Murder at Ebbets Field (9 page)

“Uh-uh. She turned me down.” He added with a leer, “But she didn’t say no often.”

I glared at him. He stared back for a moment, then took up his cue and deftly sunk the seven ball with a bank shot.

“You didn’t see her at all after she left the party?”

He paused to make another shot. “Nope.”

“Where did you go after the party?”

The four ball was frozen against the rail, and he was aiming to put it in the corner pocket. I knew it was a tough shot—to make it, the cue ball would have to hit the four and the rail at exactly the same time. “I came here,” he said. Then he stroked the cue smoothly and sent the four ball running swiftly along the rail, a streak of purple that was swallowed by the corner pocket with a gulp. He stood up with a smile. “Didn’t I, boys?”

His friends grunted agreement.

He bent back over and ran off three more shots. “Look,” he said, “I’m real sorry she got herself drowned. After all, there was some things about her that I liked real well. But I don’t know nothing about how it happened.”

“Did you come here straight from the party?”

“Yep.”

“What time?”

“Hell, that’s almost a week ago. But if I recall correctly, I believe it was about eleven. Weren’t it, boys?”

Spike and Billy both said, “Yup.” The batboy nodded.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Ewing said. Then he squirted a stream of tobacco juice at a spittoon only four feet away—and missed it by more than a foot. His friends looked stricken. I don’t think he missed often.

Stengel and I left, and we found a saloon where the lights were low and the beer was cold.

I was poor company for Casey. While he launched into a story about a one-legged pitcher in Akron—or maybe it was about a bowlegged shortstop—my thoughts stayed on Florence Hampton.

The encounter in the pool hall bothered me. I didn’t see how Ewing and his friends could talk about Miss Hampton the way they did. I guess they didn’t have any more respect for a dead lady than they did for a live one.

It wasn’t just the general tone of the talk that gnawed at me though. There was one phrase in specific: the way Virgil Ewing had said
she got herself drowned
—as if it was her fault somehow. It was like blaming the victim for the crime.

Oh, jeez. What if she did do it to herself? What if it was suicide?

Margie said Miss Hampton had changed after her husband died. How did she change? What thoughts were going through her mind? Did she think there was nothing left to live for? That would explain the circumstances of her death: a woman who can’t swim ends up in the water, drowned, with no bruises.

But why naked? Why would she want to be found that way? Wouldn’t she have some modesty left? Or was shedding her clothes symbolic, like casting off all her problems, all earthly concerns?

I was doubtful. Suicide would fit with what happened but not with what I saw of the living Florence Hampton. She seemed too much of a fighter.

One thing I was sure of: I was no judge of what would go through a woman’s mind.

Fortunately, I knew somebody who was.

O
n Saturday, I worked. It wasn’t a day for playing baseball; it was a day for laboring at it. And I had to put in overtime. Because of the rainout the day before, a doubleheader was scheduled to make up the canceled game.

The Friday downpour had turned the Polo Grounds’ infield into a treacherous mud pit. It was there that I toiled, the muck pulling at my cleats, as I worked every inning of both games at second base.

And labor I did. With the ball wet and heavy, the pitchers naturally threw a lot of sinkers, resulting in an inordinate number of ground balls. The St. Louis batters drove grounders at me as regularly as if they were hitting me infield practice. Every one was an adventure; some would strike a clod and bounce high, others would stick on a wet spot and skid with no bounce at all. It was futile to try to field them with my glove. I had to use my body, moving in front of the ball to block it and trying to keep from slipping and falling down.

By the end of the twin bill, my uniform was spotted with mud and my shins were covered with bruises. But not one ball had got past me.

There was satisfaction in my efforts because they weren’t wasted. We took both games from the Cardinals. It boosted our lead in the standings to three games and gave us a bigger lift in morale.

Even John McGraw was in a good mood. In the locker room he congratulated me, “Helluva good game, Rawlings. Looked like they were using you for target practice out there.” Then he punched me playfully on the shoulder, striking me harder than any of the ground balls had. With McGraw, any punch he didn’t aim at your nose was considered playful.

The Sunday box scores showed I had a total of 21 assists in the doubleheader and no errors. I went only 1 for 9 at bat, so I avoided looking at the hits column in the stats.

I spent all of Sunday at home, bathing my sore legs and worrying about a couple of conversations I was going to have to face.

One was with Karl Landfors, to find out why he’d lied to me about James Bartlett.

The other was with Margie. How was I going to ask her if Florence Hampton could have committed suicide? And even more worrisome: would she be angry that I hadn’t called her on Saturday? She might have been expecting that we’d be going out. I was never very good at guessing what women wanted.

I finally telephoned Margie Sunday evening. She didn’t sound at all annoyed that I hadn’t called earlier, so of course it bothered me that she wasn’t bothered. Then, as my sitting room grew dark and we kept chatting, effortlessly and to no purpose, I discovered the delightful intimacy of a phone call at night. We voiced whatever thoughts were in our heads, transmitting them through lines that connected only us.

