The Cincinnati Red Stalkings (20 page)

I
approached Redland Field with fresh enthusiasm Monday afternoon. This was the first time I’d be playing in the park since my encounter with Rufus Yates had landed me on the “injured” list. I was eager to see how the fans would greet me. They were usually generous with applause when a player returned from an injury. And maybe they’d pour on a little extra because of my hidden-ball play in New York.

Even the weather was encouraging. The heat wave had broken while we were on the road, and the temperature was now in the mid-seventies. The sky was clear and the breeze mild. A perfect day for playing baseball.

My high spirits took a dip when I hit Findlay Street and spotted the face from the photograph. It was fixed in my memory, and I had no doubt this was the same newsboy who’d appeared in the picture with Yates and me. He had a batch of papers under one arm and a single issue held up in a hand smudged with black ink. The boy’s ragged corduroy knickers appeared to be a size too large for him, and the only other garment he was wearing—a yellowed undershirt—was at least a size too small.

Along with a dozen or so other newsies, he was yelling, “Paper! Getcha paper!” Each boy tried to shout louder than the others. He spotted me as I neared, and tried to hand me a copy of the
Times-Star.
“Paper, mister?” There was no indication that he recognized me.

“Do you remember me?” I asked.

“Nope. Should I?”

I took the newspaper from him and dug into my pocket. The prospect of a sale brought a little brightness to his eyes. “About three weeks ago,” I said, “I met a man just about where we’re standing now. Somebody took a picture of us—and you’re in the picture holding up a paper.”

“Yeah ... So?” He eyed my pocket, waiting for his money.

“You didn’t try to sell us the paper. Looked like somebody only wanted you to hold it up next to us.”

“Yeah, I remember,” the kid said. “The guy”—he pushed one of his ears forward to give the impression of Rufus Yates—“said it was a joke on you. Gave me a buck to do it.”

I thanked the boy and handed him twice that amount.

There wasn’t much applause when I stepped into the batter’s box for the first time, but I didn’t take it personally. By the bottom of the third, it was already clear that this wasn’t going to be the kind of game where there would be a lot to cheer about. Nor was there anything to jeer. The game had simply settled into a leisurely, lackluster battle between two equally mediocre ball clubs: the sixth-place Cubs and the seventh-place Reds.

The pitching matchup was nothing to get excited about, either. Chicago’s Lefty Tyler and our Hod Eller were among the league’s least effective hurlers. This was August 1, and the men were tied in victories with two each—an average of half a win a month.

As the game progressed, there were few strikeouts, plenty of routine grounders and fly balls, and no spectacular catches or extra-base hits. By the seventh inning, with the score tied at 3–3, it had the feel of one of those sandlot marathons that kids play—where they go on for twenty or thirty innings, with the fun of playing more important than the final outcome. It was the kind of game that didn’t provide much entertainment for spectators, but was an easy one to play in, and I was starting to wish it would continue into extra innings.

I also wished that Margie and Karl Landfors could have been there. But she was at the zoo, and he was trying to find out how Rufus Yates had gotten out of jail early. I’d been starting to suspect that Karl hadn’t come to Cincinnati merely to take a rest from the Sacco and Vanzetti case, as he’d told me before we left Boston. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if Margie had contacted him earlier and asked him to come and help me. But I wasn’t going to ask either of them about it. I was just glad he was here.

My hope for extra innings was denied when the Cubs put together three bloop singles in the top of the ninth and the resulting run held up to give Johnny Evers’s ball club a 4–3 win.

I left the park feeling as fresh as when I’d arrived. I’d played the full nine innings at third, but hadn’t been pressed either physically or mentally. I’d made no errors and, in keeping with the routine nature of the game, had gone my traditional 1-for-4 at the plate.

There was still a trickle of late-departing fans heading down Dalton as I started for home. I’d crossed Sherman Avenue when a Liberty Street trolley pulled up a block ahead and began to take on passengers. I picked up my pace, hoping to catch it, when a big fellow came up behind my left shoulder and jostled me. “Excuse me,” I said, trying to step a little faster. He came up again, nudging me harder and throwing me off stride. I turned. “What are you—?”

