The Tomb That Ruth Built (A Mickey Rawlings Mystery)

by Troy Soos

  In the fifth inning, with the Tigers down 2-1, Ty Cobb led off against our right-handed veteran Bullet Joe Bush. As Bush went into his windup, Cobb altered his trademark split hands grip, sliding both fists down to the knob—a slugger’s grip. The fastball was on the inside part of the plate and Cobb pulled it, barely fair, past Ruth and over the right field fence. Ruth had barely taken two steps in the direction of the ball before realizing it was gone.

  Cobb remained in the batter’s box for a long moment, then shrugged as if to indicate anyone could hit a home run. It was one of his favorite ways to taunt Ruth. Every now and then, Cobb would demonstrate that he could hit the long ball, too, and claimed that he didn’t do so more often because it required no intelligence and he found them boring. To further aggravate Ruth today, he rounded the bases in an obvious imitation of the slugger’s pigeon-toed trot. Cobb succeeded in instigating catcalls from the Yankee partisans, but I saw no reaction from the Babe. He had his hands on his knees, ready for the next play, pointedly refusing to look in the direction where Cobb’s hit had landed.

  We went into the bottom of the sixth, tied at two runs apiece, with each team’s star successfully emulating the other’s style of play: Babe Ruth had scored after a stolen base, and Ty Cobb had tied the game with a home run.

  Joe Dugan led off for us by hitting a feeble popup that Hooks Dauss caught for an easy out. I paced in the coach’s box, wishing to get in the game myself. Whenever I saw a weak hit like that, or a strikeout, I would think to myself, “Hell, I could have done that.”

  When Ruth strode to the batter’s box, I called to him, “C’mon Babe! Get it started!”

  As he had in each of the Babe’s previous plate appearances, Dauss threw the first one at Ruth’s head. Ruth leaned back just far enough to avoid it, and I let the pitcher have a few choice words about being afraid to put one in the strike zone. He ignored me and sent another in the direction of Ruth’s ear that was again barely dodged.

  Having failed in his attempts to insert a baseball into Ruth’s skull, the Tigers’ pitcher next let loose with a hard curve. The Babe took a mighty swing. If he’d made contact, the ball would have ended up in another county, but the pitch broke sharply, Ruth missed it completely, and he was so off balance from his effort that he stumbled and nearly fell.

  The big guy regained his composure and got back in the box wagging his bat menacingly. Dauss stared him down before delivering another curve in almost the same location.

  Once again, Ruth took a powerful cut, this time topping the ball enough to bounce a grounder up the middle. Dauss made a desperate stab at the ball but it skittered under his glove untouched. The Babe raced for first and I was sure he had a clean single. Tigers’ shortstop Topper Rigney put it in doubt, though; he raced behind second base, short-hopped the ball, and made an off-balance throw to first. Lu Blue stretched and dug the ball out of the dirt. It was a helluva a play, but too late. Ruth beat the throw by half a step.

  “Out!” cried umpire Johnny Heller, jerking his thumb into the air.

  “What?” I squawked in disbelief.

  “Like hell!” bellowed Ruth.

  I took a couple of steps toward the beefy Heller. “He beat the throw—he was safe!”

  Color immediately rose in Heller’s face like a thermometer dipped in boiling water. He put his hands on his hips. “He’s whatever the hell I call him, and I called him out!” Johnny Heller was usually one of the league’s more competent men in blue. From his heated reaction, I suspected that he realized he had blown the call.

  “You blind sonofabitch!” I moved up to within a foot of him, the bills of our caps nearly touching, and continued to protest.

  The argument grew so intense, that I only gradually became aware that Babe Ruth was pressing against my back, trying to get to Heller. Ruth’s voice was deafening in my ear, as he castigated the umpire in language far less polite than mine.

  I realized that I had to shift my efforts. Instead of arguing with Heller in a futile attempt to become the first player in baseball history to convince an umpire to change his call, I had to protect the Babe. Three of Ruth’s suspensions last year had come from run-ins with umpires, including one in which he’d thrown dirt in the face of George Hildebrand. Back when Ruth was a pitcher, he’d gone so far as to punch plate umpire Brick Owens because he disagreed with Owens’ ball-and-strike calls.

