The Babe Ruth Deception Page 10

  Joshua forced a smile to his lips and nodded his head. “Okay. Now I’ve heard it. Again.” He gripped Cecil’s elbow with his left hand. Cecil turned back to his seat. “What happened? Why this now?”

  “You know that bastard Hanlon, over at the Greenpoint precinct house?”

  “Sure. Gave him his envelope, what, two days back.”

  “He dropped in, maybe an hour ago. Had that giant guy with him, the one with the lazy eye?”

  “Yeah. Dumb as he looks, which ain’t easy.”

  “Hanlon said he was up at the Plantation Club the other night, saw you there. With your little friend.”

  Joshua smiled and took the chair across from Cecil. “Damnation. Never occurred to me that paying off the cops would make them so uppity. A police sergeant like Hanlon could never afford that joint without our money.”

  “No fooling. Listen, you got to know that girl’s bad for business. If having her on your arm makes the cops stop taking our money, then we got no business at all.”

  Joshua pursed his lips and leaned back. “I know it. But if that’s the price, I’ll pay it. You want me to buy you out, get away from this, say the word. I’ll figure out a way.” They both knew that the only way Joshua could buy Cecil out was to go to the shylocks. That wasn’t a real way. He’d never dig out, would probably end up working for someone else. That meant the only actual way for both of them was for Cecil to stick around.

  Cecil took a quick breath and sat forward. “Not yet. But maybe soon.”

  Joshua nodded, noticing how quick his heart rate was. He worked to keep his tone even. “Anything else on your mind?”

  “Everything, my friend. Goddamned everything.” Cecil reached over to a small side table where a hot plate held a scarred coffee pot. He poured the brown liquid into a saucerless cup.

  “You drink from that? Cup looks putrid.”

  “Looks better than any I used in France.”

  While Cecil sipped, Joshua went over and poured one, too. He sniffed a bottle of cream, decided against it. Back in his seat, he winced when he took a sip. “Okay. Shoot.”

  “Way I see it, we got three big problems. First, we can’t keep hijacking other people’s liquor. It’s too damned dangerous. And we’re making enemies.”

  “Nobody knows it’s us doing the hijacking.”

  “Yet. They don’t know yet. Just a matter of time, brother.” Joshua nodded. “Okay, second. The reason we keep hijacking other people’s liquor is that no one’ll sell decent hooch to us at a fair price, because we’re the coons. Not to mention the romantic attachments some of us have formed and rammed down other people’s throats, which other people don’t care for one bit.”

  “Right.”

  “Right.” Cecil took a breath. “Finally, I ran into one of the fellows from Brother Briggs’s operation.”

  “Haven’t they gone back to Africa yet?”

  “Worse than that. He said there’s a new investigator on that Wall Street bombing case. The one where you saved the princess? This new guy, he’s looking into the Brotherhood, trying to connect it to the bombing. He’s thinking it was a Negro protest.”

  “What do we care? That damned bomb almost blew me to kingdom come.”

  “Don’t you get it? That’s the biggest problem you’ve got. Lots of bombers blow themselves up. Pretty common, actually. They may even know you were there, playing knight in shining armor and all. So then they figure you set the bomb but were too nigger-stupid to get out of the way.”

  “I never gave my name to anyone.”

  “Yeah? How many people helped you pull that girl out? They all know there was a colored man there. The hospital’s got records that it took care of a blond girl, her name, that she was hurt in the bombing. You went to see her there. Probably signed the guest book. Only colored man who ever walked through that hospital without a mop in his hands.” Cecil held his hands out. “Who knows what they figure out. What someone might say.”

  Joshua sipped more coffee. He put the cup aside. He nodded his head once and looked up. “Okay, Cece. You’re right. We need a new plan. It so happens I’ve been thinking that way. Nothing final. Just some ideas.”

  When Joshua had finished describing his plan, Cecil shook his head. Then he grinned. “D’you think all this up yourself?”

  “I’ve been listening, thinking, looking around.”

  “How come I’m the one goes to Canada while you go to Europe?”

