The Tomb That Ruth Built (A Mickey Rawlings Mystery)

by Troy Soos

  Praise for Troy Soos and the Mickey Rawlings Mysteries

  “Baseball and mystery team up for a winner.” – USA Today (on Murder at Fenway Park)

  “Full of life.” – New York Times (on Hanging Curve)

  “Rawlings turns double plays and solves murders with equal grace.” – Publishers Weekly (on Murder at Wrigley Field)

  “An entertaining double play. . . The plot will appeal to mystery fans, baseball purists will appreciate Soos’s attention to detail.” – Orlando Sentinel (on Hunting a Detroit Tiger)

  “Well-judged period background (including a winsome role for Casey Stengel) enlivens a solid mystery.” – Kirkus Reviews (on Murder at Ebbets Field)

  “Authentic old time baseball atmosphere and absorbing stories. Troy Soos captures the period perfectly.” – Lawrence Ritter, author of The Glory of Their Times

  “A richly atmospheric journey through time.” – Booklist

  “Soos deftly weaves fictional characters with legends.” – Houston Chronicle

  “Troy Soos does a red-letter job of mixing the mystery into a period when all baseball was played on fields that had real grass.” – St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  “Tough and terrific.” – New York Daily News

  “A perfect marriage between baseball and mystery fiction.” – Mystery Readers Journal

  “You don’t have to be a baseball fan to love this marvelous historical series.” – Meritorious Mysteries

  The Tomb That Ruth Built

  A Mickey Rawlings Mystery

  Troy Soos

  Published by Troy Soos at Smashwords

  Copyright 2014 Troy Soos

  Chapter One

  I may only be a utility infielder, but I’m a veteran utility infielder with more than ten years in the big leagues playing for half a dozen teams. Although my role has been part-time and unsung, I’ve always played the game with pride and made the most of every chance I’ve had.

  The only category in which I’d led any league was the number of backside splinters from warming dugout benches, but I have had some incredible moments in my career. Especially gratifying were those times when I managed to get the better of one of the game’s all-time greats—like tagging out the ferocious Ty Cobb as he came sliding into second base with his spikes slashing, or the time I cracked a clean single off a Walter Johnson fastball. I even won a game by stealing home on Grover Cleveland Alexander.

  That’s one of the great things about baseball: Every now and then, a dead-armed pitcher can baffle opposing batters for a no-hitter, a weak-hitting second string catcher can loft three home runs in a single game, or a team in distant last place can beat the World’s Champions.

  The problem was that these occasional moments of glory led me to believe that it might be possible to stretch a moment into a week, a week into a month, and a month into an entire season. I imagined myself fielding flawlessly in every game, batting .350, and capping off the year by playing in my first World Series. It was merely an illusion, of course, and it usually faded into reality around mid-April, but I always looked forward to those springtime fantasies. Baseball to me was about hope, about anticipating all the spectacular things that might happen rather than a dry statistical record of what actually did occur.

  This year, however, the dream was already flickering out in March, thanks to my new ball club. When I signed a contract to play for the powerhouse New York Yankees, I had expected that 1923 would be the most promising season of my career. Yankees’ management lacked my optimism, though, and gave no indication that they intended to make use of my diamond skills. Throughout the first weeks of spring training, they had thoroughly neglected the “player” part of my job description while taking full advantage of “utility.”

  That’s why I was now trudging through New Orleans in the middle of a cold March night, sent to pick up a bush-leaguer who was getting a tryout with the team. Do they send Babe Ruth, or Jumpin’ Joe Dugan, or Sad Sam Jones? Of course not. When somebody was needed to meet this kid at the train station, Mickey Rawlings got the call.

  Walking along Canal Street, on the edge of the French Quarter, I became aware of the festive atmosphere around me. Most of the shops and restaurants that lined the street were closed and dark, but street lamps provided enough light for me to see that I was far from alone. A street car rolling through the central median transported a crowd of young people singing a bouncy blues tune in voices exuberantly off-pitch. An open touring car driving in the opposite direction was packed with double its advertised capacity; the laughing men and women who filled it appeared more than comfortable with the seating arrangement. Now and then, I had to walk around clusters of people holding impromptu parties in the middle of the sidewalk. Mardi Gras was a month ago, but this was a city where even the funerals were street festivals and there was no day of the week that didn’t merit some kind of celebration. As I passed one group of revelers after another, I started to get the feeling that I was the only unhappy person in New Orleans.

  Being sent on a midnight errand didn’t bother me nearly as much as the fact that I could very well be en route to picking up my replacement. There were twenty-five players on a major-league roster and I was usually number twenty-five. That meant if this new kid made the team, I could be cut loose—again.

  I arrived at Southern Railway Station, on the corner of Canal and Basin Streets, in plenty of time. Since the train was half an hour late, I restlessly paced the polished floor of the waiting area, admiring the architectural charms of the depot but growing less and less enamored of my task.

  Finally, on what was now Monday morning, the train pulled in and I walked through a brick archway to meet the newcomer at Track Two. He’d better not expect me to carry his bags, I thought. Despite what the Yankees seemed to believe, there were limits to what a utility player should be asked to do.

