“Sit down, Kramer.” The Colonel unbuttoned his jacket and hung up his hat. “How did you like the game on Friday? I don’t go often enough myself. I can’t stand seeing the Yankees lose. If Huggins could manage to put together a winning team, I’d spend more afternoons at the ballpark. The key is acquiring Ruth. I want you to see what you can dig up on the Red Sox’s owner, Harry Frazee, but keep it quiet. I don’t want word getting out to the press.”
“But don’t you know him well enough already?”
“I need to know what I don’t know. Start with his file at the clipping agency, you know the one we use.”
I did. “I’m not sure their clippings will include articles from the Boston papers.”
“Then go on up there for a day, but don’t let on you work for me. I want to hear what you find out by the end of this week. I’ll hire a Pinkerton detective if I have to, but I’ve got to find something Frazee wants more than Ruth if I’m going to get him away from Boston.” As I took notes, he lifted the lid of a jar carved from onyx and extracted a peppermint, which he popped in his mouth. “Now, Kramer, tell me about this orphanage. If I’m going to be sitting in the owner’s box, I want to own the stands I’m in as well as the team. How’s the land?”
“The property is perfectly situated, as Mr. Stern said, and they are eager to sell. However, it seems to me there are some significant impediments.”
“There always are.” The Colonel settled into his chair, the vest of his suit snug across his stomach. “When my father started Ruppert Realty, all it took to build in Manhattan was a fat bribe in the right hands at Tammany Hall. Now there are commissions for safety, review boards for preservation—they even tried to set a height restriction over Carnegie Hill to protect the old mansions. My mother thought it was a fine idea, but I opposed it because you should never set limits on the future. Now there’s a fourteen-story apartment right across 93rd Street. Mother is dismayed, but I told her, you can’t fight progress.”
“No, sir, I suppose you can’t.”
“So, what impediments?”
I checked the list I’d made. “First of all, the orphanage is massive. I can’t imagine how many cranes and wrecking balls it would take to demolish the place, or how the rubble would get hauled away or where it would go. About a quarter of the property has been deeply excavated for the basement, that’s where the dining room and the kitchens are. The oven alone must weigh over a ton. It may be five acres, but it’s not as if they’re offering you an empty lot.”
“Well, the city’s not going to let me take over a park. Demolition is a necessity if I’m to build in Manhattan. Go on.”
“Secondly, as far as I can tell they’ve made no real progress with their new location. I went out to Westchester with Mr. Stern yesterday morning to see for myself. It’s nothing but an empty field.”
“You went to see it? That was enterprising of you. Do they have plans at least?”
“Mr. Stern says they do, but I haven’t seen them yet. The plans aren’t supposed to leave the orphanage, but he agreed to bring them home with him on Thursday evening if I wanted to have a look.”
“Do you mind?”
“Of course not, if you’d like me to.”
He tugged on his cuffs. “What else?”
“I’m not sure they have the money to actually accomplish what Mr. Stern described to me. He said they were planning a major fund-raising event for the fall, but I suspect he’ll need an agreement or an option on the property to encourage the donors to open their wallets, whereas you would probably want to know they had the funds to rebuild before you agreed to anything.”
The Colonel grunted. “You’re not painting a pretty picture for me, Kramer. Any other problems you want to mention?”
“There is one more thing.” I looked at my notes. “Mr. Stern says they own the whole five acres, but there’s a public school on the Broadway side of the property. The orphanage children attend, but so do the kids in the neighborhood. I’m not sure who you have to bribe to close a school.”
“You leave that to me, Kramer. So, there are problems, there always are. You walked the grounds?”
“I did.” I set aside my notes and spoke to him directly. “If it could be done, it would be a magnificent location. The Broadway Line subway stops immediately behind it and the Amsterdam Avenue streetcar runs in front. You’d be able to see clear out to the Hudson from the upper stands, depending on how a ballpark was situated on the site.”
