We both entered Bob Tyler’s private car. Tyler was seated in a plush chair, his hands folded on the large gold head of a walking stick that stood between his knees. He glared at Macullar, silently asking, “What the hell took you so long?” Verbally he told him, “That will be all for now, Jimmy.” Macullar quickly ducked out of the car.
In addition to the cane, Tyler had an aggie-sized diamond stickpin in his tie and a hefty gold watch chain draped across the vest of his striped brown suit. Buff spats covered his ankles. He reminded me of some of the factory owners who used to hire me to play: petty autocrats who thought they could impress the world by sporting the sort of trappings I now saw before me. Usually, the most adorned and pompous men ran the shabbiest factories.
I was in my one good traveling suit, which was still grimy from yesterday.
Tyler pointed me into a seat, and adopted a grave tone. “Mickey, Captain O’Malley’s investigation isn’t going very well. In fact, he seems to think you’re the leading suspect.”
“But I didn’t have anything to do with it! All I did was find the guy!”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I believe you.” With a grimace, he added, “I never heard of a killer who pukes on a man he’s just murdered. I’m not the police though—it’s their opinion that counts. And you were found at the scene of the crime.” Tyler allowed me to squirm uncomfortably. I stared at his face, and noticed with some surprise that he was younger than I thought at first; he probably wasn’t out of his forties. His brown hair was thick, without a hint of gray. From his dress and bearing, he wanted to appear older—to bolster his autocratic manner, I figured. He finally went on, “However, I’m not without influence. The team does have a certain status in the city of Boston, and we can probably protect you somewhat from any hasty accusations by the police.”
“But why would I need protection? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You’re a major-league baseball player. You’re in the public eye now. If he wants to, a cop or a reporter could get a lot of attention for himself just by accusing you. That kind of publicity tends to stick, though, and that’s bad for all of us. The point is that a ball club can do a lot to protect its players.” Tyler glanced up at the ceiling for a moment. Then he said in a confidential voice, “I’ll let you in on something: every couple of years, Ty Cobb gets in one of his rages and assaults somebody. Then Frank Navin has to calm down the cops and try to keep it out of the papers. You remember when the Tigers played the Pirates in the World Series?”
I nodded. It had been just two or three years ago.
“Cobb had to travel outside the Ohio border every time they went from Detroit to Pittsburgh. You know why?”
I shook my head.
“Because he knifed some hotel worker in Cleveland, and there was a warrant out for his arrest. Navin took care of it in the off-season. He’s a good owner. He takes care of his players’ problems. If the Tigers can keep it quiet when a famous player like Cobb really commits a crime, we should be able to protect a nobo—a, uh, lesser-known player who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’re going to have to do your part, though.” I started to ask what that was, but he talked over my question, already answering, “You don’t say anything to anybody about anything that happened.”
“But what about the police? What if they want to ask me more questions?”
“Of course we want to cooperate with the police—just like we expect them to cooperate with us. If Captain O’Malley has any questions for you, you should answer them—just make sure I’m there, too.”
“You mentioned the papers. I saw today’s paper and there wasn’t anything about it.”
“Well ... Boston’s a big city. People turn up dead all the time.”
“At Fenway Park?”
Tyler looked annoyed. “We wouldn’t want Fenway to be mentioned, would we? Look. Nobody even knows who the man was. I don’t know if this occurred to you, but he may not have been some innocent victim. What if he was killed in self-defense? What if he was a hoodlum who had it coming? Look. This is what it comes down to: you don’t need trouble, the team don’t need trouble. The cops will do their investigating, but they’ll have to do it quietly. If O’Malley wants to talk to you, that’s fine—I’ll just come along and make sure your interests are protected. Other than that, you don’t say a word to anybody. Understood?”
I didn’t feel like I understood, but I nodded that I did.
With a forced smile Tyler said, “Good. Let’s get this behind us, and concentrate on baseball. Jake’s probably going to start you in tomorrow’s game.” He clapped his cane on the floor to signal an end to the conversation. “Send Jimmy in on your way out.”
I did as he asked and returned to my seat. I wasn’t able to get my thoughts on baseball, though, so I fruitlessly mulled over Tyler’s words. This business with the police and the papers and the ball club was beyond my experience. I could make no sense of the situation.
But I could tell that this didn’t look like it was going to be my season.
Chapter Four
My new teammates milled about home plate, coordinating their moves so that each time I tried to step to the batter’s box I was blocked out. This came as no surprise; preventing rookies from taking a turn at batting practice is a standard part of the hazing ritual new ball players have to endure. For form’s sake, I maintained a pretense of expecting a chance to hit, but I really didn’t mind when other players elbowed in front of me and stepped to the plate. I was engrossed in scanning the Hilltop Park stands. This was the first time I’d been in a stadium as a player where I used to come as a spectator.
The grandstand behind third base was filling up with fans: office clerks taking an afternoon off to attend a nonexistent aunt’s funeral, and courting couples who sat high in the stands to enjoy the view of the Jersey Palisades across the Hudson River.
Outside the right field foul line lay the open bleacher seats, bare pine boards occupied mostly by kids who couldn’t afford better vantage points. Less than ten years ago, I was one of those eager faces dreaming of actually being on this field some day.
Box seats between home plate and the dugouts held middle-aged men in business suits and derbies who looked as if they could afford the best. I had never been able to get a ticket for one of those seats, and gloated that today I would be sitting in an even better location: the dugout bench.
Everywhere, the ballpark was alive with sounds that had been dormant all winter and now burst out with the coming of April. From a hundred directions came the sociable buzz of friendly arguments—about off-season trades, which teams would make it to the World Series, which players were over the hill and which were promising rookies. Over the chatter, vendors barked Peanuts! and Beer! and fans shouted their orders for same. From the field came the sharpest sounds: loud cracks of wood on leather as hitters teed off on soft tosses from the batting practice pitcher; and hard pops of leather on leather, as baseballs were thrown into mitts eager to snap them up.
Ten minutes to game time, Jake Stahl called us in to the dugout. Contrary to what Bob Tyler predicted, Stahl had decided not to start me. He said he’d let me get adjusted to the team before putting me in the lineup. I wondered if he was also letting me recover from the episode in Fenway Park, but he said nothing about it.
I sat by myself at the end of the dugout bench. I knew the first rule for rookies: they should be seen and not heard. I also knew the second rule: they shouldn’t be seen either. To my teammates I had as little stature as a batboy. It would take a while for me to be accepted by them. Usually the way it worked was that a rookie would be paired with a veteran player on road trips. After the veteran showed the youngster around and gave his approval, the other players would start to think of him as part of the team, too. My roommate was to be Clyde Fletcher, another utility player, but only his luggage made it to our hotel room