  Joshua shrugged. “I’ve already been talking to some folks, trying to figure out some contacts. In England mostly. Also, I’ll admit it, it’s Violet. If we’re going to make a go of it, together, we need to get the hell out of the US of A. Far out of it. You’re dead right about that.”

  “Near as I remember, there’s white people over in Europe, too.”

  Joshua stared down at his hands. “Sure, but it’s not as bad. Not near as bad as here. You were there.” He gave his friend a smirk. “You remember when we went on leave?”

  “I remember. Those mam’selles were okay.”

  “And Canada’s not so bad. Maybe a little cold, but if we do this right, you can go down to Cuba every winter.” Joshua noticed that his friend wore a faraway look. He decided to stop talking. This was big. It needed thinking through, getting used to. Cecil needed time. He was worth waiting for.

  “It’d mean leaving everything we know,” Cecil said. “Really, not being American anymore. You ready for that?”

  Joshua put on a disbelieving look. “For a revolutionary, you’re pretty damned sentimental. Okay, I’d have to leave a country that threw me in jail for risking my life against the Germans? A country that doesn’t want me to vote, to have any rights at all? A country that’ll want to kill me because of the woman I love?” He shook his head. “Brother Cecil, don’t get between me and the door.”

  “You wouldn’t see your family much. Hardly at all. That’s no big deal for me. No family to miss. But your ma. Your daddy. Your sister. You ready to walk away?”

  “None of them’s gonna want me to be with Violet, either. So I’ve got to choose. I can make that choice. It ain’t hard.”

  Joshua waited for Cecil some more. When his partner began again, his tone was firmer. “The idea, the goal, that’s all great. We go where what we do is legal. We buy the booze cheap, sell it to people we know, and let them take the chances. That’s solid. But you know there’s a big problem.”

  “I do.”

  “That’s the bankroll we need to start. The way you want to get that is completely crazy. Get you locked up in any nut ward in the city.”

  “Well, with what we’ve been making, we don’t have even a third of what we need. And you’re right, we’re on borrowed time with this operation. Not going to be lucky forever. This plan’s expensive. So we got to go get the money.”

  “You mean, steal it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you that tough?”

  “You know, in France, we learned that when there’s only one way out, hell, there’s only one way out. So that’s what you do. No use fretting over it.”

  “Is she worth all this?”

  Joshua smiled. “Absolutely.” Forgetting, he took a sip of coffee. Still terrible, now cold. “So, you in?”

  Cecil looked down, then spoke. “Two conditions. At least, two I can think of now.”

  Joshua nodded.

  “Before going after this, I don’t want us taking any other chances. No more little jobs. That’s just running more risk that doesn’t get us where we’re trying to go.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if we’re going to put it all on black and spin the wheel like this, we only do it once, no matter how it comes out.”

  Joshua held out his right hand. “Partner, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Chapter 13

  Starting the walk down Broadway to her office, Eliza could think only of Violet. She had been gone for two days. Eliza could hear every word they had said to each other. And didn’t say. Eli
za had been a fool. She thought she could manage the situation, that she had calmed down. She expected Violet to be emotional, to cry and profess undying love for young Mr. Cook. Eliza would be understanding and loving, but firm and clear. There would be no nonsense about it. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t, let Violet throw away her life, not on some bootlegger, not on someone so completely different. It didn’t matter how charming he was or how sure Violet thought she was. So she shooed Jamie off to bed and sat down in Violet’s room to wait. She waited. And waited.

  It was almost dawn when she started awake. Violet was in the room, leaning on her cane. She didn’t need the crutch now. Her black shoes dangled by their straps from her free hand. Violet seemed surprised but not fazed.

  “I know where you’ve been,” Eliza said, “and who you’ve been with.”

  Violet tossed her cane on the bed. She limped to her closet and took out her bathrobe and nightgown. “Really, Mother,” she said, “it’s late.”

