The Babe Ruth Deception

by David O. Stewart

  Their taxi dropped Joan off at her home on Tenth Avenue, then headed uptown to the address Violet gave the driver. She wiped her palms on the insides of her coat pockets, then moved the crutch to an angle that would make it easier to get out of the taxi. She was excited, nervous, scared. She had never been to Harlem. She certainly had never been out with a Negro before. Or several Negroes. Or any Negroes. No. That wasn’t right. She and her mother and father had been with the Cook family in Paris, several times. Even with Joshua. So this really wasn’t her first time.

  But, no, it definitely was her first time for this. This was a date. A date with a man, close to her age, who might have romantic ideas. Until she met Joshua, she hadn’t ever thought about romance with a Negro. She hadn’t thought about it when they first met, not so she could remember. But she liked him, right from the beginning. She liked his confident, steady way. He seemed smart, but didn’t have to show it off. He did like nice clothes, more than most men do. She noticed that when he came to the hospital. He looked good in them. Could she kiss a Negro? Be intimate with one? That was stupid. It wasn’t some Negro she was thinking about. It was Joshua. She knew Joshua. She liked him. What else did she have to know?

  Anyway, she had to get out of that apartment, out of her narrow little life. Her life as a cripple. That’s how people thought of her. Maybe her parents didn’t, and she hoped Joshua didn’t, but everyone else did. She could see it in their faces as she crutched past. A few looked sympathetic, most impatient. Children stared when she and Joan left the clinic and slowly circled the block. That was certainly what Griff Keswick saw that one time he came by the hospital. That’s what she was. That’s what she’d always be. All right, then. Cripples could go out on the town, too.

  * * *

  Joshua, elegant in a camel-hair coat, was on the sidewalk when Violet’s taxi pulled up. He opened the door and bent over, his smile wide. “You came.” Looking up, she took a deep breath. He gripped her arm as she maneuvered out of the taxi.

  From the sidewalk, little suggested that a nightclub sizzled in the building before them. No lighted sign announced fun within. No doormen stood in livery. Inside, Violet had to climb a flight of wobbly stairs one at a time, something she’d been practicing with Joan that week. With her coat still on, the stairway was warm. The steps seemed to take the whole evening, but Joshua’s smile remained in place. He supported her elbow.

  He knocked twice on a door marked R & G IMPORTING. The door opened a crack. He said, “Ginger.” They passed into a hum of voices and movement, music in the distance. After checking their coats and complimenting her dress, he offered his arm, his dark double-breasted suit immaculate. As they walked forward, she tottered when the tip of her crutch came down on a shoe. The man whose shoe it was looked over, surprise on his dark face. “Sorry,” she said. He turned away without a word. Joshua steadied her with his free hand. Then his smile returned and they started again.

  The floor captain was small and slender, with a thin mustache and marcelled hair. That might be his natural wave, Violet decided. He welcomed them to The Big House. “Good evening,” Joshua answered. “Cook. Table for two.” On the far side of the room, an orchestra of colored musicians played with a jazzy tempo, but not too much. Their white tuxedoes were blinding. A small dance floor was empty. The captain led them to a table in the second semicircle that looked out on the dancers, whenever they might show up. It was a good table but not a flashy one. After some confusion over what to do with Violet’s crutch, which she would not relinquish, the captain slid it under the table so it wouldn’t trip other customers. Violet closed her eyes briefly. She gathered herself.

  “Next time,” Joshua said, “it’ll be easier.”

  She smiled and looked at him. “I’m sorry. You’re very patient.”

  “Are you kidding? There isn’t a man in this place who wouldn’t kill to change places with me right now.”

  She laughed. It was a lovely lie.

  While he ordered champagne and oysters, she began to look around. Candles flickered on tables covered with sparkling linen. Several tables had only white people. Several had only colored. A few, like theirs, had both. The staff was all colored—that seemed to be the rule. Everyone spoke with heads close together, or in loud voices, competing with the music that cushioned them against the world outside.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” Joshua leaned close.