He said nothing, and his broad face was expressionless as he gave me another push. The man kept bumping me like a cowboy using his horse to nudge a stray calf back into the herd.

One more shove propelled me into a narrow alley between a run-down apartment building and a secondhand furniture store. Standing about twenty feet inside the alley entrance was Rufus Yates. I’d just recognized him when I was slammed from behind and sent stumbling forward, my boater falling off in the process. By the time I regained my balance, I was face-to-face with Yates.

He gave me a smile that was full of teeth and devoid of sincerity. “Glad you could stop by.” His clothes—a sky-blue double-breasted suit and a cream-colored fedora—were out of place in the filthy alley, but Yates himself appeared quite at ease, as if it was his natural habitat.

I shot a glance behind me to see if there was a way I could get past the thug who’d steered me here. His muscular bulk, outlined beneath a thin green turtleneck sweater, blocked any exit in his direction. Behind Yates, at the other end of the alley, trash bins and ash cans spilling over with garbage presented a greater obstacle.

“What do you want?” I asked.

Yates tilted up his hat with a forefinger. “I want you to stay out of my business. You been asking questions about me, and that’s gonna have to stop. There’s nothing about me you need to know.”

“There’s a picture of us that’s causing me some trouble,” I said calmly. “You got to expect me to be curious about why it was taken.”

Yates shook his head; the ear that stuck out looked like it was waving at me. “What I
expect
is that you’re going to stay the hell out of my business from now on. And Knucksie here is going to make sure of it.”

Knucksie—that’s the nickname for a knuckleball pitcher. I shot another look at the big man. His round, placid face was unfamiliar to me. Did he play in the minors—a teammate of Yates? Maybe with Lloyd Tinsley’s Wichita club? I turned back to Yates. “Is it your business I’m supposed to stay out of, or Tinsley’s?”

I watched closely for his reaction, but I couldn’t tell if the name of the Reds business manager meant anything to him. My question brought another smile to his mouth. “I tell you to quit poking around, and the first thing you do is ask me a question. Not a promising start, is it?” He called past me, “Knucksie, explain to him that I mean business.”

The big fellow lumbered toward me. For the first time, his face showed expression: a gleam came to his eyes as he pulled a set of brass knuckles from his pocket. His name had nothing to do with baseball.

I frantically looked around for a way out. If I tried to climb over the trash pile, he’d be on me in seconds. A fire escape? No, too high for me to reach. A door? The only one was on the side of the furniture store. I could make it ... maybe ... but if it was locked, I’d be trapped.

I judged that my best chance of escape was to try to slide past Knucksie, who now had the shiny implement secured over his fingers.

Yates moved aside to make room for his accomplice. I started to edge backward. When Knucksie was within a few feet of me, I made a feint for the doorway of the furniture store. He moved to block me, and I tried to roll around him toward the alley entrance. I was almost past him when his right fist flashed out and landed a glancing blow to the side of my head; the impact of metal on skull sent me reeling. I staggered to the opposite wall, my hand clasped over my ear.

He came over to where I was leaning against the building. I pulled my head away from the wall; getting it caught between the bricks and another brass knuckle punch would have been like putting it in a nutcracker. He grabbed my shoulder with one hand and swung with the other. I jerked my arm up to protect my head, but this time the blow came to my stomach. I doubled over, and thought I tasted spleen rising in my throat. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t remain standing. Determined to stay as upright as my body would allow, I dropped to one knee and rested in that position.

Knucksie stepped away and looked at Yates, who appeared satisfied with the “explanation” I’d been given.

Yates walked to where my straw hat was lying on the ground. He picked it up and made a show of dusting it off with his pocket handkerchief. I fought to breathe again as he brought it to me. “Any more questions?” he asked.

Finally able to get some air into my lungs, I wasn’t about to waste any of it by talking. I forced myself up from my knee, but remained bent over.

