The Tomb That Ruth Built (A Mickey Rawlings Mystery)

by Troy Soos

  When I walked down the crumbling concrete steps, I had to step around an emaciated old man who was curled up in a fetal position and snoring violently. He was layered in several tattered coats and sweaters that would barely make up one complete garment. Inches from his colorless, creased face was a pool of fresh vomit—not a good advertisement for the restaurant, I thought.

  I pushed through the door and a bell jingled to announce my entry. From what I saw inside, I doubted that it rang often. Shaughnessy’s restaurant was plain enough to pass for a Wild West saloon, except that there was a lunch counter instead of a long bar and no one wore cowboy hats. The place was poorly lit, its floor was strewn with clotted sawdust, and the dining tables looked like they might have been made from old packing crates. The only decorations were a few sepia photographs of old-style pugilists and several pairs of boxing gloves hanging from the low ceiling. Only one customer occupied a stool at the counter; he was nearly as poor a physical specimen as the old man outside the door, and was sleeping with a folded newspaper for a pillow.

  A mustachioed man of about fifty, whose rolled-up shirt sleeves exposed sinewy forearms, beamed at me from behind the counter. “Would you like a table, sir?” His bearing suggested that he was the proprietor.

  “Thanks, but I’m meeting someone. And I see him.” The man nodded agreeably and I stepped further into the restaurant.

  Two of the room’s six tables were taken, one of them by Andrew Vey. He was seated alone, his attention directed down at the pink pages of the Police Gazette. On a plate in front of him was slab of meatloaf the size of a paving stone and a heap of mashed potatoes that looked like mortar. A smaller plate held two enormous pickles and there was a full glass of milk in his fist.

  Vey didn’t notice me until he tilted back the glass to take a drink. When he did, he coughed up some of milk. “Rawlings?” he gasped in his thin voice, then coughed again. Vey’s little bow tie was crooked and looked like the propeller of an airplane about to take off. Bits of potato flecked his chin.

  “Hope you don’t mind me showing up like this.” I put a hand on the chair opposite his. “Can I join you?”

  His eyes betrayed his puzzlement but he answered, “Sure.” He slid the Gazette to the edge of the table.

  I sat down and studied him for a moment. Vey’s wild red hair poked in every direction and the freckles across his nose appeared about to jump off his face. “There’s a couple of things I want to talk to you about,” I began.

  “Why not talk to me at the ballpark? How’d you find me here?”

  “It wasn’t hard. I asked around, and found out this is where you go for dinner Thursday nights.” Lately, it seemed that everybody had been able to find me, and I wanted Vey to know that I could track people down, too.

  “But why?” he asked.

  “I wanted a private talk, just you and me.”

  The man with the rolled shirtsleeves came by, and Vey introduced us. He was indeed the owner, Silk Shaughnessy. When he asked what I’d have, I ordered coffee and he went off, his mustache drooping with disappointment.

  “Talk about what?” Vey asked guardedly.

  “About this mess I’m in with Spats Pollard, and about that fellow getting beat up at the concession stand, and about me getting threats from some goon. You see, it occurs to me that you’re in the middle of just about everything that’s been going on.”

  “You think so?” He took a sip of his milk.

  “No doubt about it.” A mug of black coffee was put before me; I shook off Shaughnessy’s offer of cream or sugar and waited until he left before continuing. “When Pollard’s body was found, you showed up at the concessions stand; when the newspapers got wind of the story, it was you who got them to drop it; when that fellow at the other refreshment stand got beat up, it was you who talked him into keeping quiet about it. You know that I’m investigating Pollard’s murder, and I’m supposed to report to you on whatever I learn.” I paused. “So yeah, I’d say that you’re in the middle of everything.”

  There was a hint of a smile on Vey’s face. “It sounds like you think I’m behind everything.” He calmly hacked off a chunk of meatloaf and pushed it to the side of his plate near me. “Try some—you won’t find none better.”

