The Tomb That Ruth Built (A Mickey Rawlings Mystery)

by Troy Soos

  “They will,” I agreed. “But something happened in the stadium at the start of the season—and if people found out, it might give the stadium some bad publicity.”

  “What is it?” he demanded, his eyes wide.

  “They found the body of a bootlegger walled in one of the refreshment stands.”

  From the shocked expression on his face, I was sure this was the first he’d heard of it. It didn’t surprise me that he had been kept in the dark; Jacob Ruppert rarely communicated anything to his partner any more. “I don’t believe it!” Huston finally gasped.

  I gave him a quick rundown on what had happened, and went on, “The body was supposedly found because some repairs had to be made to the plumbing. I’d like to check if that was true—if there were really repairs scheduled.”

  Huston was still in a fog over the news. He reached for his whiskey glass before answering, “It’s possible. Everything was on a tight schedule and some things had to be fixed or altered.”

  “Could you tell me who I might check with to see if that’s what really happened?”

  “Certainly. White Construction was the general contractor. I’ll make a couple of phone calls and tell them to give you any information you need. You go to their office tomorrow morning and I’m sure they’ll cooperate with you.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe something like this could happen in my ballpark.”

  I thanked him for seeing me and got up to leave.

  He frowned and nodded a goodbye. When I was a few steps away, he called after me, “What do your teammates think—will the Yankees finally go all the way this year?”

  “We’re sure of it,” I answered. Nothing was “sure” in baseball, but that was how we all felt.

  “I’ll look forward to seeing it happen.” Huston smiled wanly. “But by then I’ll probably have to buy a ticket.”

  * * *

  Cap Huston might have been on his way out as far as running the ball club, but the construction workers who had worked for him in putting up Yankee Stadium still considered him the boss. They also clearly held him in high esteem.

  I met with three men in the downtown office of the White Construction Company the next morning, and they all spoke with admiration of Huston’s engineering skills and hands-on leadership. We sat around a large work table covered with blueprints and building plans. One of the men was some kind of foreman, dressed in a soft-collar shirt and serge trousers. The other two were a plumber and a plasterer, both of them in faded denim pants and flannel shirts. Prior to discussing the reason I had come, all three gave testimonials as to what a “regular guy” and “helluva leader” Cap Huston was.

  Huston had already given them a brief account of my interest in the concession stand, and I elaborated while the men paid close attention. “I was told,” I said, “that plumbing repairs had to be done and that’s why you had to break into the wall.”

  The foreman shook his head. “I don’t understand. We didn’t have any repairs scheduled in that area. Look, here’s the log.” Thanks to Cap Huston’s telephone calls, the men had come prepared with all the relevant paperwork for me to review.

  I looked over a thick book filled with work orders and job descriptions as if it made sense to me. “Well, I was told that was why you had to break into the wall,” I said again. I didn’t mention that it was Joe Zegarra who had given me that story.

  The foreman opened another ledger. “No, there was a report of a leak in the stand’s storage room. By”—he struggled to read the name—“somebody named Zeegar, it looks like.”

  “Zegarra,” I said, “He’s the one leasing the stand.”

  The plumber said in a gravelly voice, “I’m the one who checked it out. I knew it was nonsense—the pipes don’t even run through that wall. There was a pool of water on the floor, but it wasn’t from no leak. To me, it looked like a spill so I mopped it up. The plaster job was pretty bad, though, and Zegarra insisted it was from water damage.”

  “I told you I didn’t do that job,” the plasterer said defensively. “I’ll put my work up against anybody in this city.”

  “We all know you do good work,” said the foreman in a placating tone. “Nobody’s saying you don’t.”

  The plumber went on, “Anyway, Zegarra said the pipes had to be leaking from someplace, and then he went on a rant about how it could ruin his business if we didn’t fix the problem. Like I said, I knew it was a crock, but I busted through the wall just to shut him up. I figured the wall had to be replastered anyway, since it was so sloppy. That’s when I found the body.”

