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The Storytellers Ch. 01

By: Paris Waterman



In 1947, returning war veteran, Roy Shannon quits his job with the Chicago Tribune to write the great American novel. His premise: to help solve the Black Dahlia Murder. Enroute to Los Angeles, he encounters an Alien near Roswell, New Mexico. As a reward for helping him escape the US Military, the alien provides Roy with what he calls the story of a lifetime. 

"It's about a baseball player named, well, he's had several names, but I'll use his original name, Bill Harbidge." 

"Who is he?"

"Ah, now that's the story, Roy, that's the story."

And what a story it is. It takes us back to the beginnings of baseball; introduces a man who can merge with whomever he pleases; who plays an unequalled role in baseball history. And who for whatever reason becomes the most terrifying serial killer in history. Can Roy stop the killer from continuing his reign of terror? Or will the body-shifting killer add Roy to his long list of victims? Storytellers weave a thrilling mixture of romance, history, sex, and suspense, expertly juggled by a memorable hero for fans of baseball history and erotic fiction. 

Chapter 1

The First Storyteller

December 29, 1949

My name is Roy Shannon. I don't expect that any of you have heard of me, especially since I finished writing this document in the fall of 1949 and handed it over to a law firm with instructions to publish it some sixty years hence. I should be long dead by then, having ceased worrying my obsession with a man who could pass from one body to another without the host body being aware of his presence. A man whom I have no doubt has been the greatest serial-killer known to man; a man who causes me to lie awake night after night wondering if I really killed him that night in Los Angeles, or if I murdered only an innocent man with me thinking he was serving as Bill's host of the moment.

I'd better start from the beginning; this tale is complicated and rambles from the summer of '47 back in time to the 1870's. It is wrought with early years of baseball history, told by one who was there; and by an alien who desperately sought to right a wrong; and a serial killer who will never be tried or confined for his sins. 

The Beginning:

Roughly seventeen years ago I thought I was a hotshot baseball pitcher. Hell, the White Sox thought enough of me to give me $500 to sign with them and took me to their spring-training camp where I promptly ruined my arm trying to strike out everyone I faced. The year was 1933. Need I go into the details of just how bleak a time that was? 

I wasn't without a work ethic though, and after returning home, I found two meager jobs, busing tables and cleaning up a speakeasy after closing hours. That was in Columbia, Missouri. I managed to get into the local university and garner a degree in journalism. That was June, 1938; and with no newspaper job waiting for me, or any other job for that matter, I did what many other young men were doing at the time, I joined the Army. 

My subsequent war experience involved, among other niceties, some hot times in North Africa, and the invasion of Normandy, where I was wounded, twice. So, with two Purple Hearts, I got to go back home after they healed the wounds in my chest and got most of the shrapnel out of my ass.

Thanks to my journalism degree from the University of Missouri, and my war hero status, I landed a decent job with the Chicago Tribune. In the ensuing year I devoted my spare time to preparing to write what I thought would be the Great American novel. I had no idea that maybe ten million other Americans were attempting the same thing; and like me, failing.

I should have been working on an article about Chicago's Lincoln Park. It was due the following afternoon. Instead, I was sitting behind the ivy covered wall in the bleachers at Wrigley Field watching my beloved Cubs drop the first game of a series with the Pirates, 12 to 8. 

It was another game they should have won, but the wind was with the Pirates not my Cubbies, and Thornton Lee got shelled early and often, ultimately losing to Big Jim Bagby. It was almost the end of June, and the Cubs were settled in at a comfortable record of 31 wins and 31 losses. But as I watched Phil Caverretta foul out to the Pittsburgh first baseman for the final out, it was painfully obvious they were not the pennant winning caliber team of just two short years before.

Not being a slacker, I had most of the Lincoln Park article set up in my mind, and during the slower parts of the game I mulled over how I would present it to my editor. Taking a pad from my jacket, I began to jot down more perteninet details about the park. For instance, I knew it bcame into being in 1843 as a Cemetary, and one of the more notable occupants was former Chicago Mayor James Curtiss, whose body was lost when the cemetery was turned into the park. 

Suddenly it hit me, and I stopped jotting in my notebook. My novel would be about Elizabeth Short, better known as the Black Dalhlia. Why the thought occurred just then I will ever know, but it did and I will always wonder if someone or something put it in my head.

What I knew about the Black Dahlia Murder was this: a stunningly beautiful, twenty-two-year-old girl struggling to make a name for herself in the Babylon of Hollywood, never seemed to be able to escape a curse of unbelievably bad fortune. 

Having lost two fiancées in the war, it was said that she turned to drinking and promiscuity in a desperate effort to shelter her broken heart from overwhelming grief. Her passion for servicemen and aspiration to be famous made her a different kind of woman for her time. Her nickname evolved from her black hair, and that she always wore black attire. Some said she was named the Black Dahlia before her murder, others said the name was applied by journalists to sensationalize the crime. I figured the latter had a ring of truth to it, having done the same to several murders I'd covered for the Tribune, most notably that of the so-called Lipstick Killer, William Heirens. 

At any rate, on January 15, 1947, a passerby spotted Elizabeth Short's nude body in a vacant lot near Hollywood. Her body, cut in half, was bruised and beaten. Grass had reportedly been forced into her vagina and she had been sodomized after death. 

Murder stories sold. I knew this from the money the Tribune and other Chicago dailies made with the Heirens trial or more importantly, prior to the trial almost exactly a year earlier when all but convicting the seventeen year old in the press with one outlandish – and more than likely fictional – story after another until the young man confessed rather than face the death sentence.

I was ashamed that I participated in the event, for I was convinced that the kid was railroaded into confessing after he was interrogated around the clock for six consecutive days, beaten by police and not allowed to eat or drink. He was not allowed to see his parents for four days. He was also refused the opportunity to speak to a lawyer for six days.

In the middle of July, the Chicago Tribune published a front page headline story indicating that Heirens had confessed to the crimes. They gave lurid details. This purely fabricated article was picked up by the remaining four daily Chicago papers and the news services. It was apparent to Heirens that a fair trial would be impossible. Urged by his lawyers to accept the plea bargain, he confessed to all three murders to avoid certain death in the State's electric chair. 

There was no appeal process. Within weeks, Heirens would have been dead. From that standpoint, his plea bargain was completely understandable. Ten weeks after his arrest, during which the Chicago papers headlined the Heirens case 157 times, Heirens began serving three life sentences. 

I can still hear his words as he stood there in the courtroom following his sentencing. "Everyone believed I was guilty...If I weren't alive, I felt I could avoid being adjudged guilty by the law and thereby gain some victory. But I wasn't successful even at that....Before I walked into the courtroom my counsel told me to just enter a plea of guilty and keep my mouth shut afterward. I didn't even have a trial." 

Unlike the Lipstick Murders, the Short murder investigation was unresolved, but was still getting the occasional front page column in the Chicago dailies, and I could only imagine what was happening on the West Coast with the Hearst papers that were even more sensational than Chicago's.

I left the ballpark and made it to my bank ten minutes before closing. I drew out my savings, a whopping $733.45, and then headed to the Tribune. My editor was livid when I told him I was going to Los Angeles within the next day or so. He didn't believe my story about taking a vacation to be with my sick aunt. He thought I was going after another job out there with one of the LA dailies. But he honored my request, adding that if I wasn't back at my desk in two weeks time, I was fired.

I didn't actually leave for LA until the fifth of July. My '37 Desoto was a temperamental thing, and the shop kept it much longer than necessary. They didn't do that great a job either, the Desoto broke down on the outskirts of Tulsa, but I was fortunate in finding a mechanic who not only knew his business, but had me up and running in only four hours.

*****

Okay, now hang with me on this... I know it's a stretch, but honest to God it's true, please believe me. I met the Alien - on the 8th of July, 1947, while headed west on Route 247, roughly 12 miles east of Corona, New Mexico. 

This was definitely desert country. I remember experiencing a kind of smug, self-satisfied feeling for having filled the gas tank that morning before heading into the desert. I was on my fourth Lucky Strike – I'd been counting them, trying to cut down to one and a half packs a day, when I spotted a kind of shimmering form in the sand off to my left. I brought my 1937 Desoto to a halt on the side of the road and got out to investigate. 

In the next thirty seconds as I half-walked, half-trotted toward a shimmering form lying next to a baby cactus, my life changed forever.

I really thought it a woman at first because it couldn't have been even five feet in height. But on approaching the figure, I saw that the gray shimmer was not clothing, but the creature's skin. See? I was already thinking it a creature. 

It spoke to me when I was about seven feet from it. No, let me restate that. It reached into my mind and spoke to me. There wasn't a sound made, except for the light breeze blowing sand against my combat boots.

"Help me, I'm about to expire," it whispered in my head.

To my surprise I responded in kind, not uttering a word, I thought, "How can I help?"

It informed me succinctly and with almost no hesitation, "I require Qvpty."

"I don't understand," I thought.

"Oh, so sorry, of course you don't. I need what you call motor oil."

"I have some in the car," I said aloud, and thought, "I'll be right back."

"Hurry," it said into my head as I trotted back to the Desoto. Seconds later I was gasping from the extreme heat and exertion of moving so quickly. I vowed for the thousandth time to quit smoking entirely; never mind the cutting back stuff. And then I was offering the open can of Esso Oil to the creature, which took it from me with a three fingered claw and poured the entire contents down its throat, and then croaked appreciatively.

I used the moment to study the creature. It was not of this Earth, of that I was sure. Yet I felt no fear. It had not threatened me; rather it had begged for my assistance; and I had provided it. I felt secure that it would not harm me, although why I felt that is still a mystery to me. Perhaps my war experiences had provided me with a certain assurance that when my time was up, it was up. So there was no sense in worrying about it.

As I stated earlier, the creature was gray in color, although as it recovered after absorbing the much needed Qvpty, or motor oil, a pinkish hue seemed to blend in with the gray. His genitals were exposed and I concluded that it was a male and not a female, although why I should form that opinion has me checking my thought processes to this day.

