Hunting a Detroit Tiger (22 page)

Damn. “Can we get together tomorrow? My four weeks is up and I want to tell you what I have.”

“Anything good?”

“I’ll let you be the judge.”

“All right.”

“Where? Not that shack again, please. How about the movie theater?”

“Stosh only works there on Fridays. You don’t have a game tomorrow, right?”

“Right.”

“Want to see one?”

“Who?”

“The Stars. At Mack Park.”

“Sure!” The Stars were Detroit’s franchise in the new Negro National League, and I was curious to see how well they played.

Hyman gave me directions to his house, and I agreed to meet him at noon the next day. I also made a promise to myself that I would be very careful when I got there.

M
y walk to Leo Hyman’s house took me into Detroit’s east side, an area called Black Bottom. It looked like something I’d only seen on “the other side of the tracks” in segregated Southern cities. Between Beaubien and Hastings was a shantytown, with dilapidated shacks packed closely together. City trash collectors apparently avoided the area; piles of reeking refuse often blocked my path. As crowded as the housing was, the density of peopte—aimost all of them colored—was higher. Swarms of children in ragged clothing congested the alleys, and groups of men and women gathered on the corners.

Farther east, the neighborhood improved, although it was still never going to be mistaken for Grosse Pointe. The homes were small, single-family wood dwellings; they were modest, but well maintained. Many had patches of trimmed lawn and a few had window boxes with blooming flowers. On the corners were sturdier brick buildings that housed barber shops, grocery stores, and doctors’ offices. Along the curbs were parked spotless automobiles, almost every one of them a Model T. There were few white faces among the people I passed, and I felt uneasy about being a minority.

Leo Hyman’s house was on Monroe Street between Riopelle and Orleans. I thought there should have been a quarter moon cut in the front door—the place wasn’t much bigger than an outhouse, and not much prettier, either. Of all the homes on the block, his was the most in need of a paint job and some decoration.

When Hyman let me in, the first thing I wanted to ask was why he chose to live in this neighborhood. I restrained myself, thinking perhaps he couldn’t afford any better. It probably wasn’t very lucrative to be a professional radical.

The interior of the house was cluttered but not dirty; wires, mechanical parts, and disassembled machines and instruments were everywhere.

“Any trouble finding the place?” he asked. Today he wore red suspenders that were barely visible against his shirt.

“No, the directions were fine. I’ve never been in this area before, though.”

“Neither has the American Federation of Labor.”

“Huh?”

“You’re wondering why I live in Black Bottom, aren’t you?”

“I suppose.”

Hyman fluffed out his beard and seated himself on a stool in front of a small workbench. “I’m here because this is where the workers are.” With long tweezers, he maneuvered a tiny mast inside a bottle where a miniature ship was under construction. “Negroes have been here since the Civil War—this was the last stop on the underground railroad, you know.”

“No, didn’t know that.”

“Got fifty thousand living in the city now and thousands more arriving every year to make automobiles. This is the new work force, and the IWW wants them to join us. I figure if I live among them, they’ll get to know and trust me.”

I wasn’t sure Hyman would succeed on that score. The more
I
got to know him, the less I trusted him. “So you’re here for recruiting.”

“Exactly. Sam Gompers—‘Sell ’em Out Sam’ we call him—and his American Federation of Labor aren’t interested in these people. A lot of AFL locals won’t accept Negroes—or women, or foreigners, for that matter. The IWW takes
all
workers. All people, for one big union.”

I wasn’t much interested in IWW membership policies. More out of courtesy than curiosity, I asked, “Getting lots of new members?”

He shook his head. “It’s been tough. Henry Ford is a popular man in these parts. He beat us to it in trying to win the Negroes over. Ford gives them jobs and pays a whole lot better than they can get anywhere else. You’ll see when we’re at the game that a lot of colored men wear their Ford work badges on their suits. They’re proud of their jobs and not about to jeopardize them by joining a union. I’m patient, though. They’ll come around.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Ford will do something stupid.” He put down the tweezers, picked up a newspaper from a nearby table, and handed it to me. “Look at this.”

