Murder at Fenway Park (4 page)

“But why would I need protection? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You’re a major-league baseball player. You’re in the public eye now. If he wants to, a cop or a reporter could get a lot of attention for himself just by accusing you. That kind of publicity tends to stick, though, and that’s bad for all of us. The point is that a ball club can do a lot to protect its players.” Tyler glanced up at the ceiling for a moment. Then he said in a confidential voice, “I’ll let you in on something: every couple of years, Ty Cobb gets in one of his rages and assaults somebody. Then Frank Navin has to calm down the cops and try to keep it out of the papers. You remember when the Tigers played the Pirates in the World Series?”

I nodded. It had been just two or three years ago.

“Cobb had to travel outside the Ohio border every time they went from Detroit to Pittsburgh. You know why?”

I shook my head.

“Because he knifed some hotel worker in Cleveland, and there was a warrant out for his arrest. Navin took care of it in the off-season. He’s a good owner. He takes care of his players’ problems. If the Tigers can keep it quiet when a famous player like Cobb really commits a crime, we should be able to protect a nobo—a, uh, lesser-known player who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’re going to have to do
your
part, though.” I started to ask what that was, but he talked over my question, already answering, “You don’t say anything to anybody about anything that happened.”

“But what about the police? What if they want to ask me more questions?”

“Of course we want to cooperate with the police—just like we expect them to cooperate with us. If Captain O’Malley has any questions for you, you should answer them—just make sure I’m there, too.”

“You mentioned the papers. I saw today’s paper and there wasn’t anything about it.”

“Well ... Boston’s a big city. People turn up dead all the time.”

“At
Fenway Park?
”

Tyler looked annoyed. “We wouldn’t want Fenway to be mentioned, would we? Look. Nobody even knows who the man was. I don’t know if this occurred to you, but he may not have been some innocent victim. What if he was killed in self-defense? What if he was a hoodlum who had it coming? Look. This is what it comes down to: you don’t need trouble, the team don’t need trouble. The cops will do their investigating, but they’ll have to do it quietly. If O’Malley wants to talk to you, that’s fine—I’ll just come along and make sure your interests are protected. Other than that, you don’t say a word to anybody. Understood?”

I didn’t feel like I understood, but I nodded that I did.

With a forced smile Tyler said, “Good. Let’s get this behind us, and concentrate on baseball. Jake’s probably going to start you in tomorrow’s game.” He clapped his cane on the floor to signal an end to the conversation. “Send Jimmy in on your way out.”

I did as he asked and returned to my seat. I wasn’t able to get my thoughts on baseball, though, so I fruitlessly mulled over Tyler’s words. This business with the police and the papers and the ball club was beyond my experience. I could make no sense of the situation.

But I could tell that this didn’t look like it was going to be my season.

M
y new teammates milled about home plate, coordinating their moves so that each time I tried to step to the batter’s box I was blocked out. This came as no surprise; preventing rookies from taking a turn at batting practice is a standard part of the hazing ritual new ball players have to endure. For form’s sake, I maintained a pretense of expecting a chance to hit, but I really didn’t mind when other players elbowed in front of me and stepped to the plate. I was engrossed in scanning the Hilltop Park stands. This was the first time I’d been in a stadium as a player where I used to come as a spectator.

The grandstand behind third base was filling up with fans: office clerks taking an afternoon off to attend a nonexistent aunt’s funeral, and courting couples who sat high in the stands to enjoy the view of the Jersey Palisades across the Hudson River.

Outside the right field foul line lay the open bleacher seats, bare pine boards occupied mostly by kids who couldn’t afford better vantage points. Less than ten years ago, I was one of those eager faces dreaming of actually being on this field some day.

Box seats between home plate and the dugouts held middle-aged men in business suits and derbies who looked as if they could afford the best. I had never been able to get a ticket for one of those seats, and gloated that today I would be sitting in an even better location: the dugout bench.

Everywhere, the ballpark was alive with sounds that had been dormant all winter and now burst out with the coming of April. From a hundred directions came the sociable buzz of friendly arguments—about off-season trades, which teams would make it to the World Series, which players were over the hill and which were promising rookies. Over the chatter, vendors barked
Peanuts!
and
Beer!
and fans shouted their orders for same. From the field came the sharpest sounds: loud cracks of wood on leather as hitters teed off on soft tosses from the batting practice pitcher; and hard pops of leather on leather, as baseballs were thrown into mitts eager to snap them up.

Ten minutes to game time, Jake Stahl called us in to the dugout. Contrary to what Bob Tyler predicted, Stahl had decided not to start me. He said he’d let me get adjusted to the team before putting me in the lineup. I wondered if he was also letting me recover from the episode in Fenway Park, but he said nothing about it.

