The Babe Ruth Deception (17 page)

“Good,” Fraser said. “There can never be too much of that. Why don't you get dressed and we'll start getting this all sorted out?”

Violet stood deliberately, then walked, unevenly but steadily, into the next room. She closed the door behind her.

Fraser and Eliza looked at each other. “Look at these clothes of hers,” Eliza said, spinning a half circle on her heel, “they're all brand new. She took almost nothing with her from the Ansonia. He's throwing money at her.”

“Yes, well, I suppose he loves her.”

Eliza looked at him. “Oh, Jamie.”

He couldn't answer any of the questions that lay within those changeable eyes, now as dark as he had ever seen them. “Not now, Eliza. I can't, we can't . . . we can't lose her.” He made himself think of the practical questions. “You can leave your business like this? It could be months.”

“How can you even ask?”

“All right. I'll go to the bank in the morning, arrange for drafts you can take.”

“Yes.” She put her hand on him. “Jamie. What will he be? The baby?” She could see he didn't understand. “Will he be colored? Or white? Something in between?”

“I don't think you can tell.” He held her with both hands. “I don't know much genetics. Except that he'll be Violet's baby, and our grandchild.”

“Yes.” She moved her lips without speaking, then managed, “I know she's a sensible girl, underneath all this. We have to believe that. My God, she's going to be a mother. She's a child herself.” She looked up at him. “We just have to swallow Joshua, this whole business. So we will.” She looked around again. “What else? What else?”

“We'll go over it all when we're back home. We'll think more clearly there. I'll have to arrange to go to Saratoga and find Joshua. Maybe I can be of use somehow. Anyway, I'll wire you whenever there's news. Maybe I'll follow you over to England.” Eliza was chewing her lip. “What?”

“You should get his father to go with you to Saratoga.” When Fraser didn't answer, she added, “This is no time to be resentful, Jamie. You're the one who's forever saying that Speed Cook's a useful man in a tight spot. Well, Joshua's in a tight spot.”

O
ut of town cars lined the back street where Fraser's rooming house rose in semirespectable shabbiness. The cool morning tingled with the possibilities of Saratoga's high season. The resort promised mild breezes, mineral baths, luxury lodging, and posh dining, plus sporting from racing to gambling to golf to the more intimate type. Pleasure seekers from New York and Boston and Philadelphia, fleeing the August heat, clogged local roads and incoming trains.

Fraser headed for the massive Grand Union Hotel, which filled nearly a square block of the small town. He and Eliza once came to the summer mecca during August racing season. She had hated the crowds and ostentatious displays of wealth. He wasn't sure why Saratoga's crowds and crass wealth offended her more than those at Broadway theaters, but they had dropped Saratoga in favor of ocean-side cottages on Long Island. After spending his first thirty-five years in Ohio, Fraser could never get enough of the seashore.

The Grand Union, its five square towers crowned with triumphant flags, dominated the town. Its sandstone walls were a smart backdrop for the pastel finery of the racing crowd, on display even early in the morning. Fraser was looking for either of the Cooks, father or son—he had learned from Aurelia Cook that Speed was in Saratoga on his own business.

As a man of science, Fraser had noted with interest that both Cooks were in Saratoga at the same time. It could be a coincidence. That was possible. Speed could be here to deal with Attell and his crowd, that job he was doing for Ruth. But other explanations might apply. Speed might be here on Joshua's trail himself, or might even be part of his son's schemes. Fraser didn't know what to think. The world was moving way too fast for him. He still struggled to understand Violet's romance, not to mention Joshua's dangerous business and Speed's connection with Eliza and Babe Ruth.

Weaving through morning strollers, Fraser settled into a rocking chair on the hotel's front porch. The chair, with its traditional Adirondack design, was a good size for him. He pulled yesterday's newspaper from his jacket pocket, then a pair of reading spectacles from the inside pocket. He pantomimed interest in the paper, turning a page every few minutes. His attention focused on the racing fans and vacationers who passed into, out of, and around the hotel. After forty-five minutes, he noticed the distinctive bulk of Speed Cook approaching from the direction of the racetrack.

Cook moved nimbly for a large man, his rumpled suit well below Saratoga's standards for haberdashery. Rather than hail his friend, Fraser followed him into the lobby. Inside, Fraser lingered near a voluble group to the side of the entrance, standing close enough to imply a connection but far enough away to avoid having to speak with them. Approaching the front desk, Cook gave a bellhop a slip of paper, then moved to the other side of the lobby entrance. He was evidently trying to be inconspicuous, a hopeless task here for a colored man of his dimensions. Fraser sidled to a wall, using his open newspaper to shield his face, again feigning interest in yesterday's headlines.

