Hunting a Detroit Tiger Read Online Free PDF Page A

the damn White Sox sell out to gamblers.”
    “That’s not true!”
    “It ain’t been proved yet, but everybody knows it.”
    I felt a heavy sadness. I’d heard the rumors, too, that the 1919 World Series hadn’t been on the level. But I didn’t want to believe it.
    I’d noticed that Donner had never asked for my views on organized labor. I don’t think it mattered to him. And I wasn’t going to volunteer my opinions—especially since I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about the union issue.
    Lunch finished, Donner lounged back in his seat and folded his hands over his belly.
    “Thanks for the meal,” I said. “But I really don’t want to get involved with this union business one way or the other. What the papers said about the other night was a mistake. I just want to clear it up and forget it.”
    “Sorry to hear that,” said Donner without a note of sorrow in his voice. “Mr. Navin’s gonna be disappointed.”
    I let the implied threat pass. “The season’s starting, and I got to concentrate on baseball.” I held up my bandaged wrist. “Got to get this thing healed and get back in shape. If I’m playing lousy, I’m off the team and no help to Navin anyway.”
    “Very well,” said Donner. “I’ll pass that along—to your boss. I think you’ll change your mind soon.”
    I forced a smile. “I’ll let you know if I do.”
    Donner returned a grin as devoid of sincerity as mine.

Chapter Four
    A hundred times in the last year and a half, I’d suffered through a recurring nightmare: I was back on the battlefield, standing alone above a muddy trench full of German soldiers, firing down on them with my Springfield rifle. The dream never varied. In it, I never noticed until I started shooting that my targets, although dressed in the uniform of the Kaiser’s army, were merely unarmed boys playing soldier. And once I began firing, I couldn’t stop—every time I attempted to pull my finger off the trigger, the weapon would go off, putting another bullet in another boy. The rifle never ran out of ammunition, and I could never pull myself out of the dream, until all of the boys were lying dead in a bloody heap.
    I was aware that I was having the dream again, but something was wrong about it—something was different. I wasn’t shooting at kids dressed like soldiers this time. My targets huddled in the trench were white-haired men in old-fashioned baseball uniforms—all of them looking like Emmett Siever. Something else was different, too: I was waking out of it while some were still alive.
    The telephone rang again and I realized why my dream had come to a merciful end. I stumbled from my bedroom to the dark parlor, rushing to pick up the receiver.
    “Mickey Rawlings?” The voice was muffled, as if the speaker was gagged or holding a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.
    I paused to let the last vestige of sleep drain from my head. “Yeah, this is me.”
    “Saw you with your pal Hub Donner yesterday. Guess we know which side you’re really on.”
    The struggle to both distinguish the words and comprehend their meaning was too much for me. “What are you talking about?”
    “Now we know why you killed Emmett Siever.”
    “I didn’t—Who is this?”
    “A friend of Siever’s. You’re gonna find out he had a lot of friends.”
    “But wha—”
    “And we’re not gonna let you get away with his murder.” The caller made an effort to be sure his next words came through clearly. “The cops may have let you off the hook, but we won’t. His death will be avenged.”
    Although it seemed futile to explain myself to an unknown voice on the telephone, I said, “I didn’t kill Emmett Siever, and I barely know Hub Donner.”
    “Whatever Donner paid you, it wasn’t worth it. We’re gonna throw you from the train.” Then there was a click as he hung up.
    I collected myself enough to be sure that this call was no dream. But who in real life threatens to throw you from a train? That seemed an odd