by Colby Cox
“Look, mister, I don’t know how you got me down, but it’s appreciated. Now I think we better grab your dog and scram before those bloodsuckers return.”
Scratch waved an unconcerned hand through the air.
“Don’t worry about them, Sarge. They won’t be back. As a matter of fact, Tanner and I have business elsewhere and we must bid you farewell. Isn’t that right, Charles?”
Charles Tanner stared at a far off point. He mumbled a soft reply.
“Yes, sir.”
Sarge had taken about as much of Scratch’s act as his temper allowed him. He turned angry.
“All right. That’s enough. I don’t know who or what you are, Scratch, but me and Tanner here are walking out of this cave. Like I said, I appreciate the save and all, but this is where we part ways.”
He looked down onto the smaller man and he showed Scratch his full size.
“And Tanner ain’t going with you.”
Sarge grabbed his fellow soldier by the wrist and made his way toward what he assumed was the exit. He stormed off, but Tanner’s weight seemed awfully light. He turned and found Tanner was still standing next to Scratch. He walked back over to his partner and this time grabbed him by the shoulders. He lost his footing as his hands went right through the man. It was as if Tanner was nothing but a mirage. Sarge cursed under his breath as the reality of the situation finally sank into his thick head.
“Sarge. I’m dead. There ain’t no coming back. Mr. Scratch is here to collect what is his. He’s here for my soul.”
Sarge was beyond angry. He would be damned if some polo-playing fancy pants like Scratch was going to strut out of that place with one of his best friend’s souls. He balled his giant left hand into a fist and threw a haymaker that connected against the side of Mr. Scratch’s cranium.
Sarge was scraping himself off of the cave’s far wall before he knew what had happened. Some type of force had picked him up and tossed him like he was a rag doll.
Tanner yelled to Sarge. He pleaded with him.
“Sarge. Stop! This ain’t your fight. I made a deal and I have to stick by that. There’s no sense in you getting killed over this. There’s nothing you can do.”
Scratch chimed in.
“Listen to Mr Tanner, Sarge. A deal was made.”
Sarge got up on one knee and removed his brown, wool uniform coat and rolled up his sleeves. He bolted towards Scratch with his full force. He pulled the five pound mallet from his duty belt and swung it John Henry style. Just before the weapon connected with Scratch’s jaw, Sarge flew through the air as if shot from a cannon. He collided with a stalagmite and buckled in half. Three of his ribs broke free and went for a swim on the right side of his chest.
Scratch yawned.
“You delusional fool. You actually believe you can muscle me around? Really, Tristan?”
Sarge’s voice rasped. The last blow had knocked him down for the count.
“Nobody calls me by that name.”
Scratch slowly walked over to him and looked down at his twisted frame.
“Is that so? Your father called you Tristan. Well, I mean, before he died. Your brother always called you Tristan.
Ah, yes! That’s right. The mighty Safran brothers! What a pair you were! Mycroft and Tristan, the scourge of Ascension Parish, Louisiana. The two of you were a walking crime syndicate, were you not? Extortion, gambling, moonshine. You two had your sullied paws in everything, didn’t you? Your father would have been so proud of his legacy.”
Scratch squatted down and placed his face only inches away from his.
“Tristan, you are nothing more than white southern trash. You think you left it behind, but sooner or later, it will catch up with you. You came over here to fight in this war thinking you could run away from it all. You signed up for vampire duty to wash away your sins. Well, my boy, I am here to tell you, that there is no such luck.”
Scratch picked up a piece of rock lying on Sarge’s chest and flicked it to the side.
“Do not cross me again, Tristan. The next time I will give you much more to think about than a few broken bones and bruises.”
With that, Scratch stood and walked away. He was followed by the basset hound. Tanner stepped next to him and they both faded in the distance. All Sarge could see through his pain was the large red number three stitched on the back of his shirt.
