The Tomb That Ruth Built (A Mickey Rawlings Mystery)

by Troy Soos

  “Whitey,” Kessler said, his wolfish smile broadening. “Glad you’re here.”

  “There a problem?” Whitey asked. Although his pasty, pitted face was in the shade of his black fedora, there was no hiding its ugliness.

  “This saphead might need a little persuasion to get in the car with us.”

  “The three of you can’t handle him on your own?” Whitey chortled.

  “Hey!” barked Kessler. “You remember who you’re talking to. You work under me and don’t you forget it!”

  Smirking, Whitey answered, “Whatever you say, Leo.”

  “Good,” said Kessler, ignoring the lack of sincerity in Whitey’s reply. “Let’s get him in the car.”

  Whitey repeated the order to the others, “Put him in the car.”

  The two big men who’d arrived with Kessler slowly approached me. I thought I might be able to squeeze between them and make a break for it.

  I sprang sideways, where the gap seemed largest. One of the men flung out an arm the size of a tree truck; it caught me in the throat and brought me up short. I gasped for breath as the thugs grabbed hold of my arms.

  All I could do now was fight. I managed to break one arm free and drove an elbow hard into the stomach of the man to my right. It barely fazed him. I was about to launch a punch at the other hood, when my arm was back in a tight grip, pulled painfully behind me.

  “Not him,” said Whitey. He jerked his head toward Kessler.

  The man next to Whitey spoke for the first time. “That comes straight from the boss,” he said in a deep voice. With his rough-hewn face, he looked like he might be a veteran of quite a few street battles.

  At hearing his words, I was immediately released and Leo Kessler was in their grasp. He struggled briefly, his pristine hat falling to the sidewalk. “Hey—what the hell—” he squawked.

  “Been a change of plans,” said Whitey. “Your services are no longer needed.”

  The men hustled the protesting Kessler into the back of the Packard. One of them picked up the fallen Panama hat and put it over Kessler’s face to muffle his cries. In seconds, the car was around a corner and out of view. Kessler had been right, I realized; nobody had come to help him.

  Until now, neither Whitey nor I had given any indication that we’d met before. After a long moment, I looked at him and asked, “What’s going on?”

  “My boss decided Kessler needed to go.” Whitey had a smug grin. I recalled what he had said in the museum about always seeking a chance to move up. It looked like he’d gotten his promotion.

  “Why?”

  Whitey ordered his companion back to the Model T and waited until the two of us were alone before answering. “Let’s call it ‘dereliction of duty.’ ”

  “Kessler is the one who was supposed to get rid of Spats Pollard two years ago, wasn’t he?”

  “You got it.” Whitey nodded. “But Kessler got greedy. Turns out he let Pollard skip town in exchange for giving him every cent he had and everything he owned.” That came as no great surprise; greed seemed to be what drove most of these men.

  I was wondering where I stood in all this now, but was reluctant to ask. Instead, I said, “So when Pollard showed up in New York again, Kessler killed him to keep your boss from finding out he hadn’t done the job the first time.”

  “That was part of it.” Whitey hesitated. “We were trying to learn some more, but when we heard Kessler was gonna make a move on you today, we decided his time was up. There’s some questions we just might not get any answers to now.”

  “You came here to save me?” I asked in disbelief.

  “We ain’t the cavalry,” he said with a smile. “We came to make a deal. Under the circumstances, I’m expectin’ you’re agreeable.”

  “What deal?”

