The Babe Ruth Deception (12 page)

Eliza had spent no time worrying about why Joshua took after Violet. Violet would be a prize for any young man, especially a Negro. But now she could see that Violet wasn't the only one taking chances. “Look, Mr. Cook, Jamie and I agree that this . . . connection, well, it's not safe. It's reckless and crazy. Frankly, we find it terrifying. Do you, do you see it that way, too?”

“'Course I do. Make no mistake. Joshua's the one they'll hurt. That's how it always is.”

“Are you in touch with your son?”

“Not lately. Aurelia and I, well, we haven't been liking some of the things he's been doing.”

“You mean the bootlegging?”

Cook looked up, surprised. “Why, yes, and . . .”

“You knew nothing about Violet?”

Cook grimaced. “We heard he was running around with a white girl. Aurelia took that hard. She spoke her mind to him about it. He just laughed her off, like he does, then he stopped coming around. But we didn't know who. I would've gone to Jamie if I'd known. I would have.”

“Can you get in touch with Joshua?”

“Don't you worry about that.”

Eliza took a few breaths. “I know, Mr. Cook, that we've never gotten along.”

“Yes.”

“For my husband's sake, because of whatever you two have shared, I've made an effort, very likely a poor one. But I have certainly never intended to share your grandchildren. That can't happen.”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves here.”

“In my experience that's not getting ahead of ourselves. We're dealing with two young people who believe they're in love.”

Cook slouched in his chair. Eliza tried to put some force in her voice. “We have to know that Violet's safe. Can you please help us know that? Then we can figure out what to do about this situation.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Cook stood to leave. “Tell me one thing. Did Jamie try to get in touch with me about this business?”

“He's looking for you now.”

He reached for his hat. “From now on, Mrs. Fraser, it might be best for him and me to talk about this, instead of you and me. He knows how to get ahold of me.”

“Of course.” When Cook reached the door, she called his name. He looked back. “About that movie, with the Babe.” She looked over his shoulder to focus her thoughts on this other subject. “As far as I know, that Attell creature invested fifty thousand dollars. He was to get a large piece of the profits, and there weren't any other conditions or agreements. Not that I knew about. I never heard about any debt owed by Babe.”

“Did the movie make money?”

Eliza frowned. “A complete flop. It didn't matter how popular Babe was. Nearly cleaned everyone out.”

“Attell, too?”

She nodded.

“Jamie'll hear from me.”

“A
cop came by about twenty minutes ago.” The words sliced out from the shadows through the steam-furnace air that pressed down on the Greenpoint waterfront.

Joshua almost jumped out of his shoes. Then he realized. “Daddy? That you?”

His father stepped into the light. “This cop, he checks the door and jiggles the handle, like he's making sure it's locked up tight.” There was irritation in his tone.

“Just looking after a local business.”

“How much does that cost—for a local business?”

Joshua smiled. “What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me what the hell you're thinking—taking up with Violet Fraser.” Cook had sweat running down his torso, drops beaded on his face, from doing nothing more strenuous than leaning against the warehouse.

Joshua kept the smile on. He knew how to get his father's goat. “Daddy, how long've you been waiting in this heat?”

“As long as I needed to. Answer my question.”

Joshua put the door key back in his pocket. He'd had this conversation in his mind a hundred times. Might as well have it for real. “Okay. Let's walk out on the pier. It's even hotter inside. Smells bad, too.” He pointed the way.

At the end of the building, Joshua led them to a concrete pier. Both men carried their suit coats and had their neckties loosened. Joshua wore a straw boater with a red band.

At the waterside, Joshua asked, “Does Ma know?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“You already know what she thinks. And I agree. Maybe something happened to you in the war. Maybe we just never saw it when you were growing up. But, son, you're living like you don't want to keep living. We're scared to death for you, and you've got to stop it. I can't stand by and watch. This bootlegging, this running around with the Fraser girl—”

“It's not ‘running around,' Daddy. It's a lot more than that.”

“Goddammit, son, the world's full of white women. As long as you've got this death wish, why'd you have to go and pick the one whose father's my friend, the man who helped save your sorry ass not two years ago? The one white man we actually owe something to?” He put a heavy hand on Joshua's shoulder. “Didn't that occur to you? Didn't it matter to you?”

Joshua didn't trust his voice. All those rehearsed arguments, they hadn't started like this. “Yeah, it matters, Daddy. But, no, no it doesn't. Doesn't make a lick of difference. I didn't plan this. Violet didn't plan this. I didn't pick her. It just happened. It happened to both of us and it's the most important thing in the world. Nothing you can say or do's going to change that.” He waited for his father to answer, but there was only silence. In the humid night, auras glowed around the lights of Manhattan, their reflections zigzagging across the water. The air felt thicker every time Joshua breathed. “Nobody's trying to hurt you and Ma, or Doctor Fraser and Mrs. Fraser. But it's everything. That won't change.”

