Hanging Curve (24 page)

I
t was impossible to tell from the mild weather St. Louis was enjoying that one of the most powerful forces of nature had blown into town. Babe Ruth had arrived with his New York Yankees for a head-to-head battle with the Browns.

Our lead over the Yankees was down to two games, and New York was vowing to sweep the three-game series and topple us from our first-place position in the American League standings. A good part of the population of St. Louis, Margie and Karl among them, was crammed into Sportsman’s Park for the opener Monday morning, hoping to see us fend off the Yankee threat. I’d invited Franklin Aubury, too, but he declined, unwilling to be stuck in the colored section of the right-field bleachers.

Pitching chores for both teams fell to a couple of youngsters. Rookie Hub Pruett pitched for us, facing the schoolboy from Brooklyn, Waite Hoyt, of the Yankees.

I began the game on the bench, but spent little time sitting on it. I kept moving around, caught up in the excitement.

When Babe Ruth came to bat in the top of the first, all of Sportsman’s Park was on its collective feet. Hub Pruett wasn’t intimidated by the Babe’s reputation or lethal swing, however. He struck out the slugger on four pitches, to the wild cheers of the crowd.

Pruett fanned the mighty Ruth in both of his next appearances also, and the Browns were up 3—2 in the seventh inning. I was fidgeting and pacing, trying to attract Lee Fohl’s attention without actually saying, “Put me in, Coach!”

He got the hint that I wanted to play. In the bottom of the seventh, Fohl said, “Rawlings! Yer up for Ellerbe.”

I grabbed my bat and went to the plate, taking a few easy practice swings. My back was pinched and tight from the way the skin was being pulled by the scabs, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to make a good swing.

Waite Hoyt worked me to a two-two count, as I swung lamely and missed a pair of curveballs. Okay, one thing to do, I decided. On Hoyt’s next pitch, I laid a bunt up the first-base line; it was risky—if the ball went foul, I’d be out automatically—but it rolled just inside the foul line, and I made it to first safely.

Since that risk had paid off, I promptly took another. With Hank Severeid at the plate, I stole second base, sliding headfirst to avoid landing on my back. I stood up, dusted myself off, and looked around at the packed stands and all the fans cheering my hustle. This was
fun,
I thought, and the only thing that could be more fun would be doing this in a World Series.

Severeid rapped a single to right on the next pitch, and I raced for home. With another headfirst slide, I beat Babe Ruth’s throw to put us up 4—2.

My run proved to be the winning run as the Yankees scored once in the eighth. We had a three-game lead now, and New York couldn’t overtake us in this series.

In the locker room, we celebrated as if the game had clinched the pennant, and I got plenty of praise for my play. No one was feeling sorry for me now, as they had when they’d first seen my back. Today I was no longer a victim. I was part of the team, one of the guys who helped beat the Yankees.

 

Margie, Karl, and I celebrated by going to dinner. Initially, all we talked about was the game and the Browns’ prospects for winning the pennant.

When Margie left Karl and me alone for a few minutes, though, I shifted to a different subject. “I know why Franklin Aubury was able to identify Rosie Sumner so easily,” I said. “It’s because Aubury works for a numbers racketeer, too, a fellow by the name of Ronald Parker. Five years ago, he did anyway.”

“He still does,” answered Karl. “However, he doesn’t really
work
for him.”

“Then why is he listed as Parker’s attorney in 1917?”

Karl thought a moment. “This is confidential, but I’m sure Franklin wouldn’t mind me telling you. He is kept on retainer by Parker. There is rarely an occasion when Parker actually needs his legal services, but he wants to support Aubury’s civil-rights work.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a way to funnel money. Numbers racketeers support many community institutions, but they have to be careful about how they account for their money. On the books, Franklin Aubury is paid a monthly retainer for legal services. The legal work he does, however, has nothing to do with Parker’s enterprises.”

“It may not be that innocent, Karl,” I said. “Aubury might be using his connections with the rackets. He always seems to know right away when something happens—maybe it’s because he has
advance
knowledge. Maybe he’s even using his connections to get revenge on the Elcars.”

Karl shook his head. “I’ve known Franklin Aubury long enough to know he wouldn’t do anything wrong.” He pointed to the glass of beer next to my plate. “He isn’t any more a criminal than you are for drinking illegal beer.”

“I know,” I said, “that bootleggers hijack, steal, and kill in their business. Maybe numbers racketeers do the same.”

