Hunting a Detroit Tiger (20 page)

“Huh?”

“Karl told me you wanted me to acquire my father’s effects. There was one item in particular you were interested in ...”

“Oh! The gun, yes. You have it?”

“That’s what I said.”

Not in English, she hadn’t. “The police gave it to you?”

“Yes. I had no difficulty at all. Would you care to come by and see it?”

“Sure. Oh—I’m leaving town tomorrow morning. We have a road trip.”

“Today then. You remember where I live?”

“Yes, but, uh ...” Margie and I had other plans for my last night in Detroit. “I have a game this afternoon, and I promised Margie I’d go to her show tonight.”

“After the show is fine. And bring her along if you like.”

After the way Connie had behaved Saturday night, I couldn’t imagine Margie wanting to visit Connie Siever at home. I’d have to go alone then; I couldn’t resist seeing the gun. “I’ll be there. I’ll ask Margie if she wants to come, too.”

“Very good. Call me later and let me know what time to expect you.” She took a breath. “By the way, have you heard from Karl? Has he gotten to Boston all right?”

“Uh, no. He hasn’t called. You haven’t heard from him either?”

She hesitated. “No.”

I waited a moment to be sure that was all she was going to say. “If I hear from him, I’ll let you know.”

“No need,” she said.

Then why did you ask in the first place, I thought.

After getting off the phone with Connie Siever, I bathed, dressed, and had my usual breakfast of coffee and cookies. I definitely wanted to see the gun whether or not Margie came with me.

I called Margie at her hotel and relayed Connie’s invitation. To my surprise—and mild disappointment—she agreed readily.

“I hope she isn’t as ornery as she was the other night,” I said as we turned onto Wyandotte Street.

“Sometimes people just make a bad first impression,” said Margie. “She deserves a second chance.”

“There was no reason for her to act the way she did.”

“Maybe she was mad at Karl and took it out on me instead. Or maybe something about me rubbed her the wrong way. Didn’t you ever meet somebody and, for no good reason, dislike him right from the start? And then, once you got to know him, found you could be friends?”

I smiled. That was exactly how it had been when I’d first met Karl Landfors. “Yes, that happens sometimes.”

“Doesn’t mean Connie and I can never be friends,” Margie said.

We’d arrived at the Siever bungalow. “Well, let’s see what kind of a second impression she makes.”

It was a complete reversal from her behavior the other night. Connie greeted Margie with a hug and invited us into the kitchen for beers. She was off to a good start, I thought.

Sitting at the small table by the window, the three of us drank our beers and chatted about the weather. Actually, Connie did the chatting, and I didn’t much care about the weather, but at least she wasn’t talking politics.

Margie gave me a “See, I told you so” smile.

Friendly as Connie was being, I didn’t want to spend any more of the evening with her than necessary. “You mentioned you have the gun,” I reminded her.

She nodded and rose. “Yes, I’ll get it.”

During the minute she was gone, Margie whispered to me, “I think she feels bad about the other night. That’s why she’s trying so hard. Be nice.”

Connie returned and laid an odd-looking revolver on the table. A zigzag pattern of grooves was machined into the cylinder, and there was a slide mechanism for the barrel and cylinder to move back and forth. I picked up the weapon and read the lettering stamped on the frame:
Webley-Fosbery Automatic.

“I heard about these,” I said. “During the war. It’s an automatic revolver. The British used them for a while, but they didn’t work if they got dirty. Since there aren’t any clean trenches, they had to find another kind of sidearm. I never saw one of these—I heard they’re aren’t many around.”

“How does it work?” Margie asked.

“Not sure,” I admitted. “I think it’s kind of complicated.” The only thing I had mastered about firearms was cleaning them. I asked Connie, “You never saw this before?”

She shook her head no.

“You’re sure your father didn’t own a gun?”

She looked about to explode at me, but collected herself. “I’m sure. You think this gun is going to lead to my father’s murderer?”

“It might. Somebody had to plant it on him. The trick is to find out where it came from and who could have gotten it.”

“You can take it with you if you think it will help,” she offered.

“Thanks.” No, I decided, better not. Connie had a legitimate reason to have it. If the weapon was to be “found” in my possession, it might only get me in more trouble. “Actually, all I need is the serial number.”

