could backfire on them if they got caught.”
“Oh. Well, I had another idea then.”
“I hope it’s better than the last one.”
Actually, I knew it was even more far-fetched, but I figured I’d tell him anyway. It wasn’t going to lower his opinion of me any. “What if it was Bartlett’s supporters who killed her? What if—”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, listen. What if they wanted her to end the affair with Bartlett so that he wouldn’t get caught. And she wouldn’t, so they killed her to put an end to it.”
“Oh for chrissake! Make up your mind. First she’s killed to expose the affair, then she’s killed to keep it quiet. Look: forget the political angle. You don’t know anything about it. I’ll look into Bartlett. You work on the baseball players and movie actors.” Then he must have remembered that I was doing him a favor this time, because he added in a gentler voice, “All right, Mickey?”
“Yeah, okay.” I was ready to hang up, then added, “Oh, one more thing, Karl. You know a reporter named William Murray?”
“William Murray.... I’ve heard the name. But I don’t know him personally. He used to be a theater critic, I think.”
“Do you know what he looks like?”
“No, never met him. Why?”
“Oh, no reason.”
“She’s a pretty girl, Mickey.”
“Who?”
“Marguerite Turner, of course. You, on the other hand, look like a gargoyle in that picture.”
“Oh. You saw . . .”
“Of course I saw it. We’re a newspaper; we get all the other papers, even the Public Examiner. Are you sweet on her?”
“She’s okay.” Margie Turner wasn’t a topic I wanted to discuss with Landfors. “Back to Bartlett though—”
That was something he didn’t want to discuss. “forget Bartlett,” he said with an exasperated sigh.
“Yeah, okay. I better go.”
Funny thing was, as I hung up, I did have another thought about James Bartlett. If he was having an affair with Florence Hampton, when and where did the two of them meet? Maybe at night, on a Coney Island beach.
At three o’clock in the afternoon, Christy Mathewson led us out of the center field clubhouse and onto the outfield grass of the Polo Grounds. The turf felt reassuring under my spikes, and in general I felt on firmer ground here. This was what I knew—the baseball field. Not movie studios or newspapers or political machines. I was at home here.
My teammates looked similarly happy to be back in the park, with the fiasco in Flatbush behind us.
Technically, this was also the home field of the Yankees; the American Leaguers had left Washington Heights at the end of the 1912 season, abandoning their old Hilltop Park on Broadway and 166th. Until they could build a new stadium, we were letting them share ours. The Yanks were just tenants though. The Polo Grounds was truly home to only the Giants.
It was a long trek from the clubhouse to the dugout. I’d seen ballparks that were square and ballparks that were round and some that were shaped like jigsaw puzzle pieces to fit into odd-shaped building lots, but the Polo Grounds was the only one I knew that was built like a bathtub. It was less than 300 feet down either foul line, and about a mile and a half to center field. I could barely make out the pitcher’s mound in the distance, and home plate wasn’t visible at all. What dominated the view in front of me was Coogan’s Bluff rising above the double-decked grandstand. Not only was the shape of the ballpark unique, so was its location: wedged between a cliff on one side and the Harlem River on the other.
It was baseball weather today--clear blue sky, temperature in the 70s, and a slight breeze blowing out to left field. As we moved closer to the infield, cheers and applause rippled through the early crowd that came to see batting practice. Bouyed by the home team fans and invigorated by the weather, my Giant teammates carried themselves like champions and I knew our slide in the standings was
“Oh. Well, I had another idea then.”
“I hope it’s better than the last one.”
Actually, I knew it was even more far-fetched, but I figured I’d tell him anyway. It wasn’t going to lower his opinion of me any. “What if it was Bartlett’s supporters who killed her? What if—”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, listen. What if they wanted her to end the affair with Bartlett so that he wouldn’t get caught. And she wouldn’t, so they killed her to put an end to it.”
“Oh for chrissake! Make up your mind. First she’s killed to expose the affair, then she’s killed to keep it quiet. Look: forget the political angle. You don’t know anything about it. I’ll look into Bartlett. You work on the baseball players and movie actors.” Then he must have remembered that I was doing him a favor this time, because he added in a gentler voice, “All right, Mickey?”
“Yeah, okay.” I was ready to hang up, then added, “Oh, one more thing, Karl. You know a reporter named William Murray?”
“William Murray.... I’ve heard the name. But I don’t know him personally. He used to be a theater critic, I think.”
“Do you know what he looks like?”
“No, never met him. Why?”
“Oh, no reason.”
“She’s a pretty girl, Mickey.”
“Who?”
“Marguerite Turner, of course. You, on the other hand, look like a gargoyle in that picture.”
“Oh. You saw . . .”
“Of course I saw it. We’re a newspaper; we get all the other papers, even the Public Examiner. Are you sweet on her?”
“She’s okay.” Margie Turner wasn’t a topic I wanted to discuss with Landfors. “Back to Bartlett though—”
That was something he didn’t want to discuss. “forget Bartlett,” he said with an exasperated sigh.
“Yeah, okay. I better go.”
Funny thing was, as I hung up, I did have another thought about James Bartlett. If he was having an affair with Florence Hampton, when and where did the two of them meet? Maybe at night, on a Coney Island beach.
At three o’clock in the afternoon, Christy Mathewson led us out of the center field clubhouse and onto the outfield grass of the Polo Grounds. The turf felt reassuring under my spikes, and in general I felt on firmer ground here. This was what I knew—the baseball field. Not movie studios or newspapers or political machines. I was at home here.
My teammates looked similarly happy to be back in the park, with the fiasco in Flatbush behind us.
Technically, this was also the home field of the Yankees; the American Leaguers had left Washington Heights at the end of the 1912 season, abandoning their old Hilltop Park on Broadway and 166th. Until they could build a new stadium, we were letting them share ours. The Yanks were just tenants though. The Polo Grounds was truly home to only the Giants.
It was a long trek from the clubhouse to the dugout. I’d seen ballparks that were square and ballparks that were round and some that were shaped like jigsaw puzzle pieces to fit into odd-shaped building lots, but the Polo Grounds was the only one I knew that was built like a bathtub. It was less than 300 feet down either foul line, and about a mile and a half to center field. I could barely make out the pitcher’s mound in the distance, and home plate wasn’t visible at all. What dominated the view in front of me was Coogan’s Bluff rising above the double-decked grandstand. Not only was the shape of the ballpark unique, so was its location: wedged between a cliff on one side and the Harlem River on the other.
It was baseball weather today--clear blue sky, temperature in the 70s, and a slight breeze blowing out to left field. As we moved closer to the infield, cheers and applause rippled through the early crowd that came to see batting practice. Bouyed by the home team fans and invigorated by the weather, my Giant teammates carried themselves like champions and I knew our slide in the standings was
Similar Books
