Hanging Curve (15 page)

“Why not?”

Clint slid down to sit on the Nash’s running board, which squeaked in protest at his weight. “Basically, I agree with the goals of the KKK—patriotism, clean living, good old-fashioned values. And I like the fact that they’ll punish people who need it—like bootleggers and wife beaters. By the way, the Klan mostly keeps
white
men in line; it don’t go after coloreds much—not in this part of the country anyways.”

“If you joined the Klan, and believe in it, why aren’t you active?”

He spit. “I knew a couple fellows who needed to be taught a lesson; one of them let his family go hungry while he drank his paychecks, and another one used his wife for a punching bag. So I went to a Klan meeting, and joined up. There was a whole ceremony—naturalization, they call it—to initiate new members. Everybody was in hoods and robes, and it was real fancy. When it was over, everybody took off their hoods. Turned out the men I wanted straightened out were Klansmen. I ain’t been back since.”

“You still think the Klan is going to keep order if guys like that are in it?”

He spit again, targeting a radiator cap that was lying on the ground a few feet away. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure anymore. Guess if I was, I would have put a slogan on the sign by now.”

“How about J. D.—is he still active?”

“We’re not supposed to say nothing about other members.”

“All right. Well, thanks for the talk. I’ll hold off on buying a car till I see what you get in.” Before I left, I added that if he ever wanted seats to a Browns’ game to let me know and I’d leave him a couple of passes.

 

When I got back home, I tried to sort out all the conflicting information I’d gotten during the past month. There were so many disparities, and they were so extreme, it seemed an impossible task.

The Ku Klux Klan, for instance: I saw no way to reconcile the atrocities I’d read about with the claims that the KKK was dedicated to
preventing
violence. Was the difference simply a matter of geography, with a Southern Klan that openly tortured and killed Negroes and a Northern faction that instead enforced “morality” among whites and disciplined their own members? If so, did that rule out the possibility that East St. Louis Klansmen were behind the lynching of Slip Crawford?

What about the Elcars’ players: Were they a bunch of racist hotheads capable of killing Crawford for beating them in a ball game, or were they a proud team of better-than-average baseball players who only wanted another chance to beat him in a game? And, if most Elcars were also Klansmen who’d been ordered
not
to use violence, would they be reckless enough to defy their leaders over a ball game?

I kept coming around to the idea that the motive for Slip Crawford’s murder was personal.

Since the St. Louis Stars wouldn’t be in town for some time yet, I wouldn’t be able to question his teammates. I hoped there might be some information on the pitcher in the back issues of the
Argus
that Franklin Aubury had given me.

I checked the old newspapers, for the first time getting beyond the front pages. The sports section provided a wealth of information on Negro baseball, which got little notice in white newspapers and was completely ignored by
The Sporting News.
I was astonished to read how many organized colored clubs there were. In addition to Rube Foster’s Negro National League, there was the Southern League, a minor league for colored players, and many industrial and amateur leagues. Local Negro teams included the St. Louis Tigers, a Southern League entry, and the semipro Compton Hill Cubs, Union Electrics, and Kinloch Stars.

I learned that a new major league, to be called the Eastern Colored League, was being formed in the northeast. Its organizers were owners of independent barnstorming teams who believed Rube Foster was too dictatorial. One thing both black and white leagues have in common, I thought, is that the owners are never happy.

There was little information on Slip Crawford useful for my purposes, however. According to the
Argus,
he’d had a terrific 1921 season with the Indianapolis ABCs, and was expected to be a mainstay of the Stars’ pitching staff this year. The paper contained nothing about his personal life, and there was no mention of any problems on or off the field.

Out of curiosity, I began to flip through the other sections of the papers. There were numerous articles attributed to the Associated Negro Press, most on national political issues. There was also social news; I learned that colored people had their own Greek letter college fraternities, such as Alpha Phi Alpha, and fraternal organizations such as the Pythians. Along with advertisements for Dr. Fred Palmer’s Skin Whitener and Strait-Tex hair straightener, were ads for “all-colored” vaudeville shows, motion pictures, and phonograph recordings such as those of Black Swan Records, which featured “exclusively colored voices.”

