Hanging Curve by Troy Soos Read Free Book Online Page B

slurping into his mouth. He would never die, I thought—someday he’d simply complete the gradual transformation from human to skeleton that he’d been undergoing ever since I met him ten years earlier. And he wouldn’t even need to be laid out; Karl’s pale, bony frame was already draped in the kind of severe black suit favored by corpses and undertakers.
    “You’re looking good,” I lied. “What have you been up to?”
    “A little bit of everything,” he said. “You know me—there’s always a windmill somewhere in need of someone to tilt at it.”
    I certainly did know him. Karl, a muckraking journalist and diehard Socialist, championed just about every Progressive cause that came along, especially the hopeless ones. And he’d gotten me involved in more than one of them.
    A mustachioed waiter came by, holding a straw-shrouded bottle. “More grape juice?” he asked in a thick Italian accent.
    Karl nodded, and the waiter filled Margie’s and Karl’s wineglasses with Chianti. The “grape juice” pretense was the restaurant’s only acknowledgment of the Volstead Act. Here, in the Little Italy section of downtown St. Louis near Columbus Square, Prohibition was paid little serious attention—just as in most American cities.
    The waiter turned to me. “Another root beer?”
    I said, “Please,” and he soon brought me a fresh lager.
    Margie asked Karl, “Have you written anything lately?”
    “I have a piece coming out in the next American Mercury.” Karl pushed his black, horn-rimmed spectacles higher on his long nose. With his balding scalp, sunken eyes, and pinched cheeks, the nose and glasses were the only things that kept people from mistaking him for a skull. “It’s on the need for antilynching legislation.”
    “I’ll look forward to reading it,” Margie said.
    I was aware that the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People was trying to get a federal antilynching bill enacted, but didn’t know that Karl had taken up the issue. “Will they pass the law, you think?”
    He sipped his wine and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I’d like to believe so. It’s finally through the House of Representatives. But the Senate will be quite a challenge. Those Southern senators ...” He shook his head. “In any event, I’ve been trying to get state legislatures to endorse the bill. It appears that Massachusetts will pass a resolution of support next week.”
    Margie asked, “What brings you to Missouri?”
    “I’ll be doing some work with Congressman Dyer’s staff.” The St. Louis representative, I knew, was the antilynching bill’s chief sponsor. “And with a friend of mine,” Karl added, “a lawyer who works with the NAACP.”
    “What about the Sacco and Vanzetti appeal?” I asked. “And unionizing coal miners?” Those had been his most recent projects.
    “Those battles are all secondary to this one. There is no benefit to having the right to vote or speak or assemble if you are not alive to enjoy them.” He waved his fork, dripping tomato sauce on the tablecloth. “The Declaration of Independence says ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.’ And it’s in that order—life comes first. Without that unalienable right there can be no others.”
    With Karl Landfors, dinner-table conversation often turned into speechmaking.
    He appeared to notice it himself. Karl put down his fork, and asked, “How are you two enjoying St. Louis?”
    Margie and I exchanged looks. She spoke up first. “We’re still getting settled. Mickey’s been out of town for most of the time we’ve lived here. And I’m going to be looking for a job—or maybe school. I’m thinking about nursing school.”
    She hadn’t mentioned that to me. The last I’d heard, Margie was interested in becoming a horse trainer.
    It was my turn to report. “I’m doing all right. The Browns are a good team—may go all the way.” I smiled. “And I’m leading the team in hitting, believe it or