The Cincinnati Red Stalkings (15 page)

“Why don’t you let me ask around instead? I could go to one of the vaudeville houses. The managers usually keep a few names of bookies and bootleggers and such for the visiting performers.”

“Thanks, but I couldn’t ... I appreciate the offer, I just have to—”

“Do it yourself,” she finished.

“Doesn’t have to be all by myself, but I can’t let you do it for me. I’m the one in trouble, I have to do what it takes to get out of it.”

I don’t think Margie quite understood, but she said that she did. “Think about it some more before you do anything, though,” she urged.

“I will,” I said. She did have a point. It wouldn’t be wise to act in haste with so much at stake. One wrong move, and I could find myself on baseball’s permanently ineligible list.

I
did as Margie suggested. I thought about it overnight and talked with her again in the morning. It was clear to me—and I think to her, too—that no amount of additional time or deliberation would lead me to any different conclusion. I had to follow my instinct and act to protect myself. I could not wait idly by and leave my fate to the whim of Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis.

Late Wednesday morning, I walked up Dalton to Redland Field and was surprised at the size of the crowd heading in the same direction. The Reds were playing more than five hundred miles away in Philadelphia. Then I noticed that the faces of those around me were mostly black, and realized they were going to see the Cuban Stars. The Negro National League team leased Redland for its home games when the white club was on the road.

We had a former member of the Stars on the Reds roster: Dolf Luque. He’d pitched for them when they were a barnstorming outfit from New Jersey, and he was one of the rare examples of a Negro League player making it into the majors.

When I reached Findlay, I looked around for the newsboy who’d been in the photo with Yates and me, but he wasn’t here. Like the crowd filing through the main gate, the paperboys were mostly colored, and
The Union,
which covered Cincinnati’s Negro community, was the newspaper they sold.

Out of habit, I went to the players’ entrance. When a guard told me I was at the wrong door, I explained who I was and he let me in; he looked a bit dubious about it, perhaps thinking that I was trying to see the game without paying.

On the stairs up to the offices, I passed a few of the Cuban Stars coming down on their way to the field. They were wearing red caps and stockings, and their jerseys, with
Cincinnati
spelled out across the chests, had old-fashioned collars; I recognized them as Reds uniforms from about a decade earlier.

“Here for a tryout?” one of them asked. While his teammates chuckled, I flushed; I’d seen some Negro League games before, and I knew how good those players were—if I was to be given a tryout, there was a good chance I wouldn’t make the team. I smiled in reply and hurried up to Garry Herrmann’s office.

Herrmann usually accompanied the team, traveling in a private Pullman car that was better stocked than most delicatessens. I knew he had to remain in town during this road trip, though, because he was on the witness list for the Black Sox trial and might have to go to Chicago on short notice.

When his secretary showed me in, Herrmann greeted me like a maître d’ eager to seat one of his favorite customers. “I have some
very
nice liverwurst this morning, Rawlings. Come. Eat.”

I’d skipped breakfast, figuring he might make such an offer. “Thank you.” I sat down, and he handed me a napkin while preparing a liverwurst sandwich with dark mustard and a thick slice of onion.

He put a pickle on the side and offered me a beer. I opted for ginger ale, and his slight frown as he poured the soda pop told me he didn’t quite approve of my beverage choice.

Like a dentist who asks questions while drilling in your mouth, Herrmann waited until I was chewing a large bite of the sandwich before asking, “So tell me: how did it go with the Judge?”

I struggled to swallow the food quickly. My guess was that Herrmann already knew how it went; I couldn’t imagine that he hadn’t tried to find out from Landis where things stood. But I gave him my perspective. “Not so good,” I said. “He sounded like he intends to be fair, says he’s going to ‘consider the matter carefully.’ But the bottom line is I can’t play right now. He says he’ll contact you when I can. I don’t suppose he’s ...”

Herrmann shook his head, and a small clump of potato salad fell from his mustache. “But at least he hasn’t said you can never play again.”