Colored baseball, colored movies, a colored news service ... There was an entire civilization here, one that was hidden from white Americans—or overlooked by them.

W
ith a few minor modifications I kept to my usual Sunday morning routine. I started with a large breakfast, but since I didn’t have Margie’s talent at the stove, bacon, eggs, and pancakes weren’t on the menu. Instead, I consumed most of a peach pie from the bakery, washing it down with black coffee. Then I settled into my Morris chair by the parlor window to read the newspaper. Again, I deviated somewhat from standard practice; rather than the
Post-Dispatch
or
Globe-Democrat,
the paper I chose was the latest issue of the weekly Argus.

I began at the back of the paper, with the sports section. The main headline read:
Bell Wins Game For Stars.
Jimmy Bell, the speedster formerly with the East St. Louis Cubs, had pitched the St. Louis Stars to their first victory of the season in Chicago. The team he beat was Rube Foster’s American Giants, reigning champions of the Negro National League. I was delighted to see that the kid was making good, and I looked forward to seeing him play again when the Stars’ ballpark opened in St. Louis.

According to the
Argus,
construction on the park was progressing so well that it was expected to be ready in five weeks. Until then, the Stars would remain on the road, playing series in Indianapolis, Pittsburgh, and Kansas City.

That reminded me of the road trip I was missing. Today, while I sat idle in St. Louis, my teammates were in the Polo Grounds, where Babe Ruth would be making his first appearance of the season. Ruth’s suspension was over; mine had another ten days to run.

I closed the newspaper, and twisted around in my chair to look out the window. It was a beautiful day for a ball game— sunny, warm, and clear. Imagining the Browns and Yankees about to do battle in New York, I ached to play again. Or at least take my usual spot on the dugout bench. Hell, I’d even settle for a seat in the bleachers.

No sense wishing or waiting, I finally decided, neither for the Browns to let me play baseball with them again nor for Margie to return. I picked up the Argus again and checked the Stars’ schedule. I
would
go to a ball game—in Indianapolis.

 

By the afternoon, I was still excited about the prospect of a trip, but didn’t relish the idea of traveling by myself. I’d had enough of being alone lately.

I called Karl Landfors and asked if he’d like to take a little vacation.

“A
what?”

I should have known that vacation would be an alien concept to Karl. “I’m going to Indianapolis,” I said. “I was wondering if you might want to come along.”

“Indianapolis? Why on earth would you want to go there?”

“The St. Louis Stars will be there, playing the ABCs. I want to talk to both teams about Slip Crawford.” I didn’t mention that I also just wanted to get away for a while.

“I’m sorry, Mickey, but I can’t right now.” He sniffed. “As a matter of fact, it’s an idea of yours that requires me to remain here.”

“Huh?”

“You suggested to Franklin Aubury that we try to get articles in the newspapers linking the incidents in East St. Louis to the KKK. That’s what I’m working on.”

When I recovered from the astonishment that he’d taken my suggestion on something, I asked, “Are you getting anywhere with it?”

“The
Post-Dispatch
is interested. Last year, the
New York World
ran an expose of the KKK. It was picked up by a number of other papers around the country, including the
Post-Dispatch.
I’m trying to convince one of the editors that a story on local Klan activity would be an important follow-up to that piece.”

“All right. Well, good luck with it.”

I was disappointed that I’d be traveling alone, but I was still going to go.

Early Monday morning—so early that I considered it night—the telephone in the hallway shattered my sleep.

I hopped out of bed and ran to pick it up, bumping my shin on the dresser. The sound of a ringing phone still triggered the hope that it might be Margie calling.

The voice was male, with the crisp diction of Karl Landfors, but without his nasal whine. “Mickey Rawlings?”

“Yeah, this is me.”

“Franklin Aubury here. I understand from Karl Landfors that you are planning a trip to Indianapolis.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“May I ask when you were planning to leave?”

I answered groggily, “Not until after I wake up.”

Aubury laughed. “I apologize for phoning so early, but I wanted to be sure to catch you before you left.” He paused. “Would you mind some company on the trip?”

