Carnival Baseball

by Colby Cox

  “Tristan, we need to teach him that paybacks are a bitch.”

  It was around 11:00 am on Monday morning when the Stranger walked into Henry’s Swing Club. A carpenter was busy replacing the front door. The previous one had met its demise just ten hours prior when the bouncer Ronnie Freeman tossed a man through it. Sunday night’s crowd at the Swing Club could get that way. The place was closed and was usually not opened until six in the evening. Mr. Godfrey, the club’s silent partner, used daylight hours to tally money owed him and collect it by all means necessary. The Stranger found him seated at a rear table playing dominoes with an older man. Other than the carpenter and a man sweeping the dance floor, they were the only people there.

  Godfrey did not look up when the Stranger approached him.

  “I hate to have to stop a good game of bones in the middle, Leroy, but I am afraid I have some business to attend. You understand.”

  The older man opposite him laid his pieces down on the table.

  “Sure, Godrey. I understand. Yolanda sent me out to buy some sugar about two hours ago, so I imagine I best be on my way.”

  He and Godfrey shook hands and he shot a worried glance towards the Stranger as he grabbed his cane and walked off, but the Stranger did not notice. His eyes were locked on Godfrey. Godfrey pulled a pocket square from his jacket and wiped down his bald head. He looked up at the Stranger and gestured toward the empty chair that the old man had left available.

  Godfrey leaned his body to the side so the Stranger did not block his view and yelled across the empty room.

  “Cornelius, will you turn on the fans, please? It’s getting unbearable in here.”

  Three ceiling fans attached to a belt system kicked to life. Godfrey smiled.

  “Oh, my. That is much better.”

  He finally turned his attention to the Stranger.

  “I don’t know how you can run around in a Wilmington July wearing that thick sweater. You have to be hot.”

  “I’ve seen hotter.”

  The Stranger smiled at Godfrey and threw an envelope on top of the dominoes.

  “Well, what do we have here?”

  “If you are as good as what I’ve been hearing, you know exactly what it is.”

  The Stranger’s words tickled the loan shark. Godfrey never touched the envelope.

  “Three tickets to the Fury on the First. Now why would you want old Godfrey at the Carny game of the century, Stranger?”

  “I need your talents there. I need some insurance. Your ability to see the odds, see the probability in the moment. I need that. Sarge Safran and his team will need it as well.”

  As the Stranger leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his wild hair, Godfrey caught the HATE tattoos.

  “What do I get out of an arrangement like that?”

  The Stranger’s chair fell back down on four legs with a thud. The act drew him closer to the table.

  “Godfrey. The odds are now 80 to 1 against the Whispers. The pay off will be huge.”

  The bald man leaned in closer. He spoke quietly.

  “The pay off is only if the Whispers win, Mr. ‘He-who-is-branded-with-Hate’.”

  The Stranger stood from the table and walked away. He spoke as he left.

  “You’re a smart man, Mr. Godfrey - smart enough to spot a winning horse when you see one.”

  Just as he reached the front door, he stopped when he heard Godfrey’s parting words.

  “I know who you are, Stranger. And I know what you intend to do. You are looking to move up in your world. You are looking to fill a void. You aren’t doing any of this out of the kindness of your heart.”

  Before he stepped into the street, the Stranger left Godfrey to stew over his reply.

  “That much is true, Mr. Godfrey. After all, I have no heart.”

  23. Goodnight, Whispers

  Late Monday night Mink and Sarge were back at Whispers Park. They sat alone behind the home dugout. The bleachers were newly painted and were replacements for those that had been riddled by bullets. Thermometers around the city read eighty degrees.

  Mink looked out across the lights. A few autos could be seen trolling the streets. Sarge glanced over at his friend. He watched him work a piece of gum . The two of them had come a long way together.

  “Hey, Mink. Whatever happens come tomorrow, know that I ain’t ever had a pal like you.”

  Mink looked the other way and fussed with his mustache. He sniffed hard.

  “Yeah, well. I’ll tell you what’s gonna happen. We’re gonna give him hell.”

