The Tomb That Ruth Built (A Mickey Rawlings Mystery) Page 9

  We’d been seated in Katie Day’s only a few minutes, waiting for Babe Ruth to arrive, when Van Dusen began renewing his complaints. “I don’t know what kind of fools Harding surrounds himself with,” he griped. “They don’t even recognize one of the country’s most important motion picture artists!” He fixed his boyish face in a pout that would make a two-year-old proud.

  Brockman, who had dined on a single potato pancake and several glasses of Reisling, said in a tired voice, “Tom, if you say one more word about it, I’m putting my cigarette out on your nose.” She took a deep drag, making the tip glow bright, and held out the ivory holder as if she was prepared to carry through on her threat. I’d finally found something that I liked about Natalie Brockman and couldn’t help but smile.

  Van Dusen sullenly ran a hand over his pomaded hair. He began to mutter something but stopped abruptly when Brockman feigned a jab with the cigarette.

  Margie, dressed simply but looking beautiful in a white shirtwaist and blue silk skirt, had managed to maintain good spirits all evening but now seemed uneasy at the growing tension. She made a show of looking about the room. “This is quite a place,” she said in an effort to change the conversation. “I’ve never been here before.”

  Van Dusen made a dismissive gesture. “It’s nothing special. Just another place to serve liquor and bring in the suckers.”

  Brockman said coolly, “You picked this joint, so I guess that makes you a sucker, too.”

  He shot her a brief but lethal look and addressed himself to Margie and me as if the actress was no longer present. “This is where the fashionable people are going at the moment,” he said, “but it won’t last. When people get tired of seeing shamrocks and midgets in funny costumes, they’ll move on to someplace else. Everything loses its novelty, and something new always comes along.” Van Dusen began to inspect his manicured nails. “Katie realizes that, and she’s got a great system for making money fast before the place goes bust.”

  “You know her?” I asked. The way he spoke her name sounded as if he did.

  “I know everybody worth knowing,” he replied with his usual arrogance. “And I’ve known Katie for years. She used to be a showgirl—tried the movies but never caught on.”

  I chose not to point out to the director that if he really knew everyone worth knowing, he wouldn’t need me to introduce him to Babe Ruth. The more Van Dusen talked, the more I wished Ruth would hurry so that I could sooner be free of Van Dusen’s company.

  A petite young lady in a green peasant dress with a white lace collar and loosely-tied bodice came to take our drink orders. The ladies opted for champagne while Van Dusen ordered a Manhattan and I asked for a beer. I had the feeling that if the evening turned out to be a long one I would need quite a few of them to make it tolerable.

  Van Dusen gazed around. “Yes, it’s quite a racket Katie has here.” He went on to explain in a confidential tone, “You see, it’s all a matter of maximizing income and minimizing expenses.” That didn’t sound like a particularly innovative business strategy to me, but I didn’t know anything about running a speakeasy. “Notice,” he said, like a pompous professor, “there’s no dance floor. Why waste floor space on dancing when you can fill it with more tables? And, if nobody’s dancing, you don’t need to pay a band—that damned fiddler certainly can’t cost her much. With a three-dollar cover charge, every customer she can pack in is that much more profit. And with the drink prices—a dollar a beer, four dollars for real drinks—Katie makes a small fortune every night.”

  Margie spoke up. “There’s no entertainment at all? People come here just to sit and drink?”

  “Sounds pretty good, if you ask me,” said Brockman. With a hopeful glance over each bony shoulder, she added, “I wish the drinks would come soon. I’m thirsty.”

  Ignoring her, Van Dusen answered Margie, “Katie Day herself is all the entertainment this place needs. You’ll see when she comes out.

  “And I’m hungry,” whined Brockman.

