Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club [Book I]

by Robert McAuley

  He wheezed and coughed. “Bill, we have to send you there right away to see what the problem is. According to our computers, the Germans and their allies will occupy Great Britain and France, and the U.S. will have only Canada to trade with. We fear the Germans will attack and win against a weak U.S.”

  Bill sat back and thought a minute, then turned to Edmund. “Wow! I have to read up on the Wrights and set a plan of action. It’ll take me at least one week to learn all I need to know about the brothers, and I’ll use that time to finish up the Roosevelt problem. Fair enough?”

  “That sounds good to me grandpa . . . uh . . . I mean, Bill. I’m sure the group will be satisfied with that solution.”

  Edmund looked exhausted and Bill realized that New York City was bathed in fog today and that probably added to his breathing problem.

  “Good,” he said, “Now, I’ve got to get you out of here before I lose my future grandson. Next time, why don’t you bring an oxygen bottle with you?”

  Edmund smiled weakly. “Perhaps I will Bill. Thank you. The group thinks highly of you, and I might add, I’m proud to be your relative.”

  Bill took his arm and guided him toward the door. “Let’s go. And tell them not to worry. Your grandfather will pull it off.” He gave Edmund a hug, helped him out, and closed the time portal. That done, Bill finished his sandwich, briefed Matt of his needs for the next day, and went to bed. He had a train to catch in the morning and he knew what his reading material was going to be: The Wright brothers.

  DATELINE: 1875 PLACE: DODGE CITY, KANSAS

  The train ride back west took five days and Bill spent the time reading up on the Wright brothers and their flying machine. He got off at Dodge City and as usual, there was Timmy looking for a fare. They went to the Splinter and the same clerk napped at his desk. Bill woke him as he dropped his bags.

  “Yessir!” he said with a start. “Can I help . . . oh, Mr. Scott, it’s you. Do ya’ want a room?”

  Bill answered as he reached for the pen to sign in, “Yes, of course. Is the same room available? The one next to Miss Walters?”

  “Sure is, but Miss Walters isn’t here anymore.”

  Bill was suddenly more alert and leaned toward the clerk. “What do you mean, not here anymore? Where is she?”

  The clerk stepped back in fear. “I . . . I . . . I dunno! She left with Mr. Masterson a little over a week ago. She’s . . . she’s probably shooting billiards with him right now over at Biff’s place. They seem to do that a lot. Do . . . do you still want your room?”

  Bill looked at his watch. “Yes.” He took the key, bounded up the stairs, changed into his black outfit and after getting directions, walked briskly to Biff’s billiard hall. The place was empty. He walked over to the man reading the newspaper behind the counter. He was about to ask of Emma and Masterson when the saloon-style swinging doors opened and they walked in. They were laughing as they went over to the table. Masterson didn’t look at the clerk but called to him.

  “Biff, rack ‘em up for us, would you?” Then Masterson looked up, and he and Emma both saw Bill.

  Emma rushed over and embraced him. “Bill! Welcome back. How was it?”

  Masterson approached with his hand out, and Bill shook it.

  Bill answered, “It was okay. There are still some things I have to take care of in New York, but I have a little time. How come you’re not staying at the hotel?”

  She blushed. “That creep at the hotel insisted on bringing me water after you left. Then he wanted to bring it into the room and offered to wash my back. I pushed him out. But at night I could hear him sneaking around my door. I told Bat and . . .”

  Masterson interrupted, “And I offered to take her in. It made sense. Gets me some more practice time, too. She sleeps upstairs, Bill. There’s no messin’ on my part.”

  She blushed again. “Bat’s a gentleman, Bill. And what a student! He’s got it. That pistol has become part of him.”

  Bill looked her. “Bat? You said Bat. What’s that all about?”

  Masterson laughed out loud. “Damned silly, if you ask me. We were in here shooting billiards and three of the boys from town thought they’d get funny with Emma . . . ”

  Emma cut in, “You should have seen him, Bill. He picked up a cue stick and used it on those three punks. The owner, Biff, started calling him Bat, because he used the stick the way the baseball players use their bats.”

  “Well, Bat,” Bill, said, “do you think we have enough material to write that story?”