I never got around to asking her about Miss Hampton. In fact, I couldn’t remember much of what we did talk about, except that her favorite color was yellow, we both liked ragtime, and we both thought that the Anti-Saloon League was a bunch of meddling radicals who would never succeed in prohibiting liquor.

And before we hung up, we made plans for the next day. Plans that I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to.

Margie’s parlor had the precise look of a place that had just been tidied up. The end tables on either side of her sofa glistened with fresh polish, and there was a small vase of violets perfectly centered on each one. The fringes of the throw rugs looked as if they had been combed.

The photos on the wall had all been straightened, too. I was being stared at by a dozen pairs of critical eyes. Having few relatives of my own, I didn’t know what it would be like to belong to such a large family. I wondered if I was someday going to have to meet them all.

I was as painstakingly dressed as if I had come to meet a girl’s family for the first time. I even went to a barber for a shave and haircut, though I wasn’t due for a haircut for another week and a shave wouldn’t have been necessary until some time after that.

Margie was all done up, too. Her hair was piled neatly, with just enough locks out of place that I knew it was still her. She was dressed in a trim black satin skirt and a long-sleeved white blouse. The blouse had diamond-shaped black buttons running up the front and a deep neckline covered by white lace with a lot of open spaces between the thread. A silver locket hung around her throat; when I looked closely, I saw it was a baseball pendant. The only color on her was the warm bronze flush of her skin. She looked awfully healthy considering she called in sick at the studio to take the day off.

With no game scheduled for the Giants, we were going to Washington Park to see the Brooklyn Tip-Tops take on the Indianapolis Hoosiers. A Federal League game. Somehow she’d talked me into it last night. I think it was the way she’d said
Please.

We had some time before the game, so we sat in her parlor sipping iced tea with too much lemon and not enough sugar.

It was funny, but I couldn’t think of much to say. The sweet way we’d talked the night before seemed silly in the light of day and face to face. I hated to think that we could only talk intimately in the dark and from a distance. Actually, it wasn’t funny at ait—it was damn awkward.

Margie chatted too much and too fast, as if to make up for my silences.

Finally, I abandoned any efforts at small talk and announced, “I talked to Virgil Ewing.”

“You did?”

“Uh-huh. Friday night. Casey Stengel took me to a pool hall where he was playing.”

“But we agreed to do this together.” She sounded disappointed.

“Well, yeah, we did. That’s why I’m telling you what I found out.”

The look in her eyes told me she had a different definition of “together.” “I thought we would
both
talk to him,” she said.

“Oh. But... it was at a
pool holl.
It really wasn’t the kind of place to bring a lady.”

She rolled her eyes. I think she was used to going wherever she pleased. “Well, what did he say?” she asked.

“That he didn’t go swimming with Miss Ham—uh ... with Florence. He said he didn’t see her after the party and that he went to the pool hall afterward.”

“Do you believe him?”

“His friends backed him up, but I’m not sure.” Ewing’s friends didn’t look like the most trustworthy bunch. I remembered the batboy nodding—he had an honest face. “I
think
it was true,” I added. Then I remembered Ewing missing the spittoon. “Or maybe not.”

Margie frowned.

I was having less success telling her about Virgil Ewing than I’d had at chit-chat. I pulled out my watch. “It’s almost three. Should we go early and watch batting practice?” I felt a need to get out to a ballpark, in the sunshine and the open air.

“Sure,” she said. Then she gave me a smile that told me our misunderstanding was forgiven . . . as long as it didn’t happen again.

Washington Park hadn’t changed much since I was a kid. The new owners had done some refurbishing—concrete replaced the old wooden stands and a new scoreboard was in center field—but it was basically the same.

Except for the attendance. This park used to be packed when the Dodgers played here, but not many people came out to see the Tip-Tops of the Federal League. Maybe the name was the problem; the Ward brothers had christened their club in honor of one of their bakery products. How can you root for a team named after a loaf of bread?

The crowd was so sparse that for two bucks I was able to get us a pair of box seats only four rows behind the third base dugout.

One similarity between the Dodgers’ old and new homes was the tone of the advertising. Ebbets Field had its Tanglefoot flypaper sign. Here, to the right of the scoreboard, was a billboard that urged:

I wondered what the Ward brothers would have named their team if they’d owned an underwear factory.

Margie and I settled into our seats supplied with enough hot dogs and crackerjack to feed both teams.

While we watched the ball players go through their warm-ups, I noticed that we were being watched by a portly man of about forty standing near an adjacent box. More specifically, / was being watched.

He stared at me unabashedly while his hands mechanically fed a stream of peanuts to his flabby mouth. He was in a light brown suit with broad green stripes. A shabby black derby with a large nick in the brim was jammed low on his head. He wore a crooked blue bow tie that looked as if it was showing ten minutes to five. never quite trusted a man in a bow tie; it was the sort of accessory worn by smarmy salesmen and petty bureaucrats.

