Murder at Fenway Park (12 page)

“What I mean is, what if the body at
Fenway.
Park wasn’t Mr. Corriden?”

“How? I don’t understand.”

“You said his face was completely battered. Then how was the body identified? What if Mr. Corriden wanted people to
think
he was dead, so he gives the
real
murder victim his identity and disappears. That could even make Mr. Corriden the murderer. He could have killed the man, and put some papers or something with his identification on it in the man’s pocket. See?”

“Is that from some detective story?”

“No, it isn’t.”

Landfors piped up, “It would make a good one though.” He was trying to flatter her. “I think that’s a theory that should be explored.” This from a guy who calls Kid Elberfeld “Norman.”

I felt I was the one with the most useful expertise here, and asserted myself. “Keep in mind that we’re talking about baseball players here. Corriden, Tyler—okay, he’s not a player, but still... And Hal Chase, and Jimmy Macullar was a player. I think I’m in the best position to investigate the case. It needs somebody who’s in the game. Baseball’s my profession, and—”

“Profession!” Landfors mocked. “You don’t really consider baseball a
profession,
do you?”

I lost patience with him. “What the hell do
you
do that makes you such a big deal?”

“I don’t waste my life playing a silly game.” A silly game?

“Didn’t you ever play ball?” I asked.

Landfors looked taken aback. “Well... A little. When I was young. I don’t think playing games is much of an occupation for a
man
though.”

“You were the one they always picked last, weren’t you?”

“What?”

“When they chose up sides for a game. You always got picked last, didn’t you?”

“I did not.”

“Betcha did.”

“Mickey! Karl!
Please.
You both sound like little boys.”

I got up to leave. “I think I better go. I have things to do.
Real
nice meeting you, Landers.”

“Landfors.
”

“Mickey! Please!” Peggy sounded frantic. Her little party was not ending on a happy note. I stalked out the door, impervious to her pleas to come back.

I sauntered down the steps and out onto the street at a carefully casual pace intended to show that I was thoroughly indifferent to what Peggy and her friend thought of me.

U
ntil I saw Peggy and Karl Landfors in the same room, I hadn’t realized how ridiculous my romantic intentions toward her were. I must have been crazy to have had hopes for Peggy and me as sweethearts.

I never before asked myself the simple question: Why would Peggy be interested in me? True, I was a fairly good-looking guy, and being a major-league baseball player gave me some kind of celebrity. But those qualities were probably low on Peggy’s list of requirements for a beau. No, a college boy was the type for her. Unhandsome as he was, and lacking as he was in personality, Karl Landfors was more her type than I. There were looks that passed between them that showed me they thought the same way. And if they thought the same way, maybe they felt the same way—and maybe about each other.

Peggy and Landfors had me pretty disoriented, not only personally, but about the investigation. Peggy actually seemed to think of it as just some kind of parlor game—although maybe I was somewhat to blame for her attitude, since I hadn’t told her how serious it had become.

And the talk about evidence and the courts left me uncertain about my approach. I figured you just find the killer, tell the cops who did it, and then leave the judges or the lawyers or the police to work out the details. That’s it. Case solved. Peggy and Landfors seemed to think there’s more to it than that.

Landfors did get my interest up with his information about Bob Tyler, though. If Tyler was involved with gamblers, that could put a new slant on things... somehow... I suppose. If Landfors was right, that is. How did I know he had accurate information? He might have made the story up out of whole cloth just to impress Peggy. The conniving little...

I didn’t know how I was going to go about solving Red Corriden’s murder now. The only thing I was sure of was that I wouldn’t be working on it with Peggy anymore, and certainly not with Landfors. But somehow I’d figure out how to proceed, and when I solved it on my own, I’d make sure Landfors knew about it.

I finally put Peggy and her irksome friend out of my thoughts, and turned my attention to the upcoming Independence Day doubleheader.

July Fourth was the fifth straight day of a blistering Boston heat wave. It was the scalding, still kind of heat that makes you move around in the vain hope of getting out of its way. The exertion then leaves you instantly exhausted from the effort, and hotter than you were before. So you try moving again... and you’re singed some more.

The first game of the holiday doubleheader turned out to be a runaway, and Smoky Joe Wood breezed—he was the only breeze this day—to an easy 6—0 win. The New York batters looked so spiritless and inept, that I could have pitched a victory against them.