She gave me a pencil and a scrap of paper and I jotted down the number.

“I guess we’d better be going,” I said. “I have to leave early tomorrow.”

“Oh, well, certainly.” Connie looked disappointed.

Margie spoke up. “We have time for one more beer.”

She and Margie talked while I guzzled the second one and waited impatiently for them to finish theirs.

When Connie walked us to the door, she asked, “If you hear from Karl, will you let me know how he is?”

“Sure,” I said. To myself I thought, but this morning you told me not to bother.

As we walked back to Joseph Campau Avenue, Margie explained, “I think she was feeling lonely. That’s why I wanted to stay a little longer.”

“No problem,” I said. But I grabbed her hand and pulled her along in a fast walk to catch the next streetcar.

On the ride downtown, I said to Margie, “I wish the gun wasn’t British.”

“You have something against the British?”

“No,” I laughed. “It makes it harder to trace. I thought I’d start with the manufacturer and see if I could follow through to whoever bought it. Being from England makes it tough.”

“Why don’t you let me help?” said Margie.

“Huh?”

“You’re going to be away, so you won’t be able to do anything for a while anyway. Why not give me the number, and let me see if I can find out anything.”

“Well ...” There was no reason not to. I fished the slip of paper out of my jacket pocket and handed it to her. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She kissed me on the cheek and added, “I’ll try to think of something.”

Another thing we had in common: we had the same approach to investigating.

K
neeling in the on-deck circle of Griffith Stadium, watching “The Big Train” Walter Johnson pitch to Donie Bush, I realized that Hub Donner and I had something in common: I also preferred things the way they used to be.

It wasn’t only that I yearned for a return to the innocence and optimism that had characterized the American spirit before the war. I also had a specific complaint: I wanted the powers that ran baseball to stop tinkering with my game. I didn’t want small changes like the disappearance of collars from uniform jerseys, nor sweeping ones like the juiced-up ball. There should be some constants in life, and baseball was one of them.

Until this year, the Washington grounds were called National Park—a fitting name for the capital’s ballpark, though a bit ambitious. Then Senators’ manager Clark Griffith was appointed the club’s president, and following the example of Frank Navin promptly renamed the park in his own honor. No, I didn’t like changes to baseball. Not to the names of the parks, nor to the ball, and especially not to the way the livelier ball was changing the tactics of the game, with every hitter swinging for the fences and making the old strategies obsolete.

Long-armed Walter Johnson was a reassuring constant in the game, a throwback to the old days. He’d been pitching for the Washington Senators since 1907, back when I was still playing semipro ball in a Rhode Island mill league. Every season since then, Johnson usually ended up with the American League titles for wins, strikeouts, and shutouts. And the new livelier baseball wasn’t likely to change that.

Johnson went into his windmill windup and delivered. Donie Bush swung wildly for strike two. No, with Johnson it didn’t matter how the ball was constructed; no matter what he threw, you were unlikely to hit it and lucky merely to see it.

After Bush fanned, I walked eagerly to the plate. No matter how miserable it was playing for the Tigers, being back in the American League at least gave me a chance to face Walter Johnson again.

I scraped at the hard earth of the batter’s box and assumed my stance. I’d faced Johnson only once before, in 1912, and was proud of the fact that I had not struck out. That remained my objective in this at bat.

He wound up, then unleashed a sidearm fastball that seemed to come from the direction of third base. It smacked into the catcher’s mitt before I could determine how it got there. “Strike one!” called umpire Brick Owens. My reaction was not disappointment, but a mixture of sheer admiration for his speed and gratitude that it hadn’t drilled me in the head.

I choked up higher on the bat. There’s only way to hit Johnson: when his arm starts to move forward, swing the bat and hope the ball hits it. The slow windmill windup again, and the speeding baseball. I swung for the middle of the strike zone—and his pitch went wild, sailing a couple feet over the catcher’s head. The sound of the ball buzzing by was too high. “Strike two!” Owens cried. He then added, “Don’t feel bad, son. I don’t always see them either.”

Great. More changes: Walter Johnson losing his pinpoint control and an umpire who admits he doesn’t see the ball.

