then stuck another cigarette in his mouth and lit up.
“It wasn’t a cigarette hole,” I said. “Anyway, just thought you might want to consider it.”
“Consider it?” Forsch’s eyes narrowed. “I got to answer to Lloyd Tinsley, I’m getting pressure from Garry Herrmann’s pals upstairs, and now I got a goddamn ballplayer—and a lousy one at that—telling me how to do an investigation?”
At least now I knew why Forsch had been so hostile to me: my bosses were giving him a hard time, so he was going to give some of it back to one of their employees. I said calmly, “It was just something I noticed, and I thought I should report it to you.”
“Fine, fine. Never mind.” As a peace offering he asked, “Cigarette?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, I appreciate you coming in, and I assure you: we are doing everything we can. Today we’re rounding up anybody with a record for burglary or armed robbery, and they’re all gonna get a thorough questioning. It ain’t like this is a case of a couple roustabouts on the docks killing each other over a bad batch of hooch. There’s important people interested in it getting solved. And if I wasn’t doing a good job, Garry Herrmann would have me walking a beat with Jimmy there.”
Like a dog, the uniformed cop perked up at the sound of his name.
“Herrmann could do that?” I asked.
The cigarette in Forsch’s lips jiggled as he let out a laugh. He tilted back in his chair and took a long drag. “You’re new to the city, aren’t you?”
“Only been here a few months.”
“Ever hear of Boss Cox?”
“Of course.” Cox had been one of the most notorious political bosses in the country. “He pretty much ran Cincinnati. Died a few years ago, though, didn’t he?”
“Ran all of Hamilton County. For thirty years. And yes, he’s dead—but not his organization.” Forsch’s chair clacked on the floor as he let the front legs down. “You know how Garry Herrmann became president of the Reds?”
“Bought the team?” I ventured.
Forsch shook his head. “Herrmann was one of Cox’s lieutenants.” He took another drag and let the smoke out slowly. “In 1902, John Brush was the owner of the Reds. He opened a new ballpark—the Palace of the Fans—and it was a big hit with the folks around here. Boss Cox took such a liking to it that he decided to buy the team. When Brush refused to sell, Cox threatened to run a street right through the middle of his nice new park—and he would have, too. Brush changed his mind and Cox, Herrmann, and Max and Julius Fleischmann—of the yeast and gin family—took over the club. And they appointed Garry Herrmann president.”
“Jeez.” I knew that most owners were of the robber-baron mold, but I’d never heard of tactics as outrageous as this.
“So I can assure you Mr. Herrmann will be very pleased with our efforts to solve this case.”
With that assurance, I left for the ballpark.
Before I got to Redland Field, though, I wasn’t so certain that Forsch’s primary interest was in solving the case. His efforts seemed intended more for show than for results— there’d been all those cops standing around the office yesterday, and he was planning mass roundups for today. I had the feeling it was a higher priority for Forsch to impress Garry Herrmann and his political cronies than to get justice for Oliver Perriman.
Chapter Six
B eautiful day for a funeral, I thought.
The sky was high and clear, the air drier and cooler than it had been in weeks, and the scent of fresh-mown grass wafted about Redland Field making it smell like a garden. Red-white-and-blue bunting dripped from the front-row railings of the grandstand and streamers of the same colors ran along the top of the outfield fence. In left-center, the American flag billowed freely, no longer in the grip of the oppressive humidity that had been smothering the city.
This was Saturday, July 2, the start of the Independence Day weekend. The Reds players were
“It wasn’t a cigarette hole,” I said. “Anyway, just thought you might want to consider it.”
“Consider it?” Forsch’s eyes narrowed. “I got to answer to Lloyd Tinsley, I’m getting pressure from Garry Herrmann’s pals upstairs, and now I got a goddamn ballplayer—and a lousy one at that—telling me how to do an investigation?”
At least now I knew why Forsch had been so hostile to me: my bosses were giving him a hard time, so he was going to give some of it back to one of their employees. I said calmly, “It was just something I noticed, and I thought I should report it to you.”
“Fine, fine. Never mind.” As a peace offering he asked, “Cigarette?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, I appreciate you coming in, and I assure you: we are doing everything we can. Today we’re rounding up anybody with a record for burglary or armed robbery, and they’re all gonna get a thorough questioning. It ain’t like this is a case of a couple roustabouts on the docks killing each other over a bad batch of hooch. There’s important people interested in it getting solved. And if I wasn’t doing a good job, Garry Herrmann would have me walking a beat with Jimmy there.”
Like a dog, the uniformed cop perked up at the sound of his name.
“Herrmann could do that?” I asked.
The cigarette in Forsch’s lips jiggled as he let out a laugh. He tilted back in his chair and took a long drag. “You’re new to the city, aren’t you?”
“Only been here a few months.”
“Ever hear of Boss Cox?”
“Of course.” Cox had been one of the most notorious political bosses in the country. “He pretty much ran Cincinnati. Died a few years ago, though, didn’t he?”
“Ran all of Hamilton County. For thirty years. And yes, he’s dead—but not his organization.” Forsch’s chair clacked on the floor as he let the front legs down. “You know how Garry Herrmann became president of the Reds?”
“Bought the team?” I ventured.
Forsch shook his head. “Herrmann was one of Cox’s lieutenants.” He took another drag and let the smoke out slowly. “In 1902, John Brush was the owner of the Reds. He opened a new ballpark—the Palace of the Fans—and it was a big hit with the folks around here. Boss Cox took such a liking to it that he decided to buy the team. When Brush refused to sell, Cox threatened to run a street right through the middle of his nice new park—and he would have, too. Brush changed his mind and Cox, Herrmann, and Max and Julius Fleischmann—of the yeast and gin family—took over the club. And they appointed Garry Herrmann president.”
“Jeez.” I knew that most owners were of the robber-baron mold, but I’d never heard of tactics as outrageous as this.
“So I can assure you Mr. Herrmann will be very pleased with our efforts to solve this case.”
With that assurance, I left for the ballpark.
Before I got to Redland Field, though, I wasn’t so certain that Forsch’s primary interest was in solving the case. His efforts seemed intended more for show than for results— there’d been all those cops standing around the office yesterday, and he was planning mass roundups for today. I had the feeling it was a higher priority for Forsch to impress Garry Herrmann and his political cronies than to get justice for Oliver Perriman.
Chapter Six
B eautiful day for a funeral, I thought.
The sky was high and clear, the air drier and cooler than it had been in weeks, and the scent of fresh-mown grass wafted about Redland Field making it smell like a garden. Red-white-and-blue bunting dripped from the front-row railings of the grandstand and streamers of the same colors ran along the top of the outfield fence. In left-center, the American flag billowed freely, no longer in the grip of the oppressive humidity that had been smothering the city.
This was Saturday, July 2, the start of the Independence Day weekend. The Reds players were
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