The Cincinnati Red Stalkings (6 page)

“No, thanks.”

“Well, I appreciate you coming in, and I assure you: we are doing everything we can. Today we’re rounding up anybody with a record for burglary or armed robbery, and they’re all gonna get a
thorough
questioning. It ain’t like this is a case of a couple roustabouts on the docks killing each other over a bad batch of hooch. There’s important people interested in it getting solved. And if I wasn’t doing a good job, Garry Herrmann would have me walking a beat with Jimmy there.”

Like a dog, the uniformed cop perked up at the sound of his name.

“Herrmann could do that?” I asked.

The cigarette in Forsch’s lips jiggled as he let out a laugh. He tilted back in his chair and took a long drag. “You’re new to the city, aren’t you?”

“Only been here a few months.”

“Ever hear of Boss Cox?”

“Of course.” Cox had been one of the most notorious political bosses in the country. “He pretty much ran Cincinnati. Died a few years ago, though, didn’t he?”

“Ran all of Hamilton County. For thirty years. And yes, he’s dead—but not his organization.” Forsch’s chair clacked on the floor as he let the front legs down. “You know how Garry Herrmann became president of the Reds?”

“Bought the team?” I ventured.

Forsch shook his head. “Herrmann was one of Cox’s lieutenants.” He took another drag and let the smoke out slowly. “In 1902, John Brush was the owner of the Reds. He opened a new ballpark—the Palace of the Fans—and it was a big hit with the folks around here. Boss Cox took such a liking to it that he decided to buy the team. When Brush refused to sell, Cox threatened to run a street right through the middle of his nice new park—and he would have, too. Brush changed his mind and Cox, Herrmann, and Max and Julius Fleischmann—of the yeast and gin family—took over the club. And they appointed Garry Herrmann president.”

“Jeez.” I knew that most owners were of the robber-baron mold, but I’d never heard of tactics as outrageous as this.

“So I can assure you Mr. Herrmann will be very pleased with our efforts to solve this case.”

With that assurance, I left for the ballpark.

Before I got to Redland Field, though, I wasn’t so certain that Forsch’s primary interest was in solving the case. His efforts seemed intended more for show than for results— there’d been all those cops standing around the office yesterday, and he was planning mass roundups for today. I had the feeling it was a higher priority for Forsch to impress Garry Herrmann and his political cronies than to get justice for Oliver Perriman.

B
eautiful day for a funeral, I thought.

The sky was high and clear, the air drier and cooler than it had been in weeks, and the scent of fresh-mown grass wafted about Redland Field making it smell like a garden. Red-white-and-blue bunting dripped from the front-row railings of the grandstand and streamers of the same colors ran along the top of the outfield fence. In left-center, the American flag billowed freely, no longer in the grip of the oppressive humidity that had been smothering the city.

This was Saturday, July 2, the start of the Independence Day weekend. The Reds players were lined up along the third-base foul line, and on the first-base side were Wilbert Robinson and his Brooklyn Dodgers, reigning National League champions.

The ballpark was packed to overflowing. Some fans took standing-room spots in the right-field bleachers; others were on the field itself, seated on the left-field terrace behind a rope barricade. Across the street, the Western Avenue Irregulars had gathered on the roof of the Jantz & Leist Electric Company for a free view of the activities.

There was more than a ball game to entertain them today. A brass band in the right-field bleachers was playing John Sousa marches, and a fireworks display was scheduled for after the game. And preceding it all, was a memorial service for Oliver Perriman.

His actual funeral had been yesterday, but the team was holding a special “tribute” to him today. It was now under way, with Lloyd Tinsley speaking into a large megaphone set up on the pitcher’s mound. Behind him were Garry Herrmann and a group of dignitaries—the sort of men who like to be seen at such events and get their names in the next day’s newspapers. Tinsley began by introducing the others. Among those present were Louis Kahn of Kahn’s Meats; Maynard Kimber, the sausage king; and the heads of the Moerlein, Hudepohl, and Wiedemann breweries. The guests had no connection to baseball that I knew of, and appeared to have been invited solely because of Herrmann’s fondness for their products. At least none of them were called upon to say anything; they simply puffed up and waved when their names were announced. Garry Herrmann himself was quietly beaming—things weren’t so terrible anymore.