  “Here’s how it is,” Whitey said. “After all that bad press my boss got over the 1919 World Series—completely unfounded, by the way—he don’t want no more trouble over baseball players. So the deal is that I tell you what happened, and then you drop it.”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  Whitey jammed his hands deep in his pockets. “Spats Pollard had the idea to sell beer in the ballpark. Joe Zegarra had a concession stand, so they became partners. Then Kessler cut himself in as a third partner figuring Pollard owed him. The thing is, with three partners, each one only gets a third of the profits. Zegarra convinced Kessler he couldn’t risk letting Pollard live since he was supposed to have bumped him off two years ago. He also convinced Kessler the new park was the best place to hide the stiff—it wouldn’t be found ’til everyone was long dead. So Kessler did the job on Pollard, and that was one partner down. But Zegarra double-crossed Kessler—he made sure the body was found. It was only a matter of time before Kessler would be nailed by the cops or by us, and that leaves Zegarra the sole owner.” He gave me a look. “You getting into the middle of things just made it come to an end sooner.”

  His story was pretty much along the lines of what I had put together myself. “And it is the end for Kessler?”

  Whitey shrugged. “When my boss gives an order it’s supposed to be carried out. Kessler didn’t do that, so…” After a moment, he continued, “So here’s where it stands: Leo Kessler won’t ever bother you no more, and you can tell your bosses what happened to Pollard. Of course, my boss’s name stays out of it. And then everybody should be happy and life goes on.”

  I pondered the deal for only a second. Looking down at the marriage forms crumpled in my hand, I knew there were other things I wanted to do. It was case closed, as far as I was concerned.

  I nodded my agreement. Whitey touched the tip of his fedora and ambled back to the waiting Model T.

  * * *

  The following day, I reported to Ed Barrow’s office. Except for the improvement to the room’s décor, the scene was almost identical to the one I’d first walked into back in April, and the same men were present. Jacob Ruppert was there, impeccably dressed by his valet in an outfit that made him look like some kind of an ambassador. Detective Jim Luntz was slumped in an arm chair, his attention focused primarily on the unlit pipe in his hand.

  Andrew Vey stood near Barrow’s desk, wearing another well-tailored suit. He caught my eye and ran a finger over the lapel of his jacket. I gave him a small nod of approval; his fiancée was having quite a positive impact on his wardrobe.

  Addressing the team’s business manager, I gave a concise account of my investigation. I hit the points that I thought were of most concern to the Yankees organization, and omitted details that I didn’t think they would care about—as well as a few that I simply didn’t care to discuss. I told them that Spats Pollard had been killed in a feud between rival bootleggers and that it was not due to any conspiracy against the ball club. Most importantly, I stressed, the dispute between the gangsters was over and there would be no further violence in the stadium.

  When I mentioned that real beer was being sold in the ballpark’s concession stands, Ruppert appeared livid. His thin mustache twitched violently and he muttered words that I couldn’t quite make out in a guttural accent. I had assumed that he tacitly approved of sale of beer, since it would help attract patrons, but he seemed genuinely outraged.

  Throughout the meeting, Jim Luntz maintained an expression of complete indifference. He might as well have been taking a nap.

  At the conclusion of my report, Barrow said, “Well, I believe that settles the matter.” His thick brows bobbed high on his head. “I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say the New York Yankees are indebted to you.” He looked to Ruppert who gave an imperious nod.

  “So now I can just play baseball?” I asked eagerly.

  “Yes.”

  “Great!” I paused for a moment. “I hate to ask this, but I do have a request.”

  Barrow immediately adopted a defensive expression on his bulldog face. It was the standard one used by baseball management during contract negotiations, when the front office men pretend to be surprised and sad
dened that ballplayers actually want to be paid for their services. “If it’s reasonable,” he said. “After all, we do owe you something.”

  “We’re leaving for the road trip on Monday. Is it okay if I travel on my own to Cleveland and meet the team there? I promise to be in time for the game—I won’t even miss batting practice.”

  Barrow’s brows knitted together, making a single hedge row. “I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you want to travel with the club?”

  “I’m getting married tomorrow. We’d like a little time for our honeymoon.”

  “Married! Well, congratulations. But why didn’t you tell us? We could have arranged something special for you.”

  “Thank you, but we wanted to keep it quiet.” I had seen a couple of “special” baseball weddings before; each time, the team had used the event for publicity purposes, with the couple getting married on the field and then walking through an archway of baseball bats held aloft by other players. I wanted our wedding day to be about Margie and me, not baseball.