I put the sandwich down and sipped some ginger ale. “That’s why I’m here, Mr. Herrmann. See, Judge Landis already knows pretty much everything he needs to about this: that I’ve never been mixed up with gamblers in the past, and that there’s no real evidence that I’m involved with Yates—or anyone like him—now. The way I see it, I should be clear to play today.”

“The Judge is simply being deliberate.” Herrmann tried to sound soothing. “It’s the way things are right now.”

“Well, I don’t want to risk him deciding to make an example of me because of what some other guys did in the World Series.”

“But you have no choice, do you?”

Yes, I did have a choice. “I want to find out for myself why this happened—why Rufus Yates approached me, and why somebody took a picture of us together and then sent the picture to you. There’s a reason for it, and I want to be able to tell Landis what it is. Right now it seems like it’s gonna be a coin flip as to which way he decides.”

Herrmann dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “I strongly advise that you go home and wait for Judge Landis to make his decision in his own good time.”

“No. I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. I want to play ball again—now. I want to look into this myself.”

“Well, if you came for my permission, it is up to you.” Herrmann spread his hands. “But I advise you against it. Suppose the Judge does call you to his office for more questions and now you know a lot more about this Yates fellow. It could seem suspicious. If you stay out of it, you can honestly say you know nothing—if that’s the truth. Sometimes ignorance is a very good thing.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Herrmann.” Ignorance never seemed to work for me. “I’d like to go ahead with this.”

“Very well. You understand that if you do, it is out of my hands.”

“Yes, I understand.” I actually hadn’t come to seek his permission. And I wasn’t doing all that well
in
his hands; he wouldn’t even write a letter of support for me. “I also have a favor to ask: I need your help.”

“My
help?”

“Just a phone call. I was hoping you could call Detective Forsch at the Crime Bureau and ask him to tell me what he knows about Yates. The police probably have some records on him, but I don’t think they’ll let me see them unless ...”

Herrmann smiled. “And what makes you think I have influence with the police department?”

“You have influence everywhere in this city, Mr. Herrmann.”

He liked the flattery. He called for his secretary to get Forsch on the line and handed me a plate of strudel.

When Forsch was on the phone, Herrmann told the detective that I would be coming to see him and that I’d like some information about Rufus Yates. Herrmann added that he’d personally appreciate it if Forsch would extend me “every courtesy and cooperation.”

When he hung up, I said. “Thank you, Mr. Herrmann.”

He nodded like a ward politician bestowing a favor. I’d probably have to vote for his mayor of choice twenty or thirty times in the next election.

After thanking him for breakfast, I started to leave, then paused to ask, “In case this goes on for a while, and I can’t play with the team, I’d still like to keep in shape. I saw the Cuban Stars downstairs. If they let me, can I practice with them?”

Herrmann’s face reddened. “No! That would not help you with the Judge.”

“Why?”

“The Judge does not like for white and black to mix.”

“But they play in Redland Field, they’re wearing old Reds uniforms ... hell, Dolf Luque used to play with them. Isn’t that mixing?”

“They pay to lease the field, and it was Lloyd Tinsley’s idea to sell them the old uniforms. That is business. But we do not play together. And Luque is Cuban; he is not a Negro. No, not a good idea, you do not play with them.”

I reluctantly promised Herrmann that I wouldn’t try to play baseball with the Stars, then left his office to watch the colored teams practice before their game. It was going to be an all-Ohio matchup against the visiting Columbus Buckeyes.

As far as major league baseball was concerned, Negroes didn’t exist—and it sounded like Judge Landis was going to make sure there were no breaches of baseball’s color barrier. Although the ban wasn’t based strictly on
color:
a light-skinned American Negro would be prohibited from playing in Organized Baseball, but a darker skinned Cuban was acceptable.