Or maybe by a reporter for the
Public Examiner?
That would explain his seedy arrogance.

I tilted my hat down over my eyes and tried to ignore him. No use. He came over to me and made a show of bending over to look up under the brim of my hat. If he turned out to be William Murray, I was going to give him a shot in the mouth. “Mickey Rawlings, isn’t it?” he asked. When he spoke, I noticed he had no front teeth-okay, so I’ll aim for his nose instead.

“Yes,” I answered guardedly.

“Say, you’re a helluva second baseman.”

“Oh, well, thanks,” I said with some relief. This guy’s a fan!

“Think you could sign my scorecard for me?”

“Sure. Be glad to.” It was nice to be asked in front of Margie.

He handed me a Tip-Tops scorecard and a pen. I scrawled my name with a flourish and handed it back.

“Thanks.” He folded the scorecard, stuffed it in an inside pocket of his coat, and walked away.

A cold wave suddenly washed through my body. There was another occupation that would fit the man’s appearance and actions: private detective. I’d heard that the American and National Leagues were employing spies to see if any of their players went to Federal League games. I should have known better than to sign a Fed program. That could be hard evidence against me. Jeez.

I tried with limited success to forget the man once the Tip-Tops took the field and the first pitch was thrown.

As the game settled into its rhythm, I finally brought up the subject of Miss Hampton’s death. I thought it might be easier to talk about her here; what had happened to her was so remote from the activity in the ballpark that maybe we could be more detached about it. I remembered Karl Landfors bringing his autopsy report to a game and winced at the similarity between us.

“I had a question about Florence Hampton,” I began.

Margie kept her eyes fixed on the Hoosier at bat. “Yes?”

“Do you think she . . . could she have.... You said she changed after her husband died. Do think she could have been so upset that she killed herself?”

Margie didn’t answer for a moment. Then she said calmly, “I wondered about that. She did change after William died, but she wasn’t despondent. She was upset, but she seemed
determined
somehow, not depressed. No, it wasn’t in her to commit suicide.”

“I only knew her one day, but I didn’t think so, either. She didn’t seem like the type to give up on anything.”

“She wasn’t.” Margie turned to look in my eyes and added, “Neither am I. I want to find out what happened to her.”

“We will,” I promised.

That topic over, we relaxed and spoke only of the game unfolding before us.

After the sixth inning, I had to visit the men’s room. When I came out, my way was blocked by the man with the derby and the crooked bow tie. “McGraw know you’re here?” he asked.

I tried to step past him.

He put his hand on my arm. “If you give me a minute of your time, you’ll find it to be well worth it.”

“Why’s that?” I said, shaking off his hand.

“I’d like to make you an offer.”

“For what?”

“To play baseball.”

“I already play baseball.”

“Not often, you don’t.” He smiled, but I didn’t find him funny. “Now, if you were to sign with another team . . .”

“What team?”

“Brooklyn. The Tip-Tops.”

“No thanks.”

“You haven’t heard my offer.”

“I play for John McGraw. For the New York
Giants.
I’m going to be in the World Series.”

“Uh-huh. Well, that sounds pretty good, if it happens. But you think McGraw’s gonna play you in the Series? You hardly play as it is. Now if you come over to the Tip-Tops, you’ll be our starting second baseman. We’ll pay you four thousand bucks a year. Don’t tell me you’re making that much with McGraw.”

No, I couldn’t tell him that.

He dug into his vest pocket and pulled out a creased business card. Handing it to me, he said, “Think about it. Give me a call if you’re interested.” I looked at the card; it read
PeterKurtz, Agent.
“You’ll be in good company coming over to the Federal League. There’s a lot of big-name players signing with us for next year. Like I said, think about it.” He patted his jacket pocket and added with a smile, “Meanwhile I got your autograph to remember you by.”

Kurtz walked away and I went back to my seat.

Jim Delahanty was at second base for the Tip-Tops. He was thirty-five, one of the last of the five Delahanty brothers who played big-league ball. I used to watch his brother Big Ed play for the Phillies. I couldn’t take a job away from Jim Delahanty. But I was glad in a way that the League had finally tried to recruit me.

I told Margie about Kurtz’s offer, omitting mention of the salary. Even $4,000 a year was probably a lot less than she earned for making movies.

“Why don’t you consider it?” she asked.

“It’s not the big leagues. Maybe someday it will be but not yet. Look at Benny Kauff out there.” Kauff was the Hoosiers’ —and the Feds‘—biggest star. “The ’‘Ty Cobb of the Federal League,’ they call him. If he was so good, they wouldn’t say ‘of the Federal League.’ It’s like being most valuable player in the Paterson Industrial League.” Which I once was, so I knew it didn’t amount to much.