At any rate, he was not quite five foot in height, with two eyes, a mouth, and two smallish holes which I took to be nostrils, although he later explained that he breathed through two orifices where our ears would normally be located. The "nose holes" were sensors that warned of approaching objects or persons.

I "spoke" to it, asking it if felt somewhat better.

"Yes, thank you," it replied, and followed with, "You must be curious about me."

"Um, yes, I am," I replied.

It hiccupped; I would soon learn that this was how it expressed amusement.

"There has been a great tragedy," it told me, as its eyes took on one of the saddest expressions I have ever seen.

"I am from a distant planet. It is called Crytos, and is located in a galaxy still unknown to your people.

"You mentioned a great tragedy," I thought, naturally curious. "Please, what happened?"

"My vessel... you would call it a spaceship, had the misfortune to encounter a sandstorm while hovering in place at a lower than usual level. Some grains of sand must have gotten into... well, call it the engine. We managed to gain some more altitude, and a second vessel came to our rescue. It was maneuvering into position alongside us as we attempted to escape from the sandstorm. We were traveling at warp speed, um, a great speed, when the sand abruptly caused our... um, engines to fail. We crashed into one another. 

I expect that it was only some sand, or perhaps just a single grain of sand interacting with the molecular stratus of the, um, engine that caused us to collide and explode. Apparently the other vessel managed to get away without serious damage. I'm not certain, but all I've found thus far are remnants of my own vessel."

I looked around me; saw nothing but the shimmering desert and patches of dry, brown grass rustling in the wind. A scorpion peeked out at us from under a nearby rock and I took a step back. 

"Don't be afraid," the Alien said quietly, "He's more frightened of you than you are of him."

"It's just that... in this barren desert anything that moves strikes me as deadly."

"It's just the opposite, Roy. The desert may look like a lifeless and barren landscape, but to the eyes of the Native American, it looked like a cornucopia of valuable plants."

"Plants? There's little to no water... how can any plants flourish?" Of course, I was naive about such things, but that never stopped me from putting my foot in my mouth before, and I did it again.

"I assure you, the Native Americans found many plants with which provided food, medicine, home construction, cooking, storage containers, clothing, furniture, hunting, recreation and fuel. They also figured prominently in mythology, religion and ritual. In short, plants helped make up the entire social structure of the Indians society."

"You sound more like an archeologist than an alien."

"In a manner of speaking, I am," the Alien said. The Native Americans were strictly hunters and gatherers. They did not even begin practicing agriculture until about 4,000 years ago, and even then, they continued primarily as hunters and gatherers for at least another 2,000 years. They relied heavily on their keen knowledge of natural local resources, especially the plants, to feed, clothe and shelter their families. They located campsites and hamlets and timed their seasonal moves specifically to capitalize on the availability of key economic plants, which were the foundation for their survival.

Seeds of the nut pines or pinyon pines were especially important in the aboriginal diet because they provided an important plant staple that was high in both fats and carbohydrates—a characteristic rare for most other edible seeds, roots, berries and fruits. Pinyon nuts are also one of the easiest plant foods to harvest and store, and they were often abundant stands of these small-statured trees were the focus of rather large-scale activities, which involved entire families and villages in years of abundant harvests. 

As interesting as this might seem, I still interrupted him, "And you know this, how?"

"I saw it for myself," he answered, and I shut up and listened.

"Cousins who had not seen each other for months set up camps side by side. Friends met friends and exchanged bits of news as they moved from tree to tree. Word of births and deaths was greeted with laughs or wails that rang through the forests. Jokes were told, girls were courted, and songs were sung. Naked, cream-colored babies tumbled in the pine needles, cutting their teeth on pine sticks. Boys climbed pine trees to shake down the cones, their lithe bodies, black with pitch, became blacker when they rubbed themselves with dust so they would not stick to their rabbit skin blankets at night." 

The alien stopped and glanced around; seemingly satisfied that we were safe for the moment, he said, "I love talking about such things, but I'm afraid I have more serious concerns at present."

"Yes, I replied without opening my mouth. But please, tell me how is it that we can speak to one another using only thoughts?"

"This is the best method of communication. Nothing is lost in translation... do you see?"

"Yes, of course, but...."

"If I spoke to you, and I will should you so desire, you would wind up holding your ears as my pitch when 'speaking' is so high and intense it would cause you physical pain. I do not wish this. You have been a benefactor and savior."

Changing the subject, I said, "You mentioned a collision between your vessel and another. Could you elaborate on that?"

"I woke up here in the desert and I've been hiding from your search planes and helicopters ever since. Luckily, you came along and had a supply of Qvpty to help me revive."

"I'm glad I came along."

"You are an unusual person, Roy; most humans would have panicked at the sight of me, and undoubtedly have alerted the authorities to my location." 

I was startled as he had called me by my name without my having told him, or even having thought of it.

"How did you?" I began.

"I can see into you. It's just... one of my attributes. By the way, please call me Arthur."

"Arthur?"

"Yes, I selected it from a list I received from one of you Earthlings some years ago. But I'm wasting precious time. Do you have more Qvpty in your vehicle?"

"No, I think not. I can get some more in the next town. Can you make it to my car, or do you need some help?"

"I'm afraid to go anywhere near what you might call civilization."

"Why? I'll take you into the town, and..." A picture of Army personnel swarming over the terrain nearby suddenly appeared in my mind. "The government is lookin for you!" I blurted.

"Yes, they would want very much to take me prisoner."

"That's bullshit!" I exclaimed. But I knew the military. "Do you know if they have any of your... colleagues?" 

"Yes and no," he replied in my head.

"I don't understand."

"They have their shells... and that's all they have."

"You mean..."

"They are without life, I'm afraid."

"That's... so sad," I managed, but I wasn't really, having seen thousands of dead and wounded on the beach at Normandy, and other places in Europe.

"Thank you for saying that, but they are far better off that way than having been taken prisoner. That would have been unbearable to them... to any of us."

"What can you do? I mean, if I can't transport you out of the desert, how will you survive?"

"You can be of great service to me."

"Name it, anything I can do," I thought, transmitting my thoughts to Arthur.

"I will stay here. If you would go into the nearest municipality and procure a case of Qvpty, I would be most appreciative."


The Storytellers Ch. 01



"Will you talk me into locating you when I return?"

"Certainly, and if they capture you, all you need do is tell me mentally of the danger and I will not emerge from hiding. But please, should that happen, remember to drop the Qvpty off at the earliest opportunity."

"I will, Arthur, I will," and to my surprise, he shook my hand and I had the warmest feeling, a pleasant tingle that remained with me all the way into the town of Corona.



The Storytellers Ch. 02



I bought the case of oil and that day's newspaper; for just as Arthur had revealed to me through his thoughts, the town was swarming with Army personnel. They appeared to be preparing a search, and the constant stream of vehicles arriving proved my point, they were definitely organizing a massive hunt for survivors of the crash. 

I went into a bar and grill, ordered a sandwich and a beer, and opened the paper. My eyes scanned the page. I have transcribed the article as follows for you, the reader:

Roswell Daily Record

July 8, 1947

RAAF Captures Flying Saucer on Ranch in Roswell Region

The intelligence office of the 509th Bombardment group at Roswell Army Air Field announced at noon today, that the field has come into possession of a flying saucer. 

According to information released by the department, over authority of Maj. J. A. Marcel, intelligence officer, the disk was recovered on a ranch in the Roswell vicinity, after an unidentified rancher had notified Sheriff Geo. Wilcox, here, that he had found the instrument on his premises. 

Major Marcel and a detail from his department went to the ranch and recovered the disk, it was stated. After the intelligence officer here had inspected the instrument it was flown to higher headquarters. The intelligence office stated that no details of the saucer's construction or its appearance had been revealed. 

Mr. and Mrs. Dan Wilmot apparently were the only persons in Roswell who saw what they thought was a flying disk. They were sitting on their porch at 105 South Penn. last Wednesday night at about ten o'clock when a large glowing object zoomed out of the sky from the southeast, going in a northwesterly direction at a high rate of speed. Wilmot called Mrs. Wilmot's attention to it and both ran down into the yard to watch. It was in sight less than a minute, perhaps 40 or 50 seconds, Wilmot estimated. 

Wilmot said that it appeared to him to be about 1,500 feet high and going fast. He estimated between 400 and 500 miles per hour. In appearance it looked oval in shape like two inverted saucers, faced mouth to mouth, or like two old type washbowls placed, together in the same fashion. The entire body glowed as though light were showing through from inside, though not like it would inside, though not like it would be if a light were merely underneath. 

From where he stood Wilmot said that the object looked to be about 5 feet in size, and making allowance for the distance it was from town he figured that it must have been 15 to 20 feet in diameter, though this was just a guess. Wilmot said that he heard no sound but that Mrs. Wilmot said she heard a swishing sound for a very short time. The object came into view from the southeast and disappeared over the treetops in the general vicinity of six mile hill. 

Wilmot, who is one of the most respected and reliable citizens in town, kept the story to himself hoping that someone else would come out and tell about having seen one, but finally today decided that he would go ahead and tell about it. The announcement that the RAAF was in possession of one came only a few minutes after he decided to release the details of what he had seen. 

Arthur had known an all out hunt would be mounted for any survivors, or even bodies, lest some civilian discover one and alert the press. A spaceship, with honest-to-god aliens aboard had to be the biggest news since the end of the war, and maybe even bigger.

Without attracting any attention to myself, I finished my sandwich, bought another beer and got back in the Desoto. I gassed up at the local filling station and picked up a case of motor oil. No one even gave me a second glance.

Except for the occasional military jeep, there was almost no traffic on the roads leading in and out of Corona. I kept glancing in my rear view mirror until I was positive no one was tailing me. I even stopped several times and got out of the car to study the sky for aerial surveillance. Satisfied that I was alone in the desert, I returned to the site where I'd left Arthur as the sun was setting in the west.

