Hanging Curve (6 page)

Margie and I were both speechless.

Karl handed me one of the other clippings. “They’ve been exercising that ‘right’ with a vengeance.”

I read the headline:

Sixty-five. I stared at that number for a long moment. Then I thought of Slip Crawford, and imagined him on the pitching mound with sixty-five other colored men on the field behind him.

“I’ll talk to Tater Greene tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll find out whatever I can.”

I
’d heard it said that the only people who lived in East St. Louis were those who had to. If somebody did have to live there, I thought, Washington Park, in the northeastern part of the city, appeared to be one of the more desirable neighborhoods.

From a slow-moving trolley that rolled down the center of Kings Highway, I looked out at well-kept homes with spacious yards and stately shade trees. Farther toward the outskirts of town, the houses gave way to businesses. When I spotted the one that belonged to Roy Enoch, I pulled the stop cord and hopped off.

The auto dealership was about three miles from the ballpark where the Elcars had played the Cubs. Sprawling over most of a long block, the gravel lot was divided into two sections, one for new automobiles and the other for an extensive selection of used cars. All of them appeared freshly waxed and buffed, and they were all parked in neat rows. At the back of the lot was a large brick garage, with tire racks and two gasoline pumps nearby.

A wood-frame sales office, the size of a bungalow, was situated in the center of the lot. On a rooftop sign above the office,
ENOCH MOTOR CAR CO
. was painted in the same shade of red that appeared on the team uniforms. The sign also proclaimed:

The last line answered one of my questions, and I was disheartened to learn that I had played baseball for a Klan-affiliated business. Slogans like Enoch’s had been springing up on signs all over the Midwest in recent years:
Kareful Klothes Kleaners ... Kwality Kustom Kraftsmanship ... Kindly Keep Koming
. I’d even seen a men’s clothing store in Cincinnati called Ku Klux Klothes. Three Ks on a sign identified the proprietor as a Klansman, and brought in customers who wanted to support the KKK.

I strolled around the used-car section, wondering what to say to Tater Greene. How could I raise the main question that I wanted answered: Did the Elcars’ team decide to kill Slip Crawford because they couldn’t beat him on the field?

I was staring absently at a 1920 Hupmobile roadster when a cheery voice called out, “That’s a beauty there! Yes, sir, you sure got an eye for fine automobiles!”

Rapidly approaching from the sales office was a wiry little fellow in a green-plaid suit and a porkpie hat. I recognized him as Brian Padgett, the Elcars’ young shortstop. He had a breezy smile on his thin, freckled face, and a bounce in his step. His manner was so different from the last time he spoke to me—when he berated me for the botched appeal play—that I assumed he didn’t recognize me.

“A real bargain, too,” Padgett continued. “Nine hundred and seventy-five dollars. We’re practically giving it away. The last owner hardly—” His brow furrowed, and he studied me for a moment. “Say, you look familiar.”

Keeping to my fictitious name, I said, “Mickey Welch. Played baseball with you fellows a couple weeks ago.”

“Oh yeah, the pro,” he said derisively. “You in the market for a used car?”

“No, I was”—it occurred to me I might get more information if he thought I was a prospective customer—“I was actually thinking of a new one.”

“Let me show you what we have!” His voice and eyes were friendly again.

Padgett guided me to the new models, pointing out every feature of the automobiles and getting in frequent plugs for the Enoch easy-payment plan. As he spoke, I made the effort to appear interested, much as I did when Karl Landfors prattled on about politics.

When he’d finished his spiel, I said that he’d given me so much to think about that I couldn’t make a decision on the spot.

“Let’s go see Mr. Enoch,” he suggested. “I’ll bet we can whittle down the price a little. Hell, you played ball with us—that makes you part of the family.”

I walked along with him, glancing up at the
“Komplete Kar Kare”
slogan on the sign; I didn’t want to be considered even a distant relation to this family. Since Padgett had mentioned the game, though, I said, “You know, I really felt awful that I couldn’t help you win. I sure had an off day.”

“You sure did,” he snapped. His face showed a flash of the same competitive temper that he’d displayed during the game, then he got the emotion in check, not wanting to jeopardize a potential sale. “But don’t worry about it. You weren’t the only one who played lousy.”