Company was exactly what I wanted. “Not at all. Who?”

“Me. I’d like to meet with some associates in Indiana who are monitoring Klan activities there.”

“Sure, I’d be happy to go together.”

“Karl also tells me you are planning to talk with some of Slip Crawford’s former teammates. If you like, I would be happy to make some introductions for you; I’m acquainted with some of the players.”

I’d actually never thought how I would go about approaching the colored players. “That would be great,” I said.

We agreed to leave the following day.

T
he last time I’d been in the central pavilion of Union Station, I was getting a sales pitch from Buddy Vaughn, a kleagle for the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan. Today I was with Franklin Aubury, a Negro attorney working for legislation to abolish one of the Klan’s favorite practices.

The change in mood from two weeks ago was as striking as the change in company. Since this would be one of the rare journeys I’d be taking that wasn’t dictated by the baseball schedule, it had the feel of a vacation outing. I dressed casually for the excursion, in a sky-blue Palm Beach suit, with a burgundy necktie and traditional straw boater.

From his dress, I thought Franklin Aubury might be viewing the trip the same way. He’d abandoned the formal black-and-white costume he usually wore in favor of a tailored, three-piece tan suit and a brown derby. A green bat-wing bow tie bloomed from his high collar, and a gold watch chain was draped across his vest.

Fifteen minutes before the train was scheduled to pull out, we gave our suitcases to a baggageman and boarded. Aubury pointed to a couple of seats in the middle of the half-empty car. “Would you care for the window?” he offered.

“No, you go ahead.” I’d made dozens of train trips across the Midwest in the past ten years, and I was pretty confident there wouldn’t be anything new to see.

Once we’d settled in, Aubury began chattering about the Indianapolis ABCs with as much enthusiasm as a Brooklyn fan on his way to Ebbets Field—but with much better diction.

I interrupted to ask, “Does ‘ABC’ stand for anything?”

“American Brewing Company. There is no longer any affiliation, of course, but the team was initially organized as a promotional tool for the brewery. The club would travel throughout the state of Indiana playing ball games, taking on local teams, and samples of beer would be distributed to the fans.” He smiled. “From that beginning, about twenty years ago, the ABCs developed into one of the premier colored teams in the country, and their rosters have included some of the best players in history.”

Strutting down the aisle came a bloated conductor with a bushy black beard and shiny red face. The brass buttons on his navy uniform were tarnished, as was the badge on his cap. I held up my ticket for him to punch.

He directed his attention at Franklin Aubury, who was reaching into a pocket for his ticket. “You must be confused, boy. This ain’t your seat.”

I said, “We bought tickets.”

The conductor gave me a dismissive frown. “Ticket means you ride; it don’t say where you sit. I say where you sit.” He turned to Aubury again. “And your car is in the back.”

I started to protest, but Aubury said calmly, “It’s all right.” He flashed his teeth apologetically at the conductor. “I must have misunderstood the porter’s directions.” Though his mouth was smiling, I saw rage and pain in his eyes.

Aubury slid past me and headed toward the rear of the train.

I asked the conductor, “If he can’t sit here, can I go back where he is?”

“No.” He punched my ticket. “This ain’t a complicated system, son: Whites ride in the white car, coloreds in the colored car. You look white to me, so here you stay.”

After he moved on to the next passengers, I moved over to the window seat. The engine fired to life, and the familiar rumble of the rails shook through me as we rolled out of the station. I stared out the window, thinking that this trip was sure off to a lousy start.

 

A couple of hours later, the train pulled into a way station in Effingham, Illinois. The conductor announced that passengers had eighteen minutes to stretch their legs or get something to eat. I needed to do both.

The rustic depot was nothing like the magnificent one we’d departed from in St. Louis. It was little more than an oversize shed housing a waiting area, a ticket booth, and a lunch counter. I first used the men’s toilet, then got in line for a sandwich. As I waited my turn, I looked around for Franklin Aubury, assuming he’d have gotten off the train, too, but I didn’t see him. In fact, I didn’t see a single colored person in the depot. As the line moved along, I finally noticed the sign on the cash register:
Whites Only.
There was no corresponding lunch counter for colored people.