  I began shuffling about, keeping myself between Ruth and Heller as they escalated their verbal broadsides. I vaguely noticed that Miller Huggins had joined the fray and was dancing around trying to grab Ruth’s arm to pull him away. I was also aware that Ruth was directing some of his anger at me for acting as buffer and frustrating his attempts to get to Heller.

  The Babe made another attempt at the umpire; he failed to touch him, but the force of his lunge drove me directly into Heller’s body. The ump jerked his right thumb in the air again while pointing the forefinger of his left hand at my nose. “Yer outta the game!’’ he roared.

  Huggins and I both let Heller know what we thought of him in the most ungentlemanly terms. Meanwhile, enough Yankees had come from the dugout to drag Ruth safely back to the bench.

  When he saw that Ruth was out of range of Heller’s wrath, Huggins nudged me with his elbow. “C’mon, Mick. Let’s get on with the game.”

  As we walked back to the dugout, the manager gave Heller a parting shot over his shoulder, then said to me, “You did exactly right by keeping Ruth away from that blind bum. But he’s pretty steamed at you for doing it, so you better keep away from him. Take your shower and get out of the clubhouse quick.”

  I walked glumly to the locker room. I knew that I had done the right thing; it was better for the team to lose a first base coach than to lose Babe Ruth from the lineup. But I had just been ejected from a game that I wasn’t even in, and now I was banished from the clubhouse to boot. I don’t think I ever felt more expendable.

  * * *

  I did as Miller Huggins told me. I showered, changed into a charcoal gray worsted suit, and was out of the clubhouse before the eighth inning had begun. I had the sense of being completely adrift. I’d certainly spent enough games on a dugout bench, but I had never been this far out of a game before.

  I couldn’t bring myself to leave the stadium while the game was still in progress, so I went up to the mezzanine level and wandered aimlessly along the concourse. Whenever I heard a noise from the crowd, I hurried to the nearest tunnel to get a glimpse of what was happening on the field. As I walked, I passed dozens of fans on their way to lavatories and returning from refreshment stands. Not one of them recognized me.

  Eventually I came to Joe Zegarra’s concession stand. One of the lights in the baseball chandelier was flickering and audibly crackled. The malfunctioning light must have helped attract attention because more than a dozen customers were crowded at the counter. This seemed like an opportune time to talk to Zegarra again, so I took a spot at the rear of the pack. Few of the men ahead of me ordered food, so the line moved fairly quickly as they placed their orders and walked away carrying their bottled drinks.

  When I reached the edge of the counter, a young man I recognized as one of Zegarra’s musclebound nephews brusquely asked, “Beer?” He lazily mopped a small spill with a dingy rag. Behind him, the other nephew turned sausages on the grill with equal indifference.

  I really didn’t want a near beer but I thought Zegarra might be more inclined to be helpful if I was a paying customer. “Sure,” I said.

  The young man intoned in a bored voice, as if he’d given the same spiel a thousand times today, “Two bits for the usual, fifty cents for the good stuff.”

  Fifty cents was outrageous, even at ballpark prices, and as far as I was concerned there was no such thing as “good” near beer. Nevertheless, I placed a half dollar on the countertop. “The good stuff.”

  From behind the counter, he pulled out a green bottle of Fervo. When he pried off the cap, some foam sloshed out and added one more stain to
his soiled apron.

  I was about to ask where Joe Zegarra was, when he waddled out of the storage room scratching at the narrow fringe of gray hair above his ear. Zegarra was attired in the same white cotton shirt and trousers as his workers, the only difference being that Zegarra’s outfit was spotless and his pants sagged so much that he was almost stepping on the cuffs. When he glanced at the man working the grill, his doughy face fixed in a stern expression. “You burn any o’ them sausages, an’ it’s comin’ outta yer pay,” he warned him. His nephew replied with a grunt and some indecipherable muttering.