His sales manner still needed a little polishing, I thought. “I know it was a big game for you guys,” I said.

“Sure was. Would have give my left arm to win it. And Mr. Enoch would have give both of his.”

“Players took the loss pretty hard?”

“Hell yeah. That makes three years in a row them black bastards beat us.” Padgett spit. “We’ll get ’em next time, though.”

“Should be easier now that their pitcher’s dead.”

He shrugged. “They’ll get another. Ah, there he is.”

A slender, middle-aged man in a chalk-striped blue business suit had stepped out of the office, tugging a snap-brim fedora over his neatly groomed gray hair. When we drew close to him, I saw the lines that creased his weathered face; on some they’d be called laugh lines, but on him they were probably caused by the sour expression that puckered his skin.

“Mr. Enoch,” Padgett said. “This is Mickey Welch. He played with us against the Cubs.”

Enoch’s pale eyes narrowed. “I remember him,” he said in a flat twang. “It’s not every day I throw away ten dollars.”

I was about to protest that I hadn’t cost him a dime, but decided not to bother. Besides, the manager might have pocketed the money for himself and never told Enoch that I’d played for no pay.

“He’s interested in a new car,” Padgett went on. “Thought we might give him a break on the price.”

The two of them stepped aside and huddled together briefly. Then Padgett came back to me, and Roy Enoch drove off in a shiny green Elcar.

“Good news!” Padgett reported. “Mr. Enoch says you can take a hundred dollars off any new model in stock—except the Studebakers. Got a big demand for those. And if you decide to go used, we’ll take fifty bucks off the price. That would bring that Hupmobile you were looking at down to, uh ...”

“Nine-twenty-five,” I said. “Sounds like a good deal. Let me think it over, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Sure, sure. I understand. But remember to ask for me, right?”

“Of course. Oh, say, while I’m here I might as well say hi to Tater Greene. He around?”

“Yup, he’s ...” Padgett’s attention had drifted to another potential customer browsing the lot, and he started to edge away. “... in the garage. Excuse me.”

I walked over to the three-bay service building, a modern, well-equipped facility where four mechanics in olive drab coveralls were noisily at work. One of them was Tater Greene, hunched over the partially dismantled engine of a battered Chandler Six sedan. I smiled when I recalled the way he’d said he was “in the automobile business” as if he owned the dealership.

“Hey, Tater,” I said. “Whatcha workin’ on?”

He glanced up at me. “Magneto on this thing is shot. Along with just about everything else.” He stood and wiped his hands on a rag. “What brings you here?”

“Looking for a car,” I said, maintaining the pretext. “Brian Padgett showed me a few.”

Greene snorted. “That little prick.”

“Huh?”

My former teammate brushed the rag over his lumpy forehead, leaving a grease smudge that matched the color of his teeth. “I was supposed to get the sales job, and he took it right out from under me.”

“What happened?”

“You remember J. D. Whalen?”

The stocky third baseman who’d pitched the final innings of the Cubs game. “Sure. What about him?”

“He was a salesman here, and he got canned last week. Enoch knew I wanted to move into his spot, but he give it to Padgett instead.”

“Why?”

“The old”—Greene looked behind to be sure the other mechanics couldn’t hear—“the old bastard says I don’t got a good sales manner. Can you believe that crap?”

Enoch was probably right, I thought, but I did sympathize with Greene’s disappointment. Instead of clean work in a suit and tie, he was stuck here in the grease and dirt, breathing engine exhaust and gasoline fumes. “I think you’d make a fine salesman,” I said. “Hell, you managed to sell me on playing with you against the Cubs.”

Greene smiled at the vote of confidence and went back to work on the engine. “I’ll get another chance. Padgett spends more time in the office sparking with Doreen than he does on the lot. Can’t sell cars that way.”

“Why’d Whalen get fired?” I asked. I wondered if his poor performance against the Cubs had cost him his job.

“Nobody knows for sure. I expect he wasn’t selling as many cars as Enoch thought he should. Could you give me that screwdriver?”

I handed him the tool. “You told me most of the team works here.”

“They do.”

“How many of them are in the Klan?”

