Carnival Baseball

by Colby Cox

  “All right, Poco. Take it easy, you spoiled bastard.”

  Sarge fed the animals their treats one by one. When he finished, he walked out front and was about to clip the end off of a good-looking stogie when he glanced up to see another car coming down the lane. He struck a match against the porch, took a draw, and wondered out loud.

  “What the hell is this? Grand Central Station?”

  When the automobile came closer, there was no doubt who was coming to visit. Sarge made out the sleek body of a white Mercedes-Benz SSK. The top of the two-seater was folded away and the high polish gleamed in the sun. He had taken a few country drives in the machine himself and had first-hand experience of its power. It was a beauty.

  The car parked in the front yard and Mark DuCane, owner of the Wilmington Whispers, stepped out from behind the wheel. Sarge did not let it show, but he was very puzzled to be receiving a visit from his boss. The timing made no sense to him. The Whispers were off the next few days and DuCane never showed up without scheduling a meeting in advance. Something was wrong.

  “Sarge. Good Morning.”

  Mark DuCane was a handsome man. He was lean and athletic-looking. His hair was gray and from what Sarge read about him, DuCane was pushing fifty, but he did not look a day over thirty-five. He wore a sharp white linen suit with buck shoes and a dotted silk neck tie. His sunglasses were similar to the style that Mink wore. Sarge grabbed the man’s extended hand.

  “Say, Hey, Mr. DuCane. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  DuCane laughed.

  “Well, I could lie and tell you that I came to hear how Chew-on Man was doing or just drove out here to shoot the breeze, but you are too smart for that.”

  DuCane paused for a moment and scanned his surroundings. He owned all that he saw. It had been at least a year since he ventured to the horse barns. He had forgotten how peaceful it was.

  “Sarge, an old business associate of my family made an unexpected visit the other day. He informed me that he and you have a gentlemen’s bet scheduled a little later this summer.”

  Sarge’s jaw clenched and he bit clear through his cigar. The name raged through his mind like a white hot poker.

  Scratch.

  He threw the now ruined smoke into the grass and invited DuCane inside for a cup of coffee.

  “I would love some.”

  The two men sat across from one another at the small kitchen table and silently drank. DuCane watched the horses through the window and a smile crossed his lips when Poco trotted by. He set his cup down and removed his sunglasses. When he finally spoke, he sparingly looked Sarge’s way. His eyes remained focused through the window as if his words about the past were drawn from the horses and the green pastures that rolled behind them.

  “Potassium Nitrate. K - N - O - 3.”

  Sarge did not understand.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  DuCane smiled again.

  “Sir was my father. Please, call me Mark. I said Potassium Nitrate. It’s how my family made all of its money. It’s black gunpowder. My ancestors learned to process the stuff long ago. They made a decent living from it. They set up mills around the local rivers which powered the tools and allowed them to ferry the stuff to the colonies and the forts and the outposts. There probably wasn’t a man in the Americas at the time that was not using DuCane gunpowder.

  So you would think that my great-great-grandfather would have been happy with what he had. You would think that he would have felt blessed. But he didn’t. He wanted more. He wanted everything, and then war came. The colonies rebelled and more DuCane powder was needed, so secret meetings were scheduled and the eldest DuCane met with the Continental Congress.

  But he did not go alone. My great-great grandfather forged an alliance with a very powerful man, a man that could make your wildest dreams come true.”

  Sarge leaned back in his chair and cracked his knuckles.

  “Your ancestors threw in with Mr. Scratch.”

  Mark DuCane pointed at Sarge and winked at him to let the coach know that he had hit the nail right on the head.

  “With the help of Scratch, my family not only struck a deal for exclusive ammunition contracts with the colonies, but he was able to secure them all of King George’s business as well. Men on both sides of the battlefields died thanks to DuCane gunpowder and it was all due to the shrewd bargaining of my family’s newest partner, the Devil’s Right Hand.

  Once Scratch embedded himself into the lives of my lineage, my family and he continued to prosper. The DuCanes made millions in blood money and Scratch reaped souls by the hundreds. It was a symbiotic relationship.