  It was the flatness of her daughter’s voice. The lack of concern, even of interest. That threw Eliza off balance, kept her from reasoning with Violet, kept her from presenting the logic of the situation—that what Violet was doing just couldn’t keep on. Instead, she snapped, “You simply can’t do this, Violet. You can’t.”

  “Oh, Mother. Do we really have to have all this out now?”

  “When were you going to tell us about this young man?”

  “‘This young man.’ ” Violet gazed levelly at her mother as she gathered up her dress to pull over her head. “He has a name, and you know it. He’s Joshua. You remember Joshua, don’t you? In France? And then how he pulled me out of the bank after the bomb went off and got me to the hospital? You know, I’d expect a mother to remember the name of a man who saved her child.”

  Violet was so comfortable with his name. It was no effort for her to say it, to talk about him in this familiar way. It was too real, not just some scandalous story retailed by Wilfred in a theater lobby.

  “Violet,” Eliza said, thinking she was under control, fooled by the steadiness of her own voice. “Don’t you understand what a terrible mistake this all is? You can’t be serious. You can’t do this.”

  Violet’s eyes flashed. “I can’t?” She pulled her dress back on and shimmied it over her body, then lurched back to the closet. She pulled out a suitcase and threw it on the bed. She limped to her dresser, the anger in her movements threatening her balance.

  Eliza looked on as Violet opened a drawer and pulled out underclothes. She threw them into the suitcase. Eliza felt frozen. This couldn’t happen, not over a Negro bootlegger. She rushed over and took Violet’s arms. “Stop it. Just stop it. This is a terrible mistake. You just can’t see it right now.” Violet, her eyes cold, stared back. “You’re tired, dear. I’m tired. You were right. It’s late. Let’s get some sleep and talk about it in the morning.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” Violet pulled away and opened another dresser drawer.

  Eliza pushed the drawer back in. “Violet, I started this badly, but we must talk. Really, we must. Your father and I, we care only about you, about your welfare, your safety. This romance, whatever it is, it can’t end well. It can’t and it won’t. We can’t stand to see you hurt. We’re worried only for you. You’re too young. You don’t understand. You don’t appreciate what you’re doing. How people will react to it. People aren’t ready for something like you and Joshua. They’re not. It could be horrible. It will be horrible.” Then she stopped, frozen again by Violet’s self-possession.

  “Are you done?”

  “Oh, dear. I’ve barely begun, but I can’t get you to hear me. You must listen.” She grabbed her daughter’s arms again.

  “No, Mother. I mustn’t and I won’t. Not about this.” Violet broke free and hobbled back to the suitcase with an armful of blouses. She flung them in, stopping to stuff in a few stray sleeves.

  “Violet. I’ll make tea.” Violet was back at the closet, pulling skirts from hangers. “You can’t go. Where would you go?”

  “Where do you think?”

  “Violet, just give me one chance to talk about this. I’m a woman, dear. I’ve been in love. You can ignore whatever I say, but at least hear me out. You’re still just a girl.”

  Violet clicked shut the latches on the suitcase and straightened. “I’ve seen nothing in your romantic life,” she said, “that I care to learn from, except maybe to marry a fine man. You did that. And so will I.”

  That was when Eliza came closest to crying, but she didn’t. Without thinking, she said, “How can you be so sure? What do you know about him?”

  Violet sat on the bed and assumed a gentle tone. A patronizing tone. She loved Joshua. She would make her life with him. Her father would understand.

  Eliza still couldn’t unscramble how it ended. She recalled being at the front door. Jamie came rushing out of their bedroom in his pajamas. His face was terrible. “Violet, what’s happening?” he said.

  Violet cracked just a little. She hugged him. Her eyes were moist when she turned and gave Eliza a dutiful embrace. And she was gone. Eliza remembered standing before the window over Broadway, staring at a western sky that slowly brightened with reflected sunrise. She didn’t let the tears come then either. She had to understand how everything got reversed. Instead of stopping Violet from this awful mistake, she had driven her deeper into it. She wanted to shriek over her irrelevance. Her world was shattering and it didn’t care what she thought. She had no say. How could her child, the child of her heart, care about her so little? What could they do?