  Zegarra turned away from him and spotted me. “Hey, Rawlings,” he greeted me. “What are yuh doin’ up here? It’s only the eighth inning—don’t you got a ballgame to play?”

  “One of the umps decided I was done for the day, so I figured I’d have myself a brew.” I tilted up the bottle and forced myself to take a swallow.

  While I drank, Zegarra seemed to be studying my reaction.

  To my astonishment, it really was the good stuff. This was no weak “cereal beverage,” but real beer as good as anything brewed before Prohibition. “That hits the spot,” I said, quickly taking another long pull.

  Zegarra smiled. His teeth were the same color as the fingers of a lifetime cigarette smoker.

  I held up the bottle and quickly scanned the red label. Sure enough, it had the Fervo logo and the words “Non-Intoxicating Cereal Beverage.” But as Tom Van Dusen had pointed out when I’d been served beer in a Moxie bottle at Katie Day’s, it’s what’s on the inside that counts.

  A voice from the back of the line called, “Hey buddy! We’re thirsty too!”

  I stepped to the side of the counter to make room for those behind me, and asked Zegarra, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “We’re pretty busy,” he said. “But for you, sure.” He motioned for me to follow and we went into the small storage room, out of earshot of his customers. Peering up at me, he commented, “Yuh seem to like our product.”

  “It’s good—and it’s not what I was expecting.”

  “We don’t advertise what we got here, yuh know.”

  I could understand his desire for discretion. But I didn’t think anyone would care about selling beer at a ballpark. After all, every restaurant and night club in New York served alcohol. Why shouldn’t a man be able to drink a decent beer at a baseball game? “In my book, you’re providing a public service,” I said.

  He smiled and nodded, causing his chins to ripple. “That’s exactly right. We’re just satisfyin’ the demands of a thirsty public.”

  “The reason I wanted to talk to you,” I said, “is there was trouble at one of the other refreshment stands. The fellow who owned it got beat up pretty bad.”

  Zegarra shook his head solemnly. “Yeah, I heard about that. Damn shame.”

  “You have any trouble like that yourself?”

  “Nah.” He jerked his head toward the young men staffing the counter. “With them two around, I don’t gotta worry about no trouble like that.” He added with a humorless chuckle, “They ain’t got half a brain between ’em, but they got muscles and they know how to use ’em.”

  “It’s a strange coincidence,” I went on, looking at the spot where Spats Pollard’s corpse had been hidden. “There was the body that was found here in your place, and then a fellow almost gets killed at another stand. You think there could be a connection?”

  He frowned and shook his head. He had claimed that his nephews were brainless, but now it was Zegarra who looked as if he was incapable of thought. “Was he robbed?” he finally asked.

  “Not that I know of.” Andrew Vey hadn’t mentioned anything about robbery.

  “Well, I tell yuh, it just ain’t easy servin’ the public,” Zegarra said. “Whether yer runnin’ a bar or a rest’rant or candy shop, yuh get all kinds comin’ in. And here there’s thousands of men at every ball game. Some of ’em are bound to be bad apples.”

  “I suppose so.” But the coincidence still bothered me. “So business has been good for you?”

  “Oh yeah. As long as attendance is good, our business is good.” He smiled. “And attendance is good when you fellows are playing good. Keep it up, will yuh?”

  “We’ll try,” I promised.

  “If there ain’t nothin’ else,” he said, “I really gotta get back to work.”

  “Just one thing more.”

  “Yeah?”

  I held up my empty bottle. “Can I have another?”

  * * *

  It was a dream I’d had before, in which I was at home plate hitting long line drives to every field. But I could never run to first. My feet remained frozen to the ground as if the chalk line of the batter’s box was an impenetrable barrier.

  Then the dream developed a strange new twist. The field was on the deck of a troop ship and bells were sounding the time, like when I’d gone to France with the American Expeditionary Force. When the bells fell silent, the ballpark was on solid ground again.

  I woke up to Margie gently shaking my shoulder. “Huh?” I said drowsily.

