Hunting a Detroit Tiger (29 page)

“What does
Leonard
have against me?”

Fogarty’s face turned thoughtful, which was a pretty pathetic sight. “He never did mention that. He just took to riding you, and I went along. I won’t do it no more though. Okay?”

“Okay, Chick.”

When the elevator reached the floor where the Tigers were staying, we took off in different directions.

Later, several hours after curfew, when Harry Heilmann returned to our room, I asked him about Dutch Leonard’s antagonism toward me. “It’s not Leonard,” Heilmann explained. “It’s Ty Cobb.”

“
Cobb
?”

“Yeah. Cobb thinks nice guys don’t win ball games. Got to light a fire under them, get them riled, then they’ll get a fighting spirit to them. That’s what I been doing with Bobby Veach. Feel kind of bad about it, but got to admit the kid’s playing better lately.” He fixed his bloodshot eyes on me. “And you been hitting pretty good, too. So maybe it works.”

“Why would Ty Cobb care how I play? He only cares about himself.”

“No secret that Jennings ain’t gonna be in charge of this team much longer. And ever since Tris Speaker started managing Cleveland, Cobb’s decided he’d like to do it, too. He wants the team in good shape for when he takes over.”

I went to bed that night thinking that sometimes baseball could be just as underhanded as politics.

On the Pullman train back to Detroit, I thought about Chick Fogarty. It was ludicrous to believe he was in charge of anything; he certainly wouldn’t be the Tigers’ representative on a labor union. Which led me to the question: who would be? It should be somebody smart and a fighter. Ty Cobb? No, it shouldn’t be a maniac. After some deliberation, I decided that the Tiger best qualified for the position was Donie Bush.

I found Bush in the club car, his thick, dark brows poking above the top of
The Sporting News.
I settled into the armchair next to him. “You got a minute?”

“Sure.” He closed the paper. “What’s up?”

“It’s about the players’ union. The way I understand it, each team has a representative trying to organize.”

“That’s the way I understand it, too.”

“Somebody told me Chick Fogarty was the Tigers’ organizer.”

Bush snorted so hard that he quickly rubbed a handkerchief under his nose in case it had been a little too hard.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” I said. “And when I tried to figure out who it
would
be, I decided it would be you. Smart, scrappy, a veteran player. And if it isn’t you, you probably know who it is.”

He nodded, accepting the compliments as matters of simple fact. “You’re partly right,” he said. “If there was anything happening, I’d be organizing the Tigers. But it’s pretty much fallen apart.”

“You mean because Emmett Siever got killed?”

“No, long before that. There just hasn’t been much interest. With the Ball Players’ Fraternity folding, and the war, and the rumors about last year’s World Series, it seems most of the fellows just want things to go back to normal and not stir up any kind of fuss.”

I certainly understood that point of view. “Is that why Siever hooked up with the IWW? To light a fire under them?”

“Don’t know for sure. Emmett Siever seemed to have his own reasons for doing things. Didn’t ask any of us about joining with the Wobblies as far as I know.”

“Okay, thanks Donie. And if it does start up again, let me know. I think I’d be interested in joining. If you guys trust me enough to let me in.”

“I would,” Bush said. “I liked how you handled things after Hughie Jennings gave you the wrong sign that time. You didn’t embarrass him by telling the guys about his goof, you just took the benching. Showed class, in my book.” He smiled. “But mostly I like what you did to Hub Donner.”

That reminded me: what had Donner meant when he said that I’d be the big loser?

O
ur Sunday outing started out sweet and carefree, with a basket lunch on the picnic grounds of Belle Isle Park. The sky was clear, the breezes soft, and the temperature balmy. I had no game scheduled, and Margie had called in sick at the theater, giving us a chance to spend the entire day together.

During the leisurely meal, we talked about the high points of our trips: the progress the women had made organizing in Tennessee and the progress the Tigers made moving up in the standings to seventh place. Then the two of us walked down to Lake Takoma. We sat on the grassy bank and watched the canoes and rowboats slowly moving through the water. We struggled for a while longer to keep the conversation light, but eventually we gave it up and became serious.