My silence met with Yates’s approval. “Good,” he said. “Now we understand each other.” He reached out to hand me my hat, affecting a courteous manner.

Angry as the beating had made me, it was this gesture that sent my anger boiling over into rage. I grabbed his extended wrist with both hands and swung him face first into the wall. The crunching sound of the impact was more satisfying than the crack of a solid base hit. I followed with a flurry of hard jabs to his kidneys, getting in five or six punches before I was pulled off and sent flying through the air. My fall was broken by a packing crate that shattered, injecting a number of splinters into my back.

Rufus Yates abandoned all pretense of courtesy. “Kill him,” he ordered Knucksie.

The big man hesitated.

Yates screamed, “Kill him!”

A window creaked open from one of the apartments several stories up.

“I don’t kill for nobody,” Knucksie said. “You want that, you get somebody else.”

Yates turned on him, shrieking, “I said
kill him,
you stupid oaf.
Do it!”

I got to my feet, unsteady, but feeling stronger, encouraged by the argument between the two hoodlums.

From the window above, a man shouted, “What’s going on down there!”

Yates yelled back, “None o’ your business, you old fool! Get your head back inside before I shoot it off!” It was an idle threat; if he’d had a gun, I was pretty sure he’d have used it on me already.

“I’m gonna call the cops!” The window slammed shut. With Yates and Knucksie both still looking up, I sprinted past them, ignoring the pain that jolted me with every step.

“Stop him!” Yates cried.

I was almost to the street when I heard Knucksie answer, “Go to hell.”

His response was reassuring, but I still didn’t slow down until I was safely seated on a trolley headed home.

I
’d reached several conclusions by Tuesday morning. One was that I didn’t ever want to be on the receiving end of a brass-reinforced punch again. The second was that, despite conclusion number one, I was not going to drop my questions about Rufus Yates—no petty hoodlum was going to scare me off when my career was at stake. And, third: there was no sense trying to figure out how Yates had heard that I’d been asking about him. I’d talked to a number of people—the newsboy, Spider Jenkins, Detective Forsch, Kid Gumbert—and by the time you tell three people anything, you might as well consider it public knowledge.

Two people I hadn’t told everything about yesterday’s encounter with Yates were Margie and Karl Landfors. I’d described it only as “a bit of a run-in,” and they were gracious enough not to ask about the purple lump that had blossomed above my ear. They’d both left early this morning; Karl was pursuing a courthouse contact regarding Yates’s early release, and Margie was off to meet Katie Perriman before going to the zoo.

Nor had I reported the assault to Detective Forsch, since I assumed it wouldn’t do much good. I was now reconsidering, though, and decided to give him a try.

When I got the detective on the phone, I told him about the episode in the alley.

“You want to press charges?” Forsch asked.

That hadn’t been my intent, but it might not be a bad idea—pressing criminal charges against Yates should at least demonstrate to Judge Landis that I wasn’t in league with the gambler. “What would that involve?”

He let out a whoosh of air that must have produced a spectacular smoke cloud. “The procedure or the reality?”

“Reality.”

“You file a complaint, Yates produces a dozen witnesses who swear he was elsewhere at the time, and the case is dismissed.”

“Doesn’t sound worth the trouble.”

“Probably isn’t.”

“In that case, let’s skip it.” Then I got to the main reason I’d called. “In the alley, Yates was screaming he wanted me killed. You think he’d follow through on that?”

“Nah, he doesn’t have it in him,” the detective answered. “He’ll use a blackjack in a robbery, or have somebody beaten up if they owe him money, but he’s no murderer. The fellow he was with might be, though. You catch his name?”

Strangely, I felt I owed Knucksie something for refusing to kill me. “No, I didn’t. But I don’t think I have anything to worry about from him.”

After we hung up, I felt I was getting through this okay. I’d survived yesterday, and I was unlikely to be murdered today. And, if anybody had seen me with Yates, it would have been obvious that we were not on friendly terms, so I didn’t have to worry about another report to Landis that I’d met with him.

