The Cincinnati Red Stalkings (16 page)

“The break-in at my house was while we were in bed. I thought that might mean the robber couldn’t wait for us to be out. Maybe he was anxious to get whatever he was looking for first—before I could find it.”

“Maybe. But there’s also some burglars who prefer to have their victims at home. Wait for them to fall asleep, then go in. That way nobody comes back unexpectedly to catch them in the act.”

“What did Yates prefer?”

Forsch shook his head. “Don’t know. Never investigated him myself.”

“How did he get caught last time?”

“Got the arrest report here, I think.” Forsch lit another Murad. He looked over some papers, then up at me. “Yates was robbing a house in Avondale. The residents were home; one of them woke up and called us. You think that tells you something?”

I mulled it over for a few moments. “Not a damn thing,” I said. “But thanks.”

M
argie seemed relieved to be getting away from me Thursday morning. The lions and tigers in Carnivora House were probably easier to get along with than I’d been lately. I was in a cranky mood, frustrated at not being with the team, and unsure what I could do to convince Judge Landis to let me play again.

This afternoon, the Reds were opening a series against John McGraw and the Giants in the Polo Grounds, which had been my home park for three years. It was agony for me to think of my teammates taking the field in New York while I was stuck here alone.

The frustration about Rufus Yates was equally intense. According to Detective Forsch, Yates wasn’t the type to be more than a bit player in whatever was going on. So who was behind the scheme to set me up—and how could I track him down?

Still picking at the pancakes Margie had made for breakfast, I tried to come up with a plan of action.

Rufus Yates had to be my starting point. Landis had told me a few things about him, and Forsch had told me a little more. That was it as far as the authorities, though; to go farther, I’d have to talk to people on the other side of the law. Local bookies, for example. But I couldn’t contact any of them openly. Simply shaking hands—and taking an envelope—from a low-level gambler on the street was enough to get me in hot water already. If Landis found out that I’d gone to a bookie, the matter of my future would surely be settled in his mind—and it wouldn’t be in my favor.

Not even close to coming up with an entire plan, I decided I’d settle for a small first step.

There was one point on which Landis and Forsch disagreed: the Judge had said Yates was connected to Arnold Rothstein, but according to the detective he wasn’t. I assumed the local authorities would be most likely right. Rothstein wanted the Sox to blow games; maybe Yates was on the other side, trying to convince the Reds to take a dive.

All right, if I couldn’t talk to the gamblers, I’d try those they might have contacted: the players. I had the sense that I wouldn’t get much more out of my teammates than what Greasy Neale and Edd Roush had already told me. Roush had made it sound like the Reds veterans of 1919 had become a kind of close-knit club that wanted to keep their secrets to themselves. So how about a player who was no longer on the team—somebody who hadn’t stayed with the club long enough to develop that resistance to talking?

I went to the bookcase and pulled out my most recent
Spalding
guides. First, I made a list of the Cincinnati roster from the 1919 World Series. Then I crossed out the players who were still on the team this season. Next, I eliminated those who’d played for the Reds in 1920: pitcher Dutch Ruether, now with the Dodgers; Jimmy Ring, who was sent to the Phillies earlier this year as part of the trade for Eppa Rixey; and backup catcher Bill Rariden who was released. This left three players who were gone from the Reds immediately after the 1919 World Series, and whose memories should be free of influence from the rest of the Cincinnati team: outfielder and former batting champion Sherry Magee, who’d made his final big-league appearance in that series; second baseman Kid Gumbert, now with Brooklyn; and utility infielder Jimmy Smith, currently with the Phillies.

I thought these three men might be my best chances for finding out if anything had been amiss on the Reds’ side of that world championship. I didn’t know where I could track down Magee, but if we played the Phillies or the Dodgers, I’d be sure to talk to Smith or Gumbert. Assuming I played anywhere again.

I remembered one more thing Landis had said: Rufus Yates used to be a ballplayer. Since I’d never heard of him, I assumed his career was probably limited to semipro or the minor leagues. Yates had appeared to be about thirty-five years old, so he’d have been in his prime ten years ago. I checked a
Reach
Guide from 1912, and found him listed with Corpus Christi of the Southwest Texas League. The 1911 Guide had him with the same team. Before that, nowhere. I skipped ahead to 1913 and subsequent years. As an outfielder, Rufus Yates had a six-year career in professional baseball, never playing at a higher level than the Class A Western League. And that was with Wichita in 1915 and 1916. I’d heard something about that place recently ... Lloyd Tinsley! Heinie Groh had told me Tinsley was Wichita’s business manager before the war.

My first reaction was suspicion of Tinsley. Were the two of them still in contact? Did they have any shady dealings together in Kansas? Then I caught myself. Professional baseball is a small world, and paths keep crossing. Just because Joe Jackson once played for Connie Mack, for instance, didn’t mean Mack was in on the deal to throw the World Series. Not everyone Yates met would be crooked, either—hell, Yates himself might have been completely straight back in his playing days.

Still it was something. And when you’ve got nothing, you can’t ignore any possible lead. At the very least I might be able to get some more information about Yates from Tinsley.

When Margie came home, it was obvious that our moods had reversed from this morning. I was enthusiastic about pursuing a few more ideas I’d had about Rufus Yates, and she was in the doldrums.

“What happened?” I asked.

She collapsed onto the sofa. “You remember I told you about that litter of leopard cubs where most of them died?”

“Yes ...”