“Not a ballpark, Kramer. A stadium. That’s what I want for my team. That’s what this city deserves, and I’m going to give it to them, one way or another.” The Colonel looked around restlessly. “Go ask Miss Grunwald to call for some coffee, will you?”
She was up and out of her chair before I could explain the Colonel wasn’t ready for her yet. “Will that be coffee for two, Mr. Kramer?” Just to annoy her, I said yes.
Back in his office, I was about to run through the Colonel’s other messages when he asked, “What did Helen think of it?”
“Of the orphanage?” It had upset her, I knew, especially seeing that child being slapped, but remembering that the Colonel had arranged it to please her, I said only that she thought it was impressive. “Of course, she assumed I was looking into it on your behalf for a donation. I took Mr. Stern aside at the beginning of our tour so he wouldn’t mention the idea of a ballpark—I mean, a stadium—in front of her.”
“Good thinking.” He lifted the lid of the onyx jar but set it back down without taking another peppermint, recalling, I supposed, the coffee he’d just ordered. “What did you think of her?”
“Of Helen? She’s very nice, I enjoyed her company.” I paused, uncertain of his reaction, then continued. “We went to the ballet together last night.”
He seemed to scowl at me, but perhaps he was simply taken aback. “You asked her out?”
“Was that inappropriate? It wasn’t a date, I just had an extra ticket. Would you rather I not see her again?”
His features relaxed. “No, of course not. She’s a grown woman, isn’t she? And an independent one, too, ever since she was a girl.” His expression became somber and his eyes actually moistened. For a moment, I thought he’d start to weep. “Jerry Winthrope died in my very arms. I’ll never forget that day as long as I live.” He pinched the bridge of his nose to stop a tear. “I’ve taken an interest in the family ever since. Helen was hospitalized a few months ago, did she tell you? Burst appendix.” Again his eyes moistened. “That’s what killed my dear sister Cornelia. As if her eloping with Nahan Franko wasn’t heartbreak enough for my parents. At least we got her body back.”
“Excuse me?” This was a story I’d never heard before, but the Colonel dropped the subject and spoke again of Helen.
“I wanted to see how she was doing. That’s why I invited them to the game. Rex is a firecracker, isn’t he? What an expert on baseball. I might see if we can’t find a place for him in the Yankees’ organization when he graduates high school. Think he’d like that?”
“Rex Winthrope would be thrilled, especially if you manage to get Ruth for the Yankees.”
A knock on the door preceded Miss Grunwald’s entrance carrying a tray laden with a coffeepot, milk pitcher, sugar bowl, and cups. It seemed precariously balanced and I got up to take it from her. “I can still bring Colonel Ruppert his coffee, thank you very much.” She managed to set the tray on the desk without anything toppling over.
“Thank you, Miss Grunwald,” he said. “I’ll be with you soon.”
After she closed the door he sighed. “She’s not the most efficient secretary anymore, but Mother won’t let me fire her, even with a sizable severance.” It was the first intimation I’d had that Miss Grunwald was not as indispensable as she believed herself to be. “I respect her years of service, but I don’t like keeping things around once they’re no longer of use. Did I ever tell you the story of how I sold my entire stable of racing horses in a single auction?”
The Colo
nel was in a voluble mood that morning. I put down my pencil and helped myself to a cup of coffee while he regaled me with the well-known tale. Once he finished, I reviewed our other business and was gathering up my notes when he asked, “Did Helen care for the game?”
I shifted in my seat. “She enjoyed the afternoon at the ballpark, but her interest is in the theater.” I related to the Colonel the story of stopping by the Olde Playhouse after the ballet and how Helen had agreed to cover for its manager.
“My father used to own an opera house,” he said, waxing nostalgic. “How I loved going there as a boy. I used to play hide-and-go-seek with my brothers and sisters behind the curtains of our box. You said this theater is in financial difficulties?”
“Mr. Martin, the manager, said they were on the brink of disaster. He may have been being dramatic, but the office was in serious disarray.”