  It did look tempting, and I was hungry. “I honestly don’t know what you’re behind, or who’s side you’re really on, but I’m sure you know a whole lot more than you let on. And I need answers.”

  “I don’t know if I can give you any answers,” he said. Motioning again at the piece of meat, he added, “But I’ll share my dinner with you.”

  I picked it up with my fingers, tasted it, and waved for Shaughnessy. “Changed my mind,” I said to him. “I’ll have the same thing.”

  “Comes with potatoes,” he replied. “Pickles is a nickel extra.”

  “No pickles, but you got ketchup for the meatloaf? And some gravy for the potatoes?”

  “Of course.” He smiled, causing the waxed tips of his handlebar mustache to perk up. “I keep telling Andy that meatloaf without ketchup is like pretzels without mustard, but won’t never try it.” He looked at Vey and let out an exaggerated sigh. “I just can’t teach this boy nothing.” To me, he said, “Your dinner will be right up.”

  Vey mumbled, “Ketchup looks too much like blood for me.”

  “You’re squeamish about ketchup?”

  “I seen so much blood in the ring, I don’t even like the color red.”

  “You boxed?”

  He held out his hands, displaying the mangled fingers that I’d noticed before. “Sure did, and wasn’t half bad.” He nodded toward Shaughnessy, who was checking on a quiet couple who were the restaurant’s only other diners. “That’s how I come to know Silk. He was one of the best middleweights in the business before he retired to open up this joint. Still goes to the gym and helps the young fighters. He taught me most of what I know—especially how to keep my guard up.” Vey shoveled a heap of mashed potato into his mouth. Silk Shaughnessy might have taught him how to box, but it appeared that he’d learned to eat from Babe Ruth. “And boxing is how I come to work for Mr. Barrow.”

  “I saw the picture in his office—him and John L. Sullivan.”

  “Mr. Barrow was quite a good fighter.” Vey put down his fork and knife. “And as far as I’m concerned he’s a good man. I’m telling you right now that I’ll never say or do anything against him.”

  “Is there something to say about him?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But I won’t break any confidence of his, so if you’re looking for information that I’m not at liberty to give you—well, then all you’ll be getting tonight is a mighty good dinner.”

  That dinner was placed in front of me. I noticed Vey avert his eyes when I dosed my meatloaf with ketchup. While we both hungrily dug into our food, I asked, “How exactly did you get to know Mr. Barrow?”

  “I was supposed to throw a fight and I didn’t do it. I was never asked, and never agreed; the men who ran those things just told me what round I was supposed to take a dive in and expected me to follow orders. The gambler who tried to fix the bout lost a wad of cash on it, so he had me beaten up bad enough to end my career.” Vey examined his knuckles. “But I put a couple of his boys down for the count before the rest of them got the better of me. Anyway, Ed Barrow was friends with my manager; he heard what happened, and he gave me a job. I was just an errand boy for him at first, but I worked hard and he kept moving me up.” Vey smiled with pride. “Now look at me: A kid from the street going to work for the New York Yankees in a suit and tie.” He dug a finger into his collar as if he didn’t like the tie part of it at all. “I owe everything to Mr. Barrow.”

  “I won’t ask you to betray him, or betray any confidence,” I promised. “But if there’s something you can tell me, will you help me out?” I recalled some of the looks I’d seen on his face and some of the things he’d said to me. “Sometimes I’ve had the feeling you’re on my side.”

  “Wouldn’t say I
’m on your side, exactly. But I believe in a fair fight, and it seems to me you ain’t in one. The Yankees want you to do a job for them—a dangerous job—but they’re not giving you all you need to do it. They’re sending you into a fight with one hand tied behind your back.”

  “What else do I need?”

  “Information.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been saying. And I expect you have some.”

  “I do.”

  “What are you able to tell me?”

  “I’m not sure.” He bit into a pickle.

  “How about this?” I persisted. “If I tell you a few things, could you keep them just between us for now?” He pondered that and agreed.