  “I wasn’t either. It wasn’t easy getting out. My mother took forever getting ready for her evening.”

  “No, I meant I wasn’t sure you’d come up to Harlem. To see me.”

  She smiled and put her hand on his. “I knew what you meant. Since I’m here, there’s not much to say about it.” She looked around again. “I’m so glad to be out. To have a little bit of freedom. And to be in this exciting place.” She smiled again. “And with you.”

  Their talk came easy, just as it had in the hospital room, and before that in France. He talked about the army. Not about the war or the fighting, but the army’s rigid rules and how the soldiers got around them when they could. She talked about growing up in New York, tromping around backstages with her mother, extravagant theatrical characters, about her work with Joan. During a lull, when they were on the last of the champagne, she gazed out at the few couples on the dance floor. A woman was singing about her broken heart, though the uptempo rhythm contradicted the words. The song was like ragtime, which Violet knew, but different. More relaxed, less thought out. She swayed slightly.

  “You look like you want to dance,” Joshua said. “Do you think you can?”

  “I’d love to. But no.” She finished her champagne. “I wish I could.”

  “Maybe we can dance sitting right here.” He pulled his chair closer and put his right arm around her shoulder. He turned and reached his left hand across to take hers, looking into her eyes and smiling. He was very close. Feeling his pulse through his hand, her own heart seemed to stop. She cast her eyes down and felt herself flush. They swayed in rhythm until the music ended.

  Joshua, sitting back, dropped his head to look into her face. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Fraser. Are you ready for a cocktail?” She nodded. He ordered old-fashioneds.

  “Your special rye, Mr. Cook?” the waiter asked.

  “By all means,” Joshua answered. “It’s a special night.”

  Violet looked the question at him. His special rye? He smiled broadly and shrugged. “I have some involvement in supplying the beverages here.”

  Violet clapped her hands together and looked at him. He nodded. “You’re a bootlegger?” she asked.

  “I prefer it the way I said it.” He gave her a sideways smile.

  Her eyes were wide but a grin danced at the corners of her mouth. “So that’s where the money comes from!” He nodded again. “You’ve been mysterious, so I was wondering. This all seems so extravagant.” She looked around again. “So, Mr. Cook, not only have you led me into this den of iniquity—”

  “Which was fully disclosed ahead of time—”

  “—but, as a bootlegger, you are directly threatening the moral foundations of our nation.”

  Joshua looked away and pulled on an ear, then met her smile. “I believe I have already stated my occupation. As for moral foundation, it turns out that our nation is extremely thirsty, a dire situation I try to help with.”

  She turned her shoulders toward him. “Tell me about your adventures, all the thrilling things you do while I’m lying on my back with Joan bending my leg into horrible angles. Or while I stumble down the street with poor Joan telling me to slow down, slow down, get into a rhythm.”

  “No stories unless you save the last dance for me.”

  “I’m not sure I can. You’ll have to elbow aside all the men who have been pestering me all night.”

  “They’re too intimidated to approach such a magnificent woman.”

  “And you?”

  “Beverage suppliers don’t intimidate easy. Speaking of which, I haven�
�t received an answer to my request for the last dance.”

  The waiter arrived with their drinks.

  The rest of the night was a swirl. Their waiter announced curfew just before 2 AM, when they did have the last dance, never rising from the table. Then it was down the alley next door for a nightcap at The Big House Annex, an after-hours dive where the tables stood between empty coal bins. Hanging steam pipes threatened decapitation for men as tall as Joshua. After the champagne and cocktails, Violet felt downright spry on her crutch. Nothing to it. She laughed when Joshua pointed out that in the Annex the drinks were cheaper for Negroes than for whites, but he had to pay the higher price because he was with her. She liked that.

  On their way home, he drove to the Hudson River piers and killed the engine. The moonlight cast a conical glow across the water, the light shimmering as small waves beat by. After hours of talking, they talked some more. He had plans, large ones. He wasn’t going to stop with what he was doing. Bootlegging wasn’t a career. It was a way to get somewhere. When he fell quiet, Violet said she didn’t think she would ever walk right again. She knew she’d never run again. A tear formed in the corner of her eye.