“Don't you understand, son?” Cook's eyes glistened. His voice was soft, softer than Joshua could remember it. “They'll kill you. They'll kill you and they'll feel good about it. Doctor Du Bois keeps this chart in his office. How many colored men're lynched all around the country. Lots of them, most of them, did lots less than this. Most get killed just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Don't you know that? Haven't I told you, told you a hundred times?”

“I know it.”

“What about Violet? Have you explained it to her? Because she can't really know it, not with who she is and where she's from. Did you ask her if she wants to be a widow? Does she want to be the ofay wife? Does she want to have every man, white and black, think she's cheap, no-account, easy pickings. And every woman, white and black, agreeing? Is that what you want for her, for the woman you say you love, who you say is the world to you?”

“Daddy, I've got a plan.”

“The only plan that's going to work is to break this off. You both go your own ways. I'm not telling you what to do, as much as I want to, as much as I want to drag you home by the scruff of your silly neck. I can't do that any more than I can put you under my arm and keep you safe. Which I also want to do. You're a man. Son, I'm telling you about the consequences. A man faces up to them. A man doesn't put the people he loves in danger.”

“I'm going to make it work.”

Cook stamped his foot and shook his head. A strangled noise came out. He looked across the water and tried to pick his words. He still kept his voice low. “You can't. I know this. The one thing I know is what this nasty, stinking world can do. I'm sorry you can't, that she can't, but you just can't.”

Joshua took a deep breath. “I'm not going to let that nasty, stinking world take her from me. I won't. That's not how I was raised.”

Cook was out of things to say. He hadn't expected to change Joshua's mind. The boy was pigheaded, which he came by honest. All that was left was to watch the two of them head over the cliff. “Listen, son, the Frasers need to know about their daughter, that she's safe.”

“Of course she's safe.”

“Is she with you?”

“She's safe.”

“Jesus, you can't just be a lone wolf on this sort of thing, go crashing around in ways that are gonna hurt everyone who cares about you, who cares about Violet. It's not just you that you're doing this to.”

Joshua said nothing. Cook had expected to get to this dead end. He couldn't remember the last time he persuaded Joshua of something. And he had thought about what to do when he got to this point, though he never told Aurelia. She would never forgive him for the next thing he was going to say. “If you won't listen to reason and give this up, what can I do? How can I help?”

Joshua's head snapped up. That was never part of his imagined rehearsals of this conversation. The old man's eyes bore into him. He seemed to mean it. Joshua almost wanted to tell his father about the plan, even get some advice on how to make it work. But he knew he couldn't. It was a trap, even if his father didn't mean it to be. If he told the old man the truth, they'd spend hours going over the holes in the plan, and there were lots of those. Joshua might even end up agreeing with his father, agreeing it was all too risky, then giving up on it. Giving up Violet. He wasn't going to do that.

Cook thought he could feel indecision. “Just getting old doesn't make me stupid, son. I can help.”

Joshua shook his head. “I've always trusted you, Daddy. This is the time you have to trust me.” He took a step back to the warehouse and looked back for his father, who followed. At the warehouse door, Joshua nodded at Cook, then went inside alone.

Passing through quiet streets to the subway station, Cook couldn't remember feeling so bad. He thought about chances he'd taken over the years, fights he'd been in. Two men he'd killed, men he hadn't known but had to kill. Others he'd hurt. Times he got hurt. What had any of it got him? What had it got anybody? Now here his boy was, taking the same kinds of chances, or worse ones, in a world that wasn't any better than it ever was.

* * *

Abe Attell pushed past a hippy waitress toward the back of Lefty's deli on Broadway, just up from Times Square. He was headed to the boss's private booth, which was also his unofficial office. Rothstein liked the constant uproar of Lefty's, dishes clattering onto tables, forks and spoons hitting the floor with tuneful notes, voices calling, whispering, cracking wise, rising with emotion. He claimed he could think better there. Rothstein always took the last booth on the left, facing the front entrance but next to the back door. That was where he studied the racing forms, hatched his schemes, gave his instructions, and received progress reports. Engulfed by the din of the deli, Rothstein mostly listened. He wanted to hear all the gossip—the good and the bad—but he also listened for what wasn't said. He always heard that, too.

Rothstein was eating cheesecake, no toppings, like every morning. Lefty's finest, taken straight, coffee chaser. Though it was early, the heat from the kitchen overpowered the lazy ceiling fans. No matter. Rothstein looked cool in blue seersucker, a style that gamblers across the city were starting to copy. Everyone knew that when it came to most things, AR had the straight dope, the inside skinny. So they figured he knew about suits, too.