  Mink was having a tough time with the moment. He took his straw fedora off and slicked his hair back. His hand shook.

  “I ain’t ever had a family, Sarge. Grew up in an orphanage. ‘Course, you knew that.”

  He took a deep breath and scratched at his scalp.

  “You’re all the family I got, you big damn mope.”

  Sarge grabbed Mink by the shoulder and squeezed hard -

  just like a brother would.

  About twelve blocks away, down by the naval yard, Gary South sat in an old barber chair in an eight-by-ten shed. A single light bulb hung from the center of the room, which was wallpapered in the typical skin art flashes of the day. He leaned forward in the chair, shirtless, as the steady buzz of the electric tattoo gun droned on. The tattooist paused for a moment to collect more black ink into his needle. He then checked the hand drawn design that Gary had given him. The picture was taped to the pull string at the end of the light. It was a rough sketch in pencil, but it was clearly a drawing of a devil who was in severe pain. A cartoon ball peen hammer pinned the character’s hand down.

  The artist clicked his tool back on and continued his work. Gary gritted his teeth and began to repeat the mantra he used to fight the pain.

  “Be the hammer, Gary. Be the hammer.”

  Simon Says was fast asleep in a pair of blue silk pajamas. Chew-on Man was firmly tucked underneath his arm. Simon’s shrunken head hung on his bed post. It kept a watchful eye over his slumber.

  Charles Tanner Junior awoke in pain. His neck was on fire. His hands instinctively went to the cause and broke the chain that looped through his father’s ring. It was red hot. He yanked it and the ring fell on his bed sheets. He turned on his light to find a brown burn mark in the cotton fabric where the ring had landed. Once he caught his breath, Tanner cautiously laid a finger on the metal. He went to the end of the hall and filled a drinking glass with water. When he returned to his room, he quickly picked the ring up and tossed it in. He watched it sink to the bottom. The water magnified the ring’s design. It distorted. Tanner fell asleep staring at the two hands holding the crowned heart. He dreamt of his father.

  What little sleep Sarge got that night, he did it alone. Delilah could not bear to be near him. It was too painful to think it might be her last visit to the cottage by DuCane’s horse barns.

  24. Shave and a Haircut

  On Tuesday morning, downtown Wilmington was alive with Whispers fever. It seemed half of North America moved into the small city and its streets and roads were packed. The town was blindsided by the influx of people and the State Police were called in to assist. Traffic was at a standstill and by nine o’clock in the morning, the August first heat was a sauntering eighty-two degrees. Some predicted triple digits by the early afternoon as local kids made quick money hawking lemonade and London Dry soda pop. It seemed every business in town benefited financially by the hoopla that the Carny Ball game brought. The “Sale” bell on registers could be heard ringing on every block.

  One shop owner that did not see much walk-in business, however, was Lester Goins, and he was happy for once to have a slow Tuesday morning. Tuesdays were normally hustle and bustle at Lester’s Walnut Street barbershop. He was closed on Mondays, so Tuesdays was his official first day of the work week. It was also historically the busiest for the past twenty years. He was pleasantly surprised to find that not a single customer visited him since he had opened sh
op at seven in the morning. For once, Lester had the opportunity to sit and thoroughly enjoy the morning paper and a cup of coffee. Occasionally he glanced up to watch all of the foot traffic passing his shop by, but the excitement over the game kept his regulars away.

  As he flipped through the pages, Lester found most of the Wilmington Morning News articles were about the Fury on the First.

  “Mayor to attend Game.”

  “Doc Bismark Says Whispers Robots are Ready to Play.”

  “Rookie Pitcher Tanner to Start.”

  Lester thought most of it was fluff due to the lack of knowledge about the visiting Devil’s Right Hand. He wondered about the club himself. Who in their right mind would name their team that?

  The barber’s attention was interrupted by the sound of the bell that hung at the top of shop’s front door. He sighed. He had hoped to get at least another hour to himself before having to cut hair, but he imagined he should feel grateful for the business. Bills don’t pay themselves.