  Bat looked at him and became serious. “Bill, you were right. After learning how to handle a pistol, doors opened for me. Marshal Earp would like me to be his deputy. It just gave me a new tool to better myself. As I said, it opened more doors for me, but I don’t think we should write this story.”

  Bill looked at him. “Not write it? Why?”

  “Because it’d be like telling some young kids that the way to get ahead is to use a gun. And somehow that doesn’t seem like the message I want stuck with my name. Do ya’ understand, Bill?”

  Bill nodded, looked at him and smiled. “Bat Masterson, you are one wise man.”

  “Then, you’re not angry with me, partner?”

  Bill shook his head. “Heck no, Bat, in fact, I’m in awe of you. And I do believe your name will carry a strong message over the years.”

  Bill looked at Emma. “And you, Emma, do you feel that the project is over?”

  “I think that if Bat says it’s over, then it’s over. And you Bill, what do you think?”

  Bat put his cue stick down. “Why don’t I let you two cousins talk while I step outside for a spell?” He walked out.

  Bill and Emma took a seat in a corner away from the clerk. Bill looked at Emma. She had a deep tan and looked every inch the part of a Western woman, but a very liberated Western woman with her long blond hair flowing freely around her shoulders.

  “So, Emma, are you ready to come back home?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “No, Bill,” she said. “I’m not going back. He’s progressed a lot, but he’s not ready to be on his own. He needs lots more tutoring. I’m going to stay.”

  “Stay? For how long?”

  “Bill, he asked me to marry him.”

  Bill’s eyes opened wide. “Marry him? You can’t marry him!”

  Emma put a hand on his shoulder. “Shh, Bill, why can’t I marry him? As you said we’re here today, alive and breathing. The only difference between us is that I’m from his future. But if I stay here, I become his future.”

  Bill thought quickly and said, “I don’t know if they have a rule against that. I’m, I’m not sure . . .”

  Emma opened her hands wide, “Rules? What rules? I’m here, and they’re far away. In fact, as you said, they couldn’t even come here because of the polluted atmosphere. Do they even know I’m here?”

  Bill looked at her, and then broke into a grin. “You know what? I don’t think I ever told them that I brought you along.” He shrugged his shoulders, “I guess it’d be okay.”

  She held his hand, “Bill, it’s the best thing that could ever happen to me. It’s the time period our club members would give anything to live in, and he’s so different from any man I’ve ever met. He’s for real! He’s an honest, creative man with ideals. I’d be proud to be his wife.”

  Bat returned and saw them holding hands.

  Bill looked up and smiled at the cowboy. “Guess my time here is finished, Bat. I’m going back to New York.”

  “Think ya’ can stay until Saturday?” He put his arm around Emma’s waist. “We need a best man at our wedding, and I hoped you would do the honors.”

  Bill nodded yes, as he saw a tear in Emma’s eye, “I’d be proud to, partner.”

  Saturday was another warm day, and some of the townsfolk tied tumbleweed to the rear of Bat’s buckboard. Bill joined in throwing flower seeds at the bride and groom as they drove off. Emma turned and smiled at him. He waved back. A hand touched his shoulder and he
turned to see Wyatt Earp, watching the newly married couple leave town.

  “You know, Bill, since you came to town, Will has become a changed man.”

  Bill smiled at the lawman. “Think so, Wyatt?”

  “Yep, partner, I sure do, an’ I thank ya.” He turned and said as he held his arm out, “If ya have the time, care ta join me in a drink or two?”

  “I’d be proud to, partner. I have all the time in the world!”

  DATELINE: NOVEMBER 25, 1920 PLACE: BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  It was a snowy night on November 25, 1920. A short, husky man sporting a long white mustache gave a letter to a friend’s son.

  “Richard,” he asked, “will you do me a great favor? I have no kids to do this, so I got to ask that you keep this letter in your in family. Pass it down until August 2, 2011, and then have it delivered to the address on the envelope.”

  The young man took the letter, placed it in a small wall safe and secured it. “I promise Mr. Masterson. It’ll be delivered just as you requested.”

