Libby Hill
Richmond, VA
July 30th, 1901
Preston Kirby knocked softly on the door to Michael Monroe’s office, answered by a gruff and distracted “Enter.” Monroe’s gaunt clerk followed Kirby with a withering squint as the General Manager opened the oak door and proceeded into the suite of the illustrious tobacco magnate.
“Ah, Mister Kirby.”
Monroe sat at his large, ornate desk, the beautiful expanse of Libby Hill reaching out behind the wide-windowed grandstand office. The dark industry of Richmond loomed over the meandering pattern of the James River out the eastern expanse of the panorama, with a host of flat-bottom boats pushing along like lines of insects along a great chain.
Kirby held his hat in his hands, nodding his head to the old man. Monroe had set several large papers in neat columns across his desk, all stamped in dark, maroon wax as if dispatched by an Arthurian king.
“I am told we have yet to secure a single Free Agent in the current feud,” Monroe said, still hovering over his letters, not bothering to look up at Kirby, who cleared his throat and spun his round hat in both hands.
“Caution, I think—is best in these times, Mister Monroe. It’s why I requested this meeting, as a matter of fact.”
“Be brief,” Monroe answered distantly, producing a magnifying glass from his drawer and reviewing each line of every letter as if examining an ancient text. An altogether peculiar thing. Kirby nodded.
“The Player’s Union,” Kirby began, clearing his throat and speaking louder, quite conscious of his simple, inland accent in contrast to the rolling refinement of Monroe’s. “their demands—terms, if you will, sir, are, well—potentially disastrous for the teams who have dedicated considerable capital to the market this summer.”
Unable to conceal a pleased, predatory smile—like a cat who has satiated itself on field mice and reclined into a barnyard corner—Monroe set his magnifying glass down and drew his watery gaze to Preston Kirby.
“Why then, Mister Kirby, we are especially fortunate.”
“Sir?”
“Let them feast, Mister Kirby. And when the hogs are fatted, it is Richmond who shall take the choice cuts.”
Kirby shook his head.
“Mister Monroe, I do not think I have properly conveyed the problem. If an influential club like ours does not negotiate with the Union to decrease their outrageous arbitration demands, the financial ramifications–”
“There is no Player’s Union, Mister Kirby. And I expressly forbid you to negotiate with Thomas Hershey and his insidious band of miscreants in any way.” Monroe’s tone turned harsh, his furrowed gaze and glowered at Preston Kirby. “The bylaws of this league may prevent me from firing you—but there are other ways of persuading one to leave Richmond, Virginia.”
Nodding obediently, Kirby looked to the floor.
“Of course, Mister Monroe. I merely considered it my responsibility to keep you informed.”
“Consider me informed, Mister Kirby.” The procedural nature of Monroe’s voice returned—a rapid transition from such fumigated anger—and Kirby nodded again. “You will go to New York early. My clerk has your train tickets ready. You will learn what you can about the inclinations of the other General Managers. And you will take these–” Monroe gathered his carefully reviewed papers and slid them each into a portfolio–“to the federal building in Manhattan. Deliver them to the clerk of Senator Platt.”
Kirby took the envelope, a tilted expression, but he knew better than to question the old magnate and simply nodded and stepped away.
“As you say, sir.”
When Kirby was free of the offices of Libby Hill, he walked the winding path down to the street below, t he late morning glow of the James River just barely visible beyond the traffic and trees. He looked down to the portfolio, a working jaw, and resisted the urge to open it—as he suspected it wasn’t beneath the old bastard to fashion it with some sort of tamper-proof contraption.
Frustrated, Kirby picked up his pace, checking his pocketwatch. He would need to catch the trolley if he was to say goodbye to his wife before departing. However, what truly frustrated the General Manager was not the tone or reprimand of his employer—for this had been anticipated, designed, and executed by Kirby in careful measure. Monroe had reacted accordingly, precisely as Kirby expected, but that did not make his next task any more palatable. He frowned, holding the portfolio tighter and lifting his hat to wipe his brow in the heavy July heat. For the next stage of his plan, he was forced to send a telegram to a man whose company made him nearly as nauseous as Michael Monroe’s.
So Kirby stopped at the nearest Western Union office, setting the mysterious portfolio under his arm to jot a brief but considerable message to Landon Kerr of the Brooklyn Whales–his bitter cross-divisional rival and enemy in the north. A sacrifice bunt.
He handed the written message like a death note to the clerk, his frown widening, and sped out of the office—his work, for the day, now complete.