Hanging Curve (14 page)

“Yes.”

“And, whether you played or not, you were well compensated. You didn’t play an inning in the exhibition series with the Cards, but Mr. Ball still gave you the same hundred-buck bonus he gave everybody else.”

I bit back the impulse to say that I’d have paid the Browns’ owner a hundred dollars to let me play. Silently, I waited to hear my punishment. Fohl still wouldn’t look at me, so I had the feeling it was going to be severe.

“I’m gonna have to suspend you,” he finally said. “Fifteen days.”

I was actually relieved to hear that I was still with the club.

“Ruth got a thirty-day suspension,” the manager went on, “so you’re getting off light. And it’s because I
like
the fact that you’re so eager to play.”

At least I finally have something in common with Babe Ruth, I thought. Then I remembered that the Babe’s suspension had come from Commissioner Landis. “Am I being suspended by the team, or by Landis?” I asked.

“By Mr. Ball. But we had to run it past the commissioner. Especially since the team you played against was colored.”

“That matters?”

“Not to me, it don’t. But it sure does to Landis. He won’t say so publicly, but he don’t want major leaguers playing against coloreds—makes us look bad when we lose. He’s probably gonna issue some rules on it later this year. Anyway, that’s why we made it fifteen days—any less and he might have tacked on a lot more. As it is, he figures we’re handling it okay, so he won’t take any further action.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “how did you find out I played in East St. Louis?”

“I heard from Mr. Ball. Don’t know how he heard about it.”

Enough people knew about me playing with the Elcars, I thought, that it could have been almost anyone involved in that game. “When’s the suspension start?”

Fohl put down the baseballs with a thump. “Already has. Go home.”

As I went back to my locker for my hat and coat, I thought at least now I could spend twenty-four hours a day waiting for Margie to come back.

T
he Capital Theatre on Chestnut Street was almost empty Thursday afternoon. Most people were at work, and those with the day off were probably at Sportsman’s Park watching the Browns play the Philadelphia Athletics. I was among the handful sitting in the dark watching Douglas Fairbanks cavort about in
Robin Hood.

Soon after Lee Fohl gave me the opportunity to spend all my time at home, I found I couldn’t stand to be there. For the last two days, I’d been avoiding the apartment, spending most of my time in moving-picture theaters and living on popcorn and ginger ale.

The movies were a mental escape for me, a way to avoid thinking about Margie or the Browns. They’d both abandoned me, so why shouldn’t I purge them from my thoughts? Unfortunately, without Margie or baseball, there wasn’t much left in my life. So I watched the shadow lives of celluloid characters whose problems were always happily resolved in the final reel. I’d seen
Foolish Wives, Orphans of the Storm,
and the latest Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd comedies. They were a distraction, but reality kept nagging at me from the recesses of my brain.

All of a sudden, while Fairbanks dueled the Sheriff of Nottingham, I decided I’d had enough of watching people who didn’t exist. It was time to do like Karl Landfors, and get back in the fight, back to trying to find out who killed Slip Crawford and why.

At least, with my present situation, I was freer to do so. The question, once again, was where to start.

I decided to concentrate on the possibility that the lynching could have been a cover for murder. That meant find a motive. I had to talk to people who knew Crawford and find out who might have had a grudge against him.

The first person I thought I should speak with was Crawford’s widow Hannah. But I didn’t know what to say to her—“Excuse me, ma’am, but do you know why anyone would want to kill your husband?” Maybe I should start with Crawford’s teammates from the St. Louis Stars or the Indianapolis ABCs. Often teammates know a player better than his family does. But the Stars were on the road and wouldn’t be back for more than a month.

I was stuck for a plan to learn about Slip Crawford, but I did have an idea for getting more information on the Klan’s possible role in his death. It was time for another visit to East St. Louis.

 

Morning sunshine glinted off the shiny new automobiles on the lot of the Enoch Motor Car Company. It was a different selection from what I’d seen last time, with many new ones to replace the cars that had been vandalized.

Brian Padgett looked the same; the little shortstop was again dressed like a vaudeville comic. He was outside the sales office, with a pretty young lady in an ankle-length summer frock. Her flaming red hair was brighter than any of the automobiles, and she held a lacy parasol to protect her fair skin from the sun. From the way she and Padgett were talking and laughing together, I assumed she was the Doreen that Tater Greene had mentioned. Whoever she was, Padgett was certainly intent on impressing her—he kept trying to lift the rear end of an Auburn roadster, undeterred by repeated failures.

“Can I help you, sir?” Another salesman, older and more tastefully dressed than Padgett, had come up behind me.

“Just looking, thanks.”

