Hunting a Detroit Tiger Read online

  Although I didn’t make an appearance in a game—not even as a coach—I did get in a lot of hitting, thanks to Lou Vedder. The two of us spent our free hours working out at the park. He pitched me enough batting practice that I started to develop a fluid swing from the left side of the plate. Then I caught for him while he tried to come up with another pitch to replace the forbidden spitter. I told him that a fastball, curve, and change-up were all a pitcher needed if he had control, but Vedder got it into his head that he was going to master the knuckleball. He had no more success with that than the Detroit batters had with the St. Louis pitching staff.

  Now it was back to our home turf. While my teammates trudged out of the train station, I stopped at a newsstand to see what kind of reception we could expect from the fans—if we still had any fans.

  I was happy to see from the headlines that the Tigers’ feat in going the entire month of April without a win wasn’t the biggest news. Attorney General Mitchell Palmer had managed to capture most of the front pages with headlines like Terror Reign by Radicals, Says Palmer and Nationwide Uprising on Saturday. Palmer claimed that that Bolsheviks were planning a May Day revolution: bombings, assassinations, and general strikes. State militias were being called up in response to Palmer’s warning, and federal troops were being put on alert. There were other headlines, much smaller, that suggested the scare was of Palmer’s own invention, intended to revitalize his campaign for the presidency. The country would find out soon enough whether Palmer was right. Tomorrow was May first.

  Whether or not there would be a revolution—which I doubted—I was looking forward to May. It had to mark an improvement over April, a month in which I’d been credited with the murder of a popular ex-ballplayer, had incurred the wrath of owners, teammates, labor organizers, and union busters, and had again lost Margie Turner.

  As I left the station, I remembered that tomorrow would also mark one week since I’d met with Leo Hyman and Whitey Boggs. One week gone, with no progress on finding Emmett Siever’s killer. Three weeks remained until I’d have to show Hyman some results. Of course, if that shotgun blast through my window had been fired by someone other than Wobblies, trying to meet Hyman’s deadline still wouldn’t protect me from another attack. I thought of Karl Landfors’s warning that the real murderer might try to stop me from exposing him.

  Then I thought again of the St. Louis newspapers with their “Tiger Hunt” headlines. The only Tiger really being hunted was me.

  At my apartment, I found Landfors gone and the icebox empty. I muttered a wish that he would marry Constance Siever and move in with her.

  I also noticed that my landlady had replaced the glass in the parlor window. Just when I was thinking that a good thick piece of wood might be the best thing to have over it. What hung over the window instead was my favorite bath towel, which Landfors must have tacked up as a curtain. I renewed my wish about him and Miss Siever in language that would not have made for a polite wedding toast.

  Spring had come to Detroit while we were out of town, so after tossing my suitcase on the sofa I opened the window to let in some fresh air. Then I dug under my bed for a dented old biscuit tin that I’d stashed there. I had carried the tin with me when I’d first left home at age fifteen to try and make my way as a ballplayer. Its purpose was to store my “important stuff.” The lid had airholes punched in it, and scratched above the holes was the warning: Beware of Snake. The tin had never contained a snake, but I thought the warning would discourage anyone from exploring its contents. At first, the container had held nothing more than a few tobacco cards of my favorite big-league players, a photograph of my late aunt, and the old-fashioned fingerless glove my uncle wore when he and I used to play catch—it was his going-away present to me. In the years since, I still hadn’t acquired enough additional “important stuff” to need a larger storage box.

  I pried off the scarred lid. At the top of the pile inside were my discharge papers from the army and my playing contract for the current season. It was the contract I was interested in.

  Unfolding the four-page legal-sized document, I read it word for word. I didn’t want to go by John Montgomery Ward’s or Emmett Siever’s opinions of the terms; I wanted to understand them for myself.