  “And look at the job I did fixing it,” said the plasterer. “That wall is going to last a thousand years!” He folded his arms across his chest and looked at each one of us as if daring anyone to contradict him.”

  I asked the plumber, “Did Zegarra say anything any more about the leak? Did he have you check the pipes?”

  “No,” he answered. “Come to think of it, as soon as we broke into the wall, he shut up. At first he was all agitated saying water damage would ruin his place. Then he wasn’t worried anymore. In fact, he walked away like he didn’t have a care in the world.” He frowned. “Why do you think he did that?”

  I had a pretty good idea, but I didn’t share it with them.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I found the rotund Joe Zegarra, dressed in his clean white concessionaire’s uniform, at a refreshment stand on the first base side of the park a couple of hours before game time. He stood, arms akimbo, watching his nephews lug boxes of candy and popcorn, what Zegarra had dismissed as “the nickel stuff,” out of the stand’s storage room.

  This concession stand was equipped the same as the others in the stadium, with an enameled refrigerator, sink, and grill. It was also built on the same design, with a baseball chandelier hanging above a long wooden counter. Behind that counter was where the stand’s previous owner had been found beaten nearly to death. Piled on top of it now were several cases of Fervo, the falsely labeled “cereal beverage” that actually contained Joe Zegarra’s beer.

  “I see you got yourself another place,” I said to Zegarra. Andrew Vey had checked into the concessions for me and found that Zegarra now had the leases on half of the stadium’s refreshment stands.

  The pudgy old man looked at me with surprise evident on his face. “Business has been good,” he said. “And when business is good, yuh expand.” He scratched at his bald dome, probably trying to figure out what I was doing here.

  “What if you want to expand and no place is available?” I asked.

  Zegarra hiked up his droopy pants and leaned against the counter. “Yuh negotiate,” he answered with a sly smile, revealing his dark yellow teeth.

  “And if that doesn’t work, you beat up the competition?”

  Still smiling, but with no humor in it, he said, “There’s all kinds of ways to negotiate.”

  “Sure hope you don’t find any bodies in this place.”

  Zegarra glanced at his laboring nephews. “How ’bout we move away from here if yuh wanna talk,” he suggested.

  When I agreed, he yelled a warning to them that they had better keep working, and the two of us began walking slowly together along the concourse. Although I strongly suspected that Zegarra was behind some of the violence that had occurred, I had no fear of him doing anything himself. The way he wheezed and wobbled with every step, I was sure he lacked the energy to attack me.

  Once we were away from the stand, Zegarra said, “I dunno what to make of yuh. Yer a nosy fellah, but I know it’s on account of Mr. Barrow wantin’ yuh to do this investigatin’.”

  “That’s true,” I replied. “If it was up to me, I’d just as soon forget about it and play baseball. I really don’t care a damn about Spats Pollard or who owns what concession stand or what they did to get it.”

  “That’s kinda what I figure,” said Zegarra. “So I think the question is: How do we get yuh to forget about it?” He scratched his big nose. “Maybe if I give yuh a little… let
’s call it a ‘present.’ Like I said, my business has been good and I’ll bet the Yankees ain’t payin’ you nothin’ like what Ruth gets.”

  That was certainly true, but I wasn’t at all tempted by Zegarra’s offer. “Hell, I’d drop this for free,” I said. “But what Mr. Ruppert and Mr. Barrow want from me is to find out what happened to Spats Pollard. Until I can give them an answer on that, I’m stuck with it. And you’re stuck with me poking into your business.”

  Our conversation ceased briefly while a couple of delivery men passed near us. They were pushing carts loaded with programs, pennants, and other merchandise that vendors would soon be selling to thousands of fans throughout the stadium.

  When the delivery men were out of earshot, Zegarra demanded with some irritation, “So how’s this my problem anyways? I didn’t have nothin’ to do with Pollard gettin’ killed. He just happened to turn up in my place.”