During the break between games, while the infield dirt was dragged and fresh lime was applied to the foul lines, our territory was invaded by the enemy. Hal Chase walked across to the Boston side of the field as if claiming it for his own. He stayed away from the players, though. It was the box seats next to the dugout that attracted him. Or, rather, their colorful occupants did.

A front-row box in this location would usually be occupied by VIPs in somber-colored suits. Tickets for these seats took not only money but front office connections. The four men who greeted Chase were no politicians or industrialists, though. They would have been more at home at a racetrack. They wore loud checked suits and caps cocked at arrogant angles. They must have been hilarious wits, judging from the incessant, raucous howling that came from the box.

Chase greeted them all loudly, then focused his attention on the least noisy of the four. The man was in a lime green suit with the vest buttons unfastened. A lemon yellow cap covered all his hair and drooped over his left eye. A black cigar not much smaller than a baseball bat stuck out from under a light-brown Teddy Roosevelt mustache.

Chase clearly reveled in his notoriety. I couldn’t believe he would flaunt his friendship with gamblers in front of an entire stadium. I was relieved when the teams were called in to the dugouts and he left our side of the field. The air seemed to smell better with his departure. The gamblers remained, but they didn’t offend me by themselves—a ball player fraternizing with them was what I couldn’t stand.

The second game continued where the first left off. Bucky O’Brien was now the beneficiary of the Highlanders’ lackluster play and the Red Sox’s scoring barrage. After three innings, we already led 7—0. The commanding lead and the hellish heat prompted Jake Stahl to give the bench-warmers some playing time.

I took over at shortstop, Billy Neal finally went in for Carrigan behind the plate, and to the delight of all the Sox players, Clyde Fletcher trotted out to substitute for Duffy Lewis in left field.

I was eager to see how Fletch would handle the wall. But O’Brien was on a roll, striking out a string of Highlander hitters, so neither Fletcher nor I had a fielding chance in our first two innings.

In the bottom of the fifth, with the bases loaded, Fletcher came up to bat against Jack Warhop. Down the left field line of the ballpark, next to the scoreboard above the fence, was a huge billboard that read:

Taking a hopeful rip at Warhop’s first pitch, Fletcher tagged a screamer right up the line. It was still rising when it struck the word RYE—just inside fair territory—for a grand slam home run. It was Fletcher’s first hit of the season, but he trotted around the bases as nonchalantly as if he hit a homer every day.

I ran from the on-deck circle and joined the scoring runners in greeting Fletcher on his triumphant arrival at the plate. I teased him that the whiskey sign was just his kind of target.

I then took my place in the batter’s box knowing full well that I was going up as a target for Warhop’s wrath. Sure enough, his first throw—he didn’t even pretend it was a pitch—came straight for my head and I hit the dirt to avoid it.

Then he threw again and caught me by surprise, almost nailing me in the neck. One duster is expected, but two is out of line. My teammates moved to the front of the Sox dugout, yelling curses and threats at Warhop. Undeterred by their yells, his third pitch plunked me in the ribs. With tempers already shortened by the heat, the Red Sox stormed the field, Jake Stahl leading the charge. Both benches emptied, and fights broke out all over the field.

I noticed that Clyde Fletcher ran directly toward Hal Chase, dodging more reachable opponents to get to him. I figured Fletch was going to administer a payback for Chase cheating him at cards. Chase spotted him, and ran to face him head on. Maybe heat waves affected my vision, because the two of them looked like that scene from the movies—the one where lovers lope across a meadow in slow motion to meet in the middle and embrace.

I grappled with the Highlander catcher. We wrestled a while to no decision, he impeded by his catching gear, I in pain from my bruised side, and both of us wilted from the sun and the exertion.

Like most baseball fights, the scuffles subsided after lots of pushing and shoving and few good punches. Umpire Silk O’Loughlin then tossed Stahl and Warhop out of the game. Warhop looked relieved to be leaving the field.

I trotted to first base with an affected limp, trying to look as if I was in too much pain to run well.

Since Warhop’s replacement was brought into the game after a ruckus on the field, I figured it would take him awhile to get settled. So on his first pitch I swiped second base in a clean steal. Some of the New York players, Hal Chase especially, started yelling at me for trying to show them up. Everybody knows you don’t rub your opponents’ noses in it by stealing bases when you’re up by a bushel of runs. Well, that’s just too bad if they don’t like it; you don’t throw at a guy three straight pitches, either.

