Eight Men Out: The Black Sox and the 1919 World Series (29 page)

Attell was left fuming. They calmed him down with a warning: there was bad talk going around town. A few heavy World Series losers were really looking for him. One of them, it was said, was not averse to a little gunplay….

Inside Lindy's, a reporter spotted him holding a bloody handkerchief to his face, and followed him to the men's room. "Who hit you, Abe—and why?"

"I ran into a door."

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"Sure. A door with knuckles."

"Look, wise guy—I know what you're thinking. But it ain't right. Put this in your paper. That punk from Philly is a rotten liar!"

"Who, Billy Maharg?"

"Yeah. Him. You know what? Arnold Rothstein is the man behind these stories. And I am surprised at this because I've been a good friend of Arnold's. He is simply trying to pass the buck to me. It won't go.

A.R. is trying to whitewash himself. Nobody can pass the buck to me. That Philly guy's story of the fake telegram and all the rest is all bunk!

"I have done many things for Rothstein. When he didn't have a cent I fed him and boarded him and even suffered a busted nose defending him from a bootblack in Saratoga. We've not been on the best of terms for the last year, but I didn't think it would end up this way.

"Well, I'm retaining a lawyer to take care of my interests, and in a day or so, I'll tell what I know of this thing and it will shoot the lid sky high!"

William J. Fallon, the famous New York lawyer, was not at Lindy's. Fallon, referred to as The Great Mouthpiece, was more or less permanently retained by Arnold Rothstein. And though Abe Attell was smart enough to seek shrewd counsel, he was not smart enough to realize that in a clash of interests between these two clients, The Great Mouthpiece would show deference to The Big Bankroll. But then, Rothstein had arranged it all that way. Fallon was to take care of Attell, seemingly as an act of friendship. Fallon didn't care, so long as Rothstein paid the bill.

Fallon had read Maharg's statement, and was fully aware of Attell's problem. But when Abe recounted his recent skirmish, including what he had told the reporter, Fallon exploded. It was stupid for Attell to talk, especially to the press. But to Attell, it was either his neck or Rothstein's. He would prefer to let A.

R. take care of himself.

Fallon had one thing on his mind: keeping Attell away from the Chicago Grand Jury. Every time the Little Champ opened his mouth, it brought that subpoena closer to him. Fallon already knew how much Rothstein would hate that. Put a man like Attell on the stand and anything could happen. Fallon never had met a shady character who wasn't terrified of a courtroom.

He told Attell to keep out of sight. From then on, Fallon would do the talking.

Fallon's picture of the problem was clear enough. There was nothing particularly strange about it, except perhaps from the publicity point of view. Professional baseball was a national institution (unlike A.R.'s other involvements, such as horse racing, bootlegging, gambling houses, money-lending) and the public press liked to play God when it came to baseball. Fallon had to keep Rothstein's reputation clean, if such file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:46 AM

a thing were possible.

Rothstein was not at home. His wife, Carolyn, was. Fallon told her what to say when the reporters came

—and he was certain they would. She should tell them that Maharg's story was essentially correct…viz., that Arnold had nothing to do with the World Series fix.

Fallon then turned to the principal matter of the moment: Maharg. That man had to be silenced. Not because he was full of dangerous information. It was simply better policy to cut off the flow of evidence as quickly as possible. A question of inertia: body in motion tends to remain in motion. If Maharg sang to the Grand Jury, ten other punks might want to sing, too. If Maharg suddenly decided not to, twenty other punks would get the message.

Fallon got on the phone and called a friend of his in Philadelphia….

In Lufkin, Texas, Arnold "Chick" Gandil was languishing in a county hospital, having just been operated on for appendicitis. He had sold his new home in Los Angeles three weeks before, settling for a $6,100

price, though it had cost him considerably more. This had been his wife's doing. She had been eager to return to her home in Texas. Gandil had submitted, bought a new car, and had driven her and his daughter down, nursing a bellyache all the way. The news reports of the last two days had not made him feel any better. He gave his doctor a statement for the reporters outside his room: "It's a lot of bunk.

Nothing to it. They're trying to make a goat out of somebody. And I'm telling the world, that somebody won't be me!"

Claude "Lefty" Williams had spent part of the previous evening with his friend, Joe Jackson. The other part, he had spent with his wife. Together, they decided that he should do what Jackson had done.

The logic was simple enough: there was no longer anything to be gained by silence. The telegram of suspension lay on the table. Perhaps, as Jackson had said, their statements would put them in a favorable light with the law. If Williams was skeptical about that, it was also true he had nothing better to go on.

He was twenty-seven years old with a well-trained left arm. He wanted to be able to use it for another ten good years.

He dressed quickly and went downtown to Alfred Austrian's office. He told the lawyer he was ready to talk.

Austrian was very pleasant with him. He told Williams how sorry he was about all this, and how much he had admired his great pitching skill. Williams was shy in the face of this imposing man. He had been with the White Sox for five years and had never met Austrian before this. Nor had he seen anything quite like this elaborate office. He nodded his thanks and tried to smile. When he asked if it might not be a good idea if he got himself a lawyer before he talked, Austrian quickly advised him not to. "There are file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:46 AM

times when you can get along better without one. Of course, if you want one…" Williams hesitated.

Austrian leaped into the breach by assuring him that it really wasn't necessary. After all, the State's Attorney's office had promised to take care of Cicotte and Jackson. They would treat Williams the same way.

Austrian then suggested that perhaps it would be wise if Williams made his statement right here. The atmosphere in the Grand Jury room was, at best, rather disturbing and certainly not conducive to clear thinking. It would, of course, be necessary to repeat it for the Grand Jury, but then it would not be jumbled by all the pressures and questions imposed on him. Williams agreed.