But he was nowhere to be found. "Where are you, Arthur?" I thought.

"Over here, to your right," his voice said in my mind.

Whirling to my right, I saw nothing but the desert. Then I detected the slightest of movements and knew it was Arthur using a form of camouflage. 

I had to laugh. "No one could possibly find you with that stuff," I said. 

"Give them a few months, or years," he replied. "The military are making great strides scientifically now that the World War has concluded."

"Are you kidding?" I said, "Almost everyone has gone home, the war's over."

"There's the Berlin Airlift. And Russia and China to think about," Arthur said astutely. 

I realized he was absolutely right. The Cold War, not yet officially named as such, had already begun. The Berlin Airlift had been implemented with great success, and many other potential conflicts had been avoided or aborted. But it was readily apparent that the Russians were a thorn in America's side.

"Your world is on the brink of nuclear war," he said, opening a can of oil and taking a sip, as a gentleman might from a glass of fine wine. "The Russians and the Chinese will stop at nothing to learn how to make their own bomb. That means they will pay exorbitant amounts of money to those with sufficient knowledge or means to provide that information to them. They are a persistent people, and will succeed in this, although it may take longer than they think to accomplish."

I had no reason to doubt him, but still, I was stunned.

I decided that we had better get out of the area, and shared my thoughts with Arthur.

"How do you propose to do this?" he said telepathically. 

"I'll hide you in my car, and drive to a safer place; it's obvious enough."

"Yes, but . . ." his thought trailed off.

"You suspect there may be other survivors around?"

"No, there are no survivors. I am certain of that."

"Then what, Arthur?"

"There may be evidence left that has not been found by the military."

"Can you locate it before they find us?"

"I do not know. But I feel I should make the attempt."

Our little impasse was resolved for us when the unmistakable sound of a helicopter reached our ears.

"If we can hear them, they can see us," I yelled, motioning him to get in my car.

Arthur opened the front door and leapt in, and lay on the floor on the passenger side. I waited a few seconds and then waved at the helicopter; whose pilot I'm certain gave me a close inspection while ignoring my waving at him. Then to both Arthur's and my relief, they moved rapidly away in an easterly direction. 

"Roy, I bow to your superior knowledge about the situation," Arthur said. "We should leave as soon as possible."

"They know we're here. At least that I'm here, so we can't stay. If they spot us driving toward Corona it will make us less suspicious."

"Why do you think that?"

"Why would an alien trying to escape head directly into their encampment?"

"To lose one's self in their midst, of course," he replied.

"So it's not a good idea?"

"I do not mean that," he said. "It is a sound strategy, and may well work."

"We have to go in that direction," I said. "We can pass on through without stopping, and once we're clear of the area we can head in any direction you want to go."

And that's what we did. It was dark as we approached Corona, Arthur lay on the floor next to the back seat, with all manner of paperbacks and newspapers and empty beer cans placed on and around him. At Arthur's suggestion, I stopped in Corona, essentially to allay any suspicion that just passing through might rouse, and bought food and water, and at Arthur's suggestion, a late edition of the local newspaper and some more oil.

I decided on Los Angeles as our initial destination for no other reason than it was my original destination, and placed a significant distance between us and the military forces combing the countryside looking for Arthur and his spaceship. I stopped again for gas when we entered California, and decided to make use of a rundown motel to rest for the night. Once inside Arthur and I read the Roswell newspaper for any new information they may have allowed to leak out. There was plenty. I showed it to Arthur, knowing instinctively that he could read English and probable every other language spoken on Earth.

Roswell Daily Record

July 8, 1947

Special Edition

AP −An examination by the army revealed last night that mysterious objects found on a lonely New Mexico ranch was a harmless high-altitude weather balloon - not a grounded flying disk. Excitement was high until Brig. Gen. Roger M. Ramey, commander of the Eighth air forces with headquarters

The bundle of tinfoil, broken wood beams and rubber remnants of a balloon were sent here yesterday by army air transport in the wake of reports that it was a flying disk. But the general said the objects were the crushed remains of a ray wind target used to determine the direction and velocity of winds at high altitudes. Warrant Officer Irving Newton, forecaster at the army air forces weather station here said, "We use them because they go much higher than the eye can see." 

The weather balloon was found several days ago near the center of New Mexico by Rancher W. W. Brazel. He said he didn't think much about it until he went into Corona, N. M., last Saturday and heard the flying disk reports. He returned to his ranch, 85 miles northwest of Roswell, and recovered the wreckage of the balloon, which he had placed under some brush. 

Then Brazel hurried back to Roswell, where he reported his find to the sheriff's office. The sheriff called the Roswell air field and Maj. Jesse A. Marcel, 509th bomb group intelligence officer was assigned to the case. 

Col. William H. Blanchard, commanding officer of the bomb group, reported the find to General Ramey and the object was flown immediately to the army air field here. Ramey went on the air here last night to announce the New Mexico discovery was not a flying disk. Newton said that when rigged up, the instrument "looks like a six-pointed star, is silvery in appearance and rises in the air like a kite." 

In Roswell, the discovery set off a flurry of excitement. Sheriff George Wilcox's telephone lines were jammed. Three calls came from England, one of them from The London Daily Mail, he said. A public relations officer here said the balloon was in his office "and it'll probably stay right there." Newton, who made the examination, said some 80 weather stations in the U. S. were using that type of balloon and that it could have come from any of them. He said he had sent up identical balloons during the invasion of Okinawa to determine ballistics information for heavy guns. 

The press release caused a media feeding frenzy and phone lines into New Mexico and the Pentagon in Washington D.C. became jammed as reporters clamored for more details. Within an hour of the release, the head of the Eighth Air Force in Fort Worth, Texas, Brigadier General Roger Ramey began changing the story. The object retrieved was now a weather balloon with "hexagonal" radar target attachment. He would later describe it on the radio as "remnants of a tin foil-covered box kite and a rubber balloon" and denied there were any identification markings or instruments found with it. 

United Press also reported that Ramey said, "He couldn't let anybody look at the thing or photograph it because Washington had clamped a 'security lid' on all but the sketchiest details." However, he thought "...it was nothing to get excited about. It looks to me like the remnant of a weather balloon and a radar reflector." He said he would bring in a weather officer to confirm this. Soon after, a weather officer was summoned to make the identification official. Ramey had pictures taken of the weather balloon and radar target displayed in his office, which he said was the recovered Roswell debris. 

Gen. Ramey also had Major Marcel make a statement for the press. Instead of the object being found "sometime last week" in the original press release, Marcel was quoted by Associated Press as saying the object was found "3 weeks previously" (or mid-June). Further, when Brazel first found the debris he "bundled the tinfoil and broken wooden beams of the kite and the torn synthetic rubber remains of the balloon together and rolled it under some brush." 

When Brazel first learned of the "flying disks" on Saturday night, July 5, he "hurried home, dug up the remnants of the kite balloon on Sunday, and Monday headed for Roswell to report his find to the Sheriff's office."(AP story) 

While the new date of discovery agreed with Brazel's account a few hours later of first finding the debris on June 14, it conflicted sharply with his story of when and how he collected it: "At the time Brazel was in a hurry to get his round made and he did not pay much attention to it. ...on July 4 he ...went back to the spot and gathered up quite a bit of the debris." 

"Smells like a cover up," I said to Arthur.

"Cover up?" he said, quizzically.

"Um, cover up, a kind of twisting of actual fact. In short, they're lying to the public. This stuff about the spaceship being a balloon is purely to distract the public from the truth of the matter."

"Yes, that's exactly what they're doing. I wouldn't expect anything else from them. To allow the public to find out that we came from another planet would most likely cause a panic in the streets worldwide. That strategy should work to my advantage," Arthur said thoughtfully.

"Well, that's good," I offered, "but how can you contact the next ship that comes here looking for you?"

For the first time I saw Arthur smile and it was a beautiful sight to behold.

"Why, the same way I talk to you," he replied sending the words directly into my mind.

I nodded and continued to scan the newspaper. Another sidebar item provided yet more information: 

In Roswell, the discovery set off a flurry of excitement. Sheriff George Wilcox's telephone lines were jammed. Three calls came from England, one of them from The London Daily Mail, he said. A public relations officer here said the balloon was in his office "and it'll probably stay right there." Newton, who made the examination, said some 80 weather stations in the U. S. were using that type of balloon and that it could have come from any of them. He said he had sent up identical balloons during the invasion of Okinawa to determine ballistics information for heavy guns. 

The following morning, I picked up a copy of the local paper and found the story still on the front page. It read as follows: 

The press release caused a media feeding frenzy and phone lines into New Mexico and the Pentagon in Washington D.C. became jammed as reporters clamored for more details. Within an hour of the release, the head of the Eighth Air Force in Fort Worth, Texas, Brigadier General Roger Ramey began changing the story. The object retrieved was now a weather balloon with "hexagonal" radar target attachment. He would later describe it on the radio as "remnants of a tin foil-covered box kite and a rubber balloon" and denied there were any identification markings or instruments found with it. 

United Press also reported that Ramey said, "He couldn't let anybody look at the thing or photograph it because Washington had clamped a 'security lid' on all but the sketchiest details." However, he thought "...it was nothing to get excited about. It looks to me like the remnant of a weather balloon and a radar reflector." He said he would bring in a weather officer to confirm this. Soon after, a weather officer was summoned to make the identification official. Ramey had pictures taken of the weather balloon and radar target displayed in his office, which he said was the recovered Roswell debris. 

Gen. Ramey also had Major Marcel make a statement for the press. Instead of the object being found "sometime last week" in the original press release, Marcel was quoted by Associated Press as saying the object was found "3 weeks previously" (or mid-June). 

Further, when Brazel first found the debris he "bundled the tinfoil and broken wooden beams of the kite and the torn synthetic rubber remains of the balloon together and rolled it under some brush." 

