Murder at Fenway Park (7 page)

I
n one way, it was a relief to remember where I’d heard of Red Corriden before. The nagging feeling that I knew his name from somewhere, but couldn’t place it, was finally gone. On the other hand, it left me overly free to concentrate on the more upsetting mystery of the body I had found at Fenway Park.

At least with Red Corriden’s case, his identity was known and there had been some mentions of his death in the newspapers. But I still had heard nothing at all of the murdered man in the Red Sox’s new ballpark. Sometimes I’d start to wonder if I imagined the event in some intensely gruesome nightmare. Then that savagely shattered face would come flashing into mind, and I would again taste the acrid nausea and know that the awful experience at Fenway had really happened.

The total shroud of silence that enveloped the incident was its most disconcerting aspect. No one discussed or even acknowledged the man’s existence much less his death. There was nothing in the papers, no locker room gossip, no more meetings with Bob Tyler, no additional questioning by the police.

My curiosity was becoming overpowering, and I knew I would end up violating Tyler’s warnings about talking. I would have thought that it should be the easiest thing in the world to just keep my mouth shut—one assignment that wouldn’t strain the limits of my abilities. But it was becoming increasingly difficult. Questions pounded at the inside of my mouth struggling to be let out, my ears ached to hear answers. Who was the dead man? Has the killer been found? Am I still the leading suspect?

And more perplexing: what was the relation of the dead man to Red Corriden? Was the connection Fenway Park? Would there be more killings? Was I next on the list—is that what the bat on my bed meant? Who put it there?

In everything I did while awake, and every night when I tried to sleep, the nagging fears and questions tugged and grabbed at my thoughts and dreams.

These worries no longer affected my play on the ball field, but that was no consolation. I had no chance to play, because Jake Stahl still had me benched.

After the move he made in Tuesday’s contest, I started to wonder if Stahl had given up on me. We were down three runs in the bottom of the ninth, when our third baseman Larry Gardner doubled. He hurt himself sliding into second, and looked like he’d have to come out of the game. I stretched my legs, assuming I would pinch run for him. I almost fell down when Stahl sent in Clyde Fletcher instead. Sure, I’d started to take a liking to Fletch, and didn’t begrudge him a chance for some playing time, but how the hell could Stahl put in a guy who’s fat and slow instead of me? Fletcher didn’t get beyond second base (he’d have been thrown out had he tried to steal third), and Charlie Strickler took the loss for the Sox.

Feeling stymied in my desire to learn what had really happened in the tunnels of Fenway Park, and worried about a baseball future that was looking increasingly bleak, I decided to try the one thing I was sure would help: a moving picture show.

Less meticulous this time about my appearance, I again headed to the Comique Theatre in Scollay Square. I didn’t know what movies were playing, and it didn’t matter. I intended to be fully caught up by whatever stories appeared on the screen.

Half a block from the theater, I slowed and looked behind me. Anybody from the Sox around?

I wasn’t sure, but I thought somebody ducked into a doorway. A man, but an unidentifiable one—he’d lowered his head so his cap blocked his face.

I backed behind the protective bulk of a cigar store Indian and waited, watching. Nobody came out. What the hell, it could have been my imagination—the square was pretty crowded.

I scooted out from behind the wood statue. I quickly walked to the Comique as if I was going to pass by, then took a sharp turn inside.

When I entered the theater, I suddenly wished that I had paid more attention to my attire. At the ticket booth were the same hair and eyes that had appeared so regularly in this past winter’s dreams. I was at first indecisive, torn between my eagerness to be near her and the need I felt to go home and put on a cleaner collar. I saw that she spotted me, too, so the choice was made for me, and I slowly approached her.

I drank in the sight of her, working my eyes from the ticket counter upward. Peggy’s blouse was sparkling white, with a ruffled front and sleeves puffed at the shoulders. Around her throat, setting off her fair skin, was a black ribbon choker with a small silver and black cameo on the front. Her honey-blond hair was piled into a high wide bun. Long wisps of it had come loose at her temples and waved down, framing her slender face. A fine spray of freckles, not much darker than her hair, dotted the bridge of her nose.

Peggy’s eyes, green and sparkling, had a smiling look of glad recognition, but her voice was controlled and chilly as she said, “Hello, Mr. Rawlings. It’s good to see you again.” Those were the words she used, but what I heard in the tone was “You didn’t write like you promised.”

I decided not to return her use of formality. “Hello, Peggy. It’s nice to see you, too.”

Her voice was just slightly warmer when, after a pause, she said, “I think you’ll like today’s pictures.” With an amused smile she added, “No Mary Pickford, though, I’m afraid.”

I could think of nothing else to say, but was saved from embarrassment by a flock of matrons lined up behind me. They pressed me into the theater, where I selected a seat near the center. I ended up spending more than four hours in it.

I paid no attention to the pictures. Instead, I wondered to myself if I was mistaken about what Peggy and I had last year. Was it a romance—or the prelude to a romance? Or by reviewing its highlights over and over, had I magnified it in my thoughts beyond what it had actually been?

Then, as the movie program was repeated for the evening audience, the piano began to tinkle gracefully. Like the first time I saw her there, my gaze remained fixed on the nape of Peggy Shaw’s neck.

After the last strip of celluloid had been run for the night, the house lights came up and the rest of the audience trickled out. I remained immobile in my chair while Peggy closed the cover over the piano keys and put her sheet music away.

She smiled at me when she turned around and saw me waiting for her. I felt from her smile that she knew I would still be there.

I extricated myself from the seat and, ignoring the dull cramps in my legs, walked over to her. She looked more inviting now, her initial coldness gone—or at least not visible.