  “As you wish,” Barrow said. “But let us contribute something: We will pay the cost of your train fare to Cleveland—get yourself a first-class berth, eat well, and the Yankees will pick up the tab.”

  Jacob Ruppert spoke up. “That is from the team. There will also be a little present from me. You have done me a favor, Rawlings, and I am grateful.”

  I thanked both men for their generous offers, and I truly appreciated their kindness. But all I really wanted from them was to keep me on the team through the World Series.

  Chapter Twenty

  The ceremony was simple and brief, performed at Borough Hall by a harried city clerk. He spoke in a rapid monotone, almost like an auctioneer, and had to correct himself when he initially referred to me as “Michael” Rawlings. Our only guest in attendance was my oldest friend, Karl Landfors, who served as best man and as the legally required witness.

  Although not elaborate, the wedding seemed perfect to Margie and me. Its memory remained vividly with me throughout the road trip west—although for some reason I was fuzzy on the details. All I could remember for sure was how gorgeous Margie looked in an embroidered dress of pale yellow silk, holding a small bouquet. For the life of me, I couldn’t recall a word that was spoken other than “I do” and “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  When the team returned from the road trip, I thought life couldn’t get any better. I was a married man, eager to resume our abbreviated honeymoon, and I was on a team that was six games ahead of the nearest competition and on its way to the World Series.

  While the Yankees were out of town, Jacob Ruppert had been busy in New York. He canceled his leases with all the concessionaires, and took control of the refreshment stands, stocking them with perfectly legal, and thoroughly unpalatable, near beer. He’d also severed his eight-year partnership with Cap Huston, buying Huston’s share of the ball club for one and a quarter million dollars.

  On my second morning back in the Bronx, Detective Jim Luntz unexpectedly telephoned and asked if he could come to our home and talk. I agreed reluctantly—when would I finally be able to put the Spats Pollard murder behind me?

  I knew that Margie wouldn’t want our flat reeking of Luntz’s noxious pipe smoke, so the detective and I sat on the front stoop of our apartment building. The day was warm, and we watched the neighborhood boys play ball in the street while we spoke.

  “I thought maybe we should share some information,” Luntz said. He sucked at his pipe like a baby nursing on a bottle.

  Landfors had relayed a message to me from Marshall Webb that Luntz appeared to be a clean cop, so I had no qualms about speaking with him. But I was surprised that he was interested in talking now, considering how completely he had ignored Pollard’s murder up to this point. “I thought it was all over,” I said.

  “It’s never over,” he sighed. “I told you: When one hood goes down, it only makes room for another.”

  “It’s over for me,” I insisted.

  “That might be true,” Luntz replied. “Unless, of course, somebody wants to get some kind of revenge on you.”

  “Like who?”

  He drew on his pipe. “Because of you, some guys are gone now—and they probably had friends. You never know who’s going to feel obligated to launch a vendetta.”

  “Has Leo Kessler turned up anywhere?” He was the one I had most reason to fear.

  “Oh yeah. We found him in the East River—enough of him to identify, anyway.”

  “Geez.” I didn’t like the idea of anyone being killed. I doubted I would lose any sleep over the loss of Kessler, though.

  “Joe Zegarra’s gone, too.”

  “Yeah, I know. Ruppert took over all the refreshment stands.”

  “No. I mean he’s gone.” The detective looked at me meaningfully. “Hasn’t been seen for more than a week, and his nephews have taken over his business.”

  “You think—?”

  “I sure as hell don’t think he retired.” Luntz blew out a cloud of smoke. “You should have listened to me, Rawlings. There’s no sense going after these guys and maybe getting yourself hurt. Just stay out of the way and let them kill each other off.”

  “I’ll be staying out of their way from now on,” I promised.

  “Good.” He tapped the pipe stem on his teeth. “But tell me: How did you figure out what was going on?”