He could handle being bested in a fight. It had happened a few times in his life and he chalked those rare instances up as lessons learned. Sarge, however, simply refused to allow Mr. Scratch, the boogie man bed time story, to leave after giving him the high hat. Even though he could not move, even though his body refused to listen to his mind and attack again, Sarge Safran seethed inside. His blood boiled with fury. He swore then and there that he would have another day to take on Mr. Scratch again or he would die trying.
He raised his voice as loudly as his injuries allowed.
“Hey, Scratch. What about Tanner’s son?”
“He’s mine as well, Sarge. I own him. Good day, Tristan.”
It only came out as a whisper, but when Sarge said it, the number three stopped in its tracks.
“I’ll bet you for his soul.”
Scratch materialized out of the air beside him. The basset hound reappeared as well. It licked Sarge in the face. He was in too much pain to stop it.
Scratch smiled and seemed positively delighted.
“Now this is interesting. A bet. A gentlemen’s bet. I do like the sound of that. You win, the boy keeps his soul. I win, I get the boy’s soul and your soul as well.”
Sarge fought hard to stay conscious. He coughed and tasted blood. He felt his loose bones grind as he raised a trembling hand into the air.
“It’s a bet, Scratch. One game of baseball. Nine innings.”
Scratch was so excited about the new turn of events that he shook Sarge’s hand before he understood what he had said.
“I’m sorry. Did you say baseball?”
Sarge nodded his head and winced.
“Wouldn’t you prefer tennis or maybe even a swimming contest?”
Sarge had only one word in reply.
“Baseball.”
Mr. Scratch was somewhat upset about having to play the lowly game of baseball for the souls, but he was nonetheless happy that he was going to end up with three lives on one contract. It was turning out to be a stellar month.
“Fair enough. After all, I shook on it.”
Scratch pulled a small pad of paper and pencil from a back pocket of his riding breeches.
“Let’s see. How about on the boy’s twenty-first birthday? That would give him a good eleven and a half more years of unencumbered life. I do have some compassion, after all.”
He wrote down a few notes and Sarge agreed to the terms.
“That would put our game on August 1st, 1933. Well, Tristan, I must admit that I am looking forward to the event. I will see you then.”
Scratch’s flippant way made it sound as if he was talking about a Fourth of July cookout. He patted his dog’s head lightly.
“All right, Mr. Tanner. You and I have to be shuffling off. After all, I have a polo match to complete.”
Tanner ran over to Sarge and pulled his gold, Irish claddagh ring off of his finger. Once he was successful in freeing it, Tanner dropped the ring into Sarge’s hand.
“Sarge, make sure my boy gets that. It belonged to his grandfather.”
Tanner then stood and tossed the remnants of a cigar on top of the wounded man’s chest.
“I’m sorry for all of this, Sarge. I truly am.”
He, Scratch, and the dog disappeared. The bright lights generated by Satan’s right hand faded away.
Sarge was left alone in the darkness of the cave. He passed out as he tried to light the stogie Tanner had left behind.
Mink and company found him an hour later, weak from blood loss. When they were finally able to pry open his fist, they found Tanner’s most prized possession, his ring embolde
ned with the design of two hands holding a golden heart and crown.
After Sarge returned to the U.S. and earned a starting position in the Whispers lineup, he hired several detectives to track down Charles Tanner’s son. Sarge gave the investigators as much as he remembered, which was not a whole lot. He knew that Tanner lived in a small town near Omaha, Nebraska. He knew that Tanner’s son was named after his father, and he knew his wife was named Josephine. He even told them about how Tanner always talked about what a good ballplayer his son was. The man would boast about his boy with the golden arm, but that was all Sarge could give them. Their missions in Europe were so secret that all written documents about America’s involvement had been burned. As far as the world was concerned, Tanner, Mink, and Sarge had never even existed.