  Van Dusen snapped at her, “You should have eaten something at the restaurant.” To Margie and me, he added, “All they serve here is drinks—who needs the expense of cooks and a kitchen when the real money is all in booze, anyway?” He lowered his voice and continued, “As far as that goes, by the way, it’s not kept on the premises—it’s stored next door under another name. When you place your order, the waitress goes to the back room, relays the order through a hole the wall, and picks it up from the same place. It takes a little longer, but if there’s a raid on the club, everyone simply downs the drink they have at the moment and presto!—the place is dry as the Sahara desert. Hey, there’s Katie now!”

  A tall, attractive woman, with flaming red hair that owed more to chemistry than to nature, strode to a small stage. She was about thirty years old, full-figured, and walked seductively in a satin dress that clung to her every curve. After mounting the platform, Katie Day paused and looked around the room while the fiddler put aside his instrument. Her lips were brightly painted in a Cupid’s bow and she had them tightly pursed. All eyes were soon turned toward her and conversations ceased. For a long minute, she let the silence continue and the expectations build.

  A bright smile slowly spread on her heavily rouged and powdered face. In a brassy Bronx voice she said, “I’m just going to let you all look at me for a while.” There were some good-natured laughs and chuckles. “That is why you’re here, isn’t it?—to drink in the sight of me?” She did a slow turn, accompanied by an exaggerated wiggle of her hips, and struck a pose like a model in a rotogravure. There was more laughter. She grinned broadly and winked. “Of course, if there’s anything else you’d like to drink, I’m sure we can provide whatever your heart—or your liver—desires.”

  At that moment, our own drinks arrived. The champagne was served in plain white coffee mugs, Van Dusen’s Manhattan was in a dainty tea cup, and I was handed a pale green bottle with an orange Moxie label. I gave it an uncertain look.

  Van Dusen said to me, “It’s what’s inside that counts.”

  “Unlike the movies,” put in Brockman. She took a long drag of her cigarette and expelled smoke from the corner of her mouth in the director’s direction.

  “Skoal!” Van Dusen toasted, and we each eagerly took our first sips. The beer in the Moxie bottle was an excellent lager, and I downed a good part of it before setting the bottle on the table.

  Meanwhile, Katie Day had been exchanging banter with customers, most of which consisted of her making wisecracks at their expense—and they seemed to love it. She now directed her attention to a balding, florid-faced man in a red-and-black plaid suit. “You there, wearing the checkerboard,” she called to him. “Where are you from?”

  He glanced around to be sure that he was the one being addressed. “Nebraska!” he answered proudly.

  “You don’t say! Well, how do you like visiting the United States? This must be quite a change from North Dakota.”

  “Nebraska!” he repeated. “Omaha, Nebraska.”

  She leaned over, put her hands on her knees, and slowly shook her head. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  The crowd laughed. Making fun of out-of-towners was standard comedic fare in New York. The man from Omaha smiled blandly; he didn’t seem to mind being insulted as long as he was part of the show.

  Day continued, “What do you do out there in North Dakota?”

  Not bothering to correct her again, he answered, “I’m in ladies’ clothing.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, dearie, but you’re not getting in this lady’s clothing!”

  The club erupted in laughter, but it soon dwindled away as attention was diverted toward a commotion near the entrance. I was pretty sure I knew the cause, and Katie Day confirmed it when she announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, here he is, the man with the biggest bat in baseball: Babe Ruth!”

  Cheers and applause greeted his appearance. Ruth stood for a moment, his habitual black cigar sticking out of his b
eaming broad face. His clothes were perfectly tailored, his thick hair impeccably groomed, and a diamond stickpin was centered in his silk tie. After a wave and a bow to acknowledge the crowd’s reception, he followed one of the leprechauns to our table, where an extra chair was promptly pulled up for him.

  The four of us already at the table were aware that attention was on us now, too, and we all sat a little straighter and tried to look cheerful. I could sense nearby eyes gawking with envy that the Babe was joining our party. I also noticed that Natalie Brockman’s eyes had a particular gleam in them.

  Ruth paused to wag his cigar and bow once more before sitting down.