Other than the bruise to my head, there appeared to be no damage, and I was eager and able to play in the afternoon game. Until then, I relaxed over coffee and a plate of butter cookies, reading the morning papers. And there was plenty of news in them to interest me.

The leading baseball story was about the Black Sox trial in Chicago. The defense was scheduled to complete its closing statement today, and then the case would go to the jury. Soon it would finally be over.

What didn’t look like it would be resolved anytime soon was the attempted murder of Dick Hurley by Charlotte Ashby. She was still refusing to make any statement about her action in the Sinton Hotel. According to the papers, the police were now speculating that her silence was because she was covering up for somebody and had possibly carried out the shooting on behalf of another party.

I still hadn’t figured out what had really happened in 1869. Except that the real Dick Hurley had been fired instead of eloping. Was there really a girl named Sarah who’d been murdered? If so, did it involve the Red Stockings in some way? And, fifty-two years later, did it result in Oliver Perriman’s getting killed?

Maybe the false Mr. Hurley could give me a clue.

Five of the hospital room’s eight beds were occupied, and four of the patients had visitors. Dick Hurley was the only one who was alone.

He lay in a bed near the window, staring out at Music Hall across Plum Street. His pale skin and white hair blended in with the color scheme of the room. The walls, the chairs, even the iron rails of the bed were all painted white; I knew it was to make the place look sanitary, but it also gave the room a funereal air. The white-linen sheet that covered Hurley from foot to chin looked like a burial shroud.

“Mr. Hurley?”

I said his name once more before I caught his attention. It took another moment until he recognized me. His dark eyes, which had been so bright and lively when I’d seen him before, now appeared dull and sluggish. “Michael, isn’t it?” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“Mickey. Mickey Rawlings. We met at the Sinton Hotel.”

“Of course. At the dinner. How are you?”

“I’m fine. I came to see how
you’re
doing.”

“Improving, the doctors say.” He waved a shaky hand at a chair next to his bed. “Sit. Stay a while.” As I sat down, he asked, “How was the game today?”

“Good. Beat the Cubs 5–1. I’d come to Old City Hospital directly from the ballpark.

“Who pitched?”

“Alexander for Chicago, Rube Marquard for us.” I couldn’t help but add, “And I tripled in two runs.” It was immodest, but a triple off Grover Cleveland Alexander was something to brag about.

“Good for you!” Hurley sounded delighted.

Several more visitors came into the room to see one of the other patients. Hurley looked over at them, and a touch of sadness came into his eyes. Turning his gaze back to me, he said, “Except for the police and a couple of reporters, you’re the first visitor I’ve had.”

“Mr. Tinsley hasn’t come by?”

“No. But he’s doing plenty for me—the doctors tell me he’s going to pick up my medical bills.” He tucked the top of the sheet under his whiskered chin. “I was getting pretty lonely here, though. You don’t know how alone you are until you’re in a hospital, just about on your deathbed, and there’s no kin or friends standing by you.” He adjusted the sheet again. “But listen to me feeling sorry for myself. You’re here now, and I do appreciate that.” A coughing fit racked his body.

I felt a little guilty that I wasn’t really here on a social call. “How are you coming along?” I asked.

“Considering I had a bullet in my lung, not bad. Chest hurts, and breathing’s a bit of a chore, but I’m doing better every day. Docs are still worried about pneumonia, so I might be here a few more days.”

I leaned forward and asked, “Do you have any idea why that lady shot you?”

“No.” He attempted a wan smile. “And where I come from, a ‘lady’ doesn’t shoot people.”

“Did you know her?”

“Never saw her before in my life.”

“She just walked up to you and fired? Didn’t say anything?”

Hurley hesitated, then shook his head.

I glanced around the room; no one was paying attention to us. “Do you think she tried to kill you because she had a grudge against the real Dick Hurley?”

His body twitched. “The real—?”

I nodded.

“You know? How?”

“From when we talked at the dinner. Some of the things you said weren’t quite right. I don’t suppose Lloyd Tinsley questioned you too closely when you showed up and told him you were Hurley.”