A crafty private dick from Atlanta, Georgia finally found Charles Tanner Junior and his widowed mother. Sarge relayed the claddagh ring to Tanner’s child through the gum shoe to fulfill Charles’s last request. He even sent an anonymous letter with it that told Tanner Junior how proud his father had been of him. The detective assured Sarge that the boy received the ring and Sarge paid the investigator a monthly stipend to keep tabs on the family. He even sent money their way every other month and made it appear as if his checks came from Uncle Sam.
About two years later, however, the Sarge’s detective-for-hire fell victim to a drunk driver down in Decatur. Two months passed before word of the incident made it to Sarge and within that time frame, Junior and his mother flew the the coop. There was no forwarding address. There were no known relatives. They had simply, and quite unexpectedly, vanished. Sarge was forced to start the process of hide-and-seek all over again with another round of private eyes. Precious time was lost.
He knew his date with Mr. Scratch kept creeping closer and closer, but his daily life would occasionally erase any thought about the Devil’s Right Hand and the pending bet. For the entire first year Delilah entered his life, the dread of the future meeting would only strike when he received letters and bills from an ever-growing number of investigators. Some months though, especially when winter hit, Sarge brewed on it almost every waking moment.
Finally, in desperation, he cornered the Whispers scout Clyde Decker and told him to keep his ears and eyes open for the young Charles Tanner. After all, the boy’s father bragged about his son’s golden arm. Maybe Tanner Junior would turn up on a scouting report. It was a long shot, but It was certainly worth the attempt.
When Decker told Sarge the news that not only had Tanner’s son been located but that he was to be a new Whispers pitcher, the coach did not know how to react. He placed all of his efforts into searching for Tanner Junior, but it never dawned on him that one day the boy might actually be found. Most men never knew when the defining moment of their lives was going to test them. It just came and they dealt with it the best they could. Sarge, however, knew exactly when his would be and Charles Tanner Junior would play a big role when it arrived.
The following morning, Sarge pulled his V16 Cadillac out of the horse barn and drove into the city to pick up Clyde Decker. The two men parked near the Wilmington train station just before the 136 high-speed from Chicago arrived. They stood on the boarding platform and watched as the passengers stepped down.
When Sarge asked Clyde what Tanner looked like so he would know the boy when he saw him, the scout laughed.
“Well, Sarge, its just like your old soldier pal told you. His son has a golden arm.”
Sarge was pretty miffed about the reply he received until he saw Tanner’s spitting image standing on the platform. He was a hayseed just like his old man, tall and lean with big, broad shoulders. The mere sight of him washed Sarge in sadness. The two of their fates were twisted together and they had not even met.
Tanner Junior checked a piece of paper in his hand and looked through the waiting crowd. Something on his arm caught the late morning sun and the glare blinded Sarge. He pulled the brim of his cap down low to protect his eyes, and he and Decker walked over to the young pitcher.
The closer Sarge got, he realized that Tanner was not wearing anything shiny on his arm at all. The glare came directly from the arm itself. Decker introduced him to Tanner Junior and Sarge shook his new pitcher’s hand. It was cold and metallic to the touch. Every time the coach thought he had seen it all, something else appeared to prove him wrong. Clyde Decker caught the bewildered look in his eyes.
“Sarge, I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. The young Charles Tanner here is one heck of a pitcher - a pitcher with a golden arm.”
11. Charles Tanner Junior
He polished off his second chocolate malt before he said more than ten words.
“Mr. Sarge, sir, I sure do appreciate the malts. I aim to pay you back.”
Sarge tried not to stare at the young man, but it was uncanny how much he looked like his father. His voice sounded the same as well.
“Don’t worry about it, Tanner. It’s my treat.”
Sarge took a pull off of his cigar and blew smoke into the diner’s electric ceiling fan.
“I’m gonna have Mink pick you up at your room at Mrs. McAfee’s place tomorrow morning for a little workout over at the park. Haney Mane and I want to get a good look at your arm and see what it can do.”
The boy wiped his face with a napkin and then flexed his golden arm when his new coach mentioned it. Its surface was like a mirror. Sarge could see the entire dining area behind him in its reflection.