  “Oh, you had something to do with it,” I said. “But you didn’t actually kill him.”

  Zegarra’s deep-set eyes turned on me sharply and his chins quivered. “You think you know somethin’, smart guy?”

  “You told me Pollard was found because they had to do some repairs to the plumbing. That’s not what happened—I checked. You’re the one who got them to break into the wall, claiming a leak that didn’t exist. You wanted the body to be discovered.”

  “And why would I want somethin’ like that?” He was studying me closely.

  “Maybe Pollard’s killer was some kind of threat to you, too.”

  “Ain’t nobody a threat to me,” he said.

  I went on, “Since you wanted Pollard’s body found, I figure you didn’t kill him—if you did, you’d have kept him sealed up. So I think you know who did kill him and you wanted him caught—either by the police or by the guys he works for.”

  “Huh?”

  “Spats Pollard was supposed to have been killed two years ago, but the man who got the assignment let him get away. When Pollard came back to New York, the fellow who was supposed to kill him finally had to do it—otherwise he’s in trouble himself.”

  “Why didn’t he do the job the first time?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe they were friends. Or maybe he took a payoff from Pollard in exchange for letting him skip town.” From what I’d been learning about gangsters, I had the impression that the primary motive for anything they did was money.

  “Still don’t see how I figure in all this,” Zegarra grumbled. “I’m just a merchant.”

  “Yes, but your merchandise is illegal.”

  “Hey, it’s what the people want.”

  “I agree,” I said. “The problem is you need certain connections to run your kind of business. And partners. You have any partners, Joe?”

  “Partners cut into the profits,” he said.

  “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Every one of you guys is trying to get everything you can for yourself while cutting out—or killing—anybody in your way.”

  Zegarra said, “I need to head back and keep an eye on the boys. Any time I ain’t watchin’, they go on break and start drinkin’ the stock.” We turned and began the return trip to his new concession stand.

  I continued, “Spats Pollard was back in New York for a few months trying to get into the booze business, claiming he had a good source. But no one was buying. He needed a partner to distribute the booze. Somebody like you.”

  “You think Pollard and I was partners?” Zegarra chuckled. “Hell, he was just a dead man in a wall.”

  “There’s a reason he was stashed in your place—so that you could control what happened afterward. Maybe the fellow who killed Pollard made himself another partner. That’s a three-way split. After he kills Pollard, it’s fifty-fifty. Then if he takes the fall for Pollard’s murder, you have the whole business for yourself. It would be awful smart—you get rid of two partners without having to do any killing yourself.”

  We walked in silence for a while before Zegarra spoke again. “You say yer only interested in who killed Pollard, right? Not about my business?”

  “That’s right. I don’t care what you sell, or who your partners are. As soon as I can satisfy Mr. Barrow, my job is done.”

  “And yuh got any ideas on who Pollard’s killer might be?”

  “Yes.” I looked at him to gauge his reaction. “Leo Kessler. You know him?”

  Zegarra’s soft fleshly face turned hard. “Heard of ’im. Why Kessler?”

  I didn’t want to reveal to Zegarra everything that I knew or suspected. “I believe Kessler had the assignment two years ago to kill Pollard,” I said. I’d also noticed that Kessler had contacted me after my previous meetings with Zegarra.

  “So once you get this Kessler fellah, yer done?”

  “That’s it. Then it’s all over.” I hoped.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I had done all that I could for now. I hoped that I had successfully given Joe Zegarra the impression that if he gave up Leo Kessler, he would be free to continue his business without further interference. I simply had to wait and let Zegarra make his decision. Considering the cutthroat business practices of those in his profession, I was pretty sure it would be an easy one for him to reach.

  Meanwhile, I had a much happier matter to occupy me. In the late afternoon, I visited the Bronx Office of the City Clerk in Borough Hall. Margie and I had decided to get married in a civil ceremony before I had to leave on the long road trip. Although we’d been together for years, we were now so eager to be married that we didn’t want to wait one more hour than necessary. I was discouraged to learn at the City Clerk’s office that we would have to wait a full twenty-four hours from the time we got the license until we could return to be legally wed.