I sat by myself at the end of the dugout bench. I knew the first rule for rookies: they should be seen and not heard. I also knew the second rule: they shouldn’t be seen either. To my teammates I had as little stature as a batboy. It would take a while for me to be accepted by them. Usually the way it worked was that a rookie would be paired with a veteran player on road trips. After the veteran showed the youngster around and gave his approval, the other players would start to think of him as part of the team, too. My roommate was to be Clyde Fletcher, another utility player, but only his luggage made it to our hotel room last night so we had yet to meet.

The game got under way with Harry Hooper leading off for us against Hippo Vaughn. The Highlander pitcher looked as huge as his name implied, but I thought he was more imposing in appearance than he was in performance (of course it’s always easy to think that from a safe spot in the dugout or the bleachers). Hooper had no trouble with him, lining a single back through the box on the second pitch.

While the next batters took their turns, I fixed my attention on Hal Chase at first base. I was oddly comforted by his presence there. Not because it was Chase—famed equally for his fielding prowess and his unsavory character—but because he was a player I had watched as a boy in this very ballpark. When I was a kid, sitting in the bleachers and fantasizing about playing in the big leagues, I always envisioned in my daydreams playing against the very players who were on the field in the very ballparks where I watched them. Those players had been leaving the game, though, and huge new stadiums were replacing the homey ones I used to know. So it was with a feeling of comfortable familiarity that I sat in old Hilltop Park, reassured to see Hal Chase manning first base for the Highlanders.

Six and a half innings went by with the Sox hitters methodically driving singles and doubles off of Vaughn and circling the bases for seven runs. Our pitcher, Bucky O’Brien, just as methodically mowed down the New York batters, holding them scoreless with only two hits. Already some fans were crossing the corner of the outfield to get to the exit gate in the right field fence. It seemed odd to see people walking through fair territory while a game was in progress, but it was one of the quaint facts of life at Hilltop Park.

“Rawlings! You come here to sleep or play ball?”

I looked up at the angry voice. “Huh?”

Stahl was standing in front of me, clutching his mitt in one hand and pointing toward the infield with the other. “I said you’re playing second. Get out there! We’re not paying you to sit on your ass.”

I snatched my glove and stumbled out of the dugout, running to second base. Jake followed close on my heels to take his position at first. O’Brien threw his last warm-up pitch, and the Highlander leadoff man stepped into the batter’s box. I was now officially in my first Red Sox game. Stahl must have figured that with a 7–0 score it was safe to put me in.

I was a tight bundle of nerves anyway. To settle down, I went over the fundamentals: if it’s a grounder to me, I throw to Stahl at first ... a bunt toward first, I cover the bag ... a hit to right field, I move out for the cutoff throw ... a drive to left, I cover second.

None of these situations developed, as O’Brien struck out the first two batters and the third flied out to center. I jauntily trotted off the field, having accomplished nothing but feeling satisfied at having done nothing wrong.

I didn’t get a turn at bat in the top of the eighth, as our side went down in order. In the bottom half, my first fielding chance came as Hal Chase himself hit an easy one-hopper to me. I played it cleanly, and felt my confidence grow.

I was due up fourth in the final frame, so I wasn’t sure if I’d get to bat at all. Tris Speaker then led off the inning with his second double of the game and my chances improved. Speaker moved to third base on a fielder’s choice, and I moved to the on-deck circle. I swung two bats together to loosen up. They weren’t my usual bats, but new ones that I bought in a sporting goods store earlier in the day. The short stubby pieces of wood had roughly the same heft as the homemade bats I’d left in my hotel room.

Stahl struck out looking, and I approached the batter’s box slowly. As nervous as I first was in the field, I was more so coming to the plate. At second base there was always a chance that I wouldn’t be involved in a play, but in the batter’s box there was no place to hide. It would be just Hippo and me.

I took my place in the box, kicking my right spike into the dirt. When facing a pitcher he hasn’t seen before, a hitter will usually take the first pitch looking. But I didn’t like to let good ones go by, so I would choose one spot and one type of pitch, and if it was served there, I’d take a rip at it. I now tried to pick a location for the first pitch, but absolutely nothing came to mind. While I frantically tried to think of the pitch I wanted to look for, I unconsciously kept kicking with my shoe.