  With one look at the strapping young man who stepped onto the platform, I realized he wouldn’t need my help carrying anything. Almost six feet tall, he had a powerful build that his serge suit couldn’t hide. Even his stolid face looked muscular. A scarred leather suitcase was in one hand and a bulging canvas satchel in the other. Several bat handles stuck out of the bag, confirming that this was the man I’d been sent to meet.

  I stepped up to him. “Haines?”

  He nodded. “Yes, sir. Hinkey Haines. Thank you for meeting me.” He put down his suitcase to proffer a handshake.

  “Mickey Rawlings,” I said. “I’ll get you to the hotel. You must be tired after the trip.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir.” He picked up his luggage again with no discernible effort. “Do you work for the team?”

  Do I work for the team? My image has appeared on a Sweet Caporal tobacco card, Rawlings, M has been listed in a couple hundred box scores, and yet this kid doesn’t know who I am. Maybe I should have shown up in my uniform and cap instead of a three piece suit and a high crown derby. I simply answered, “Yes.”

  As I led the way to the exit, I commented, “Looks like it won’t take much to get you in shape.” The primary reason for spring training was for ballplayers to work off the excesses of winter, but Haines already appeared perfectly fit.

  “Oh, I’ve been playing some football.”

  I couldn’t imagine why. Football seemed to me a pointless game for college boys and head-butting brutes. “Rough sport,” I said. “Be careful you don’t hurt yourself, or it could kill your baseball career.”

  He shrugged his beefy shoulders. “I already have a pretty good football career. Made All-American in college and I’ve been playing with a couple of pro teams around Philadelphia. Fo
otball is really my preferred sport.”

  I was having serious reservations about Hinkey Haines. Not only was his last sentence sacrilege as far as I was concerned, but I could be losing my job to somebody who didn’t even care about baseball.

  Outside the station, Haines’ eyes widened and he looked around like a little kid who’d just walked into a carnival. His darkly handsome face broke into a broad grin as he noticed the attractions that abounded in the Crescent City. Even at this time of night the buildings and the people fairly glittered. The air was rich with the mingled scents of jasmine, French bread, jambalaya, and the Mississippi River. It also carried the wonderful sounds of jazz from the saloons and night clubs nearby.

  “Hotel’s this way,” I prodded. When Haines resumed walking, I asked, “You play any pro baseball?”

  “Yes, sir, with Reading in the International League last year. And Jersey City before that.”

  We’d walked a couple of blocks when a packed streetcar rolled by. Haines cast a wistful look at the trolley and his shoulders sagged slightly. It was the first sign that he was tired.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I should have thought to get a cab.” I reached for his equipment bag and hoisted it up. “It’s only a couple more blocks.”

  “Thanks.”

  Neither of us said much while we covered the next block, as Haines craned his neck this way and that, taking in the colorful sights of New Orleans. They would have been difficult to miss since this was a city that made no attempt to hide its charms, not even the illicit ones. After the fabled Storyville red light district was shut down by the Army during the Great War, the vice industry had simply spread throughout the rest of the city. Every variety of brothel, speakeasy, and gambling den was readily available to anyone in the market for such entertainments. To my mind, it was a ludicrous place to hold spring training—especially for a team like the Yankees that was known to enjoy the night life. Judging by the eager expression on his face, I feared that Haines would fit right in.

  I brought his attention back to baseball when I mentioned, “We got a game tomorrow against the Pelicans.”

  “They any good?”

  “Not bad for bushers.” In fact, the city’s minor league team had trounced us 13–0 in today’s first exhibition contest of spring training. It didn’t portend well that the American League champion New York Yankees could be so easily humiliated by a bush league club.

  “I’m ready to play,” Haines announced confidently. “Hope I get in the game.”

  I stifled a chuckle. He’d be lucky to get a chance at batting practice. Veterans are not known for their hospitality to newcomers. Besides, we’d need our best on the field to keep the Pelicans from routing us again. Unfortunately, that meant I probably wouldn’t get to play, either.

  Haines suddenly pulled up short, staring slack-jawed at two garish women of the night standing next to a street lamp. Behind them was a narrow clapboard building with a sign over the door that read Creole Candy. A lamp with a red shade glowed prominently in the store window. This sweet shop was not making its money from gumdrops.

  One of the women, barely dressed in a low-cut blouse and a slinky skirt, called to Haines, “See something you like, handsome?” She hiked her skirt to mid-thigh and struck a pose.

  I nudged Haines along, but he almost broke his neck twisting it for one more look. He grinned, hesitated, and it appeared he might walk over to the prostitutes.

  “Listen to me for a minute,” I said in my sternest voice. I put his bag on the pavement and grabbed his elbow.

  He looked at me with surprise. “What are you—”

  “If you want to make the team, keep your mind on baseball. When you’re on the field, give it everything you got—hustle like you got a devil on your tail. When you’re on the bench, watch the other players and listen to the coaches. And at night, stay in the hotel and get your rest. There’s nothing on the streets that’s going to do you any good.”