When Brazel first learned of the "flying disks" on Saturday night, July 5, he "hurried home, dug up the remnants of the kite balloon on Sunday, and Monday headed for Roswell to report his find to the Sheriff's office."(AP story) 

While the new date of discovery agreed with Brazel's account a few hours later of first finding the debris on June 14, it conflicted sharply with his story of when and how he collected it: "At the time Brazel was in a hurry to get his round made and he did not pay much attention to it. ...on July 4 he ...went back to the spot and gathered up quite a bit of the debris." 

"This is good," Arthur said, of the newspaper article.

"How so?" I asked.

"It lets the public know that it is possible for another life to visit their planet. The fact that the Army denies my vessel exists serves two purposes: First, the issue is now subject to public scrutiny. Second, it limits the length the Army can go to in order to locate me."

He touched my left shoulder and I felt a great warmth flow through me.

"I would like to go to Utah. There is a mountain range there, and I will wait there for my friends to come to my aid."

"What about subsistence and shelter?"

"I can make do, believe me, Roy. I would require just some of the motor oil, and not that much. I'm replenished now. The excitement of the crash and having to watch the others perish caused me to use up much more than I would normally."

"You saw the others perish?"

"I heard them, each one of them, as they died."

"How many were there?"

"We were four in all. That's all, just the four of us. We have been observing you Earthlings for thousands of years, coming to visit every hundred years or so. We have left marks in various places around the world. It was inevitable that we do so. The ancient peoples of your world thought us gods and built monuments to us. When your communication skills improved we decided to keep our distance, and observe from afar. Still, your ancients told and retold the stories of our visits. You still talk of our visits from thousands of years ago. You call them legends, myths, and in some instances religions have sprung up using those visits as their basis, or at least to partly support their basis." 

"Can you tell me about your spaceships?"

"What's to tell, Roy? They are small in size, when compared with those bombers your country used to bomb Germany and Japan. Each ship . . . yes, there's more than one. Although I don't think any others are still here. Normally they berth a crew of five. They are capable of traveling huge distances in a short time. They are built from materials not available here on Earth, and they are fueled by a substance you will not conceive of for some time yet."

"Have you or your species . . . is that all right to say?"

"Perfectly all right, Roy."

"Well, have you given mankind any . . . gifts during your visits?"

"Why, yes, of course we have. And many suggestions that later led to amazing discoveries; a few of which even surprised us."

"Can you give me an example or two?"

"We enabled mankind to improve on their ability to communicate. First with language, later picture graphs. You have several ways of describing this: hieroglyphics, drawings in caves . . . most but not all in France. I should add that more will be discovered in time. And from this you made the jump to the written word . . . all by yourselves. For that you deserve our congratulations," he said, with what passed for a small smile.




The Storytellers Ch. 02



Arthur seemed to warm to answering the question and continued. "In the 4th century BC, by your calendar, the Greek philosopher, Plato named the one thing that makes people discover new things. He said that, "Necessity is the mother of invention." But even before people could realize what Plato was saying, their needs caused them to look around and invent tools to help themselves. 

"I personally had several discussions with one of Plato's contemporaries, a man named Archimedes, a very bright mathematician from ancient Greece. He discovered the relation between the surface and volume of a sphere and its circumscribing cylinder. This, of course, was none other than pi. I helped him see the possibilities, and he went on to formulate a hydrostatic principle based on that mathematical relationship called Archimedes' principle. He invented the Archimedes screw - a screw-shaped machine or hydraulic screw that raised water from a lower to a higher level.

Archimedes also invented the catapult, the lever, the compound pulley, and the burning mirror (a system of mirrors that burned the boots and ships of invading armies by focusing the sun's rays). Although Archimedes is credited with inventing the screw in the 3rd century BC, his screw was not like today's screw fastener, but actually two other screw-type devices."

"I'm impressed," I said, "and on behalf of mankind I would like to express our appreciation to you and yours."

Arthur went on as if he hadn't heard me. But of course, he had.

"Now the earliest dated printed book known to you is called the "Diamond Sutra", printed in China in 868 CE. However, suspicions that book printing might well have occurred long before may someday be proven correct. A man named Wu saved two of my comrades from a saber-toothed tiger. When asked what we might do to repay his kindness, he only asked that we assist him with a problem he was working on at the time. That was a means of using the characters of type he had carved from lava rock so they might tell a story, or legend as was the case during those years. We were delighted to help him out. Unfortunately, nothing came of it until about 200 years later, when a movable clay type was invented . . . again, in China.

"Much, much later, and we had nothing to do with this, Gutenberg, a goldsmith and businessman from the mining town of Mainz in southern Germany, borrowed money to help him invent a technology that changed the world of printing. Gutenberg invented the printing press with replaceable/moveable wooden or metal letters in 1436, and perfected the process in 1440. This method of printing can be credited not only for a revolution in the production of books, but also for fostering rapid development in the sciences, arts and religion through the transmission of texts by lowering the cost of printed material, making it available to the masses."

Winking at me, Arthur asked, "Is that enough for you?"

"Yes, yes, it certainly is."

"Now, Roy, I've touched on several things in the last few minutes. But what I want to know is how I can repay you for the kindness you've shown me. I would also add, saving this miserable creature's hide as well."

"I. . . I don't know. . ." My reporter's skills came to the fore, and I turned the question around, saying: "Let me ask you, what I should ask for?"

Arthur tested me by asking, "Unparalleled wealth, or knowledge?" 

"I'm not really that interested in riches," I said, and it was true. "Knowledge, now that's something I cannot dismiss lightly. May I hold that in reserve?"

"Certainly," he replied.

"This may sound silly," I said.

"Go on, Roy."

"Well, the reason I found you in the first place is because I was on my way to Los Angeles to gather material for a novel. I want it to be good. I want it to be very good."

"Yes," Arthur said, gently prompting me to continue.

"But so far my attempts at putting a novel together have eluded me. I mean, I get going, I've actually written several novels, only to have them peter out for. . . well, to be perfectly honest. . . lack of substance."

"And why is that?"

Since Arthur appeared to be sincerely interested, I opened up and related the input received from various editors who had read the material. Arthur listened carefully, nodding his over-sized head with the seasoned skill of a good listener.

"But the subject matter is proving difficult, eh?

"Yes and no. It seems there are too many novels about the war. So I decided to change course and write about a murder that occurred in Los Angles earlier this year. It's known as the Black Dahlia Case. I don't expect you've heard about it."

He didn't answer me immediately, but appeared to give careful consideration to his next words, "You're convinced that you can write a novel, then?"

"Certainly," I replied.

"You wouldn't mind doing some... difficult research?"

"No," I replied, somewhat puzzled over his statement, "not at all, Arthur. I like burying myself in research."

Arthur appeared to be mulling something over in his mind. Of course, he could read mine, but I was not gifted enough to read his.

"Would a true story possibly interest you?"

"I'm all ears."

"No, you're not. You're very evenly proportioned," he said, taking me literally.

"Okay, okay, please get on with the story!"

"Yes, well, it's about a fellow named, well, he's had several names, but his original name was Bill Harbidge."

"Harbidge," I repeated. "I've never heard of him."

"Of course not, but if you choose to write about him, he'll become famous enough."

"Who is he?"

"Ah, now that's the story, Roy, that's the story." 



The Storytellers Ch. 03



The Catcher

"Yes, well, it's about a fellow named, well, he's had several names, but I'll use his original name, Bill Harbidge."

"Harbidge," I repeated. "I've never heard of him."

"Of course not, but if you choose to write about him, he'll become famous enough."

"Who is he?"

"Ah, now that's the story, Roy, that's the story."

I lit up a Philip Morris, ground the match into the sand, and said, "I'm listening, Arthur."

"Good, I thought that would get your attention."

"It did."

"Bill Harbidge was a baseball player back in the 1880's. He was a catch... I believe."

"Do you mean a catcher?"

"Yes, a catcher. Thank you. And he was good at it, although his career was relatively short. He earned my gratitude one day, and I rewarded him by giving him the ability to prolong his baseball career as long as he wanted to. He informed me that baseball players cannot play indefinitely; that their careers, as he called it, tended to last some ten to fifteen years."

"That's about right even by today's standards. A very few manage to play for twenty years, or so, but that's very few."

"Yes, and so I stretched the gift out by allowing him to take over the body and mind of such persons as he thought might prolong his playing days, even if it were not as Bill Harbidge."

I gulped at the thought, and asked, "How did you manage that?"

"I won't get into how I managed it, but will tell you what he was able to do. I gave him a special word, which when uttered in the proximity of an individual, would permit Bill to shed his current persona and...."

"Excuse me," I said interrupting him. But just what do you mean by 'persona?'"

"I mean the personality, character and . . . well, the very being of the person addressed by Bill. He takes them over, and leaves his previous body."

"That's impossible!" I exclaimed.

"Is it? Bill has been doing it for over fifty years, with a great deal of success, I might add. I should also mention that the body left behind is intact, retaining all the memories previously held, up to the moment that − let's call it, the spirit − leaves to join the new body."

"You... you're not kidding, are you?"

"No, I don't kid, Roy."

"How... does this thing work?"

"Let me go into it with some detail. Bill felt badly that his career was ending and he had not accomplished his dream; which was to be a great player. I rewarded him − he had saved my life, much as you did, Roy. Under different circumstances of course, but in any event he did save me and as a reward for so doing, I gave him a gift. The gift empowered him to change places with the person of his choice, ostensibly to improve his chances to become a great baseball player. But I would point out that he could change places with anyone he chose, man or woman, and as often as he wanted to do so."

"And you know that he's done just that, don't you?"

"Yes, I do."

"So, given that he can change places with virtually anyone, anytime, and as often as he desires, how am I expected to find him?"

"There's the rub, isn't it?"

"Arthur, are you playing with me?"

"Yes and no. Will you take me to Utah, now?"

"I have more questions, but... yes, of course I will. Do you have a specific location?"

"Bryce Canyon. We rendezvous there often."

"Fine, but I want...I need to know much more about this body changing."

