by Colby Cox
“Sorry, Sarge, but you are mistaken. I think Hooligan Pete must have knocked your fashion sense clean out of your head back in Baltimore.”
Sarge glanced at his wrist watch and honked the car horn again in anger. He then turned his attention back to his passenger.
“Oh yeah, Mr. Vogue? Well what about Daddy Warbucks?”
Mink looked puzzled.
“Who the hell is Daddy Warbucks?”
“Daddy Warbucks. The old man millionaire from the comic strips. The money bags from Little Orphan Annie.”
Mink sat silently. Sarge could tell his friend was trying to picture the bald-headed cartoon in his mind. When he saw Mink’s jaw drop and his shoulders slouch low, he knew it was time to strike.
“Now, would you not admit that Daddy Warbucks is a sophisticated kind of man that would know what color bow tie to wear with a tux?”
Mink knew he was defeated. His reply came out weakly.
“Yes.”
“OK, Mink. Now what color bow tie does the Daddy wear?”
Mink’s reply was so low that it was barely audible.
“Black.”
“Damn straight, mister. Black.”
Sarge pinched his bow tie firmly to accentuate his winning blow to their debate.
Mink was fortunately saved any more ridicule when Charles Tanner Junior strode down the front steps and hopped into Sarge’s car. Junior sported a simple brown suit and neck tie. His golden hand was visible beyond his shirt’s cuff and glistened under the street light.
Mink let out a low whistle.
“Nice threads, Tanner! You look sharp, you lady killer!”
The rookie blushed and mumbled a thanks to Mink as Sarge pointed the Cadillac towards the downtown area.
Mink and Sarge had played Carnival Ball for over eleven seasons together. They could remember years that their team was filled with players who did not get along. Nothing could be more miserable. It was a tough gig being a Carnival Ball player. If bad blood amongst teammates was thrown in the mix, it became downright unbearable. They both could not remember a better bunch of guys than the current Wilmington Whispers of 1933.
Sarge thoroughly enjoyed the evening with the guys at the Hotel DuCane. Gustave, the Maitre’d and a huge fan of the club, was given strict orders from Mark DuCane to give the players extra attention. The group of men were escorted to a large, private dining area that overlooked the banquet room and orchestra. They feasted upon lobster tail, filet mignon, duck, and just about every other delectable animal that could be killed and cooked. There were all sorts of side dishes and soups and the fresh bread just kept coming. Sarge and Mink got a big kick watching the reactions of the rookie players as they took bites out of the gourmet dishes. Most of them came from such humble backgrounds that it was unfathomable that such things existed. It was like Christmas in July.
When everyone was finished, servers cleared the tables and returned with humidors loaded to the gills with only the finest Cuban cigars. Silver coffee urns were brought out with gallons of the best Columbia had to offer. No booze was present thanks to prohibition, but Sarge thought that was probably a good thing. A steady flow of liquor and mass amounts of testosterone was usually a bad mix. Soon, the private dining area was filled with the strong aroma of tobacco smoke and coffee beans. The men puffed on cigars, drank hot java, and watched the floor show down below. It was a marvelous night.
Around the same time that the Whispers were being served their desserts, Mark DuCane sat in his office just two blocks away. The entire tenth floor was dark save for the single Tiffany lamp that shined on top of his desk. Mark drummed his fingers on the ink blotter in front of him. He was expecting a man that was now ten minutes late.
He finally heard the entrance doors open behind him and then heard footsteps on the polished wooden floor. Scratch entered his line of vision and extended his hand. Mark simply looked at it and then nodded his head toward the available seat across from him. Scratch sat down, smoothed out his suit pants, and smirked.
“Gracious, Mark. There is no need for uncivil behavior.”
“Mr. Scratch, we both know all too well that uncivil behavior is your middle name.”
“Well, that is certainly open for debate, but let’s move on to more pressing matters. I take it that you were able to end this wager between Sarge Safran and me?”