  While we continued to eat, I filled him in on what I’d learned, what I suspected, and of the new telephone threat from the hoodlum I’d met at Katie Day’s. When I told him about the phone call, he shook his head sadly and said, “That ain’t right,” sounding genuinely surprised that somebody would do such a thing.

  We finished our discussion at the same time that we’d cleaned our plates. I said, “You can see I’m not getting along as fast as I need to on my own. If you can help me, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I still wasn’t entirely certain that I could trust Andrew Vey, or if it was wise to confide in him, but now and then you have to make a judgment call and hope it leads to the best. I had the feeling that if he was on my side, Vey could be quite an ally.

  * * *

  I had to wonder if Detective Jim Luntz ever did any actual detecting. When I went to see him again at the Forty-fourth Precinct stationhouse, he was leaning back in his chair with a fedora over his face and his feet propped on his desk. Instead of the khaki suit I’d seen him in previously, he was wearing a dark brown one that made the tobacco burns on his lapels less visible. His thick-soled shoes were scuffed and his socks were different colors.

  I cleared my throat after standing patiently for a minute and said tentatively, “Excuse me…” I got no response and repeated it louder.

  Luntz started abruptly, almost falling from his chair. “Huh? What is it?” He swung his feet down, kicking a small stack of papers as he did so, and removed his hat to reveal puffy red eyes. It took him a moment before he was awake enough to recognize me. “Oh, Rawlings. Did we have an appointment?” He tossed the fedora on top of a file cabinet behind him and frowned at the papers that were now in disarray on his desk.

  “No, do I need one?”

  “Nah.” Luntz reached for a canning jar filled with dark tobacco. He undid the wire bale, removed a thick wad of the stuff, and tamped it into his pipe with a thumb. “What can I do for you now?” He lit up and puffed vigorously to get it burning.

  “It’s about the Spats Pollard murder,” I said.

  “Are you still on that?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Luntz smiled blandly. “Oh, his file is still on my ‘open’ stack—but it’s nowhere near the top.”

  “Have you found out anything more?”

  His pipe answered with a horizontal back-and-forth swing: No.

  I was starting to gag on the acrid smoke. “Have you tried?”

  The detective didn’t appear to like that question, but he answered, “I explained it to you before: My interest is protecting law-abiding citizens, not two-bit hoods. And I don’t see what it matters to you.”

  “It doesn’t—except that I need to get this whole thing over with. And the only way I can do that is to solve it.”

  “There’s nothing to solve.” Luntz plucked the pipe from his mouth and pointed the stem at me like a teacher using a pointer to instruct a particularly dull student. “Spats Pollard was a minor crook trying to get a share of the illegal booze business. Now he’s dead, and some other bum will take his place. That bum won’t last long, either—none of them ever do—and then there’ll be a new one. They’re all fighting for little slices of the same pie, and no matter how many of them come and go, there will always be more to take their place.”

  It sounded as if Luntz accepted murdered gangsters as part of a natural cycle of criminal life. I tried another tack. “Last time I was here, you told me you want to keep the Bronx safe for honest citizens. How about that concession owner who got beat up in Yankee Stadium a week or so ago—are you looking into that?” I still thought the attack on the vendor could be connected to Pollard’s murder.

  Luntz appeared genuinely mystified. “I never got any report about that.”

  Andrew Vey had mentioned that he’d convinced the victim to say he’d been beaten outside the stadium, not inside, but perhaps the man was too scared to report it at all. Since that seemed to be a dead end, I went on to the one tangible thing that I did want from Luntz. “I’d like that list Pollard had. I could really use the names of his customers.”

  He clamped the pipe between his teeth as firmly as if he was locking up a safe, and it again made a horizontal, negative swing.

  “Mr. Ruppert would like for me to have it, too.” Bluffing, I went on, “If you need some kind of formal request, I could ask Mr. Barrow, then he could ask Mr. Ruppert, then Mr. Ruppert could call your captain. It’s up to you.”

