Hunting a Detroit Tiger (16 page)

The bottle of Moxie in my hand was still half-full, but I decided the sink could have the rest of it, and said yes to his offer.

I glanced back at the window again as Landfors brought in the coffee mugs. “Thanks,” I said, and took a sip. For all his flaws, Landfors did make a decent cup of coffee. “As far as the IWW, I think that’s where my biggest worry is. Leo Hyman told me that I have three weeks from yesterday to tell him who really shot Siever. He says he’ll spread the word to the Wobblies that it’s hands off until then, but I don’t know if I can rely on that.”

“Hyman is a man of his word,” Landfors said. He pulled on a clean white shirt and attached a stiff celluloid collar to it. “I have my disagreements with him in certain areas, but I do believe he’s a trustworthy man.”

“Even if he does tell them to leave me alone, what guarantee is there that they’ll listen? I don’t expect anarchists are all that willing to follow orders.”

Landfors opened his mouth, looking as if he was about to protest, then caught himself. “You might have a point.”

“Anyway, that’s it for immediate dangers. Now, as far as solving the murder, I think the place to start—”

“Is with the false Detective Aikens.” Landfors smiled confidently.

“Uh, no. But speaking of Aikens, I think I have an idea who he is. Well, not who he is, but who he’s
with
anyway.”

A peeved look started to take hold of Landfors’s features. “Don’t keep me in suspense,” he said.

“I think he’s with the Justice Department. Specifically, the GID. Leo Hyman told me that during the Palmer raids, the General Intelligence Division coordinated the raids and local police helped carry them out. Remember, the police raided Fraternity Hall the night Siever was killed, so maybe there was a GID man there supervising things. Also, I told you before I thought Aikens had to have some kind of authority because he had to give the police my name. And he did have a badge.”

“But you still don’t think ...”

“That Aikens is the killer? No. If he shot Siever, he wouldn’t have stayed there in the back room.” Besides, I didn’t want to believe that a federal agent would kill an unarmed civilian. “He might have seen who did, though. My guess is that Aikens would have been outside the building before the raid, keeping an eye on it. Maybe he heard the shot or saw the killer run out the back door, then he went in to see what happened, and that’s when he found me there.” I was speculating, and didn’t want to include the additional speculation that Hub Donner might have been the man Aikens saw leaving the Hall.

Landfors nodded thoughtfully. “Tell me again what Aikens looks like.”

In as much detail as I could, I described the appearance, mannerisms, and dress of the man who had presented himself to me as a police detective. Then I added, “If he is with the government, he sure isn’t going to want to tell me anything about what he was doing here.

“Anyway, I think the most useful thing to do is find out about Emmett Siever himself. What was there about him that made someone want to kill him?”

“Are you saying Siever is at fault for his own death?”

“No, I don’t mean anything like that. Just that he’s a part of what happened. Part of the puzzle. And if we know as much as we can about him, maybe we know the motive for shooting him, find who had the motive, and ... we have his killer.”

Landfors looked mollified that I wasn’t trying to blame the victim for the crime.

I went on. “I’ve learned a few things about him. For starters, he wasn’t such a great guy. Not always, anyway, certainly not in his playing days. Did you know he ran around on his wife, and after she died he abandoned Connie?”

He nodded, and said softly, “Her grandmother raised her.” That answered one of the questions I’d never gotten to ask Connie.

“Another thing,” I said, “is Siever’s interest in unionizing doesn’t go back very far. A year or two at the most. He didn’t have anything to do with the players’ unions before that. Seems strange to get so active so suddenly.”

“It might have been because of Connie. He knew how important the labor movement was—is—to her.”

“Leo Hyman told me that she’s the one who got him involved with the IWW.”

“She mentioned that to me.”

“Has she asked anything about her father? Or said anything about who might have killed him?” I wanted to ask Landfors, but couldn’t, why she hadn’t seemed distraught by her father’s death.

Landfors stammered before finding the words, “I’m not entirely sure what she‘s—what we’ve—talked about. It always seems we have a lot to say to each other, but I’m never quite sure afterward what it was that we said.”

There’s something about the lovesick that reminds me of the mentally impaired. “If you have a chance—and if you think you can concentrate on the conversation—could you ask Connie about her father? I think it would help if we knew more about his personal life, and she’s the one who would know it best.”

He agreed he would, then borrowed a tie and left to see her.

After he left, I went to the window, pulled aside the bath towel and looked out at the cars crawling by on Grand River Avenue. Then I looked straight down, to the sidewalk in front of my building. Another shotgun blast through the window wasn’t what had me worried. It was the possibility of a head or belly shot as I stepped outside that scared me.

