Hunting a Detroit Tiger (19 page)

“No, you don’t. And anyway, I think you’re—” Failing to come up with a suitable compliment, I said, “Just fine.”

She laughed softly. “You sure know how to flatter a girl.”

The music stopped. We added to the sparse applause that the band was given, and stayed on the floor for the next number.

I looked again at Landfors and Connie Siever. Their heads were close together in deep conversation. Landfors looked as delighted to be talking with her as I was to be dancing with Margie. I felt a little more kindly to his date; she was making my friend happy. I only hoped that he wasn’t setting himself up for a fall.

The next tune was “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” the kind of slow, schmaltzy song I don’t care to hear but like to dance to. As the singer crooned the lyrics and we wound our way around the floor, I noticed that Margie’s limp produced a marvelous grinding motion against me. There was something I liked even more than slow dancing, and I found myself wishing that we weren’t on a public dance floor or stuck with another couple for the evening.

The bandleader announced a break, and Margie and I headed back to the table.

Landfors was finishing a story, “... so the Justice Department raids this little Italian social club in New Jersey, and find what they think is a stash of bombs. They put all the men in jail, and send the bombs to be examined. The police can’t understand it when all the ‘bombs’ turn out to be duds. They weren’t bombs at all—they were
bocce balls!
”

Connie almost doubled over with laughter. At least she has some kind of a sense of humor, I thought.

Laughing hard himself, Landfors said to Margie and me, “We were just talking about the Palmer raids.”

Yup, this was sure a fun couple to spend a Saturday evening with.

Margie and I ordered a couple more beers. When the waiter pointed out to Landfors and Connie that beer didn’t taste good if you let it go flat, they agreed to another round, too.

When the fresh brews arrived, Landfors took a clumsy gulp of his, then said into the glass, “Speaking of Italian anarchists ...”

Jeez, Karl, you sure know how to enliven a conversation.

“... I got a telegram today.”

“Yes?” Connie prodded him. I was curious myself to find out at last what it said.

“Two men have been arrested in Brockton, Massachusetts. Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti are their names. Both Italian immigrants, both avowed anarchists. They’re going to be charged with murder, but it looks like their political leaning is the only ‘evidence’ against them.”

“That’s awful!” said Connie.

Landfors went on, still talking low, “The fellow who sent me the telegram has set up a defense committee on their behalf. And ... And he’s asking me to go to Boston. He wants me to report on whatever happens to these men.”

Connie didn’t look pleased at this possibility. “Are you?”

“I haven’t quite decided yet. I would prefer—”

“What about what
we
were planning?” she demanded.

“Well, as I was saying, I would
prefer
to stay here, but this sounds like something I want to cover. So far, outside the Boston Italian community, these men aren’t getting any kind of support. If they’re being railroaded, public exposure might be the only thing that can free them.” He pushed up his spectacles. “But, as I said, I haven’t decided yet.”

As Connie opened her mouth to speak again, I asked Margie, “Would you like to dance some more?”

She smiled. “There’s no music.”

“Oh. Right. A walk, then?”

“We’re on a roof.”

“A
short
walk?”

“I’d love to.”

We worked our way through the crowd toward the east side of the building. A low brick wall topped by a wrought-iron railing ran around the roof’s perimeter to make sure the club didn’t lose any of its customers to a free fall. The view was splendid: the dark Detroit River, dotted with sparkling lights from passing boats, split around Belle Isle with its stationary lights.

“Now that we’re alone,” said Margie.

I put my arms around her. “Yes?”

“Tell me what happened last night.”

“Oh. Okay.” I took her hand, we began pacing along the wall, and I filled her in on my meeting with Leo Hyman and Stan Zaluski. “I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere,” I concluded. I didn’t mention that I had only two weeks from tonight to come up with something.

“Why don’t you ask Connie?” Margie suggested. “Maybe she knows who would have wanted to kill her father.”

“Karl’s going to ask her for me—eventually. I don’t know how much she’ll say, though. She might be pretty loyal to the IWW.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I think the Wobblies are involved somehow. Not that they necessarily killed him, but they must know something about what happened. They’re so protective of themselves that I can’t imagine somebody being killed in their own headquarters without one of them knowing what happened. Also, there must be a reason for Siever being killed in Fraternity Hall. Why not someplace easier, like on the street?”

“I don’t know.” Margie smiled. “But I’ll bet you find out.”

“Hope so.”

For the rest of the night, we left Landfors and Connie to their political talk, while we remained on the dance floor.

Around midnight, the four of us got back on the ferry. It was a smoother vessel than the transport ship that had taken me to France, but I still didn’t like being on water. During the journey, Landfors and Connie continued their argument about whether he should go to Boston, while Margie and I cuddled and kissed in the back of the boat.

When we reached the Detroit shore at Bates Street, Margie and I left the two radicals to their arguing and made a beeline for her hotel.

