Murder at Fenway Park (14 page)

Roselli’s Barbershop was without customers. The two chairs were both occupied, but one was occupied by a stack of newspapers and the other by the barber. I recognized his face. I’d seen it in Baseball Magazine, and on tobacco cards, and in Hilltop Park. It was Harry Howell. I had seen him pitch for the New York Highlanders back when he was Handsome Harry and his arm was still strong. Now here he was, sacked from a whorehouse, cutting hair for a living.

“You open?” I asked.

Howell groaned and reluctantly pulled himself out of his chair. “Yep.” He gave the seat a token swat with a grimy towel. Flecks of dried shaving cream dislodged from the towel and fluttered in the air.

I climbed into the seat and kept my eyes focused on the mirror ahead of me, looking at Howell’s reflection. His white jacket with the collar buttoned around his throat made him look like a dentist. His hands looked like those of an athlete: large, calloused, and bent. The expression on his face was that of a once-handsome man who’d run out of chances in life and had no plans but to live out his time. Howell tied a sheet around my neck and asked, “How you want it?” He couldn’t have sounded less interested.

“Just a trim.”

Howell went to work with a comb and scissors, nibbling off snips of my hair. I didn’t know what to say to him. How could I ask him about Red Corriden—how could I do it casually?

I decided there was no subtle approach. “You remember Red Corriden?” I blurted.

The metallic clipping noises stopped. “Who?”

I sighed. Why does everyone ask “who” right after I clearly say who? “Red Corriden. He was with you on the Browns.”

“You know who I am?”

“Of course. You’re Harry Howell.”

Howell’s reflection smiled. It is nice to be recognized. “You seen me play?”

“Lots of times. Not with the Browns though. I saw you pitch for the Highlanders when I was a kid.” The smile fell. I should stop telling guys that I saw them play when I was a kid. “You were a helluva pitcher,” I added, trying to get on whatever good side he might have.

Howell smiled wryly. “Yeah, and that was a helluva long time ago.” He went back to snipping my hair. “So what do you want to know about Red Corriden?”

“The last day of the season. Two years ago. Cobb and Lajoie were—”

“They were fighting for the batting title. And we tried to give it to Nap Lajoie.”

“It’s true?”

“Sure it’s true. And it’s nothing I’m ashamed of. We weren’t trying to throw the games. Just give Lajoie some hits. That’s all. We didn’t do nothing wrong.”

“How’d it happen?”

“Well, that batting race went neck and neck all year. The winner was going to get a car, you know.”

“A Chalmers.”

“Yep, that was it. Anyway, it seemed everybody was pulling for Lajoie to win the title and the car. Or pulling for Cobb to tose—mostly that, I guess. Anyway, we decided to give Lajoie some help. Had the third baseman—Corriden—play real deep and let him lay down easy bunts. You want a shave?”

I knew it didn’t need one—and probably wouldn’t for another week—but! I was flattered he asked and said, “Sure.”

Howell lifted a razor and I suddenly wasn’t so sure. I was here because I thought he had a motive for killing Red Corriden. Letting him put a razor to my face didn’t seem like such a good idea. But it was too late. Howell tilted my seat back. With steel tongs, he pulled a steaming hot towel from a can at the base of the chair. “Close your eyes,” he said. I hesitated as the towel dangled over my face, then obeyed. I was suddenly covered by moist heat. And I couldn’t see what Howell was doing. I tried to clench my throat as if bracing it for a punch.

I heard the raspy scrape of the razor being slapped on a leather strap. As Howell sharpened the blade, he picked up the story. “The last day of the season was a doubleheader. Wouldn’t matter in the standings which team won or lost— both teams were out of the pennant race. And remember, it was last day of the year. Strange things happen—you know, the bat boy gets to pinch hit, some fifty-year-old coach gets to pitch a few innings... Keeps the fans interested. Have some fun before going home for winter. Everybody does it.”