Attell nodded at the two bodyguards lounging near AR's booth. They never ate on the job, so every day AR threw an extra ten bucks at the deli manager, making up for them not ordering anything. AR was listening to Sid Wechsler, a loser who hung around the track at Aqueduct scrounging for tips, fixed horses, or races that could be rigged at a good price. When Wechsler saw Attell next to the booth, he grabbed his hat in midsentence and pulled out. Attell slid into his place. He waved at a brunette waitress with a pixie look. She was new. He took a second look, thinking he'd like to sprinkle some magic dust on her. Giving her a grin, Attell ordered a cheese Danish and a coffee.

When she left, Attell turned the smile on AR. “Great news from Chicago, eh, boss?” The papers were reporting the jury verdict in the trial of the eight ballplayers—members of the White Sox who were now called the Black Sox. All eight were acquitted. Not guilty.

AR ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. He took a breath that flared the nostrils of his meaty nose. “Ah, that crazy commissioner'll throw them out of the game, anyway. Too bad. They seem like okay guys.”

“Sure, Landis'll toss them out, but that ain't our problem. They can be replaced. There's thousands of kids out there want to play big league baseball, right?”

With a rattle, the waitress dumped the plated Danish on their table. Annoyance crossed AR's face. Quick as a snake, Attell grabbed the girl's thin wrist. “Darling,” he said. “We ain't animals here.”

“Sorr-ee,” she said. “I didn't know I was serving the king of England.”

When she left, Attell asked if he should get her fired. Rothstein shook his head. “Abie, you like 'em like that, a chip on their shoulder. You'd miss her if she was gone.”

“I never saw her before.”

“I got eyes. I can see. You'd miss her.” He pointed a finger at Attell. “What I need from you is to hear that they're done with all this digging into gambling on baseball. Kaput. Over. Yesterday's news.” He leaned closer and dropped his voice. “Especially I need to hear that Landis ain't going into the 1918 Series.”

The waitress returned with Attell's coffee and set it down gently. “I'm real sorry about before,” she said, then retreated hastily. She must have asked who the guys were in this booth.

While Attell fixed his coffee with milk and sugar, AR picked up again. “Listen, one rigged Series is a shame. A few bad apples. The judge tosses them out on their keisters, score one for the American way, and they got what's coming to them. The Babe hits some long shots and makes everyone forget about it. But two rigged Series in row? And one has the Babe in it? That's a fucking epidemic, the whole game's an infection. I don't even want to think about it.”

“So what's our leverage?” Attell asked around his first bite of the pastry. “This guy Landis, he's hard to get to. That's the word. Our friends can't help us with him, not like with the courts in Chicago.”

AR's expression was a cross between a grin and a grimace. It was as cheerful as he ever looked, but that look usually meant something bad was going to happen to someone else. “What's the biggest thing in baseball—other than this Black Sox thing?”

“Babe. The big fella.”

“Exactly. He's the one can stop this. Just has to pass the word. He was in that 1918 Series and baseball can't afford to have Babe Ruth scuffed up, not by something like this. He's the engine who's got to pull the game out of the sewer. He'll pass the word if we ask him to. He knows he's got to.”

“Sure, boss, but Landis is supposed to be a real prick, not the kind of guy who's gonna care what some chump of a ballplayer tells him.”

“I'll spell it out for you. Just once, so listen. Babe goes to the Yanks' owner, Colonel Ruppert. Ruppert's rich, a society swell. Like Landis, his shit doesn't stink. But he's also desperate. His beer business is in the dumper with Prohibition. Christ, his brewery's making fucking apple butter.” Attell laughed dutifully. “Plus he spent all that dough to get Babe down here to play for the Yankees, which he's looking to build a whole new stadium for, get the hell out of the Polo Grounds. No, Ruppert can't afford to watch his baseball business turn sour, too. So if Babe tells him what needs to happen, then Ruppert tells Landis and everything's jake. Like Tinker to Evers to Chance, only it's Ruth to Ruppert to Landis.”

Attell was impressed. It was a long speech for the boss. This was important to him. Also, it made sense. Attell picked up AR's idea. “So, if Babe goes off on this mission of mercy, we promise him that he can have that thing back, the one that we got because of the girl, the young one? That'd be plenty of reason for that big baboon.”

Rothstein nodded. He let his gaze wander over Attell's shoulder. Attell swallowed some coffee so he could think, then went on. “There's another thing, too. This ain't necessarily the big fella's strong suit, know what I mean? Pretty complicated for him. Christ knows what he'd end up saying to Ruppert. Might even confess to doing something he didn't do, or something he did do.”

Rothstein shifted his gaze back to Attell. “I got to figure everything out for you?”

Attell got an idea. “Tell you what, boss. There's that jig the Babe hired when the Black Sox thing first blew up and Landis started sniffing around. This guy, he's a pretty sharp character. You know, for a jig. He promotes some Negro teams. Doesn't mind when we run some action on their games. He's been known to run some himself. I bet he could ride shotgun on the Babe, make sure he gets it done right, so long as we make it worth his while.”