  Luntz casually leaned back and puffed a few smoke rings into the air. Finally, he said, “Listen, you just caught me on a bad morning. I was up half the night chasing a lead on an armed robbery in Hunt’s Point. I still haven’t had enough coffee. You want some?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The detective sat upright. “Here’s what I’m going to do. First, I’m going to the toilet to get rid of the last cup of coffee I had. Then I’m going to get a fresh one. When I’m back, we’ll talk some more.” As he spoke, he maneuvered papers around on his desk, sliding several of them toward me along with a couple of blank sheets. He stood up, put a pencil on top of the papers, and said, “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be a little while. But I can not give you the list.” He grabbed his empty coffee mug and walked away.

  When I looked at the papers, I saw that he’d put the list I was seeking right in front of me. I scanned it quickly, barely able to contain my excitement as I read some of the names. Then I began scribbling frantically to get down as many names, addresses, and phone numbers as I could.

  I didn’t get all of them, but enough to keep me busy for a while. At least I should be able to determine if Pollard’s customer list was a recent one.

  When Luntz returned, he had a steaming mug of black coffee in his hand. “Was there much more we needed to talk about?” he asked.

  “I’ve taken enough of your time today,” I said. “But if anything else comes up, I’ll be back.”

  He uttered a sound that indicated he was not looking forward to that prospect.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, Margie and I were seated in a crowded train traveling northeast out of the Bronx. We’d first taken a Westchester Avenue street car, then transferred to the New Haven Railroad. Mamaroneck was only about fifteen miles away, but the stops were frequent and the progress slow.

  Neither of us was in a hurry; the view was scenic, with occasional glimpses of Long Island Sound, and we were happy to be able spend some extra time together. The Yankees were soon leaving on a two-city swing through Philadelphia and Washington, and in a couple of weeks we’d making the first extended road trip of the year to the Midwest.

  As the train carried us along the electrified rails, we breakfasted on molasses cookies and sweet apple cider. Margie pointed out sights and landmarks that she passed on her daily commute. She seemed excited about my first visit to the studio and I was happy to see where she worked, even though it wasn’t the sole reason I’d come with her today.

  We were among the few passengers to disembark at the charming little Larchmont station. A couple of attractive women stepped down from the train with us. Margie exchanged greetings and introduced them to me as two of the Griffith studio’s production staff; one was a costume designer and the ot
her a set decorator. “We usually ride together,” Margie said. “But today I wanted you all to myself for a while.”

  Like Margie, the women were dressed in starched white shirtwaists and plain dark skirts. From their attire, there was nothing to indicate that working in the movies was a glamorous business; they might have been stenographers from a Midtown business office or seamstresses in the Garment District. Even when Margie was one of the screen’s most famous stars, she dressed simply, shunned makeup, and never put on airs.

  “It’s still a couple of miles,” Margie said. “The studio sends a car to pick us up.” She’d barely finished the sentence when a gleaming Overland touring car pulled to the curb. It was driven by a dignified man of about seventy; Margie later told me that he had been an actor for Mr. Griffith in his early days at Biograph and was kept on the payroll as a part-time chauffeur and occasional extra. The courtly old man held the door for the ladies as they squeezed together in the back while I took the passenger’s seat up front. The top was down and we were bathed in bright sunshine as the driver cautiously navigated a narrow, bumpy road to Orienta Point.

  When we pulled up at the impressive grounds of the D. W. Griffith Studio, I was immediately struck by the contrast between this site and the Vitagraph studio in Brooklyn where I’d first met Margie. The Vitagraph facility was a brick factory complex designed for the rapid production of one- and two-reel moving pictures. This coastal location that Griffith had chosen was magnificent, with landscaped grounds and buildings that looked like they were part of an English country manor.

  “I’m going to show Mickey around,” Margie told the others. She took my hand and led the way to a foot path bordered by cherry trees and flowering dogwoods. The air was rich with the sweet, fragrant scent of springtime. She said to me as we started down the path, “Mr. Griffith is still out of town, so nobody’s going to check to see when I start work.”