The Tomb That Ruth Built (A Mickey Rawlings Mystery)

by Troy Soos

  I didn’t snap out of it until the businessman from Omaha burst into the restroom, tottering under the influence of Katie Day’s bootleg liquor. “Must think you’re something awful special,” he grumbled at me, “trying to make this your own private bathroom.”

  “Huh?”

  “Those goons you had outside wouldn’t let me in.” He lurched toward a stall and was soon noisily sick.

  By the time I walked out to rejoin Margie and the others, the man with the gun was gone from view. But I suspected that he still had me in his sight.

  Chapter Seven

  After the team had returned from our long, arduous exhibition tour from New Orleans to New York during spring training, I had hoped that I wouldn’t have to ride the rails again for some time. Now, embarking on our first road trip of the season, I was looking forward to getting away from New York and spending a few hours on the Mayflower Express.

  Soon after we pulled out of Pennsylvania Station most of the players headed to the dining car, where they could eat and drink their fill on the Yankees’ tab. I went alone to the club car, which smelled of old leather and stale cigar smoke, carrying a two-day-old copy of the New York Tribune. I had no interest in actually reading the newspaper; I only wanted to hold it in front of me to discourage anyone from trying to strike up a conversation. I had some thinking to do, and didn’t want interruptions.

  At the far end of the car, Waite Hoyt and Herb Pennock were beginning a game of pinochle. “Long Bob” Meusel, one of the team’s night owls, had barely made the train and was already fast asleep in a capacious arm chair.

  I chose a seat well removed from the others and unfolded the newspaper. It opened to a half-page advertisement for Safety Last, the new Harold Lloyd movie playing at the Rialto. I allowed myself to imagine Margie and me having a normal night out together: a quiet dinner for two at a nice restaurant, a first-run movie at one of the city’s motion picture palaces, and then maybe a dance hall where Margie could once again try to teach me to move my feet in rhythm.

  Such thoughts only served to emphasize the stark difference between the kind of evening I would like to have and the one we actually did have at Katie Day’s. I knew that life would return to normal only if I could find a way to solve the problem of Spats Pollard’s murder.

  My daydream of a romantic evening with Margie soon receded to the back of my mind, and I began working my way through a tangle of questions. Some were relatively simple to answer, such as whether or not Karl Landfors was responsible for the recent press inquiries into Pollard’s death. I was pretty sure the answer was “no,” but I needed to be certain. I’d been unsuccessful trying to contact him before leaving town, so Margie promised that she would find Landfors and tell him that the Pollard murder had to be kept quiet. If Ed Barrow found out that I’d spoken to a writer about the murder, I would probably be sent down to a low minor league club somewhere.

  Other questions were more difficult: Who was the man that threatened me in Katie Day’s night club? How did he know I was investigating Pollard’s death? What was his interest in the case? How seriously should I take him?

  It was odd, but during the actual encounter, I had felt no fear. In France, during the Great War, I had faced machine guns, cannons, tanks, and chemical gas, so I certainly wasn’t going to panic at the sight of a single pistol. I was taken by surprise, though, and it took a few minutes before I could absorb what had happened and compose myself. When I’d returned to our table, Tom Van Dusen was telling the Babe about a jazz club on Lenox Avenue and he tried to convince us all to move the party there. I loved jazz, but didn’t want to go that night and never wanted to go anywhere again with Van Dusen. When Margie and I begged off, the three of them went on to Harlem without us. I said nothing about the gunman until Margie and I were home. She asked many of the same questions that I was now still trying to resolve in my own mind.

  Although I didn’t know the man’s identity, I had no doubt about his occupation. He practically wore the uniform of a gangster, as readily identifiable as a fireman’s leather helmet and rubber slicker. But why did he warn me off the case? As Detective Luntz had said, it was most likely that Spats Pollard had been knocked off by another gangster—was the fellow who’d confronted me in the men’s room that man? Or was he an associate of Pollard’s who feared I might jeopardize some of their criminal enterprises by looking into his murder? Come to think of it, how many “associates” might be involved? At least a couple of them had been posted at the restroom door to keep anyone from walking in while I was being threatened.