“Where exactly is it located?” I jotted down the address on a slip of paper and handed it to him as I stood. He read it and snorted. “No wonder it’s failing. It’s on the wrong side of Tenth Avenue.”
Maybe he did carry a map of Manhattan in his head. “Shall I send in Miss Grunwald now?”
“I suppose.” I started toward the door but he waved me back. “One more thing, Kramer. I want you to have the head of Ruppert Realty come see me before I go to lunch.”
“Yes, sir.” I imagined he wanted to review what I’d told him about the orphanage property. My hand was on the door when he called me back again.
“Kramer, do you have your own expense account yet?”
“No, Miss Grunwald has been reimbursing me.”
“That’s going to get cumbersome if you start traveling on my behalf. Go to the accounting department and get yourself set up. I’ll call down to authorize it.”
“Which accountant should I see, sir?” The Colonel’s enterprises operated as separate entities: the brewery, the realty company, and the baseball team each kept their own accounts.
He thought for a moment. “Might as well make it all of them. There’s no telling what I’ll want you to do for me from now on.”
I returned to my desk, surprised and pleased by the sudden elevation of my responsibilities. The Colonel’s trust was a hard-won commodity. Once given, only a betrayal could occasion its withdrawal. The cuckoo sang out the ten o’clock hour. I picked up the telephone and asked the operator to put me through to the Olde Playhouse, but there was no answer. Apparently, Helen hadn’t arrived yet. Theater people, I thought, as I made myself a note to call her again later that afternoon.
Chapter 13
I was struggling to unlock the door of the Olde Playhouse when I heard the distant ring of the telephone echo across the lobby. I shouldered my way in and hurried toward the office, my shoes sliding on the marble floor, but I was too late to catch the call. I thought it might have been Richard—but no, I noticed now the telegram that had been slipped under the door. He’d sent it from Pennsylvania Station earlier that morning, its block letters conveying a blunt message that the Playhouse’s banker would be coming by that afternoon. I set the yellow telegram atop a pile of papers on the desk and looked around the office. Richard had asked me to bring order to the chaos and this I set out to do, draping my jacket over the back of his chair and pinning my hair behind my ears.
But there was barely room in the small space for me to turn around, let alone sort through the drawers haphazardly jammed full of bills and letters and receipts. From the shelves, reviews clipped from newspapers fluttered down like autumn leaves, while the waste bin so overflowed with notes in Richard’s cryptic scrawl that I couldn’t tell where the mess stopped and the trash began. A plume of dust sent me into a sneezing fit that drove me out of the office. I couldn’t accomplish anything in that tiny, filthy space, so I started carrying papers out to the lobby and stacking them on the upholstered benches, glad there’d be no shows for the next two weeks. My plan was to create piles of like items, then order each stack by date or name or production before returning the papers to their designated place in the office. But there were no designated places, I soon realized. The time card holder by the door was stuffed with postcards from touring actors and actresses. The broken-down letter boxes were crammed with old copies of Playbill. Hard candies shed of their cellophane wrappers were stuck in the ink wells, a conductor’s baton was shoved into the pencil sharpener, and the corkboard on the wall was so riddled with holes there wasn’t any cork left in which to stick a pin.
Overwhelmed, I took refuge in the ladies’ room where I splashed water on my face and combed dust from my hair. If Richard had been there to train me, perhaps he could have explained his arcane methods and eccentric procedures. Together we might have arrived at a sensible organizational scheme, but I dared not interrupt his convalescence. In his absence, I had no choice but to start over from scratch. The challenge of imposing my own order invigorated me. Refreshed and determined, I carried the remaining papers out of the office by the armful. I dragged the broken letter boxes and useless corkboard to the curb, removed the baton from the sharpener, and put a point on an old pencil. Before asking the custodian to give the denuded office a thorough cleaning, I called down to the lunch counter on the corner to have their delivery boy bring me a sandwich and a thermos of coffee.