“Even if they do, Aubury wouldn’t be involved in that end of it. Look, I’m sure he’s not happy about having
any
connection with criminals, but what choice does he have? I’ve always fought for causes that were underfunded because they were against established interests—and sometimes I didn’t look too closely where
my
money came from. You take it where you can get it and make good use of it. That’s what Aubury’s doing.”

Could be, I thought. But if he wasn’t doing anything wrong, why did he keep it a secret?

 

I sure hoped Karl was right about Franklin Aubury. Because on Tuesday night, the sales office of Enoch’s Motor Cars was burned to the ground. Also torched was the dealership’s garage, destroying the cars inside and killing the night watchman, who was found in the backseat of a charred Auburn. According to the newspaper, the name of the watchman was Melvin Greene, once a major-league baseball player.

The only thing I now understood was why he’d preferred “Tater.” I didn’t know why he was identified as a watchman when he’d been a mechanic. And the paper didn’t reveal how the fire started, although since it struck two separate buildings, the police believed it was arson—which with Greene being killed, made it a homicide.

What I wondered was: Who lit it? Greene had mentioned to me that the Klan didn’t trust him anymore. Was he killed by the KKK, who then set the fire as a cover? Or was the fire set by Negroes as revenge for Cubs Park having been burned down, and Greene an unintended victim?

Whatever the reason, and whatever he’d done in the past, I felt sad about my old teammate. Especially since the last thing he’d said to me was that he was sorry for everything.

W
ithout calling ahead for an appointment, I showed up at Franklin Aubury’s law office early the next morning. Despite Karl Landfors’s reassurances, I wanted to talk to the lawyer directly.

Aubury looked like he hadn’t slept in days. When I sat down, he took off his pince-nez and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

“I was reading about the trials from 1917,” I began, “and I came across an interesting item: You were the attorney for Ronald Parker. According to the report, he’s a kingpin in the St. Louis ‘policy’ rackets. That’s numbers, right?”

“You are correct on all three counts,” Aubury answered matter-of-factly. “
Policy
is another word for the numbers, Mr. Parker runs a numbers operation, and I represented him—in fact, I still do.”

“I never expected you to be tied up with the rackets,” I said.

He spread his hands. “I am sorry to be a disappointment to you. But I have done nothing criminal, and I am not ashamed of my relationship with Mr. Parker.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me about it before?”

“For what purpose? What business is it of yours who my clients are?” For somebody who wasn’t ashamed, he was sounding pretty defensive.

“None, I guess. Just surprised me.”

Aubury pushed a stack of papers aside and leaned back. “When I was in law school, I was determined to help the poor, those who had no voice and no one to defend them. When I started my practice, I took on so many
pro bono
cases, that I wasn’t providing for my own family. Mr. Parker wanted to support the work I was doing for the community, so he put me on retainer—it enables me to spend all my time working on the issues that will help our people the most.”

“Not
all
your time. You did have to defend him on the gunrunning charge in 1917.”

“That did not require much effort on my part. He wasn’t involved in any such thing, and it never went to trial.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “From what I read, it did seem that the cops were accusing just about all colored people of stirring up trouble.”

“They certainly were.” He put his glasses back on. “Even before the riot took place. There was no end of rumors about ‘gun-toting darkies,’ and newspapers were reporting that pawnshops were doing a brisk business selling guns to Negroes—they’d display them in the windows because we’re attracted to shiny things, you know. The police department eventually issued a general order to disarm all Negroes. Patrolmen would stop and frisk colored people who were walking down the street, and pull over and search their cars for no reason. All weapons were confiscated from Negroes, while the whites armed themselves to the teeth against an imaginary colored army. Our people saw it as an attempt to leave us defenseless, and there were some colored people running guns from St. Louis over the bridge—transported by light-skinned Negroes who could pass for white.”

“But it wasn’t the numbers guys doing it?”

“Not my client. I’ve told you before, the numbers men are more like bankers than criminals. They generally avoid violence. By the way, Mr. Parker provided the money for rebuilding Cubs Park.”

I didn’t believe they were quite as innocent as Aubury claimed, but perhaps he wanted to believe that his benefactor had no “bad” criminal involvement. “I was kind of worried,” I said. “The thought crossed my mind that if you were involved with Parker, maybe you were passing on information that I gave you on the Elcars, and maybe Parker was using his thugs to get revenge on them.”

Aubury rolled his eyes.

I said, “You did seem to know pretty quickly when things happened, or were about to happen.”

“I do hear things—I make an effort to remain informed. And I do have some contacts with those in the community who do not have the patience for justice to be achieved through legal means. But I have been using whatever small influence I might possess to urge restraint, not revenge.”