“We have quite a few new models just in. I’m sure we could put you behind the wheel of exactly the right—”

“Hey!” Padgett yelled, as he came running over. “This is
my
customer,” he said to the other salesman. “You better not even think about poaching.”

“I didn’t know he was yours. Besides, you’re on lunch.”

“Well, now
you’re
on lunch.”

“Fine by me.” The other salesman threw up his hands and walked to the office, shaking his head.

“Pushy sonofabitch,” Padgett muttered.

I thought Padgett the pushy one. “You’re sure devoted to your job,” I said. “If I was you, I’d have stayed with her.” I nodded toward Doreen. “She’s a pretty girl.”

“Yeah, she sure is.” From the grin on his face, I could tell he was thoroughly smitten by her. “But don’t get any ideas,” he added. “She’s spoken for.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything. Besides I have a—” I remembered that, no, I didn’t anymore.

Padgett launched into his sales pitch. “That Hupmobile you were interested in is gone. Coloreds came and busted up most of the cars on the lot. We could have had them refurbished, but we only sell the best. Speaking of which, let me show you a choice Essex Coach we just got in.”

As he led me to the green-and-black sedan, I said, “Damn shame somebody would destroy fine automobiles like that.”

“That’s how them niggers are. Don’t got no appreciation for property.”

“At least you got back for what they did,” I said. “I hear Denver Jones’s house got burned down.”

Padgett smiled. “Yeah, I heard the same thing.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

A scowl darkened his face. “I thought you wanted a car.”

“Oh, I do. But I also wanted to find out about this trouble with the Cubs. I mean, what if they do something now to get back for Jones’s house being burned?”

“We’ll take care of ourselves.”

“I hope so, because I might want to be part of that ‘we.’ Buddy Vaughn asked me to join the Klan. He says we all got to stick together.”

Padgett tilted back his porkpie hat. “For one thing, I didn’t hear nothin’ about the Klan being involved in torching Jones’s place. Was probably just a group of concerned citizens. But why you asking me?”

“It’s no secret that most of the guys here are Klansmen,” I said. “And I’m starting to think joining might not be a bad idea. Jones just caused me some trouble, too, and if there’s any more coming, I don’t want to be on my own.”

“What’d he do?”

I didn’t believe that it was the catcher who’d told the Browns about me—more likely it was the Klan wanting to pressure me to join—but I said, “My name’s Mickey Rawlings, not Welch. I play for the Browns. When I played for you guys, I used my own bat, and Jones saw my real name. A few days ago,
somebody
told the Browns about me playing as a ringer, and now I’m suspended.”

Padgett shook his head sympathetically.

I went on, “I didn’t have nothing to do with burning his house, so why’d he have to do that to me? Anyway, like I said, if there’s gonna be any more trouble, I’d rather have some friends on my side.”

Padgett’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Hey, what am I doing showing you an Essex? A big-league ballplayer should go first-class. We got a Paige 6-44 over here, a five-passenger touring car—more than you ever wanted in an automobile.”

“And you get more of a commission?” I ribbed him.

He laughed. “I can use it. Saving up to get married.”

It bothered me to hear that; not long ago, I had assumed that I would be in the same circumstance.

As we walked across the lot, I returned to the topic of the Ku Klux Klan. “At first I was bothered by what I read about the Klan being violent,” I said. “But I’m all in favor of self-defense. Sometimes you got to make a show of strength.”

“Exactly!” Padgett clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t know why some people can’t seem to understand that. If somebody’s acting up, you got to send him a message he’ll understand—and you got to make it convincing enough that he won’t try to answer back.”

“How convincing?” I asked. “Self-defense is one thing, but I don’t want to get mixed up in anything like the Crawford lynching. I’m not going to kill anybody over a ball game.”

“Hell,” Padgett scoffed. “I don’t know
anybody
who’d kill over a game. And I never heard nothing about the Klan being behind the Crawford hanging anyway.” He smiled. “I don’t mind admitting I’m a member. I’m
proud
to be a Knight of the Ku Klux Klan. And you’ll be, too, if you join us.” He then went on to point out the features of the Paige—leather upholstery, cord tires, and a six-cylinder engine that could go from five to twenty-five miles an hour in nine seconds flat.

I found myself getting tempted by the luxury automobile. A shiny new car might be just the thing to cheer me up—even though the $1,495 price would set me back about half a year’s salary.

Padgett said, “Tell you what: It’s a beautiful day for a drive. Why don’t you take her out for a test spin? See what fifty horsepower
feels
like.”

Too embarrassed to admit that I didn’t know how to drive, I tried to think of an excuse to decline his offer.

I was saved when Padgett spotted the other salesman chatting with Doreen. “Sonofabitch,” he hissed. “I’ll be right back.”