A small form emerging from an elevator looked like Abe Attell. When the form made a beeline for Cook, Fraser was certain. It was Attell's walk, up on the balls of his feet. Like he was keeping balanced in case he had to throw a jab or a quick one-two. The two men spoke briefly, no handshakes or greeting. Attell left while Cook was still speaking. Cook's face and posture betrayed no irritation over the rudeness. Fraser followed him out the front door, relieved that his suspicions had been wrong. Cook was here on his own business, not as part of Joshua's.

Halfway down the front walk, Fraser called out. Cook spun and grimaced. “I'm in the middle of something. What do you want?”

“Are you in the middle of something that involves fooling around with Abe Attell?”

“I asked first.”

“Where's Joshua?”

Cook rolled his eyes. “How the hell do I know?” He turned toward the street.

“Really? That's the best you can do?”

“What, you think he's up here?” When Fraser nodded, Cook started to look curious. “Really?”

“Let's go for a walk.”

“I've got things to do,” Cook objected.

“You'll be glad you did. And sorry if you don't.” Fraser nodded down the road to the racetrack.

They skipped the small talk, both preferring silence. When they reached the end of the town and turned onto the Avenue of the Pines, other foot traffic disappeared. They reached a lush-looking golf course. Graceful elms leaned softly over the roadway.

Fraser told him about Joshua and Violet. He left nothing out. Cook didn't interrupt but repeatedly looked over, his eyes searching Fraser's face.

When Fraser finished, they stopped and faced each other. “So, you're telling me”—Cook ticked off the points on the fingers of one hand—“that the cops are after Joshua for a bombing that nearly blew him to kingdom come, that Joshua and Violet are moving to Europe to get married, that they're having a baby, and that Joshua's here in Saratoga on some mystery mission that you're afraid may get him killed. And maybe some angry bootleggers are after him, on top of that. That about it?” Fraser nodded. “Well, I surely appreciate the news, but what the hell do you want from me? Did you simply want to see the look on my face when I heard all this?”

“Simmer down, Speed. We're way past the stage where you and I can get angry about this stuff. I know I threw a fit before, but not now. You said we worked together okay before. That's right. We need to again, whether we want to or not. I need help. I need your help with this.” Cook put his hands in his pockets and dropped his chin. “First off, I need to find Joshua and tell him that Violet will meet him in London. Eliza's taking her over on a ship that leaves tomorrow. He doesn't know about that. He thought they'd meet in Montreal and sail from there. He needs to know the change in plans.”

Cook didn't move, so Fraser kept going. “Look, I'm guessing that, whatever his business is here in Saratoga, it doesn't include being easy to find. You'd be a lot better at finding him than I would. At least that's the sort of thing you've always said.”

“What else? There's more.”

Fraser leaned in. “Aren't you curious why Joshua's got to come to Saratoga before leaving the country, going to start a new business overseas with a new wife? Doesn't that suggest something to you, something about a man who's been stealing other people's liquor shipments for more than half a year?”

“He's been stealing from other bootleggers?” Cook wore a disbelieving look.

“That's what my detective reports. I suppose it keeps the profits up.”

Cook scratched the side of his head. “All right, just say it, Jamie.”

“I'm not saying for sure. I don't know anything for sure any more. I'm just saying I'm worried. Worried a lot. During race season, there's more cash in this town than on Wall Street. Dice games on every street corner, high-dollar poker in all the hotels. Not to mention side bets on every race, on whether that mosquito flying by will land on my wrist or your elbow. Right?”

“Sure. So you think Joshua's planning on finishing up his career as a criminal by knocking over some major gambling joint?”

“Can you rule that out? Speed, look. He's decided to come here instead of getting the hell out of the country when the cops may be looking for him, not to mention that other bootleggers may be looking for him. Most times, those would be very good reasons
not
to go to Saratoga. I don't mean to be butting into your family business, but now it's my family business, too. Somehow my daughter is in love with him. Can't say I'm thrilled about it, and I don't know what the hell I think about any of this. If I'd known this is where we were going to end up, I might've turned my back on you when you came by back in Cadiz twenty years ago.” Cook shook his head and looked up at Fraser. “But I don't want to see Violet's heart broken. I don't want my grandchild never to know a father. So if there's something I can do to prevent those from happening, I want to.”

Cook walked away a few paces, then leaned against a tree. He kept his eyes fixed across the road. After a deep breath, he spoke. “You know, Joshua never gave us a lick of trouble when he was young. He was the finest young man you ever wanted to see. I was proud that someone like me could produce someone like him. Now it seems like he was saving up all the ways he could make me crazy. That boy's more than I can figure.”

