by Colby Cox
“Good morning, Sarge.”
“Say, hey, Delilah.”
The woman raised the bottle of London Dry grape soda to show him what it was.
“I brought you your favorite.”
He never took his eyes away from hers as he gently took the bottle and placed it down onto the porch.
“Yes, ma’am. You most certainly did.”
She slowly moved into his chest and rested her head between his neck and shoulder. Sarge wrapped his arms around her waist and embraced her warmth, her love. He never backed down from any man his entire life, but six years ago the Babe Ruth of the Carnival League had fallen hard for Delilah Vann.
And he never stopped falling.
Six years ago, Dane Dugas, the Whispers shortstop, hit a major slump. With only two singles to show for forty visits to the plate, “Defense” Dugas dipped close to losing his spot on the team. When Sarge watched Dane sit on the bench or out in the field between pitches, he could tell that the infielder was fretting about something. Dane was scared.
After Mink and Sarge cornered the man in the locker room one night, Dane spilled that he was in deep with a Wilmington loan shark. He had lost big at cards and now owed three hundred dollars. The interest grew each day. Dane said the man he owed was fierce and threatened to break his legs - to start with.
That very night Mink and Sarge stepped into an East Side speakeasy named Henry’s to meet the creditor and see if they could come to some type of agreement. Henry’s was packed and it was jumping. A band blared jazz from a stage constructed of wooden pallets while black men and women dressed to the nines danced without inhibition. Heat came off of the crowd and Mink’s shades steamed up.
Sarge shouldered his way through the knot of bodies to the bar and asked the barkeep where he could find the man Dane owed, Mr.Godfrey. Sarge was pointed to a small corner table where an older gentleman sat against the wall. He sat alone. Sarge pushed his way across the dance floor and placed himself opposite him.
Godfrey had a bead on Sarge the moment he and Mink walked through the front door. When the ballplayers made it to his table, the sharp-dressed creditor tapped a walking stick he held on the floor. This got the attention of the bugler with the band and the musician curtly announced a ten minute break.
The place grew quiet, maybe too quiet, as Godfrey smiled to Sarge and waved a hand for him to join him at the table. Sarge could sense that the eyes of the crowd finally noticed him and Mink, the only two white men in the joint. He heard whispers make their rounds:
“That’s Sarge Safran.”
Godfrey wore specs like Mink’s. Small, little round lenses with wire frames that bent around his ears The only difference was that the glass covering his eyes was like green smoke. Godfrey’s head was clean-shaven and was no bigger than a large grapefruit. The man was lean, just bone and sinew. Sarge could watch the slow beat of his heart in the veins that ran across his temple. The loan shark wore an ascot and a fine silk suit. Sarge estimated the man to be around sixty years old, but now that he was closer, he was not so sure. Godfrey had that look of immortality that Sarge saw during his years fighting in Europe. Godfrey could be anywhere from forty to eighty, you just could not be certain.
“Sarge Safran. Carnival League’s premier slugger. Hailed far and wide. I would ask to what I owe this pleasure, but I think I already know. I think you are here to speak of a debt owed by one Dane Dugas.”
Sarge eyed the man over. Mink stood to Sarge’s right and chewed gum. His head was on a swivel. Sarge pulled a money clip out of his pocket and peeled off four one hundred dollar bills. The coach placed them on the green felt of the table. Godfrey never looked down at the offering.
“Mr. Safran. You, sir, are an audacious man.”
Sarge would ask Mink later what the hell audacious meant, but for the moment, he held his tongue and went with the flow.
“You think you can waltz into my establishment, throw your white man money around and all will be forgiven?”
Sarge sighed. Ever since the end of his soldiering days he tried hard to walk the line and not get tangled into the rough stuff, but violence followed him like a stray dog. It became a weekly chore for him, like taking out the trash or putting the milk bottles out by the front door.
