Reach the Shining River (3 page)

5.

Word in the neighborhood was that Satchel Paige was coming to the funeral. Wardell heard it from Jesse, who heard it from his Uncle Josh.

“He seen him. In Chicago.”

“He seen Satchel?”

“That’s right. Struck out nine batters in the East-West Game. Smoked ’em with his pea ball.”

The boys played catch in Jesse’s back yard. They weren’t allowed to leave the house. Their mothers were in the kitchen, cooking for the funeral. Wardell’s mama stuck her head out every couple of minutes, her eyes all sad and spooky. She wore a red apron with flour all over it.

“So how he know the man’s comin’ here?” Wardell asked.

“Porter in Grant’s Hotel said so. Told Uncle Josh what he heard with his own ears: Satch say Kansas City has the bestest barbecue and music in the whole country. Always goin’ to the Sunset Club when his team in town. That’s how he knowed Eddie Sloan.”

The locusts were screaming. Wardell wished Jesse wouldn’t say the dead man’s name. He couldn’t get it out of his head that it was Eddie lying dead by the river. It was Eddie he found.

Jesse said, “And if he knowed Eddie, he musta knowed your mama. Did you ask her?”

“No.”

“Ask her! This Satchel Paige we talkin’ ‘bout.”

Wardell shook his head. His mama had done changed on him. Had her times when she stared through him like he was a ghost. Then went all weepy and squeezed him till he was fixed to burst.

“Uncle Josh he said he’s comin’ to the Monarchs,” Jesse said. “Next year. Gonna sign a contrac’.”

At the back of Jesse’s house was a plank fence with pieces missing, like an old man’s teeth. Wardell could not look at the gaps. When he did, the locust buzz got louder, and it was like he was smothering, and he knew, just
knew
, that something was going to bust through those holes and savage him. So he worked on his pitches, stretching out his leg like Satch. Snapping his wrist through the ball. They said the man pitched so quick you couldn’t see a thing. Not even a blur. Like watching shadow ball.

If Satchel showed, maybe his daddy would. Wasn’t he a diamond rat too? Played in North Dakota, Minnesota, Pittsburgh one time. Shortstop and second base. “Playing ball somewhere,” his mama said when Wardell asked where his daddy was. His hands were hard and leathery, Wardell remembered that. Couldn’t remember his face.

Jesse kept jawing. The ball whizzed back and forth. Mama stood behind the screen door. Her cheeks were shiny where the tears had dried.

*

No Paige and no papa at the funeral, but a bunch of ball-players, looking funny in their Sunday best: Newt Allen, Bullet Rogan, Sam Crawford. A beanpole named Leroy who played right field, in front of the cheap seats. At the burial the minister’s glasses kept slipping to the end of his nose. His voice was like a tenor saxophone. He lifted his hand and the people sang “Just a Closer Walk with Thee”.

The women fanned themselves. At the edge of the cemetery a mule peered over a wire fence, twitching its tail. Wardell stood beside the gravediggers, and when they lowered Eddie, he peered into the hole. He could smell the cool earth and the bouquet of flowers. When the first clump of dirt hit the coffin lid, his mama cried out, and a shiver went through his body.

Eddie’s kin did not live local, so the mourners went to Jesse’s house. On the back porch was a trestle table crammed with food: sugar-cured ham, jambalaya, ribs, sweet-potato pie, and hot biscuits with red-eye gravy. Alice and Arlene served, shooing away the flies. They told the boys to wait until the guests had their plates before helping themselves.

The Monarch ballplayers came to the house, and other grown-ups Wardell knew: the preacher, neighborhood folks, Mr. and Mrs. Watkins, people from the newspaper. And musicians, of course. Bill Basie and Jimmy Rushing, five foot wide. Herschel Evans and Hot Lips Page. Mary Lou Williams. And some Wardell didn’t know. They were friends of Eddie, and of Wardell’s mama. The guests took their food to the front porch and back yard. Ate with plates on their laps and white napkins tucked in their shirtfronts. At the back of the yard, near the fence, someone opened a jug of corn whisky.

Wardell sat beside Jesse on the porch edge and ate with his eyes cast low. It was too dangerous to look up. Evil lurked in the sky, the back fence, the bushes. It was like a comic book. Through the screen door he could hear the visitors saying soft words to his mama. His heart swarmed with dark feeling, so he went into the parlor and sat behind the piano.