"I prefer calling it shape-shifting."

"Alright, Utah, it is." I said and started the Desoto.

And so we drove north slicing through parts of Nevada into Utah, and after two days of straight driving, arrived at what Arthur described as a scientist's laboratory and a child's playground. He told me that the canyon and surrounding area exist in three distinct climate zones: spruce/fir forest, Ponderosa Pine forest, and Pinyon Pine/juniper forest. 

As excited as I'd ever seen him, Arthur went on to extol the many species of birds, mammals and plants contained in and around the canyon.

I fought to keep from yawning. I was tired from all the driving, but more than that I was somewhat annoyed at the fact that Arthur had thus far resisted my attempts to extract additional information about Bill Harbidge.

"I remember when the "Spires" were once mountains," he said. I glanced at Arthur then; I had seen pictures of the "spires," no more than thin limestone peaks, worn away over eons, by the elements. Had he really "seen" them that long ago?"

"How long ago was that, Arthur?"

"Goodness, I'm not sure. It had to have been at least a million years ago."

"You're telling me that you're a million years old?" I said the disbelief evident in my tone.

"No, not at all, I'm only... let's see, in Earth years... about 133,000 years old."

For some reason I accepted his answer and never doubted him. "Um, Arthur, there's a discrepancy somewhere in your last statement."

"No, there's no... discrepancy," he replied. Beings from Crytos share their memories at will. We have no secrets from one another as you Earthlings do. So I can merely probe, let's call it a kind of memory bank, for any thoughts or sights that anyone from Crytos has had... ever. And, yes, we have been visiting Earth and other planets for much longer than that. Why I could tell you. . ."

"What?" I asked, knowing he would go no further on that subject.

"Never mind, Roy," he said, and then, "Oh, turn right!"

I followed his direction and turned right. According to the wooden sign, we were headed toward a place labeled "Inspiration Point."

When we arrived, I pulled the car over to the side of the road. It was a scenic lookout, across the canyon, and in the not too distant future it would become a major point of interest for tourists, America was not yet a mobile society and Inspiration Point, for all intents and purposes, was still undiscovered.

"This is where I will meet my brethren," he informed me, and I could almost swear I saw a tear form in the corner of his eye. But of course, I knew I was imagining it.

"Will they be coming soon?" I asked, knowing it was a dumb question.

"Soon is relative, but yes, they will be coming soon."

"I guess what I really meant was should I wait with you, or will a hundred years pass?"

"Oh, you'll be leaving me here, Roy. I can't impose on your generosity any longer."

"What about my novel?" I asked, suddenly concerned that I was to be abandoned without the necessary information he had promised to impart to me.

"Do you remember what I've told you about Bill thus far?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Let me add this, then; when you find him, call him Bill. No matter what, always call him by that name and no other. I cannot emphasize enough that you not make the mistake of calling him by any of the names that he has used since leaving Bill Harbidge." 

"All right, may I ask why?"

"Roy, I am not at all sure that Bill has remained a good boy. I have serious doubts that he has used the power as I thought he would."

"Arthur, is Bill dangerous?"

"Not to you, nor do you pose any real threat to him. Again, I see no reason to fear him as long as you call him Bill. Please, Roy, keep that thought foremost in mind when conversing with him."

He paused reflecting on his words, and then nodded as if assuring himself that he had remembered everything of import to be imparted to me.

He nodded again, recalling an omission. "Roy, there is one last thing."

"Yes, Arthur?"

"Don't trust him."

"All right, I won't. But how can I find him? If he's changed personas, and you say he has, how can I ever locate him?"

"He told me he wanted to become a great baseball player. That was at the turn of the century. Does that help?"

My mind raced back over baseball history: Ruth, Cobb, Collins, Lajoie, Mathewson, or Walter Johnson? Or had he chosen someone else who never achieved greatness? Worse, had he opted to go in another direction?

Suddenly, I heard Arthur speaking in my head: "He's been many people, of that I'm sure. You can search for him . . . but perhaps you might let him find you."

"Will I see or hear from you again, Arthur?"

"It is possible. First I must reconnect with my shipmates and confirm to them exactly what happened."

"I thought that they could listen in... or somehow know what's happening as it happens?"

"Yes and no," he said, in that contradictory manner I was beginning to tire of.

"Please, Arthur, could you embellish on that for my sake?"

"Of course I can. Yes, they probably heard our last words. But it was a time of extreme excitement. Our last words may not have been the best suited to clarify what was happening at the time."

"What about our subsequent conversations?" I asked.

"There again, I've told you certain things that might not be correctly interpreted by my shipmates."

"You mean you've lied to me." I stated as a fact.

"No, I wouldn't lie to you."

"But you might mislead me, by stating things so that I would misunderstand them."

He nodded in agreement. "That may be so," he admitted.

I was angry with him, but held off saying something I might regret later.

"Arthur," I said after my feelings were under control. "I'm going to Los Angeles. I'm going to pursue the Black Dahlia murder. I don't for a minute believe in the poppycock about Bill whatshisname."

"His name is, or was Bill Harbidge. You can look him up. He played for the Hartford team."

"Yeah, and he's a... shape-shifter."

"Yes, he is."

"And I should let him find me."

"Exactly."

"Pardon me if I don't drop everything and wait for him to call on me."

"Please, your sarcasm is not called for. You saved me, and I agreed to provide you with the story of a lifetime. Why berate me?"

"Because, Arthur, I am having some difficulty in believing anything you tell me."

"Very well, I'll tell you this. Go to Los Angeles. Talk with the police and newspaper people there. Investigate the crime. You will not uncover anything new. When you are satisfied that that is the case, do some research on Bill Harbidge. At least know who you are looking for. Then place an ad in the major newspapers in the country. Mention his name. Mention baseball, and anything else you feel might matter. He will respond to you. He may think it's me trying to find him. But he will contact you. Then meet him, interview him. I guarantee you will be able to write the novel of the century."

I was floored by what he said. It was probably the most information he'd conveyed thus far. 

And eventually, that's exactly what I did. 

We said our goodbyes a few minutes later, and I got back into my Desoto after making certain he had everything he needed, and drove off, with Los Angeles my destination.

The City of Angeles

I found a dump on Ventura Boulevard, and drove to the site of the murder to familiarize myself with the area. Then I found a bar and went in to quench my thirst. It was a typical bar, with minimal decorations and some beat-up furniture. But to many of the locals it was their meeting place and social club. In a more upscale area one might have called it a sportsmen's club, but along North Clark Street that would be too much of an affectation. There was a bar along one wall, with stools, and eight bare tables with chairs along the opposite wall. Most of the patrons were drinking beer, and listening to the jukebox. The men seated to my right at the bar were essentially displaced persons, ex-servicemen having returned from the war and trying to find their way back into civilian life. The atmosphere was light, almost frivolous, their ages ranged from about twenty, to mid-thirties, and they spent most of the time drinking and bantering one another, occasionally telling a war story or two. But most of them had heard enough of those to last a lifetime. 

Up in the corner of the bar was a television set showing a cartoon of Felix the Cat. The picture quality was terrible, but it was still getting a lot of attention. Television was just coming on the market commercially, and nobody I knew had a set at home. I took a look in the rear room to see if a gin-rummy game was going on, there was, but since they had enough players I went back to the bar area.

A red-headed guy, named Frank, about thirty, was reminiscing about London's Piccadilly Circus and the local girls who were called Piccadilly Commandos. He was talking about a certain girl that he had dated. The girl's last name was Catchpole, which led to a lot of comments from the others at the bar; but eventually Frank got to tell his story, and it went like this. On their second date, they boarded a double-decker bus to go to her apartment. They go to the upper deck of the bus to take their seats, and Frank notices they are the only ones up there. He decides to start his romancing early, so he reaches down into her blouse. She immediately pushes his hand away. He tried groping her again, only to be rejected even more forcibly. Undaunted, Frank tried getting his hand up her skirt, causing her to cry out, "Any more of this familiarity, Yank, and the whole fuck's off!" After the laughter died down, a couple of guys to my right began discussing their war experiences. 

One wore a fedora, one was bald.

The Fedora said, "Do you remember what it felt like when you went overseas?"

Baldy replied, "As well as I remember my own name."

"Bet you remember most everything happen while you were over there, too."

"Not really. I remember guys getting killed, and the near misses I had. I remember some shitty details I pulled. But so much was just waiting."

"I know, I know," the fedora said. "Me being in the Navy; at sea most of the time, seems like almost everyday was the same."

"But you remember the combat, and all, right?"

"Well, I spent most of the time below deck and didn't see the action. I mean, we saw plenty of it; but me... I didn't see shit because I was down below running the engine room." 

"I know what you mean." 

"Anyways, we took a torpedo and I lost my hand. I didn't know anything until I woke up in a hospital a week or so later. I had some bad burns and all, but damned if I know who pulled me out of the engine room, or got me on the life boat." 

This was the first I'd noticed the fedora had a hook for a hand. I guess I could say the same for the bald-headed guy too, because he was staring at the hook the other guy had for a hand. 

Baldy let a moment pass, then said, "Christ, that's something, you know?" 

"Actually, I'm a very lucky guy," the man with the hook said with a grin.

"Yeah... just nervous out of the service, I guess, huh?" 

Ignoring the comment, the man with the hook said, "The thing that scares me most is that everybody is trying to rehabilitate me. All I want's a good job, something with a future, a little house big enough for me and my wife. Give me that much and I'm rehabilitated." He clicked his claw as one might their fingers, "like that."

"Well, I'd say that's not too much to ask." 

"Are you married?"

The bald-headed guy said, "Yup."

"How long?"

"Going on twenty years." 

"Twenty years? Holy smoke! Me and my girl didn't even have twenty days before I went over. I married her when I was in training in Norfolk. 

"Well, now you and your wife will have a chance to get acquainted." 

I saw the man with the hook give the other an odd look. "Yeah, well, it's been swell; but I gotta run. Can't keep the little lady waiting."