H
ub Donner had done it again. This time he’d made the front page:
Turmoil Tails Tigers
was the headline of a small article at the bottom of the Sunday
Free Press
. According to the story, I was going to denounce the players’ union in an upcoming issue of
Baseball Magazine
. A preview of the magazine piece had supposedly leaked out, and the Tiger team was “snarling and clawing” over it.

Donner was trying to produce a self-fulfilling prophecy. On the way to Navin Field, I tried in vain to think of a way to stop him.

When I walked into the locker room, I was immediately aware that something was up. Not one of my teammates looked at me as I sidled my way past the stools to my locker. For a moment, I thought I’d gone to the wrong one—
Rawlings
was no longer chalked above the top shelf. Then fear struck me: was I off the team? I checked the neighboring names:
Pinelli
on one side,
Vedder
on the other. But the name above mine was—oh, it wasn’t a new player. The yellow chalk on my locker read:
Judas.
I used my handkerchief to rub out the word.

An expectant silence filled the room. I’d grown used to my teammates not speaking to me; now they weren’t talking among themselves, either. They were waiting for something.

After I’d taken off my street clothes, I pulled my baseball pants from their hook. I was about to step into them when I saw the legs had been knotted at the ends. “Pretty bush league,” I commented to the room in general. “What’s next—short sheeting my bed?”

A few cold, hard glares were the only response.

I flipped the pants over to work the knot loose. Something thudded on my foot. “What the—?” I looked down to see a pigeon. A dead, headless pigeon. “Sonofabitch!” I turned and looked at my teammates collectively. “Who did this?”

There was no answer. A few of them stifled chuckles.

I looked at individuals, from face to face. Most, including Dutch Leonard and Chick Fogarty, appeared amused. Bobby Veach looked sheepish, Harry Heilmann bored, Ty Cobb above it all. Young Lou Vedder next to me was the only one who looked troubled.

I dropped the pants over the bird’s body and went to see Jake, our clubhouse man, for a new pair. As I walked away, I heard laughter and talk behind me. The only extra pants available were at least two sizes too large. “Perfect fit,” said Jake. “Just make sure you tighten your belt a couple extra notches.”

Most of the other Tigers were completely dressed by the time I returned to my locker, but they didn’t head out to the field. They remained in their seats, absently punching their gloves, rubbing their bats, or retying their spikes. Something else had to be coming.

I checked my uniform jersey before putting it on, and looked into each of my spikes for foreign objects before putting my feet inside and tying the laces. Eager to get on to the field, I grabbed my mitt and pulled my cap from the locker shelf. The pigeon’s head fell from out of the cap. I jumped back as it bounced on the floor.

The locker room erupted with laughter. It wasn’t a “what a swell prank” kind of laugh. There was malice in my teammates’ voices.

I looked around and said calmly, “One of you must feel like a really big man, killing a bird. If you got something to settle with me, come after
me
. But I warn you: my neck ain’t gonna break so easy.”

Chick Fogarty said, “Maybe not. But easy enough.”

I flung my glove on the floor. “Come on. Right here, right now.”

The catcher slowly drew himself up to his full height. He was the size of a small mountain; if he ever gave up catching, I thought, all he had to do was move back twenty feet and start a career as a backstop. We studied each other for a few moments. There was no anger in his eyes, bewilderment mostly; they changed expression as if he was groping to determine what he should be thinking. And I wasn’t really angry at him. Hub Donner was the one I was mad at.

Dutch Leonard urged, “Go ahead, Chick. Give it to him.”

Fogarty took a step toward me. Then he ducked his head and kept walking. “Another time,” he said, as he passed by and continued out the clubhouse door.

The prospect of a fight gone, the rest of the players started for the door, too.

I wrapped the bird’s body in my ruined trousers, scooped up its head with my cap, and tossed the entire bundle in a waste can. I noticed there was hardly any blood from the bird. It had probably been dead already when my teammates decided to behead him. I felt somewhat better that at least it hadn’t been killed on my account.

On the way out to the field, I stopped for a new cap. All Jake had was one that was a little too small. Between the cap and the oversize pants, I had the feeling I was bringing the Charlie Chaplin look to baseball.

Despite the “turmoil” on the Tigers, we played well enough together to drub the visiting Philadelphia Athletics 9-1 behind the two-hit pitching of Howard Ehmke. The Athletics were the mostly likely team to take our place in the American League cellar, and we’d played with that goal foremost in mind. I’d boosted my batting average slightly by going 1-for-3 with two walks; one of the walks was with the bases loaded, so I picked up a cheap RBI as a bonus.

After the game, I stopped at my apartment before going to Margie’s evening show at the Rex.

Karl Landfors was seated on the sofa, meticulously folding his nightshirt. His Gladstone bag and suitcase were open on the floor in front of him, and both were more than half-packed.

Restraining a smile at the prospect, I said, “Moving in with Connie?”

“No.” He proceeded to roll a pair of socks. “I’m going to Boston. I decided to look into that Sacco and Vanzetti situation I mentioned last night.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sorry to have the apartment to myself again. “What’s Connie think about you going?”

He pushed up his glasses. “Let’s just say that she’s less than ecstatic about my decision.”

