The Babe Ruth Deception (15 page)

“And”—Joshua placed his cup down—“we got to get going. Off for Saratoga tomorrow to start the big changes, remake that business.” He made to stand up. “Cecil, why don't you warm up the car. I'll be down in a sec.”

After Cecil left, Joshua reached over and took Violet's hands. “We'll be up there maybe four days, maybe five. Not more than that. You'll be okay getting ready for Montreal?”

She nodded. “Sure. You go off for the racing season with all the rich people and I'll scrub down the kitchen. Maybe go back to the library and find something to improve my mind even more.”

“Not even more! I'll never catch up.” When she didn't smile, he leaned over to look into her face. “If I'm going to sell this business, I have to go where the big shots hang out. We'll have our meetings, figure out the best deal we can get, then I'll head out and meet you in Montreal. Then it's next stop, London.”

They stood and met in an embrace. “We shouldn't have to live like this,” she said. “Nervous. Hidden away.”

“Not much longer. In September—you can write this down—in September we'll be in London, with a new life. Our life together. A better one. It's going to happen. I promise you.”

“And the captain will marry us on the ship?”

“He will, or he'll answer to me.”

They looked at each other some more. They were out of words. He was out of promises. He kissed her again and left.

* * *

The dark bar of the Jubilee Club was quiet, the only noise the ballad being sung by the crooner in the next room. Babe, a straight-up Manhattan in front of him, was feeling tip-top. Nothing like banging out two home runs against the first-place Indians to pick up a fellow's spirits. He'd been on championship clubs before and this Yankee squad was starting to get that feel, that strut. They thought they were good and, hell, they were good. Only a couple of games back in the standings. He thought they'd run down those Indians sooner or later and knock them off. So did the other guys.

He wasn't sure what time it was, but that was definitely the third show of the night in the next room. As soon as it ended, it would be time for that cute blond number in the chorus. He was looking forward to the next part of the evening.

“Babe,” a large man said as he straddled the stool next to him. He called to the bartender for a double bourbon. Babe was as convivial as the next guy, maybe more so, but this guy could've taken a stool a little farther down the bar. Just give them both a little space, you know, especially when you're big, like both of them were. Glancing out the corner of his eye, Babe thought the guy looked familiar. This time of night, a lot of guys look familiar.

“Remember me?” the man said.

Babe shrugged.

“We met in Shreveport, spring training. John Slaughter.” John Slaughter extended his hand.

Babe didn't move a muscle. He remembered this son of a bitch. “Ain't that someone calling you from the other room?” He turned back to his drink.

“So it's like that.”

“What'd you expect, you start trying to mess up a man's life, his livelihood? You and that prick commissioner.” Babe finished the drink and signaled for another. Damn. He'd been in a good mood.

“You know, Babe, we're just protecting you, protecting all the ballplayers. You know, the integrity of the game.”

“Listen, you dumb-ass sonofabitch. Who do you think pays your salary to run around the country ‘protecting the integrity of the game'? Me”—Babe thumped himself in the chest—“little old me, the man who puts those rear ends in the seats. So where the hell do you get off investigating me? Aren't you satisfied with screwing those eight saps out in Chicago?”

Slaughter looked into the mirror over the bar like it might hold the answer to Babe's tirade. He threw back his drink. Babe could feel how good it would be to give this guy a quick shot to the kisser. That's what the old man always said. Get the first punch in. Then the rest is easy. But this guy wasn't worth it, and hitting a cop was always a dumb move, even if he was a funny sort of half cop. Babe didn't need Slaughter to get even more interested in investigating him. “Hey, pal, there's that voice again, the one in the next room, calling you.” Babe said. “You need to leave.”

The big man looked back at Babe. His face was like stone. “First, I came here to tell you something. Something that may surprise you.”

“Great. Surprise me.”

Slaughter pulled out one side of his suit coat to show folded up papers in the inside pocket. “See these? They're blank subpoenas. You know what they are?”

“Sure. Everyone does. Something legal.”

“I can use them to get records, papers, any damned thing I ask for from anybody I want. All I got to do is fill in the names. Judge Landis, he's a shrewd bastard. Made some kind of deal with the local prosecutor here, guy who's running for election now. You know him?”

Babe grunted. He'd probably met the guy, but he had better things to do than follow all the goddamned lowlife politicians in the world.

“Well, the judge, he wants me to use these to find dirt, dirt on that 1918 World Series of yours.”

