Hanging Curve (11 page)

T
here are always fans on hand to greet a ball club when it arrives in a city, especially when the city is the club’s hometown. On the road, welcoming committees tend to be small, mostly young ladies willing to provide short-term companionship for visiting ballplayers. Returning home, crowds are larger and predominantly male, with boys seeking autographs and men wanting to get in a few words of encouragement—or criticism, depending on the team’s most recent performance.

The Browns’ train pulled into St. Louis too late for many boys to still be up, but a dozen or so men were gathered at the end of the platform as we trudged our way, suitcases in hand, into majestic Union Station.

I barely gave the fans a glance. When I first came to the big leagues, I used to search the crowds as eagerly as they looked for the star players; I’d even dawdle and try to look approachable, hoping to be asked for my autograph or have somebody call my name. Not anymore. I was still more than happy to talk with a fan or sign a ball on the rare occasions when I was recognized, but I’d given up on acting like a puppy in a pet-store window.

It wasn’t until I was almost upon them that I noticed Tater Greene and a horse-faced man who looked like a smaller, older version of Connie Mack standing at the edge of the crowd.

They appeared to be studying each member of the Browns as he passed by. I tried to hide behind Baby Doll Jacobson, who at six-foot-three and more than two hundred pounds, was probably the largest “Baby Doll” in the world. But he wasn’t big enough to keep me out of view.

“Mickey!” Greene called, exposing his stained gums in a smile.

I stopped and grunted hello. At least my unhappiness about Margie had kept my thoughts off the Slip Crawford lynching for a few days. The sight of Tater Greene now brought it freshly to mind.

Greene introduced the man with him. “This is Buddy Vaughn, a good friend of mine.”

A ready smile cracked Vaughn’s long, craggy face. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rawlings,” he said in a soft Southern drawl. “I’m a big baseball fan.”

We shook hands, his grip proving stronger than I expected from his appearance. Vaughn’s lean build was clothed in a blue-seersucker suit, with a high, tight collar and a small polka-dot bow tie. A fringe of white hair was visible under his Panama hat.

“I hate to impose,” Vaughn said, “but do you suppose we could chat for a minute?”

I shifted my suitcase to my other hand. “Wish I could, but I really got to be getting home.” My eyes were on Greene, trying to discern what this encounter was about.

“Of course,” Vaughn said. “I understand.” Then he sighed, and added, “But I sure would be grateful if you could give me just a few moments of your time.” He made it sound like his dying request.

What the hell; I wasn’t going to learn why they were here from looking at Greene. “All right,” I said.

Greene and I followed the older man into the station’s magnificent central pavilion. The interior of the hall was as ornate as its castlelike exterior. Frescoes and ornamental moldings decorated the walls, a splendid pictorial window was above the north staircase, and an enormous chandelier, twenty feet across, hung in the center of the arching chamber.

Because of the hour, there were relatively few people in the pavilion. Vaughn pointed to an empty bench near an elaborate marble sculpture. We didn’t need to sit if it was really going to be only “a few moments,” I thought, but I joined them on the seat.

The three of us had barely sat down when Vaughn turned to Greene. “Say, Tater, I got a hankering for a good cigar. You mind going to see what kind of stogies they have here?” Greene promptly hopped up and headed off to the tobacco stand. “Take your time, son!” Vaughn called after him.

He’d already used up more than a few moments. “Why’d you want to talk to me?” I prompted him.

Vaughn smiled benignly. “First, allow me to complete the introduction. Tater told you my name, but not who I am.” He paused for effect. “I’m an officer with the Invisible Empire, Knights of the Ku Klux Klan.”

He wasn’t invisible enough for my liking. “Like I said, I got to be getting home.”

“I’m a kleagle, son.”

I had to stifle a laugh, both at his reverential tone—as if “kleagle” was the equivalent of pope—and at the word itself. To me, it sounded like a Klan name for a beagle.

“And,” he went on, “it is my pleasure to offer you membership in the Empire. I think you’d enjoy being one of us.”

“No,” I answered. “I’m sure I wouldn’t. Just because I played one baseball game for a team that’s owned by a Klansman—and I wouldn’t have if I’d known about it—that doesn’t mean I believe the same things you do.” I was about to let loose and tell this kleagle what I really thought of his organization, but I knew that would accomplish nothing. Instead, I said, “See, the only people I hate are the New York Yankees, and they’re about the only group you’re
not
against.”