  “It started with something you said to me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You said these gangsters are all fighting for a slice of the same pie,” I reminded him. “Yankee Stadium was a great big new pie. A place that seats thousands of thirsty men every day is better than ten speakeasies that hold a hundred each—it’s simple math.” Even I could figure that out, and I could barely do enough arithmetic to calculate a batting average. “Once I realized the Yankee Stadium concessions were what they were after, I just had to sort out the connections between Pollard, Zegarra, and Kessler.”

  “Huh.” Luntz hit the pipe on the heel of his shoe to knock out the loose ash and stood up. “So what are you going to do now?” he asked.

  I rose, too. “We got a ballgame and Aaron Ward has a bruised knee. So I’m gonna play baseball.”

  * * *

  We routed the Red Sox, which was always a cause for joy in the Yankees’ locker room. On top of the victory, there were a number of individual achievements to celebrate: Babe Ruth had hit two colossal home runs, one of them nearly clearing the right field façade; Herb Pennock had struck out ten Boston batters in pitching a 8-0 shutout; and I’d gone two-for-four while playing errorless ball at second base.

  Although my accomplishment was more modest than Ruth’s or Pennock’s, I found it every bit as satisfying and was eager to tell Margie every detail. I’d showered and was almost dressed in my street clothes when Charley O’Leary came over to me. “Hug wants to see you,” the coach said. “In his office.”

  “Thanks, Charley.” I assumed Huggins was going to compliment me on my playing today, and maybe tell that I’d be starting for Ward again tomorrow.

  When I stepped into the manager’s office and saw the somber expression on his face, I immediately knew he wouldn’t be giving me news that I wanted to hear. Huggins nodded me toward a chair and I almost slumped into it. He hesitated, and the bags under his eyes seemed to sag a little lower.

  “This is tough for me,” Huggins began. “I like you, and I want you on my ball club. The problem is… we can only have so many on the roster.”

  I nodded that I was aware of that fact. I’d been through this kind of speech before, and knew where it was leading.

  “The front office is hot on some college kid,” Huggins continued. “Helluva a hitter, maybe as strong as Ruth. He could add a lot of punch to the lineup and we need to make room for him…”

  “And that means I got to go,” I said. No matter how badly I hurt inside at the news, I was determined to go gracefully and not show the pain.

  “I’m afraid so.
But I want to give you a choice.”

  “A choice?”

  “Yes. As I told you before, I believe you have the makings of a good manager. And I happen to know of some clubs that could use one. It’s only the low minors, but that’s where you start. I’ll put in a word for you, if you like.”

  “I wouldn’t be a player anymore?”

  “At some point, we all have to hang up our spikes. You got some years left in you as a player, but this might be a good time to start thinking of the future. But it’s up to you—if you don’t want to manage yet, I’m sure another big league club will pick you up right away.” He chuckled wryly. “In fact, I’m hoping you go for the managing job because I don’t want you playing against us.”

  I wanted to shout, I’m a player! I’m not hanging anything up yet! Instead, I said, “I appreciate that, Hug. And someday I do hope to manage. When I do, I know I’ll owe an awful lot to what I learned from you. But can I have a little time?”

  Huggins shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid we have to let you go now.”

  “I mean time to decide about a managing job.”

  “Oh, certainly.”

  “I want to talk to my, uh, my wife about it.” I was still getting used to referring to Margie as my “wife.”

  Huggins smiled. “You are smart. And you’ll probably have a successful marriage if you to talk to your wife about things like this. Let me know in a day or two. In the meantime…”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll clean out my locker.” I stood, we shook hands, and I walked to the office door. Looking back at him, I asked, “Who’s the kid taking my place?”

  “Gehrig.” He checked a piece of paper on his desk. “Lou Gehrig. A local boy, plays for Columbia.”

  “Tell him I hope he makes it.” Hell, if I’m going to be cut I want it to be for somebody good.