I immediately left the line and went outside. I found the lawyer among a couple of dozen Negroes gathered near a stand of beech trees behind the depot. Some were snacking on food they’d brought with them, others were talking, and a few were using the shrubbery for toilets.

I caught Aubury’s eye, and he came over to me. “You want a sandwich or something?” I asked. “My treat.”

“Thank you, no. I’m not hungry.”

“A soda pop?”

He shook his head and glanced back at the Negroes he’d been speaking with. I had the impression he was eager for me to go away. I didn’t understand; was it against the rules for us even to talk to each other?

I gave up. “All right. See you later.”

I went back inside the station, but didn’t return to the line. My impulse was to protest, at least silently; if they wouldn’t serve everyone, then they wouldn’t get my business, either.

When the warning whistle from the train blew, I reconsidered. My refusing to eat wouldn’t do a thing to feed the people outside. I took a couple of steps toward the lunch counter, but then turned around and left because I found I no longer had an appetite anyway.

 

It wasn’t until we’d crossed into Indiana, and stopped again in Terre Haute, that everyone on the train was able to buy food and use indoor bathrooms. The two races weren’t allowed to use the same ones; but this station was larger than the last, and provided separate facilities for Negroes and whites.

Before we went inside, Franklin Aubury and I talked briefly, agreeing to eat quickly and meet again outdoors.

After wolfing down a ham-and-cheese sandwich that I suspected was older than I was, I went back outside, sipping a flat ginger ale. Aubury was seated alone on a bench, looking at a carefully folded newspaper.

“What time do we get into Indianapolis?” I asked, sitting down next to him.

“Five-twenty, according to the timetable.” He held the paper out to me. “Interesting advertisement.”

It was folded back to a quarter page ad that read:

“Jeez. They sure are open about it.”

“In Indiana, they can be,” Aubury said. “The Klan is well on its way to taking over this state.”

“ ‘Taking over’? You got to be exaggerating.”

“I wish I were. They’re as strong here as in any Southern state, and growing every day.”

I remembered that Evansville was where Buddy Vaughn had come from, and mentioned that fact to Aubury.

“Let’s hope that Vaughn doesn’t prove as successful in St. Louis as he has here.” He cleared his throat. “If you are willing, perhaps on the return trip, we can go back via Evansville—and you can go to this picnic.”

“I told you I won’t—”

He held up his hand. “I know: You won’t join the Klan. I am not asking you to do so. I only ask that you go to the picnic—it’s open to the public—and perhaps you’ll hear some things that might be helpful to know.”

Decoration Day was a week away, so it could fit into the schedule, I thought. As I considered the idea, I flipped the paper over and noticed it was an Evansville newspaper dated a week earlier. “You didn’t just find out about this, did you?” I said.

The lawyer looked guiltily down at the ground. “No, I’ve been aware of it for some time.”

“Is that the real reason you wanted to go on this trip—to talk me into going to a Klan picnic?”

“No, I do have people to meet with in Indianapolis. I simply thought the Evansville gathering would also be a useful means of acquiring information.”

“Why didn’t you ask me sooner?”

“I thought if I asked you to do something like this, you might change your mind about going to Indiana.”

“So you wait till I’m here, and then spring it on me.” I shook my head. “I don’t like being played.”

“I’m not twisting your arm,” Aubury replied. “I’m merely asking.”

“Then ask up front. Don’t play me.”

He nodded. “Understood. Sorry.”

“Okay.” I handed him back the newspaper. “Let me think about it.”

The whistle blew for us to board the train, bringing the conversation to an end.

 

I stared out at the flat farmland rolling past me. It was the same view as an hour ago, which was no different from the hour before that. This is crazy, I thought, to have to sit here by myself.

I suddenly decided I wasn’t going to participate in the craziness any longer. I bolted up from my seat and walked briskly toward the rear of the train.

Standing in the aisle at the back of the car was the black-bearded conductor. “You lose your way?” he asked.

“No.” I brushed past him.