“What about Enoch’s place being burned the other night—have you heard who was responsible for that?”

Aubury answered sadly, “No.
If
Negroes were involved, I doubt that they intended that anyone should die. So they are unlikely to say anything at all.”

There remained three possibilities, then, I thought. The only
impossibility
was that the fires had been accidental. Flames don’t accidentally break out in two separate buildings at the same time.

Aubury rubbed his eyes again.

“You look like hell,” I said. “Want to get some lunch? My treat.”

He laughed wryly. “My wife has been telling me the same thing. Thank you for the lunch offer, but what I need is sleep, not food.”

I knew what he meant; I hadn’t been sleeping much lately, either.

 

Only four days after Tater Greene’s death, Roy Enoch had a display ad in the St.
Louis Globe-Democrat.
It made no mention of Greene’s death, only that the “huge inventory of fine automobiles” hadn’t been harmed, and the lot was open for business. He also made a statement of defiance to the Negro community by including his slogan
“Komplete Kar Kare”
at the bottom of the advertisement.

I telephoned the number listed in the notice.

A cheerful female voice squeaked, “Enoch Motor Car Company.”

“This is Detective Brown,” I said. “East St. Louis Police Department. I’m calling about the fire Tuesday night.”

“Oh, I’ll get Mr. Enoch. He’s out on the lot.”

“No need,” I said. I preferred to speak with someone who might be less guarded. “I just have a couple of simple questions; there’s a minor discrepancy in the report I have to clear up. Is this Miss, uh”—I didn’t know her last name—“Doreen, is it? I’m sorry, but I can’t make out the last name on the report here. I guess I need to give our officers some penmanship lessons.”

She giggled. “That’s okay. It’s Doreen Uhler.” She slowly spelled the last name for me.

“The main question I have, Miss Uhler, is about Mr. Greene’s position at the dealership. One of my officers wrote that he was a mechanic, but I have another report here that he was a watchman.”

“Oh, I can explain that! He
was
a mechanic, but a week or so before he died, he was made night watchman instead.”

“Wasn’t a good enough mechanic?” I thought if Greene had been made a watchman, it might be because Enoch wanted him there at night—if he was still a mechanic, there was no good reason for him to be there when the fire was set.

“Well, I think it had to do with something else.”

“And what was that?”

She hesitated. “I really think I better get Mr. Enoch. I shouldn’t say anything bad about Mr. Greene.”

“I can assure you this will be kept in confidence. I only need to complete the report; I’m not looking to damage Mr. Greene’s reputation.”

“Well... he’d been drinking a lot lately. Mr. Enoch is a strict Prohibitionist, and normally he’d fire anyone he knew was a drinker, but he thought Mr. Greene might change if he was demoted to watchman.”

“I appreciate your time, Miss Uhler. That’s all the questions I have.”

It didn’t really answer much. From my phone conversations with him, I already knew that Greene had been drinking lately. And that he regretted the things he’d been involved in. One possibility was that he’d set the fires himself—the sales office to harm Enoch, and the garage—well, if he was drunk enough, that might have been an accident. Or if he was sad enough, maybe he wanted to die in the blaze. Then I remembered his body had been found in the backseat of a car; that sounded more like he’d been sleeping when the fire broke out.

The two leading possibilities were that it was a retaliatory attack by Negroes to get back for Cubs Park having been burned down, or it was the Klan, using the fire as a cover to kill Greene, who they might have considered untrustworthy. Although if it was the Klan, burning the garage would have been enough. Why the sales office? That would have hurt Enoch’s business. Unless all the important things had been removed first. Maybe that’s why they were able to open again so soon.

The only thing for sure was that, no matter who was really responsible, the Klan would have to act as if they’d been the victims of an attack. Which meant they would be striking back.

 

I was determined to do what I could to stop the Klan this time—and to get some measure of revenge for what they’d done to me.

The question was where to apply the pressure. I couldn’t take on an entire klavern. I had to find a weakness.

The only area I could think of where the Klan might be vulnerable was with regard to the Slip Crawford lynching. That act was the one the Klan most wanted to disavow. Among those likely to have been involved, I thought Brian Padgett was a good choice. He was a hothead for sure. He was also the one Greene had heard talking about me being whipped. So he must have had some contact with those who’d grabbed me.

The next question was how to get him to break the secrecy of the Invisible Empire.

I finally came up with the beginnings of a plan. Then I enlisted Karl Landfors to help me carry it out.