Greene froze for a moment. “I wouldn’t know. Membership in those kinds of groups is usually secret.” I knew he was familiar with “those kinds of groups.” In Chicago, during the war, he’d belonged to one of the “patriotic” vigilante organizations that targeted Socialists, pacifists, and those with German surnames.

“Can’t be much of a secret if it’s part of the company’s advertising,” I said. “I saw the sign outside.”

“That doesn’t mean much. Some people just like to do business with a fellow Klansman, same as a brother Elk or Mason.”

“So Roy Enoch is in the Klan.”

“He owns this place; the sign is his. That’s all I know.”

“Some folks think it was the Klan that killed Slip Crawford,” I said. “You hear anything about that?”

“Just that he got himself strung up.”

“You think it had anything to do with him beating us”—I hated being included among the “us”—“in that game?”

Greene pulled out a long bolt and put it on the fender with a
clunk.
“Over a
baseball game?”

“There were Klansmen at the park that day. And maybe some on the team.”

“Don’t know about the ones outside the fence,” he said. “But no ballplayer is gonna kill another player for beating him in a game.” He mopped the back of his neck with the rag. “You know how it is: If a guy beats you, you want to beat him the next time. If you kill him, you don’t get the chance.”

Tater Greene made more sense than I’d expected. But I thought it over for a moment and realized that his line of reasoning applied to professional players like him and me. We had made baseball our lives and understood the nature of competition. Perhaps those who viewed the contest with the Cubs as a racial conflict instead of a sporting event didn’t have the sense that Greene had. “Anybody take the loss especially hard?” I asked.

“Not in particular. We were all down about it. Mostly from pride, but some lost money.”

“Was there a lot of betting?”

“Roy Enoch bet with some of the other semipro owners. And Ed Moss lost out on a fifty-buck bonus he was promised if we won.”

Maybe that’s why the manager pocketed the ten I’d passed up. “Moss work here, too?”

“Nah, he’s with the police—a desk sergeant.”

“Any of the players lose a lot of money?”

He shook his head. “To tell you the truth, none of us was certain enough we’d win to risk much money on the game. Them colored boys are good ballplayers, and we all know it. Wouldn’t have had to scout for ringers if we thought we could win on our own.” He began another assault on the stubborn magneto.

“Tater?” I waited until he looked directly at me. “You know anything about Crawford getting lynched?”

He straightened up and answered emphatically, “I don’t know nothin’, and I ain’t heard nothin’.”

I doubted that his answer was entirely true, but it sure sounded final, so I left Enoch’s car lot and caught a trolley back to St. Louis.

For the most part, I believed Greene, although he probably had some knowledge or suspicions that he chose not to share with me. And I could see the argument against any of the players being involved. I’d had a vague notion that maybe one who’d been especially embarrassed during the game would have wanted revenge. But even so, it would have required several people; no one could have beaten and hanged Slip Crawford by himself.

By the time the trolley crossed Eads Bridge, I was inclined to believe that Crawford’s killers were most likely the men who’d been at the game in hoods and robes, not baseball uniforms. Besides, if the motive for killing Crawford was that he’d humiliated an opposing player, that would make me a prime suspect.

 

The Browns gave me no chance to embarrass myself in Saturday’s game against the White Sox. I was again limited to watching from the dugout bench—which turned out to be an ideal spot from which to see our left fielder Ken Williams make history.

Williams was one of baseball’s best-kept secrets, despite the fact that last season he’d slugged twenty-four home runs, the second highest total in American League history. Unfortunately for Williams, the person with the most was Babe Ruth, and the Babe so dominated the National Pastime that few fans noticed the players in his shadow.

Unlike the flamboyant Ruth, Ken Williams did little to attract attention to himself. The simple, thirty-two-year-old country boy lived a modest life. His only known activity outside of playing baseball was talking about the game, and he did so at interminable length. Sportswriters actually avoided Williams because he tended to give discourses instead of catchy quotes.

Today, however, his bat spoke so loudly he couldn’t be ignored. In the first inning, Williams belted a home run all the way onto Grand Boulevard. He later added two more mammoth round-trippers to become the first American League ballplayer to hit three home runs in a game. Not even Ruth, who had set a new season record of fifty-nine last year, had ever achieved such a feat.