“How do we find him?”

“I've been here two days getting nothing done and haven't seen hide or hair of him. 'Course, I haven't been looking for him. If he's planning what you think, he's not hanging out with the parlor snakes at the swank hotels. He's off in the shadows, not being noticed. The stables might be a good place. That's probably where I'd go. Negroes wouldn't stand out there. Lots work as grooms and stable boys, behind the scenes, you know, cleaning up.”

“Does he know anything about horses?”

“What'd he know about bootlegging before he took that up? God help us, he picks things up quick.”

“So what's he here for?”

Cook plucked a long blade of timothy grass and stripped off the leaves at its base. He climbed a slope that rose between the path and the golf course. The two men dropped onto the crest, looking over a lush fairway. Cook started chewing on the grass stalk like any Ohio farmer. “Okay,” he said, “he ain't up here bootlegging or stealing liquor.”

“Why not?”

Cook shook his head impatiently. “No customers around here to sell liquor to. Also, all the good stuff—and that's what he handles, not the bathtub rotgut—it comes off the ships off Long Island. He's got no reason to come to Saratoga for bootlegging or for grabbing liquor.”

“Something important pulled him here,” Fraser said. “It's business, and it won't take him long, since he's heading to Europe in a few days. Only thing that makes sense is that he's getting money to set him and Violet up in England, start their new life. I suppose he could be collecting on debts.”

“It's money, all right, but not collecting debts. Can't anybody owe him money except some small-time distributors and the speakeasy owners, and they're all back down in the city. No need to come to Saratoga to collect on them.”

“So he's going to steal it?”

Cook didn't answer for a few beats, then spat out the grass blade. “Yup. Damned stupid. And I bet I know who he's planning to steal from.” Fraser waited. “Damned stupid. And reckless.”

“You going to say who?”

“Don't know for sure. I'm afraid it's Arnold Rothstein.”

“Come on, Speed. That'd be crazy, and Joshua isn't crazy.”

“Think about it, Jamie. He needs one last score before he heads to a new country. Who's got the most money, carries it around with him, not in any safe but right out in the open?” Cook looked at Fraser.

“Okay.”

“And what do the cops and the government care if Rothstein gets robbed? Hell, he won't even report it missing. He's a crook. Crooks complaining that somebody robbed them? It doesn't get a lot of sympathy. Joshua's got to get through customs to get out of the country, start clean somewhere else, and he's already got that bombing business over his head. So he needs to steal from a crook, not from a bank or a business.”

“But it's crazy. He'll get himself killed.”

“That's the hard part, not getting killed. Maybe he figures Rothstein's got so much money he won't miss some.”

“That's crazy, too.”

“Yup.”

“We need to find him. Keep him from going through with this.”

“Come on, Jamie. You dealt with him in Paris. You really think you're going to talk him out of anything?”

“So what do we do? Help him out? Sticking up criminals isn't something I know much about.”

Cook gave him a half smile. “There's always time to learn.”

“You're kidding.”

“Yeah.” Cook shrugged. “Maybe not entirely. Maybe there's some ways we can help him. He's probably here with his partner, Cecil Washington.” Cook sighed. “This is going to mess up my real business up here, mess it up big time.”

Fraser remembered his first question, back at the hotel, the one that Cook never answered. “Speed, what are you doing with Abe Attell?”

“That's got nothing to do with Joshua. Or Violet. That's my deal.”

Fraser kept staring at him.

“Really.” He shook his head. “It's business, something for Babe Ruth, if you can believe that. Your missus knows all about it. I talked to her about it a couple days ago. It's important, something I need to see through, but you and I don't need to worry about it. Nothing to do with Joshua.”

“How can you say that? Attell is Rothstein's boy. It's all connected. What do we do about that?”

Cook looked evenly at Fraser. “Listen to yourself. ‘We.' How the hell did you and I end up joined at the hip?”

“Let's not start talking about getting joined at the hip.”

Cook winced. “Didn't mean it like that.”

Fraser pushed up from the ground. “Anyway, no time to worry that one out. What about that guy I saw outside Joshua's house in Brooklyn? Have you noticed anyone looking suspicious, or like a cop pretending not to be a cop? Or even just someone watching out for other people, like maybe Joshua?”

“Come on, Jamie, half the people in Saratoga look suspicious. That's why everyone comes here, for the thrill of rubbing elbows with suspicious-looking people. Back at that hotel I could point out a dozen men who meet that description. You want to keep an eye on all of them?”