  A smirk tugged at his lips. “I believe I can take care of myself, but thanks for the advice, Mr. uh... I’m sorry, but I forgot your—”

  “Mickey Rawlings,” I reminded him. “I’ve been a major leaguer since you were in short pants and I’ve seen more players kill their careers by what they do off the field than from getting hurt on it.”

  He was taken aback. “You’re a player?”

  “Yeah. I’m also your competition. And if you want to take my job, you’re gonna have to work your ass off, because I’m gonna be fighting to keep it.”

  He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t understand. If you think I might take your job, why are you giving me advice?”

  “Because I want you to be at your best no matter what. If we both make the team, I want you to help us win. If I lose my job to you, I want it to be because you’re a helluva ballplayer. And if I beat you, I want it to be because of what I can do on the field, not because you wore yourself out in a saloon or a whorehouse.”

  He appeared to mull that over for a moment, then nodded agreeably and began walking so quickly that it was a struggle for me to stay in the lead the rest of the way.

  We turned onto Baronne Street and entered the Grunewald Hotel, the most elegant in New Orleans. One advantage of playing for the Yankees was that they always traveled first class, and these were the finest spring training accommodations I’ve ever enjoyed. The hotel’s opulent lobby was decorated with Oriental rugs, dark wood paneling, and gilt-framed paintings. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, casting a golden light that reflected brightly from the polished brass fixtures and decorative panels.

  Even in this fashionable establishment, however, there was ready access to the same kinds of pleasures that were once found in Storyville. The Grunewald’s basement was home to The Cave, which was modeled as a grotto with plaster rock formations on the walls and ceilings. It proudly claimed to be the first night club in the country and hadn’t slowed its operation one bit with the coming of Prohibition. Booze flowed freely in The Cave and hostesses dressed as nymphs were available for company. Having such a place right in our hotel was another temptation for the players and another headache for manager Miller Huggins.

  I spotted Huggins in his usual spot, a leather wingback chair near the elevator, from which he monitored the comings and goings of his ballplayers. The oversized chair made him appear even smaller than he was. Huggins, a former second baseman, was invariably referred to as “pint-sized” by sportswriters. Since I was about the same build as the manager, I didn’t care for that description. To my mind, we were exactly the right size for infielders. Huggins was in his forties and still looked in shape to play. His gnomish face, however, was that of a much older man, with bags under his eyes and worry lines furrowing his brow. Managing a team like the Yankees could age anyone prematurely.

  I ushered Haines across the marble floor. When Huggins looked up from his newspaper, I made a brief introduction.

  Huggins eyed the newcomer up and down, giving no indication of approval or disapproval. “Rawlings here talk to you?” he asked.

  Haines nodded uncertainly.

  “Good,” the manager said. “Learn everything you can from him. Rawlings has been around a while and he can teach you a lot—about playing ball and about being a ballplayer.” He fixed Haines with a scowl. “And being a team player also applies to what you do off the field.”

  “Yes, sir,” Haines said quickly. “He told me about that. I promise I won’t be any trouble.”

  Huggins turned his tired eyes to me. “I wish you could convince your roomie to stay on the straight and narrow as easily as you seemed to have convinced this young man.”

  I shrugged. No one else had ever succeeded in correcting my roommate’s behavior, either. Besides, I was being paid to play baseball, not nursemaid to an overgrown kid.

  There was a sudden furor near the hotel entrance. Bellmen, guests, and lobby sitters rushed toward it as if pulled by a powerful magnet, and all eyes turned in that direction.


  “There’s my problem boy now,” muttered Huggins.

  Inside the door, basking in the attention, stood Babe Ruth. His round face, with its flat nose, dark eyes, and wide mouth, was among the most famous in the world. A long black cigar was clamped in his grinning teeth, an oversized golf cap crowned his enormous head, and his large body was draped in a raccoon coat. He tottered slightly and his complexion was ruddy.

  Clinging to the Babe’s left arm was a shapely blonde in a gauzy white dress and a stained fox stole, a brunette with smeared lipstick had a hand on his right elbow, and a yawning redhead clutched at his collar. It would be obvious to anyone who saw them that these women were of the same profession as those who’d been standing outside Creole Candy.

  Ruth paused to exchange greetings with the admirers who swarmed to greet him. He loved the adulation and they loved being in his almost mythic presence. All he had to do was walk into a room and it was a spectacle.

  “That’s him,” Haines gasped. “That’s the Babe!”

  I certainly understood the rookie’s awestruck reaction. Babe Ruth was big in every way. From his imposing physique to his towering home runs to his boyish charisma. Aided by newspapers that reported his every deed—and, until recently, omitted mention of his misdeeds—it was no wonder that Babe Ruth had become a national hero. He had also become my roommate, which gave me a unique perspective on the man.

  After signing a few autographs, Ruth and his trio of dates made their way in our direction, heading to the elevator. None were walking steadily and it appeared the ladies were holding on to him partly to keep from falling.