Hanging Curve (8 page)

“This is where most of the colored people lived,” Aubury said, “in homes like these. Then the mob came to eradicate them.” He pointed to the railroad tracks. “The whites who had guns took position over there, while the rest of the mob went to work with torches, setting fire to the homes. The Negroes who ran out of their burning homes were shot down as they fled for the river. For the whites, it was as easy as flushing quail.” Gesturing in the opposite direction, he said, “A contingent of Guardsmen formed a line over there, but not to protect the citizens whose homes were being destroyed. No, what they did was fix their bayonets and drive any escaping Negroes back into the hands of the mob. The colored folk who lived here had a choice: burn alive in their homes, be impaled on bayonets, or die in a hail of bullets. Most opted for trying to get past the gunmen. Not many of them succeeded.”

I tilted down the brim of my straw boater and ducked my head so my eyes couldn’t be seen.

Aubury went on. “The arson spread to other buildings as the mob tried to burn out every single Negro. White gangs ran wild throughout the city, looting and burning any colored homes they found. They even torched the Broadway Opera House when a group of colored people sought refuge there. Everyone inside died as it burned to the ground.”

The lawyer started walking back toward Broadway. “The city’s firefighters were the only ones who did their jobs that day. The mob threatened to kill them if they put out the fires, but they took the risk and attempted to save whatever homes they could. When their water hoses were cut, the firemen tried to continue with a bucket brigade, but it was hopeless.”

He drew to a stop at Broadway and Fourth. “By nightfall, the city was lit up from the flames—they could be seen for miles—and the gangs started to gather here, still screaming for blood. Somebody shouted, ‘Southern niggers deserve a Southern lynching’, and a rope was produced. They found a colored man who’d survived the fires, and strung him up on a telephone pole. The crowd—more than a thousand—started chanting, ‘Get a nigger! Get another!’ More ropes were found and more Negroes brought in to be lynched. If the ropes were long enough, they hanged them from telephone poles and left the bodies dangling. If the rope was too short to get over a pole, they tied it to a car bumper and dragged their victim to death in the street.” Aubury’s voice was hoarse and fading; it didn’t sound like he’d be able to say much more.

As we started walking back to the trolley line, Karl took over the account. “Nobody knows the final death count. One hundred, two hundred ... we’ll never know for sure. A lot of the bodies were burned beyond recognition, and others had been so mutilated they couldn’t be identified. Some of them were dumped en masse in Potter’s Field, and many were thrown into Cahokia Creek. There’s a fairly accurate count on the property damage though: sixteen blocks and more than two hundred homes burned to the ground.”

“What happened to the people responsible?” I asked.

Karl answered, “The county prosecutor claimed that his investigators were unable to find any witnesses to the riot. He also claimed that since the riot reflected ‘public sentiment,’ it would be impossible to obtain grand jury indictments anyway. Later, the state stepped in, and did obtain indictments and some convictions. Altogether, nine whites were sent to jail—as well as twelve Negroes ‘to keep things balanced.’ ”

Franklin Aubury found his voice again. “When the riot occurred, the colored population was not able to organize any resistance to the mob; it was all they could do to try to get their families away to safety, over the bridge to St. Louis. But as a result of the riot, we now know we cannot rely on law enforcement or the justice system to protect us. And we are prepared in the event that anything like that should start again.” Aubury concluded emphatically, “No one is going to be given free rein to kill colored people. There might be a war, but there will not be a massacre.”

F
ranklin Aubury’s account of the 1917 East St. Louis riot had left my mind reeling, my stomach queasy, and provided the grist for more than one nightmare. If his intent was to illustrate what an escalation of hostilities could lead to, he’d succeeded. If he wanted to motivate me to look into the Crawford lynching in the hopes of heading off such an escalation, he’d succeeded there as well. But he’d also left me overwhelmed; I had no idea of what to do or where to begin.

It took a couple of days until it hit me that that’s exactly what I should be looking for: the starting point. Whether it’s a batter charging the pitcher’s mound to trigger a bench-clearing brawl, or a politician telling an angry mob that street violence is the solution to their grievance, there’s always an
individual
who sets things in motion. I might never identify everyone who was involved in killing Slip Crawford, or learn who tied the noose or who put it around his neck, but maybe I could at least find out who instigated the lynching.

The fact that Crawford had been hanged in the Cubs’ ballpark suggested to me that he was killed because of the game with the Elcars. It could have been the Klansmen who’d watched the game, infuriated that he had beaten a white team. Or Enoch’s ballplayers, frustrated that they could do so little against Crawford with their bats.

I decided to try the Elcars first, specifically the one player besides me who might have felt most humiliated by the colored pitcher.

My phone call to the Enoch Motor Car Company was answered by a squeaky-voiced female who relayed the message to Roy Enoch that I wanted to talk with him.

“Can’t take more than a hundred off the price,” he greeted me. “And that’s pretty darned generous, if you ask me. After all, you only played for us once, and you were hardly an asset.” I hadn’t said a word yet, and Enoch already sounded irritated with me.

