The Tomb That Ruth Built (A Mickey Rawlings Mystery) Page 2

  As much as I admired Ruth, I was disappointed to see him like this. Last season had been a miserable one for him both on and off the field. He had begun 1922 with a six-week suspension and ended it with a pitiful World Series performance. This spring he had promised to change his ways and give his best to baseball. He vowed to get his weight under two hundred pounds and swore that he would cut down on booze and women.

  Desperate to try anything that might help the Babe keep his promises, Miller Huggins decided that I could be good influence on him and paired us together as roommates. Curtailing Ruth was like roping a tornado, however. The man was a force of nature and submitted only to his own impulses.

  Now here he was, after a humiliating game in which he had contributed nothing to the Yankees’ effort, out on a binge. That meant he’d be in even worse shape tomorrow and the downhill slide would continue.

  When he got near us, Ruth bellowed, “See, Hug? I’m in by curfew!”

  Huggins pulled out his pocket watch. Curfew was eleven o’clock and it was now nearly one. Different rules applied to the Babe, however, and he delighted in flaunting that fact to the manager.

  Ruth suddenly guffawed. “I’m gonna be in after curfew, too.” He gave the blonde a playful slap on her bottom. “I’m gonna be in her.” Doing the same to the other women, he added, “And her, and her.” Each one giggled in turn, then they all laughed together before turning toward the elevator. There was certainly nothing subtle about Babe Ruth.

  He called back over his shoulder, “You might want to go out again, kid! I’m gonna be busy a while!” That was directed to me, I knew. So far, he had never called me anything but “kid” and his use of the room to entertain women was almost a nightly occurrence—except when he never returned to the hotel at all.

  As they stepped into the elevator, Huggins said with an exasperated sigh, “We got to find a new place for spring training.”

  It wouldn’t help, I thought. Babe Ruth could probably find beer and women at the South Pole.

  I had almost forgotten about Hinkey Haines until he elbowed me and whispered with astonishment, “He’s got three of them.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s cutting down this year.”

  While the manager took Haines to get checked in at the lobby desk, I looked around for a comfortable chair. I was starting to suspect that the real reason I’d been assigned as Ruth’s roommate was not so much to be a good influence on him, but so that a starting player wouldn’t have to lose sleep each night. Whether I played or not, I had the feeling that 1923 was going to be an exhausting season for me.

  Chapter Two

  As the train slowed, my heartbeat quickened. After four weeks of spring training in an unseasonably cold New Orleans, and a grueling exhibition tour on the way back to New York, we were finally pulling in to Pennsylvania Station.

  Even though the Yankees provided topnotch accommodations, including this special train, I was tired of Pullman sleeping berths and hotel rooms, and especially tired of getting no sleep at all whenever my roommate had the urge for female companionship. I wanted a normal night at home—with one particular female.

  The wheels were still rolling when a crowd that had gathered alongside the track sent up a roar. Their cheers almost drowned out the rumble of the rails and the shrieking of the brakes. Through tendrils of steam drifting back from the engine, I saw hundreds of fans, reporters, and family members who had turned out to welcome home their baseball teams. Most were undoubtedly on hand to greet the Yankees, but others had come over from Brooklyn to meet the National Leaguers with whom we had traveled.

  Judging by the explosion of activity inside the train, I wasn’t the only one eager to step foot in New York. Players from both teams jostled each other in the aisles, some plowing through as though trying to break up a double play at second base. While porters hustled to keep up with the demands for trunks and suitcases, there was a noisy crush for the exits, accompanied by the colorful kind of language that only baseball players and sailors could speak with effortless fluency.

  By the time the train screeched to a complete stop, some of the exits were impassable. One was blocked by Babe Ruth, who stood on the top step of a luxury Pullman car and was going to be stuck there for some time. He was pressed by a large crowd of fans and reporters who peppered him with questions and made approving noises at his every utterance. A slightly smaller crowd prevented Miller Huggins from stepping down from another car until he had satisfied their every question about the Yankees’ prospects for the season.

