The Tomb That Ruth Built (A Mickey Rawlings Mystery) Read online

  “Home Plate!” he answered.

  There wasn’t much chance for conversation in the noisy car, but I didn’t need him to elaborate. “Home Plate” was what Ruth had named his eighty-acre farm in Sudbury, about twenty miles west of Boston. It had been featured in numerous newspaper stories this past winter. After his disastrous World Series performance, Ruth had promised to spend the off season getting in shape and living a clean healthy lifestyle on his rustic homestead. Compliant photographers took pictures of him decked out in a plaid winter coat and a fur cap with ear flaps as he chopped wood, shoveled snow, and fed chickens. One particularly amusing image showed him perched on a rail fence with a piece of hay in his mouth, looking like an oversized Tom Sawyer. The Babe was also frequently photographed during these months as a devoted family man, with his wife Helen and their adopted baby Dorothy.

  Not often reported—at least not in print—was the farm’s primary function: The remote location provided Ruth and his pals a place to hunt, fish, and have a good time away from the view of reporters and team officials. I’d heard there were frequent parties fueled by large quantities of bootleg booze, and that these sometimes got out of hand. In one famous escapade, Ruth decided to demonstrate his great strength by hurling a piano into the nearby pond.

  Our drive to Sudbury was delayed by a patrolman who stopped us near Waltham. The young officer was at first irate about the reckless speed we’d been traveling. When he recognized Ruth, however, he apologized for holding us up. The Babe obligingly gave the officer an autograph, and the grateful young man stepped out into the road to stop an approaching car so that we could pull right out. During the exchange with Ruth, the officer had given me some quizzical looks as if wondering who would be important enough to have Babe Ruth as his chauffeur.

  It was almost dusk when we arrived at Home Plate. The house, an expansive two-story colonial on Dutton Road, was not what I would ever describe as a “farm.” If it had been located on Fifth Avenue, it would qualify as a “mansion.” The interior was spacious, but the furnishings fairly simple and mostly masculine. It didn’t appear that Helen Ruth had much say in the décor. I’d heard that she often lived apart from the Babe and was sometimes brought in only when a family photograph was needed to bolster his image.

  Ruth led me into a high-ceilinged den with a flagstone fireplace that spanned almost an entire wall. The mounted head of an eight-point buck was above the mantle and various animal pelts served as rugs. Several wood-and-leather easy chairs and sofas were positioned around the enormous white hide of a polar bear; the beast’s head was still attached and its jaws gaped open in a sad silent roar.

  Except for the faint sound of chickens and pigs in the barnyard, the house was quiet. “Is Helen home?” I asked.

  Ruth’s prominent lips twisted in distaste. “If she was, we wouldn’t be here. She cramps my style worse than Huggins. Helen stayed in New York this trip. But never mind about her—it’s dinner time!” His expression brightened considerably. “You must have worked up an appetite running out that homer,” he joked. “How about steaks?”

  “Sounds good.” I suddenly felt myself ravenous.

  “Lemme go find the cook.”

  Left alone in the den, I wandered about the room, looking over the mix of sporting equipment, awards, and mementos. A set of golf clubs was in one corner, a few bats in another, and several expensively engraved shotguns rested on a walnut rack next to the window. Much of the wall space was filled by framed photographs of the Babe posing with celebrities, athletes, and politicians. Among the faces I recognized were Jack Dempsey, Governor Al Smith, Buster Keaton, President Harding, and Jackie Coogan in costume as “The Kid.”

  The fireplace mantle was crowded with plaques, medals, and trophies. Most of them were for his baseball accomplishments, but there were several for bowling, shooting, and golf. He even had a loving cup for taking first place in a farting contest sponsored by a Yale fraternity.

  When I got to the baseball equipment, I picked up a well-used hickory bat and hefted it a couple of times. It weighed about fifty ounces compared to my usual thirty-two, and I couldn’t fathom how anyone could successfully hit with such a massive piece of lumber. So I decided to give it a try. I slid my hands down to the knob and took a couple of ponderous swings. The bat was so heavy that I could barely keep it horizontal as I cut through the air. Taking care not to hit any lamps or trophies, I swung as hard as I could and nearly fell over from the way the bat pulled me off balance.

