Hanging Curve (25 page)

I
never thought it would happen, but at midnight, as June turned into July, I was attired in the white hood and robe of a Knight of the Ku Klux Klan. Karl Landfors wore a similar costume, but his was the green outfit of a Grand Titan, a rank higher than that of Exalted Cyclops Roy Enoch.

“Maybe they won’t be able to pick him up,” I said.

“If he’s home, they’ve got him,” Karl said confidently.

The two of us were in an abandoned boathouse on the shore of Horseshoe Lake, north of East St. Louis. We sat a while longer, waiting, in the dim light of a small kerosene lamp, listening to the crickets and owls.

“You sure you know what to say?” I asked.

“We’ve been over it often enough.”

I said nothing more until we heard a car pull up near the boathouse.

We nodded at each other, lowered our masks, and stood up.

In walked two muscle-bound young men in street clothes, prodding along a smaller man shrouded in a burlap sack. From within, came the muffled yelp of Brian Padgett, “Let me out of here! What the hell’s the big idea?”

I took some pleasure in watching him endure what I’d been through.

The two big fellows donned hoods and robes as white as their skin, then jerked the sack off of Padgett. “Sit,” one of them ordered.

Padgett’s eyes lit on Karl’s uniform, and he was clearly awed by it. He might never have seen such a high-ranking Klansman. A rough shove sent the Elcars’ shortstop toward a straight-backed chair next to the lamp. The second man pushed him down into the seat and promptly tied him in place with a rope.

Karl stood a few feet in front of Padgett, I stood behind Karl’s shoulder, and the two big men positioned themselves on either side of our captive.

“What is this,” Padgett pleaded, “some kind of initiation?”

“No,” answered Karl in a surly voice. “This is an inquiry.”

“But why’d you drag me—” Padgett squawked as a hard slap to the side of his head sent him crashing to the floor.

“Speak when spoken to,” said the man who hit him.

The other man pulled Padgett upright.

I didn’t know where Karl had found these two, but they were playing their parts perfectly—they even scared the hell out of me.

Padgett’s frightened eyes darted from one to the other. “Okay,” he said softly, as if unsure that even this much speaking was allowed.

“First question,” said Karl. “Did you, or did you not, take an oath to ‘heed all Imperial mandates, decrees, edicts, rulings, and instructions’?”

“I did. But I—” Another blow to the head let Padgett know that he was not supposed to elaborate. I found the sound of a fist on Padgett’s head quite satisfying; I only wished it was my fist doing the punching.

“And were you, or were you not, informed that the Invisible Empire does not want its Knights involved in acts of violence?”

“I was.”

“Then what in damnation was the idea of lynching that darky pitcher? We have bigger plans than lynching a nigger over a baseball game!”

“We didn’t—”

Karl held up his hand to interrupt. “Before you say anything more, I have another question: Have you read your
Kloran
?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know the penalty for lying to an officer of the Invisible Empire.”

Padgett nodded meekly.

“Good,” said Karl. “Now, bearing that in mind, you may answer.”

“We didn’t kill him because of the ball game.”

“Then why?”

“He insulted a white woman.”

“How?”

“After the game, the nigger was bragging he was gonna celebrate by screwin’ one of our women.”

“You heard him say that?”

“No. Another player did—J. D. Whalen. And J. D. told us Crawford pointed to my fiancee when he said it.” Padgett was starting to display the anger that he must have felt when he heard Whalen tell him that. “We
had
to do it. Got to protect the women, right?”

That was the usual excuse the Klan gave to justify the most vicious violence: protecting American womanhood.

Karl said, “So you took it upon yourself to lynch Crawford without permission from your Exalted Cyclops?”

That was one of the questions I had: Did Roy Enoch order the lynching, or was it an unsanctioned act by some hotheads?