  From the stage, Day said loudly, “You see, ladies and gentlemen, everybody comes to see Katie!” She then stepped off the platform and came to our table, where she exchanged some banter with Ruth and personally took his drink order—scotch with beer on the side.

  When she left, I introduced Ruth to Margie and her coworkers. Tom Van Dusen immediately leaned forward and began speaking to Ruth as if the rest of us weren’t there. He expanded on my introduction, enumerating his many accomplishments as a movie director. Van Dusen made it sound as if he had practically invented motion pictures.

  I got right to the point, explaining to the Babe, “Mr. Van Dusen would like you to be in one of his movies.”

  Van Dusen gave me a sharp look for interrupting his autobiographical monologue. Returning his attention to Ruth, he said, “Let me tell you, Babe—mind if I call you ‘Babe’?”

  Ruth gave him his trademark grin. “Call me anything you like, as long as it isn’t late to dinner.”

  Brockman laughed as if it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.

  The director continued, “Babe, I’ll tell you straight out: You are the biggest star in America, a hero to every man, woman, and child.” He paused as if expecting Ruth to be surprised at this news. When Ruth’s only reaction was a nod of agreement, Van Dusen added, “Believe me, I know stars. I’ve worked with Pickford, Fairbanks, Valentino…”

  Ruth’s drinks were placed before him. He promptly downed half the scotch. “I don’t know them people,” he said. “I don’t go to the movies much.” I was sure he was pulling the director’s leg.

  “You don’t have to go to them to be in one,” Van Dusen replied. “And you don’t have to worry about acting, either. I tell you, Babe, you can be a bigger movie star than any actor—all you have to do is be yourself, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Nah, I already tried that. A couple years ago a fellow talked me into making a picture for him.” Ruth frowned. “I forget the name of it… Something about home.”

  “Headin’ Home,” I put in. I had seen the movie when it came out, believing that a picture about baseball was sure to be worth watching. Ruth was indeed fun to see, but the story was pure hokum.

  “Yeah, that sounds right.” One more swallow emptied the Babe’s glass. “Anyway, that fellow gave me a check for twenty-five thousand dollars! Can you believe it? That was the biggest single check anybody ever gave me. I carried it around for months just to look at.” He belched and patted his stomach. “Turns out it was just a piece of paper—soon as I tried to cash it, the damned thing bounced.”

  Van Dusen pulled himself upright and said haughtily, “I represent the D. W. Griffith Studio. I can assure you that our checks are good.” When we’d first met, Van Dusen had admitted that the studio’s finances were not all that strong. Now, trying to sway the Babe, he went on to speak at length about the film company’s solid profitability and enormous prestige.

  Without any of us ordering them, fresh drinks arrived for everyone. To give the waitress access to our table, Brockman scooched her chair closer to the Babe’s. When the waitress left, she didn’t bother to move it back.

  Van Dusen and Ruth continued to chat as if the rest of us were invisible. Eventually, the director changed tactics. He reminded the Babe that his image was recently tarnished because of his poor World Series performance and the newspaper reports on his drinking and marital problems. Making a wholesome motion picture, Van Dusen assured him, would not only restore the shine to his image but practically put a halo over his head.

  I looked at Margie, who had managed to sustain a cheerful smile through an evening that had provided little to enjoy. I wished that she and I could simply spend the rest of the night together alone; I gave her a small smile and the glimmer in her eyes told me that she’d caught it.

  With his arm now draped around back of the actress’s chair, Ruth turned to me. “What do you think, kid? Should I make a movie for Von Doodlebug here?”

  Van Dusen visibly bristled at the mangling of his name, but I knew the Babe meant no offense. He didn’t remember anyone’s name, including his roommate’s—he’d probably still be calling me “kid” long after we both retired.