“Mr. Godfrey, please. Take the money and forget about Dugas. The man is worried sick and his mind ain’t straight. We clean the slate here and it is over. I simply ain’t in the mood to knock heads around this joint. That never really leads anywhere good.”
Godfrey lifted his jaw and laughed. He pulled his sunglasses off and rubbed his eyes.
“Mr. Safran, I have a certain talent. Now, my talent is not throwing a baseball or hitting home runs. My skill is the ability to see the chances.”
Sarge apologized.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Godfrey, but that is about as clear as mud. I’m from the sticks of Louisiana. You’ll have to spell it out for me.”
Godfrey sat back in his chair.
“I have already run the numbers through my head, Sarge. I can see probability in my mind. I know, for example that if I motioned to Ronnie standing over there, who just so happens to be holding an empty gin bottle and is itching to hit you with it, you would have ended up throwing him through the wall. I also know that If Daniel waltzed over behind you and struck you with that tire iron he is hiding under his jacket, his uncle would never forgive me for the damage you would do to the young man. You see, The possibilities of what will occur play out behind my eyes. I know the outcomes before they happen. That is my gift. My talent.”
Sarge thought for a moment about what Godfrey had said. The coach then figured since the man threw it out there to him, he would bite on it.
“So what do the possibilities tell you about taking this money and forgiving Dane’s debt?”
Godfrey rubbed at his chin in silence and then promptly scooped up the bills and tucked them away inside his jacket.
“They say that is the safe bet.”
Sarge held out his hand. Godfrey reached over and shook on it. Mink let out a tense breath.
The band returned to the stage and a round of applause rang through the watering hole. The lights dimmed low and the saxophonist assisted a woman onto the stage while the bugler made an announcement that changed Sarge’s life forever.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please give another Henry Swing Club welcome to the one and only, Ms. Delilah Vann.”
Sarge turned in his chair to face her. His eyes took her in and he felt like he was struck in the chest by an anchor. Delilah was a larger woman and stood well over six feet in her heels. Her green eyes pierced through the low lights and her glossed lips threw a mischievous grin to the entire room.
The band’s drummer counted to four and the pianist eased his way into a slow and soft tune. Delilah began to sing and her voice was silk with a touch of rasp. It was pleasure with a hint of pain. Sarge went flush and his collar was suddenly too tight. It was the first time he heard the song, but he would later track it down in a downtown record store and memorize it line for line.
Whispering while you cuddle near me.
Whispering, so no one can hear me.
Mink tapped Sarge on the shoulder to see if his friend wanted a grape soda, but Sarge shooed him away like a fly. Mink rolled his eyes behind the sunglasses and excused himself to the bar.
Each little whisper seems to cheer me.
I know it’s true. There’s no one, Dear, but you.
A sweet sadness swept across Sarge. It did not seem fair that he had feelings like this and looked the way he did. He knew that a woman like Delilah Vann would never have anything to do with a roughneck carnival ballplayer like him. He probably had ten years on her to boot.
You’re whispering why you’ll never leave me
Whispering why you’ll never grieve me
Whisper and say that you’ll believe me
Whispering, “I love you.”1
The sheer beauty of the last line snapped Sarge out
of it. What the hell was he thinking? He told himself to be a man, not a sap. A guy like him never ended up with the girl. It was not in the cards. He shook the emotions away and returned his attention back to Godfrey.
“Mr. Godfrey, thanks for working with us on this. If you ever get the itch to come out to the park and see a game, tell them that you are a friend of Sarge Safran. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Godfrey was caught off guard by the invitation. He nodded his thanks.
After Sarge snatched Mink by the elbow and led him to the door, he chanced one last glance at the night club singer. A painful mix of longing and melancholy pulled at him. Sarge turned his back and walked away.
