The Babe Ruth Deception (21 page)

T
he air felt cool, like autumn, at least it did when the breeze carried away the cigar smoke of the grandstand. The beginning of a change in season matched Fraser's change in strategy for buttonholing the Babe. He had sat for three nights in the Ansonia's lobby without even a sighting of the baseball star. The building's staff, generally indulgent of its high-paying tenants, was growing wary of one who spent his nights in a lobby chair, reading and dozing. So now Fraser was trying to track the Babe down at the ballpark. That was the one time and the one place he could be sure to find Babe Ruth.

The Saturday doubleheader had sounded like a good idea, but was turning out to be a whole lot of baseball. Fraser's rear end ached. His scorecard lay on the concrete floor, wedged against the metal leg of the seat in front of him, untouched since the second inning of the second game. Six times he had climbed over the men seated between him and the aisle in order to stretch his legs and salve his restlessness. Ballpark etiquette barred another such expedition for at least two more innings.

Absentmindedly, he fingered the note to Ruth in his pocket. He had composed it before the doubleheader started. It said that a relative of Speed Cook's wanted to report on Cook's work for Ruth. Fraser planned to give it to a clubhouse worker when the second game finally ended. He hoped Babe would be intrigued enough to see him.

Nothing in these games with the Philadelphia Athletics held much baseball significance. The Yankees had clinched the American League pennant and were going to the World Series. They held a six-run lead in this game. A trickle of homeward bound fans began in the fifth inning and grew at the end of each half inning. It was a lot of baseball. In the top of the eighth, a buzz started among the remaining few. Men nudged their neighbors and pointed. Fraser sat forward. The Babe was walking out to the pitcher's mound, coming in as a relief pitcher. He had hardly pitched all year. Fraser had never seen the star slugger during his pitching days.

From the mound, Ruth's powerful frame loomed over home plate, a mere sixty feet, six inches away. His windup was spare but his demeanor was downright frisky. Smiling, he shouted to the first batter as he stepped up to the plate. The crowd's mood rose with the Babe's. This was going to be fun!

But it wasn't. The Athletics hadn't scored for seven innings, but they found Babe's pitches irresistible. Line drives flew off their bats in every direction. Runners flashed from base to base and started to cross the plate. Ruth's smile turned to a scowl. He muttered and kicked the pitcher's mound after every hit. The score narrowed to 6–3, then 6–5. Why didn't Yankee Manager Huggins put another pitcher in? The big man clearly had no magic in his left arm that day. Huggins made no move. The cavalry never came. Babe finally got the third out, but not until the Athletics tied the game, 6–6.

The manager showed no mercy for the game's greatest home-run hitter, sending Ruth out to pitch the ninth inning, too. Ruth's demeanor was all business this time. He got three outs before any Philadelphias could score, hanging on to the tie score. Ruth shut them down again in the tenth and the eleventh. In the bottom of that inning, the Yanks finally pushed the winning run across the plate. Heading for the exits, smiling fans chattered to each other. They knew they might have seen the last game Babe Ruth would ever pitch.

When the clubhouse man reported that Ruth would see him, Fraser found the star on a folding chair in the clubhouse, a stormy expression on his face and an unlit stogie in his mouth.

“Say, kid,” he snarled at Fraser, “what is this? You don't look like no relative of Speed Cook.”

Fraser held out his hands in a calming gesture. They'd met before, more than once. Ruth's way—treating everyone like he knew them—made it hard to know if he actually did know you. “It's a long story, Babe. You heard that Speed died?”

“Yeah,” Ruth said, “I heard. Tough luck.”

“I was there, when it happened.” Ruth looked up. “The last thing he said was about a job he was doing for you, getting something back for you. It seemed important to him.”

“Yeah,” Babe said, leaning back and eyeing Fraser. “So?”

“Do you still need it?”

The Babe grimaced and looked Fraser up and down. “No offense, kid, but you ain't exactly the type for the job he was doing. I got places to be.” Ruth turned away and then turned back. “Say, that wasn't why that coon got killed, was it? Doing the job for me?”

“That wasn't it,” Fraser said. “It was a car accident.”

Babe nodded. “That's good. I mean, not good, but I wouldn't want to be why he croaked.”

Fraser decided to try again. “Listen, I worked with Speed on other jobs. Don't get fooled by the suit.”

Ruth shook his head. “What do you think you can do about it?”

“You'll still pay for what he was trying to get?”

“Sure, sure, kid.” Ruth stood and started unbuttoning his jersey. The clubhouse was emptying fast. “Do you know
why
I needed him to get it?”

“Speed didn't say, but I'm guessing it has something to do with you not wanting to be involved with certain people, with the baseball commissioner and the Black Sox business.”

“Who would?”

“My other guess is that there's something more behind it, something more than just gambling.”