The paper was
The Dearborn Independent,
dated May 22, 1920. Above the name of the paper were the words “The Ford International Weekly.” The main headline read
The International Jew: The World’s Problem.

“Henry Ford doesn’t like Jews?” I asked.

“Apparently not.” Hyman shook his head in disgust. “Just because of his money and power, Ford can get his prejudices spread around in a rag like this. No one man’s whim should carry so much weight.” He sighed. “People are contradictions, Mickey. Nobody is all good or all bad. I’ll give the devil his due: Ford hires Negroes, ex-cons, cripples and generally gives them all a fairer shake than they’d get anywhere else. But here he is denouncing Jews. Who knows who it’ll be next week? Maybe Negroes, and then we’ll win them over to our side.” Hyman mixed some glue and dabbed it into the bottle, attaching a string to the mast. His hands were as steady as a surgeon’s.

I was fascinated with Hyman’s deft work. “I hear you used to be an engineer.”

“I’m a tinker is what I am. A fine and noble trade.”

From the contents of the house, I’d have taken him for a junk dealer. “Who’s joining us at the game?” I asked.

“What makes you think anybody’s joining us?”

“The first time we met, you brought Whitey Boggs along. Last time, Stan Zaluski was there.”

Hyman chuckled. “It’s not wise to go into a situation without a second—never know what might happen. Stosh is coming along today, but because he likes baseball, not because I need a backup man. I’m not afraid of you.”

“Guess you don’t believe I killed Emmett Siever then.”

The tweezers stopped moving. “Let’s just say I’m not a hundred percent convinced.”

“It might have helped me convince other people that I didn’t do it if you could have told me where Hub Donner was that night. I don’t see how he could have slipped away from whoever you had watching him—a fellow who looks like Donner can’t just disappear.”

“Hub Donner is big and ugly,” said Hyman. “But don’t underestimate him just because he looks like a thug. The man is smart.” He smiled wryly. “A most worthy adversary.”

Hyman sounded like he admired Donner. And I was thinking that his advice about not underestimating people could also apply to Chick Fogarty.

He laid the tweezers on the bench. “We better be going if we want to see batting practice.” He picked up the bottle and studied the ship that was taking form inside. “Ain’t never gonna sail, but when I’m done with her she’s sure gonna
look
seaworthy.”

By the fourth inning, I was starting to think that maybe the best baseball wasn’t being played in the American and National Leagues.

At first sight, Mack Park didn’t hold out much promise. The wooden structure at Mack Avenue and Fairview was like a spring-training ballpark—small, rustic, and shaky. But what was happening on the diamond was exquisite.

Two left-handed pitchers, the Detroit Stars’ Andy Cooper and Dave Brown of the Chicago American Giants, were hurling superb shutout baseball. From my grandstand seat, I could tell that both pitchers easily had the stuff—blistering fastballs and wicked curveballs—to make the Tigers’ pitching staff. The problem wasn’t what they lacked, but what they possessed: dark skin. I’d always thought it unfair that Negroes were barred from Organized Baseball. Now, seeing them play, I realized it wasn’t only the colored players who were missing out on something. It was the white players—and fans—who were being cheated as well. I
wanted
to have a chance to bat against these men.

Stan Zaluski and Leo Hyman sat on either side of me. Zaluski sipped a Coca-Cola that he’d “flavored” from a pocket flask. Hyman was keeping count of the innings by consuming a hot dog during each one. I was on my second bag of peanuts and drinking ginger ale. I could tell that Hyman and Zaluski were genuine fans. Like me, they kept their eyes on the game and said little through the first few innings. No matter how many ball games I’ve seen or played in, I always approached each new game as if something special might happen—a no-hitter, an unassisted triple play, a steal of home.

When Cooper gave up a single to Giants’ second baseman Bingo DeMoss, the chance of seeing a no-hitter was gone.