Vaughn chuckled good-naturedly. “We don’t hate anyone, son. We simply believe that people are happier with their own kind. Prevents ill feelings and keeps life peaceful.”

Okay, I couldn’t make light of this. “Running around in hoods terrorizing people, burning their homes, lynching them—that’s a real peculiar way of keeping things peaceful.”

“We don’t terrorize anyone,” Vaughn said. “We simply have our little ceremonies and rituals same as the Freemasons or Odd Fellows or Elks or any other fraternal organization. If some folks misinterpret our costumes and ceremonies as something sinister, that is not our fault. As for lynching, we’re not killers. The Empire has a few hotheads, I admit, but when they get out of hand, we take care of them. You see, we have respectable men among our ranks: ministers, police, judges, doctors, businessmen—and baseball players.” He smiled. “You wouldn’t be the first big-league ballplayer to join us. And I’ll make you the same offer I made the others: We’ll waive the ten-dollar klectoken and give you a free membership.”

“Why?”

“I’ll be honest,” Vaughn said. “Because it’s an attraction for others who might be interested in joining. Doctors and lawyers are all well and good, but baseball players are
heroes.”

“I’m not interested in helping you attract more members.”

“It’s to help yourself, too, son. We don’t advocate violence, but we do believe in protecting our own. And that might come in handy for you with the trouble that’s brewing in East St. Louis. Like you said, you played for a team sponsored by a Klansman—and that might make you a target for our enemies. So you might as well join us and enjoy the protection and other benefits that come with membership.”

I was more interested in what he’d said about ballplayers. “What major leaguers are in the Klan?”

Vaughn smiled. “You’ll find out when you join.”

“If you intend to use ballplayers as drawing cards, you’re gonna have to say who they are.”

“All in good time,” the kleagle answered. “But for now, I will tell you that one of the biggest stars in St. Louis is a Knight of the Ku Klux Klan. And Tater Greene pointed out a few more of your teammates who might be good candidates.”

I stood. “Well, it’s been real nice talking to you,” I said facetiously, “but you’re not going to sell me on this.”

He tugged at the sleeve of my jacket, then reached inside his own coat and pulled out a couple of pamphlets. “Just take a look at these sometime, Mr. Rawlings.” He put the papers in my pocket. “Might clear up some of the misapprehensions you have about who we are.”

I knew it would be pointless to argue with him or to tell him what I really thought of his group. “I’m just not a joiner,” I said, and walked away.

On my way out of the station, I stopped at the cigar stand where Tater Greene was standing idly. “You can go back,” I said. “He’s finished his sales pitch.”

“Sorry, Mickey. This wasn’t my idea. Vaughn’s all het up on the idea of recruiting ballplayers.”

“What the hell is a ‘kleagle’ anyway?”

“A salesman, basically. There’s a couple hundred of them around the country signing up new members. Buddy Vaughn is one of the important ones, from what I hear. Came in from Evansville a couple days ago to build up membership in the St. Louis area.”

Although Greene and I had never been particularly friendly, I’d always thought he was basically a decent guy, if not a bright one. “What are you doing with these people, Tater? You really believe in what they say?”

“Some of it.” He fidgeted uncomfortably. “I go along with the parts I agree with, and I ignore what I don’t.” Greene smiled weakly. “Kind of like religion, I guess.”

I shook my head, at a loss to grasp the attraction of the Klan. “It just doesn’t make sense to me, Tater.”

“It’s good to be part of something,” my former teammate tried to explain. “When I was in baseball, I was always part of a team. Once I wasn’t in the big leagues no more, I was just me again—and that was the same as being nothin’. I ain’t even got a wife or kids.” He rubbed his stubbly chin. “You know how I got the name ‘Tater’?”

I shook my head no, although I’d assumed it was because his head looked like one.

“A little over a year ago,” Greene said, “I was working on a farm, picking sweet potatoes in Georgia. After twelve years as a major leaguer, I wasn’t no better than a sharecropper. Then Roy Enoch came through town on a business trip. He saw me play in a pickup game and hired me for his dealership so I could play for him. Now I got a good job, I’m playing baseball ... and I belong again.”

I still didn’t understand the appeal of the Ku Klux Klan, but I could sympathize with the desire not to be alone.

 

For now, at least, I still had somebody to go home to.