“I didn't do nothing wrong with that Series. We won the sucker, you know.” The bartender delivered his drink. It glowed in the bar's half-light, tawny with promise. Babe let it sit on the bar. He needed to listen, maybe think.

“We just go where the evidence leads us, Babe. There's a few things I'm gonna need to figure out.”

“So?”

“So, if you know about something laying around, something you don't want me to see . . . Well, now you know I'm gonna come looking.”

It was Babe's turn to look into the bar mirror. He looked back at Slaughter's dead features. “Why you telling me this?”

“Maybe you're not the only one who thinks those eight saps in Chicago got screwed.” Slaughter reached for his wallet while he slid off his stool.

Babe put his hand out. “On my tab.”

“I pay my own way,” Slaughter said.

Babe watched him walk out. His stomach didn't feel right. That goddamned paper that Rothstein had. He was going to have to take care of that. He thought about that Speed Cook guy. Maybe he could take care of it.

Then the blond number came sashaying in wearing a silver dress. Just looking at how she moved, Babe's stomach stopped bothering him.

B
abe was with a tall, well-dressed man as he approached Cook in the Ansonia's lobby. He looked more than a bit off his feed.

“Late night?” Cook asked.

“Don't ask,” came the muttered reply.

The well-dressed man nodded at Cook. “Christy Walsh,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Babe said. He worked a toothpick into his rear molars, then looked at the toothpick to gauge his success. “Christy helps with business stuff. He and Ruppert, you know, they talk the same lingo.” He waved the toothpick vaguely. “Let's get this show on the road.”

On the sidewalk, a shiny doorman held out a key for Babe while Walsh let out a low whistle. A cream-colored coupe with black trim sat at the curb. Its top down, the roadster sparkled in the sunlight. Walsh stepped slowly down the car's length, stopping to touch the winged hood ornament.

“I've heard about the Duesenberg,” Walsh said. “She's something else. Smart how they made it so you need a key to start it. It'd be a hell of a temptation to hop into this baby and find some empty road.”

Babe beamed at the car. A fat stogie had replaced the toothpick in his hand. “Brand new—on loan for as long as I want. Pile in and lemme show you what she can do. It's a straight eight, power coming out of its ears.”

Cook had mixed feelings as he folded himself into the backseat. He'd heard about Ruth's driving. Wrecks and cops followed him like fire dogs.

As they pulled into traffic, Walsh started in. “Babe, you need to tell me why we're doing this. Colonel Ruppert's got no reason to get into this Black Sox business, not with Judge Landis hogging the limelight on it. You can't win with that man. You know what happens when you wrestle with a pig?”

Ruth didn't look over.

“You get filthy,” Walsh said, “and the pig has fun.” He leaned closer to Babe. “We should be saving all our chits with Ruppert to get you more money, juice up your income. Any time we ask for a favor like this, he's gonna turn that against you when we go in on your salary.”

“Listen,” Babe called while swerving onto Seventy-ninth Street, headed east, “this has got to get taken care of. That's my last word. Now you need to listen to this man.” He nodded toward the rear seat, then resumed weaving between delivery wagons, trucks, cars, and people. He hit the horn to punish an indecisive driver. He laughed out loud. “Jesus, great car, ain't it?”

Walsh raised an eyebrow over his shoulder.

“First,” Cook started, “we're asking Ruppert to do something that's actually in his interest, not against it. Nothing should be more important to him than protecting Babe. Babe is baseball, pure and simple, certainly for the Yanks. Second, this is real important for Babe. That investigation by the commissioner needs to stop. If it goes on and on, that could end up costing him lots of money, not to mention peace of mind. And what's important for Babe should be important for Ruppert.”

“How's it important to Babe? Not that old stuff about the 1918 Series? He and the Sox won the damned Series.”

“Stop thinking so much!” Babe shouted without removing the cigar from his mouth. He plunged the Duesenberg into the twisty road through Central Park. “We need to get these guys off my back. Play it the way the man here says.”

Looking exasperated, Walsh called over, “But I still don't get it.”

“You don't need to, kid.”

* * *

The Ruppert mansion glowered from the corner of Ninety-third and Fifth, an ill-tempered pile of mismatched Gothic gewgaws hemmed in with ornamental ironwork and topped with a weird corner spire. Just looking at it made Cook uncomfortable. What kind of person would build that monstrosity, or choose to live in it? Come to think of it, either might be better than living across the street and having to look at it every day.

Babe left the Duesenberg at a
NO PARKING
sign and led them up the front steps. A tuxedoed servant deposited them in a rear room, fusty and cluttered with bookcases.

