The Cincinnati Red Stalkings by Troy Soos Page B

them listen to opera. I also thought that Ambrose Whitaker didn’t look like he was having as much fun as he claimed. Perhaps after all those years in business, he had to learn how to enjoy himself. Maybe baseball. “You ever go to ball games anymore?” I asked.
    He shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ve lost interest.”
    “Well, if you’d ever like to, I’d be happy to get you tickets.” Right, Mickey, this man is probably a millionaire, and you’re offering him $1.50 seats.
    “I appreciate the offer, son.” A pleased smile etched deep creases in his face. “Who knows, maybe I’ll take you up on it someday.”
    On the bandstand, a singer began to screech her warm-ups. I thanked Whitaker for his time and said good-bye.

    I should have left for Redland Field, but decided I had time for a quick detour to the northwest corner of the zoo.
    Past a row of odd Japanese-styled structures that served as aviaries, was the Carnivora House, home to the zoo’s big cats. On the lawn near the building’s entrance was Margie, surrounded by about fifty children with attendant parents.
    She was dressed in the outfit that she’d worn most often in her movies: pith helmet, khaki shirt, jodhpurs, and high boots. A trainer held a bushy-maned male lion on a leash while Margie gave a talk on how lions lived in the wild, describing their diet, family life, and sleeping habits. It was only her second day on the job, but her performance was polished and natural.
    And she really came to life when the children started asking questions, fielding them with patience and charm. They asked everything from why didn’t the lion get a haircut to how did he get the title “King of the Jungle”—her answer to the latter question was, “Because he married the Queen of the Jungle.”
    I thought back to when Margie told me how happy I’d looked telling baseball stories to Patrick Kelly. She looked the same with these children. And suddenly the thought struck me that if I ever had children of my own, I’d want Margie to be their mother.
    Someday, maybe.

Chapter Ten

    A t first glance, I thought I’d entered the wrong building. The Public Library of Cincinnati and Hamilton County was constructed more like a theater auditorium than a library. It was mostly open space, with a wide central well that rose all the way from the ground floor to the roof of the four-story building. Books were shelved between the railings and sidewalls of an upper-level mezzanine that circled the well like a balcony section. There were no bookcases on the main floor, which was furnished only with reading tables, chairs, and benches.
    Not sure where to find what I was seeking, I approached a high desk next to the main entrance. Before I could say anything, the matronly woman seated behind it tapped her finger on a sign that had the single word Ladies on it. “This is the ladies’ circulation desk,” she said. I was tempted to reply that I wasn’t here to check out a lady. Pointing to an identical piece of furniture on the other side of the entrance, she added, “The men’s desk is over there.”
    “I just want to know where I would find old newspapers.”
    The librarian hesitated. Perhaps she wasn’t even supposed to speak to males. “The papers for the past week are on the tables in the back.” She gestured toward the rear of the room with a slight lift of her head.
    “I’m looking for 1869.”
    “Oh my. Those aren’t generally accessible. Ask Mr. Driscoll at the men’s desk. He might be able to help you.”
    I thanked her and crossed to the side of the room designated for my gender. Wait till I tell Margie about this, I thought. Separate circulation desks for men and women—the city fathers probably wanted to be sure that Cincinnati’s gentler sex wasn’t exposed to any materials that might be considered risqué. I had to stifle a laugh, imagining the poor librarian who tried to stop Margie from taking out any book she wanted.
    Of the two young males