  “I don’t know,” I replied, causing Van Dusen to shoot me a startled, angry look that I chose to ignore. No doubt he’d been expecting my unequivocal endorsement. Addressing the Babe, I went on, “As far as your public image, you don’t need to make a movie to fix that. If you keep playing baseball the way you have been lately, nobody will remember the mistakes you made off the field.” He had gone three-for-three in today’s game, bringing his season average above .400.

  “Well, I promised I was gonna turn over a new leaf this year, and I’m trying my damnedest.” Ruth winked at Brockman. “I got a feeling this is gonna be my best season ever.”

  I looked again at Margie and reminded myself that I was really here for her, not for Van Dusen or Ruth. I continued my answer to the Babe’s question. “So I’d say you don’t need to make a movie. But on the other hand, why not? Margie tells me Van Dusen is a top-notch director, and he’s sure to make a better picture than Headin’ Home. I’ll bet kids would love to see you in a good movie. Hell, I see you every day in person, and I’d still go to see you in picture.”

  Ruth chuckled. “Ah, what the hell. Maybe it’ll be fun.” To Van Dusen, he said, “What’s the offer? Gimme the details.”

  The two of them began to discuss dollar figures and distribution rights. If Tom Van Dusen had assumed the Babe to be a novice in such matters, he was mistaken. Ruth addressed the business matters knowledgeably and capably. In addition to negotiating a landmark contract with the Yankees, the Babe had all sorts of endorsement deals and public appearance agreements. He was even a published author, thanks to his ghostwriter Christy Walsh.

  While Van Dusen and Ruth were engrossed in the details of a potential moving picture deal, I excused myself to use the men’s room. I wished that Margie and I could have excused ourselves from the place entirely, but I knew we would have to linger a while longer.

  I was alone in the clean spacious restroom, washing my hands, when a gruff voice near the door said, “Hey, ain’t you Mickey Rawlings? With the Yankees?”

  “Yes.” I was flattered to be recognized. Being spotted in a men’s room wasn’t quite the same as Babe Ruth walking into the club and being cheered by the entire crowd, but I was happy for every small notice.

  “I been hopin’ to meetcha.”

  I turned to look at the man, whom I guessed to be in his late twenties. He had dark, brooding eyes and wavy black hair that was kept in place by a liberal application of scented grease. He’d probably be considered handsome except for a small vertical scar below his left eye that resembled a jagged teardrop. His compact frame was clothed in a loose double-breasted suit with an oversized silk tie that was sloppily knotted.

  “Glad to meet you,” I said, drying my hands on a towel. “What’s your name?”

  He didn’t seem to hear me. “I saw you sittin’ with the Babe. And a couple real pretty ladies.” His drew his teeth back in what might have been intended as a smile. But he resembled a wolf baring its teeth. I had the sense something was wrong about this guy.

  “Yeah, well, it was nice to meet you,” I said, trying to remain polite. I took a step toward the door, hoping to leave the room withou
t further conversation.

  “You stay right there,” he growled, pulling his jacket open enough for me to see the handle of a pistol that was tucked in the waistband of his trousers. I’d seen the exact same model during my stint in the army: an M1911 Colt .45 automatic. While he held the jacket open with one hand, he moved the other to within inches of the gun. I didn’t take another step.

  “What do you want?” I asked, assuming it was a stickup. If so, this fellow had badly overestimated a utility player’s salary.

  Keeping the jacket drawn back, and the pistol in easy reach, he said, “I hear you got an interest in Spats Pollard. You need to forget about him. Pollard is dead and ain’t nothin’ gonna change that. You gotta think about people who are still alive—and about keepin’ ’em that way. You don’t gotta know my name, or nothin’ else about me, except that I know who you are and I know who your friends are.” He bared his teeth again, seeming quite pleased with himself. “And I can find any one of you, any time, just as easy as I did tonight.” He let the jacket fall back over the gun. “Forget about Pollard and everybody else stays healthy.”

  He backed out of the restroom, not breaking eye contact with me until he was through the door. I was frozen where I stood, astonished at the encounter, and unable to make sense of had happened.