There was just a fraction of a second that something flashed in Scratch’s face. Most men would not have caught it, but Mark DuCane’s livelihood was built upon reading the small clues that betrayed people’s thoughts in moments such as the one before him. Scratch had displayed fear in his eyes when he mentioned Sarge. Mark was certain of it.
“Mr. Scratch, I fear that the Sarge was unyielding. There was no swaying him. He stated that the bet between he and you is still alive.”
Scratch was enraged.
“The fool! He doesn’t understand who he’s dealing with. I try to be kind. I try to be the gentleman and allow him to walk away. Fine. If that is how it is going to be, then fine! We shall have our game. And I will watch Tristan Safran fall.”
Once Scratch was finished with his outburst, DuCane opened the bottom desk drawer and removed a tube of thick paper kept together by a piece of twine. DuCane reached over the desk and placed it in front of Scratch.
“What is this?”
Scratch picked it up and removed the string. He unfurled the heavy stock paper and his anger drew at the spectacle before him.
In Scratch’s hand was an advertising poster with blue and gold lettering. The top portion displayed a cartoon drawing of a hand pressed to a pair of lips that whispered in a man’s ear. The poster read:
August 1st, 1933 at 8:00 P.M.
Exhibition Carnival Baseball Game between Hometown Wilmington Whispers
and the
Devil’s Right Hand.
Tickets on sale now. Get to the Gates Early!
Pictures of baseballs and bats riddled the bottom edge.
Scratch shot a hateful glance towards Mark DuCane. DuCane ignored him and poured scotch. He took a gulp to steady his nerves. He refused to let Scratch see the anxiety he was feeling and willed his voice steady before he spoke.
“I am placing lights in Whispers Stadium just for the occasion.”
The poster in Scratch’s hands suddenly burst into flames. He threw it to the ground and stormed out of the office. The heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind him. DuCane sat silently in his chair and tried to calm his breathing. He watched the poster burn.
The Whispers ball players were the last remaining diners at the Hotel DuCane. Their party was joined by the waitstaff and cooks. Gustave the maitre’d serenaded them from an upright piano in the corner. He chain-smoked cigarettes. His undone tie was carelessly slung about his neck, just above his opened collar.
At that moment of the night when everyone realized it was time to leave but no one wanted to, Sarge Safran rose from his seat and struck his coffee cup with a spoon. The clanging sound got everyone’s attention except for Mickey. Mickey was oblivious to the sudden silence and continued to loudly tell two French chefs, who did not understand a word the midget said, about the time he starred in a stag film with two female wrestlers from Mexico. Just as Mickey proceeded to physically demonstrate some of the scenes of which he was most proud, Mink Cosgrove chunked a sourdough roll across the room that connected with his right eye. It dropped the man to the floor and out of sight. Sarge waited for the laughter to die down. He then spoke.
“Fellas, I know that I’m not much on words. I just wanted to let you all know how proud I am to be standing here in front of you as your coach. You are a great bunch and I am honored to call you my team.”
Proud faces beamed from one end of the room to the other.
“Now how about we give Gustave and his work mates here a round of applause for providing one of the best damn times us palookas ever had, huh?”
Three cheers rang out for the waitstaff, the cooks, and Gustave. They all s
eemed surprised and genuinely touched by the gesture.
As the group broke up, Sarge yelled to their backs.
“Three o’clock tomorrow. Short practice at the field. We start with Lancaster the day after.”
19. An Old Friend Says Hello
After Sarge dropped Tanner off, he and Mink rolled into the corner gas station. As the attendant was checking the oil and topping the tank off, Sarge asked his friend what was bugging him. Ever since the end of dinner, he noticed that Mink seemed positively perturbed. Mink unbuttoned his coat, reached inside, and pulled out a folded piece of brown paper. He tossed it in Sarge’s lap without looking at him.
“When you and Tanner went to get the car from valet, I ducked into the lobby’s bathroom. That was hanging up out front.”
Sarge unfolded it and found it was an advertisement for the August first exhibition game, The Whispers versus the Devil’s Right Hand.
“What in the hell is that, Sarge? And since when do we cancel scheduled league games for a lousy exhibition? We’re supposed to be in Pittsfield on the first of August. What kind of stunt is this? Did you know about this?”