“No ... He didn’t take much convincing. But what would he have asked? It’s not like I was pretending to be Harry Wright.”

True, he’d only claimed to have been a utility player. Who would question such a modest claim as that? “Why’d you do it?”

“I got the idea two years ago, when I read about how nice Cal McVey and George Wright were treated when they came to Cincinnati for the World Series. The newspaper stories said that the other Red Stockings were all dead, except maybe for Hurley, and nobody knew what happened to him.” He coughed again. “Then a few weeks ago, when I heard about the museum that was going to honor the team, I thought why not. I knew the real Hurley, so I figured I could answer questions about him—”

“You knew him from the Washington Olympics?”

He nodded. “I
was
a ballplayer—I’m not faking that. I was backup pitcher to Asa Brainard. Never got in a game, though. Club folded nine games into the season. Never got the chance ...” His eyes locked on mine. “I’d have give anything to play just one game—hell, to throw one pitch for a major-league team. Spent a lot of years tramping around the country with semipro clubs, but never got another shot at the top.” He nestled deeper in his pillow.

There were many times when I complained about not getting enough playing time. This man’s words reminded me that I was lucky to be a big-league ballplayer at all. “What’s your real name?” I asked.

“Cogan. John Cogan. And you won’t find it in any record book.”

“Nice to meet you, John. And as far as I’m concerned, you can still go by ‘Dick Hurley’—I won’t be telling anyone otherwise.”

His mustache slowly pulled up in a relieved smile. “Thank you, son.”

I then turned back to the shooting. “Was there anything more to what happened in the hotel?”

“There was, yes. But it didn’t make sense to me. Before she pulled the trigger, that woman said ‘This is for Sarah.’ ”

Jeez. The Sarah from the note? “Did you tell the police?”

Cogan looked ashamed. “No. I would have had to admit I didn’t know who Sarah was. Thought the cops might figure out I was a ... fraud.”

“Anything else you can tell me about it?”

He shook his head no, then turned to stare out the window.

I stood up, planning to leave, then I caught sight of the other patients with family and friends around to cheer them. “Warm in here,” I said. “Mind if I take off my jacket?”

Cogan, appearing a bit surprised, said, “Not at all.”

I draped the coat over the back of the chair, then sat back down and asked, “What were some of those semipro teams you played with?”

He told me stories about his playing days for more than an hour until the nurse came and announced that visiting hours were over.

Margie had prepared another local delicacy for supper, one that I like better than burgoo because it had no vegetables at all in it. The sausage and oatmeal pancakes, called “goetta,” were a fried, mushy mixture that reminded me of Philadelphia scrapple.

She and Karl already had the table laid when I got home, so we immediately sat down to eat. As we dug into the goetta, we gave our reports on the day’s progress.

I went first, recounting my meeting with John “Dick Hurley” Cogan and getting in mention of my two-run triple off Grover Alexander.

Karl followed. His report was brief: Rufus Yates had paid off his fine on June 30, in cash. There was no record of where he’d got the money.

“Well, I had lunch with Katie Perriman,” Margie said. “Nice woman, I thought. So nice, I hated to bring up the question of whether she’d had an affair with Curt Stram. But I did, and I got some answers. I mentioned to her that you and Stram were now roommates, so she assumed he already gave you an earful and I think that helped open her up—she seemed almost eager to talk, to counter whatever he might have told you.”

“He
suggested
a lot,” I said. “He didn’t say much directly.”

Margie smiled. “She did. They did have a brief affair—but not a
romance.
It was so brief, it lasted less than an hour, Katie said.”

“What happened?”

“In February, there was a party at the Emery Hotel. Some of the Reds players who live in the area—including Stram who’d just signed with the team—were there, and so were the Perrimans. Ollie Perriman spent the entire time with the ballplayers, ignoring Katie. She was already upset with her husband for spending so much time and attention on his collection, and she felt he was embarrassing her in public at the party. So ... she got a bit drunk and she made one of those monumental errors of judgment that can haunt you for a long time. She and Stram went off to a room together ...”