“Is your friend Karl in real trouble?” Margie asked.

“I’m afraid he might be—and it might get pretty bad. If it was going to be simple, they’d have filed some kind of charges. They’re just keeping him in a cage to keep him quiet and out of the way. I feel useless—I don’t know how to help him.”

“Connie’s worried, too,” Margie said. “He called her shortly before he was arrested, and the two of them made up. She’s going to contact everybody she knows who might be able to do something. Between Karl being in jail and Leo Hyman getting murdered, Connie’s terribly upset—I think even more than when her father was killed.”

That wouldn’t take much, I thought. I said, “That government man, Calvin Garrett, is back in Detroit. He seems to always be around when people get shot.”

“You think he’s the killer?”

“I think there are some connections that just aren’t clear right now. Tell me if this makes sense: Calvin Garrett gets sent up from Washington to crack down on the labor people that Palmer blames for losing the election. But how does Garrett know who the union leaders are here? How does he know where to start?”

“Maybe he asks the local police?” she suggested.

“Could be. Or, he contacts the man whose job it is to stop the unions—Hub Donner. Donner has been keeping tabs on organized labor in this area for years. Wouldn’t he be the first one Garrett would talk to?”

“I suppose so.”

“And if Donner had any spies or plants working for him, he’d let Garrett use them, right? That way Garrett does some of Donner’s work for him, and Garrett owes Donner a favor for having helped him out.”

“That sounds reasonable. But why do you think there was a spy?”

“Stan Zaluski told me they have problems with them from time to time. Somebody comes in, new to the cause, starts making a lot of noise, inciting the other Wobblies ...”

“Go on.”

“Well, to me, that sounds a lot like what Emmett Siever was doing.”

“What?
You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was. But it seems to fit. And there’s another thing. Siever left Connie ‘well provided for’ the way I heard it. But he’d been broke for years. Where did he get the money? Maybe he was paid by Donner.”

“I think you’re completely wrong,” Margie said.

“There’s more. Just a possibility. I mean, all sorts of things have been going through my head about what might have happened...”

She gave me a look that said, You’re not really going to go on are you?

I went on. “You said yourself Connie wasn’t too broken up over her father’s death. And that’s bothered me ever since I first met her. Even if he did abandon her when she was little, I’d expect her to have
some
reaction to his murder. So what I wondered is: what if she knew about her father being a traitor, and she knew about him being killed?”

Margie said derisively, “You think she had her father killed to inherit from him?”

“Not for herself, but maybe to help finance the cause. Or maybe she was loyal to the IWW and angry that he betrayed it.”

“I promised Connie I wouldn’t tell anyone about this,” Margie said. “But I think I better tell you before you go and cause her any pain. You’re right about her father’s interest in labor being recent. It was mostly because he wanted to please her. And to make up to her for what he’d done in the past. As far as inheriting, it was on an insurance policy that her father took out a year ago—he didn’t leave any money other than that. And as for why she wasn’t devastated by his death, it was because she was relieved that he was out of his suffering. Her father was dying of cancer.”

I
was convinced that I could ultimately get to the truth if the individuals who knew bits and pieces of the story would reveal what they knew. I was close, I felt, but the final answer was just out of reach. If I could only extract a little more information from the right people ...

Monday morning, I placed a call to Detective Francis McGuire at police headquarters. “I want you to set up a meeting with Calvin Garrett,” I said.

“What makes you think—”

“I know he’s in town, and I’m sure you know how to contact him. How soon can you set it up?”

There was a pause. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

“Thanks. And I want you to be there, too.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because I don’t trust him enough to be alone with him.”

McGuire came through. Ten o’clock the next morning, the three of us got together in a small, second-floor Griswold Street office that might have been decorated by my landlady.

Calvin Garrett sat behind a battered pine desk; McGuire and I occupied mismatched chairs. There were no other furnishings, and the top of Garrett’s desk was bare, leading me to believe that this room was used only as a meeting place, not a working office.