“I’m sorry. You two were getting along so good.”

“We
were
. Past tense is correct.”

“She said you two had some plans . . .”

“They were
her
plans. Not mine.” He jammed the socks in his bag. “Connie Siever is a strong-willed woman. She wanted me to go to Tennessee with her and work for the Suffrage Amendment.”

“You didn’t want to?”

“I certainly did. But I couldn’t resist the appeal from Boston. There are
thousands
of men and women fighting for suffrage. These Sacco and Vanzetti fellows have no
one.
I prefer to work on issues where I can have an impact. On suffrage, I’d be merely one more body in the fray. For these anarchists ... I don’t know what I’ll be, but I might be the only help they get.”

“You gonna be okay in Boston? I’d hate to see you getting yourself in trouble.”

“I’ll be fine.” He strained to produce a smile. “And, I have a going-away present for you.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I found out who ‘Detective Aikens’ is.”

“You did? Who? And
how?”

A bit of the old self-satisfied look came into his eyes. “As to how, let’s just say I was able to pressure certain contacts that I have. And—” He smiled sheepishly, “Well, I did use my contacts, but you set me on the right path by mentioning the GID. Your description of the man was also helpful.”

“Let’s get to the who,” I prodded.

“I have been able to ascertain that ‘Detective Aikens’ was in actuality Calvin Garrett, special agent with the General Intelligence Division of the Justice Department.”

“Jeez. A government agent.”

“Yes, the GID used to be—”

I remembered what Whitey Boggs had said. “The Anti-Radical Division.”

Landfors looked mildly impressed. “That’s right.”

“And they organized the Palmer raids, so they’re probably still watching the IWW halls.”

“I would say that’s a reasonable inference.”

One thing bothered me: the idea of an agent of the United States government committing a murder. “You don’t think Aikens—I mean Garrett—coutd have killed Emmett Siever, do you?”

Landfors stroked a finger along his nose. “Until last week, I’d have said no. They might deport you, slander you, or frame you. But not murder you. Legally, the GID men aren’t even allowed to carry guns. As it turns out, however, they don’t need them.”

“Meaning?”

He leaned back and took a deep breath. “Eight weeks ago, the Justice Department picked up a couple of men who printed anarchist literature. Just picked them up—didn’t charge them with anything. They held the men in the Justice Department’s New York office for eight weeks, trying to beat confessions out of them for a bombing. By the way, detaining someone for eight weeks without charges is completely illegal.” He swallowed hard. “Last week, one of the men, Andrea Salsedo, was found on the sidewalk, dead. He fell fourteen stories. The official version is that it was a suicide. I think—a lot of us think—that he was murdered by his interrogators.”

“Damn.”

“That’s another reason I want to see what happened in Boston. I don’t want another ‘suicide’ if I can help stop it.”

I was stunned by his story. It took a few minutes until I asked, “How would I get in touch with Calvin Garrett?”

“Don’t. Stay away from the GID. They may not kill you, but they have a hundred other ways to ruin your life.”

“But he might have seen who really killed Emmett Siever.”

“Perhaps he did. If so, he certainly won’t tell you what he knows.”

“No, I don’t suppose he would.” I sank into the rocker, trying to figure out how else I could use the information on Garrett without contacting him directly.

“One more thing,” Landfors said. “I did ask Connie to get her father’s personal effects, including the gun he supposedly had. Perhaps that will give you a lead.”

“Thanks, Karl.”

He closed the bags and stood up. “If you see her, would you let me know how she is?”

“Of course.”

I accompanied him in a cab to the train depot. When I returned home to change for Margie’s show, I found that he’d left me with another present: the icebox was stocked with a dozen bottles of Labatt beer.

I thought more kindly of Landfors as I hurriedly dressed for Margie’s show. I also felt badly for him that things had hit a snag with Connie Siever. Landfors was always going off to try to right whatever wrongs he encountered. He seemed to take them so personally, as if the responsibility for fixing them was solely his. In a way, I admired his energy and convictions. Perhaps I needed more of those myself.

I’d just opened the door to leave when the phone rang. After briefly debating whether to answer, I picked up the receiver. And was promptly sorry that I did.

“Mickey! Hub Donner here.”

“Oh.”

“See today’s paper?” Donner asked.

“Yes.”

“So did your teammates, from what I hear. Looks like you’re going to have to pick a side, Mickey. And my side is the one you want to be on.”

“Not a chance. What you’re doing to me is a perfect example of why players have to stick together. If I join any side, it will be the players’ union.”

“You think they’ll ever trust you now?”

The answer was no. Instead of admitting that to Donner, I hung up on him and left for the vaudeville theater.

I spent Sunday night and Monday with Margie, doing nothing that would help determine Emmett Siever’s murderer. Most of what we did was intended to sustain us during the separation caused by the Tigers’ upcoming road trip.

Tuesday morning, I was home packing for the trip, when the phone rang. Not Donner again, I hoped.

The voice was female and businesslike. “Mickey Rawlings, please.”

“This is me.”

“This is Connie Siever. I have that item you requested.”