  Jamie stormed at first, that goddamned pacing. He didn’t shout any more. He sputtered. He slapped one fist into the other palm. The anger wasn’t like him, but what was anyone like in a situation like this? She made herself not hear his words. She knew he didn’t mean any of it, except the part about how she had failed. She had sent him to bed so she could handle Violet. She was her mother. She knew about these things. Of course he was angry. He finally sat down, his face bright red, his cheeks wet, kneading his hands together.

  She knelt and put her head on his hands. She still had no words. It was her fault. Violet looked like her father and she laughed like her father, but inside . . . inside she was just as hard as her mother. How could Eliza not have known that?

  She led Jamie to the kitchen. She made tea. She burned the toast. Jamie scraped off the char and ate it dry. He denied it when she said that Violet wasn’t coming back. By the time he finished his toast, and then hers, he had stopped denying it.

  They agreed to start looking for Violet right away, but not anything official. No police. If Violet was with Joshua, she would be in danger, but not the sort of danger the police could help with. Who knew what a bunch of ignorant policemen would do? They might start arresting people. Eliza would start with Violet’s old school friends, and that Joan from the clinic, who must know about everything.

  Jamie started with the Harlem nightclub where Wilfred had met the young couple. He asked the entire staff, then the people who worked at nearby nightclubs, all black-and-tans, catering to those thrilled by race mixing. By nightfall, he admitted that when he asked the coloreds where Joshua was, he got the feeling they wouldn’t tell him even if they knew. If they knew Joshua, if they knew Violet, they would know that Jamie was The Father, the denier of romance, the oppressor.

  “Where else do you look,” Jamie wondered, “for a bootlegger?”

  “Joshua’s father,” she said.

  “I don’t want to see him.”

  “I know. But you have to.”

  He sighed. He agreed.

  Eliza was standing in front of that tired building on Eighth Avenue, between Fifty-second and Fifty-third. Her office. She couldn’t remember the walk from the Ansonia, the streets crossed, the carts and cars evaded, the people ignored. The home of Fraser Productions was on the second floor. It bore a distinct resemblance, she realized, to the Marlowe Theater. Not in the best neighborhood. Affordable rent
. Still presentable, but on the downward slide. She felt edgy, anxious. She thought she might explode.

  The airless stairwell exaggerated the moist heat of late June. She climbed to the second floor, her blouse plastered to her upper arms, her skirt to her thighs. It wasn’t even ten in the morning. On the landing, she paused to unstick her clothes. Her receptionist looked up when she entered the anteroom, quickly shifted her eyes to the left. Speed Cook rose from one of the two visitor chairs. He extended his hand. Unthinking, Eliza took it. Then quickly pulled hers back.

  “If you’re looking for Jamie, Mr. Cook,” she said, “he doesn’t often come by here. Let me give you his address. He’ll be glad to talk with you.”

  Cook held his bowler hat by the brim, with both hands. “I thought we got past ‘Mr. Cook’ over in France.” She didn’t answer. “And I’m here to see you, not Jamie. It’s a business matter. Won’t be but a few moments.”

  “Is it about . . . ?” Eliza caught herself. The receptionist. The girl didn’t need to hear about Violet, which would only lead to more gossip. She composed her face and gestured for Cook to enter her office.

  Armored behind her large desk, Eliza waited while Cook placed his hat on the edge of the desk, then sat. When he sat forward, she heard a knee pop.

  “I’m here on a confidential matter,” he said.

  Her heart began to flutter. He must have news about Violet. Maybe Jamie had been right all along. Maybe he wasn’t so bad. Maybe he was. “Yes?”

  “Yes.” Cook cleared his throat. “I’m acting for Mr. Babe Ruth on this matter.” Eliza couldn’t keep the disbelief from her face. “Yes, I know it’s surprising that he should retain me, but he did, for his own reasons.” Eliza saw his lips move but couldn’t listen. The world made no sense. He stopped talking and looked at her.