“A gentleman. You ask anybody. You ask Piney Brown.”

“I know.”

Mr. Watkins and Sam Crawford were talking. Wardell could see the cuffs of their suit pants jigging above their two-toned shoes.

“There is an element down there,” Mr. Watkins said.

“Large element.”

“Well, we’re all aware of it. But Eddie kept his distance. That’s a fact. Arlene will tell you.”

“A mystery.”

“What are you saying to your boys?”

Sam was the manager of the Monarchs, and still played utility.

“What can I? Some of them are scared and some are hopping mad, but what am I going to tell them – that they can’t go down Eighteenth Street? Where they going to get their hair cut? Where they going to buy their clothes?”

“From me, I hope.”

“My point precisely.”

The feet shuffled and the voices dropped.

“The nightclubs are the problem. There’s an ownership question,” Mr. Watkins said. “You get my drift?”

“Surely.”

“Colored folk working for colored folk – it’s natural.”

“I work for Mr. Wilkinson.”

“That’s different. Wilkie’s a good man. Honest. Color blind, too. But you look at the entertainment business, it’s a whole other story. We know who owns those outfits. Who they’re associated with. A body can get mixed up in trouble, not even know it. What happened to Eddie, it would appear.”

A short silence. Laughter from the yard, the murmur of women’s voices from the kitchen.

“Some of my boys have taken it hard,” Sam said.

“That right?”

“My third baseman, George Barlow” – Sam’s voice dropped – “he knew Eddie, worked with him. He’s gone missing.”

“A number of folks missing.”

“Especially with the rumors.”

“What are they saying? You tell me.”

“Death consistent with certain methods, shall we put it.”

The cloth in Mr. Watkins’ pants shimmied, change jangled in his pocket. Wardell felt the floor shake beneath him. A silence stopped his ears and a chill came over him. He sneezed.

Mr. Watkins peered behind the piano. “Wardell? What are you doing? Come on out of there.”

He was trembling. Mr. Watkins bent over him. “What’s the matter, son? You all right?”

“Yes sir.”

“How long have you been sitting back there?”

“Don’t reckon I know, sir.”

Mr. Watkins put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and stared at him. He smiled and said, “You heard about this young man’s curve ball, Mr. Crawford?”

“Don’t believe I have.”

“How old are you, Wardell?”

“Eleven years old.”

“Eleven years old. With a bona fide breaking ball and a wind-up like Satchel Paige hisself. Am I right, Wardell?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Always use another pitcher on the Monarchs,” Sam said. “Can’t have enough good pitching.”

Mr. Watkins winked at Sam and gently steered Wardell towards the kitchen. “This is a tough day for your mama, son. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes sir.”

“You do the family thing, you hear? You look after your mama.”

In the kitchen Arlene sat with Alice and several other women drinking coffee. His mama’s face was puffy and covered with tiny dots of sweat. She wore a dress she had made herself, black wool with matching velvet collar and pockets. And a brooch Wardell loved. It was the shape of a treble clef and shiny with small bright stones.

“Come here, honey.”

Her voice was like falling water. She held him close, so that he smelled her perfume mixed with the aromas of food and something musty in the folds of the dress. The other women patted his head and stroked his mama’s arms.

“That’s a hard week.”

“Nobody knows what y’all been through.”

“Your mama loves you, baby.”

His mama cried as she held him and the women fluttered around them. And though his heart was breaking for his mama, he felt safe at last within her arms and within the bigger circle of women, with their warm bodies and voices like honey.

Evening fell. Most of the guests left. The ballplayers and musicians stayed on, the night people, and the atmosphere went back door and down home. More whisky. The house grew smoky. The piano came to life and Mary Lou Williams stuck her head in the kitchen door.

“Pete Johnson’s playing,” she said. “Y’all come in and listen.”

Like Eddie, Pete played at the Sunset. A boogie-woogie man. He was playing “Honky Tonk Train Blues” and the room was rocking.

“Roll for me, Pete. Come on, roll ’em.”

“Make ’em jump.”

“Yeah. I say yeah.”

After several choruses Arlene joined in, singing with her eyes closed. They followed with “Shuffle Boogie” and “You Don’t Know My Mind”. A harp appeared. Hot Lips found a trumpet. The jam session had begun.