However, no matter how hard he tried, Sarge could not stay away. Although Dane’s batting average shot up forty points, Sarge’s dropped fifteen as he found himself thinking about Ms. Vann when he should have been thinking about sinkers and sliders. He began hanging around Wilmington’s East Side, trying to find out where Delilah would sing next. He caught her twice more at Henry’s and once at Fido’s hole-in-the-wall on French Street. He stuck out like a sore thumb in the crowds, but it got to the point that he did not care. He wanted to see her. He had to hear her.
It was a Sunday afternoon game a few weeks later when Sarge found the tables turned. The Whispers were home against the Zanesville Zeroes when a shallow foul ball was popped up near first base. Sarge got under it, but the spin on the ball and the wind made it drift towards the stands. He got over to the rail where the bleachers began and he leaned over the first two rows to snatch the ball for the third out. He looked at it in his mitt and turned towards the dugout when he heard a loud and familiar voice call his name.
“Sarge Safran, why are you following me all the time?”
Sarge turned around to find Delilah Vann standing in the third row with her hands on her hips. She looked stunning as usual and wore a well-cut khaki jacket over top of a summer dress with a wide brimmed hat.
All of the Whisper fans around her froze and went wide-eyed. A portly guy had a hot dog crammed in his mouth as if he was posing for a picture.
Sarge stood there and went five shades of red. To make matters worse, the rest of his team now stepped out of the dugout to see what was going on down the first base side.
“I know you hear me talking to you, Mr. Safran. I want to know why you are showing up everywhere I sing.”
Sarge looked desperately around for help. He fought a giant lump that formed in his throat. He swallowed hard.
“I think you have a beautiful voice.”
He winced right after he said it. He felt like the biggest ass. It was bad enough that he struck out twice earlier in the game. Now this.
“Well, Mr. Sarge Safran, I will have you know that there is much more to me than a beautiful singing voice. If you are interested in me, I suggest you invite me to dinner and get to know me because I can not have my audiences stealing glances at the famous slugging Sarge when they should be giving me their full attention.”
He stood there like a mope.
Finally, a young guy seated up front could not take his favorite player looking so foolish any longer.
“Psssssst. Hey, Sarge. Ask her if she likes Italian.”
Most of the section behind first base began to giggle uncontrollably.
Sarge’s eye darted to the man and then back to Delilah.
“Uh, Ms. Vann? Do you like Italian?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Sarge looked back at the young man for more help.
The guy whispered loudly.
“Ask her if she wants to go to dinner after the game.”
Sarge repeated.
“Ms. Vann, would you like to meet me for dinner after the game?”
“That sounds nice, Mr. Safran.”
The coach suggested they eat at Luigi’s in Little Italy via the quick-thinking match maker and when Delilah told Sarge that would be fine, the fans laughed and applauded. A few ladies present even shed a tear or two.
Sarge floated back into the dugout where he was teased mercilessly by his teammates for the final four innings of the game. He crushed a solo homer in the sixth and the shot he blasted in the bottom of the eighth was the one that struck the highest bleacher seats in right field. The spot where it landed was later marked with three green stripes - sergeants’ stripes - to signify the hardest hit ball ever recorded at Whispers Park and the man responsible for it, Sarge Safran.
Sarge and Delilah were soon an item, but no one from either of their worlds spoke of the relationship. Teammates of Sarge and fellow musicians and entertainers of Delilah all feared reciprocity from the two. They were the most strong-willed and defiant people known to the city of Wilmington. Delilah and Sarge were tough enough on their own, but people close to them shivered at the thought of them together. Between Sarge’s brawn and Delilah’s stinging tongue, all involved thought it best to leave the matter alone. Only on the rarest occasion would the two be seen together.
There was, however, a noticeable difference in Sarge’s walk. His shoes were shined a little more often and every once in a while ballplayers swore they heard the whistle of a love tune blow from his lips.
Delilah was still intimidating and could make an oafish man feel as if he was two inches tall, but when the night club crowd listened closely enough, she now made the sad blues sound slightly hopeful and sometimes even downright cheery. Those who had experienced it themselves knew the telltale signs. She was in love.