Swallowing the last of his beer, the bald-headed guy said, "Me too; although after all these years I don't think she cares all that much."

They left, together, although once outside they went in opposite directions. I ordered my third mug of Pabst Blue Ribbon and thought about my own situation. Although I'd been wounded I was lucky. I had a good job, but wasn't satisfied. Yet I had my whole life ahead of me. A hell of a lot of good men I'd fought with and against didn't. Then I put that out of my mind and began to review the details of the Elizabeth Short murder that I'd gathered from the local library.

A moment later, the sex kitten strolled into the bar. 

She was spectacularly good-looking, albeit in a vaguely threateningly way. Her hair was auburn and long; tied loosely at the back with a red ribbon. Her eyes were blue, and her skin was pale enough to make the hints of red at her cheeks look like twin sunsets, while her lips would have kept a Freudian symposium going for a month. She wore a dark blouse that wasn't quite transparent, yet still managed to hint at what appeared to be very expensive black lace lingerie. Her gray skirt ended just above the knee, and she wore a pair of black stockings, and I could only imagine the lingerie that was holding them up. 

She looked like the kind of woman who would promise a man a night of ecstasy unlike anything he had previously imagined, but only as long as she could kill him slowly afterward. And judging from the expression on her face as she sat down only one barstool removed from me; I thought she was about to make me that kind of offer.

She shook out a Chesterfield, and brought it to those mesmerizing lips. I picked up my Zippo from the bar, and quickly thumbed the flint wheel, firing the lighter, and held it out in front of her. She accepted the light, and after inhaling blew the smoke out through her nostrils. She gave me a faint smile and said, "Thanks, my name's Belva, and you are?"

"Roy," I replied, and decided to let it hang right there.

"Roy, that's a nice name. Are you from LA?"

"No, Columbia, Missouri. And you?"

"Oh, I'm just a couple blocks from here, over on Larrabee."

I nodded, but for some reason said nothing.

"You gonna flap your lips, or what?" she said.

Startled into action, I stammered then said, "You work nearby?" I thought it a safe enough conversational gambit since I wasn't the type who easily conversed with gorgeous dames.

"Yeah, you know the insurance company down the block? I usually stop in here and have a martini before heading home.

"Potent drink, the martini," I said before taking a swallow of my beer.

She nodded in return, as the bartender, obviously recognizing her, brought a Martini shaker and wide-stemmed glass to her, and after setting down the glass, made a small production of pouring her gin into the glass and then adding an olive on a toothpick to it.

"Perfect, Joey," she told the bartender. "Cheers, Roy," she said, toasting me. I raised my mug in return, and smiled.

"And you, Roy, you work around here too?" 

"I write for the Chicago Tribune," I told her, hoping it would impress the hell out of her. It didn't seem to, as she went on about other things like how difficult it was to buy everyday items. 

"I mean, rationing is over..." she said, "So where the hell is everything?"

"Well," I offered, I couldn't help but notice you're wearing those black stockings...."

"Yeah, after waiting an hour and a half in a line. You know..." she paused then went on, "...the rich keep getting richer. They must be stocking up on the goodies until we'll willingly pay more than the stuff is worth to have it." Then she laughed and my opinion of her as a potential black widow type was modified to that of an enormously desirable woman.

"You may have something there," I replied.

Someone tossed a nickel in the jukebox and a Glenn Miller standard began its throbbing beat. I asked Belva if she'd like to dance. "I'd love to," she replied, and we both hopped off our stools and headed for the postage-stamp sized dance floor. 

A dead hoofer pulled his Jane off to one side making room for us as we began to dance. I wasn't a great dancer, especially with the Lindy. But I was capable enough, and soon we found a comfortable rhythm, and segued into a slower number, featuring the Benny Goodman Trio. 

Belva felt awfully good in my arms and she appeared to like what I was pressing against her as well. When the music ended, I strolled over to the jukebox and fed it a quarter – enough for five tunes. I selected three slow numbers, two by Sinatra, and a couple Lindy's.




The Storytellers Ch. 03



Belva had a full set of curves which nobody had seen fit to improve on. She was giving me one of her best smiles, ( as it turned out, she had several) and her mouth was as sensual as I could stand without excusing myself to run into the stall in the men's room and relieve myself.

She looked at me with a sort of absent expression, and then gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket. "You're something, you know?" she said softly, as we melded together under the spell of Sinatra's smooth, mellow voice. 

"And you're not?" I replied, as my dick tapped at her groin. She was listening to me with her lips slightly parted, and a rapt expression on her face, as if she was looking at the Dalai Lhama. Then she laughed softly, and moved her hips a little faster than the music called for. I began to hope that this might just turn into something very nice for the two of us.

Apparently Belva was on the same wave-length, for as the second consecutive slow dance came to an end, she whispered in my ear, "I don't care for being stared at. Why don't we go to my place?"

I looked around, ready to fight to protect my ladies honor.

"No, don't start nothing; let's just go."

"Now you're cooking with gas," I replied, and pulled her tight against me, making certain she could feel my manhood before we left.

*****

Ten minutes later we were in her apartment. She made us both strong drinks, and handed me mine. She sat down, and crossed her legs a little carelessly. She drank a sip or two. I mimicked her. But when she finished her glass with a big swallow, and set it aside, I held mine an inch from my mouth and waited.

She told me about her interests; of just moving to town and not having any friends. I told her about my interests, and how much I wanted to fill in her friendship void. She gazed at me with her blue eyes shining, and said, "Roy, you're really a very sweet guy." 

We both felt a need to take a drink at that point, and did.

"You were in the war, weren't you?"

I nodded, and when I saw that wasn't enough to satisfy her, added, "North Africa and then Normandy."

"Oh," she said. "Did you kill anyone?"

"I don't know," I told her. "It's very possible. I usually kept shooting until my rifle ran out of ammo. The last time I got shot before running out of ammo."

"My God, what did you do then?"

"I waited for the medics and hoped to hell whoever shot me didn't try again."

Her mouth dropped, and after a slight pause, she said, "I'm so sorry, I... I didn't think you'd been wounded." She quickly emptied her glass, and just as quickly filled it, or almost filled it.

I shook my head, declining another refill, and said, "That particular day it was pretty hard not to have been shot at least once."

"Oh, my! Roy, how many times..."

"Twice."

"Twice," she said, repeating my words. I made no effort to correct her, and took a sip of my drink, it was scotch on the rocks, I think.

Suddenly she said, "To hell with this polite drinking. You know, you're a very good-looking guy, but you're not drinking."

"I'm doing what I call drinking."

She shrugged her pale shoulders and recrossed her legs. I caught a glimpse of garter and pale white thigh, before remembering to keep my eyes where they belonged. She took a healthy slug of her drink, and put it down; missing the coaster it was intended for by several inches. I took that as a good sign.

"Where?" Belva asked.

"Where what?"

"Where were you shot? How bad was it?"

"In the chest, and..." I paused, "um, my derrière."

"Your derrière," she said with that feminine tinkle men love to hear. "I think we'll get along just fine." 

She reached for my glass and touched my fingers. Then despite my previous objection, she poured a fat slug of fine scotch into my glass, and added a drop of water. She gave herself the same treatment.

"You're a very good-looking dame," I volunteered, and adjusted my slacks.

"You're not getting drunk on me, are you?" she asked.

"I've been known to be soberer."

She put her head back and burst out laughing. I smiled sheepishly in response, and took a big gulp of scotch.

"You're gammin' me, ain't cha? Why don't you come and sit next to me?"

"I've been thinking about that for a while now," I said, "Ever since you crossed your legs."

She pulled at the hem of her dress. "These things are always up around my neck."

"That's exactly where I'd like to see it." I said, and grinned Cheshire-like, as I moved to sit beside her.

"You work fast," she said quietly, and took my nearly empty glass away from me and started to fill it up again.

I took the refilled glass out of her hand, transferred it to my left, and took hold of her left hand with my right. She squeezed my hand. I squeezed her back. After a moment, she looked down at the hand I was holding and laid her hand on mine and gently stroked the tops of my fingers, then traced my palm. 

"Show me..." she said her breath hot against my ear. "I mean show me the wound in your chest." 

Leaving my tie on, I opened my shirt. She ran her hand over my chest. My nipples hardened.

"What's your name again?"

"My name's Roy. And yours is Belva."

"How sweet, you remembered." She had her face turned toward me now, and looking into my eyes she stuck her tongue out and licked her lips. I didn't know anything about body language then; all I knew was that I had an overwhelming urge to kiss those wet, glistening, lips and see if I could get a taste of that delicious looking tongue.

She tweaked a nipple; and I croaked, "I did, didn't I."

"Kiss me, Roy." The sultry way she murmured my name had me falling in love with her. I pulled her to me; well maybe she fell into my arms, maybe she didn't, but I felt her embrace and I pulled back, uncertain as to how far this was going to go. 

Belva looked into my eyes, worked her eyelashes and opened her mouth to say something... and I kissed her. When I got to her mouth it was open and burning. Our tongues found each other hesitantly, as if daring each other to make the first move. We opened our mouths wider, allowing for our tongues to meet aggressively. Our lips sucked and constricted. 

I held Belva tightly to me, and she responded by sliding her hands down to the small of my back and pulling my hips against her own.

After the kiss, she laid her head on my shoulder, and continued to press her body against mine as she laid butterfly kisses on my cheeks. 

I may have been naive, even rusty, for it had been three years since I'd been with a woman; and that had been my second experience. There had been a brief coupling just before I'd shipped out for basic training. Holly. We'd gone to college together and she was sweet on me. It was the first time for both of us, and as such, it didn't go well. She wrote to me and me to her for a year, and then she met another guy. 

The Dear John letter followed, and that was that until I was limping along a Paris boulevard with the use of a cane while recovering from my wounds, when I met Edith. We spent an exhilarating weekend together in her garret. She taught me the way people are supposed to make love. She showed me how to go fast; how to go slow; how to please my partner, and I truly believe that I managed to please her. She certainly pleased me. Our brief encounter – I never saw her again − helped me recover faster than anyone had thought possible. But I'm rambling and should return to the matter at hand.