Babe dropped into one of the wingback chairs that flanked a massive fireplace. Cook and Walsh drifted along the shelves, which held gleaming beer steins made of ceramic and pewter. A few glass steins sparkled with inlaid patterns of delicate silver filigree. Walsh stopped at a glass-covered case of porcelains and jade, while Cook lingered over a scale model of a baseball stadium that stood on a corner table.

“You have found my pride and joy!” A medium-sized man entered. In a trim three-piece suit with a compact bow tie and slicked-back hair, Ruppert was all aerodynamic efficiency. “We may have to put it in the godforsaken Bronx, but that still qualifies as New York City. The New York Yankees—Babe Ruth's Yankees—must have their own home, a stadium built for baseball. Not that foolish Polo Grounds.”

Cook extended his hand and gave his name. Ruppert reciprocated, with a crisp bow from the waist but ignored Cook's hand. He took the chair that faced Babe and pulled out cigars for both of them. “It's a beautiful morning for a cigar, is it not?”

Ruppert and Ruth enacted the rituals of tip-clipping, match-striking, and savoring the first puffs. Babe blew three smoke rings, close to perfect ones. “At least no one's made cigars illegal yet,” he said with a big smile.

Ruppert rose to the bait. “Ach, this liquor law is such madness, madness I say, and I say it until my face is blue. Trying to stand between Americans and a product as full of nutrition as beer. Why, without beer this country might never have been founded. The settlers, the pioneers, they drank beer to stay alive. The water was terrible, like poison!”

“I still feel that way,” Walsh put in with a smile. He and Cook had settled on a stiff couch that faced the fireplace. “Who knows what's in the water? Especially in this town.”

“Exactly. That is exactly my point. This country must come to its senses. And, my God, no one wants to drink this near beer. Have you tried it?”

Ruth offered a grunt and a look of disgust.

“Colonel,” Walsh said, “I thought you were shifting your brewery over to other products. How's that going?”

“Hopeless. Utterly hopeless.” Ruppert held his hands out in mock surrender. “The workers, they cannot figure out anything that does not ferment. Then it involves a whole new system of shipping, often to very different stores. It is a nightmare.”

“I heard,” Walsh said, “I heard some brewers are looking to make malt syrup and then sell that. The theory is that, hey, if the malt syrup happens to end up in the hands of bootleggers who make beer from it, how could the brewers be expected to know what they were going to do with it? Seems like maybe that's legal.”

Ruppert, abandoning his broad gestures, offered his first smile of the conversation. “You are well informed. It is an interesting idea. Very interesting. We are looking into it.” He turned. “Well, Babe, what brings you here with such a distinguished delegation?” He gestured with his cigar at Cook. “Don't tell me—you're considering a jump to the colored leagues, eh? The Lincoln Giants have the need of an outfielder?”

Ruth and Walsh laughed at the gibe. To Cook's taste, they laughed a bit too much. When the hilarity subsided, Ruppert put the cigar back in his mouth. “Time is money. Who's speaking for you here?”

Babe pointed to Cook. Cook made the pitch the way he planned to, laying out why everyone's interests would be served if Judge Landis kept his nose the hell out of the 1918 Series. Investigating beyond the Black Sox would be bad for the game, bad for the Yanks, bad for the Babe. Most of all, bad for Colonel Ruppert.

Ruppert heard him out, then took a long, luxurious pull on his cigar. He blew the smoke skyward with gusto, then shrugged. “You know, Mr.—” He arched his eyebrows.

“Cook. Speedwell Cook.”

“It would be an acute pleasure—a schadenfreude
,
if you know the German word—to watch Judge Landis strip Harry Frazee and the Red Sox of that championship of 1918. It would serve that silly bounder right. He's certainly got it coming. He has no more business owning a ball club than does . . .” Ruppert started to gesture toward Cook, but the movement stalled out in midair. “The man in the moon.”

“But look who also would get hurt,” Cook said, ignoring Ruppert's gesture. “The game can't take it, nor can the Yankees. That new stadium, I'm afraid it might just go poof.” Cook spread his fingers to pantomime an explosion.

“But the Babe didn't throw that Series,” Ruppert objected. “The Red Sox won.”