9. New Pitchers
Sarge and Delilah spent the rest of the day together alternating between the back porch swing and Sarge’s bedroom. They would watch the horses and Delilah would softly sing as they glided back and forth. The man loved his time with the night club singer and even though he never said it, he loved her more than she would ever know.
The next morning, Sarge was putting on his wool practice uniform in the Whispers clubhouse as other teammates filed in. Sarge told Haney Mane to get the pitchers together and have them go through their stretches and exercises. He wanted everyone good and loose before the team left for Lynchburg in two days.
Unexpectedly, two men in coveralls wheeled a large wooden crate into the center of the room on a dolly. Clyde Decker walked in behind them.
“Set it down right there, gentlemen. That will be fine.”
Decker patted the workers on their backs and handed them both a tip for their troubles. The scout was dressed as dapper as ever and even sported a freshly cut rosebud in his jacket’s lapel.
“Sarge! How is the Babe Ruth of Carnival Ball doing on this fine morn’? I heard you got to spend time with the famous Ty Cobb in Baltimore. I do hope the meeting went well.”
Sarge gave a half-smile and spat on the concrete floor.
“Can it, Decker. What have you got in the box?”
Clyde walked over to the large shipping crate and rapped a knuckle against its side.
“Its not what I have in the box. It’s more what you have in the box.”
With that statement, he whipped a pocket knife out and began to cut the front lid loose from a series of tough rope lines that fastened the crate shut. As he severed the last one, the lid fell with a slap to the floor and a film of dust blew up in the men’s faces.
Once Sarge could clear his eyes, he peered inside the container and saw a six foot tall wooden cigar store indian.
“That’s pretty nice, Kev. It’ll look swell sitting in the corner. The guys will get a kick out of it. Thanks.”
Decker shook his head.
“Sarge, you don’t get it. This is your new pitcher.”
The coach was incredulous.
“Aw, geez, Decker! Not another gimmick! I got two mechanical men playing outfield, I got a glob of living tobacco, and now you’re telling me my newest pitcher is a wooden Comanche? Besides, you promised me two new pitchers, Decker, not one.”
Clyde raised a finger into the air to interject.
“Actually, the carving is mo
hican, and you haven’t even let me tell you about your other pitcher. He’s on his way and he’ll be here tomorrow on the 11:30 train.”
Sarge grunted.
“Is he coming in a box, too?”
Decker smiled, but then his demeanor changed. He looked around and found that he and Sarge were alone. His voice rang a serious tone.
“Sarge, the other pitcher....”
Clyde paused. A look of concern washed over his face.
“Its a young lefty from Nebraska. He’s one of the best I have ever seen. Sarge, it’s the kid you told me to keep an eye out for. It’s Charles Tanner’s son.”
Sarge sat down. He rubbed his uniform shirt between his fingers as he stared at the floor. He thought of his visit with Mr. Scratch and the words of Simon Says’s little shrunken head two nights ago on the train.
The son arrives soon. The Devil’s Right Hand draws near. All has been foretold.
The events that were about to unfold had weighed heavily on the him for the past eleven years. They were like a gnat in his brain that no matter how many times he tried to swat it, it lived on, an incessant buzz in the back of his head. Somehow, knowing that it would all be over soon, gave him something he had never truly felt. A sense of relief.
10. The Wager
Sergeant Tristan Safran of the United States Calvary met Corporals Charles Tanner and Anthony Cosgrove in Belgium soon after the end of the World War. All three volunteered for special assignment and endured a barrage of intense military training with soldiers from Britain and France to continue the good fight in a new battle against an unnamed enemy. It was all hush-hush and highly classified.
Nine men in all, they were commanded by Captain Robert Astor of the United States Army to take on a new foe discovered by chance during the war with old Kaiser Willy. Once sworn to secrecy, the hand-picked soldiers were informed that the trench lines dug all over Europe during the deadly fighting uncovered a group long thought extinct.
