Hanging Curve (27 page)

B
y Friday night, I felt I needed the evening of dancing that Margie and I had planned. Despite the Marquette Hotel’s terrific band, though, I couldn’t get into a dancing mood. While other couples danced nearby, Margie patiently sat at the table, listening to me go on about J. D. Whalen.

“The problem,” I said, “is that I know what happened, but I don’t have any idea what to do about it. There doesn’t seem to be any way to nail Whalen for either murder. There’s no witness to him killing Lowrey anymore, and the only witnesses to Slip Crawford’s lynching are Klansmen—they sure won’t testify against Whalen.”

Margie suggested, “Maybe you should talk with Franklin Aubury. He’s a lawyer; he should know what you’d need to make a case against Whalen.”

“I don’t want to tell him that Whalen had Crawford killed by the Klan and got away with it because lynching isn’t a crime.” I took a sip of the champagne, which suddenly had a sour taste. “Whalen found the perfect murder weapon: a mob.”

“What about talking to Karl?”

“He might tell Aubury. And if Aubury decides there’s no legal recourse, maybe he’ll tell some of his ‘contacts’ about Whalen and let them take care of him. That will only cause more violence.” There appeared to be no hope of convicting anyone for Crawford’s death, so I considered Lowrey’s again. “Was there anything else you heard in Collinsville,” I asked Margie, “that might explain why Whalen killed Tim Lowrey?”

“No ... Just that he started pursuing Jessalyn Enoch soon afterward.”

I tried to piece together what Whalen had been doing around that time. “Ed Moss—the cop who manages the Blears—told me Whalen was practically starving after losing his job in the Aluminum Ore strike. But then Roy Enoch gives him a job in the garage, where he keeps hearing Lowrey brag about having it made by marrying Jessalyn. The riot breaks out, Enoch’s workers join in, Whalen finds himself alone in an alley with Lowrey, and kills him.”

Margie wrinkled her face. “Doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

“I doubt if it was a plan at all. Whalen didn’t know there’d be a riot that day, and with all that was going on—the killing and looting and burning—he couldn’t have been thinking clearly. He just saw an opportunity and took it. But why? Was he jealous of Lowrey, or tired of his bragging, or did he figure by getting Lowrey out of the way he could get Jessalyn for himself?”

“Maybe a little of everything,” said Margie. “Remember, Hannah Crawford told us a neighbor of hers was killed for a pair of shoes. If Whalen got it into his head that Lowrey had something he wanted, either his job or Jessalyn, maybe he simply decided to take advantage of the opportunity.”

No matter how close I thought I came to understanding what had happened, I could still see no way of putting it to use. The authorities certainly wouldn’t reopen the 1917 killing of Lowrey, especially with no witness. And they wouldn’t view the Crawford killing as “murder” at all.

At a complete loss on what to do next, I polished off a glass of champagne and asked Margie to dance.

 

There was one person, I decided, who didn’t have to be convinced what happened. He already knew everything about it, both the what and the why. All I had to do was convince him that he wasn’t alone in possessing that knowledge.

Saturday morning, I was again walking over the rutted dirt lot of Waverly Motors, toward the small office off the garage.

J. D. Whalen spotted my approach and met me outside. “Sorry I missed you yesterday,” he said sarcastically. “Somebody sent me on a wild-goose chase over to City Hall.” He pulled a cheroot from his jacket pocket and lit it up. “Heard you talked to Clint, though.”

I had no doubt that he believed I was the one who sent him on the wild-goose chase. Nor did I doubt that he knew what my questions to Clint were about. So there was no sense being other than direct with him now. “You’re a killer, J. D.,” I said. “And there are people who know it.”

He exhaled a stream of smoke. “That a fact?”

“You killed Tim Lowrey in 1917. There was a witness—Slip Crawford—so you had him killed, too. Whoever was involved with lynching Crawford knows that you’re the one who egged them on. You got to turn yourself in.”

Whalen took a leisurely drag on the cigar. “Assuming that what you say is true, then as far as killing Lowrey, it’d be my word against a nigger‘s—and a dead nigger at that. So I don’t see any reason why I should worry myself over that. Besides, everybody knows that it was niggers who killed white men in the ‘seventeen riots—it says so in the official reports. As far as Crawford getting strung up, that was because he insulted a white woman.”

“But you’re the only one who claims to have heard him.”

“I can get a dozen men to swear they heard him. Hell, I can get a hundred to swear to it.”

He could be right, I thought. I looked around at the crummy car lot. “Tell me something,” I said. “Was this worth it? You killed Lowrey, and this is all it got you. You didn’t get Jessalyn, you didn’t get Roy Enoch’s money, all you get is this.”

He answered contentedly, “I had five years of good living, and I put enough money away to build my own business. This place’ll make Enoch’s look like a shoeshine stand someday.”