“Well, what is it, Mr. Rawlings?” Garrett asked, with a nod of his head.

“I’d like you to tell me the truth about what you were doing at Fraternity Hall.”

“I already did.”

“Your story doesn’t wash. You didn’t let yourself in the back door. I checked it. Somebody had to let you in—or you were already inside when Siever was shot. I think you must know who shot him, and I want you to tell me.”

Garrett cast a glance at McGuire, who squirmed in his overcoat. The main reason I’d wanted the detective here was as a bluff, so that Garrett might suspect he’d told me more than he actually had. “Unless you have proof to the contrary,” the GID man said, “I’ll stick to what I told you earlier.”

“Well, I can’t
prove
much right now. But I suppose I could go to the papers with what I know so far. I can put you on the scene when Emmett Siever got killed. And I can
suggest
a lot more. Might be an embarrassment for you, the GID, and Mitchell Palmer. I don’t expect he’d want a lot of publicity like that with the nominating convention next week.”

“I don’t believe you’ll do that,” Garrett said.

“Ask Hub Donner if I won’t.”

“Hub Donner was unprepared. I’m not.”

“What do you mean?”

“You already have a friend in jail—Karl Landfors. I’d be happy to arrange similar accommodations for Marguerite Turner if you insist on pressing the issue. Traveling interstate with known radicals to incite trouble in Tennessee ... Could get her quite a few years behind bars.”

“You would go after Margie to get at me?” I couldn’t believe he’d sink that low.

“Apparently, putting Landfors in jail wasn’t enough.”

“You ... ?”

Garrett bobbed his head and leaned forward. “Now, let me tell you what
you
are going to do for
me.
You are going to use your new friends in the IWW, and you’re going to talk to your teammates. And you’re going to find a connection between the players and the Wobblies.”

“What if there isn’t one?”

“Then
suggest
one, and I’ll take it from there.”

“You must be a big baseball fan,” I said facetiously, “to be so worried about the game’s welfare.”

“Can’t stand baseball,” Garrett answered seriously. “Football is my sport. Played a bit in college, matter of fact.”

McGuire piped up, “I was a tennis man myself.”

“Who cares?” said Garrett.

Maintaining an amused expression, McGuire shrugged and nestled a little deeper in his coat.

“You have work to do,” Garrett said to me. “Now get out of here.”

“And if I don’t go along?”

“Miss Turner will suffer the consequences.”

“Real gutsy going after a lady. Why don’t you come after me?”

“No need to. According to my information, the Wobblies will take care of you very nicely. They still haven’t settled on a new leader. Apparently, the unfortunate deaths of Emmett Siever and Leo Hyman have them concerned about security. Whoever can show they take care of their own will probably end up in charge. And your scalp would make a nice trophy for one of their candidates to show how strong he is.”

Defeated, I made a vague promise that I would see what I could do. I didn’t mention that what I’d be seeing
about
was how to stop Garrett.

Apparently satisfied, the GID agent called the meeting to an end.

When McGuire and I left the building, he said to me, “Nice try, but you’re out of your league.”

Hughie Jennings, completely ignoring reality, had decided that by pulling ourselves out of last place we were in contention for the American League pennant. He wanted to settle into a regular lineup, so I was out for the series against the Washington Senators.

We dropped Tuesday’s game, 7—4, to the Senators’ Tom Zachary. Wednesday, Jennings made a minor adjustment to the lineup: with Dutch Leonard facing Walter Johnson, Chick Fogarty got the start as catcher.

I was frustrated watching the game from the dugout. I wanted another chance to bat against Johnson. I kept getting up and down, changing my seat, and pacing along the bench. I finally succeeded in attracting Jennings’s attention. “If you don’t sit down and stay put, I’ll nail your ass to the goddamn bench,” he said.

My frustration grew as the game turned into a tight duel. By the bottom of the seventh inning, the score was 2—1 in favor of Washington. When Bobby Veach led off with a sharp single to left, a rumble rose from the stands as fans tried to inspire a rally.