Stan Zaluski said, “It’s good to get out to a ball game. I’m gonna have to work all Memorial Day weekend in that damn projection booth, so I better get my fill of fresh air now.”

Cristobal Torriente, who I overheard from a fan near us was from Cuba, got up to face Cooper. The left-handed hitter pulled a long line drive over the right field fence—just foul.

“Jeez, they play great baseball,” I said.

Zaluski pointed out a portly Negro in the Chicago dugout. “And that man is going to make sure people know just how good they are.”

“Who is he?”

“Rube Foster. He started this league. Helluva a pitcher in his day—better than any white pitcher of his time, some would say. Got his nickname by outpitching Rube Waddell in an exhibition game.”

Hyman spoke up, “Stosh has been following colored baseball for years.”

“I thought this was the first year they had a league.”

“First year with a league,” said Zaluski, “but they’ve had some great barnstorming teams. The Page Fence Giants out of Adrian, Michigan, was one. I remember at the end of the ‘95 season, they came to Detroit to play a couple of games against the Detroit Creams of the Western League—that was before the Western League became the American League. In the first game, the Giants beat the Creams something like 18-3. Next day, the Creams brought in some National League players as ringers, determined that they weren’t going to lose to a colored team again. Giants won that second game 15—0.”

I was getting uncomfortable hearing how good the Negro players were. It suggested that playing in an all-white league wasn’t something to be so proud of. Moving off the subject of baseball, I said to Hyman, “The reason I wanted to talk to you was about Emmett Siever.”

His red cheeks rose in a grin. “I didn’t think it was to hear Stosh tell his stories.”

“You gave me till today to find his killer,” I said. “I’ve been trying, but I need more time.”

The amusement vanished from Hyman’s face and he tugged at his whiskers. “I don’t think you realize how difficult it’s been for me to keep some of our more temperamental comrades at bay.”

“I appreciate what you’ve done, but I need more time. I’ve made progress, but I haven’t pulled it all together yet.”

“What progress?” Hyman asked. “Give some reason to give you an extension.”

I looked to Zaluski, then back to Hyman. “Well, for one thing, there was an agent from the GID there. I think he’s the one who told the cops to pin the shooting on me. As for the gun that was found on Emmett Siever, I can prove it was planted by the cops—it came from their evidence room.”

Hyman mulled it over. “What do you think, Stosh?”

Zaluski said, “The boy’s trying. Let him stick with it a while.”

“Give you another week,” said Hyman.

“How about—”

“One week. That’s it.”

Okay. If that’s all I could get, I would just have to make the most of it.

We settled back and watched another couple of innings. In the sixth, Stars catcher Bruce Petway threw out a Chicago runner trying to steal second. Petway didn’t come out of his crouch; he simply gunned the ball to second on a straight line and on target. “He’s got an arm like a cannon,” I said.

Zaluski spoke around his pipe stem, “Ty Cobb found that out the hard way.”

“They played against each other?” I was incredulous. Cobb had a violent hatred of colored people, and I couldn’t imagine him playing baseball with them.

“Exhibition game in Cuba,” Zaluski said. “About ten years ago. Petway threw Cobb out
twice
in the same game. Cobb’s never played against Negroes since.”

“Jeez.”

As the game went on, my attention drifted away from it and back to Emmett Siever. A seething sensation started to bubble inside me—anger. I was angry that Hyman and Zaluski could be so casual about things. We could be buddies at a ball game today, and next week they might let their comrades in the IWW kill me. Why the hell should I have to beg Leo Hyman for an extra week? Why should
he
set the timetable for
my
life? Especially when I was certain that he could help me solve Siever’s murder if he truly wanted to.

During the seventh inning stretch, Zaluski muttered, “This damned old bladder sure don’t hold what it used to,” and made another trip to the men’s room.

I took the opportunity to ask Hyman, “Where did you say you were when Siever was shot?”

“I said I was somewhere else.”

“You weren’t in the Hall during the speeches, but I saw you there when I left that night.” That was a bluff on my part; I didn’t want to tell him I’d learned of his presence from Detective McGuire.