“Speaking of your arm, kid, what’s the story? Were you born with it?”
“Yes, sir. My mother always told me that it was a gift from God given to the family for all of the suffering she went through during child birth. She had all kinds of problems. They didn’t think she was was going to make it through delivery. I was born in a hospital and everything.”
Sarge smashed the butt of the stogie into a glass ashtray on the corner of the table.
“And what about your Dad? What did he say about it?”
“My Dad always said that my arm would save me one day. He said that it was given to me to ward off evil spirits. My Dad died serving in the war over in Europe. The last time I saw him, I was only six years old.”
Tanner acted as if he suddenly remembered something and he unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. With two fingers, he dug toward the front of his chest and pulled a necklace loose so that it was on display. A cold spot ran down Sarge’s back. There at the end of the chain hung the Irish claddagh ring that Tanner Senior had given him just he was taken away by Scratch. Sarge clearly made out the two hands with a firm grasp on a crowned heart.
“This here ring belonged to my father. A soldier that served with him sent it to me and my Mom after the war. I keep it with me all the time.”
Tanner ran the gold circle between his fingers and eyed it closely before tucking it away. He buttoned his collar back in place, looked up at Sarge, and smiled.
“Mom says that I look just like my father.”
Chuck’s grin was infectious and Sarge could not help but follow suit. He was happy to see the ring in the young man’s possession. Sarge threw three dollars on the table and took Tanner to McAfee’s room and board down on Delaware Avenue. Most new players stayed there until they got a new place or were cut from the team. Before he sped away, he told the boy to make certain he was ready when Mink came for him in the morning.
“You don’t have to worry about me, sir. I’ll be out here waiting. I can’t believe I am getting a shot to play Carnival Baseball. I mean, here I am, talking with Sarge Safran of the Wilmington Whispers. This is a regular dream come true.”
The next morning was positively stifling and when Sarge walked out on the infield grass, the temperature had already climbed into the eighties. Haney was on the mound talking to Tanner. Mink was there as well in his practice grays. He spotted Sarge and made a bee-line for him.
“Jiminy Christmas, Sarge! I sure am glad you telephoned last night and warned me about Tanner’s kid. If you had
n’t told me, I would have driven up to old lady McAfee’s this morning and thought I had seen a dead man walking. He looks just like his old man. And what gives, anyway? Why can’t we tell him that we were pals with his father? What’s the big deal?”
“Yeah, sure, Mink. Let’s all sit down for lemonade and we’ll chat up the fact that his old man was taken out by a nest of French vampires. That sounds like a swell afternoon.”
Sarge had never told anyone about Tanner Senior’s demise and the wager with Mr. Scratch - not even Mink.
Mink fussed with his mustache and pushed his sunglasses closer to his face.
“Well, anyway, you should see this kid’s stuff. His curves break at least a foot and he’s got this one pitch he calls a fork ball. He grips it between his two fingers and just before it gets to the plate it drops like an Irish man’s pants on Saint Paddy’s Day.”
Sarge looked over and saw the kid absorbed in every word Haney told him. He also spied the cigar store indian standing immobile on the other side of the pitcher’s mound. The dolly that had transported it there was left a few feet behind.
“What about the giant Lincoln Log? Have you seen it throw any?”
Mink fished around in his back pocket and pulled out a leather cord. Tied in the middle of its length was what looked like a chicken bone and a feather.
“As a matter of fact, old Woody there looks like a decent hurler as well. It don’t have much junk, but it sure can bring the heat. It can’t pitch well from the stretch, though, so we might have a tough time with it on the mound the same time runners are on first. I imagine once coaches figure it out, they will be stealing second all day long.”
“What’s with the voodoo string?”
Mink looked down at the leather trinket in his hand.
“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. This is how you get it to come to life. You throw this thing around its neck. It moves kind of herky-jerky, but the great thing is it don’t speak a word, which is a nice change a pace for our bunch.”