  I had never seen the gunman before, but he seemed to know a lot about me. How had he learned that I was investigating Pollard’s murder? The death of the former pitcher hadn’t garnered a single line in the newspapers. And how did he know I would be at Katie Day’s night club—was I being followed?

  That led to an embarrassing question: How could I have been so careless? It was an easy one to answer, but it was no excuse. Since my only reason for probing the Pollard murder was to placate Yankees management, I had made only a token effort and had looked at it as an inconvenience more than anything else. I had lost sight of the fact that Spats Pollard had been murdered, and murder is not a thing done lightly. Nor does a murderer necessarily stop with one victim. Whether or not the gunman in the night club was Pollard’s killer, I knew I should take him seriously. Merely flashing a gun didn’t mean he would use it, but I could not take the threat casually—especially since he’d extended it to my “friends,” and that included Margie. Now I had to look into Pollard’s murder, not merely to satisfy Ed Barrow or Jacob Ruppert, but to find out how the gangster who’d confronted me was connected to the crime—and how I could remove him as a threat.

  I was compiling mental lists of everyone I’d spoken with about Pollard, and everyone who might have known that I’d be at Katie Day’s last night, when the newspaper I was holding suddenly rattled from a sharp slap. I lowered it to see Miller Huggins’ dour face. “Give your eyes a break from reading,” he said gruffly. “You’re going need them for hitting.”

  “I will?”

  “Ward’s come down with a damned flu. You’ll be starting at second base.” He turned on his heels and walked across the club car to speak with Waite Hoyt about what to expect from the Red Sox hitters.

  I hadn’t felt so happy all season. Without any concern for Aaron Ward’s health, all I could think of was that this would be my first time in the starting lineup as a New York Yankee.

  * * *

  Unlike the cold, threatening skies that hovered over the first game at Yankee Stadium, Boston’s Opening Day weather was ideal for baseball. The sun was high, the sky clear blue, the grass a vibrant green, and the temperature unseasonably warm. It felt like mid-summer instead of April twenty-sixth.

  As I looked around the park, I had the sense that I’d come home. I had played for the Red Sox in 1912, the first year of Fenway Park’s existence. Although I was now a Yankee, I still had a fondness for Boston, and especially for this field. Yankee Stadium was newer, grander, and three times the size, but cozy Fenway Park was exactly what a ballpark should be.

  The roles of the two teams were reversed from a week ago, with New York the visitors and the Red Sox hosting their first home game of 1923. The obligatory Opening Day rituals that preceded the game had a distinctly Boston flavor. The full house of twenty thousand fans was first treated to an impressive drill exhibition by a squad of marines from the Charlestown Navy Yard. The marines then led the teams to the flagpole, where the Stars and Stripes was raised as a brass band played with less precision but more life than Sousa’s. Finally, Boston’s fabulously corrupt mayor James M. Curley took the mound to throw out the ceremonial first pitch. Massachusetts governor Channing Cox donned a catcher’s mitt and bent down behind the plate to receive the throw. In an entertaining twist, Red Sox manager Frank Chance stepped into the batter’s box to face Curley’s offering. To the delight of the crowd, Chance took a Ruthian swing at the pit
ch. He had enough political savvy, however, to miss it by a wide margin—otherwise, he might have found a sheaf of parking tickets on the windshield of his car after the game.

  With the ceremonies over, Boston’s Howard Ehmke took his warm-up tosses and prepared to face the top of our batting order. The rivalry between the Red Sox and the Yankees was as intense as that between the National League’s Dodgers and Giants, but the Fenway fans had been respectful when the Yankees were introduced and even gave us polite applause. Their behavior reverted to usual, however, once the game began. In their turn, Whitey Witt, Joe Dugan, and Babe Ruth were greeted by boos and catcalls as they approached the batter’s box. These noises were followed by hoots of glee as each one made an easy out.