Padgett squirmed. “No sir. We wasn’t gonna lynch him at all. We just brought him to the ballpark, to give him a beating and teach him a lesson. But he wouldn’t admit to what he said.” He added with some admiration, “Pounded the hell out of him, but he swore he never said nothing about any white woman.”

Apparently, it never occurred to Padgett that Whalen was lying. “Go on,” prodded Karl.

“Then somebody said ‘hang him.’ ”

“Who said it?”

“I dunno.” One of the men next to Padgett cocked his fist. “Really, I don’t!”

Karl shook his head, and no punch was thrown.

Padgett appeared grateful. “Guys were yelling all along—‘Hit him again,’ ‘Kick him’—and we kept doing it. Then somebody said, ‘Hang him,’ and all of a sudden there was a rope.”

“So you strung him up.” Karl’s voice cracked, and I feared he might give himself away.

“You know how it is,” Padgett whined. “Who’s gonna say, ‘No, let’s not’? So we went ahead and hung him.”

By then, Padgett seemed more pathetic than evil.

Karl looked at me, and I nodded slightly toward the door. If we asked too many questions, Padgett would get suspicious; we had to limit ourselves to what we could pretend we knew.

In the most ominous tone he could muster, Karl said to Padgett, “Consider yourself warned: If there are
any
further actions that could reflect badly on the Invisible Empire,
you
will suffer the consequences.”

With that, Karl spun about to make a regal exit. The two large men and I followed. When we got to the Buick sedan, we could hear Padgett yell, “You can’t just leave me here!”

“How’s he gonna get out?” I asked as we got into the car.

The driver said, “Depends. If he’s smart, he’ll realize he can slip the rope off the leg of the chair. If he tries to untie the knot, he’ll be there all night.”

He’ll be there all night, I thought.

The four of us removed our robes and hoods, and then we drove away, the big men sitting up front and Karl and me in the back.

As I folded the robes, I asked Karl, “You got to get these back to Chicago?”

“Yes, perhaps they’ll come in useful again.” He stuffed the robes and hoods into a leather satchel.

“By the way,” I said, “what is the penalty for lying to an officer of the Klan?”

“I have no idea.”

“But you asked Padgett if he read his
Kloran
.”

“He didn’t strike me as the reading type. So I figured if I bluffed, he’d assume the worst.”

The two men dropped Karl and me off downtown near Union Station, where they’d picked us up a couple of hours earlier. “They did a helluva job,” I said. “I didn’t know you knew any muscle guys, just college boys.”

Karl smiled. “They
are
college boys—and the pride of their school’s football team.”

“You sure you can trust them to keep quiet about this?”

“Oh yes. The college they play for is Notre Dame. Catholics are no greater fans of the Klan than the NAACP is.”

I smiled, but a pang shot through me that caused me to feel less cocky about what we’d done. “Do you realize, Karl, that we just committed a
kidnapping?
”

He rubbed his long nose. “Yes, I suppose we have.” After a moment of thoughtful silence, he added, “But I can live with that.”

I decided I could, too.

Then I looked at Karl, who had really impressed me this night. I’d had to let him do the talking at the boathouse since Padgett might have recognized my voice, but I’d worried whether Karl could pull off the impersonation of a Klan official. He’d sure thrown himself into the role, though, and Padgett never showed any sign of suspecting the ruse.

Just before we split up, I said, “You know, if you ever want to get into acting, I’ll bet Margie still knows some people in Hollywood. You did great, Karl.”

He doffed his cap and made an elaborate bow.

A
lthough I’d gotten in late from my outing with Karl Landfors, the experience had me too energized to get much sleep. Shortly after dawn, I was awake for good, while Margie still slept soundly.

For a while, I just lay next to her, enjoying the fact that my back had healed to the point where I could once again join her in our bed. Almost all that remained from the whipping I’d received was that I would have some ugly scars. But since I couldn’t see them, I wasn’t going to worry about how they looked.