Sarge’s black bow tie suddenly felt way too tight. He undid it and the first two buttons of his shirt. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles popped and handed the confused gas jockey a fistful of money for the two dollars and forty cents that was owed him.
Sarge turned his auto around so that they were headed back towards the city.
“Come on, Mink. Let’s take a ride over to the ballpark. I’ll explain everything to you there.”
Sarge spilled the entire story, and for once in his life, Mink was at a loss for words. The two men were all alone in the abandoned Whispers Park. They sat high in the bleachers on the first base side. Mink stared at the full moon from behind his sunglasses and tried to wrap his head around what his closest friend had confided in him.
“Damn, Sarge. Why? Why did you put yourself out there like that?”
“You would of done the same, Mink, you know that.”
Mink thought on his words.
“Yeah. I guess you’re right. So what the hell are we gonna do? Is there any way to cheat our way out of this?”
Sarge chuckled.
“No. Trust me, I’ve played all the angles in my mind for the last eleven years. It boils down to Tanner Junior’s birthday, August 1st, nineteen hundred and thirty-three. Nine innings. We win, Tanner Junior lives. We lose, he and I get a one-way ticket to eternal slavery, courtesy of Mr. Scratch, the Devil’s Right Hand.”
Mink’s face constricted with anger.
“Well, screw that. We only got a couple of days left. We gotta come up with some sort of game plan. We’ll beat the bastard. You’ll see, Sarge. Just wait and see. Me and the boys are behind you one hundred percent. We won’t let you down.”
Sarge could not find the words to express his gratitude to Mink. He did not have time, either, for as soon as Mink finished his declaration, both men scrambled below the slatted bleacher seats as machine gun fire exploded all around them.
Mink picked a wood splinter off of his tongue.
“For a couple of washed-up ball players, you’d think our lives would be a little less stressful.”
Sarge ignored Mink’s mouth.
“Mink, put an eye out there and see what’s what.”
Mink peeled his shades off in the darkness. His gray eyes glowed in the night like those of a cat. He quickly peeked his head above the top of seats. Its presence was answered with the loud rattling of gun shots. He immediately threw his body back down as low as it would get.
“You ain’t gonna believe this one.”
There was a time in Sarge’s life when that phrase meant something, but as the years passed, it just kept getting harder to take seriously.
“Try me.”
“Either I am seeing things or Shirley Temple is out there trying to kill us with a tommy gun.”
Another hail of bullets rang out. Sarge could hear them ricochet behind them against the steel railing.
“Bon Jour, Sargent. Bon Jour, Mr. Mink. Have you missed me?”
The girl’s voice echoed up to them from the field. They had not heard it since they left the war behind them in Europe and this was the first time they heard it in heavily-accented English, but both men knew exactly who it belonged to as soon as it reached their ears.
Mink was the first to say her name out loud.
“Sarge, please explain to me how it’s possible we are being shot at here in Nowhere, Delaware by Marielle the vampire girl. Because I’d really like to know.”
Marielle was the only vampire that they were able to capture alive during their time in Europe with the Task Force. They used to haul her around in a blackened crate. Sarge would refuse her blood until she told him about where other vampires could be rooted out and killed. At times when there were no dogs available, the Unit would take her out on missions with a leash and a steel muzzle. Marielle would sniff out bloodsucker nests for a quart of Type O blood. She had lived (or un-lived) for over seventy years, trapped in the body of an eight year old. She could never be trusted and once ripped out the neck of a French corporal who was foolish enough to turn his back on her. She was a bitch.
“The only thing I can figure, Mink, is that Scratch made it happen. They don’t call him ‘The Devil’s Right Hand’ for nothing.”
As if on cue, Marielle spoke up to leave no doubt on the matter.
“Monsieur Scratch says to me, he says, Marielle, how would you like an opportunity to kill and feast upon your ruthless American captors? I tell him that I can not resist such an offer.”
Mink winced.
“Her English is really good, but that accent is brutal. It’s like amateur night at the Grand.”