  Roly-poly Brooklyn manager Wilbert “Uncle Robbie” Robinson, with Dazzy Vance and Zach Wheat standing behind him, was similarly besieged several cars away. His was a team of many names: I was among those who thought of them as the “Dodgers” which was shortened from “Trolley Dodgers,” newspaper writers often referred to them by the club’s preferred name “Superbas,” while most fans called them the “Robins” in honor of the popular manager. I didn’t much care for naming teams after managers, especially after seeing a recent headline that referred to the Yankees as the “Hugmen.”

  There was more shoving inside the train as players ran into the blockages and then fought their way back to find other routes. Using my suitcase as a wedge, I pried a narrow gap between Bullet Joe Bush and Wally Pipp and slipped through the brief opening. After climbing over a small mountain of steamer trunks, I got to an open door and stepped outside. This was one time when the anonymity of my utility role was an advantage. No one was going to interview me or ask me for an autograph.

  Before the soles of my brogues hit the platform, I was scanning the crowd for the only person I wanted to see. I heard her call “Mickey!” before I saw her. Then she came into view, working her way through the predominantly male crowd as forcefully as the players who were still pushing to leave the train. Margie made more rapid progress than the ballplayers, though. She had once been a movie star, appearing in her own series of action serials, and she was still lithe and athletic.

  I don’t think there’s anything more beautiful than the sight of a loved one welcoming you home after a long separation. And when that loved one is Margie Turner, a homecoming could feel as exciting as hitting a grand slam. Or what I assume it would be like to hit a grand slam, anyway.

  Margie’s dark, heavy-lidded eyes resembled Mabel Normand’s and they had such depth and sparkle that when she smiled it was like turning on a light. She was stylishly dressed for the brisk morning in a chocolate-colored velour coat with flare sleeves. Over her chestnut hair, she wore a cloche hat adorned with a bright silk florette.

  She ran the last few steps to me with a beaming expression on her tawny face. I put down my suitcase and we embraced in a hug that told each other we’d been apart for much too long. I said, “I am so glad to see—” Before I got out “you,” Margie’s lips were on mine in an ardent kiss. She always did have a way of getting right to the point.

  I picked up my bag, she hooked her hand in my arm, and we headed to the station’s concourse.

  “How was the trip?” she asked.

  “Long.” Traveling with the Brooklyn team we had taken a circuitous route home, stopping to play exhibition games in cities and towns from Muskogee, Oklahoma to Chattanooga, Tennessee. Two weeks, twelve games, and more than two thousand miles made the journey seem interminable. “I’ll sure be glad to sleep in my own bed tonight,” I added.

  Margie smiled broadly. “I’m looking forward to that, too.” Never coy or shy, she was once again right to the point. “But I suppose you must be tired,” she teased.

  “Not anymore.” I instantly picked up my pace, almost dragging her along for a few steps. She laughed and I eased up—just a little.

  “How are things at the studio?” I asked. Shortly after I left for spring training, Margie had landed a job with the D. W. Griffith movie studio in Mamaroneck.

  “Slow,” she answered. “Mr. Griffith is down South, so we don’t have much to do. But the paycheck is regular, and I’ve met
some nice people.”

  We emerged from the concourse into the building’s spectacular main waiting room. It was famous as one of the largest indoor spaces in the world, a remarkable structure of steel, glass, and granite, with carved archways and fluted columns that supported a ceiling one hundred fifty feet high. I’d probably passed through Pennsylvania Station a hundred times during my career and I was always struck by its scale; it seemed to announce to arriving passengers that they were entering a city like no other in the world. Although I’d played in cities throughout most of the United States, New York was definitely in a league of its own. This was a city that had everything, and often had it bigger and better than anywhere else.

  Margie said, “As a matter of fact, a couple of people from the studio came with me.” Her words, along with our footsteps, echoed in the enormous chamber.

  “Where are they?”

  “Outside. I wanted to see you by myself first.” She gave my arm a squeeze. “I’m sorry. I know you probably want to go right home, but I’ve told them all about you and they’re really eager to meet you. I tried putting them off but—”

  “I’d be happy to meet them,” I said. It was refreshing, and rare, that somebody wanted me instead of Babe Ruth. “Are they actors?”