My face felt suddenly chilled as the towel was lifted from it. I could see again, and breathe again. Howell began to apply lather to my skin with a brush that was too stiff. “Lajoie went eight for nine in the two games,” he continued. “But it wasn’t enough—the league gave Cobb the batting championship. We
split
the doubleheader, by the way. Like I said, we weren’t throwing games. But nobody remembers that.”

“You and Jack O’Connor got kicked out of baseball.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Shouldn’t have though.” Howell carefully cut away the lather along with an occasional whisker. “But everybody could see what we were doing. Corriden played third base standing all the way out in left field, for chrissake. There was such a squawk afterward that Ban Johnson decided he should punish somebody. So it was me and O’Connor.”

“It wasn’t Corriden’s idea to play back?”

“Nah. I forget whose idea it was, but O’Connor liked it, and he told Corriden to play deep. The kid was just doing what he was told. But Jack denied it. He said Corriden didn’t know how to play third base in the major leagues.”

“Why were
you
kicked out?”

“I got kind of caught up in it, I guess. Lajoie was eight for eight, then in his last at bat he hit into a fielder’s choice. So I told the scorekeeper I’d buy him a suit of clothes to change the fielder’s choice to a hit. He told Ban Johnson and Johnson kicked me out.” Howell made it sound as matter-of-fact as if he had been kicked out of a bar instead of banished from baseball.

“Did Jack O’Connor ever admit that he tried to fix the batting race?”

“Yeah. After a while. He didn’t take it real well, though, getting booted out of baseball. He blamed Corriden for it—said the kid ratted on him. He was really pissed that Corriden didn’t get in any trouble. Ban Johnson said Corriden wasn’t guilty of nothing but doing what he was told. That wasn’t what got me pissed though—what got me was that Chalmers gave cars to both Cobb and Lajoie. Said it was worth all the publicity they got.” Howell dabbed the traces of shaving cream from around my jaw and took off the sheet.

I stood and fished in my pocket for change. “You still see Jack O’Connor at all?”

“Nope. He left town after that business with the league office. I heard he went outlaw. California, I think.”

“He’s an
outlaw?”

“Outlaw league. You know, not part of organized baseball. Ban Johnson don’t have no authority with an outlaw league.”

“Oh. You know what team?”

“Nah. California State League, I expect, but don’t know which team. I haven’t heard from him in more than a year.”

I shook Howell’s hand. “It was really good talking to you, Harry. Thanks.” I gave him fifty cents for a quarter haircut and shave. His eyes told me I was insulting him with the big tip, and I felt like a heel for offending him. Then he shrugged and pocketed the money.

Harry Howell didn’t seem to carry any lingering grudge against Red Corriden. But maybe he once had. Maybe he’d done something to settle a score. Howell seemed a little too acclimated with what had happened to him. I couldn’t believe he could be that happy with his current lot. And what about O’Connor? Where had he been since leaving baseball? Where was he in April?

And of course there was still Ty Cobb, as good a suspect as ever.

With Strickler and Fletcher gone from the Sox, both Billy Neal and I lost our roommates, so we were paired together on this road trip. Since Neal had been teammates with Cobb on the Tigers, I figured he might be able to give me some firsthand insights into the man.

I’d hardly spent any time at our hotel in St. Louis. Not until we arrived in Chicago did I get to size up my new roommate.

Wearing only shorts, Billy Neal sat at a writing desk playing solitaire and humming a tuneless series of notes. Overall, he looked to be in good shape. He was probably in his early thirties, about the same age as Fletch, but whereas Fletcher’s carousing had put an extra ten years of paunch and sluggishness on his body, Neal appeared as firm and fit as a guy in his midtwenties. He also lacked Fletcher’s apelike appearance—Neat’s curly dark hair was close-cropped and pretty much limited to his head.

What stood out with Billy Neal, was a body that said “catcher.” No other occupation could have produced the features that had developed on him. From his knees to his ankles, Neal’s shins were gnarled with knots and lumps—he’d been catching for years before Roger Bresnahan invented shin guards. And a slight left-hand twist of his nose indicated that he’d caught at least one game without a mask. Most amazing were Neal’s fingers. They were curved and bent and twisted, and some of them looked like they had extra joints broken into them.