  Perhaps it was the familiarity of this ballpark, or maybe it was the relief of being able to focus on something other than murder and murderous threats, but I felt loose and comfortable as I trotted out to second base for the bottom half of the first. I was relaxed, with no more jitters than if I was playing a sandlot game against a bunch of kids.

  I had no fielding chance with the first batter since Waite Hoyt struck out Boston’s Nemo Leibold on a sequence of well-placed fastballs. Veteran Shano Collins was next for the Red Sox, and he strode to the plate wagging his bat like the tail of a happy dog.

  On a two-one count, Collins smacked a hard chopper up the middle that looked sure to go through for a hit. I dove and snagged the ball behind the second base bag. The air whooshed out of me as I landed hard on my stomach. I twisted in the dirt, rolled, and made a side-armed throw to nail Collins by half a step. Hoyt cheered my play with a “Way to go!” but it had felt as effortless to me as going around-the-horn during warm-ups.

  When I came to bat, I discovered that hitting was unfathomably easy for me today too. In the top of the second, I connected solidly with one of Ehmke’s slow curves for a line single over the shortstop’s head. Batting again in the fifth, I noticed Norm McMillan playing deep at third base and dropped a bunt down the line that I easily beat out for my second hit of the day.

  I was two-for-three going into the top of the ninth, but our team was down 4–2 on the scoreboard. With one out, Everett Scott, still nursing a tender ankle, hobbled his way to the plate and hit a slow grounder that squeezed its way between first and second for a single. Huggins immediately pulled the slow-moving Scott from the game and put Hinkey Haines in to pinch run for him. It was the sensible move, but I was a bit annoyed because Scott’s injury was worthless for me today. I was already in the lineup, and I preferred that other players save their injuries for games when I could go in to replace them.

  Following Scott in the batting order, I approached the batter’s box with an unusual confidence. The partisan crowd loudly called for Ehmke to finish the job of sending the Yankees to defeat. I fought to block the sound of the fans until it was little more than a dull hum in my ears. I concentrated completely on what I would have to do at the plate.

  Since we were down two runs, my job was simply to get on base and let the following hitters drive Haines and me in. Just a single, I told myself. Ehmke won’t want to put the tying run on base with a walk, so I should be getting decent pitches to hit. I’d noticed that his fastball no longer had the pop that it did in the early innings, and I was sure I could get around on anything he put across the plate.

  As I dug in, I quickly noted where the infielders were positioned, looking for a hole. Boston’s first baseman George Burns was playing close to the bag to keep Haines from getting much of a lead. That left a gap on the right side of the infield. All I had to do was punch the ball through that hole and we’d have two runners on base. With Haines’ speed, he might even make it all the way to third.

  Ehmke’s first pitch was a curve that broke wide and low. Catcher Val Picinich had to stab the dirt to prevent a passed ball. I guessed the next pitch would be a fastball and that Ehmke might ease up a little to make sure he put it in the strike zone. As a right-handed hitter, I readied myself for an inside-out swing to hit the ball the opposite way and shoot it through that hole between first and second.

  The wily right-hander’s next offering was indeed a slow fastball, chest high, in the middle of the plate. It looked so fat and inviting, that my brain went momentarily blank and impulse took command of my actions. On pure reflex, I hitched my bat a little higher, drove myself forward with my back leg, and unleashed a hard swing. Contact! I had never gotten such solid wood on a ball, and was thrilled to see it rising toward the left field fence. I took off running for first, and not until I rounded the bag did I realize there was no need for speed. I had just hit a two-run homer to tie the game.

  The angry cries of the disapproving crowd suddenly registered in my ears like a small explosion. Not until I rounded second base did I realize that I was still running as hard as if I was legging out a triple. I slowed to a trot, stumbling slightly as I adjusted speeds, and let myself savor the moment and enjoy the sweet sound of jeers from the stands. I was being lustily booed for hitting a home run in Fenway Park. Now I was truly a New York Yankee.

  When I got to the dugout, my teammates greeted me with congratulations and slaps on the back. They also gave me some good-natured ribbing about my unexpected display of power. “I didn’t know your bat had a homer in it,” said Joe Dugan.