  An outburst of laughter from the doorway told me that Ruth had returned—and that he’d witnessed my poor attempts to imitate him. Still chuckling, he said, “You planning to be a slugger now, kid? You get a homer today and figure you can keep beltin’ ’em out?” He had changed to a soft-collar shirt and carried a schooner of dark beer in each hand.

  I fought to keep from blushing. “Nah, I was just wondering how you swing this damn thing so easily.” I moved to put it back in the corner. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  Ruth put the beers down on a side table and took the bat from me. “I’ll show you how I do it.” He rolled up his sleeves and took a few cuts, swishing it through the air as effortlessly as if it was a piece of straw. “See, it’s easy,” he said. “You just have to be as strong as me.” He grinned. “But there ain’t anybody as strong as me.”

  “It’s more than strength,” I said. “You have to see the ball right, time the swing, step into the pitch…”

  “Yeah, you do have to put it all together.” Ruth let loose another swing that would have decapitated anyone standing in the way. “I always had the natural ability, but somebody had to teach me to really play ball.”

  “Who?”

  “Brother Matthias, at the St. Mary’s Industrial School for Boys in Baltimore.” Ruth added in sincere tone, “He is the greatest man I know.”

  The Babe motioned toward a couple of easy chairs. We sat, drank our beers, and he told me about growing up in Baltimore. By the age of seven, he’d already gotten into enough trouble that his parents placed him in the Catholic reform school. There, Brother Matthias, a Canadian monk and the school’s Prefect of Discipline, had become a father figure to him and taught him the finer points of baseball. Recognizing Ruth’s natural athletic ability, and wanting to give him a healthy outlet for his energy, Matthias spent hours and hours teaching him to hit, field, and pitch. Since there wasn’t much equipment available, the left-handed Ruth made do with an old right-handed catcher’s mitt that he had to wear jammed on the wrong hand.

  When the call came that dinner was ready, Ruth led us into an airy dining room painted in pale green with white trim. The table, chairs, and china cabinet were rustic pine. Decorative plates adorned one of the walls and French doors provided a spectacular view of the sunset.

  A short fussy woman in a pristine dress and spotless apron asked if there was anything else we wanted. “If we need more,” Ruth answered, “I’ll give a yell. Thank you, Mrs. Mullaly.”

  I added my thanks but barely noticed her as she left. I was staring in wonder at the heaping platters of food on the table. There was one plate piled high with thick steaks and another of pork chops. Surrounding these were bowls of baked beans, sauerkraut, mashed potatoes and sliced tomatoes. A fragrant loaf of brown bread was on a wooden serving board and there was a basket of golden dinner rolls. Smaller dishes of mustard, gravy, butter, and various sauces were conveniently placed. A dozen bottles of beer were chilling in an ice-filled bucket. It looked like there was enough to feed the entire starting lineup!

  “Is anybody else coming?” I asked. The table could seat eight, but only two places were set. I had thought there might be others joining us, and that I would get to witness one of Babe Ruth’s infamous parties first hand.

  “Nope.” Ruth sat down and pointed for me to do the same. Without any further word or ceremony, he enthusiastically forked a couple of steaks onto his plate. He then speared some pork chops and put them around the steaks as if they were a garnish.
Before I had a chance to get a single morsel of food on my plate, he was already tearing into his first steak like a starving man.

  I selected a well-done pork chop, along with some beans and mashed potatoes. After a couple of bites and a long swallow of beer, I looked up at the Babe. “Why me?” I asked.

  His mouth full of the better part of a steer, Ruth mumbled, “Why you what?” Juice dripped from his lips.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful, but why did you bring me here? Why not your regular pals on the club?”

  “I like you, kid.” A grin broke over his big round face. “I know Huggins wants you to play nursemaid to me and keep me out of trouble, but you never act like you’re better than me and you never give me no problems.” He pointed at me with his fork. “And most important, you never get on me about needing to change my ways. I get enough of that crap from the newspapers and the do-gooder civic clubs and Jacob Ruppert and that little runt Huggins.”