For some reason, the powers in baseball were trying to keep Negro players out of the view of white fans. Not even
The Sporting News,
which billed itself as “The Bible of Baseball,” covered their games. If it wasn’t for reports in
The Cincinnati Enquirer,
I wouldn’t have known that a month before Pat Duncan hit the “first” home run out of Redland Field, John Beckwith, a shortstop with the Negro League Chicago Giants beat him to it. Maybe the big leagues didn’t want Negroes in the game out of fear that some colored players might be better than the white stars.

I left the park. The issue of Negroes in baseball wasn’t my battle to fight. But it was one more reason why I shouldn’t place myself at the mercy of Judge Landis’s sense of fairness.

I’d have rather stayed at Redland Field to watch the Cuban Stars take on the Buckeyes. Instead I was in the Plum Street side of City Hall, in the police department’s Crime Bureau.

This time we met in Detective Forsch’s cramped office instead of the interview room, and the two of us were alone. He was in his usual drab suit and an exceptionally cranky mood.

“Got a call from your boss,” the detective said. “Wants me to give you whatever information you’re looking for.”

“Yes, I know. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t like somebody going over my head like that.” He stubbed out a cigarette as if it had bit his finger. “Why didn’t you ask me yourself?”

“Would you have helped me if I did?”

“Probably not. Still, you should have asked me first.”

I thought a moment. “You’re right,” I said. “I should have. I’m sorry.” And I was—Herrmann had asked Forsch to extend me every courtesy; I should have done the same for Forsch.

He hesitated while pulling another Murad from the pack, then shrugged. “No matter.” After lighting up, he held the pack out to me. “Smoke?”

“No, thanks, though.”

His craggy face visibly more friendly, Forsch patted a pile of folders on his desk. “Herrmann said you’re interested in Rufus Yates. I pulled what we got on him. Any questions in particular?”

“I understand he has a record,” I said. “What does he do exactly?”

“Nothing major. A little of anything and everything to make a buck: sell bad whiskey, burglary, loansharking.”

“What about gambling?”

“Yeah, he’ll set up a craps or poker game now and then, but nothing for big stakes. And it’s not something we go after as long as it’s just small friendly games of chance.”

“I hear he’s connected with Arnold Rothstein.”

Forsch snorted. “Hell, ever since the Series, every two-bit hood wants to make out that he’s tied up with Rothstein. Try to get a little of the spotlight to shine on himself.”

“As far as you know, he isn’t?”

He looked through the reports. “There’s nothing we have about him being connected to Rothstein.”

“Okay. You said burglary. Was he caught up in your sweep after Ollie Perriman was killed?”

Forsch smiled. “You’re still on that? Thought this was about Yates.”

“It is. The only reason I can think of for somebody to set me up is because I was involved with Perriman. Remember, somebody broke into my house and went through the stuff he’d given me.”

“Yeah ...”

“Well, I’m thinking: what if Yates was the guy who broke into both places?”

He smiled again. “Sorry.” He pulled out a paper. “Rufus Yates was in the Work House, doing thirty days for a B & E—that’s break-in and entry.” As if I’d thought B & E was a railroad.

“You’re sure?”

“Still don’t trust me?” He slid the paper to me.

“I do,” I muttered, as I nonetheless read the report. Yates had been arrested June fifteenth and sentenced five days later to thirty dollars or thirty days in the Cincinnati Work House. Apparently unable to pay the thirty dollars, Yates was one week into his sentence when Perriman was killed. And he still had more than two weeks to serve when my place was broken into. “Damn.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” Forsch exhaled a stream of smoke. “Now as far as why he’d be setting you up for something, I don’t know.”

“Somebody else using him maybe?” Like whoever it was that took the photograph.

“Could be. But like I say, no big-time crook is going to use Yates. He’s the kind of guy who if a couple of fellows were planning to knock off a candy store they might bring Yates along to act as lookout. That’s about it.”

“Okay, thanks.” Something else had bothered me for some time, and I thought Forsch might be the one to clear it up. “I thought burglars don’t like to go in when people are home; they want them out of the house.”

“Most do, that’s right.”