  DATELINE: AUGUST 2, 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK

  A man carrying an envelope rang the doorbell of 520 East Ninth Street, The 1800 Club, and Matt answered the door. The man asked to meet with Bill Scott, the name on the yellowed envelope. Bill was working at his computer when Matt came to his door.

  “Sir, a Mr. Caputo is at the door. He has an envelope for you and insists he speak to you only.”

  Bill pushed away from the computer. “I love a mystery, Matt. Let’s go see him.” He followed Matt downstairs into the club’s den. Bill walked over to the man and offered his hand. “I’m Bill Scott. I understand you have some mail for me?”

  The man shook his hand. “I’m Richard Caputo. I live about thirty blocks from here.” He showed Bill the old envelope. “This envelope has been in my family since 1920. A friend of my grandfathers gave it to him with instructions that it is delivered today. I don’t know what it’s about, but it’s been the talk of my family for years and I’m here to fulfill the man’s wish.”

  Bill took it and walked over to a small table, sat and opened it. In neat handwriting it read, “Bill, if you get this letter, please come to 570 Tenth Street, Brooklyn, New York, on November 25, 1920. Regards, your friend, Will “Bat” Masterson.”

  Bill looked up and shook his head. Caputo was still there. He deserves an answer after all these years, Bill thought.

  “Mr. Caputo, this is a letter from an old friend of the family. It’s sort of a time capsule saying hello to the future Scotts. Thank you so much. Could I give you some good Cuban cigars for your family’s stewardship of the letter all these years?”

  Caputo smiled. “I wasn’t here for a reward, Mr. Scott, just honoring an old family wish. However, I’d enjoy a good cigar.”

  Bill turned to Matt and said, “Matt, please get Mr. Caputo a dozen Cubans from my private stock.” Then he offered his hand to his visitor. “Thank you again, Mr. Caputo. Wait here and Matt will be right back.”

  Bill walked quickly back to his den and reread the letter. Got to honor it, he thought, as he changed into 1920s clothes. He took some 1920’s currency, dialed the Time Frequency Modulator to November 25, 1920, and went out the door.

  DATELINE: NOVEMBER 25, 1920 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK

  The time traveler walked through the garden and out into the New York of 1920. It started to snow and he pulled the long black overcoat tight to him as he walked over to Broadway. Sparks flew from the overhead wires as an electric trolley car stopped at his corner. Bill got in and stayed on until he reached downtown and the Brooklyn Bridge. At the last stop, he caught a yellow taxi over it. A drafty taxi, he thought as it went over the bridge, slipping on the wet, steel-mesh flooring high above the cold, windblown waters. The snow started to fall heavily and the cab’s wipers were having a hard time pushing the large, wet snowflakes away.

  Once on the Brooklyn side, he directed the driver toward Prospect Park. From there, they went to Tenth Street and Seventh Avenue. He asked the man to wait, and then walked up the block to 570, the address on the envelope. The sidewalk’s gray, slate slabs were slippery with the snow that was now sticking to them and Bill treaded carefully as he looked at the row houses for his destination.

  The dim light cast by the early streetlight showed the numbers 570 painted on the steps leading into one of the turn-of-the-century row houses. In the vestibule of the three-story building, he saw mailboxes fitted into the wall. Bill lit a small flashlight and spotted the name he wanted on the first floor. There was no bell, so he entered, walked down a short, hallway that a gaslight fought to push back the darkness and rapped lightly on the door. There was a shuffling on the other side, and then it opened.

  Bill immediately recognized him, though forty of his years had passed. His hair was just as long, but pure white, as was his mustache, and he squinted through glasses. The time traveler smiled and offered his hand. The man shook it, and then both embraced as Bill said, “Bat Masterson, how the heck are you?”

  “Just fine, Bill, just fine. Come on in.” He held the door and Bill walked into a small hall leading to a well-lit kitchen. Bat closed the door and escorted him into a sitting room.

  “Sit, Bill. Somethin’ ta drink? Coffee, Scotch, beer? What’s your poison, old friend?”

  “Whatever you’re having, Bat.”