  As I approached the bench, however, I saw there was nothing good-natured in Miller Huggins’ expression. “What the hell was that?” he growled at me. I knew that Giants manager John McGraw had once fined a player for hitting a home run when he was supposed to have laid down a bunt, and I wondered if was in for a similar punishment.

  “Sorry, Hug,” I said. “But that ball came up to the plate just begging for me to let loose on it.”

  He snorted. “The next time a baseball talks to you, you tell it to shut the hell up. You should have been swinging for a single.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I tried to look contrite, but I was feeling too elated about the home run to achieve a convincing expression of regret.

  Huggins’ angry façade dropped, too, and he cracked a rare smile. “What the hell,” he said. “Enjoy it. I know they don’t come often.” He was certainly right about that; I’d only had a few home runs in my career and most of them were inside-the-park.

  I got to enjoy my game-tying homer for all of about fifteen minutes. In the bottom of the ninth, the Red Sox scored a fifth run off Bullet Joe Bush on a George Burns single and the game was over.

  It was a disheartening loss and the locker room was quiet afterward. No matter what an individual player achieves during a game, there is no celebrating when the team loses. Today’s loss was even harder to take than most because our ninth inning rally to tie had gotten our hopes up for a win.

  The clubhouse wasn’t completely silent, of course. There were words of commiseration for Waite Hoyt because of his strong pitching effort. And there were some more comments, mostly kidding, about my hitting prowess. On his way to the showers, Bob Meusel said loudly, “This got to be the damnedest game I ever saw—Rawlings hits our only homer and the Sultan of Swat gets our only stolen base.”

  After taking my own shower, I dressed in one of my better suits, a gray herring-bone that Margie had picked out for me. I was considering where I might want to have dinner when the Sultan himself sauntered over to me.

  The Babe was dressed in a tailored suit that made mine look like something rejected by the Salvation Army. The usual long black cigar was clamped in his teeth. He puffed a few times before speaking. “Come on, slugger,” he said with his famous grin. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  * * *

  I was soon seated next to Ruth in a pristine 1922 Packard Twin Six Special Runabout. The car’s maroon body gleamed like polished china and its black leather interior could have been used to upholster the chairs in a British gentlemen’s club. Like the numerous other automobiles the Babe owned, its doors were monogramed with “G. H. R.”—George Herman Ruth—in gold lettering. Although Ruth had traveled to Boston on
the team train, I wasn’t surprised that he had a car available to him here; he had played for the Red Sox until 1920 and still lived nearby in the off season.

  The car’s canvas top was lowered so that we were open to view, and fans thronged around yelling praises to the Babe. I tried not to show it, but I thoroughly relished the envious looks I got from the crowd. Judging by the look of pleasure on Ruth’s face, though, it didn’t compare to how much he enjoyed people looking at him.

  Half a dozen Boston police officers, including two on horseback, eventually cleared a way for us to get through the congestion on Lansdowne Street and we were on our way. I assumed our destination was the Copley Plaza. When I caught on that we were heading out of the city, I shouted over the noise of the powerful engine and the rushing wind, “Aren’t we going to the hotel?”

  Ruth answered around the massive cigar, “Nah, Huggins cramps my style, kid. I’m staying away from him.” He took his eyes off the road to glance at me. “But since he wants you to babysit me, I figure I’ll take you along.” He grinned, tugged his driving cap tighter on his big head, and stomped down on the accelerator.

  A pang of concern shot through me as he sped up. Babe Ruth was a notoriously reckless driver. He liked to do everything in an extravagant manner, and that included the way he operated his automobiles. Ruth bought the fastest and most luxurious cars—from a Stutz Bearcat to a custom-built Pierce Arrow—and ran them at their upper limits. It was a good thing for him that he could afford any automobile he wanted, because he had crashed some of the finest cars ever produced.

  I wasn’t familiar with the roads outside of Boston, but I could tell that we were heading west. The countryside was becoming increasingly rural and the sparse traffic allowed the Babe to drive at greater speed.

  “Where are we going?” I yelled to him.