I hadn’t exacted enough of a revenge yet, so on the next pitch I stole third base. I slid safely under the third baseman’s tag, then felt fresh pains as he jumped on top of me and started punching. Again both benches emptied. This time it took longer to restore order, with the Highlander third baseman the only player banished by O’Loughlin.

Before leaving the field and dugout, Stahl had appointed Bill Carrigan acting manager—then continued to call the shots from the dugout runway out of sight of O’Loughlin. Since O’Brien had gone the five innings he needed to get credit for what should soon be a win, Stahl—via Carrigan—sent Charlie Strickler to the mound to mop up.

The next three innings went by without incident.

The score was 14—0, with two outs in the top of the ninth, when Hal Chase lifted a high fly deep to left field. I turned around and ran onto the outfield grass in case I’d have to take a cutoff throw. I saw that Clyde Fletcher had already taken off and was lumbering back toward the fence. As he approached the hill, I muttered inaudible encouragement, “C’mon, Fletch. You can do it. C’mon ... That’s it ...”

Fletcher kept his head down, eyes on the tricky ground, and successfully made his way to the top of the slope. Not until then did he look up for the ball, only to find that he’d misjudged it—the ball wasn’t carrying all the way to the fence. I saw him freeze momentarily, a look of panic on his face. Then he put his legs in gear to run back in.

About his fourth stride down the hill, Fletcher stumbled and belly-flopped onto the ground. He just lay there, face down, arms and legs splayed.

I raced out to field the ball while Tris Speaker ran over from center field. The ball struck the slope about ten feet from Fletcher’s outstretched body. It took one bounce to the wall and then caromed back in my direction. I reached it before Speaker could, and wheeled around to throw to Larry Gardner. He relayed it to Billy Neal in time to nail Chase at the plate. That ended the game with the shutout intact.

I waited a moment until I saw Fletcher getting up under his own power, then I ran off the field to join my teammates in the clubhouse.

The players were raucous with good humor. There’s nothing like slaughtering the opposition to put ball players in a good mood.

More than one of my teammates slapped me on the back with congratulations on saving the shutout. This, and the fact that they had twice come out fighting in my defense, made me awfully proud.

Clyde Fletcher finally shuffled into the locker room looking red-faced and flustered. Before we could rib him about his nosedive into the outfield turf, he took the offensive, yelling to the room in general, “Goddam sons of bitches! Every goddam one of you puts in his two bits telling me how to get up that goddam hill, and not one of you got sense enough to tell me how to get back down!”

That out of his system, Fletcher exposed his stained brown teeth and joined in the clubhouse revelry. For the first time, I felt that we were both really part of this team.

The next morning, I bought copies of most of the Boston newspapers, and eagerly turned to the sports sections. Just as I hoped: both Clyde Fletcher and I were prominently mentioned in the stories of the Fenway doubleheader. Usually when I got into a ball game, my performance garnered me no more than a plain line in the box score. It was a rare thrill to see my name in the text of the articles, and it felt a special treat to appear there with my roomie.

Before clipping out the articles, I noticed that in Detroit’s game against the Browns Ty Cobb celebrated the holiday by stealing his way around the bases. Second, third, and then home. That Ty Cobb sure knew how to demoralize the opposition. Jeez, why did all that talent have to end up in the world’s meanest human?

Two days after Clyde Fletcher drilled his Fourth of July grand slam, Bob Tyler released him. Fletch wasn’t even traded for another player—just dropped from the team. Discarded like a broken bat.

The news came after the closing game of the series with New York. Most of the team was still showering or changing in the locker room.

Fletcher seemed to take his dismissal in stride, but I was shaken by it. I was upset enough, in fact, to surprise myself by blurting out an uncharacteristic proposition. “Hey, Fletch, what do you say to a beer? My treat.”

Fletcher looked startled by the offer but he accepted. “Sure, kid, sounds good.”

We left the ballpark, and I deferred to Fletcher to recommend a saloon. He picked one out readily enough, and we went in. A haze of cigar smoke and the stench of stale beer filled the room. I gagged on the first mouthful of air, and had to consciously give extra power to my lungs to continue inhaling the dense bitter vapor. It wasn’t an inviting atmosphere, but it seemed exactly the right atmosphere for mourning Fletcher’s dismissal.

Walking up to the bar, I laid a ten-cent piece on it, and the saloon keeper set us up with two big drafts. The thick yellow head of foam in front of me looked delicious. I scooped up a clump of it with my finger and stuck it in my mouth.