  The shining jewel on the DuCane crown came during the Civil War. My lineage made untold fortunes by supplying both the Confederacy and the Union with the ammunition to gun each other down. God Bless America.”

  DuCane silently shook his head. Sarge noticed the man seemed to have aged twenty years since he drove up in his Mercedes. DuCane sipped from his cup and let loose a deep sigh. It was obvious that the thoughts weighed him down.

  “So my day finally came, Sarge. When it was my turn to take over the family business, there was Scratch, arm in arm with my father. They were all smiles and back slaps. ‘Here, Mark. Sign this contract.’ They acted as if it was some damn family tradition to sell your soul into eternal damnation.”

  Sarge tensed. Was this some sort of set up? Was Mark DuCane in Scratch’s back pocket? He was relieved to hear otherwise as DuCane continued.

  “I tore it to shreds. I refused to sign. I would sooner be penniless than to live as Mr. Scratch’s slave. And after all that, after a lifetime of cajoling from my father, the joke was on him. Scratch was so furious with my father for not securing another DuCane generation to exploit that he claimed his soul right then and there. But I was free of him and he knew it. There was nothing he could do.”

  DuCane stood from his chair and poured into his cup what was left in the percolator. He spooned in sugar and sat back down.

  “So needless to say I was surprised to see Scratch waiting for me at my office yesterday morning. He asked a favor of me. Can you imagine? He told me of the wager with you, Sarge. He wants me to prevent it from happening. He does not want the game to occur.”

  Sarge and DuCane locked eyes.

  “So what did you tell him, Mark?”

  DuCane shrugged.

  “I told him I would speak with you, but I already know what your answer will be. For all of your tough exterior, Sarge Safran, and you are indeed the toughest man I have ever known, but in spite of all that, I know that you are an honorable man that will sacrifice anything for a friend. I would not think any less of you if you bowed out. But that simply is not your style, is it?”

  Sarge grabbed a walnut from a bowl that sat on the table. He cracked the shell in his bare fist and threw the insides into his mouth.

  “No. I reckon it ain’t.”

  DuCane smiled.

  “Scratch is to meet me at my office again in two days. I am to tell him your reply.”

  Mark DuCane placed both hands on the table and leaned over its surface.

  “Anything you need from me, Sarge, all you have to do is ask. Frankly, I doubt you have a snowball’s chance in hell against the infamous Aldous Scratch, but I hope to God you put that arrogant ass in his place.”

  That same morning, Simon Says was knee deep in the Brandywine river that ran through the Wilmington City Park. He methodically speared catfish and sunnies with a sharpened stick. A group of kids stood on the banks mesmerized by the sight of the Tanzanian witch doctor. The youngest one held tightly onto a toy boat and kept yelling the same line over and over.

  “He’s got a bone in his nose!”

  Simon paid them no mind though, as he continued to quietly stalk his prey and fling their bodies up onto the opposite shore. He inspected the pile and decided he still needed a few more to prepare a powder that would make his teammates see the baseball clearer when they were up to bat. The job o
f a good Carny Ball spirit man was never done.

  “Psssst.”

  Simon shot a look over at the children staring at him.

  “Psssst.”

  He heard it again. It was not coming from the group of kids, he was certain of that. He looked towards his pile of fish again and saw a familiar looking man crouched down. He motioned for Simon to come closer.

  Simon cautiously waded over near him. He could tell that the Stranger was strong with mystic powers. They were so strong in fact, that it clouded Simon’s vision. The witch doctor could not sense if he was a man of the goodness or if he was a messenger of the evil.

  “Come here, Simon, I brought you something.”

  Simon slowly made his way over to him. A few puffs of blue smoke popped out of his nostrils as he readied his defenses. He learned long ago in this land of America, you could never play it too safely. As soon as you let your guard down, white men dressed in blue would grab you and place you in cages.

  The Stranger was huge and his hair and beard were wild and unkempt. Simon smelled the scent of ocean salt on him. There were spiritual writings on the man’s knuckles.