  The reserve clause, the single sentence that had caused so much strife over the years, appeared in Clause 11:

  The club may, at its option, at any time within 90 days after the close of the playing season of 1920, notify the player of its election to have this contract renewed for the succeeding season, and in the event of such notice being given, this contract shall stand renewed for the succeeding season of 1921.

  In his speech at Fraternity Hall, Emmett Siever had said imagine if auto manufacturers had such a rule: a worker on the Ford assembly line could be bound to Ford “in perpetuity.” The employee could not seek better wages or conditions at Dodge or General Motors; Ford could simply keep renewing its contract with the worker under terms and salary to be determined solely by Henry Ford. Or, Ford could elect to sell or trade the employee to another company without the worker having any say in the transaction.

  The way Siever described the reserve clause, it certainly did not sound fair. Nor could I find any fairness in the wording of the clause in my contract. As far as being sold or traded, the only obligation the Detroit Tigers had was to inform me of the name of my new club and the terms of the transfer.

  It was clear from reading the contract that the club had all the options; I had none. Clause 6 of the contract even specified that I had to pay for my own shoes and give the club a $30 deposit for my uniform. On principle, I agreed that players were treated unfairly, and in some ways as “chattels,” to use John Ward’s word.

  But then there was Clause 1:

  The club agrees to pay the player for the season of 1920, beginning on or about the 15th day of April, 1920, and ending on or about the 15th day of October, 1920, a salary at the rate of $3000 for such season.

  Three thousand dollars. More than double what a typical factory worker earned in a year, and I got it for only six months of playing baseball. True, it was a little less than I’d made a couple of years ago, but all salaries had taken a dip after the shortened seasons of 1918 and 1919. What it came down to for me was that I was being well compensated for doing what I loved. Quite simply, I was satisfied.

  I put the contract back in the biscuit tin and the tin under my bed. Since we had no game scheduled for Navin Field, and I’d gotten little sleep on the train from St. Louis, I then curled up in the bed for a short nap.

  After two hours of sound sleep, I decided to put the day to better use than merely lazing around the apartment. I took a quick bath, then donned a blue seersucker suit, a soft-collar white shirt, and one of the brightly patterned neckties that Landfors had refused to wear.

  I next fortified myself at Kelsey’s Cafe, downing two cups of coffee and a three-egg breakfast with a side order of flapjacks at an hour when everyone else was eating lunch. While I ate, I chewed over what my next step should be in probing Emmett Siever’s death.

  I resented having to do anything at all. If the police had done their jobs, it wouldn’t be up to me. It shouldn’t be up to me. The most I could hope for from them, though, was that Detective McGuire might reopen the investigation—if I could bring him hard evidence. If I couldn’t make Leo Hyman’s deadline and find the killer in three weeks, perhaps I could at least get enough evidence for McGuire to take over for me. Whether that would suffice to keep the Wobblies from coming after me again, I somewhat doubted.

  As far as what to do next, it seemed to me that learning more about the victim was the way to go. So far, what little information I had about Emmett Siever had come primarily from his allies—Hyman, Boggs, Landfors, and Connie. I needed another perspective—from one of his enemies. As much as I would have preferred to avoid him, I decided that Hub Donner was the man for me to see.

  I tipped the waitress a nickel for a fifteen-cent meal, walked in the fre
sh spring air to Woodward Avenue, and caught a northbound streetcar.

  Like its southeast neighbor Hamtramck, Highland Park was completely contained within the Detroit city boundary. As the streetcar entered Henry Ford’s company town, it first passed through the neighborhood where his workers lived. Their modest homes all appeared well maintained, but totally lacking in charm. A sterile quality permeated the area, as if the inhabitants were all living in conformity with someone else’s design.

  Proceeding up Woodward, the first sign of the auto plant was a FORD banner stretched between a couple of towering smokestacks. Minutes later, the factory was visible, sprawling over a vast area. I’d heard the home of the first assembly line called the “Crystal Palace.” To me, it looked like an enormous flat-roofed greenhouse. The walls consisted mainly of windows, acres of glass that shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. As the trolley drew closer, the buzz and rumble of conveyor belts and machinery within the plant became audible.