  “One of them is an actress I knew in Hollywood—Natalie Brockman. She helped me get the job with Mr. Griffith. The other is her, uh… He’s a director: Tom Van Dusen. They’re waiting in his car.”

  We passed through the station’s pink granite colonnade and walked down the steps to Seventh Avenue. Even the air was different in New York, carrying a unique mixture of smells: hot sausages and oysters from pushcarts, exhaust from the rapidly increasing number of motor vehicles, excrement from the dwindling number of horses, and occasional hints of the waterfront that surrounded the island. The broad avenue teemed with automobiles, street cars, and fast-moving pedestrians. Yes, I thought, New York was always big and bustling—and this year I was going to be part of it.

  Margie said in a worried tone, “I’m not sure if you’ll like them, but I had to… I mean… I think they want to…”

  “It’s okay,” I assured her. “I don’t mind at all.” Maybe they’d even ask for an autograph.

  “Margie!” called a tall slender man standing by a royal blue Franklin automobile with yellow spoked wheels. “Over here!” The car was double-parked, blocking a checker taxi, and despite the cold its canvas top was down.

  “That’s Tom,” Margie said.

  The first thing that I noticed about Van Dusen was that he looked every bit as “Hollywood” as his car. The director’s outfit might have been copied from something he’d seen in Photoplay Magazine. He sported a double-breasted camelhair overcoat, with the belt knotted, and a paisley silk scarf worn as a giant ascot. A white, wide-brimmed fedora topped his head and highly polished two-tone wingtips were on his feet. He was probably in his late thirties, with a clean-shaven boyish face and nervous eyes.

  We walked over and Margie made the introductions.

  “I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” Van Dusen said, flashing an expanse of very white teeth. He pumped my hand like he expected me to spout water. “I am a big fan.”

  There was something phony about him, but that didn’t prevent me from feeling flattered.

  The taxi honked its horn angrily, but Van Dusen didn’t appear to notice. “Allow me to introduce you to one of our studio’s loveliest stars: Miss Natalie Brockman.” He led me to the passenger’s side of the car, where a waif-like woman in an ermine-trimmed coat was slouched in the front seat. She had bleached blonde hair cut in a bob, and a face that would have been pretty if it hadn’t been fixed in an expression of determined boredom. Van Dusen added, “You may have seen her in Way Down East or Orphans of the Storm. Mr. Griffith uses her in all his big pictures.”

  I’d never heard of her, but pretended that I had. I told her how much I enjoyed her acting. She barely acknowledged me and whined to Van Dusen in a childlike voice, “I want lunch.”

  “Splendid idea!” he replied.

  The taxi driver bellowed, “Hey buddy! Move yer damn car before I take a tire iron to yer head!”

  Pointedly ignoring him, the director asked, “Perhaps you and Margie would join us? I know you’re probably eager to go home, but we would be so grateful for your company.”

  Margie didn’t object, so we were soon in the back of the gaudy Franklin, a cold wind blowing over us as Tom Van Dusen weaved his way through Manhattan traffic as recklessly as a Keystone Cop.

  * * *

  Natalie Brockman’s idea of lunch was champagne. She had quickly tossed off her first glass, murmuring something about having missed breakfast, and was sipping her second before the rest of us had placed our food orders. Like most establishments in the city—or in most of the country, for that matter—this one ignored the strictures of Prohibition. Brockman was served her drinks as routinely as if they were sarsaparilla.

  From the moment we entered the upscale café, on Thirty-third Street not far from the train station, Van Dusen spoke to the staff in a loud, imperious tone as if he was giving orders on one of his movie sets. The restaurant was busy, and almost every table was occupied, but that hadn’t stopped Van Dusen from demanding instant service and ordering a waiter to set a special table exactly where he wanted. He gave another waiter his hat to hang for him, revealing sandy hair that was slicked back with pomade and so perfectly parted that it looked like it had been done by a surveyor. Snapping his fingers, he called the harried waiter back to take his coat as well. I wondered if the waiters would take turns spitting in Van Dusen’s food before serving him.

