He was about twenty-five, with a proud bearing that I was sure came from being head of such a fine family. His clothes were far from new but clean and neatly pressed. “Hey, good to see you again,” I said, offering my hand.
He shook it firmly. “Ah, yes,” he stammered, “good to see you, too.” His brow furrowed as he tried to remember me. He wasn’t going to succeed.
His pale wife gave me a shy smile, and I tipped my hat in greeting. I noticed the baby was wrapped in a blue blanket. “My but he’s getting big,” I said. She smiled more fully and tilted the infant so I could see him better. Tapping the man on his shoulder, I added, “Soon he’s gonna be as big as you.”
He lit up. “Yeah, he’s gonna be a strong one, all right.”
By the time we walked up the steps to the church door, he was telling me that he planned for his son to be a pitcher “like Big Ed Walsh.”
There were no guards at the door, no one checking the identity of those who entered. Whatever was going on at First Trinity Lutheran was neither secret nor exclusive. Not that I could see, anyway.
Still, having used this family to ease my way in, I wanted to minimize any possible trouble I might cause them. As soon as politeness would allow, I detached myself from them and strolled down a broad hallway, carrying my hat in hand. I tried to blend in, occasionally giving a familiar nod or a “How are you?” to people I’d never before met.
The tile hallway encircled the worship area of the church the way a corridor runs around the playing field of a ballpark to let people get to their seating sections. I looked in through the large open doorways. Instead of a green grass field were rows of varnished wooden pews. A large, plain wood cross took the place of a scoreboard. No services were under way, but a few pews were occupied by worshippers in solitary prayer or quiet contemplation—like pregame warm-ups.
Along the outer side of the hallway ran a series of smaller doors. All of them were open, and each led to a rapidly filling classroom.
A spindly, dark-haired young woman stepped from one of the rooms and placed her hand on the doorknob. After looking up and down the hall, she began to pull the door closed. This innocent act contrasted so sharply with the generally open atmosphere that it piqued my interest, and I quickly approached her.
She hesitated. “Were you coming in?” Her tone was surprised but hospitable.
I looked past her. The room was entirely filled with children. There was a piano, and many of the kids held violins and flutes. “Uh, no,” I said. “Wrong room.”
“Wrong church, if you ask me,” a deep voice behind me said.
The woman pulled the door shut and I turned around. A muscular blond man had me fixed in his glare. Something about him was familiar. “What do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded.
Caught. Not that I was caught really doing anything. “I was looking for Hans Fohl,” I said.
“And who’s Hans Fohl?”
I finally recognized the man. “You should know. You were with him outside Willie Kaiser’s house yesterday.” This was the fellow who’d said it was a “lucky shot” for somebody.
“You’re ...”
“Mickey Rawlings. Is Fohl here?”
The brittle screeching of violins came from behind the closed door.
He nodded. “Wait here. I’ll get him.” He started to walk away. Over his broad shoulder he added, “Wait right here.”
As soon as he was out of view, I disobeyed the instruction. I strode the length of the hallway, looking into as many of the rooms as I could. I saw nothing unusual and returned to the music room.
Hans Fohl soon approached me, alone, his footsteps slapping loudly on the tile floor. Fohl’s black hair glistened with something he’d applied in an attempt to slick it down, but it had sprung back up in spikes, giving him the appearance of an agitated porcupine. Like me, he was still attired in the dark suit he’d worn to Willie’s funeral.
He shook it firmly. “Ah, yes,” he stammered, “good to see you, too.” His brow furrowed as he tried to remember me. He wasn’t going to succeed.
His pale wife gave me a shy smile, and I tipped my hat in greeting. I noticed the baby was wrapped in a blue blanket. “My but he’s getting big,” I said. She smiled more fully and tilted the infant so I could see him better. Tapping the man on his shoulder, I added, “Soon he’s gonna be as big as you.”
He lit up. “Yeah, he’s gonna be a strong one, all right.”
By the time we walked up the steps to the church door, he was telling me that he planned for his son to be a pitcher “like Big Ed Walsh.”
There were no guards at the door, no one checking the identity of those who entered. Whatever was going on at First Trinity Lutheran was neither secret nor exclusive. Not that I could see, anyway.
Still, having used this family to ease my way in, I wanted to minimize any possible trouble I might cause them. As soon as politeness would allow, I detached myself from them and strolled down a broad hallway, carrying my hat in hand. I tried to blend in, occasionally giving a familiar nod or a “How are you?” to people I’d never before met.
The tile hallway encircled the worship area of the church the way a corridor runs around the playing field of a ballpark to let people get to their seating sections. I looked in through the large open doorways. Instead of a green grass field were rows of varnished wooden pews. A large, plain wood cross took the place of a scoreboard. No services were under way, but a few pews were occupied by worshippers in solitary prayer or quiet contemplation—like pregame warm-ups.
Along the outer side of the hallway ran a series of smaller doors. All of them were open, and each led to a rapidly filling classroom.
A spindly, dark-haired young woman stepped from one of the rooms and placed her hand on the doorknob. After looking up and down the hall, she began to pull the door closed. This innocent act contrasted so sharply with the generally open atmosphere that it piqued my interest, and I quickly approached her.
She hesitated. “Were you coming in?” Her tone was surprised but hospitable.
I looked past her. The room was entirely filled with children. There was a piano, and many of the kids held violins and flutes. “Uh, no,” I said. “Wrong room.”
“Wrong church, if you ask me,” a deep voice behind me said.
The woman pulled the door shut and I turned around. A muscular blond man had me fixed in his glare. Something about him was familiar. “What do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded.
Caught. Not that I was caught really doing anything. “I was looking for Hans Fohl,” I said.
“And who’s Hans Fohl?”
I finally recognized the man. “You should know. You were with him outside Willie Kaiser’s house yesterday.” This was the fellow who’d said it was a “lucky shot” for somebody.
“You’re ...”
“Mickey Rawlings. Is Fohl here?”
The brittle screeching of violins came from behind the closed door.
He nodded. “Wait here. I’ll get him.” He started to walk away. Over his broad shoulder he added, “Wait right here.”
As soon as he was out of view, I disobeyed the instruction. I strode the length of the hallway, looking into as many of the rooms as I could. I saw nothing unusual and returned to the music room.
Hans Fohl soon approached me, alone, his footsteps slapping loudly on the tile floor. Fohl’s black hair glistened with something he’d applied in an attempt to slick it down, but it had sprung back up in spikes, giving him the appearance of an agitated porcupine. Like me, he was still attired in the dark suit he’d worn to Willie’s funeral.
Similar Books