A little later Sam Crawford told Wardell to come out back. The stars hung above the cottonwoods like Christmas lights. At the dark end of the yard were low voices and the glow of cigarette coals. The sweet smell of reefer. But Wardell felt safe with Mr. Crawford.

“Can’t see much,” Wardell said.

“That’s all right.” He took up Jesse’s mitt and tossed Wardell the ball. “Stay close to the porch light. Show me your stuff.”

He threw. Curve ball. Fast ball, such as it was. Little blooper thing he liked to try.

“Not bad, kid. Keep it coming.”

The night pressed in. The air hummed and the ball smacked leather. The house beside him was like a big ship, all lit up. He threw, Jesse’s mitt a tiny bull’s eye in the gloom. The darkness out there so big. Nothing for it but to stay close to the light, eyes on the right now. He looked hard at his target and threw. The music and the rhythms flowed around him, the rolling boogie-woogie and his mother’s sorrowful voice.

Roll ’em. Make ’em jump. Throw hard and don’t look back, something might be gaining on you. Satch knew that. Satch knew how to stay ahead of the hoodoo man.

6.

Mickey showed. He stuck his head through the office door on Monday afternoon. Emmett was reviewing arrest reports.

“Must be in the wrong place. Looking for Emmo Whelan.”

On the tenth floor of the new county courthouse, the office looked north and west over the business district. Emmett laughed and Mickey shuffled in, sizing up the burnished oak, the soft leather, the plate-glass view.

“Not bad for a kid from the north side,” Mickey said.

“It’ll do.”

“Guess you’re pretty high in the pecking order.”

“Not so high.”

Side by side, they surveyed the panorama, a boomtown density of redbrick businesses and granite public buildings: the Federal Reserve and US Courthouse, Police Headquarters and the Kansas City Club. Directly opposite, work was proceeding on the new City Hall, and on the streets below they could see the law school campus, where Emmett had sweated for five years, and the offices of the
Kansas
City
Star
. A depression going on? What depression?

But Mickey’s gaze was beyond downtown.

“Look at it.”

“What?”

“West Bottoms.”

The old neighborhood. Beyond the boom. The packing houses and factories. The pinched streets.

“Awful small from this high,” Emmett said.

“Not much when you’re down there, either.”

“Be fair, Mick. You couldn’t find a truer place.”

Mickey turned from the window with a sneer. “Depends on your vantage, I guess.”

“It’s home, isn’t it?”

Mickey squinted, his dark blond hair sticking out above his ears like ripe wheat. “Last I heard you were living in Oakwood.”

“Just making my way in the world, Mick.”

Mickey patted his pockets. “No law against smoking in here, is there?”

“Ashtray on the coffee table.”

He lit up and circled the room, waving his cigarette at the paneled walls, the brass spittoon, the custom-built furniture.

“I figured it was something in here, but little did I know.”

“You get used to it quick enough.”

“Is that right? I hear you got a hanging tree.”

“Upstairs. Thirteenth and fourteenth floor are the county jail. The execution chamber’s up there.”

“Trap door, I heard. Hit a button and, boom, the poor lad drops. Wouldn’t know what hit him.”

“I haven’t seen it. Those floors have separate elevators.”

“I’ll bet they do.”

The light up here was sharp at this time of day, the room warm in spite of the building’s cooling system. Mickey had a manic edge. His skin was rough and mealy, his clothes unfresh. He favored his bum knee as he paced and had the look of a guy with little to do and more on his mind than he could handle.

He returned full circle to the window and took a deep drag. “Trap door. Boom. See you later, pal.”

Emmett sat behind his desk. He needed Mickey clear-eyed. With the chip off his shoulder. “Buddy. Sit down.”

Mickey turned his head. The light behind him obscured his face. “
Buddy
? You gonna give me a pep talk? Show me how to win friends and influence people?”

“No pep talks. I need a favor.”

Slowly he backed away from the window and eased into a chair, pressing the padded arms with his palms and avoiding Emmett’s eyes. “Shoot,” he said.

“You heard about this murder last week?”

“There were two murders last week. In Kansas City there were two murders. Vagrant kicked to death outside the Roberts Building and a musician executed and dumped by the river.”

“You keep in touch.”

Mouth downturned, Mickey shook his head. “I read the papers like everybody else.”

