doing this for his campaign, isn’t he!” Politicians loved to latch onto baseball as a sign of their Americanism. Why the hell couldn’t they stick to kissing babies and telling lies about their opponents?

  Garrett ignored the accusation. “Someone is going to take Emmett Siever’s place. I—we—want to know who that someone is.”

  “I don’t know anything about who’s going to try to organize the union.”

  “Start with your own team. I understand that Chick Fogarty is the Tigers’ labor leader. Get friendly with him and see what you can find out for me.”

  Fogarty? Could he really be—I didn’t let myself think about it. It didn’t matter who was unionizing, I wasn’t going to help Calvin Garrett or the GID. “I’m not a spy any more than I am a killer,” I said.

  Garrett started to respond, when a short man with the face of a bulldog and the body of a fireplug scooted up to us. Addressing the GID agent, he said in a rapid-fire delivery, “I was told you were here, Garrett. We have a meeting upstairs in ten minutes. I’ll look forward to hearing your report.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hoover. It’s all ready.”

  “Fine. Don’t be late.” He spun and walked away as quickly as he’d arrived.

  “That your boss?” I asked.

  “That’s the GID’s Chief: J. Edgar Hoover.” Garrett stood. “I want to be able to tell him that you’ll be helping us.”

  “You don’t always get what you want,” I said.

  What I wanted was for Hughie Jennings to have a change of heart, to realize tha
t he’d been wrong yesterday and let me keep playing. He didn’t. I was benched for the Friday game while Ralph Young, a former high-school star from Philadelphia, took over at second base.

  I found some solace in the fact that I was still on the team at all. Lou Vedder hadn’t been so lucky. He’d been dropped from the roster without ever getting to make another appearance on the mound.

  Friday night, I was in our hotel room sizing up my new roommate: Harry Heilmann. He was a couple of years younger than me, strongly built, darkly handsome, with an easy manner and a reputation for enjoying the night life. We called him “Slug” because of the way he plodded around the base paths—he could knock a baseball four hundred feet and be held to a single.

  Heilmann suffered from no such slowness in his speech. He had the gift of gab, and for the past fifteen minutes had been carrying on a monologue as he paced the room. The main thread was that he wondered where he could find a beer in the capital, but he also wove in complaints about Hughie Jennings making him play first base instead of outfield, admiration for Ty Cobb’s ability to place base hits, and contempt for the way Bobby Veach let other players ride him.

  Nothing Heilmann said invited comment or conversation. So I didn’t respond that Jennings probably had him at first base because he couldn’t run, catch, or throw. Nor did I point out that the only player riding Bobby Veach was Heilmann himself.

  I did want to talk with him, though. Heilmann was admired on the team—both for his hitting abilities and his sociable nature—and if he and I could become pals, maybe they’d all start to accept me. I tried to think of something to break the ice.

  Heilmann stopped in front of the mirror and combed his hair. He muttered that there had to be someplace in town where a man could get a drink and vowed that he’d find it if he had to spend all night searching.

  I probably should have started with small talk, but ever since Calvin Garrett mentioned Chick Fogarty being the team’s union man I’d been thinking about the big catcher. I had previously dismissed Fogarty as nothing but Dutch Leonard’s minion. I might have grossly underestimated the man. Large and slow does not mean stupid.