way or another, I’ve been in baseball more than forty years,” he said. “I don’t go back quite as far as Abner Doubleday, but I’ve seen just about everything in the game since then. I want you to know that I’ve never been as excited about any team as I am about the 1912 Red Sox. Even before the season started, it seemed like everything was coming together for us. We already had the players, and now the new owners have taken care of everything else.
“Stop me if you like, but I thought you might want to know something about the ball club.” I didn’t stop him, so he went on. “A new group of owners bought the team last year. Some of them had been players, some managers—all of them have a solid baseball background. They know the game on every level.
“You met Bob Tyler. He’s the treasurer and general manager—handles all the day-to-day business decisions. I’m his assistant and sometimes I help out at the gate or do odd jobs. Mr. Tyler used to work for Ban Johnson—”
“Really?” I interrupted. I couldn’t picture Tyler working for anyone but himself—although if anyone could order Tyler around, it would be the American League president. “What did he do?”
“Mr. Tyler was the league secretary for six years. He knows more about league affairs than anyone but Ban Johnson himself.
“Jake Stahl is quite a man, too,” Macullar said. “I think you’ll like him. He owns about ten percent of the club. Player, manager, and owner all at the same time. It’s a lot of responsibility, but he handles it well.
“Anyway, what I wanted to say is that we have the ideal owners for a baseball club. They know the game from the playing field to the league president’s office. The first thing they did was move us out of the Huntington Avenue Grounds, and put up Fenway Park. Beautiful ballpark isn’t it?”
I shook my head up and down in unrestrained agreement.
“Opening Day at Fenway was a grand time—the game was postponed three days by rain, but that just made it more exciting when we did get it in. Mayor Fitzgerald and his Royal Rooters were there in force. They kept singing “Tessie” over and over—that was our fight song in ought-three when we won the first World Series.
“Anyway, we beat the Highlanders 7–6 in extra innings opening day. I took it as a good sign for the season. It seems like the whole city is excited by the team. Of course, with Honey Fitz our biggest fan, everyone is eager to get behind us.” I deduced that Honey Fitz was the mayor of Boston.
“Well, I’ve talked too much,” Macullar concluded. “Mr. Tyler asked me to bring you to his car, but I wanted to take a few minutes to let you know that this is a very special team, and you have a lot to look forward to.” He smiled confidently. “We’re going to the World Series.”
Macullar rose to his feet. I stood up and followed him through the train, wondering why he had made such an effort to talk up the team’s ownership.
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