No balls, two strikes. Will he waste a pitch? If I was him, I wouldn’t bother. But nothing down the middle, either. I guessed fastball, low and away. That’s where I swung on the third pitch and felt the sharp shudder of bat on ball. Just enough to produce a weak pop-up that the second baseman caught to end the inning. Mission accomplished: I did not strike out.

By the end of the eighth inning, Walter Johnson was on the losing end of a 2—1 score. His only weakness was something else that had remained constant through the years: the inability of the players behind him to score runs. The one run Washington had put across was knocked in by Johnson himself when he’d doubled in Bucky Harris.

With two out in the top of the ninth, I had my fourth at bat against Johnson. I was 0-for-3 so far, but he hadn’t struck me out once. Donie Bush was on first base, and it would mean an insurance run for Hooks Dauss if I could drive Bush in.

I looked back at Hughie Jennings going through his contortions in the third base coach’s box. To my amazement, he patted his left sleeve twice. That was the sign for sacrifice. A sacrifice bunt with two outs? It must be a mistake.

I backed out, scooped up some dirt to dry my hands, and gave him another look. He flashed the same sign: sacrifice. It was ingrained in me that, right or wrong, a manager’s orders should be obeyed. But his made
no
sense. I looked to Donie Bush at first base. He must have seen Jennings’s sign, for he shook his head, then touched the “D” on his jersey and the brim of his cap. The hit-and-run sign.

Stepping back in the box, I decided to ignore Jennings and go for the hit-and-run. It was the only reasonable play for the circumstances.

On Johnson’s first pitch, Bush broke for second base. Washington’s second baseman Bucky Harris moved over to cover the bag, leaving a hole on the right side of the infield. All I had to do was poke the ball ...

The pitch was exactly where I wanted it—on the outside corner—but just too damn fast. I grounded to Joe Judge at first who flipped to Johnson covering for the final out of the inning.

I ran quickly past Hughie Jennings to get my glove from the bench. He was fuming and cussing about “goddamn banjo-hitting road apples who think they’re so goddamned smart.” The way his blue eyes drilled me left no question as to who the “goddamn banjo-hitting road apple” was.

At least he didn’t pull me from the game. I went back to second base for the final inning. When Dauss finished his warm-up throws, Oscar Stanage threw down to second. I fielded it, then flipped to Donie Bush backing me up. He caught the ball and stared at me for a moment. “Don’t worry about Hughie,” he said. “You did right.” Those were the first words any of my teammates had said to me in three days.

Dauss held the Senators scoreless in the bottom of the ninth, so my failure to drive Bush home didn’t cost us the game. But my failure to obey Jennings’s orders cost me my temporary starting job. He took me into his office, said what they’d have done to me in the old Orioles days—it involved tar and feathers—and told me I was going to be riding the bench for a while. “Only reason I’m not fining you,” he said, “is I know Navin ain’t hardly paying you enough to live on as it is.”

Back at my locker, I said nothing to my teammates about what had happened. I saw them looking at me when I came out of Jennings’s office; they were probably all hoping I’d been traded or released.

As I changed out of my uniform, I realized that Cobb, Bush, Veach, and Heilmann had all struck out today. In fact, Walter Johnson had fanned every batter in our lineup at least once—except me. I was the only one on the team who could say that Johnson had
never
struck me out—and depending on how long Jennings kept me on the bench, I might be able to make that statement for some time to come. That thought improved my mood considerably. By the time I’d showered and dressed, I was buoyant enough that I decided to set a new goal for myself: to get a base hit off the Big Train someday.

Karl Landfors had warned me to stay away from Calvin Garrett and the GID. But how could I? Garrett, as Aikens, was the only other person I knew for sure was at the scene when Emmett Siever was killed. Immediately thereafter, at least.

Friday morning, I stood on the northeast corner of Vermont Avenue and K Street, staring up at the intimidating eight-story, stone-block building that housed the U.S. Department of Justice and the Bureau of Investigation. I’d been in local police stations before, and a few municipal buildings, but I’d never been in anything like this. This was a
federal
institution, and the structure’s very appearance seemed intended to show that the full weight of the United States government was behind it. This place wasn’t going to be staffed by beat cops who could be bribed with beers or low-level civil servants who could be paid off with a few bucks.