“Colonel”—Cook leaned forward—“there's more to this story, which I can describe only in the strictest confidence.” Cook waited a few beats. When Ruppert said nothing, Cook picked up again. “Babe's in hock to the guys who . . . guys who have been fingered as fixing the Series with the White Sox in 1919. Babe had nothing to do with fixing any Series, of course, so his debt hasn't come to light in the Black Sox mess. But if Landis keeps going after whether the other Series was fixed, and there's anything to it, those same men are certainly the ones who did it. It's what they do. That makes it a real risk that the Babe's connection to these people will come up. Even if he had nothing to do with the Series, no one's going to notice that. You can see the headlines:
B
ABE IN
C
AHOOTS WITH
G
AMBLERS
!
And that, Colonel, wouldn't be good for anyone.”

Ruppert gave Cook a flat look. “I take it that this debt isn't just a few bucks.”

“We wouldn't be here if it was.”

“What was it for?” Ruppert looked back at Ruth. So did Cook. He thought he knew, but it was up to Ruth to say.

“It's a private matter,” Babe said in a low voice. “There's other people involved.”

Ruppert sank back in his chair. “My, that's certainly intriguing,” he said, staring into the cold fireplace. He turned back. “Mr. Cook, how do you come to be involved in this? A suspicious man might even think you were acting on behalf of those mysterious fellows who fixed the Series. Or were somehow involved in this mysterious debt.”

Babe guffawed. “A jig like him? You don't know those guys if you think they'd send him to handle this.”

Ruppert took a deep breath. “Babe, it's no secret that it's hard to do anything about Hizzoner Judge Landis. That man is full of himself and getting fuller all the time. We can't fire him. I can't even say bad words about him in public. That's in his blasted contract!” He turned to Walsh. “Did you see he's making Charlie Stoneham of the Giants sell the racetrack he just bought. Making him sell it outright!” Walsh shook his head in shared dismay.

“Colonel,” Cook said, “even Judge Landis has to recognize that the Babe's different. He's the whole game right now. You know that. Look at how the newspapers are following his home run totals. Will he hit sixty? Seventy? A hundred? No one in baseball can afford to have his reputation at risk. Even Landis has to appreciate that.”

The room grew silent again. The silence expanded. Ruppert stood. “I will look for a way. I will be in Chicago with the judge soon. But I make no promises. He is a tough nut. And I want you to understand that if he takes the bait and does what we want, we may pay a hell of a price for that down the road. The next time he has the chance, he may unload on the Babe or the Yankees. The judge, let me assure you, is a man who enjoys holding grudges. They give him a reason to get out of bed in the morning.”

Ruppert shook hands with Ruth and nodded at Cook. He asked Walsh to stay behind to discuss another matter. The other two walked down the front hall and out to the street.

Babe, donning his hat, wheeled on Cook. “You don't like this,” he said. “I could hear it in your voice.”

“Don't like what?”

“Any part of this, this situation.” Babe waved his hand. His broad face showed confusion. “Listen, you were a ballplayer. I heard you were pretty good. You should know. It's the greatest game in the world. There's a million ways to win and a million ways to lose. You play with everything—your arms, your legs, your head. When you got the hitter facing the pitcher, both looking for that edge, trying to figure out what the other guy thinks his edge is, what the other guy thinks you think his edge is, fielders trying to figure out where to be, base runners dancing. . . Jesus, it never gets old.”

“The ballplayers do,” Cook said. He jammed his left hand into his pants pocket. It had hurt like blazes all morning.

“I'm talking about baseball, about what happens when bums like Rothstein and Attell and Judge Landis, who don't know nothing about the game, and they . . . they take a crap all over it. You don't want to touch it when they're done.” He looked directly into Cook's eyes. “They make it their game, and if you want to play baseball you've got only one choice—you play their game.”

“Don't break my heart, Babe. They threw me out of that wonderful game of yours because my skin is dark.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard. Some guys, you know . . .” He shook his head and looked off toward the park on the other side of the avenue. “Walsh tells me just to shut up and hit homers.”

“Yeah. I bet he does.”

Babe stared down Fifth Avenue. “I've gotten worse advice.”

“I bet you have.”

Babe straightened to his full height. He expanded his chest to fill out his double-breasted jacket. It was white with blue chalk stripes, making him look like an oversized snowman. Then Ruth stepped close to Cook, no longer a snowman but simply a large, grim man.

“We need to close this thing out with Attell and his crowd,” Babe said. He pointed a forefinger at Cook but kept his voice low. “I got my reasons, good ones. You need to tell those guys what we did here, today, how we brought Ruppert around. He's going to deliver the message to Landis, tell him he should shut down the investigation. Nothing on the 1918 Series. We delivered.”