I flagged a taxi on Market Street, eager to see Margie again. I still hadn’t forgiven her for not telling me about her marital status, but the hurt and anger were no longer as acute.

When I got home and saw her curled up on the sofa, all I felt was affection. Margie was fast asleep, using my old flannel bathrobe as a blanket.

I brushed her hair from her face and kissed her awake.

“What time is it?” she asked sleepily.

“Late. I’m sorry; the train got delayed in Indiana.” I didn’t mention my meeting with Buddy Vaughn and Tater Greene.

“S’okay.” She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “How’s your knee?”

“Back to normal.”

“So you might play tomorrow?” Margie adjusted the robe around her, and I noticed she was wearing only a chemise underneath.

“Huh?”

“Are you playing tomorrow? I’ll come to the game if you want.”

“Oh, no. I have a feeling Fohl is gonna wait a while before letting me start again.” I didn’t explain why.

We talked a little while longer. Then, when we were both sufficiently awake, we went to bed and did our utmost to pretend that there wasn’t anything wrong between us.

L
ee Fohl had to put me in the lineup sooner than I expected. In the fourth inning of Wednesday’s game against Boston, Marty McManus got beaned by a Jack Quinn fastball that left him with blurry vision. I was sent in to pinch-run, and immediately proved to Fohl that my knee was fully healed by stealing second and then third before scoring on a Johnny Tobin single.

The rest of the game, a 9—2 rout of the Red Sox, was equally successful; I went 2-for-2 at the plate, including a triple, and made no errors in the field. More importantly, McManus turned out to be all right; by the ninth inning his vision was back to normal, and he complained only of a headache.

In the clubhouse afterward, as we stripped out of our uniforms, I gave McManus some more helpful advice. “Never take a fastball to the head,” I told him. “Always jump up so it hits you in the ass instead.”

The kid must have still been woozy, because he actually considered that for a moment before he realized I was pulling his leg.

I was about to hit the shower when a high, whiny voice asked, “Excuse me, but can I trouble you for an interview?”

There was Karl Landfors at my elbow, the last person I ever expected to see in a locker room. “What are you doing here?” I asked, too surprised to come up with a more courteous greeting.

Under his breath, he answered, “I need to speak with you.”

Must be important for Karl to come into the clubhouse, I thought. His natural environment was a musty library or a museum. Judging by his wrinkled nose and sour expression, the rank locker-room atmosphere wasn’t agreeing with him.

“How’d you get in?” I asked.

“I still have newspaper credentials. I came in with the other writers.” The usual sportswriters were in the clubhouse talking with the usual stars. How Karl passed for one of them amazed me; credentials or not, he didn’t look any more like a sportswriter than he did a baseball player.

I cinched a towel around my waist. “Okay. What’s the problem?”

Karl took a notepad from inside his standard black jacket and pretended to be interviewing me. Keeping his voice low, he said, “There’s been more trouble in East St. Louis. The home of Denver Jones was burned to the ground. He’s the—”

“Cubs’ catcher.” The fellow who’d picked up my bat. “Is he ... ?”

“He’s fine. The Cubs were on the road, so he wasn’t at home. His wife and children were, but they were driven out of the house before it was torched.”

“Who did it?”

Karl started to answer, but hesitated when George Sisler came within earshot. Trying to maintain the pretense that he was a sportswriter, Karl asked loudly, “Why don’t second basemen play right next to the base the way first and third basemen do?”

Sisler burst out laughing when he heard this. When he could speak again, he asked Karl, “Who the hell do you write for—the
Ladies’ Home Journal?”
Still chuckling, the Browns’ first baseman went to the showers.

Karl asked me, “That wasn’t a good question?”

“At least you didn’t ask how many stitches there are on a baseball.” I glanced around to check that no one was in listening range. “So who burned his house? Do you know?”

“A gang of white men wearing pillow cases with eyeholes. There were no burning crosses or KKK insignia.”

“Still could have been the Klan,” I said. “Or guys working for Enoch who wanted to hit back at somebody for the cars’ being damaged.”

“That’s what we’re trying to ascertain,” Karl said. “Could you come with me to see Franklin Aubury again?”

“I guess. When?”

“Soon as you have your clothes on.”

I agreed. But I left Karl with a warning as I headed to the showers: “Don’t try to interview any of the other players.”

He agreed on the condition that I later answer his question about second base.