  “I know,” he said. “It’s a terrible thing. But there’s lots worse.” He leaned over and kissed her. Even though they’d been in with all those coal bins, he still smelled good.

  Chapter 9

  This guy—what the hell was his name?—he was driving Babe nuts. He was lingering over his putt on the eighteenth green like it was a crate of nitroglycerin, had to be handled just so. Babe didn’t spend a lot of time lining up his putts. He looked at the green, the ball, the cup. Hit the ball into the cup, right? He got impatient with these old biddies who stare at the ground for two, three minutes, like some message was painted between the blades of grass and they could figure it out if only they looked long enough. Then they walk to the other side of the hole—see, there he goes—to check out how the grass is growing over there. Is it really greener? Christ. If you need to go through that rigamarole, maybe golf ain’t your game. Think about chess, you know?

  Then Spencer, who wrote for the Tribune, missed his putt, just like they all knew he would. Babe handed his cigar to his caddy. He stepped to the ball. About a twelve-footer. Looked at it. Looked at it again. Swung. Solid tap of putter on ball. Then the warm, hollow sound of the ball rattling into the cup.

  After the handshakes, the payment of twenty dollars to the team of Ruth and Meusel, Ruth gave his share to the caddy along with his putter. He retrieved his cigar and pulled a jacket from his golf bag. “Next time,” Babe called to the sportswriters who were aimed at the club bar, “we play for real money.”

  The afternoon shadows stretched toward the parking lot. That’s where Babe was headed. Back to the hotel for a shower and fresh duds, then out to a country place that served the best fried chicken around, then on to where a different type of chicken was on offer, definitely not fried but extremely fresh.

  He zipped up the jacket. The air was cool. Shreveport in February wasn’t such a bargain for spring training. Warmer than New York, sure, but the Yankees’ mornings on the ball field were on the frosty side. Frosty like that damned manager. That little Huggins—Babe snorted at the thought of the runt who had made them practice bunting for two hours that morning. Everyone but Babe, of course. Nobody came to the park to see Babe Ruth bunt, and he had better things to do than practice something he’d be goddamned if he’d ever do in a game. Huggins had been steamed about Babe not taking his turn, but what could he do about it? Babe was a hell of a lot more important to the Yankees than Miller fucking Huggins was.

  “Hey, big fella.”

  Abe Attell was leaning against Babe’s car, a tan Buick on loan from a local dealer who asked in return only a bunch of photos of Babe behind the wheel. Attell wore a bold plaid suit and straw boater, like it was the middle of summer. He must’ve figured he was in the South, have to wear summer clothes. Jesus, this guy was all Babe needed now.

  “If it ain’t the Little Hebrew in the flesh.” The caddy held the door for Babe, having stashed his left-handed clubs in the trunk.

  “Ride back to the hotel with you?”

  “Sure. Hop in.” How the hell’d the guy get out here, walk?

  Babe felt better when the car was moving at a respectable clip. This one had some pep. He grinned into the wind, the February sky still light even though it was nearly suppertime. Spring, the new baseball season, were on the horizon even if Abe Attell was in the next seat.

  “So, Babe,” Attell called. He was trying to light a cigar behind cupped hands, his head ducked below the windshield. He gave up on the cigar and threw the match away. “I heard you were lucky to get out of Cuba. They took all your money, that’s what I hear.”

  “Damned spics. They run crooked games. I don’t mind the house having an edge. Sure, that’s how it goes. Everybody’s got an angle. But they oughta give you some kind of shot at winning.”

  “How much they get you for?”

  Babe nodded his head. “I’m all right.” He gestured toward the dashboard. “Like the car?”

  “Sure, Babe, it’s a sweetheart.” Attell picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue and flicked it out the window. “You look like you’re in pretty good shape.”

  Ruth slapped his flank. “Best ever. Did workouts up in New York, when I got back from those thieves down in Cuba. This doc in my building told me about’em. They were a lot of work, but I did ’em. I think it’ll pay off.” After a silence, he added, “You remember the guy, his wife was one of the producers for that movie.”