“Hey, busher! Dig it a little deeper! You’re gonna git buried in it!” Hippo got my full attention with that yell. I called time and backed out of the box. Glancing sideways at him, I could see that Hippo did not look happy—no surprise since he’d taken a beating from the Red Sox hitters. Okay, so I have to expect one at my head. No pitcher likes to have a batter dig in on him, and none would let a rookie get away with it. Just what I need: something more to think about. Okay, if it’s a fastball knee-high down the middle, I’m swinging. If it’s at my head I’m ducking. But Speaker’s on third; if Vaughn throws a wild pitch, he’ll score, so maybe he won’t try throwing at me. But if he hits me, the ball’s dead and Speaker can’t advance, so he will throw at me, but he’ll make sure not to miss me. Hmmm ... Only one thing is for certain: it is impossible to think and hit at the same time.

I took my stance in the box. In less than a second, I gracelessly dropped to the ground as Hippo tried to keep his word. He
was
mad—the ball was thrown
behind
my head. That’s where you throw it if you really want to hurt somebody; the batter’s instinct is to duck back into the path of the ball. But the ball missed me, and the catcher missed the ball, so Speaker trotted home with another run. Vaughn apparently didn’t care if he lost 7–0 or 8–0.

Okay, this isn’t working out badly. We have another run, and my pants are still dry. Considering the scare I got, I should get an RBI for that run.

The next pitch from Hippo was right where I wanted it. I pulled the trigger, but a little too early. The ball cued off the end of the bat and rolled up the dirt path from home plate to the pitcher’s mound. Vaughn threw me out before I was halfway to first base. A pretty good at bat: I got some wood on the ball, and earned that moral RBI for Speaker scoring.

The clubhouse was boisterous after the easy victory over New York. The players kidded each other, snapped a few towels—and sawed my new bats in half while I was in the shower.

When I discovered the useless pieces of lumber they left me, I loudly let loose with most of the cuss words I knew—a considerable repertoire after all my years around ball players. My teammates laughed at my reaction to their little prank. Welcome to the Red Sox, kid. What they didn’t know was that I was really relieved. One more aspect of the hazing was over, and I could safely bring in my good bats.

A stocky player with a small towel around his waist and an enormous wad of tobacco in his cheek shuffled up to me. Lush patches of wiry black hair sprouted on parts of his body where I didn’t even know hair could grow. “I’m Clyde Fletcher,” he said, spraying a shower of tobacco juice in saying the “tch” of his last name. “We’re gonna be roomies. I got plans for tonight, so if Jake comes by for bed check, tell him I went out for cigars. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Goo’ boy.” Fletcher belched out a dribble of brown juice, turned around to reveal a broad back that was nearly as hairy as his belly, and returned to his locker.

I remembered reading once that Rube Waddell had a clause put into the contract of his roommate that prohibited him from eating crackers in bed—Waddell said the noise kept him awake nights. I had a feeling I would soon be wishing for a roommate whose most annoying habit was munching crackers.

I was back at the Union Hotel by half past six. I walked up three flights of stairs to my room, intending to lie down for an hour and then go out for a late supper. But my bed was already occupied.

Neatly laid on top of the cover was Mabel, my favorite bat. She was lengthwise, with the knob toward the foot of the bed and the barrel denting the pillow—right where my head would be.

I turned to look on either side of the door. No one there.

Who put the bat on my bed? And how did he get in? I quickly examined the door lock: it was intact, no sign of force. And I’d needed the key to open it. I swept across the room to the one window—it was unbroken, securely locked, and sealed up with thick beige paint.

I checked the rest of the room. The two sagging iron-rail beds were still made up. Fletcher’s bags were at the foot of his, the same as they were last night. A pitcher of water and my shaving tools were in place on the washstand. I sifted through my luggage and the dresser drawer where I’d stashed my clothes; nothing was taken or moved. Everything looked in order.

Staring at Mabel, I sat down on the room’s only other piece of furniture, a pinching straight-back chair with legs of unequal length.

This was no prank by playful teammates. Nor was it an attempt at burglary or vandalism. This was a message. The context of the message was obvious: it had to do with the man I’d found at Fenway Park. But what was the content—what exactly was I being told?

Was it a warning, telling me to keep quiet about my find or I’d end up the same way? Or was it a notice, the calling card of some perverse killer? Had the dead man at Fenway also found a bat in his bed? I read all sorts of ominous scenarios into the sight of one round piece of wood.

I’d made Mabel when I worked in a furniture factory. Instead of the usual ash, I selected a choice block of hickory, turned it down on a lathe, and sanded it smooth. As the bat took shape, I named it for movie star Mabel Normand, and “it” became a “her.” I spent long hours honing her with a hambone to keep her from chipping, and rubbing sweet oil into her to protect the wood. Now, as I worried over the message she bore, I couldn’t even bring myself to touch her. What I had so lovingly created repelled me.

Not until Jake Stahl knocked and announced himself at the door could I move her; I grabbed her delicately at each end and stashed her under the bed.