He came home to his apartment a few hours later and found Harry Frazee waiting for him in the lobby. The doorman went back outside and Ruth pushed the button and stood by the brass doors of the elevator.

“I saw you at the president’s speech,” Frazee said. “I couldn’t reach you through the crowd.”

“Sure was thick,” Ruth said.

“If only our dear president knew how to play the press like you do, Mr. Ruth.”

Babe swallowed the smile that threatened to creep up his face. He had to hand it to Johnny Igoe on that one—Johnny had sent Babe out to orphanages and hospitals and old-lady homes, and the papers ate it up. Men had flown in from Los Angeles to give Babe screen tests, and Johnny talked up the offers he’d told Babe were coming in from the flickers business. Actually, just about the only thing that could have pushed Babe off the front pages this week was Wilson. Even the shooting of the Bavarian prime minister went under the fold when Babe’s deal to star in a short flicker called The Dough Kiss was announced. When reporters asked if he’d be going to spring training or not, Ruth kept saying the same thing, “If Mr. Frazee thinks I’m worthy of a fair wage, I’ll be there.”

Spring training was three weeks off.

Frazee cleared his throat. “I’ll meet your price.”

Babe turned and met Frazee’s eyes. Frazee gave him a curt nod.

“The papers have been drawn up. You can sign them at my office tomorrow morning.” Frazee gave him a thin smile. “You won this round, Mr. Ruth. Enjoy it.”

“Okay, Harry.”

Frazee stepped in close. He smelled good in a way that Ruth associated with the very rich, the ones who knew things he’d never know in a way that went beyond secret handshakes. They ran the world, men like Frazee, because they understood something that would always escape Babe and men like him: money. They planned its movements. They could predict its moment of passage from one hand to another. They also knew other things Babe didn’t, about books and art and the history of the earth. But money most importantly—they had that down cold.

Every now and then, though, you got the better of them.

“Have fun at spring training,” Harry Frazee said to Babe as the elevator doors opened. “Enjoy Tampa.”

“I will now,” Babe said, picturing it. The waves of heat, the languid women.

The elevator man waited.

Harry Frazee produced a money roll held fast by a gold clip. He peeled off several twenties as the doorman opened the door and a woman who lived on six, a pretty dame with no shortage of suitors, came down the marble floor, her heels clicking.

“I understand you need money.”

“Mr. Frazee,” Babe said, “I can wait until the new contract’s signed.”

“Wouldn’t hear of it, son. If one of my men is in arrears, I aim to help him out.”