“The mother died last night, too.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Margie’s eyes teared and she started to speak, then her voice caught and she lifted a handkerchief to her eyes. I knew how much she loved animals, and she seemed as upset about the leopard as if the cat had been a household pet.

“Let me get you something to drink,” I offered. “Lemonade?”

As I stood to go into the kitchen, she waved me down. “Not thirsty.” She collected herself and went on, “I went to see Mr. Stephan, the superintendent, and spoke to him about the cats being underfed.”

“What did he say?”

“At least he didn’t dismiss me as a dumb actress, like the keeper did. Mr. Stephan told me that animals are different in cages than they are in the wild. He said they develop unnatural habits, nervous conditions, and it affects their appetites and their health.” She looked up at me. “Do you want to hear the dumbest thing?”

“What’s that?”

“Mr. Stephan said he’s studied the way they operate zoos in Germany, where they have natural, open settings instead of cages. He even sent his son Joe to live in Hamburg to learn the techniques they use there. During the war Mr. Stephan wanted to try setting up areas without bars in the Cincinnati Zoo, but there was such an uproar he wasn’t allowed.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was a
German
way of running a zoo. And anything ‘the Huns’ did had to be evil. He says it’ll probably be years before he can try it again.”

“Jeez.”

“Mr. Stephan took a look at the cats himself, though, and he checked the records of their feedings to make sure everything was right.”

“And?”

“He’s says they do seem a little thin, but it’s all being done the way it’s supposed to be.” She sighed. “I don’t know ... I like doing the shows, and teaching the children, but I hate to see the animals that way. Oh, and now the keeper in the Carnivora House is mad at me for going to Mr. Stephan.” “Why not quit? You don’t have to work there.”

She gave me a sharp look. “Because I still think something is wrong, and I’m not quitting till I find out what it is.”

I couldn’t help but smile. I always did like her determination.

Margie finally smiled a little, too. “How about you? Any word from Judge Landis?”

“No, but I have an idea how I might be able to find out about Rufus Yates.”

“How?”

Besides talking to the Reds players and Lloyd Tinsley, there was another possible way of getting information. “Well, at first I thought I couldn’t talk to any gamblers about him, but maybe I can.”

“But if somebody finds out about it ...”

“I don’t think they will—as long as the fellow I meet with is colored.” Maybe I could take advantage of the way black baseball was invisible to whites. There were colored gamblers and bookies, too. All I had to do was find one.

That was Margie’s next question, and in answer, I showed her the amusement page of the morning
Enquirer.
There was an ad for the new vaudeville bill at the Palace Theater, including six acts of “Vodvil” and a movie “Fotofeature.” Among the acts were The Ragpickin’ Minstrels playing their “Darky Music.”

“You said vaudeville managers know of bookies where visiting performers can go,” I reminded Margie. “What about for the colored acts—would the manager know where they can lay down a bet?”

“Probably. We’re not as segregated as you are—as baseball is.” She thought a moment. “I played the Palace a couple years ago. Manager’s name is Ralph something, I think. Would you like me to ask him?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay. So ... why don’t I smell food?”

I’d been home all day and had forgotten to get something for dinner. “Thought we’d go out to eat,” I said.

Margie smiled. “And then afterward we’ll go to the Palace.”

The line to get into the Palace Theater stretched from its entrance on Sixth Street around the corner onto Vine. The Palace was more popular than the other major vaudeville house in the city, Keith’s, with much greater variety in the acts it presented.

Since we weren’t planning on seeing the shows, Margie led the way past the crowd. A young usher in a resplendent maroon uniform was near the front door trying to keep the crowd in line; the theatergoers were perfectly orderly, but the young man appeared to enjoy flaunting his authority and kept barking orders to “straighten it out” and “keep to the side.”

When he tried to tell Margie to go to the back of the line, she asked sweetly if Ralph was still the manager. The boy answered that he was, and Margie gave him a quarter to relay the message that Marguerite Turner was here to see him.

The boy sputtered, “I’m sorry, Miss Turner. I didn’t recognize you.”

He came back a few minutes later with a large round gentleman who was badly in need of having his blond mane trimmed. “Margie Turner!” he said, beaming. “It’s so good to see you again.” He bowed, took her hand, and kissed it. I felt a pang of jealousy shoot through me.

After Margie made the introductions, Ralph invited us into his office, a small room filled with posters, rolls of tickets, and photographs of the various acts that had passed through his theater.

“I read about you appearing at the zoo,” the manager said to Margie. “You know, I’m still hoping you’ll come back to vaudeville. There are a lot of troupes who would love to have you.”

“Maybe someday,” Margie laughed. “I have a strange favor to ask you now, though.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “You know I always keep seats available for visitors like yourself. Best in the house.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But we didn’t come to see the show.” Ralph looked disappointed to hear this. Margie went on, “We’re looking for a bookie. A colored one.”

“Somebody in particular?”

I spoke up, “No. Just as long as he’s not white.”

“My, that is a strange request.” Ralph looked puzzled. “But I have a few names.” He checked a slip of paper tacked on the back of the door, then suggested the name of a man who did business out of a West End hotel room.

I preferred a different meeting place. “You know any who might be at a Redland Field game?” If I was seen at the ballpark, at least I could try to claim that I’d only been there to watch the ballgame.

“Oh, sure! Spider Jenkins is a regular at the Stars games. You want me to write his name down?”

“I’ll remember it. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Tell him I sent you, and you should have no trouble.”

I thanked him again, and offered to get him tickets for any Reds games he wanted. He said he’d take me up on it. Margie then asked if the offer of theater seats was still good.