So, I wasn't completely dumb and put my arm around Belva's shoulder and held her even tighter than we had been before. With my arm that way, my hand was draped down the front of her shoulder at the very top of her breast, where the beginnings of its gentle slope just showed above the almost transparent, dark blouse she was wearing. With just the lightest of touches, I traced little circles on the black lace underneath, gradually increasing the pressure so that there was no way she could fail to notice. All through the process, my hand was shaking from nervousness and excitement.

After a few minutes of this action, Belva lifted her hand to cover mine. 

'Well, it was nice while it lasted,' I thought to myself, expecting her to move my hand back up to her shoulder. Instead, she pulled it down even further to where it covered her whole breast, and then pressed it against the up-thrust mound. My hand automatically cupped the firm, rounded globe and squeezed it gently.

"Ummm, that's so much nicer," Belva said, smiling. 

I lowered my mouth to hers and kissed her again. She put her hand on my neck and drew my face even closer. At first, the kiss lingered on just the lips, but then I tentatively thrust the tip of my tongue out and brushed it across the soft skin of lower lip. Her hand squeezed the back of my neck, and her tongue came out of hiding and touched mine, playing games with it. She had me tingling everywhere.

Our kiss continued for what seemed an eternity, but was really only a moment. We were now face to face, and I was squeezing and kneading her right breast, while our tongues swirled and delved into each other's mouth. 

Belva finally pulled back and broke the kiss. 

I took the opportunity to blurt out: "I won't make you do anything you don't want to. If tonight isn't feeling right, I can wait. I don't want to push you to anything. And I'm sorry if I already have."

Ignoring my every word, Belva said, "Wait a second, this is in the way," and after unbuttoning her blouse, put her hands to her back and unsnapped the clasp of her bra, then pulled it completely off, baring those magnificent breasts to my eyes. 

"There, now, that's better," she said, leaning back against the couch.

'Better?' I thought it was unbelievable! As my eyes hungrily devoured the vision of Belva leaning back with the high, twin mounds of her breasts completely exposed. She reached out to my hands and pulled them up to the creamy while hills, and placed them on top, then pressed them into the soft billows of her flesh. Her hands then went to the back of my neck and pulled my mouth down to hers, her mouth already open and waiting for a continuation of our tongue loving.

Finally the kiss broke, and gasping for air but gasping even more for Belva, I dove for her cleavage and pushed my face into her chest. Her warm breasts pressed against my face as I hungrily licked and sucked them, desperate to get as much of the soft flesh into my mouth. I found a nipple, put my whole mouth around it and licked and sucked madly. Then, with impatience and frenzy, I moved to her other nipple to give it the same treatment. 

I could hardly believe how firm yet soft her breasts were. Each one completely filled a hand; each one a handful of hot, pliant girl flesh. Belva's nipples were hard and standing out like little nubbins as I moved them softly between my fingertips. She arched her back up to my caresses and whispered, "Ohhhh, that's so nice."

I was practically drooling by now. I broke the kiss and moved my mouth down to her front, taking a nipple between my lips. 

"Yes, suck on them, suck hard," Belva muttered, pushing her chest hard against my mouth. I obeyed, pulling as much of a breast into my mouth as possible, and sucking and slavering the area with my tongue. Her breathing was much faster now; almost as fast as mine. "Oooooohh, yes, that's the way!" she whispered.



The Storytellers Ch. 04



This was the stuff of wet dreams, and it was happening to me in real life.  I worked my mouth back and forth, alternating attention from one mound to the other.  I was like a starving person, wanting to devour as much as possible before the meal was taken away.

Eventually, my hand dropped to Belva's knee.  She responded to this by spreading her legs apart and giving me more room to explore her inner thighs.

I really believe that if I hadn't  had so much to drink I wouldn't have gone on, but I had, and so when she raised a knee, I went for the gold and moved my fingers to the silken-covered gap that separated her legs.  

Despite her moan, I was surprised at how damp she was.  Not only was the crotch of her panties wet, but the skin next to them was wet and slippery.  I moved my fingers into the gooey furrow that was her pussy and carefully slipped a finger under the elastic edging of her undies.

"Take them off," Belva whispered.

"Take what off?" I asked, confused by what she meant.

"My panties, get them off, hurry, they're in the way!"

She pulled up the hem of her dress, so that the dress was now completely bunched up at her waist.  Even in the dim light of the apartment, I could see she had on white panties, with little rosebuds sewn in around the edges.  

When I hesitated, she grabbed her panties and started pushing them down.  I put my hands right next to hers and pulled. Between us, we had the silken unmentionables down to her hips in a flash.  She put her leg back down and lifted her bottom up, so that I could finish removing them.  As I took them from off her feet she put them in her purse.  

"To make sure I don't lose them," Belva said, with a soft laugh. "They're my best pair and I can't tell you how hard it would be to replace them." Then she leaned back against me, putting her head on my shoulder.  She raised her right leg upon the sofa, leaving me to gawk at the thick bush and gaping pussy below it. 

Taking one of my arms, she placed my hand on her stomach, just above the shadowy mass of hair nestled between her legs.  Then she turned her face to mine, and opened her mouth for a kiss. We did the tongue thing, and when I heard her moan again, my finger plunged into her slick, glistening pussy.

I was far from being an expert in sexual things, but like most everyone else, I got the hang of it quickly enough. My powers of concentration were about as high as they'd been on Normandy Beach, and knowing the end result would be dramatically different, I was able to focus almost all my thoughts on her pussy and her reaction to my ministrations to it.

It seemed that anytime my fingers brushed over or against a tiny bump at the top of her pussy, Belva would groan and hunch herself against my hand. I recalled that Edith had steered me to a similar spot repeatedly that time in Paris; it was obviously a pleasure point, and I remembered to keep returning to it.

Then, as if wanting to prove me correct, Belva broke our kiss long enough to mutter, "Oooh, yes! That's the spot, right there!"

My dick may have been hard before, but now it throbbed and jerked with each beat of my heart. My finger found a recess that dipped down, and I began to plumb its depths, going inch by inch into Belva's hot warmth until it was buried to the knuckle.  

She was moaning almost non-stop by this time, and so I reversed direction, and worked the finger out of her, in the process, resting my thumb on that tiny bump. Suddenly she was humping her hips up against my hand, meeting each of my finger plunges with a reciprocating movement.  

For some reason, I began to move my fingers much faster, and continued doing so until she stopped moving and stiffened her entire body. 

"Oh, God, Roy, I'm there!  I'm there!" she hissed through clenched teeth.

I felt the tunnel of her hot pussy clamp down on my finger, gripping it like a hot fist.  She shuddered and gasped, wrapped both arms around me, and held me tight, as her body quivered and jerked.

She stayed like this for several moments, before gradually relaxing.  She let loose of her tight grip and moved away from me.  My finger which had been buried deep inside her now was withdrawn, and I contented myself with playing little soft games with her pussy

"That was my first release in weeks," she said.  "And it was really, really good!"

Then she put a hand on the side of each of her breasts and gently pushed them together, she grasped her nipples with her thumbs and forefingers and rolled and pulled at them tenderly. I couldn't have been more excited had I been doing it myself.

I grabbed her foot and pulled off her shoe. Briefly, I tickled the bottom of her foot, but seeing that this only frustrated her more as she squirmed on the couch, I gritted my teeth and moved on to kissing her ankle. Then, recalling how Edith had brought me along the third time we'd made love that long ago evening in Paris, I moved up her leg, past her knee...

"Oh... are you gonna?"

"Let me do it to you before you do to me.  Okay, Belva?"

"Oh, you're gonna be my hero for sure," Belva answered. "Let me lay back on this armchair so that you can get to me."  

She moved to the armchair and sat, leaning back and then place a leg on each arm of the chair. Her hips were at the edge of the chair, and the very center of her sexual being was fully exposed and available to me.  I knelt at her feet between her spread-eagled legs, and paid homage to Belva's bushy womanhood.

I moved in closer to her and put my hands under her ass, lifting her hips up to my face.  As I drew close, I could detect the faint, musky aroma of her sex.  Contrary to what I'd heard from the "guys," the smell was pleasant, and highly erotic, and not fetid or putrid.

"OH, ROY... NO ONE'S EVER...."

Ignoring her, I placed a series of long, wet kisses along her inner thighs. Panting rapidly, Belva feebly waved a hand as her mouth bit at the air; and with her other hand she grabbed a nearby pillow, put it over her face and bit hard onto the corner. 

Moving upward, I found myself inches away from her glistening sex. I leaned in, pressed the tip of my nose against the tiny button that Edith had assured me was the key to a woman's arousal just as my lips almost imperceptibly brushed the mouth of her pussy. Taking a deep breath, I made contact with Belva's sex; my lips brushing across the swatch of curly hair that grew so abundantly between her legs.

"THAT'S IT!" Belva exclaimed and seized my hair with both hands the moment my tongue flickered hesitantly over her outer folds. She was wet and slick and I took a generous sampling of her before drawing my tongue back into my mouth, where I savored the strangely pungent taste of her.

It like nothing I had ever tasted, but I knew I wanted more of it and returned to her center to suck and lick feverishly while listening to her purr and moan.

As her flower opened ever wider for me, I delved in deeper and deeper, or least as far as my tongue would allow.  

I recalled a bar room joke I'd heard about some guy getting all the girls in the place to screw him by licking his eyebrows, and realized the true point of the joke.

My tongue came up short of the hot pit I knew was just inches away, and I moaned at the thought of never getting there. A moment later I realized my cock would reach it easily enough and I relaxed and continued my happy munching.

As my tongue twisted and turned inside her unbelievably hot sheath, Belva's hips began to heave and her purring sounds of pleasure intensified.

"Yes! Do that again!" she moaned. 