  “You have a phone call.”

  So that was the source of the ringing. “Who is it?”

  “Says he’s a friend of yours from Katie Day’s.” She sounded sleepy, too, but worried. “It’s two in the morning. What could he want at this hour?”

  “I dunno. I’ll see.”

  I rolled out of bed while Margie crawled back under the covers. On the way to the parlor, I rammed my toe into a dresser and let out a few words normally reserved for umpires. When I got to the phone, I angrily picked up the receiver. “Who is this?”

  “You really don’t wanna know who I am,” was the reply. I recognized the voice—it was the man who’d confronted me at Katie Day’s night club.

  “What do you want?” I demanded.

  “I already told you what I want: For you to keep your nose out of things that ain’t none of your business. But you don’t seem to listen.”

  Trying hard not to sound as angry as I felt, I said, “I’m listening now.”

  “Good. Because there’s something more.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I called ’cause I want you to know I got your phone number. And I got your address.” He paused. “I know exactly where you and your little lady live. So you better give some more thought to what we talked about before.”

  “I got the message,” I said. “Now don’t ever call again. And one more thing: If you decide to pay me a visit, you better be ready for a rougher greeting than you might expect.” With that, I hung up.

  I took a few minutes to settle down before going back to bed. Even though it was only a cowardly phone call in the middle of the night, this gangster had invaded our home. I was furious, and I was determined to defend Margie and me. But I didn’t want her to see my anger.

  When I was sufficiently calm, I went back to the bedroom, hoping that Margie had already fallen back asleep.

  She hadn’t. “Anything the matter?” she asked in a sleepy voice.

  “Wrong number,” I answered. Very wrong, I thought to myself.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the morning, before she left for work, I gave Margie the full story about the phone call and asked that she avoid being in the apartment by herself. With her athletic ability, and her experience in action movies, she could probably defend herself pretty well, but she agreed. Since she’d been putting in long hours at the studio, our daily schedules were such that we were almost always home at the same time anyway. I didn’t know what to do when the team had to leave for our next road trip, but I had a few days to figure that out. I also urged Margie to keep a watchful eye for anyone who looked suspicious whenever she was outside; I assumed she’d be safe within the confines of the Griffith studio, but she might be vulnerable while coming and going.

  Later, at Yankee Stadium, life was almost back to normal after my ejection the previous day. The Babe was in a good mood, having won yesterday’s game in
the bottom of the ninth with a single that drove in Wally Schang, and was no longer angry at me for having prevented him from dismembering umpire Johnny Heller. The win had put us in a tie for first place; if we beat Detroit again today, we’d be alone at the top of the standings.

  The only residual effect of yesterday’s conflict with Heller was that Huggins thought it wise to keep me out of the umpire’s view. That meant I was not only out of the line-up, but out of the coach’s box. I was relegated to the bench while Charley O’Leary coached first.

  That gave me nine innings to watch the game and think. What I considered most was the fact that I had too much on my mind that had nothing to do with baseball. I didn’t want to split my life this way. I was just a ballplayer, not some kind of detective, and I needed to permanently free myself from the problem I’d been given. I concluded that the only way for me to get out of this crime business was to carry it through to the end. So, while our lineup went on a hitting spree that ultimately led to a 9-1 thrashing of the Tigers, I began formulating a plan.

  * * *

  The following evening, after the Tigers took revenge by shutting us out 6-0 in the series finale, I walked across the Macomb Dam Bridge to Upper Manhattan. The old swing bridge spanned the Harlem River, providing easy access to the Giants’ Polo Grounds on the Manhattan side and to Yankee Stadium in the Bronx.

  Not far from where I had once played for John McGraw, on a seedy block of Amsterdam Avenue, I came to a small restaurant. It was below street level, tucked between a pawn shop that promised Money to Loan on Anything and Everything and a second-hand clothing store with a large placard that simply read Cheap in black block letters. The sign above the restaurant was faded, but more extravagant in its language: Silk Shaughnessy’s Dining Emporium.