  “Why should I tell you that you need to straighten out?” I said. “You’re a big boy—you know it yourself.”

  He put down his fork so hard that it splattered drops of gravy on the tablecloth. “Oh, so you don’t say it but you think it!” Ruth’s voice rose. “You think I need to be a good boy and drink my milk and be in by curfew and do whatever Miller Huggins tells me?”

  I hadn’t meant to make Ruth angry, nor did I want to be an ungracious guest. “What I think,” I answered calmly, “is that you’re probably the best athlete who ever lived. And you know better than anyone what your body is capable of doing and what kind of shape you have to be in to perform at your best.” I paused. “And your best is something other people can only dream about. So if you piss your talent away, you shatter a lot of dreams.”

  The Babe stared at me for a long moment with an impassive expression. I couldn’t tell how he was going to react. He finally snorted, “You gonna give me the speech about how I’m disappointing all the runny-nosed little kids who look up to me?”

  I cut into the pork chop. “To hell with the little kids,” I replied. “You’d be disappointing me. I want to play in a World Series more than anything, and if you’re not at your best there’s no chance of us getting there.”

  Ruth continued to stare at me for a moment, then chortled, “At least you’re honest about it.” He speared another chunk of beef. “Don’t you worry, kid. We’re going to the World Series—and this year, we’re gonna win.” I hoped he was right, because I probably wouldn’t have many more chances to get into a Fall Classic. The 1923 Yankees were the team that could take me there, and Babe Ruth was the key.

  We talked for a while about our upcoming games, and whether Cleveland or Detroit would be our main competition for the pennant. As we spoke, I noticed that Ruth’s beer consumption was light and his eating had slowed. He eyed the full steak and two pork chops that remained on his plate with a pronounced lack of enthusiasm. Sighing heavily, he raised his knife and fork and began to saw off a piece of meat.

  I said, “It’s just the two of us here, Babe, and you don’t have to impress me.”

  He looked at me with surprise. Setting the utensils back down, he chuckled. “It seems like I always got to be putting on a show for somebody.” Leaning back, he folded his hands over his full belly. “Everybody expects me to do things big—and they’re never satisfied. If I hit fifty home runs, they want me to hit sixty. If I hit one into the second deck, they want me to knock the next one clear out of the park.” He belched softly. “Somebody sees me eat five hot dogs, the next person expects me to eat ten.” He began to look sorry for himself at having to bear the burden of so many expectations.

  I couldn’t help but tease him. “And if you take two girls to your hotel room one night, then you have to take three the next?” I shook my head in mock sympathy. “Must be rough on you.”

  He guffawed. “That’s purely for fun, and there’s no limit on that. More than one time I’ve gone into a whorehouse and didn’t leave until I sampled every girl in the place!”

  I smiled, but hoped he wouldn’t recount the details. Glancing at the door, I noticed the night was pitch black. “It’s been a great dinner,” I said, “and I really appreciate you inviting me. But shouldn’t we be getting back for curfew?”

  Ruth waved a hand dismissively, his big diamond ring flashing brightly. “The hell with curfew. We’re staying here tonight. I already told the housekeeper to get a room ready for you.”

  Since I had no way to get back to Boston without the Babe driving me, I had to accept his hospitality. I hoped that Miller Huggins wouldn’t be too angry at this violation of team rules.

  We went back to the den, where several logs were already burning in the fireplace. The Babe offered me one of his black cigars, which I declined. He lit his and puffed contentedly. Soon, in the comfort of two easy chairs, amid the fragrant smell of woodsmoke and tobacco, we were drinking beer and talking baseball. We discussed hitting techniques, swapped stories about Ty Cobb and John McGraw, and talked about the experiences we’d each had playing for the Red Sox.

  After another draught of the excellent porter, I held the glass in front of me and eyed the rich dark color. “This is good stuff,” I said. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Some fellows in Boston keep me supplied with suds and liquor.” The Babe took a long swallow from his own glass. “And it’s all top-notch, none of that bathtub brew.”

  “How about in New York?”

  Ruth laughed. “They never even heard of Prohibition in New York! If I want something, there’s a dozen fellows ready to get it for me.”

  “Was Spats Pollard one of those fellows?”