As Margie shifted on the mattress and purred softly into her pillow, I had one of those brainstorms I get sometimes when I haven’t had enough sleep. I thought it would be nice to repay her for the way she’d taken care of me by making her Sunday breakfast.

I slipped out from under the covers and went out to the kitchen, where I began to gather all the utensils I assumed were involved in preparing breakfast. I was familiar with the coffeepot; the rest might as well have been chemistry equipment.

After spreading a fair number of pots and pans on the kitchen table, I stepped back and decided that it might be better to take Margie out to breakfast. I began putting them back in the cupboard, when I knocked an iron skillet to the floor. It sounded as if an automobile had run into the house. I remained motionless for a moment, hoping Margie hadn’t awoken, then began putting them away again.

“What are you doing?” she asked sleepily from the doorway.

I confessed, “I was going to make you breakfast.”

She stifled a laugh. “That’s so sweet!” Looking over the mess I’d managed to create before I’d even started on the food, she added, “Can I help?”

“Maybe you could give me some hints on what to do.”

Ten minutes later, Margie was preparing eggs, toast, and pancakes, while I manned the coffeepot. As I waited for it to brew, I filled Margie in on what Karl and I had learned from Brian Padgett.

She said, “You don’t believe that Slip Crawford really said something about Padgett’s girlfriend, do you?”

“Not for a minute. J. D. Whalen must have lied about that.”

“Could I have the butter, please?” After I handed it to her, Margie asked, “But
why
would he lie?”

“The way I figure,” I said, “is that Padgett probably has the worst temper on the Elcars’ team. I saw it when we almost had a fight during the game, and then again at the car lot when another salesman was talking to Doreen. If Whalen wanted to get the Elcars riled up against Crawford, the best way to do it would be to claim to Padgett that Crawford had said something about Doreen.”

“But why would he want to get the Elcars to attack Crawford? Because he beat them?” Margie sounded as perplexed as I’d felt most of the night.

“Maybe because Crawford embarrassed him during the game. Whalen looked awful bad, first backing down against him when he went to the mound, and then striking out in a critical spot.” I poured a couple mugs of coffee. “It might fit with what happened to Denver Jones, too. Jones plowed into Whalen during that game, so maybe Whalen got the Elcars to torch his house.”

“That sounds awfully extreme to me,” Margie said. “Ballplayers look bad in games all the time. They don’t kill or burn down a house because of it.”

“I know. It doesn’t really make sense to me, either.”

Margie flipped the pancakes over. “Maybe Whalen instigated things but never expected them to go as far as they did.”

“Could be. Padgett did say they only intended to beat Crawford, not kill him.” Unless, I thought, Whalen was the one who’d said, “Hang him.” Maybe he did want the pitcher killed all along.

After we sat down and began eating, Margie asked, “What’s the next step?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Seems like I’ve run out of ways to get information. Tater Greene is dead, and none of the other Elcars will talk to me now. I can’t pretend I’m interested in joining the Klan; they won’t buy that story anymore.”

“Brian Padgett told you quite a bit last night. Maybe you could try him again.”

“I think we got as much as we can out of him. He only talked last night because he thought Karl Landfors was a Grand Titan in the Klan. If I show up asking questions, he’ll just be suspicious—and he won’t tell me anything.”

Margie paused from stirring sugar in her coffee. With a look of concern, she asked, “Aren’t you worried about the Klan finding out that somebody impersonated them?”

“It will be a while before they find out. Padgett will be too embarrassed by what happened to him to want to tell anyone.” I know I certainly had been.

We worked on the food for a while, then Margie suggested, “If you’re out of leads, why don’t you let me try something?”

I thought of what the Klan had done to me in Forest Park. “I really wouldn’t like for you... it’s too dangerous.”

Margie pushed her plate to the side. “A couple of months ago, I told you I had an idea for getting some information and you wouldn’t even hear me out. At least listen to me now—please.”