  Lester stood, smoothed out his white smock and swung the barber chair around to greet the customer. He smacked the red leather seat with a towel and threw an inviting smile to the man who walked in. When he laid eyes on his potential customer, however, the smile dropped off of his face like a bad habit.

  The Stranger stepped in and pulled his wool sweater over his head. He carefully folded it into a square and placed it on the shelf above the coat rack. Lester could not believe the size of him.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  The Stranger raised his arms high and stretched out his entire body. His fingertips almost touched the ceiling.

  “Shave and a haircut.”

  Lester looked at the man’s beard. It was at least ten years of growth. The hair on the man’s head was unkempt and tangled. His presence made Lester nervous.

  “Sir, you may prefer Carter’s Barbershop on Locust Street. It’s only about six blocks away. I am certain Mr. Carter would be more than happy to accommodate you. I can write down directions if you like.”

  The Stranger threw a sour look Lester’s way.

  “You kickin’ me out?”

  The barber quickly back pedaled.

  “Oh no, sir. It’s just that I have never cut a white man’s hair before. You see, this is a colored barbershop.”

  The Stranger looked the place over from one side to the other. His eyes then fell back on its jumpy owner.

  “Are your scissors and razors sharp? Do you think that they’ll work on white people?”

  “Yes, sir. I imagine they will.”

  The Stranger threw his massive size into the awaiting chair.

  “Then give me a shave and a haircut.”

  In nothing flat, Lester was all movement, throwing a sheet over the man’s clothes, preparing hot towels, and mixing shaving cream. He shot a look at his new customer and was relieved to see that the man’s head was leaned back and his eyes were closed. Lester wanted no small talk. He almost asked the Stranger if there was a particular style of cut that he preferred, but the barber thought better of it and began to work his way through the wild mane before him.

  A good thirty minutes past before he felt as if he was somewhere near a respectable job. The head of hair was so knotted in places that the barber at times wished for hedge clippers. A pile of gray hair sat underneath the Stranger and Lester stopped almost every five minutes to sweep it off of the man’s chest.

  He clipped around the ears and shaved the back of his neck. He paused a moment to eye up his work and thought it not too shabby. He hoped it was to the Stranger’s liking, but when he swung the chair toward the full mirror, the man never opened his eyes.

  “It’s good. Now do the beard.”

  Lester repositioned the chair and pulled the lever to tilt the Stranger back. He clipped the beard down to a manageable length and then placed a hot towel on his face. The Stranger never flinched. When Lester grabbed the leather strap attached to the barber chair to sharpen his blade, he saw tattoos on the man’s hands. He stropped the straight razor across the worn cowhide and swallowed hard. His throat was suddenly dry.

  The barber pulled the lever on the side of the chair and it lifted the Stranger back to an upright position. Lester removed the sheet from around his customer and swept away errant clippings from his shirt and neck. Lester did not like what he had uncovered. He wanted the Stranger out of his shop as quickly as possible and was about tell the man that the haircut and shave were on the house. The Stranger, however, slapped a ten dollar bill on the counter and Lester wordlessly grabbed it and rushed to make change from the cigar box where he stored the daily take.

  “Keep it.”

  The barber protested.

  “Sir, you only owe me one dollar. I couldn’t.”

  He was cut off by the man.

  “I said keep it. And do me a favor.”

  The Stranger grabbed the old wool sweater from the shelf and tossed it across the room to Lester. The surprised barber caught it.

  “Throw that in the trash, will you?”

  He was Lester’s only customer that day, but that did not bother the barber. After all, it was not every day someone tipped a whole nine bucks. That kind of thing only happened in the moving pictures. Lester, however, never got the chance to return to the paper and enjoy his coffee. He spent the rest of the afternoon and much of that night thinking about what the Stranger had said when the barber opened his big mouth and asked a question. For some reason, Lester could not let the man just walk out of his shop without bringing up the topic that burned in his mind.

  “Uh, Excuse me, sir. But has anyone ever told you that you are a dead ringer for The Whispers Carny Ball player, Sarge Safran?”