  I walked home along Third Avenue, imagining the wedding and thinking how pleased Margie would be that I’d gotten all the forms we needed to become husband and wife. There were few pedestrians on this stretch of the street, but fairly heavy automobile traffic, and trains rumbled on the Third Avenue el overhead.

  Lost in a reverie about my upcoming marriage, I was barely aware of the dark green Packard that pulled to the curb ahead of me. I didn’t notice it until three men hopped out of the car. One of them was Leo Kessler, who quickly positioned himself a few feet in front of me. He wore an outfit similar to the one I’d seen him in last time, a baggy pin-striped suit with the same white Panama hat crowning his dark hair.

  The other two men moved into place, one further up the sidewalk and one behind me, to block any attempt I might make to flee. They were also dressed in the standard gangster uniform, except with oversized woolen flat caps. From their less flashy attire, I took them to be of lower rank than Kessler, and from their physiques I assumed their job was to provide additional muscle.

  Kessler took a step closer to me. He fixed me in a deadly glare; even the scar below his left eye looked angry. He smiled his malevolent grin and mumbled so that only I could hear, “You shoulda took the money, you stupid sonofabitch.”

  “What do you want?” I tried to sound defiant, but was shaken by the realization that Joe Zegarra had shattered my plan. I had expected that Zegarra would give up Leo Kessler. Apparently he’d decided to let Kessler get rid of me instead.

  The hoodlum answered smoothly, “I want you to come for a ride with me.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.” I glanced at Kessler’s accomplices. Each of them already had a hand inside his jacket, and I knew what they were carrying. If I tried to run, they wouldn’t have to bother trying to catch me—a bullet would bring me down quite effectively.

  Kessler shook his head. “You’re mistaken there. See, you don’t got a choice in the matter. You had your chances, but you wouldn’t stay out of it. I just got to give the word to my boys and you’re in the car whether you wanna be or not.”

  “You think you can grab somebody off the street with nobody noticing? Or shoot me and not have the cops come running?”

  “
I know we can. Look around.” He craned his own neck, making a show of looking here and there. “You see somebody who’s gonna come save you?” He shook his head again. “Hell, we’ll be driving away with you before anyone notices. Besides, this is New York—anybody who does notice is gonna look the other way.”

  I glanced around. We were in the shadow of the el, with few people nearby and noisy automobiles moving quickly past. The gangster was right; the only people interested in me were Kessler and the two men blocking my escape.

  The thought flashed through my mind that if I couldn’t make it past them, maybe I had a chance by running directly at Kessler; his “boys” would be unlikely to shoot with him in the line of fire. Then once by Kessler, I could hop on the running board of a passing car or truck. It wasn’t much of a plan, but seemed my only chance. If I got into Kessler’s Packard, I was pretty sure I’d never been seen again—until perhaps decades from now when a building would be torn down and I’d be found embedded in the concrete.

  Kessler said, “You gonna get in the car peaceful now? Or do I gotta tell my boys to put you in the hard way?”

  Keep him talking, I told myself, and be ready for a chance to rush him. “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Still asking questions, huh? That’s what got you in trouble in the first place.”

  I was watching him like a base runner studying a pitcher’s pick-off motion to see when he could steal. “You mean because I was asking about Spats Pollard?” I tensed, poised to make my move as soon as Kessler dropped his guard a little.

  Leo Kessler didn’t answer my last question and I noticed he was looking past me. I looked back to see Whitey and a smaller, craggy-faced man coming toward us. A Model T was idling at the curb while its driver remained behind the wheel.

  Although the weather was warm, Whitey wore the same large overcoat that he had in the Museum of Natural History. I’d seen enough gangsters in the past couple of months to realize that they wore loose-fitting suits in order to conceal their firearms; Whitey’s billowing coat was so big that he could hide an entire arsenal under it.