That was close enough to an admission, that I ventured one more question. “
Why
did you kill Lowrey? Did you plan it, or did it just happen?”

He looked around and chewed on his cigar. In a low voice, he answered, “Wasn’t plannin’ nothing. He had things that I didn’t—money, good job, a girl—and he was always rubbin’ my nose in it. I never thought to do nothing to him, though. But when the riot hit, and everything was crazy, I just—I just looked at him, and decided I hated him. Everything was fair game that night—shooting, burning, stabbing—so it didn’t seem like nothing to take a swing at Lowrey’s head. Wasn’t till after he was buried that I thought I might try to get what he had for myself.” Whalen smiled slyly. “Now, I’m no lawyer, but I know you can’t do nothing about what I just said. Your word against mine.”

I wasn’t looking for a confession to take to the police, only to clear up in my own mind what he had done, and what I might elect to do about it. “Doesn’t matter what I know,” I said. “There’s other people who know what you did. Slip Crawford talked to people. And your pals in the Klan know who set them on to Crawford. If local Negroes or the Klan officers find out what you did, prison could be the safest place for you.”

He shook his head, appearing totally unconcerned. “If you believe I’m a killer,” he said, “you got to be pretty stupid to come here like this. Don’t you think I’d be willing to kill you, too?”

“I’m not worried,” I answered. “You don’t have a mob here to do your killing for you.”

He smiled again. “I can get one.”

 

After two days of looking over my shoulder, and worrying about Margie’s safety, I decided what I had to do. There was almost no chance of bringing J. D. Whalen to legal justice for the deaths of Tim Lowrey or Slip Crawford, and I had to give up that idea. The most I could hope to achieve would be to prevent further violence, and there was only one way I could see to bring that about.

Monday morning, the day before we were to leave for our road trip, I went to the Enoch Motor Car Company to have a conversation with Roy Enoch.

At first he was unwilling to see me, but I convinced first Doreen and then Enoch himself that it was important. I was sufficiently convincing that Enoch told the secretary and the two salesmen in the office to go outside so we could talk in private.

I then gave him the story of J. D. Whalen killing Tim Lowrey and using the Klan to cover it up by lynching Slip Crawford. As I spoke, Enoch’s stony face betrayed no sign of whether or not he believed me. Throughout, I forced myself to sound respectful toward the Exalted Cyclops, which was the most difficult part of the task. I omitted mention of Hannah Crawford and Denver Jones, to avoid putting them in danger.

When I finished, Enoch asked in his flat twang, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you run the Klan in this town, and you have the power to put an end to more violence. I’m betting you didn’t know about the Crawford lynching until after it happened. I know the Klan doesn’t want a reputation for violence, and you can stop it.”

“You’re interested in preserving our reputation?”

“No,” I answered honestly. “I’m just saying it’s in everyone’s interest to have the killing stopped.” I leaned forward. “I’ve read your pamphlets, and I’ve met some of your members who truly believe that the Klan is nothing more than a patriotic, Christian fraternal society. I’m hoping that’s what you believe and that once you know how your klavern’s been used to cover up personal crimes, you’ll make sure there’s no more attacks on colored people—or on me. There’s one person responsible for what’s happened here, and that’s J. D. Whalen.”

“Why should I take your word for all this?”

“You don’t have to. Talk to your own members, and the fellows who work for you. Think over what you know about Whalen and what you knew about Lowrey. Maybe talk to Jessalyn, too. And definitely talk to Whalen. Then make up your mind.”

A thoughtful nod was Enoch’s only answer.

 

I don’t know how much of an investigation Roy Enoch did, but he made up his mind in only a few days.

The Browns were in Philadelphia when Margie called me at the hotel with the news. J. D. Whalen had been killed in a tragic train accident, found crushed on one of the many railroad tracks that ran through East St. Louis. Good way, I thought, to cover up any injuries he might have had ahead of time—if he’d even been alive when he was put on the tracks.

I didn’t believe for a moment that it had been an accident, but it was smart of Enoch to make it appear that way. If the Klan had made it an obvious murder, other Klansmen might have thought he’d been killed by Negroes, and the revenge attacks would have only continued to escalate.

A
fter a two-week eastern road trip, I was back in St. Louis, in the cluttered law office of Franklin Aubury, talking with Aubury and Karl Landfors.

The lawyer reported that there had been no further outbreaks of violence in the city while I’d been gone, and that he’d helped spread the word that the man behind Slip Crawford’s lynching was now dead himself.

While Aubury and I spoke, Karl remained oddly silent for some time. He finally blurted, “Dammit! I don’t like what you did, Mickey. You used the Klan to kill Whalen the same way Whalen used them to kill Crawford. That’s not justice.”