I
felt like I had one of Eddie Cicotte’s knuckleballs dancing around in my belly. My insides were rocked by spasms of—well, they were spasms of fear, though I preferred to think of them as “butterflies.” My legs were jelly, barely able to support my body or lift my leaden feet. That’s what the first at bat of the year can do to a body. To mine, anyway.

Staring me down from the pitcher’s mound was Cleveland’s George Uhle, a burly young fireballer. I faced him right-handed; my wrist was one of the few parts of my body that felt strong, and it was my best chance to get that all-important first hit of the year.

Just meet the ball, I told myself. Get some wood on it ... Whatever you do, don’t strike out. Don’t strike out.

Uhle shook off a sign from the catcher, then delivered quickly. I watched a fastball go past me right down the middle. Strike one!

Jeez, it went by fast. I backed out of the box and knocked my bat against my spikes. Ignore everything but the little white ball, I told myself. Forget that Navin Field is packed with screaming fans, forget that it’s scoreless in the bottom of the second, or that staying on the club depends on your performance.

Squeezing the bat handle hard, I stepped back in. Meet the ball. Don’t strike out.
Don’t strike out.

Next came a slow curve that broke low and half a foot outside the plate. The head of my swinging bat missed the ball by at least that much, and I almost fell over reaching for it. 0-and-2.

Okay, is Uhle going to waste a pitch, or try to get it over with right away?

He went for the strikeout: fastball, belt-high, on the inside corner. I took a hard cut, trying to pull it. The ball ticked the bat handle and fell mere inches in front of home plate, plopping into the muck of Cobb’s Lake. I froze for a second, dismayed at the pitiful result—a bunt would have traveled farther. Then I broke for first; no matter how hopeless, run full speed on anything that’s hit. Indians’ catcher Steve O’Neill fielded the ball and threw me out before I was halfway to the base.

I trotted back to the dugout, surprisingly almost cheerful. I didn’t strike out! I didn’t strike out!

When I passed Hughie Jennings in the coach’s box, he said, “At least you didn’t strike out.”

In the dugout, Dutch Leonard spat near my feet. “How the hell am I supposed to win a ballgame with you in the lineup? Jennings gonna put the batboy in next?”

I didn’t respond. I knew Jennings hadn’t given me my first start of the season because he thought I could do much to help the team. It was a move to shake things up, to try something new and see if we could pull off a victory.

After Chick Fogarty struck out to end our half of the inning, I grabbed my mitt and hustled out to second base. I resisted the temptation to gloat to Leonard that at least I’d done better than his buddy Fogarty had.

As for Dutch Leonard, he did have great stuff this game. Through the first three innings, Leonard deftly slid his spitter past the futile bats of the Cleveland hitters. If we could get just one or two runs on the board, we might win our first game of the season. Even though it meant Dutch Leonard getting credit for the victory, I wanted to help bring that about.

My first fielding chance came in the top of the fourth, with two outs and Tris Speaker on third. Cleveland shortstop Ray Chapman hit an easy two-hopper right at me. I casually bent down to field it—and was horrified when the ball bounced low and scooted under my glove, right through my legs. I spun about and retrieved it, but far too late. Chapman was safe at first and Speaker had crossed the plate to put the Indians up 1—0.

I tossed the ball to Leonard, who caught it in his bare hand. Glaring at me, he tucked his mitt under his arm and rubbed the baseball between his palms. Hard, as if trying to tear the cover off; staring at me, as if he wished it was my face in his grip. The sun burst out from behind a cloud, and I felt like I had a spotlight on me. Boos and catcalls from the Monday afternoon crowd registered in my ears. I wanted to dig a burrow under second base and crawl into it.

Leonard finally turned around, and methodically struck out Bill Wambsganss to end the inning. I stayed far away from him in the dugout; he fumed in silence.

We were still down 1—0 in the bottom of the fifth. Two outs, two on: Harry Heilmann on third and Bobby Veach on second. I was the next batter up. As I walked from the on-deck circle to the batter’s box, I looked at Jennings. Partly to see if he was flashing a sign, but also because I expected him to call me back and send in a pinch hitter. That was the advice Dutch Leonard was screaming at him from the bench.

Jennings ignored Leonard’s pleas. The old Oriole let loose a hoarse rebel yell, “Ee-yaaaah!” Then called, “Bring ’em on in, Rawlings! You can do it, boy!”

I wished that I shared Jennings’s confidence. The fact that George Uhle greeted my appearance with a confident grin on his face didn’t help.

Uhle promptly blew a fastball by me as I swung late; it was in the same location as his first pitch in my previous at bat. Then the curve, low and away; I again fished for it, and again I missed.