  HATE.

  The man grew impatient with how slow the witch doctor moved.

  “Goddamn, mister. If you could get over here any time today it would be nice.”

  With those words, he pulled out a jewelry box covered in black felt and tossed it to the jittery Tanzanian. The action caught Simon off guard and as he fumbled to catch the box, his fish spear fell from his hands and slid down the shoreline into the muddy water.

  When the box touched Simon’s hands, his entire body was jolted by the presence of its power. He could hear something inside hum with energy. His eyes went wide and he looked toward the Stranger who motioned for him to open it.

  The top popped open on spring hinges and Simon lifted what looked to be a man’s molar attached to a string. Simon choked on a laugh of joy that came up like a cough. He smiled wide at the Stranger with HATE on his hands and bowed his head with gratitude. Simon began to grunt a phrase louder and louder until its echoes off of the trees caused such fear in the group of kids that they ditched their toys and fishing poles and ran for cover.

  “Roof! Roof!”

  The Stranger wiped his muddy hands on his wool sweater and watched the Tanzanian sprint towards Delaware Avenue with a human tooth firmly secured in an outstretched fist.

  “That’s right, you lunatic. That tooth used to hang in the mouth of the one and only Babe Ruth. Now do us all a favor and go stick it in your tobacco doll.”

  18. Putting on the Ritz

  Sarge stepped onto the Wilmington field the next day to the smell of fresh cut grass and rosin. He put his hands on his hips and tried to stretch a knot out of his lower back. He watched the flurry of players around him. Doc Bismark stood behind second base and fired baseballs from a spring-loaded mechanism similar to a bazooka. It hurled baseballs to ungodly heights. They were tracked down by Wonder Boy and Savoy Special deep in the outfield. The robots never missed a one as their internal steam pistons hissed with each mighty step they took. Biscuit Wagner worked in with them and was holding his own against their scientific marvels.

  Haney Mane had the pitchers grouped on the practice mound out in left field and No Legs Ruben caught Mink and Lil Boner on the side. Ralph Sankey, Dane Dugas, and Erv Bream played a round of pepper in front of the third base dugout and Gary South and Kid McCoy alternated swings near home plate with a sand filled bucket.

  Sarge watched over the men with great pride. He had taken command of the team during his fifth year as a player after the head coach, Hank “Fury Fists” McKilroy, unexpectedly took a powder during the second inning of a game with the Cumberland Cadavers. He never returned. Sarge took the promotion by default and he led that year’s team to its first appearance into the Carnival League playoffs. Since then, the Whispers continued to represent the small city in Delaware well and the name Sarge Safran became synonymous with Wilmington baseball. The Whispers even won the 1930 Northern Division Pennant, but had lost the title to Raleigh in five games.

  Sarge jogged over to the the pitchers and slapped Tanner on the shoulder. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the younger man’s metal arm. He pulled Tanner aside so they could talk privately.

  “Hey, kid. How ya feelin’?”

  “Just great, Sarge. I feel great.”

  The pitcher certainly looked healthy for a man who had been killed by a bolt of lightning.

  “Look, Tanner. I just want to let you know that what you did down south was impressive. Damn impressive. I want to bring you into the starting rotation if you think you are ready.”

  The smile that beamed across his face told Sarge what the young man thought.

  “Yes, Sir. I am definitely ready. Thank you, Sarge. I won’t let you down.”

  “All right, Tanner. Get back over there and pay close attention to what The Duke tells you, understand? Haney Mane is one top notch pitching coach.”

  With that, Tanner nodded and regrouped with the pitchers. They were all intently listening to Haney’s advice on how to keep runner’s close to their respective base.

  Sarge knew that the rookie would give the Whispers his best, and he only hoped that when that fateful date came, he could return the favor.

  The team had a great workout that afternoon. Everyone seemed to be playing to their full potential. When the sun hit the belfry of St. Peter’s church on the western hills, Sarge gave a loud whistle and swung his arm to corral the entire team together around home plate. They gathered around him in a semi-circle.