Two cars farther back, I came to one occupied entirely by colored people. I stopped at the door and looked for Franklin Aubury among the packed seats. When I spotted his pince-nez glittering behind a newspaper, I waved my boater to get his attention. Others in the car noticed my gestures first, and there were some surprised murmurs that caused Aubury to look up. When he did, I beckoned with my hat. He came to the front of the car, a bewildered expression on his face.

I stood in the doorway of the white car, and he stopped a couple of feet from me, just inside the colored car.

“Speaking of the ABCs,” I said, picking up our conversation from Union Station, “I saw them play the Cincinnati Cuban Stars last year in Redland Field.”

A smile slowly spread over Aubury’s face as he caught on to what I was doing. “You remember who pitched?” he asked.

“Dizzy Dismukes. Threw a two–nothing shutout.”

“He’s one of the best.”

“I believe it. I’ve been to some other Negro League games, too. I went to Stars Park in Detroit a few times, and saw Rube Foster once.”

We were interrupted by the conductor. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“Talking,” I answered. “Something wrong with that?”

His face flushed a deeper red. “I thought I explained it to you before.”

“You did. And we’re sticking to the rules. I’m not in the colored car.” I nodded at Aubury. “And he ain’t in the white car.” I leaned against the edge of the doorway and crossed my arms, making it clear that I intended to stay.

The conductor tugged at his beard, obviously at a loss. He finally walked off, muttering, “What the hell do I care what kind of company you keep.”

Aubury and I both grinned broadly, but we had sense enough not to let our smiles turn to laughter—no point provoking the conductor into coming back.

“I read in the Argus,” I said, “that there’s plans for an Eastern Colored League. What’s Rube Foster gonna think of that?”

“He won’t like it,” Aubury answered, “but he won’t be able to stop it. Foster has limited the Negro National League to the Midwest for now. The East has some well-established teams that want to be part of a league, too. They also have some independent-minded owners who won’t relinquish any of their authority to Rube Foster—he maintains tight control of league affairs. They won’t submit to him, and he doesn’t much care for them.”

“Why not?”

“Some of the Eastern owners are white promoters out to profit from colored labor. Others are affiliated with enterprises that are not entirely legal.”

“What do you think about them?” I asked.

“I believe having two leagues would be good for colored baseball. We could have our own World Series.”

I thought about the names of the leagues, one “Negro” and the other “colored,” and asked Aubury a question I’d wondered about for some time, “What do you prefer to be called: colored or Negro?”

“It’s not what I’m called that matters.” He looked me in the eyes. “I know when I’m being spoken to with respect.
That’s
what I want—to be respected as a man.”

As the train rumbled on, the conversation turned to ballplayers. Aubury talked at length about his favorite stars, not mentioning a single white one.

“Which of the Negro Leaguers do you think would make it on a major league club?” I asked.

“Dozens of them. But why would they want to?”

“Because it’s the big leagues!” Wasn’t it the dream of every ballplayer, of any race, age, or gender, to play on a big-league diamond?

“We have our own big league now,” Aubury said proudly.

“And, truth be told, playing in yours isn’t all that appealing. We’ve had experience in white leagues, and it wasn’t a positive one.”

“You have?”

“Do you know who invented shin guards?” he asked.

If this was going to be another quiz like the one he’d given me in his law office, I was happy that at least he was starting with an easy question. “Roger Bresnahan,” I answered confidently. “Around the turn of the century.”

“Wrong. Bud Fowler and Frank Grant both wore them twenty years earlier. But they weren’t catchers. They were colored infielders who played on white minor-league teams. White opponents made a sport of driving their cleats into the ‘darkies’ legs—so Fowler and Grant fashioned wooden shin guards to protect themselves.”

“I had no idea,” I said.

“Colored players weren’t treated any better by their own teammates. Fleet Walker and his brother Weldy both played
major-
league baseball with Toledo in the 1880s. Weldy was the catcher, but kept getting crossed up by pitchers who refused to take signs from a colored man. You know, there aren’t even many photographs of mixed teams because whites wouldn’t sit with colored teammates to have their pictures taken.”