  I got off at Manchester and went to the factory’s nearest entrance; it turned out to be Ford’s employment office, and I was brusquely told that there were no jobs available. I then found the main gate, where I told a guard that I wanted to see Hub Donner of the Service Department. After the guard placed a call to Donner, a second guard escorted me into the office area. The floors vibrated softly from the activities in the plant, and a steady hum filled the air.

  Although there was no sign identifying it as such, I knew when we’d reached the Service Department. The area gave the impression of a military headquarters. Smartly dressed, uniformed guards strode around purposefully; they looked alert and businesslike, nothing like what I’d seen so far of the Detroit Police Department. Mixed among them were a few large, disreputable-looking men wearing bad suits and bow ties. In comparison to these bruisers, the uniformed guards looked like Girl Scouts.

  Dressed similarly to the other thugs, Hub Donner emerged from a nearby office. He didn’t appear jovial as he had at the Hotel Tuller, nor smug as he’d been when sitting with Frank Navin at the ballpark. Royally pissed was how he looked. After dismissing the guard who’d escorted me, he growled, “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about Emmett Siever and the players’ union.”

  “This is where I work for Mr. Ford.” Donner brushed a palm over his stubbly scalp. “That other business is for another place and time.”

  “I didn’t know how else to contact you. Besides, you talked to me at Navin Field, and that’s where I work.”

  Donner made no verbal reply, but his eyes indicated that he didn’t consider our situations equivalent.

  “Anyway,” I said. “Now that I’m here, can we talk for a couple minutes?”

  “Yeah, what the hell.” He led me out of the main room, stopping to tell a guard at the desk, “Don’t disturb me. This fellow might have some information on sabotage at the Rouge Plant tomorrow.”

  Donner ushered me into a small windowless room furnished with one table and two chairs. He pointed to one of them. “Sit.”

  His mention of the Rouge Plant had me a little disconcerted. Did he know that I’d met Boggs and Hyman there? They might have eluded a tail by their trick with the cars, but what if I’d been followed from my apartment?

  I decided to volunteer that I’d seen them. If Donner thought I was being open with him, it might earn me some good will. “I met with a couple fellows from Fraternity Hall.”

  Donner’s expression didn’t betray whether or not that was news to him. “I told you before it’s not wise for you to be associating with Reds.”

  “I had to talk to them. They’re the ones mostly likely to know what really happened to Emmett Siever.”

  “‘What really happened’ is what the newspapers said happened.”

  “Told you before, the papers are wrong.”

  “So you claim.”

  I studied Donner, trying without success to pick up a hint of what was going on in that scarred heard of his. “It seems to me,” I said, “that we have a similar interest in finding out who really killed him. If it turns out a Wobbly killed Siever, the players won’t have anything to do with the IWW ever again. And if it turns out Siever was killed by—well, by a union buster, that’ll discourage the players from trying to unionize at all. Nobody will want to take Siever’s place if they think it could get them killed.”

  A hint of amusement danced in Donner’s eyes. “Are you trying to tell me that you want to help me stop the players’ union?”

  “Hell no. I’m only interested in clearing myself. The fact that it works out better for you too is just a good reason for you to help me find his killer.”

  “Having it pegged on you suits me just fine.”

  “The story that I killed Siever isn’t making anybody scared of me,” I said. “My teammates, for instance: they’re mad at me, not scared. Now if it turns out Siever was killed by somebody like you, that might make them think twice about going ahead with a union.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to.” We eyed each other uneasily for a moment. I then asked, “How long has the American League had you working on Emmett Siever?”

  Donner hesitated before deciding to answer. “Almost a year. Ever since he started agitating.”

  “Do you know anything about what he was doing before that?”

  “Siever was nothing before that. A washed-up ballplayer who wasn’t much good in his best years.”