I pulled out my watch: quarter past ten, almost two hours until I had to report to Griffith Stadium. I thought of the date: May 14—eight days to Leo Hyman’s deadline. There was no question about it: I
had
to speak with Calvin Garrett.

Removing my straw boater as I stepped inside, I ventured through the building’s main entrance. Armed guards stood at attention inside the door. They gave me a visual inspection but didn’t challenge me. I’d worn a conservative three-button blue serge suit, a stiff white shirt with a high celluloid collar, and a dark green bow tie that I’d bought specifically for this occasion. I wanted to look as innocuous as possible.

The spacious lobby was cold and forbidding. I walked purposefully across the tile floor, trying to give the impression that I knew exactly where I was going. Meanwhile, I cast sidelong glances that failed to detect an office directory or any sign indicating where to find the General Intelligence Division.

At the far end of the lobby, an impeccably groomed and dressed young man sat behind a broad desk arrayed with half a dozen telephones. He surveyed the room like an alert librarian on the watch for anyone dog-earing books or chewing gum. My shoes clattered on the floor as I approached his post. He frowned, and I thought he was going to shush me.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I’d like to see Calvin Garrett, please.”

“What department?”

“General Intelligence Division.”

“I see.” The young man pursed his lips. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Garrett?”

I had phoned earlier to be sure that Garrett was in the building but had hung up when the operator tried to connect me to his office. The only thing I had going for me was the element of surprise, and I didn’t want to lose it by warning him that I was coming. “No, but he’ll see me.”

“Your name?”

“Emmett Siever.”

“Let me check.” He pointed to a straight-backed chair well out of listening range. “Wait there, please.”

I walked over to the chair, but remained standing as I watched the young man place a call. After a minute on the line, he beckoned me with a crooked finger. “What did you say your name was again?”

I again gave him Siever’s name and he repeated it into the mouthpiece. After a few seconds of listening, he added with a note of exasperation, “That’s what he says.” Another pause. “Very well.” He hung up and said to me, “Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”

I was sure that the someone would be Calvin Garrett.

Minutes later, a hulking man in an unflattering gray suit exited a nearby elevator. The young man at the desk pointed me out, and Garrett approached. He was about thirty years old, with a broad flat nose, dull eyes, and a soft pink face that looked freshly scrubbed. His close-cropped medium brown hair was slicked back with something greasy. “Why the ‘Emmett Siever’ name?” he asked.

“To make sure you’d see me. Why’d you use ‘Detective Aikens’?”

He frowned slightly, then bobbed his head, acknowledging that I had a point. His expression was not that of a deep thinker, but he must have something on the ball to be in his job, I thought. He extended his hand. “Calvin Garrett.”

“I know.” I returned his soft grip. “Mickey Rawlings.”

“I know.” He looked around the lobby. In one corner were several armchairs clustered near a potted plant. “Let’s talk over there.”

“Okay.” As he led the way, I added, “I’ve got a lot of questions for you.”

“Fine. We have no secrets here.”

“Then why did you make up that ‘Detective Aikens’ business back in Detroit?”

“I didn’t know who you were. Our existence is no secret, but we don’t necessarily advertise our presence. You understand.”

“Not really. What is it that you do exactly?”

Once we were seated, Garrett crossed his legs and launched into what sounded like a recitation. “The General Intelligence Division is a division within the Bureau of Investigation of the Department of Justice. The purpose of the GID is to compile and maintain information on radicals and their activities in the United States and abroad. In performing this function, the Division acquires such information in cooperation with the Bureau of Investigation, other government agencies, local police departments, the military, and, uh, private citizens.” He punctuated the end of every sentence with a nod of his head. “It is the policy—”

I could have read the regulations myself had I wanted to. I interrupted, “In other words, Attorney General Mitchell Palmer runs the Department of Justice. The Justice Department’s office in charge of monitoring radicals is the General Intelligence Division, formerly known as the Anti-Radical Division. Palmer is running for president. He was angry about losing the Michigan primary, and blamed it on ‘radicals.’ A week after the primary vote, a GID man—you—ends up at Fraternity Hall in Detroit. Palmer wanted revenge on the people he thinks cost him the election, so you were sent to crack down on the Wobblies up there. Is that about right?” My tone was more certain than my mind; I didn’t want to show Garrett any doubt or fear.