“I wasn’t calling about the car, Mr. Enoch—but I am still thinking about it. And as far as the game, I know you were expecting a lot from me, and I’m sorry I let you down.”

Sounding somewhat mollified, he replied, “Well, truth be told, we weren’t expecting all
that
much—Tater Greene told us you were no Babe Ruth.”

I was tired of apologizing for my performance, and annoyed to learn that they hadn’t thought I’d be much of a help anyway. “Then why did he ask me to play for you?”

“Our regular second baseman got his hand caught in a fan belt. Greene thought you’d be an adequate replacement. He also said you were unlikely to be recognized as a major leaguer, and we figured that on a utility player’s salary you could probably use the extra ten bucks.”

And to think I’d felt flattered at being recruited. I quickly moved on to the purpose of my call. “I’m interested in one of your other players: J. D. Whalen.”

“You won’t find him here,” Enoch snapped. “And he doesn’t play for me anymore.”

“I know. Greene told me you fired him. Thing is, I heard from a fellow I used to play ball with before the war. He’s managing a minor-league team in Des Moines, and he’s looking for a third baseman. I thought of Whalen; he played a pretty good third base against the Cubs, and since he’s out of work now, I thought he might be interested. You know where I could get in touch with him?”

“For one thing, he’s not out of work. And for another, I’m not looking to do that snake any favors.”

“Why? What did he do?”

“He—” Enoch sighed sharply. “Never mind what he did. I’m just glad he’s out of here.” The line was silent for a moment. “Oh, what the hell. I’d just as soon have J. D. living in another state, so go ahead and tell him about the Des Moines job if you want.” He then transferred me back to his secretary, who gave me the name and address of Whalen’s new employer.

 

J. D. Whalen desperately needed a tailor. The vest of his gray-flannel suit was stretched over his barrel chest, the jacket sleeves were too short for his arms, and the cuffs of his trousers were bunched atop his scuffed oxfords. He also needed a barber; his pasty round face was topped by a full mane of bristly brown hair.

“What can I do for you?” Whalen asked brightly. The office of Waverly Motors was so tiny that I was almost on top of him, but he showed no sign of remembering me. Of course, all ballplayers look different out of uniform, and I probably wouldn’t have recognized him on the street either.

“I thought I could do something for
you,”
I said.

A look of caution veiled Whalen’s dull green eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’m not a salesman,” I said. “Name’s Mickey Welch. Played with you against the Cubs a couple weeks back.”

“Oh, sure, second base.” He stood up from behind his schoolboy-sized desk. “Why don’t we step outside? I can use some air.”

The office was dense with the smell of oil and exhaust from the adjacent service area, so I readily agreed.

As we walked outside onto the rutted dirt lot at the corner of Waverly Avenue and Thirty-seventh Street in East St. Louis, Whalen called to a burly mechanic, “Clint! I’m takin’ five. Get the phone if it rings.”

Waverly Motors was a smaller, shabbier version of Enoch’s auto dealership. The lot had only a dozen used automobiles for sale, and a single gasoline pump. I had the impression that most of the business was done in the wood-frame garage that still bore signs of its carriage-house origins.

Whalen lit up a cheroot which smelled worse than the fumes inside the building, and tilted back his pug nose to savor the smoke. “What is it you think you can do for me?”

I gave him the same tale about my manager friend in Des Moines needing a third baseman. Whalen looked young enough for the story to be plausible; he was pushing thirty, I estimated, though I couldn’t say for sure from which direction.

He look pleased that I’d thought of him, but responded, “Hell, I’m no third baseman. I’m a pitcher.”

Every ballplayer in the world thinks he can pitch. From Whalen’s relief appearance in the Cubs game, I’d seen little evidence that he could, however. “Guess it doesn’t matter, anyway,” I said. “I see you already got another job.”

Whalen leaned against a 1912 Maxwell that was missing both front fenders. “Ain’t a ‘job,’ ” he said. “I’m a partner in this place.” He looked proudly at the array of broken-down cars. “Finally got my own business. Mine and Clint’s, anyway.”

“So you quit Enoch’s dealership to start this one? I heard you were ...”

“Fired.” He puffed on the cigar. “I was. But I was intending to leave anyway. Enoch just hurried me along. He caught me writing down names and addresses of his customers, and claimed I was ‘stealing’ from him. Damned old miser. It’s not like I was taking money or cars. Anyway, I can build my own business now. We’re planning to expand, get some more used cars and maybe a line of new ones. I’m thinking Hudsons—you like Hudsons?”

“Sure. I hear good things about them.” I didn’t mention that I actually didn’t even know how to drive a car. “You know, I thought maybe Enoch let you go because you didn’t do so good in that ball game.”

Whalen paused to peel a shred of tobacco off his tongue. “I worked for him for five years; he wouldn’t have fired me for one game. Hell, if he fired everybody who ever had a bad game, there wouldn’t be nobody working there no more.”