 

I explained it to him on the trolley down to Compton Hill, a racially mixed neighborhood on St. Louis’s near south side. Karl admitted to me that while I was in the shower, he did pass the time by counting the stitches on a baseball, and found there were 108. That discovery virtually doubled the sum total of his baseball knowledge.

When we arrived at the Aubury home, a narrow, two-story redbrick house overlooking Compton Hill Reservoir, Franklin Aubury greeted us at the door. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Sorry to take you so far out of your way, but I decided not to go to the office today; after the news about Denver Jones, I wanted to remain with my family.”

Aubury’s family consisted of his short, buxom wife Ethel and two pretty daughters, ages about four and six. The girls were clearly enjoying having their father home, and stayed close on his heels.

After the introductions, Ethel said, “Ten minutes till dinner. Hope you’re hungry.”

While she went back to the kitchen, Aubury led Karl and me into the parlor, the girls following. From the enticing aroma that filled the house, I was glad that we were meeting here instead of at the law office.

We talked about that day’s ball game while we waited to be called in to supper. Aubury’s younger daughter stayed close to him, playing with his watch fob. The older girl developed a fascination with Karl; to his obvious discomfort, she kept trying to peer up his cavernous nostrils. I egged her on by telling her that he kept spare change in his nose.

Ethel’s announcement that dinner was ready came none too soon for Karl. We all filed into the small kitchen and sat down around an oak dining table laden with thick pork chops, baked apples, green leafy vegetables, and pitchers of lemonade and iced tea.

It was rare that I had a family meal, and I enjoyed watching and listening to the interactions of the Auburys. I’d like this for myself someday, I thought, a home with a wife and children. I began to picture myself with Margie and a couple of kids, but the image shattered when I suddenly wondered if maybe she already had children, too, that she hadn’t told me about.

“Go on, eat your greens,” Ethel said.

I looked up and was relieved to see she was talking to the girls, not me. I was planning to hide as much of the vegetation as I could under the pork bones and apple skins.

“Look at Mr. Rawlings,” she went on, trying to convince the girls. “He’s a baseball player, and he eats them.”

So much for my plans. With the girls’ eyes upon me I dug into the greens, and tried to pretend that I liked them. Karl watched also, with great amusement; he knew that popcorn was the closest thing to a vegetable that I would normally eat.

After we’d all cleaned our plates, Franklin Aubury pushed back his chair. “Shall we adjourn to the den, gentlemen?”

I asked Ethel, “Can I help with the dishes?”

She laughed, “Well, there’s a first!” More to her husband than to me, she added, “Never heard a man ask to help with dishes in
this
house before. Thank you, Mr. Rawlings, but you all go ahead into the ‘den’—and if you find any straight pins, it’s because that used to be my sewing room.”

Whatever the tiny room was called, it looked like a smaller version of Aubury’s law office, and was similarly packed with books and papers. “I do some work here when I’m home,” he explained.

There was barely space enough for Karl and me to wedge ourselves into a couple of straight-backed chairs. Aubury half sat, half leaned against a sewing-machine cabinet that served as a desk.

Karl spoke first, “I told Mickey about what happened in Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn?” I asked.

“Not the one with the Dodgers,” said Aubury. “It’s a village north of East St. Louis, almost entirely Negro, and where Denver Jones and his family
used
to live.”

“Franklin and I have been talking,” Karl said. “We’re wondering if somebody is going after the Cubs’ team. Slip Crawford beat the Elcars and he was lynched. Franklin tells me that Jones performed well in that game, and now his home gets burned down—”

Aubury put in, “No doubt he would have been killed, too, had he been there.”

“You think somebody’s trying to wipe out their entire lineup?” I was skeptical of that notion.

“Do you have another idea?” Karl asked.

Not really, but that didn’t stop me from speculating. “Tater Greene told me there was bad blood between the teams for a couple of years. Maybe the attacks are over something that happened a long time ago.”

“I suppose that’s a possibility,” Karl said.

Aubury removed his pince-nez and rubbed the indentations they left on his nose. “A slim one,” he said. “Remember, Crawford was never part of the team; he only pitched that one game for them.”

I considered the theory that Cubs’ players were being targeted because of the game. “If they’re going after the best players first,” I said, “I can guess who’s next on the list: Bell, the center fielder. Fast as lightning.”