The atmosphere of the room seemed odd. Then I realized it was the sound. Gone was Fletch’s juicy
Hchoowook, Shptoo, Ping!
The slow regular
Snap... Snap...
Snap of Neal crisply turning over each card had taken its place.

I suddenly missed Fletcher and wondered what would become of him. “Billy, you think Fletch will get picked up by another club?”

“Could be. Maybe end of the season, somebody could use him. Can’t beat experience when it comes down to the wire.”

“I was wondering what happens to guys like Fletch and Strickler. What if nobody does pick them up? What do guys like that do after baseball?”

“After baseball? What do you mean after? You can always play ball. Back in the minors or semipro... Hell, I’d even play for a factory team. Got to keep playing ball.”

“Huh. I saw Harry Howell back in St. Louis.”

“You saw Harry Howell?”

“Yeah, remember him?”

“Sure... pretty good pitcher for a few years.”

I remembered from the
Reach Baseball Guides
that Neal’s name appeared on the St. Louis 1910 roster. “Was he still pitching when you were with the Browns?”

“Nah. His arm was dead. He just scouted for us.”

“Well, guess what he’s doing now.”

Neal shrugged. “Beats me.”

“He’s a barber. Got fired from a whorehouse, so now he’s a barber.”

“Well, you don’t gotta worry about Clyde Fletcher turning out like that.”

“No?”

“Uh-uh. Fletch ever got himself a job in a whorehouse, he’d make sure to hang on to it.”

“Hah!” I agreed with him there.

Neal went back to his solitaire game. I watched in fascination as his mutilated fingers nimbly maneuvered the cards.

I finally brought up the Tigers, intending to work my way around to Cobb. “How long were you with the Tigers, Billy?”

“Not long. Joined them last June—or July was it? July.”

“Get into many games?”

“Nah, not many. More than I am now though. Caught some, played a couple games in the outfield.”

“How did you break into
that
outfield? They’re almost as good as ours.”

“Maybe better, I dunno. They been together longer... But sometimes Cobb would be pissed off at Crawford or Jones, and he wouldn’t play if they were out there. That’s when I got in. Usually I’d take the place of whichever one he was mad at, but sometimes he’d be mad at both of ’em—then I took Cobb’s place.” Neal smiled wryly. “That usually seemed to be when he was in a batting slump. He didn’t like to play when he wasn’t hitting.”

“I heard Cobb was tough to get along with. You have any trouble with him?”

“Nah, not really. Mostly I stayed out of his way.”

“Huh. From what I hear, that’s about the only way to stay on his good side.”

“You hear right.” Neal put down his cards, and with wonderment in his voice said, “The guy carries a helluva big chip on his shoulder. But it don’t really seem personal. He just hates everybody—opponents, teammates, fans... everybody. It’s like he has a devil inside makes him act that way. Gotta give him his due, though: he’s some ball player. Ain’t nobody like him when he’s on the base paths.”

Picking up the cards again, Neal smiled and recalled, “Oh yeah, I guess I did have one run-in with Cobb. You probably heard about him filing sharp edges on his spikes?” I nodded. “Well, once we were playing in Chicago. And before the game, as usual, Cobb is sitting on the bench making a big show out of filing his spikes. Then just before the game’s gonna start, I see that the web on my mitt is torn, so I go in the clubhouse for another glove. And there’s Cobb. He’s putting on another pair of spikes—regular ones, not sharpened. He sees that I caught him, and he tells me you can’t get good traction with razor-sharp spikes. Says he just does the filing for show... scare the opposition... they’ll think of it every time he slides into base. Then he says, if I tell anyone, he’ll kill me.”

“Kill
you?”

“Yeah, calm and cool, said he’d kill me. Have no idea if he meant it. Wouldn’t surprise me though. A few years ago, when I was with Cleveland, the Tigers were in town for a series. But Cobb only played in the first game. Turns out he stabbed some guy in a hotel and had to jump town. The rest of the year when Detroit came in, they were without Cobb. He couldn’t come into Ohio—the cops were waiting to arrest him.”