Eventually I learn. “Of course,” I said. “What’s your idea?”

She smiled slightly at my response. “You remember during the Elcars’ game, I sat with the other women in the stands?”

I nodded.

“Most of them were wives or girlfriends of the players. Doreen was there, and so was Enoch’s daughter Jessalyn. Let me talk to them.”

“That’s a great idea, but if you show up asking questions, they’re sure to get suspicious.”

“I don’t have to question them, and they don’t have to know who I am,” she said. “I’ll just go to their next game, and sit near them again. They spent most of the game gossiping, so with a little nudging, I’ll bet I can learn a few things.”

That did sound like a good idea. “I’ll find out when their next game is,” I said.

This meant, though, that Margie had something to do, while I was still at a loss for my next step. I wondered if perhaps I should take the risk of talking to Whalen directly to find out why he’d lied to Padgett about Slip Crawford. I thought it over, and suddenly realized that Whalen had told me a lie, too.

I got up and refilled Margie’s and my coffee cups. I told her, “When I asked Whalen why he backed down after Crawford threw at him, he told me Crawford
apologized
for the ball getting away from him. But when Franklin Aubury and I were in Indianapolis, the ABCs players told us that Crawford would knock down his own mother without saying he was sorry.”

“Maybe he mellowed when he joined the Stars?” Margie suggested.

“No, I don’t think so. Plunk Drake—he pitches for the Stars—he told us that Bill Gatewood orders his pitchers to throw at batters for target practice. Crawford would have probably become even tougher with the Stars, not softer.”

I began to clear the dishes. What had Crawford really said to Whalen, I wondered. Was it something that would make Whalen want to kill him?

It wasn’t until I’d settled into my parlor chair with the morning newspaper that I thought of a way to find out. Now Margie and I both had something to pursue.

 

The village of Brooklyn, north of East St. Louis, on the Mississippi River, was nothing like the one in New York. There was no Coney Island, no Ebbets Field, no Greenlawn Park. Virtually the only structures were small houses and shacks, occupied entirely by Negroes. One of the larger houses—about the size of a bungalow—was the new home of East St. Louis Cubs catcher Denver Jones.

He greeted me warmly when I arrived at his doorstep Monday evening. I’d asked Franklin Aubury to call him for me, so the big catcher was expecting me.

When Jones invited me inside, I looked around the simple parlor. It had a cozy feel, but there seemed to be something missing. “You all settled in?” I asked.

“Pretty much,” he answered. “But I’m missing the wife and kids. Ain’t really a home without ’em.”

“They’re not here with you?”

“Sent them to live with my sister in Chicago for a while. Until things calm down around here.” He offered me a seat in an overstuffed chair. “Oh, thanks again for the help at the ballpark—and for the gear. It helped get us back in business.”

“Glad to do it,” I said. “As for things calming down, I’m trying to help with that, too, if I can.”

“Mr. Aubury mentioned that. Says you’re one of the good guys.” A smile lit up his broad, round face. “But I already knew that—I seen how you worked at the park.”

“Thanks. You probably thought different when you first saw me in an Elcars uniform, though.”

“Sure did.” He handed me a beer. “But opinions change.”

I leaned forward. “Let me ask you about that game. When Slip Crawford threw at J. D. Whalen, Whalen started out to the mound to go after him. But Crawford said something that made Whalen back down. You were right on Whalen’s tail, ready to break up a fight if it came to that. You must have heard what Crawford said.”

“Yeah, I did.” Jones shifted in his chair. “But it didn’t make no sense to me. Slip must have known what he was doing though—he got Whalen shook-up enough to strike him out easy.”

“What exactly did Crawford say?”

“He asked Whalen a question: ‘You don’t got a tire iron with you this time?’ ”

“What does that mean?” Was it some kind of colored slang that I was unfamiliar with?

“I got no idea,” said Jones.

Great, I thought. Now all I have is more questions to answer.