Mink stuck his eye through a new bullet hole and was able to get a look at their would-be assassin.
Marielle wore her jet black hair in tight curls held back with crimson bows. Her dress went down to here knees and puffed out around her at the hem line. It matched the ribbons in her locks and little sequins on the shoulders glittered in Mink’s permanent night vision. Her two tiny hands firmly grasped the Thompson machine gun against her body. It was half her size. She was perched on top of the Whispers dugout and Mink counted an additional seven ammo drums lying at her feet, ready to go.
Mink’s brain and body instinctively regressed back to scout mode. It was as if he never left the war a dozen years behind and a continent away.
“OK, Sarge, Here’s where we stand. Marielle has herself positioned on top of the first base dugout at two o’clock. She’s armed with a Thompson. She has seven drums at her feet, so that gives her 350 rounds.”
Sarge listened as Mink untied his shoes and slid them off his feet. He then quietly crawled away on his belly and returned within ten minutes.
“No indication of anyone else. It seems she’s alone.”
It was now Sarge’s move. Mink saw the war return in the man’s eyes. It was something he hoped never to see again.
“All right. You loop right. Get behind her and distract her. Use sound to our advantage. Keep her confused. You know how proud she is. Break her pride and she’ll get sloppy. When your’e in position, Mink, use code word ‘muffin’ and stand by for Charles Lindbergh.”
Mink raised an eyebrow.
“Charles Lindbergh? No offense, Sarge, but don’t you think you’re getting a little long in the tooth to perform a Lindy?”
Mink caught the look Sarge threw him and quickly changed his tune.
“Yes, sir. Code word is ‘Muffin’. Prepare for Charles Lindbergh. On your mark, sir.”
Sarge got up on one knee and threw his head to both sides. His neck let out two large cracks.
“Mark.”
Mink slithered away from Sarge in his stockinged feet and tuxedo. Sarge rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a pocket knife and a handful of nickels. He estimated the distance to the dugout and tossed a coin so it clanked against the
metal roof. Marielle spun and squeezed off a few rounds into its direction.
“You think you are so smart, Sergeant Safran. You think you are a hero, but do you know what you are?”
During his thirty-eight years, Sarge Safran estimated that he faced death or serious injury over fifty times. For the life of him, he could never figure out why those who wanted to kill him always ran their mouths. It was like a disease. They would get him in a bad spot (like the current one) and then they would try and talk him to death with one-liners and stupid puns. Sarge secretly wished that before he did kick the bucket, just one time, someone would have the common decency to try and end his life without delivering a long and drawn out soliloquy.
Marielle droned away.
“You are a coward, Monsieur Safran.”
Thankfully, the sound of Mink’s voice cut the vampire girl short. With the echoes within the stadium, even Sarge could not pinpoint Mink’s position.
“For crying out loud, Marielle! Who gave you your English lessons? It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard.”
The vampire polished off the ammo in the gun and quickly rammed home a newly loaded drum. As she scanned her surroundings for Mink, Sarge was able to jump over two rows of bleachers so he was closer to the dugout. He then braced his feet on either side of the nearest seat and ripped the middle slat away from the back support of the chair. The piece of wood split off so that he held a sharp, jagged stick. He inspected it like a hobo with a ham sandwich. Sarge smiled and whispered to himself.
“That is just too perfect.”
When Mink chimed up again, it sounded as if he was in an entirely different part of the stadium. The echoes of his voice spoke long after Mink quit yelling.
“Hey! Is that the good ship bloody pop down there?”
Marielle squeezed off the entire drum of bullets in frustration and began to yell at the darkness in French. Sarge could hear uncertainty slip into her voice. He was now five rows closer and felt he was almost within distance to strike. He could hear Marielle’s heavy breathing. He listened to her little tap shoes strike against the dugout roof. She was pacing. Keeping his ears focused on the sound, he closed his eyes and drew up a mental picture of where she was. He then tossed another nickel over his head. It struck the handle of a rake next to first base. Marielle pivoted and fired.