Jennings gave the bunt sign and Babe Pinelli tried to execute it. But he popped up to the catcher, who threw to first, doubling up Veach. Two outs.

The groans were audible when Chick Fogarty stepped into the batter’s box. He worked Johnson to a full-count before lifting a drive over the center fielder’s head. Anyone else on the team would have had a triple, and Ty Cobb would probably have stretched it to an inside-the-park home run, but the slow-moving Fogarty had to settle for a stand-up double.

Dutch Leonard was next at bat, with a chance to help his own cause. Fogarty was almost anchored at second base, taking only a short lead off the bag. Then, on Johnson’s first pitch, Fogarty tried to steal third. He’d barely reached shortstop by the time the ball was waiting for him at third base. The entire ballpark fell silent as we watched him lumber the rest of the way and be tagged out to end the inning.

Hughie Jennings went off like a pack of firecrackers, screaming at Fogarty for his blunder.

“Thought I’d catch ’em by surprise,” was the catcher’s explanation.

The curses piled up on Fogarty, with teammates and fans joining in the abuse. I was grateful to him though. He’d just given me one of the answers I needed.

Margie Turner pulled up in front of the ballpark in a rusty old Hudson. I hopped in and she asked, “Which way?”

“Down to Fort Street, then west.”

She’d made good time. I’d called her immediately after the final out of the game, then showered and changed. I hadn’t had to wait more than a couple of minutes before she met me outside the park.

“Where’d you get the car?” I asked.

“George, the stage manager. Sweet old man.”

“You gonna be in trouble for missing the show?”

“No more than usual.” She laughed.

I admired her driving skills as she maneuvered the automobile through the heavy postgame traffic. It was something I thought I should learn myself sometime.

Once on Fort Street, she picked up speed. Margie drove as if she considered the brake pedal to be a needless accessory, not bothering to slow down for turns or potholes. From the side of my eye I looked at her profile—chin tilted up, prominent nose looking like she could sniff out whatever was ahead, bright eyes eager to see everything. I loved the determined fix to her features, and the way she went into life head-on, with no apologies.

I directed her along the same course Leo Hyman had driven, through Woodmere Cemetery and across the shaky bridge to the shack on the other side.

Margie screeched to a stop in front of the dilapidated structure, raising a cloud of choking dust. “What do you hope to find here?” she asked.

“Not sure,” I admitted. “I know there was
something
going on, though.”

We proceeded to the door. Damn. I’d forgotten about the lock. f grabbed the padlock and shook it, an effort of total futility.

“Wait a minute,” Margie said as she ran back to the car. She popped the trunk and came back brandishing a crowbar. “I found a key!” Instead of giving it to me, she shoved the end of the bar behind the latch and popped it off herself.

I’d also forgotten to bring matches for the lamp. When we stepped inside, we left the door open, so the interior was illuminated by the waning daylight.

“Yech!” Margie said. “What a mess.”

I began to prowl the room, kicking at the boxes and cans and rapping on the warped walls.

“If you’re looking for anything besides junk, I think you’re out of luck,” Margie said. “Tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll help. There isn’t much daylight left.”

“What I’m—” That’s it! I looked closer at the walls. Three of them had sunlight squeezing through the cracks. The fourth was dark. Why would one wall be better constructed than the others? I went to the dark wall and ran my fingers over it; there were gaps between its boards too. “Can I have the crowbar, please?”

Margie handed it to me and I dug its tip between two of the boards. The thin wood pulled away easily. I could see that about two feet behind the first wall was a second. There was just enough space between the walls for a man to stand and listen to conversations in the shack.

I led the way outside and circled to the back wall. I felt around the edge and found it was secured to the rest of the structure by simple hooks. I grabbed hold of the wall and pulled it away. There was a small stool in the hiding space.

Calvin Garrett didn’t have to stand when he eavesdropped on my conversation with Boggs and Hyman.