“Jimmy Bell,” said Aubury. “He’s actually a pitcher, not an outfielder; he was moved to center for that game because of Slip Crawford being brought in to pitch. The ironic thing is, with Crawford being killed, the St. Louis Stars have signed Bell to take his spot on their pitching staff.”

I thought a bit more and decided the idea of the entire Cubs’ lineup being knocked off was too far-fetched anyway. “My guess,” I said, “is that Jones’s house being burned down wasn’t part of any big plan. More likely, the Elcars just wanted to get back at somebody for bustin’ up their automobiles; they didn’t know who was really responsible, so they put the blame on the Cubs.”

“I suppose that would be a simpler explanation,” said Aubury, and Karl agreed.

It occurred to me that the two of them probably never placed any stock in the other theory; they just wanted to draw me into discussing it—and into getting further involved, no doubt. “What is it you want me to do?” I asked.

Aubury said, “We’d like you to make some further inquiries—about the arson at the Jones house. It may not be clear exactly what the connection is between that incident and Crawford’s lynching, but it seems likely that there is
some
relation. Whatever information you can obtain about Jones’s home being burned down might also be helpful in solving the Crawford case.”

“The other side’s trying to recruit me, too,” I said.

“The Elcars?” Aubury asked.

“The Klan.” I gave them a report on my encounter with kleagle Buddy Vaughn. “Vaughn didn’t come just to talk to me,” I added. “He came from Evansville to build up KKK membership in St. Louis.”

“Damn,” Aubury said. “This is one of the few cities in the Midwest where they haven’t been able to establish a foothold. I was hoping it would remain that way.”

“I have an idea,” said Karl. “Perhaps Mickey should join the Klan. It would be a good way of finding out what they’re up to.”

I immediately said, “No. I won’t do that.” Hell, I couldn’t even keep my identity secret playing as a ringer in a baseball game; I certainly wasn’t going to risk going into the Ku Klux Klan as a spy.

Karl and Aubury both tried to convince me, but I remained adamant. “You know,” I said, “I don’t even understand what the goal of all this is.”

“What do you mean?” asked Aubury.

“Suppose I do learn who burned down Jones’s house, or even who killed Crawford. What does that accomplish? Are they going to be arrested? Will they be brought to trial and put in jail?”

Neither Aubury nor Karl answered.

I went on, “If mob action is legal, what’s the point of investigating it like it was a crime?”

After a few moments’ thought, Aubury said, “I wish we had antilynching statutes. And I wish we had police and prosecutors who would enforce them. But we don’t. All we can do for now is attempt to remain informed—and use what information we can garner to try to prevent further violence. Perhaps we can get a warning to an intended victim. Or put one or two of the mob agitators out of commission.” He didn’t specify what he meant by that last sentence, and I wasn’t going to ask.

“All right,” I decided. “I’ll do some more asking around. But I’m
not
joining the Klan.”

“Fair enough,” said Aubury. “Whatever you can do, and whatever you can learn, will be appreciated.” He then squeezed between Karl and me and pulled a short stack of newspapers from a bookshelf. “These might be useful to you. There isn’t much about colored issues or colored baseball in the white newspapers. You might want to read these and get some background information.”

I saw that the publication was the
St. Louis Argus.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll take a look at them when I get—” Oh, jeez. I’d forgotten to call Margie to tell her I’d be late.

 

From the fire in her eyes, I could tell that Margie was on the brink of exploding. But she restrained herself, waiting to see if I had a good explanation.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “I got tied up with Karl and Franklin Aubury.”

Her eyes flared a little brighter, suggesting I’d better elaborate.

“Somebody burned down the house of a Cubs’ player—he was the catcher in that East St. Louis game. Nobody died, but Karl and Aubury think that was just a matter of luck. They expect there’s more trouble coming, and they wanted to talk to me about it.”

“All right,” Margie said, visibly calmer. “I wish you had called, though.”

“I really didn’t have a chance. Karl was in such a hurry to tell me, he came right into the clubhouse after the game.”

Margie turned toward the kitchen. “Dinner’s been ready for a couple of hours. I’ll heat it up again, and then we can eat.”

“Not for me. Aubury’s wife fed us.”

She spun back. “You didn’t have a chance to call, but you had time to eat? He doesn’t have a telephone?”

I realized too late that I should have forced myself to eat a second meal. “I just
forgot.
I’m sorry.”

“How could you ‘just forget’?”

“It happens sometimes.”