"My name is Claude Williams. I am the same Claude Williams who lately has been a member of the Chicago American League Baseball Club. I am making this statement of my own free will and volition…."

Austrian then proceeded to ask him questions. A stenographer took it all down.

Q: I want you to mention the names of the gamblers, the places, the times, and everyone you talked to about the whole subject.

A: This situation was first brought up to me in New York. Mr. Gandil called me to one side, out in front of the Hotel Ansonia, and put this thing to me…. After coming back to Chicago, I was called down to the Warner Hotel where the eight members that are named—not eight, I will take that back: I will name them for you: Eddie Cicotte, Chick Gandil, Buck Weaver, and Happy Felsch, and two fellows introduced as Brown and Sullivan.

Q: They were the gamblers?

A: They were supposed to be the gamblers, or fellows that were fixing it for the gamblers—one of the two, they didn't say which.

Q: Sullivan was from Boston, wasn't he?

A: They didn't say. They said they'd come from New York. They introduced themselves as Brown and Sullivan from New York.

Q: And you would know them if you saw them?

A: I would, sure. I would know them.

Q: Go on.

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A: I was informed that whether or not I took any action, the games would be fixed.

Q: Who informed you of that?

A: Chick Gandil.

Q: Right then and there?

A: No, not right then and there. Just right after that. Just as I got in the hall. So I told them anything they did would be agreeable to me: if it was going to be done anyway, that I had no money. I may as well get what I could. I haven't seen those gamblers from that day to this. We were supposed to get—Gandil told me we were supposed to get…what was it?…I was supposed to get ten thousand dollars after the second game, when we got back to Chicago, but I did not get this until after the fourth game; and he then said the gamblers had called it off: and I figured then that there was a double cross someplace. On the second trip to Cincinnati, for the sixth and seventh games, Cicotte and I had a conference. I told him we were double-crossed and I was going out to win if there was any possible chance. Cicotte said he was the same way. Gandil had informed me in Cincinnati (before the Series began) that Bill Burns and Abe Attell was also fixing where we would get one hundred thousand dollars, making twenty thousand dollars more. That I never received.

Q: You had a meeting in Cincinnati with the ballplayers? Where was that?

A: That was in the hotel.

Q: Who was there?

A: In Chick Gandil's room? We never had a meeting. We just went up there. We just dropped in one at a time; there was Buck Weaver, Eddie Cicotte, Happy Felsch, and myself.

Q: Was Weaver there?

A: Yes.

Q: And what conversation did you have there?

A: We asked him [Gandil] when he was going to get the hundred thousand that Burns and Attell was supposed to give us. He says 'They are supposed to give me after each game, supposed to give me twenty or thirty thousand dollars after each game,' which, if they gave him that, I know nothing of at all.

Q: When did he say you would get some money?

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A: He didn't say. He didn't make no statement. I was supposed at first to get so much, get ten thousand dollars after the second game [Williams lost it 4-2]. I didn't receive it until the fourth game. I got only five.

Q: Did you ever ask Gandil or anyone else—

A: (interrupting) I never even talked to Gandil from that day to this.

Q: Did you ever talk to any of the other ballplayers?

A: I never talked to no one.

Q: I mean about it.

A: I never talked to no one.

Q: Did any of the other ballplayers talk to you about it?

A: They never mentioned it to me.

Q: Do you know how much Weaver got?

A: I could not say.

Q: Did he tell you how much he got?

A: He never did.

Q: Or Felsch?

A: None of the boys ever told me a word of what they got—whether they got a penny or not.

Q: Did you know what games the Sox were to lose for all this money they were getting?

A: Why, they were supposed to lose the first two to Cincinnati, and I never did hear whether they were to lose or win the one with Kerr [third game].

Q: Now, is that all you know about the whole thing?

A: That is all I know.

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If Williams was less than completely honest, it was only on the last question that he might have been challenged. Why had he done so badly in the first inning of the last game? What was the nature of the gamblers' approach to him, that they should know in advance that he would have a disastrous first inning? Like Cicotte, he spoke guardedly about events involving the gamblers. If Austrian had any indications of foul play—and he certainly must have had suspicions since Maharg had referred to it specifically—he never pursued it. Even in the Grand Jury, the pitcher was not challenged on this score.

Williams left the Criminal Courts Building and stepped out into the sunshine. It was clear and pleasantly cool. He was glad to be alone. He walked for a while, then took a taxi back to his apartment. There, he ran into Byrd Lynn, the second-string catcher and ex-roomy. The two friends stopped and stared at each other. It was Lynn who finally offered his hand. Williams accepted it and tried to smile. But suddenly tears started rolling down his cheeks. They shook hands; then Lynn, all choked up, backed hurriedly away. They did not say a word to each other at this meeting or ever again.

Williams went upstairs to his wife. He began to wonder seriously what was going to happen to him.

The Chicago
American
had on its staff one of those very young newspapermen who could qualify as reporter-at-large. Harry Reutlinger was a warm, witty cynic who learned to come up with remarkable stories that his colleagues would never dream of getting. On this sunny morning, he sat in the newspaper offices reading the stories of the World Series scandal. Somehow, they made little sense to him. The facts, as reported, did not jell. They appeared to be slapped together by hearsay and smatterings of conversations, either overheard or gathered on the run. After reading several papers, Reutlinger noted discrepancies in their treatment of the same basic story. The Joe Jackson confession, for example, was quoted four different ways by four different papers. What had he really said? And what was the real story behind these ballplayers?

To Reutlinger, what was clearly lacking was a simple, solid interview. A full, rich, uninhibited statement by one of those boys who could spill out what was on his mind. The trouble was, this newspaperman knew little of the baseball world. But such a problem never stopped him. He walked over to the Sports Desk and asked one question: