Free Murder at Wrigley Field by Troy Soos Page A

knee-high.
    “Feel. Soft as butter.”
    Fohl hesitated, then poked at one of the shoes. “Yes, very nice.”
    The little man grabbed Fohl’s arm and squinted up at him through tiny spectacles. “Bless you Henry Fohl. You’re a good man.”
    Fohl pulled away. “It’s okay. Don’t mention it.” He dismissed the man with a nod and ushered me back into the hallway. Fohl looked embarrassed.
    “Why’d he call you ‘Henry’?” I asked.
    “That’s my real name,” he answered with a shrug.
    “I thought it was Hans.”
    “That’s what I go by now.”
    Fohl was obviously uncomfortable. Maybe he realized how foolish it was. And he looked enough off balance that I thought I’d try to throw him further off.
    “Why did Willie come here last Saturday?” I asked point blank.
    He pulled up short. “What makes you think he was here?”
    I stared him in the eyes. “I know he was.”
    Fohl clenched his teeth so sharply that his jowls rippled. He ran a hand over his black hair, causing more of it to pop to attention. Then he decided to talk. “Yeah, okay, he was here. He wanted to know about the smoke bombs that day. And he warned us that the Knights were going to come after us.”
    “How would Willie know what the Knights were planning?”
    “He wouldn’t,” Fohl said with a shake of his head. “He just wanted us to keep low and not do anything. I think he was bluffing about the Knights. Needed something to try to scare us. Like we’re going to be scared of the Patriotic Knights of Liberty. Bunch of—”
    The big blond fellow lumbered down the hall toward us. Before he arrived, I quickly asked, “Did you plant the smoke bombs?”
    Fohl tried to laugh off the question. “Oh yeah, we had those kids smuggle them into Cubs Park in their violin cases.”
    “Hans, you done with this guy yet?” the blond asked.
    “I think so, Gus.” Fohl said. “Anything else on your mind?” he asked me.
    “No, not for now.”
    Gus asked me, “Where you from, anyway?”
    “Lake View,” I said.
    “No, no. Originally.”
    “Oh. New Jersey.”
    He gave a scowl that would have done Charles Weeghman proud. “Before that.”
    Now I caught on to what he meant. I chose to pretend that I didn’t. “I wasn’t anywhere before that. I’ve always been from New Jersey.” I like aggravating people who ask pointless questions.
    “Rawlings,” he growled. “That don’t sound German to me. If you ain’t German, you don’t belong here.”
    Actually, I did have a German grandfather, but I chose not to mention it. I didn’t need Hans and his friend to approve my background. It shouldn’t matter. Once you’re here, you’re American. It’s like a baseball team that way. Probably a simple way of thinking, but that’s the way I saw it. Although it might have been easy for me; without a deep sense of national identity of my own, I didn’t know how strong the ties of heritage or culture could be.
    Fohl put an end to Gus’s interrogation, and the two of them escorted me out of the church.
    I had the feeling I’d missed something. While I tried to figure out what it was, I strolled through Humbolt Park, enjoying the cool air and the smell of the greenery. Softly glowing gas lamps provided just enough light for me to see my way.
    Fohl wasn’t straight with me, I thought. Or maybe the classrooms were a little too innocent. Or perhaps because I agreed with what they seemed to be doing at the church there were things I’d chosen not to see. Something was missing.
    I emerged from the park on North Avenue and headed east. Near California Street was the Crystal Theatre, where I’d been sitting with Edna Chapman one week ago at this time. One very long week ago.
    In front of the theater, I caught a street car for Lake View. It wasn’t until the ride home that I realized what I hadn’t seen at First Trinity: young men. Other than Fohl and his friend Gus, everyone in the classrooms had been children, young ladies, or old folks.
    Where