Ruth stopped in his undressing. “Don't hurt yourself guessing. It won't help anything.” He reached for matches and started to light his cigar. When it was burning, he narrowed his eyes. “Do I know you?”

“No, not really.” Fraser stepped closer to Ruth and lowered his voice. “If I get it, what you want, I want the money to go to Cook's family.”

“Sure, kid. Once the money's out of my pocket, it can go to Old Mother Hubbard, all I care.”

“Where do I find these people, the ones you need to get it from?”

Babe gave him a disgusted look. “Listen, if you don't know where to find them, you definitely ain't the man for the job.” He turned his back and shrugged out of the shirt, dropping it on the floor. Fraser thought for a moment.

“Who else is working on this problem for you?”

“Doc, these guys aren't your strong suit. No fooling.”

The “Doc” showed that Babe was starting to remember him. Fraser decided to push. “I'm thinking you've got nothing here. I'm bidding against nothing. You're just sitting around with your eyes closed, hoping nothing bad happens. Speed was your only move, and now he's gone. Let me make that move for you. If I come up empty, what've you lost? Just get me started. Where do I find them?”

Ruth took a silk shirt off a hanger and pulled it over his thick shoulders. “All right. It could be your funeral. Remember I told you.” Fraser nodded. “You know Lefty's, on Broadway, right there at Times Square?”

“I've been there.”

“Rear booth, on the left. Every morning of the year, as long as he's in town.”

“Just walk in the front door?”

“Best way I know to get inside. You may not get real long to talk. He's not a patient guy. You should know what you want to say.”

T
urning sideways past waitresses and customers, Fraser worked down the left-hand side of Lefty's. He held his furled umbrella next to his leg so it wouldn't drip on anyone. Halfway down the aisle, he caught a glimpse of a man in the last booth. That had to be Rothstein. Fraser stopped to shake out his umbrella again, using the pause to get a better look at his quarry.

Reputation, not appearance, drew his eye to the gambling king. Neither large nor small, Rothstein had a high forehead, bland features, a small mouth. The short hair was combed carefully. His dark-colored bow tie was knotted tight. His suit was equally dull. He stared impassively at two men across from him, not saying anything. He could have been an accountant preparing for a day reviewing receivables.

When Fraser began to move, a hulking figure who badly needed a shave stepped from a side booth. This domesticated gorilla placed a palm against Fraser's chest. “Hey, pal,” he said. His voice sounded like it was scraped over a cheese grater. “Where ya think you're going?”

Meeting the gorilla's gaze, Fraser said, “I have a matter with Mr. Rothstein.” He moved to get by. The other man shifted to block him. His hands were large and blunt, perfect for clenching into fists.

“Who are you?”

“Doctor James Fraser.” Medical credentials might not help here, but what could they hurt?

“Does he know you?” The gorilla disdainfully looked Fraser over.

“I'm a friend of Speed Cook.”

Fraser said the name as though the gorilla should recognize it, but he couldn't tell if it registered or not. The other man nodded at an empty booth. “Try the coffee. I'll see if the boss wants to see you.”

Fraser sat so he retained his view of Rothstein. At regular intervals, the people facing the gambler were replaced by new supplicants. They never stayed long. Slightly reassured to be in the great man's waiting room, he ordered a coffee and a cruller. The pastry, with a generous dusting of powdered sugar, tasted good going down but then sat in his stomach like a stone. He tried to act nonchalant as the petitioners continued the parade to the rear booth. What were all those conversations about? Inside tips on races and prizefights? Sure. Schemes for cheating and stealing from an employer? Maybe. Gambling debts that couldn't be met for a few more days, or longer? Definitely.

The gorilla nodded at Fraser. Brushing powdered sugar off his vest and pants, Fraser rose. He gathered himself. He intended to be all dignity and self-possession, unfazed by the humiliating wait for a few precious moments with the Great Rothstein.

Not two steps from his booth, Fraser froze. Rothstein was leaving through a back corridor, presumably headed to an alleyway exit. What gave? Fraser's temper began to rise. This was a step down from humiliation to full-fledged mortification.

Abe Attell emerged from the same corridor that had swallowed Rothstein. He gestured for Fraser to join him in Rothstein's booth. Fraser, uncertain, sat. Attell waved for the waitress and ordered a coffee. Fraser passed.

Attell rearranged the sugar bowl and cream pitcher, pushing them to the side. “You got a lot of nerve, brother.”

“What?”

“You coming in here to talk about Speed Cook? We ain't stupid, pal. We figured out it was Cook's nigger kid up in Saratoga. That kid's got bad habits, likes to take stuff that ain't his. The way I think, we got no business with you but to tip you upside down and shake till the money falls out. But the boss, he's cooler than me. He says I should hear you out. I figure there's always time for you to learn your lesson.”