  He took a moment to look into each player’s eyes. Some faces surprised him with their youthfulness. Others seemed to mirror his, worn by the sun and hundreds of innings of Carny Ball. It was unknown how the chips would fall for him come August the first, but he knew without a doubt, however, that if it went bad, he would be leaving the world with no regrets. He learned long ago that it was the small moments in life that counted the most.

  “All right, you mopes, listen up. You guys played one hell of a game against the Lightning and we skipped out of that town the only team this year to deliver those guys a loss in their own park.”

  A loud cheer rose up from the team.

  “We got a couple days of rest and then we have three here with Lancaster. I spoke with Mr. DuCane the other day and he wanted me to convey to you chowder heads how pleased he is with your performances up to this point.”

  Mickey the Midget jumped in front of Sarge to start his famous DuCane impersonation for the players, but the act was cut short when Sarge smacked him in the back of the head. The coach continued his pep talk.

  “DuCane is so pleased that he’s sprung to pay for a fancy dinner for us at his family’s hotel tomorrow night.”

  A much louder roar erupted from the players after they heard about free food.

  “So go hit the showers and make certain that you are all in the hotel lobby by 7:30 tomorrow night. You men have earned it. And fellas, please, dress accordingly. The DuCane Hotel is a top-notch joint. I know you ain’t got any, but pretend to have some class.”

  The players hooted and laughed and ambled into the locker room with excited talk about food, women, and drink. Mink stayed behind and helped Sarge retrieve stray baseballs scattered across the field. They were the last two left.

  As the men plunked baseballs into the large tin pail Sarge carried, Mink brought up a topic that had been bothering him for quite some time.

  “Hey, Sarge. I can tell something just ain’t setting right with you. If you got anything bothering you, just to let you know, I’m always around. You know, if you want to chew the fat or something.”

  “Thanks, Mink. You and me will be having a talk before July’s over, there ain’t no doubt about that. I just ain’t ready yet, that’s all.”

  Mink was glad to hear his old friend open up at least a little.

  “Sure. Take your time. No problem.”

  Sarge a
nd Mink were near the pitcher’s mound ready to make their way to the showers when Mink stopped in his tracks and swore. When Sarge asked him what the problem was, Mink hung his head and pointed to the corner of right field. Sarge followed the direction of his finger and saw the wooden cigar indian propped up against the far fence.

  “I forgot the damned indian again.”

  Sarge laughed.

  “Don’t worry, Mink, I ain’t gonna bust your stones. Let’s go collect him up while we still have a little day light.”

  Sarge placed the bucket of balls down behind the dirt mound but before he walked towards the outfield, he impulsively snatched one, took a giant hop step, and fired it toward the indian. His throw missed it by a mere foot to the left.

  Mink looked up at his closest friend and removed his sunglasses. He tucked them into the back pocket of his practice pants and grabbed a ball himself. He reared back and let it go. It was wide of its mark by mere inches.

  Lightning bugs glowed in the Wilmington outfield and the headlights of a few stray automobiles could be seen in the distance as Sarge and Mink took turns throwing at the silent wooden indian pitcher. Their laughter echoed against the empty brick buildings surrounding the park and bleachers. They taunted one another and yelled with satisfaction when a ball connected against the carving’s mahogany surface and made a wonderful, loud knock.

  The next night, Sarge and Mink rolled up to old lady McAfee’s boarding house sporting tuxedoes. The two argued the entire ride from the horse barns to Delaware Avenue about who wore the properly colored tie. Their voices could barely be heard over the V16 engine of Sarge’s monstrous Caddy.

  “Dammit, Sarge! I’m tellin’ ya, the white tie is the way to go to this sort of thing. I read about it in Vogue magazine.”

  “And I’m telling you, Mink, that you were reading what women oughta be wearin’, because everybody knows real men wear black ties. That’s why it’s called a black tie affair.”

  Sarge parked his auto in front of the boarding house and honked the horn. Mink checked his mustache in the side view mirror and straightened his white tie.