The lobby benches were covered by now with papers, so when my lunch arrived I took it onstage where a table and chair were part of the set. As I made a list of things I’d need from the stationery store, it struck me that my mind hadn’t been this occupied since the last time I’d memorized a script. As an actress, though, I’d spoken words someone else had written, dressed in clothes someone else had chosen, moved around the stage according to someone else’s direction. Now I was making my own decisions with no one telling me what to do. I never thought there’d be a role for me in the theater other than on the stage, but as I stepped more confidently into Richard’s shoes, I decided the part of manager was one I might like to continue playing.
Until that very day, acting was the only occupation I’d considered. My mother had disapproved at first, but she’d come around after seeing me as Portia in our high school’s production of The Merchant of Venice. The auditorium of parents had given me an ovation after the courtroom scene when, disguised as a man and speaking of mercy, I outwitted the greedy Shylock. Ever since junior high, my drama teachers had been impressed by my ability to disappear into a role so completely that I no longer seemed to exist. Though it appeared effortless, it was a skill I’d been practicing ever since my family’s arrival in the city, my grief and confusion hidden behind the mask of a confident student. In high school, I’d avoided the secretarial classes many of my friends had chosen—friends who were now swelling the ranks of New York’s Bachelor Girls, working in shops or offices, living in their own apartments, coming and going as they pleased. As much as I’d longed for financial independence, my heart had been set on drama school. Though the expense meant living at home to economize, I’d been willing to delay my freedom for the chance, one day, to have a career on the stage. I’d nearly gotten there, too. Last year, as the lead in Harrison’s play, I was earning enough to put a deposit on an apartment that allowed single women. My plan was to spend one last Christmas at home before moving out on my own. But then I discovered I was pregnant, and my troubles had started.
I gave my head a vigorous shake. I didn’t want to think about all that right now. I stretched my arms and mouth in an acting exercise meant to dispel stage fright, then returned to the lobby, where I began the tedious task of putting the bills and receipts in order by date. It seemed Richard hadn’t been lying when he said the Olde Playhouse was on the brink of disaster. I found a notice for back taxes due to the city, but it was so old I assumed it must have been paid. Though he was behind on the bills related to the theater itself, Richard continued to incur new expenses on behalf of the productions, spending more to stage each play than he earned in ticket sales. I supposed this was the conflict of being both the owner of the
theater and the producer of the shows. During rehearsals, whenever Harrison had an inspiration that involved a costly change in set design—or costumes, or lighting, or any one of a number of things—he’d gone storming into Richard’s office to launch into a Shakespearean rant worthy of Edwin Forrest about the absolute necessity of whatever it was he wanted. Richard had always given in, and I’d been impressed at Harrison’s powers of persuasion. Now, I wondered what I would do if Harrison were to approach me with one of his extravagant requests. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I doubted I’d have the spine to turn him down.
The banker finally arrived, the tips of his nervous fingers stained yellow from nicotine. He handed me a statement and instructed me to reconcile it with the ledger as soon as possible, then presented papers for my signature, explaining that I’d need him to countersign any checks over fifty dollars. “I don’t envy you, Miss Winthrope. I understand Mr. Martin had a rather eccentric method of bookkeeping.”
“I’m not sure Richard had any method at all,” I said, signing where he told me to. After he left, I dutifully attempted to reconcile the Playhouse’s ledger, but there were pages missing from the checkbook. I hoped Richard had lifted them from the binder and simply misplaced them. If he’d written them out, I’d have no idea how much they were for until they were presented for payment. Unsure how to proceed, I put the ledger aside and called a nearby stationery store to place an order for a large corkboard, a filing cabinet, clean ink wells, fresh pencils, and boxes of paper clips and pins and labels. When they were delivered later that day, I felt very professional writing out a check for the purchases and taking possession of the receipt.
I decided my day’s work was done when the custodian showed me the desiccated mouse he’d discovered under Richard’s desk. I’d just put on my hat and jacket when the phone rang. I hesitated before answering it—rehearsals would begin soon and I didn’t want to run into Harrison—but was pleased to hear Albert’s voice humming in my ear.
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