  “Two beers it is.” He walked to the kitchen, opened the icebox, took out a quart bottle of beer and poured two glasses. Bat came back into the living room with the two tall glasses of beer, handed one to Bill, and then raised his in a toast. “To old friends and old times.”

  Bill raised his glass, “Old friends and old times.”

  They both drank, then Bat looked at Bill and smiled, “Old, applies to only one of us in this case, though.”

  “What made you send the message to me, Bat?”

  “Ingenious, right?”

  Bill nodded, “Damned ingenious.” He looked around, “Emma? Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine, Bill. Just fine . . . for an old woman. And that’s the reason I asked you to come here. She’s at her friend’s house, playing cards, so we can talk man to man.” He took a long drink and gave Bill a serious look. “Bill, you knew when you received my letter that I knew all about you and Emma time traveling.”

  Bill nodded. “I figured Emma had told you everything.”

  “She did. She’s a fine woman, Bill, and she did her job well. She told me when to write a letter to Roosevelt and just what to say. He and I became pretty good friends over the years. And from what I understand, the time problem has fixed itself. Am I right?”

  “It did, Bat. It worked just as we hoped.”

  “It worked because of a great woman, Bill, Emma Walters, my wife. She saved the future. Now I have a favor to ask.”

  “Whatever I can do for you two, Bat, name it.”

  “Take her back.”

  Bill did a double take. “Take her back? I don’t understand.”

  Bat swiped the froth from his mustache. “Bill, as you can see we are old now, and you’re still a youngster. I figure you can take her back home from, say, 1900. The future would have been set by then, and she wouldn’t have to spend her whole life here. Take her back so she can be young again.”

  “Did she ask for this, Bat?”

  “Heck no. It’s me asking for it. I’m a grouch, and she doesn’t need to be strapped to me . . . not when she can get out and be that pretty lady I married when we were young.”

  There was a movement in the entrance to the living room. Both men turned and saw Emma standing there as she removed her scarf.

  Damn! She’s still a handsome woman, Bill thought, as he stood up.

  She smiled at him and they embraced. “Bill Scott! You son-of-a-gun! You are a sight for old eyes. Isn’t he, Bat? A sight for old eyes.” She emphasized the word “old.”

  She walked over and sat on the armrest of Bat’s easy chair and hugged him. “Claire wasn’t feeling
up to cards, so I came home early.” She looked at the old cowboy. “Bat, I heard every word you said and want you to remember the words, ‘Till death do us part.’ Do you think I’d let Bill take me away from you? Never! I stayed here on my own, not to just finish some silly project. That became secondary very soon after I met you, Bat Masterson.”

  Bat looked sheepishly at her. “But, Em, you can go back and be young again. I can handle it.”

  She kissed the top of his head, “But I couldn’t. No, cowboy, we are in the long cattle drive together, so you have to get used to it.”

  He kissed her hand.

  Bill finished his drink. “Is there anything I can do for you two?”

  Emma laughed. “You can get the heck out of here so we can go to bed. Lord, it’s after nine, and we need our beauty rest.”

  Bill smiled. “Neither of you need any beauty rest. You’re two of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met.”

  They all rose and hugged one another. Bill walked to the door, hesitated and turned around. “Emma, you did a great job. If you two ever need me, just send a message up.”

  She smiled and waved as she held Bat’s hand.

  Bill walked out the door and into the snowy night. By the time he reached the corner, the white powder had covered his footprints erasing all traces of his presence. He took a cab back to New York City and the 1800 Club.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  The end is usually very apparent in a story, be it a book or movie. However, in this case, although it is the end page-wise, it continues on in The 1800 Club. You see, The 1800 Club does exist in New York City, though, under a different name and address. I, Bill Scott, also exist as President and owner of the club, and the people I wrote of, all exist. Some of their names have been changed, as they do have a life outside of the club, and they and the club must be protected.

  By now you are thinking, “This is a put-on, there is no club that can travel in time.” But, I ask you to look around. Isn’t history the same as you read it in your history books? Believe me the club is working to keep it so. You the reader may ask, “Why is he admitting this?” To that I answer, “Why not?” Sometimes the best place to hide something is right out in plain sight! So, while admitting the club exists, the secret is as safe as saying it doesn’t exist.