“We are here today,” Tinsley said, his voice echoing like thunder, “to honor Oliver Perriman. Mr. Perriman wasn’t a player or an owner or even an umpire. He was more important than any of those: he was a
fan.
” As I’m sure he expected, a solid round of applause greeted this declaration. After pausing to milk the ovation for all he could, Tinsley went on, “Oliver Perriman—‘Ollie’ to those of us fortunate enough to be his friend—worked hard to preserve our history, to document the achievements of our city’s ballplayers” —another pause for effect—“and to show the baseball world that Cincinnati is the city of champions.” The cheers were loud and long.

I thought a championship every fifty years hardly justified a claim to being “the city of champions.” I also thought that a baseball diamond was for playing ball, not for self-serving speeches. I started scratching the earth with my cleats, mixing the lime of the foul line into the clay.

As Tinsley continued to speak, I noticed that he never explicitly mentioned that Oliver Perriman was dead. Instead, the emphasis was on Perriman’s achievement in putting together “such a magnificent collection”—and on how Cincinnatians were sure to enjoy seeing the exhibit.

It had been pretty much the same way in the newspapers: Perriman’s death had garnered little attention. Initially, there were a few brief reports on the inside pages that he had been killed during an attempted robbery “by person or persons unknown.” But the front pages had been taken up by coverage of other events: President Harding’s appointment of a former president, Cincinnati’s own William Howard Taft, to be Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court; the controversy over a woman being seated on a jury in Cleveland; and the upcoming boxing match between heavyweight champion Jack Dempsey and challenger Georges Carpentier. A few days later, a couple of follow-up pieces described the “exhaustive” investigation by the Cincinnati Police Department and reported their conclusion that the would-be robber and murderer had left town.

“... and now, to make a very special presentation, I am happy to introduce Mr. Nathaniel Bonner, president of the Queen City Lumber Company.”

Bonner, a lean man who must have been six and a half feet tall, took Tinsley’s place at the megaphone, bending over to bring his mouth down to its level. He coughed and cleared his throat a few times. “It is my understanding,” he finally began, “that there was one relic in particular that Oliver Perriman most wanted to retrieve from the dust of history—but could never find. That object was a bat, a twenty-seven-foot baseball bat inscribed with the names of the 1869 Red Stockings.” There were some murmurs from the crowd at the notion of such an enormous bat. “It was fifty-two years ago yesterday, that my father, Josiah Bonner, presented that grand bat to Red Stockings president Aaron Champion on behalf of the Queen City Lumber Company. Unfortunately, my father is a bit under the weather today, so I’m pinch-hitting for him, as it were ...” He’d started to stand upright and his voice began to fade. Leaning closer to the megaphone again, he continued, “As I said, that original bat has never been found. But”—he gestured toward a group of people standing behind home plate—“it gives me great pleasure to present a new bat, inscribed with the name of Oliver Perriman, to his wife Katie.”

Team captain Jake Daubert led a short woman dressed in black toward the mound. She was wearing a veil, so I couldn’t tell much about her appearance other than that her figure was on the stout side, the kind that had been popular in the nineties.

As the crowd gave her a respectful ovation, a small flatbed truck came out of the left-field corner, pulling something shaped like a telegraph pole covered by a red cloth. The truck stopped between home plate and the pitcher’s mound, and Nathaniel Bonner went over to it. He grabbed a corner of the cloth and tried to whisk it off with a magician-like flourish, but it snagged, maybe on a splinter. Bonner tugged and yanked at the covering until it tore away to reveal a magnificent bat supported on blocks. The varnished wood shimmered in the sunlight, and painted in red along one side was
Oliver Perriman.

Katie Perriman said a barely audible “Thank you” into the megaphone, then Lloyd Tinsley led her to the bat. She ran a hand over her husband’s name, almost caressing it. Then she reached under her veil and wiped her eyes, exposing a pale face framed by mousy brown hair.

Curt Stram, standing to my right, nudged me with his elbow. “You know,” he said, “she don’t look like much in the daylight, but at night, with the lights out, she don’t
feel
a day over eighteen.”

“Who?”

“Katie Perriman. I tell you, she’s a wild one all right. Get a couple glasses of wine in her and—”

I couldn’t believe he was talking about Ollie Perriman’s widow that way. After I recovered from the shock, I warned him, “You say anything like that again, and you’ll be tasting my cleats.”