Fraser fought for his footing. He had intended to talk to Rothstein, not Attell. And he expected a business conversation, not threats. Attell wouldn't have talked to Speed this way. Fraser decided to act like Attell hadn't said anything. “Cook was talking to you about a debt from the Babe.”

Attell cocked his head and smirked. “You know, I don't got a lot of time to spend on the problems of dead niggers, much less ones whose kids are thieves.”

“Mr. Rothstein wanted you to hear me out.”

“Okay, you got ninety seconds.” He wagged an index finger. “Start with the part where we get paid back, both the note that Niggerlips signed and the money that got stole.”

“Speed Cook and I had nothing to do with any stealing. Nothing.”

“Cook kicking the bucket three miles from the scene of the crime kinda blows a hole in that one. You're down to seventy-five seconds.”

“What does Babe owe on the note?”

“We'd take seventy-five grand from the big ox,
plus
the money that got stole.”

Fraser looked away from the table. That was why the problem was so big, why Babe called on Speed. Even Babe couldn't pay that much. The job—first for Cook and now for Fraser—was to get the IOU back without paying Rothstein's price. What was Speed thinking when he took it on? “How'd it get that big? That's nowhere close to what I heard.”

Attell pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and lit one.“Forty seconds. Babe knew the terms, what the interest was. What it always is. And he knows that this wasn't just money. It's what he was using it for, which no one's ever heard about. We held up our end on that. Nobody's ever heard. And that big ox knows we held up our end. His end is to pay up, not change the deal. Tell him that.”

Attell puffed on his cigarette. He picked up the Luckies and matchbook. “Time's up. Lesson's next.”

Fraser had come with only one card to play. “I'm thinking we can work a trade.”

Attell let his eyelids droop and sat back. “Thirty seconds more, Doc.”

“I'm a doctor, you know. . . .”

“That why they call you Doc?” Attell was having way too much fun.

“What about inside information on the medical condition of the Yanks, of the Babe? Wouldn't that be valuable to someone in your line of work?”

Attell smiled and shook his head. “What is it with you? You think you're dealing with children? We get the lowdown on the Yanks, on everyone.”

Fraser waved a hand dismissively. “From clubhouse boys, towel jockeys, sportswriters. Even the players, even the Babe, they can't tell you what you can learn from a doctor who's on the inside, one from the Rockefeller Institute, who's seeing the players close up.” He leaned forward. “Listen. You've got the World Series coming up, the Giants against the Yanks. Every game right here in New York, every New York fan crazy to get a bet down on his team. Business is going to be brisk. They'll bet on everything, on how many times the Babe takes his cap off. The sort of information I'm talking about would be very useful. I have the expertise, and I have the access. There's nobody else can offer you both.”

Attell took a drag on his smoke, then stubbed it out in Fraser's coffee cup. He shrugged. “Maybe no lesson today. How do I get word to you?”

“Leave a message at the Ansonia. You know it? Also”—Fraser held up a finger—“I'm trading for Cook's son, too.”

Attell grinned, the sort of grin a wolf gives to a small lamb that's been separated from the flock. “Jesus, Doc, you got brass ones. Tell you what. You make us enough money to pay back for both, maybe we'll think about it.”

Fraser smiled back.

He needed to talk to Babe. What the hell had he just done?

* * *

“What the hell do you think you're doing? Trying to get me on the hook for fixing another Series?”

Ruth looked exhausted at six in the morning. He had just stumbled into the Ansonia's lobby, where Fraser had been waiting for too many hours. The Babe's fedora was askew. His necktie hung in two limp lines. His suit begged for dry cleaning. It was hard to believe that this shambling wreck would lead the Yankees into the first game of the World Series in nine hours.

“You don't need to do anything, Babe. Nothing. Nothing involves you, even breathes on you. I'm the one who's in touch with these people. And nobody's talking about you throwing a game, throwing an out, or a single pitch. I'm simply going to trade information. Accurate information. The deal may not smell too great, but that's because of who I'm trading with and why. It shouldn't be illegal. Nothing like what the Black Sox did.”

Babe scratched his cheek and yawned. Sensing indecision, Fraser pressed his point. “Look, you want to get something valuable back from some hard guys who know it's valuable. And you don't want to pay for it.”

“I don't have the money!”

“Well, we've got to give them something. So this is something. And it doesn't cost you a dime.”

Babe yawned again and stood. “Okay, Doc. Just don't fuck me up, okay?”

Fraser rose to be on Ruth's level. “Don't worry about that. But listen, to do this thing right, I need to be in and out of the clubhouse during the Series. I need to be
seen
getting in, you know what I mean? Seen by the smart guys. And they need to see me watching you during warm-ups, out on the field. Even during the games. So I need to be real visible out at the Polo Grounds.”

The Babe started walking toward the elevator. “Okay?” Fraser called after him.

“Yeah, fine,” Ruth said without turning his head. “Come to the clubhouse before the game.”