“It’s not the same,” I said. “One difference is I told the
truth
about what Whalen did. When he got the Klan to lynch Crawford, he did it by
lying.
For another thing, I did not go to Roy Enoch hoping they would
kill
Whalen. I just thought that if he knew what had really happened, he’d put a stop to any more violence.”

Karl scoffed. “You mean to tell me you had no idea Whalen would end up being killed?”

“I’m saying that wasn’t my
hope.
But I guess it did cross my mind as a possibility.”

Growing more agitated, Karl went on, “We had a unique opportunity here to demonstrate the danger of mobs—by charging Whalen for murder and exposing his use of a lynch mob to carry it out. You ruined that chance by resorting to the same tactics as the Klan.”

Franklin Aubury spoke up, asking Karl, “What world do you inhabit?”

Karl turned to him. “You
agree
with what Mickey did?”

“When you have limited recourse,” the lawyer answered, “you take the best options available.”

“I still don’t like it,” said Karl.

“I don’t
like
it, either,” I said. “But I can live with it.”

“Are you sure about that?” Karl asked. “You don’t think the Klan will come after you now?”

“No, I had a phone call soon after I got back home. Anonymous, but it sounded like Roy Enoch. He said the Klan does take care of punishing their own, and told me the matter is closed.”

“You believe him?” asked Karl.

“I’ll be watching my back for some time,” I admitted. “But I’m hoping it’s over.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, then I added, “One thing I’m glad of is that Crawford was killed for a reason other than his skin color.”

Franklin Aubury said, “The unfortunate fact is that if
that
had been the reason, Whalen would have gotten away with it.”

I
turned out to be right about John McGraw’s New York Giants taking the National League pennant. On October 4, the Polo Grounds was all decked out for the opening game of the 1923 World Series. Unfortunately, their American League opponents were the New York Yankees, who beat out the Browns by one game in the final standings. Once again, I had missed out on a Fall Classic.

The last couple of months featured a number of victories and defeats. Although it was a severe disappointment to come so close to a pennant only to lose it on the final day of the season, there was cause to celebrate the achievements of some individual Browns players. Ken Williams had bested Babe Ruth in the slugging race, breaking the Babe’s string of home-run crowns, and George Sisler ended the year with a phenomenal .420 batting average to take the hitting title.

There were ups and downs off the field, too. The federal antilynching bill died in the United States Senate, but public outcry against mob rule was rising, and the bill’s proponents were confident of passage next year. In East St. Louis, an uneasy calm had settled over the city; the Klan continued to grow, but there had been no more violence. And in St. Louis, there was no sign that the Invisible Empire was establishing a foothold.

 

At the same time that the Yankees and Giants were battling in New York for the World’s Championship, I was playing baseball, too. Commissioner Landis had decided to permit an “all-star” team of major-leaguers to play an exhibition series against the St. Louis Stars. Landis was firm, however, that the big-leaguers could not appear in major-league uniforms or use the names of their professional teams.

So on a Saturday afternoon in early October, I was in Stars Park, temporarily a member of a team called the Wabadas, about to face a Negro League ball club. In the stands were Franklin Aubury, rooting for Stars; Margie, rooting for me; and Karl Landfors, probably rooting for the umpires.

My eagerness to play in the game was dampened only by the thought that I wouldn’t have the chance to bat against Slip Crawford.

Once the game started, I didn’t think much about Crawford. Another player from that April game in East St. Louis dominated the action: Cool Papa Bell, the Stars starting pitcher. He tripled and scored in the first inning, while holding our team hitless.

In the second, I got my first chance to face the young pitcher. I thought, as I walked to the plate, of how he’d handled Oscar Charleston in Indianapolis. What chance did I have against Bell, I wondered, if Charleston couldn’t hit him?

I took my stance, and looked at Bell’s baby face. Then I backed out of the box, and quickly came up with a plan. I could use his age against him.

In the Indianapolis night club, Bell had insisted that the knuckleball was his best pitch, and wished Bill Gatewood would allow him to throw it more often. I knew that he’d be using it a lot today, with or without Gatewood’s permission. A rookie pitcher will
have
to use his best pitch, especially if he wants to impress a big-league club. It’s the ego of youth, and Bell won’t be able to resist going with what it orders him to do.

I stepped back in the box, ready now to take advantage. Bell first threw a fastball which I let pass. Then came the pitch I expected: a slow knuckler. I scooted up in the box to hit it before it broke, and caught the ball solid, sending it to the gap in left-center. Racing around first, I almost skidded, but righted myself and made it into second base with a double.

Dusting myself off, I looked around the ballpark, at the fans both black and white, and at the players. Then I caught the eye of Bell; he gave me a slight nod in salute. This wasn’t the same as getting a base hit off Slip Crawford, I thought, but it would do. And I had the feeling that getting a hit off Cool Papa Bell would be something to brag about someday.