  The director soon proved to be nearly as overbearing in conversation, almost all of which was about himself. Brockman, with her peroxide hair and pale skin had almost faded from view; she sat quietly watching the bubbles in her champagne flute, completely mesmerized. Margie also spoke little during the meal, occasionally elaborating for my benefit on something Van Dusen had said.

  I was quiet, partly from exhaustion and partly because I feared that speaking up would only prolong the ordeal. So I quietly picked at a greasy chicken leg, nodded every now and then, and hoped that no one would order dessert.

  Van Dusen shifted the topic of his monologue to baseball and tried to convince me that he was an ardent fan. He assured me that he would have been excellent at the game himself except for the fact that he was of a more artistic nature and didn’t actually engage in sports.

  Throughout lunch, the arrogant director had issued an endless series of statements, pronouncements, and opinions but had never asked the rest of us any questions or sought our views. It came as a surprise when he asked me, “You have a few more exhibition games against Brooklyn, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “In fact, we have a game at Ebbets Field tomorrow.” I downed the rest of my ginger ale and added, “I should probably rest up for it—it was a long trip home.” I hoped he would take the hint.

  “Of course, of course. You must be tired.” He placed his coffee mug on the table and shoved his half-full plate to one side as if he no longer cared for anything as mundane as food and drink. “But I hope we can talk a little business first.”

  “Business,” Brockman softly echoed as if it was a curse. I didn’t remember seeing her in any movies but if her acting range was limited to the two expressions she’d shown today—bored and petulant—I doubted that she’d have much of a career. She lit a thin cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  I glanced at Margie who was casually poking at a piece of baked haddock. She didn’t seem in a hurry, so I nodded for Van Dusen to proceed.

  “Very good!” he thundered. I doubted that he required a megaphone to give directions on a movie set. “As you know, I am a director at the D. W. Griffith Studio. But I am not a mere employee. I am an investor, with a significant share of the company.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice so that only half the restaurant’s customers c
ould hear it. “May I speak frankly?”

  That question always made me suspect that a lie was coming, but I said, “Please do.”

  “I’m not betraying any secrets here,” he went on. “It’s in all the trade magazines that our studio is struggling to stay afloat. Mr. Griffith is a genius as a movie maker, but as a businessman he’s… Well, he has a tendency to lose whatever money he makes. Now he’s in Louisiana preparing to film something called The White Rose and he’s taking forever to scout locations. We didn’t release a single movie last year and we’ll be lucky to get the new one out this year.” Van Dusen slapped his hand down on the table, causing the silverware to clatter. “If a studio doesn’t make movies, it doesn’t make money!”

  I didn’t know how to respond and couldn’t see what this had to do with me. I gave a noncommittal nod.

  Van Dusen quickly calmed and continued. “So I want to make some smaller movies. Nothing on a grand scale like Mr. Griffith’s, just some short, simple pictures to keep the studio working and enough money coming in to pay expenses.”

  “Makes sense,” I said honestly. I thought Griffith’s movies were much too long; some of them ran two and a half hours, considerably longer than a baseball game. I preferred the twenty-minute two-reelers that used to be the standard program fare of nickelodeons, and I particularly enjoyed the weekly cliff-hanger action serials like those that Margie and Pearl White used to make.

  “Well, here’s my idea…” Van Dusen paused, prepared to gauge my reaction. “Adolph Zukor started Paramount Pictures as the ‘Famous Players Film Company.’ Zukor believed that famous actors and actresses, the biggest names from the stage, would draw people to the movies. And he was right. People are attracted to stars, not stories. So my thinking is: How about baseball stars? Everybody follows baseball—it’s the American game.” He paused again. “I want to get a baseball player to appear in a movie for me.”

  I finally understood where Van Dusen had been leading with all this: He wanted me to be in a movie. I looked at Margie and smiled. We had met on a movie set in 1914, when Casey Stengel and I were given small roles in Florence at the Ballpark. It was filmed at the Vitagraph Studios in Brooklyn, where Margie was making an episode of her Dangers of the Dark Continent serial. She introduced herself to me by hitting me in the face with a pie from the set of a slapstick comedy. My first view of her was through custard filled eyes, but our relationship improved considerably thereafter.