  “Don’t remind me of that movie. Worst deal I’ve been in for a long time.”

  The Babe downshifted through a curve, mashed down on the accelerator to swing out of it. The transmission wasn’t as smooth as a Packard or a Cadillac, but the motor had guts. He threw his cigar, not even half smoked, out the window. “What is it, Abe? You came down to the sunny South just to see what shape I’m in? I’ll save your time. I’ll hit even more homers this year. Okay?”

  “Ah, you know, I like to see how all the players look, make up my own mind. Who’s taking care of himself. Who isn’t. What kids may have the goods to make a difference. It helps with my business.”

  “Stop beating around the bush. You better not be thinking you’re going to shove me around or anything.”

  Attell looked over. “Babe, you and me know the score. No need for that sort of talk, am I right? I just wanted to make sure you understood about those confessions, the ones the White Sox guys were supposed to have given when they got arrested for fixing the Series.”

  “Uh-huh.” Babe downshifted again as they entered the town. What there was of it. Down here they stashed all the fun outside town, in country places where no one could see you were eating good food and drinking hard and enjoying someone else’s company. It was like they were ashamed of having a good time. “I heard those confessions were bad.”

  “Did you hear about what happened to them?”

  “Tell me. What happened to them?”

  “Don’t you take the papers?”

  “People tell me what I need to know.”

  “Those confessions, and like you say they were pretty bad, turns out they disappeared. Poof.” He puffed his cheeks out and blew away imaginary papers.

  “No fooling.”

  “What’d I tell you before? That there’s nothing to worry about, if only people are smart. If only they don’t go around blabbing about things they don’t really know or understand. Hey!” Attell was pointing to the side of the main street they were on. “Set me down there. There’s a guy I need to see.”

  Babe eased the Buick to the curb. Attell turned and stuck his hand out for a shake. “I’m telling you, Babe. Chicago’s a great town. A reasonable town. They understand that people have to make a living. And you need to remember to trust your friends, Babe. That’s the key to the whole thing. You got to trust your friends.” With a two-finger salute at the brim of his boater,
Attell stepped out. He didn’t look back.

  Babe relaxed as he waited for a trolley to clatter by, then pulled out behind it. Trust Abe Attell—that was a laugh. He wouldn’t trust that guy as far as he could throw him. He trusted him once and look where it got him. Permanently behind the eight ball.

  Inside the lobby of the Arlington Hotel, Babe stopped for messages. The desk clerk pointed to a large man seated near the front windows. He was folding his newspaper and rising. He looked like law. Working the bar at his old man’s joint back in Baltimore, Babe got pretty good at sniffing out the law. Of course, lawmen tend not to hide what they are. More like they announce it, how they walk and how they stand. Like their problems are your problems and you’d better start worrying about them.

  The man approached Babe and said, “The name’s John Slaughter, Mr. Ruth. I wonder if we might have a word.”

  This couldn’t be good. No one called him Mr. Ruth except if he was bringing trouble. “I’m pressed for time, kid. How about an autograph?”

  Slaughter was almost as tall as Babe but older, a bit thicker. He moved like there was serious muscle underneath his wrinkled suit. He smiled and took off his derby. “We really need to talk. Won’t take long.” He indicated the passageway to the right of the front desk, then led the way.

  They went down a flight of stairs, then through a thick door into a tunnel lit by overhead bulbs. “What the hell?” Babe said. His voice echoed in the narrow space.

  “Just in here,” Slaughter said over his shoulder, pushing open another door as though there was no question that Babe would follow. “You’ll be glad we did.”

  Feeling stupid, Babe entered. The room looked ordinary enough. A few chairs, a table in the middle. A window near the ceiling looked out on the sidewalk at calf-level.

  “So,” Slaughter said as he sat down, waving at another chair for Babe. “I represent the office of the commissioner of baseball, Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis.”

  Babe nodded but didn’t sit. He wasn’t liking anything about this.