I asked, “Uh ... Would you care to go for a walk... If you have the time... Tonight?” To my ears, I sounded stilted, and I felt flushed and shaky.

Peggy smiled and nodded. “I’d like that.”

She had a few things to take care of in the theater office, then we were off toward the Boston Common. She seemed excited, and I flattered myself by assuming that it was because of seeing me again. I wondered what dreams she’d had last winter.

“I came to the theater Sunday. I thought you would be there,” I began, then added in a quieter tone, “I was kind of disappointed when you weren’t.”

“This past Sunday?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was in New York for the weekend. Didn’t Helen tell you?”

“Uh... no. Well, I didn’t think to ask. When I didn’t see you there, I guess I just figured you weren’t at the theater anymore.”

Peggy smiled. “I went to Manhattan to march in the suffrage parade.”

It was seldom that I knew anything of the various social movements, and eager to show that I knew something of this one, I piped up with a quip I had once come across, “Suffragette: One who has ceased to be a lady and not yet become a gentleman.” Peggy’s eyes made it immediately clear that I had said something wrong. My body fluids seemed to vaporize under her fiery glare, and I lamely tried to diminish the damage, mumbling, “I read that someplace.”

After letting me stew in her silent reprimand for a few moments, Peggy continued about the big march in New York City, “It was wonderful. Women from all over the country joined together to march down Fifth Avenue.
Fifteen thou
sand
. And John Dewey led a men’s contingent. And the crowd
cheered
us this year. The
New York Times
said half a million people watched the parade. It was a great feeling. Invigorating. It felt like being part of history.”

As she talked about the march, I realized that her excitement wasn’t about being with me. She was still bubbling over with residual enthusiasm from the weekend.

“We actually had our own cavalry! Fifty women led the parade on horseback. Inez Milholland was one of them. She looked so fresh and lovely on her white horse, and she seemed to charm everybody. A lot of people seem to think that suffragettes aren’t feminine. I suppose Inez is our best answer to that argument.”

There was a sudden gap in Peggy’s report of the march. I think I just missed a cue to say something.

Then she picked up with her story again and was regaling me with more details of the parade.

I wanted to talk to her about everything that happened to me since I arrived in Boston. She was so enthusiastic about her weekend in New York, though, that I couldn’t bring myself to be that selfish. I squelched the desire to spill out everything that was troubling me, and instead relaxed and tried to share her excitement. After I succeeded in putting my own urges on hold, I easily found it satisfying enough just to look at her as she spoke.

We walked for almost an hour, slowly and circuitously, before reaching her town house on Beacon Hill.

I left Peggy at her door. Although I hadn’t unburdened myself to her, I felt almost as relieved as if I had. Just being with her again was a comfort that made any situation bearable.

I slept peacefully that night, my dreams refreshingly free of any visions of mangled faces or bloodied baseball bats.

The next afternoon, Jake Stahl gave me the happy news that Larry Gardner’s ankle was severely sprained. I bit my inner lip to keep from grinning as he told me I would be starting at third base until he recovered.

I played all of Wednesday’s game against the White Sox with no errors. I also got two singles to bring my season average over .250.

Before Thursday’s game, the clubhouse talk was about Ty Cobb. As I was changing out of my street clothes, Clyde Fletcher yelled at me, “Hey, kid! Yuh hear? Cobb went into the stands at Hilltop. Beat up some crank who was giving him the business.” I was grateful to Fletcher for bringing me into the exchange. It was his way of letting the other players know I was okay.

I quickly took advantage of the opening to give my opinion, “Great! It’s about time somebody stood up for himself.” All ball players have been subjected to vicious verbal abuse—and sometimes projectiles—from spectators at one time or other, and it was thrilling to hear that one of the rowdies got his comeuppance. My teammates voiced a variety of loud, unreserved agreements.

When I read the rest of the story in the paper that night, the thrill turned to disgust. The man Cobb went after was a cripple. As Cobb pummeled the heckler, other fans tried to pull him off, screaming at Cobb that he was punching a man with no hands to defend himself. Cobb yelled back, “I don’t care if he has no feet!”

The Georgia Peach defended his action to reporters, claiming he had been grievously provoked by the fan. Cobb was quoted as saying, “When a spectator calls me half-colored I think it is about time to fight.”

Unfortunately for Cobb, Ban Johnson was in a field box at the game and witnessed the episode. The league president announced that Ty Cobb was suspended indefinitely.

On Friday, the locker room was still buzzing about the Ty Cobb incident. The Tigers were now saying they wouldn’t play unless Cobb’s suspension was lifted. The furor about Ty Cobb assaulting a crippled fan became overshadowed by arguments over his teammates’ threatened strike. Everyone from politicians to labor leaders to the press had strong opinions either condemning or encouraging the Detroit ball players.

I stepped out of the clubhouse shower to hear Fletcher ask Charlie Strickler, “Whadda yuh think, Strick? Your old pals really gonna sit out a game?”

Strickler shrugged and snapped, “How the hell should I know? I don’t give a damn what they do.” A former star on the downhill side of his career can be as ornery as a cantankerous old dog.

Bucky O’Brien tried our other ex-Tiger. “Billy! How ’bout you? What do
you
say? Tigers gonna strike?”

Billy Neal answered without hesitation. “Not a chance. Ain’t one guy on that team who’ll give Cobb the time of day. They sure as hell ain’t gonna lose their jobs for him.”

On Saturday afternoon, Neal was proved wrong. With Ban Johnson still not giving in to the Tigers’ demands that Cobb be reinstated, the team carried out its threat. The Tigers went on strike, refusing to play Philadelphia.