“Sorry. Didn’t know you were a milk-and-water—”

This boy didn’t know when to shut up. I dug an elbow into his ribs, hard, and he finally closed his mouth.

Lloyd Tinsley took over at the megaphone again. He mentioned in closing that the “setback”—again avoiding the word “death”—would delay the opening of the exhibit somewhat, but that it would be worth the wait. And he added that the bat Bonner had just donated would be part of the display.

The truck circled around the infield. When it turned, I saw that on the other side of the bat, in larger print than Perriman’s name, was painted
Queen City Lumber Company
.

I didn’t like the way people were cashing in on the exhibit that Perriman had planned. It was supposed to be a tribute, a way to pass history along to another generation, not a commercial venture.

As the dignitaries left the field, and the bat was carted off, I was thinking about Perriman. His death was more than a “setback,” and his life had been more than the collection. There was a personal side to him that I knew little about.

In most homes these days, about the only wine you could hope for was made from a kit. In a clever way of circumventing the Volstead Act, vintners sold grape bricks, solid blocks of concentrated grape juice that came with detailed instructions on exactly what you should not do with their product or you would end up with wine—and that would be illegal.

Katie Perriman was serving the real stuff, though, bottled before Prohibition. I’d have preferred beer, or a sweeter wine, but the dry white I was sipping wasn’t bad. In fact, it was the most enjoyable aspect of the gathering.

This wasn’t the way I’d planned to spend Saturday evening. But after our 2–1 victory over the Dodgers, Lloyd Tinsley came into the clubhouse and announced that Mrs. Perriman had invited the entire team to her house as a thank-you for the “tribute” to her husband at the ballpark.

I felt obligated to go, and Margie agreed to come with me; we figured we’d put in enough time to be polite, then leave for a late dinner and dancing.

The Perriman home was a rambling three-story Victorian that would have been considered a mansion in most parts of the city. Situated on fashionable Price Hill, however, it was one of the more ordinary residences.

Inside what the butler called the “drawing room” half the Reds team stood awkwardly around a lavishly stocked buffet table. The antique furniture, Oriental rugs, and gilt-framed paintings that filled the high-ceilinged room made for an intimidating atmosphere, and it seemed that the main goal of every ballplayer there was to avoid coming into contact with anything breakable.

While Katie Perriman sat on a daybed at the far end of the room with several other women to keep her company, her guests stayed near the food and drinks, exchanging few words. The lack of conversation among the players wasn’t unique to this occasion, however. Although the club could play well enough together on the diamond, there was little social interaction once the games were over. Some preferred to keep to themselves, like Jake Daubert, who had the personality of a blank lineup card, and my road roommate Bubbles Hargrave, who had a stuttering problem—he’d been given his nickname because of his trouble saying B’s. And there were those who were avoided by others, like the arrogant youngster Curt Stram, and temperamental pitcher Dolf Luque, “The Pride of Havana,” who sometimes challenged his teammates to duels. Absorbed in the refreshments were manager Pat Moran, who was gulping wine at a pace to make it the alcoholic equivalent of whiskey, and bony old coach Dave Claxton, who kept stuffing down shrimp and crackers.

Completely absent were Garry Herrmann, Lloyd Tinsley, and the businessmen who’d been at the game; this wasn’t a public event, and they wouldn’t get their names in the papers for coming, so why bother.

I was the only one who’d brought a date, so at least I had Margie to talk to. But since I was also the only one as far as I knew who’d even met Ollie Perriman, I felt I should be the first to pay my respects to his widow. I excused myself from Margie and approached our hostess.

Katie Perriman was still in mourning attire, but without the hat and veil. Her round face was heavily powdered and her drab brown hair was in a chignon. By far, her most attractive feature was her vivid green eyes.

“Mrs. Perriman,” I said, “my name is Mickey Rawlings. I met your husband a couple of times, and ... and I just want you to know that I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rawlings. My Ollie was a sweet man.” She raised a lacy handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes—although they didn’t appear wet. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.”

The other women immediately dispersed, probably grateful to be temporarily relieved of their duty to stay with the bereaved.

That meant I was going to be stuck with her for a while. “I, uh, I was going to be at the opening of your husband’s museum. He showed me the things he’d collected. Sure did a wonderful job getting them together.”