“It did go pretty bad all the way around,” I said. “But it could have been worse—looked like it was gonna turn into a war for a while there. When Crawford brushed you back, and you went out after him, I thought both benches were gonna empty.”

“I didn’t think about what it might turn into. All I had in mind was bustin’ his skull with my bat.”

“What made you stop?” I almost said “back down,” but “stop” seemed a more diplomatic choice. “It looked like Crawford said something to you.”

Whalen tossed down the cigar. “He did. Sonofabitch said ‘Sorry, it got away from me.’ Took me by surprise, him apologizing like that, and I guess it kind of froze me.” He ground out the smoldering cheroot with his heel. “Couldn’t charge him again after that, so I went back to hit. Then he froze me again with that goddamn curveball of his, and ... he beat me.”

“He did have a helluva curve,” I said.

“Yeah, but by the end of the game I was starting to read it pretty good.” Whalen shook his head. “I was real sorry to hear about him getting strung up. I’d have liked to get another shot at him.”

It looked like I’d struck out with J. D. Whalen. I had thought that if he’d lost his job because of a poor performance in the ball game, he might have blamed Crawford and wanted to take revenge on him. Or that he might have wanted to kill the pitcher because Crawford had made him look bad after their encounter at the mound. But it sounded like Whalen had the same attitude Tater Greene and I had: You get your revenge on an opponent by beating him the next time.

“Well, good to see you again,” I said. “I’ll tell my friend in Des Moines you’re not available.”

Whalen slowly surveyed the seedy lot, looking from the battered cars to the ramshackle garage. “You know, Clint’s been doing all right without me so far. I’ll bet he could manage on his own for a while longer.” He turned to me, his eyes suddenly aglow. “Tell your friend I’m interested in playing ball for him. And tell him I got good experience—played against some top-notch teams when I was pitching for Aluminum Ore. Never got any higher than semipro, but I bet I can hold my own in the minors.”

I felt guilty about my ruse. Sometimes I forgot how much an amateur ballplayer will cling to even the slightest hope of making it to pro ball.

After promising Whalen that I’d recommend him to my fictitious friend, I left the car lot. I vowed to myself that I’d call him soon to report that the team had already signed someone else; and, I thought sadly, to snuff out the false hope I’d given him.

 

Frank Ellerbe’s throw from third to second bounced a foot in front of the bag. Marty McManus still should have been able to catch it easily, but the ball handcuffed him, skimming off the heel of his mitt and out to center field. It would have been an error, except that we were only taking pregame practice.

I trotted over to McManus. I thought part of his problem was that, at almost six feet, he was simply too damn tall to be an infielder. Of course I couldn’t suggest that he shorten himself, so I was going to offer what I hoped would be more useful advice.

Before I could get a word in, the kid grumbled, “I sure muffed that one.”

“It was a tough hop to handle,” I said, although it really had been fairly routine. “Here’s the thing to remember: A thrown ball is gonna bounce higher than a batted one, so you gotta adjust.” I held out my glove, trying to demonstrate the difference in height. “You’re gonna get a lot of hops like that, especially when the catcher throws down on a steal.”

“Why are they different?”

The answer that came to mind was “Because they are,” but I opted to give him a more detailed explanation. “When a batter hits a grounder, he topped it, so it’s spinning forward. A thrown ball spins backward. Different spin makes for a different bounce.”

“But why?”

What am I, a scientist? “Because it does.”

On my way back to the dugout, Lee Fohl cut me off. The former catcher was the strong silent type of manager, who rarely spoke a word to his players. So it came as a surprise when he addressed me. “Helping out McManus there?”

“Doesn’t need much help,” I said. “The kid’s a damn good ballplayer.”

“Well, you been making him a better one. Don’t think I ain’t noticed. And you deserve some playing time of your own. You’ll be starting at third for a couple days.”

“Thanks. I—” But Fohl was already walking away. This had been about as lengthy a conversation as he ever had.

And it was the best news I’d had all season. I only wished I’d known yesterday so I could have invited Margie to come and watch me play.

 

The silver-haired waiter placed a steaming dish of chicken fricassee in front of Margie, and served me a plate of roast duck and rice. Pierce House, an intimate restaurant on Euclid Avenue, was noted for excellent food, romantic atmosphere, and courteous service. This waiter was one of the best I’d ever seen; he fawned just enough, without being intrusive. After checking that we had everything we needed, he silently vanished, leaving us to our conversation.

I launched into another report on my three-for-four performance in our win against the Indians. Margie listened as attentively as she had the first couple of times. “Are you sure you can come tomorrow?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she answered with a smile. “I only hope I don’t jinx you. What if you go hitless—will you blame me?”

“Of course not. I’ll put the blame where it belongs: on the bat.”

Margie laughed and brushed away a lock of hair that had almost fallen into the chicken. “I had a good day, too,” she ventured somewhat tentatively.