“I didn’t see anything in the papers about an execution. Or a river dump.”

Mickey reached back and tapped his cigarette over the ashtray.

Emmett lifted a Connemara marble paperweight from his desk and passed it from hand to hand. “It’s the musician I’m interested in,” he said.

“This a county case?”

“Strictly speaking, no. The body, it’s claimed, was found inside the city limits. South bank of the river. Where precisely is a mystery.”

“And the boys downtown aren’t sharing jackshit.”

“I haven’t bothered asking.”

“Why alert them to your interest?”

“Exactly.”

“The only people city homicide hate more than killers are county dicks.”

Emmett spread his hands like a preacher.

Mickey pointed at himself. “And you’d like your old pal Mick to somehow pull the jacket for you. Discreetly, of course.”

Ah, Mickey. He hadn’t lost it. And now that he had a focus for his restless mind, the hostility had eased. Not quite their old rapport, OK, but common ground.

“Not that you’d find much of interest in the file,” Mickey said.

“What makes you say that?”

“Manner of his death. If this is what it appears to be, the boys who pulled the trigger probably attend the annual police barbecue. No way their chums on homicide are going to do any serious digging.”

“Is it as bad as all that?”

Mickey checked to see that the door was closed. “Something tells me you know this already, but here you go. Every captain in the department has to produce a list of hookers in his district and submit it to Chief Higgins’s office. Update it on a regular basis. The idea being that the chief can then determine the amount of tribute due him. And who runs the trade and collects the vig? Our boys in the North End. And that’s just one of many activities. Every gambling room in the city pays weekly juice to Carrollo’s men. And it’s not a muscle payment – it’s to keep the cops away. You also got the numbers rackets, the strip clubs, the unbonded liquor. Not to mention what gets squeezed from legitimate merchants.”

“I get the picture, Mick.”

“It’s big business. Are the cops running the show or the gangsters? Does it matter? Call it a marriage. And like every marriage you got your squabbles. That need to be dealt with.”

“A man was killed.”

“Because he got in the way. Or didn’t make a payment. Or found out something he wasn’t supposed to. If he was a club musician, that’s where a lot of these activities are centered. I would guess this is not a complex case.”

“It’s complex for someone. A wife. A mother. Children, perhaps.”

Mickey crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Don’t go righteous on me, Emmo. Remember, I’m the one got bounced from the job because I wouldn’t play ball. While you…” He blew smoke from his lungs and took in the office with a wry twirl of his hand.

Emmett ran a palm across the smooth baize of the desktop. Play games with Mickey and you better play fair.

“Well, I intend to investigate,” Emmett said.

“And you still want the jacket?”

“I do.”

Mickey’s hands met at the fingertips and he tapped his lips with his forefingers before pointing at him. “Because of what
isn’t
there, right? Because of what its gaps might tell you.”

Emmett got up from his chair and looked out the window. The guy was
too
good. “Let’s get the file,” he said.

“I’ll see what I can do. For old times’ sake.”

Mickey stood up. “I’m due down the hotel,” he said. “Still gotta make a living.”

“One other thing.”

“Yeah?”

Emmett faced him. “It’s not just the jacket,” he said. “Maybe you can ask around. See what you scare up.”

“Is this part of the favor?”

“I’ll pay you.”

Mickey smiled. “How much?”

“Better than whatever you’re getting at the hotel, guarantee you that. And regular. I’m not going to solve this overnight.”

“I don’t need any handouts, Emmo.”

Emmett came round the desk. “Look, I need somebody, OK? Somebody I can trust. Somebody smart.”

“Somebody from the old neighborhood.”

“Whatever way you want to put it.”

Mickey pulled at his ear. “Could work, I guess.”

“Say we meet in Billy Christie’s in a couple days. Poke around a bit. See where it takes you.”

The men stood in the middle of the comfortable room, listening to the cooling system hum in the padded silence.

“What the hell,” Mickey said, extending his hand. “I’ll give it a go.”

They shook hands and moved towards the door.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to get on your case about the neighborhood.”

“Forget it.”

“Your old man was in Billy’s last night,” Mickey said, shaking another Pall Mall from the pack. “Asking for you.”

“That right?”

Mickey creased his eyes against the smoke as he lit up. “Yeah. That’s right.”