  “Spud who?” he asked with a frown.

  “Spats,” I repeated. “Spats Pollard. I hear he did a fair amount of bootlegging, and claimed you were one of his customers.”

  “Name doesn’t ring a bell, but I’m not real good with names.”

  “Pollard used to play ball. He pitched for the Cubs in ’eighteen.” I hoped that might prod the Babe’s memory.

  He appeared to consider it, but shook his head. “I remember that series, though,” he added with a smile. “I won two games, including a shutout in the opener.” That was back when he was primarily a pitcher and had led the Red Sox to three pennants in four years.

  For a while longer, we talked about that series, but the Babe appeared to be getting sleepy. After letting out an enormous belch, he got to his feet and said, “Well, I’m gonna call it a night, kid. I’ll have Mrs. Mullaly show you to your room.”

  “Thanks, Babe,” I said. “By the way, I know you’re not much for names, but mine is ‘Mickey.’ ”

  He hesitated. “You got it… kid.” With a big grin, he turned and walked away. I couldn’t help but smile, too. The Babe was just a lovable character, no matter what he said or did.

  When I got into bed, I finally realized what this evening had been about. Ruth was doing exactly what the Yankees—and the newspapers and the fans—wanted him to do. He was trying to behave and keep himself in shape for baseball.

  Ruth didn’t come out to the farm tonight because Miller Huggins “cramped his style,” as he’d claimed. He wanted to put himself out of reach of the city’s temptations. And he didn’t bring his regular buddies along with him because he didn’t want a party. So he had himself a quiet night with only a utility infielder named Mickey Rawlings for company.

  Babe Ruth would probably forget about my visit by morning. I would remember it forever.

  Chapter Eight

  Knowing how innocuous our evening had actually been, I was unprepared for Miller Huggins’ heated reaction when we arrived at the Copley Plaza hotel the next morning. I had the impression that with every hour that we were late, his anger had doubled. Since we’d missed curfew by a full twelve hours, the Yankees’ manager was furious.

  The drive from Sudbury back to Boston took considerably longer than the trip out. It drizzled on and off all morning, leaving slick roads and poor visibil
ity, and the Babe navigated his Packard with some caution. It wasn’t until after eleven Friday morning that the two of us walked into the hotel.

  The dazzling lobby of the Copley Plaza looked like it could be the ballroom of some European castle, with coffered ceilings, marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and gilded woodwork. Ruth fit in perfectly with the elegant surrounding; he was attired in a fresh cashmere suit with a diamond stickpin in his tie. I was in the same clothes I’d worn out to Home Plate and felt a bit grubby.

  We hadn’t made it more than ten feet into the lobby when I spotted Miller Huggins in a chair that a French king might have used as a throne. He noticed us a second later, and bolted from it like he was jumping off the dugout bench to argue an umpire’s bad call. I knew Huggins hadn’t waited in that chair all night for us—after a certain hour, he generally assigned the lobby-sitting job to a coach like Charley O’Leary—but he looked as tired and grumpy as if he had.

  “Where the hell you two been?” he screamed from halfway across the lobby. Dozens of heads turned to look at the angry manager.

  Ruth answered at twice the volume that Huggins had achieved. “None of your damn business, you little squirt! I’m here by game time, and that’s all that counts!” I hoped Huggins knew that my belligerent roommate wasn’t answering for me.

  The two men met in the middle of a blue Persian rug that probably cost more than most houses. The argument grew loud and heated. Trying to intimidate the little manager with his size, Ruth stepped so close to Huggins that their chests were almost in contact. Huggins had to crane his neck up to see the Babe’s face. Here, in one of Boston’s most elegant buildings, amid its genteel clientele, the two men exchanged words as if they were on a sandlot, using language that turned the air as blue as the rug on which they stood.

  Huggins finally squawked, “That’s it! Fifty dollar fine for breaking curfew! If you think you’re too good to follow the rules, it’s gonna cost you.”

  The Babe pulled a thick roll from his pocket and peeled off a hundred dollar bill. “Here you go,” he said, shoving the bill into Huggins’ vest pocket. “I might not be in tonight, either.” With that, he stormed off to the elevator.