If he was repeating the sequence from last time, the next pitch would be a tight fastball. It was. But this time I didn’t try to pull it. I met the ball with an inside-out half swing, trying to push it toward right field. The bat handle shuddered on impact, but my grip was firm. The ball looped its way over the second baseman’s head. As Veach and Heilmann raced in to the plate, I tried to stretch it into a double, aware that the right fielder was dead-armed Smoky Joe Wood. His arm turned out to be livelier than I expected, and I was thrown out at second to end the inning.

I ran off the field triumphant. My first base hit of the season, and two RBIs to give us the lead in the game. I didn’t have to go all the way to the bench to get my glove. Harry Heilmann brought it out to me as he went to take his position at first base. “Way to go, kid!” he said. Dutch Leonard gave me no such praise, but he had a happy glint in his eyes and a determined set to his jaw. He was going to win this game and I’d given him two runs to work with.

It was all he needed. I got no more hits in the game, though I did steal second after walking in the eighth. Donie Bush had a double and triple to extend the winning score to 5—1.

The fans cheered wildly at the Tigers first win of the season. Somehow, overtones of sarcasm rang through the applause. It’s amazing how a crowd can express itself collectively like that.

Until we were in the locker room, the Detroit players all acted is if the win was nothing special. Once in the clubhouse, we celebrated like we’d just won the World Series. The curse was lifted.

My teammates included me in the celebration. Politics and personal grudges were forgotten for the moment. I’d helped win the game, and that’s all that counted right now.

I lingered in the locker room, savoring the feel of the game: the stinging raspberry on my left thigh from sliding into second, the mild throb in my wrist from when I’d connected for the game-winning single, the dull cramp of calf muscles that had grown unaccustomed to so much use. Mostly, I was just glorying in the fact that I’d played my first baseball game in Navin Field as a member of the Detroit Tigers.

When I finally did exit the park, I was whistling “Mademoiselle from Armentieres, Parlay-Voo” and almost skipping as I walked. It seemed life couldn’t get any better.

Then a throaty female voice behind me said, “Hi, slugger.” The sound sent a tingle through me. I didn’t have to turn around to recognize Margie Turner.

Half an hour later, we were strolling through Grand Circus Park, nibbling ice-cream cones. We debated whether vanilla or chocolate was the superior flavor of ice cream, commented on how perfect the weather had become, and verbally replayed most of the ballgame—Margie graciously avoided mentioning my error.

Warm, gentle breezes washed through the park and a soft evening sun filtered through the shade trees. The smell of the greenery provided relief from the odor of automobile exhaust that permeated the rest of the city. Hundreds of people were taking advantage of the fine weather and the downtown oasis. Most of them walked; some sat on the benches that faced the fountain. A few, less particular about their clothes, sprawled on the grass.

Of all the women in the park, Margie Turner was the prettiest. She wore a loose-fitting, sky-blue organdy dress embroidered with white flowers. On her head was a white straw bonnet too small to quite contain her long brown tresses. She swung a beaded handbag as we casually made our way through the crowd. Because of her limp, her hip bumped against me as we walked—and I enjoyed the contact.

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” I said. “Weren’t you going to Toledo?”

“Oh!” She smiled mischievously. “Did I forget to mention that after Toledo we were coming to Detroit?”

I grabbed her ice-cream cone and took as big a bite as I could from it as revenge for teasing me. “Must have slipped your mind,” I said, handing it back to her. “How long are you here for?”

“Unlimited engagement. At least two weeks.” She looked at me. “You dripped.”

I wiped my mouth with my handkerchief.

“You missed it.” She touched my arm and we pulled to a stop. Then she dabbed at my chin with her finger, coming away with a dollop of vanilla. “The Toledo run ended early—our fire-eater set the curtains on fire.” She put her finger in her mouth and sucked off the ice cream. “I have all this week off.”

She kissed the spot on my chin that she’d just cleaned. Then I kissed her on her lips, full and long. As she responded, I put my arms around her and dropped my cone to the ground. By the time we broke apart, most of it had melted.

When I suggested dinner, Margie suggested that we dine on additional ice cream. Even in dietary preferences we were compatible.

After consuming lavish sundaes at the nearby Statler Hotel, we returned to the park and sat on one of the benches. The shadows had lengthened, most of the people had left, and the air was a little less temperate. I put my jacket around Margie’s shoulders, and she snuggled close to me. I was totally content. My muscles had a satisfying ache, my belly was full of ice cream, and my heart was astir.

We talked off and on about nothing in particular, the long silences in between not at all uncomfortable. Among the things we did say, I mentioned that I had a friend staying with me and she mentioned that she had her own room at the Hotel Franklin.

A cool breeze gusted and I felt Margie shiver. I put my arm around her, marveling at how well she fit.

“Would your friend miss you if you didn’t come home?” she asked.

The stirring in my heart moved south. “Not a bit,” I said.