Although there was no indication that their conversation was anything but proper, Padgett ran over and railed at the other man until he retreated inside the office.

The sign above the office again caught my eye:
Komplete Kar Kare.
I couldn’t remember if there was a similar slogan at J. D. Whalen’s garage.

When Brian Padgett returned, I said I’d have to take a rain check on the test drive because I had a dentist appointment in St. Louis.

 

A brief trolley ride later, I was still in East St. Louis, but on Waverly Avenue, staring up at the shoddily painted sign of Waverly Motors. There was nothing on it that could be construed as a KKK endorsement.

I knew that there were other slogans, more subtle, that meant the same thing. Karl had told me of some he’d seen in Kentucky that read “TWK”: Trade With a Klansman. I walked closer to the garage, treading carefully over the rutted earth, to see if there were any such signs. Again, nothing.

The fellow J. D. Whalen had called Clint lumbered out of the garage wiping his greasy hands on a rag. “Can I help you?” He was wearing only denim overalls, no shirt. Even if the day had been cool, he wouldn’t have needed anything more than the thick black fur on his body to keep warm. He looked like a grizzly bear, only stronger.

I didn’t want to admit that I was only looking at his sign. “Is J. D. here?” I asked. “I talked to him about three weeks ago.”

Clint ran the rag across his cheek, making a rasping sound on the dark stubble that covered much of his broad face. “He’s over the river, trying to make a deal on some cars. Anything I can help you with?”

“I was just at Enoch’s dealership,” I said. “I’m in the market for a new car, and I thought I’d see what you and J. D. had before I made a decision. J. D. mentioned you might be getting some Hudsons.”

Clint chuckled. “One day he’s talkin’ Hudsons, the next day it’s Studebakers. Today, he’s looking at Gardners—figures since they’re made in St. Louis, we’ll get a lot of customers wanting to support local industry. I don’t know what we’re gonna end up with. How soon you lookin’ to buy?”

“No hurry. I can wait a while and see what you get.” I pushed the charade further. “I figure I’d rather give you my business seeing as how you’re just getting started.”

“Appreciate it,” Clint said. “It’ll mean a lot, especially to J. D.—he’s got a lot invested in this place.” He grinned. “And he sure would love taking a sale away from Roy Enoch.”

I pointed up to the Waverly Motors sign. “You don’t have the same advertising advantage as Enoch.”

“What do you mean?”

“His sign says, ‘Komplete Kar Kare’—so he’ll be getting business from the Klansmen around here.”

Clint grunted. “Yeah, I know. And the way the Klan’s growing, that kind of advertising’s probably a good idea. But all I want to do is work on cars.” He studied me a moment. “You a Knight?”

I wanted to sound neutral until I determined where
he
stood. “Not yet, but they been after me to join.”

“Take my advice: Think it over before you do. Ten dollars to join, then they sell you the robes and books ... comes to a lot of money.”

“I don’t have to pay,” I said. “Not the membership, anyway. I play for the St. Louis Browns, and they’re looking to recruit big-league ballplayers.”

Clint’s eyes widened. “The Browns? You for real?”

I nodded.

He began flexing his right arm as if loosening up to throw. “I love baseball. Used to play myself—and wasn’t half-bad. I was J. D.’s catcher when he pitched for Aluminum Ore.” His arm dropped to his side. “Seems like a million years ago. I’ve hardly played at all since the riot.”

“With what’s going on between the Elcars and the Cubs,” I said, “it looks like there could be another riot soon.”

“Nah.” He leaned back against an old Nash. “The Klan’ll keep things under control.”

“From what I read in the papers, Klansmen are the ones who get out of control.”

“Remember,” said Clint, “there was no Klan during the 1917 riot; it was a
mob
that did the killing and burning. A lot of good men got caught up in it and did some awful things they never would have dreamed of normally. But now the Klan will keep order and keep the hotheads in line—like the ones at Enoch’s place. I’m glad J. D. is out of there.”

“They cause a lot of trouble?”

“Don’t know if they
cause
it, but they’re always looking for a scrap. Especially with the coloreds. One of their salesmen got killed in the riot, and they won’t ever forget it.”

That came as news to me; Aubury had mentioned that a couple of whites were shot in the days before the riot, but not during the killing spree. “I thought it was only Negroes who were killed,” I said.

“Most of the dead were colored, but there were a few whites who ended up the same way. Some of the Negroes fought back, and I don’t blame them. I’d have done the same thing. You know, I got nothing against coloreds. Never did. And I hate what was done to them in ‘seventeen. I think the Klan will stop anything like that from happening again.”

It seemed a safe guess, but I thought I’d ask. “You in the Klan?”

“Well, I joined, but I’m not active.”