me.”
“What happened?”
“You remember J. D. Whalen?”
The stocky third baseman who’d pitched the final innings of the Cubs game. “Sure. What about him?”
“He was a salesman here, and he got canned last week. Enoch knew I wanted to move into his spot, but he give it to Padgett instead.”
“Why?”
“The old”—Greene looked behind to be sure the other mechanics couldn’t hear—“the old bastard says I don’t got a good sales manner. Can you believe that crap?”
Enoch was probably right, I thought, but I did sympathize with Greene’s disappointment. Instead of clean work in a suit and tie, he was stuck here in the grease and dirt, breathing engine exhaust and gasoline fumes. “I think you’d make a fine salesman,” I said. “Hell, you managed to sell me on playing with you against the Cubs.”
Greene smiled at the vote of confidence and went back to work on the engine. “I’ll get another chance. Padgett spends more time in the office sparking with Doreen than he does on the lot. Can’t sell cars that way.”
“Why’d Whalen get fired?” I asked. I wondered if his poor performance against the Cubs had cost him his job.
“Nobody knows for sure. I expect he wasn’t selling as many cars as Enoch thought he should. Could you give me that screwdriver?”
I handed him the tool. “You told me most of the team works here.”
“They do.”
“How many of them are in the Klan?”
Greene froze for a moment. “I wouldn’t know. Membership in those kinds of groups is usually secret.” I knew he was familiar with “those kinds of groups.” In Chicago, during the war, he’d belonged to one of the “patriotic” vigilante organizations that targeted Socialists, pacifists, and those with German surnames.
“Can’t be much of a secret if it’s part of the company’s advertising,” I said. “I saw the sign outside.”
“That doesn’t mean much. Some people just like to do business with a fellow Klansman, same as a brother Elk or Mason.”
“So Roy Enoch is in the Klan.”
“He owns this place; the sign is his. That’s all I know.”
“Some folks think it was the Klan that killed Slip Crawford,” I said. “You hear anything about that?”
“Just that he got himself strung up.”
“You think it had anything to do with him beating us”—I hated being included among the “us”—“in that game?”
Greene pulled out a long bolt and put it on the fender with a clunk. “Over a baseball game?”
“There were Klansmen at the park that day. And maybe some on the team.”
“Don’t know about the ones outside the fence,” he said. “But no ballplayer is gonna kill another player for beating him in a game.” He mopped the back of his neck with the rag. “You know how it is: If a guy beats you, you want to beat him the next time. If you kill him, you don’t get the chance.”
Tater Greene made more sense than I’d expected. But I thought it over for a moment and realized that his line of reasoning applied to professional players like him and me. We had made baseball our lives and understood the nature of competition. Perhaps those who viewed the contest with the Cubs as a racial conflict instead of a sporting event didn’t have the sense that Greene had. “Anybody take the loss especially hard?” I asked.
“Not in particular. We were all down about it. Mostly from pride, but some lost money.”
“Was there a lot of betting?”
“Roy Enoch bet with some of the other semipro owners. And Ed Moss lost out on a fifty-buck bonus he was promised if we won.”
Maybe that’s why the manager pocketed the ten I’d passed up. “Moss work here, too?”
“Nah, he’s with the police—a desk sergeant.”
“Any of the players lose a lot of money?”
He shook his head. “To tell you the truth, none of us was certain enough we’d win to risk much money on the game. Them colored boys are good ballplayers, and we all know it. Wouldn’t have had to scout for
“What happened?”
“You remember J. D. Whalen?”
The stocky third baseman who’d pitched the final innings of the Cubs game. “Sure. What about him?”
“He was a salesman here, and he got canned last week. Enoch knew I wanted to move into his spot, but he give it to Padgett instead.”
“Why?”
“The old”—Greene looked behind to be sure the other mechanics couldn’t hear—“the old bastard says I don’t got a good sales manner. Can you believe that crap?”
Enoch was probably right, I thought, but I did sympathize with Greene’s disappointment. Instead of clean work in a suit and tie, he was stuck here in the grease and dirt, breathing engine exhaust and gasoline fumes. “I think you’d make a fine salesman,” I said. “Hell, you managed to sell me on playing with you against the Cubs.”
Greene smiled at the vote of confidence and went back to work on the engine. “I’ll get another chance. Padgett spends more time in the office sparking with Doreen than he does on the lot. Can’t sell cars that way.”
“Why’d Whalen get fired?” I asked. I wondered if his poor performance against the Cubs had cost him his job.
“Nobody knows for sure. I expect he wasn’t selling as many cars as Enoch thought he should. Could you give me that screwdriver?”
I handed him the tool. “You told me most of the team works here.”
“They do.”
“How many of them are in the Klan?”
Greene froze for a moment. “I wouldn’t know. Membership in those kinds of groups is usually secret.” I knew he was familiar with “those kinds of groups.” In Chicago, during the war, he’d belonged to one of the “patriotic” vigilante organizations that targeted Socialists, pacifists, and those with German surnames.
“Can’t be much of a secret if it’s part of the company’s advertising,” I said. “I saw the sign outside.”
“That doesn’t mean much. Some people just like to do business with a fellow Klansman, same as a brother Elk or Mason.”
“So Roy Enoch is in the Klan.”
“He owns this place; the sign is his. That’s all I know.”
“Some folks think it was the Klan that killed Slip Crawford,” I said. “You hear anything about that?”
“Just that he got himself strung up.”
“You think it had anything to do with him beating us”—I hated being included among the “us”—“in that game?”
Greene pulled out a long bolt and put it on the fender with a clunk. “Over a baseball game?”
“There were Klansmen at the park that day. And maybe some on the team.”
“Don’t know about the ones outside the fence,” he said. “But no ballplayer is gonna kill another player for beating him in a game.” He mopped the back of his neck with the rag. “You know how it is: If a guy beats you, you want to beat him the next time. If you kill him, you don’t get the chance.”
Tater Greene made more sense than I’d expected. But I thought it over for a moment and realized that his line of reasoning applied to professional players like him and me. We had made baseball our lives and understood the nature of competition. Perhaps those who viewed the contest with the Cubs as a racial conflict instead of a sporting event didn’t have the sense that Greene had. “Anybody take the loss especially hard?” I asked.
“Not in particular. We were all down about it. Mostly from pride, but some lost money.”
“Was there a lot of betting?”
“Roy Enoch bet with some of the other semipro owners. And Ed Moss lost out on a fifty-buck bonus he was promised if we won.”
Maybe that’s why the manager pocketed the ten I’d passed up. “Moss work here, too?”
“Nah, he’s with the police—a desk sergeant.”
“Any of the players lose a lot of money?”
He shook his head. “To tell you the truth, none of us was certain enough we’d win to risk much money on the game. Them colored boys are good ballplayers, and we all know it. Wouldn’t have had to scout for
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