  The Stranger squinted. A crooked grin stretched across his freshly shaved jaw.

  “My Dad always told me that. Of course, he would. After all, The Sarge and me are twin brothers.”

  25. Pre-Game Warmup

  “Get your ass over here, Poco. I want to rub your nose for good luck.”

  The quarter horse looked up from his grazing and as if the animal understood Sarge’s words, it lazily walked over to the split rail fence behind the small home and stuck its head out. Sarge scratched him behind his ears and patted the horse between his eyes.

  “Wish me luck, old man. And if I don’t make it back, you can have my cigars.” Sarge fired up his Caddy and drove it out of the empty barn. He looked at the house in his rear view mirror before he kicked in second gear and began the drive into Wilmington. After eleven long years, it was time. He was finally headed for the Fury on the First.

  He only made it about a mile down the country road when he saw two Delaware State Troopers with their motorcycles parked in high grass. One looked up at his approaching car and flagged him over.

  “What’s the rumpus, Trooper?”

  “We got strict orders from Governor Buck to escort you into the city, sir. You ain’t gonna be able to make it on your own.”

  Sarge saw exactly what the motorcycle cop was talking about when he and his escorts hit the town proper. Wilmington teemed with people. He had never witnessed anything like it. There were all walks of life lined up everywhere he looked. Restaurant and tavern crowds flowed into the street. Every front porch was filled to capacity. There was not an empty space available within city limits.

  When fans heard the rumble of the engines headed their way, they stretched their necks to get a look and erupted in whistles and applause when they recognized the head coach of the Whispers headed for the ball park. It was sheer pandemonium. Sarge laughed at the sight. Even he was impressed.

  Whispers Park was no better. It was a mad house. Once the State Police got him close enough to park his auto, four of WIlmington’s mounted police surrounded him with their horses and walked him to the locker room. As the crowds in the street pressed in close to catch a glimpse of the Babe Ruth of the Carny League, Sarge wished he had ridden Poco to town. He cracked himself up thinking about the stir it would have created. He
shook the coppers’ hands and slid through the heavily guarded back door.

  He stepped into a funeral wake. The entire team was at the park and for once, they were early. Sarge scanned the room. All eyes were on him, but not one man spoke. Even Mickey the Midget, who wore Marielle’s dress with his uniform shirt buttoned over top, sat silently on the edge of the bench chewing an unlit White Owl stogie. Simon Says sat cross-legged in the corner. He rocked back and forth while Chew-on Man’s case sat tightly closed in front of him.

  Gary South stepped out of the shower room. He was already in his uniform and looked to be in a trance. Sarge watched him pace a circle around the room. Gary held a bat on his shoulder and his hands wrenched the handle. His spikes typed out clicks and clacks on the concrete floor with every step. He walked back into the shower room and slowly repeated the process.

  Sarge walked to his locker and began to change. He hung up his pork pie hat and threw his bow tie on the top shelf. He peeled off his clothes and hung them up on the wooden pegs. He stopped. He was down to his boxers and an undershirt. A thought struck him. How many times had he done this? How many afternoons had he stood in this exact spot over the years? Even though the concrete walls muffled it, Sarge could hear the throes of fans already in the bleachers. This could be it. This could be the final kiss-off. He let that concept roll around his skull for a moment and realized that he was not afraid. He let his inner voice rest on two words.

  No regrets.

  Sarge threw on his light gray wool pants and buttoned up the front of his matching uniform shirt to join the cursive “Whis” with the “pers” across his chest. He worked the thick black leather belt around his waist and cinched it tightly. He made certain that the buckle aligned with the zipper on his pants. Sarge wore his black socks pulled high over his massive calves and when he tightened and tied his spikes, he dug them deep into the wood of the bench for traction. He then grabbed the gray ball cap from the back of his opened locker. He inspected it and plucked a piece of stubborn lint planted next to the white leaning “W” sewn in the front and bent the rim in his hands until the sides almost met in the middle. Sarge then pinched it between his fingers and threw it over his head. It was so low that his eyes were barely visible. He felt the old surge rush through his bones.