I am Babe Ruth. I am bigger and better and stronger and more popular than anyone. Anyone.
Some drunk woman bounced off his door and he heard her giggle, the sound alone giving him an erection.
What the hell was he doing back here alone when he could be out there with his public, jawing, signing autographs, giving them a story they’d tell their grandkids?
He left the room. He walked straight to the bar car, worked his way through the dancing drunks, one bird up on a table kicking her legs like she was working burlesque. He sidled up the bar, ordered a double scotch.
“Why’d you leave us, Babe?”
He turned, looked at the drunk beside him, a short guy with a tall girlfriend, both of them three sheets to the wind.
“I didn’t leave,” Babe said. “Harry Frazee traded me. I had no say. I’m just a working stiff.”
“Then you’ll come back someday?” the guy said. “Play out your contract and come back to us?”
“Sure,” Babe lied. “That’s the idea, bub.”
The man patted him on the back. “Thanks, Mr. Ruth.”
“Thank you,” Ruth said with a wink for his girlfriend. He downed his drink and ordered another.
He ended up striking up a conversation with this big guy and his Irish wife. It turned out the big guy had been one of the striking coppers and was heading to New York for a little honeymoon before moving on out west to see a friend.
“What were you guys thinking?” Ruth asked him.
“Just trying to get a fair shake,” the ex-copper said.
“But it don’t work that way,” Babe said, eyeing that wife of his, a real dish, her accent sexy as all hell, too. “Look at me. I’m the biggest baseball player in the world and I got no say where they trade me. I got no power. Thems that write the checks write the rules.”
The ex-copper smiled. It was a rueful smile and distant. “Different sets of rules for different classes of people, Mr. Ruth.”
“Oh, sure. When wasn’t that so?”
They had a few more drinks and Ruth had to say he’d never seen a couple so in love. They barely touched, and it wasn’t like they got all gooey on each other, talked to each other in baby voices and called each other “dumpling” or anything. Even so, it was like a rope hung between them, invisible but electric, and that rope connected them more strongly than shared limbs. The rope was not only electric, it was serene. It glowed warm and peaceful. Honest.
Ruth grew sad. He’d never felt that kind of love, not even in his earliest days with Helen. He’d never felt that with another human being. Ever.
Peace. Honesty. Home.
God, was it even possible?
Apparently it was, because these two had it. At one point, the dame tapped a single finger on the ex-copper’s hand. Just one light tap. And he looked at her and she smiled, her upper teeth exposed as they ran over her lower lip. God, it broke Babe’s heart, that look. Had anyone ever looked at him like that?
No.
Would anyone?
No.
His spirits brightened only later as he walked out of the train station and waved good-bye to the couple as they went to stand in the taxi line. It looked to be a long wait on a cold day, but Babe didn’t have to worry. The Colonels had sent a car, a black Stuttgart with a driver who held up a hand to acknowledge Babe as he walked toward him. “It’s Babe Ruth!” someone called, and several people pointed and called his name. Out on Fifth Avenue, half a dozen cars honked their horns.
He looked back at the couple in the taxi line. It sure was cold. For a moment he thought of calling to them, offering them a ride to their hotel. But they weren’t even looking his way. Manhattan was cheering him, honking horns, yelling “Hurrah,” but this couple heard none of it. They were turned into each other, the ex-copper’s coat wrapped around her to protect her from the wind. Babe felt forlorn again, abandoned. He feared he’d somehow missed out on the most elemental part of life. He feared that this thing he’d missed would never, ever, enter his world. He dropped his gaze from the couple and decided they could wait for a taxi. They’d be fine.
He climbed into the car and rolled down the window to wave at his new fans as the driver pulled away from the curb. Volstead was coming, but it wouldn’t affect him much. Word was the government hadn’t hired nearly the manpower needed to enforce it, and Babe and people like him would be allowed certain exemptions. As they always had. That was the way of things, after all.
Babe rolled the window back up as the car accelerated.
“Driver, what’s your name?”
“George, Mr. Ruth.”
“Ain’t that a kick? That’s my name, too. But you call me Babe. Okay, George?”
“You betcha, Babe. An honor to meet you, sir.”
“Ah, I’m just a ballplayer, George. Can’t even read good.”
“But you can hit, sir. You can hit for miles. I just want to be the first to say, ‘Welcome to New York, Babe.’”
“Well, thank you, George. Happy to be here. Gonna be a good year, I think.”
“A good decade,” George said.
“You can say that twice.”
A good decade. So it would be. Babe looked out the window, at New York in all its bustle and shine, all its lights and billboards and limestone towers. What a day. What a city. What a time to be alive.
Acknowledgements
A City in Terror by Francis Russell is the authoritative account of the Boston police strike and its aftermath. It was an invaluable resource.
Other source material included The Great Influenza by John M. Barry; Babe: The Legend Comes to Life by Robert W. Creamer; The Burning by Tim Madigan; Reds by Ted Morgan; Standing at Armageddon by Nell Irvin Painter; Dark Tide by Stephen Puleo; Babe Ruth: Launching the Legend by Jim Reisler; Perilous Times by Geoffrey R. Stone; The Red Sox Century by Glenn Stout and Richard A. Johnson; The Year the Red Sox Won the World Series by Ty Waterman and Mel Springer; Babe Ruth and the 1918 Red Sox by Allan Wood; and A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn.
A thousand thanks to Leonard Alkins, Tom Bernardo, Kristy Cardellio, Christine Caya, John J. Devine, John Dorsey, Alix Douglas, Carla Eigen, Mal Ellenburg, Tom Franklin, Lisa Gallagher, Federica Maggio, William P. Marchione, Julieanne McNarry, Michael Morrison, Thomas O’Connor (the dean of Boston historians), George Pelecanos, Paula Posnick, Jr., Richard Price, Ann Rittenberg, Hilda Rogers, Henry F. Scannell, Claire Wachtel, Sterling Watson, and Donna Wells.
Lastly, a particular debt of gratitude is owed to U.S. Army Sergeant Luis Araujo, whose selflessness and heroism lit the necessary fires.
About the Author
DENNIS LEHANE is the author of seven novels. These include the New York Times bestsellers Gone, Baby, Gone; Mystic River; and Shutter Island, as well as Coronado, a collection of short stories and a play. He and his wife, Angie, divide their time between Boston and the Gulf Coast of Florida.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Also by Dennis Lehane
A Drink Before the War
Darkness, Take My Hand
Sacred
Gone, Baby, Gone
Prayers for Rain
Mystic River
Shutter Island
Coronado: Stories
Copyright
Some photographs unavailable for electronic edition.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE GIVEN DAY. Copyright © 2008 by Dennis Lehane.
Mobipocket Reader September 2008 ISBN 978-0-06-177908-4
This file was created with BookDesigner program
[email protected] 16/12/2009
Dennis Lehane, The Given Day
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