  “What I mean is, was he active with the IWW or anybody?”

  “If he was, nobody seems to know about it.”

  “Hmm.” I went on to another question that had been bothering me. “From what I hear, there weren’t many players joining up with Siever. Why was the league so worried about him organizing if he wasn’t successful at it anyway?”

  Donner thought for a few moments. I wondered if he’d ever really considered the why of the situation. He might have simply done what the league owners hired him to do and never asked their reasons. “For one thing,” he finally answered, “Siever was a radical, and it doesn’t take a lot of them to be dangerous. Only needed a few players to go along with him for there to be real trouble. And some players were sympathetic to him—still are, most likely.” He folded his hands over his belly as if he’d just finished a meal. “Anything else on your mind?”

  “Yes. Where were you when Emmett Siever was shot?”

  A laugh exploded from his mouth. “Decided you don’t like being a hero, so you want to give me the glory?”

  I stared at him steadily.

  His belly still rocking, he said, “I was having dinner with Ban Johnson and Frank Navin, if you really want to know. Ask them if you like.”

  “No need,” I said. The American League president and the owner of the Tigers were pretty strong alibis. “And it wasn’t that I thought you killed him,” I added, trying to sound conciliatory. “I figured you might have been watching him and maybe saw who went into Fraternity Hall—or who came out the back door.”

  Intense distaste showed on Donner’s face. “I don’t got the stomach to go to that place. All them filthy foreigners in there, who knows what I’d catch from them. Can’t stand foreigners. Coming here, trying to cause trouble, expecting handouts. Parasites is what they are. It was men like Henry Ford and Andrew Carnegie and John Rockefeller who made America great. Not immigrants coming in to steal the fruits of American labor.”

  “I thought Carnegie came here from Scotland.”

  Hub Donner leaned forward and any trace of good humor slowly vanished from his face. “Okay, I played along and answered your questions. Now it’s time for you to do something for me—and for the men who put bread in your mouth.”

  “What do you—”

  “This is what’s going to happen: you’re going to go public against the players’ union. Newspaper articles, speeches, the whole thing, just like I told you before.”

  “And I told you I won’t have any part of that.”

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p; “Then I hope you got retirement plans.”

  I tried to appear unconcerned. “So what’s the worst that can happen? Frank Navin boots me off a team that can’t win a game and ain’t giving me a chance to play anyway? Might be a break for me. I’ll play someplace else.”

  “I don’t see where that would be such a good break for you. Remember, it’s not just Navin—it’s the American League. You go against Ban Johnson, and you cut off half your employment opportunities. Leaves you with the Nationals, and you already wore out your welcome with a bunch of their teams.” Donner leaned back, a smug look on his face. “You’re gonna be lucky if you get picked up by a semipro team in a mill league somewhere.”

  Jeez. I’d paid my dues in the industrial leagues years ago. I wasn’t ready to be heading back down the ranks yet. But I sure wasn’t going to go along with Hub Donner, either.

  “What I don’t understand,” I said, resorting to an argument that I didn’t really want to make, “is doesn’t it make the league look bad that they couldn’t get a bigger star than me to go against the union? That would make it seem like all the rest of them were in favor of it.”

  “Bigger star?” Donner laughed. “I wish I could get any kind of star. You’re a busher, kid. But you’re the one who killed Siever, so you’ll have to do.” He caressed the scar over his right ear. “Tell you what,” he said. “I like you. Don’t know why, but I think you’re an okay kid. Just need to get your priorities straight. I’m gonna give you a break. You take some time and rethink your position. Three days. Give me a firm answer by Monday. And I’ll be contacting you next time.”

  I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be liked by Hub Donner. I was sure that I wasn’t going to change my mind. But I agreed to think about it.

  Donner walked me to the waiting area and summoned a guard to take me out. “Remember, I’ll call you. Don’t be coming here again. This is where I do Henry Ford’s business, not Frank Navin’s.”