Of course I did and she began to shudder with each touch of my tongue. I took it between my lips and sucked. 

"Incredible!" she moaned as her hips convulsed into my face.

Using only the very tip of my tongue, I began a gentle lashing of her love button, using circular strokes.

"YES, YES, JUST LIKE THAT!" she growled, hunching her pussy hard against my face.  Her legs came up and wrapped around my back, spreading her pussy open and granting me greater access to her sleek, yet swampy flesh.

She reached down and stroked the top of my head; her hands caressed my ears, my neck and the sides of my face that she could touch. I recall her fingers combing through my hair then stopping only to grab two fistfuls of my hair and yank hard when I inadvertently came into contact with the little button Edith had told me about that night in Paris.

Belva's hips began moving rapidly, jerking upward in quick up and down movements.  

"OH, GOD, I'M CUMMING!" she screamed.

Instinctively, I doubled the speed of my flickering tongue, knowing it would hasten her climax.

"YES, YES, THAT'S THE WAY!"

I felt her pelvis vibrate.  Little convulsions ran through her stomach muscles, and Belva became frozen; completely still except for the spasms in her pussy, stomach, and thighs.  

"OOOHHH, ROY!" she moaned; then started to pant. Her legs, which had been around me, began to jerk and pull even tighter around me.  Her back arched and held her pussy against my mouth. 

I knew she was coming, and coming in a big way.  Even more, I knew that I had done it. I had eaten my first woman and brought her off big time. My ego was never bigger than at that moment.

My tongue snaked out and tunneled into her, at the same time, my nose must have ignited her clitoris because Belva exploded in what she later described as 'an intense, impossibly satisfying climax.' From my personal perspective, she was shivering with what I can only attest to as a profound ecstasy that caused her to faint away for several long seconds.

I remained close to her pussy while waiting for her sensibilities to return. A heavenly scent filled my nostrils as I studied her engorged genitals. Sensing Belva's return to consciousness, I allowed my tongue a quick lick along her inner labia.

Belva's hips lurched up, and I heard her gasp.

"I... I wasn't finished, Belva," I whispered.

"I NEVER..."

"I can tell," I replied and then began to lick her using short, slow strokes. She raised her ass bringing her pussy to bear on my mouth and I took full advantage, tickling her coral passage before opening my mouth to its fullest and covering her entire pussy. 

"MY GOD... YOU'RE NOT GOING TOO...."

My tongue swept inside her, swirled around her soft, hot walls then reached as far as possible into her tunnel before withdrawing. I did this over and over, increasingly faster, until we found a perfect rhythm as she ground her pussy against my face.

When my tongue tired I sucked, tugging gently on her inner and outer labia. Then I lashed at her with my tongue again, making sure to hit her clit on every three or four laps. Her body jolted each time I touched her there, and the jolts were getting bigger every time.

My cock was throbbing with need, but my mouth had a mind of its own, and as my hands squeezed and massaged her ass cheeks, I felt Belva start to tremble. I grabbed her ass, pulled her up until her legs were fully in the air then shoved my tongue deep into her cunt. But I didn't just stick it there, I licked and swirled and lapped and sucked.

And Belva screamed as if her life depended on it. Her juices were smeared all over my face. Yet I kept lapping at her as she had one tumultuous climax after another.

Eventually her body began to shudder, not from the orgasms, but in a new way. As if she was crying. I let her legs and ass down, prompting her to bring her face off the couch cushions. But even as I did this, I didn't stop licking her.

"ROY, DON'T STOP! OH, GOD, PLEASE DON'T STOP!"

And when I renewed my cunt-lapping, still crying, she added, "OH FUCK! I LOVE YOU, BABY! DON'T EVER STOP!" 

Belva had been wet before, but that wetness was nothing compared to then.  My whole face was coated with her juices and some was even dripping from my chin, down my chest and onto my prick. The whole inside of her thighs and all the hair of her pussy forest was soaked with her abundant flow.  She had become so wet it was as if she had shot off like a guy does.

Slowly, Belva began to relax. The arch in her back disappeared as she lay in the armchair; her legs dropped from my back and clumped on the floor. I took my mouth from her pussy and asked, "How was I Belva?  Did I do it right?"

Belva, sounding groggy, said, "All right?"  Her ensuing smile gave me my answer before she did. "All right? I can't remember ever coming that hard. You're a natural, Roy, a natural born pussy eater. I'll write a letter of recommendation for you to hand any woman you want to meet, if you want me too."

She sat up straight in the chair and pulled me up and onto her lap. Pulling my face to hers, she kissed me.  My whole mouth was still slick from her juices, and she licked the juices from my lips and cheeks.  Then slithered her tongue into my mouth, and swirled it inside my lips seeking more of her juice.  Slowly the kiss turned into just pure lust, until she broke it off to say, "The only thing I want more than the taste of my juice in your mouth is the taste of your cum in my mouth.

I curled up in her lap and rubbed her ass and kissed her shoulder.  I was still horny as hell, but I knew we both needed rest. We lay there for about fifteen minutes, just listening to the radio and whispering about how great it had been.

Belva's lips suddenly nibbled at my ear lobe, and I heard her husky voice whisper, "Poor baby, you must really need it bad by now."

"Um, I...." I started to say, but stopped the moment she reached for the bulge in my pants and gently caressed it.

"Well, don't worry, baby. After what you did for me... I'm gonna try to take care of you."

Strangely enough, I recall thinking she sounded a lot like my mother. But the second she began unbuckling my belt all thoughts of mother flew out the window.

"Sweetie, why don't you undo your pants and slide them down out of the way? I have the feeling we're fixing to have us a big mess here real soon," she said.  

I followed her directions and pushed my pants down to my knees.  "Your underwear, too," she said, already holding my throbbing dick in her hand watching it ooze the fluid that presupposes the ejaculate soon to follow.  

"Oooo, you're nice and wet.  I like that," Belva said, and her nostrils flared as she ran her thumb over my cockhead, gathering up the lubrication and spreading it down the shaft.

"Let's get it even wetter," she said.  She spit into the palm of her hand, and put the palm down on the crown of my dick, and then spread the combined saliva and love juice all over my throbbing cock. She then cupped her hand around the shaft and began a slow up-and-down movement, gently squeezing and unsqueezing her hand.

"OH, Jesus, baby!" I muttered.

"Like that?" Belva asked.

"Oh, yes!  Don't stop, keep it up!" I half grunted.

"I could suck you off.  Would you like that?"

I couldn't find my voice to say the simple," Yes," that would make it happen.

It didn't matter. Her red lined mouth descended upon my dick, engulfing it between her soft lips. I was about to die from the pleasure of it all, the peaking, the backing off, and the re-peaking.  

My balls felt like they were swelled to balloon-size from all the waiting and I was ready to fire off like a Roman candle on the Fourth of July.

"I guess you're the same as me," Belva said.

"How so?" I asked weakly, only because it seemed she wanted me too.

"I loved what you did to me; why shouldn't I reciprocate? Is that the word, I mean is it the right word to use?"

"Yes," I croaked my voice now a ragged reed, empty of anything but a soft tremor. I was more concerned at this point about coming prematurely than anything else. I would have promised to rob a bank for Belva, or anything else just to get on with things. "Reciprocate... perfect choice of ...."

"Let's switch places. You sit and I'll kneel."

While I had known all along that she would reciprocate, it was still strange to hear her announce that she was about to blow me. My throbbing prick arched up in anticipation of being engulfed by her mouth.

Belva moved down to between my legs and pushed them apart so that she could move her face up to my groin area.

"God, you smell hot," Belva said.  "There's something about your aroma, I mean when it's leaking like yours is that makes me want to take you in my mouth."

I closed my eyes. Belva grew silent, and suddenly I felt something hot and wet move across the head of my prick.  It was like a flash of electric current, and my hips jerked in response.  Never before had I felt anything so pleasurable, not even Belva's hand moving up and down my wet prick.  I realized that what I was feeling was Belva's tongue swirling across and around the head of my prick.  The feeling was unbelievably good and my prick spasmed in reaction, sending another glob of juice dribbling out the slit.  

"Mmmm," she moaned contentedly, and licked the dribble away. That of course, only caused more to dribble out, and Belva took the whole head in her mouth, licking and swallowing the flow of pre-come leaking so copiously from my pulsating, throbbing prick.

I arched my hips up to her mouth and groaned, "Oh, God, Belva!"

She was obviously pleased by my reaction to her ministrations and moved her mouth even further down on my shaft, taking about half its length into her mouth's hot cavity. She sucked on it then, her mouth a wet, slurping vacuum cleaner.  As she sucked, she moved her tongue in little fluttering motions over the area just below the head of my prick. I struggled to file that move away so as to use it on her the next time I went down on her. I also swore that there would be a next time.

I was being taken to levels of pleasure I didn't even suspect existed.  If heaven were better than this, then I couldn't wait to get there. I had one big problem. I was ready to cum.

Belva must have sensed it, and removed me from her mouth. "I've never done this before, Roy. I want you to know that. But I want to do it. You have this... yummy taste. I just love it!"

Then she blew ever so lightly on the head of my cock. A moment later her nails scraped along the entire length of my shaft before dropping off to repeat the procedure on my testicles.

It was like being stroked by a feather, and the feeling was almost as good as having her mouth and tongue on my prick.  Then I felt something different.  It was the flat of Belva's tongue licking my balls; stroking them using small circles then taking first one, then the other entirely into her furnace-like mouth and sucked them while I almost cried with joy.

Eventually her tongue moved up the side of my dick, licking and swirling about as she sought out and found every drop of juice leaking from my one-eyed companion.

The heavenly sensations returned the moment she enveloped my turgid shaft back into her mouth again, absorbing it inch by inch, until three-quarters of it was lodged in her throat.

Belva took me from her mouth and laughed. "Am I doing it right?"

"Love it!' I exclaimed.

"Let me try something different," she said and swallowed me again. Only this time she kept consuming my cock; kept absorbing me much as a sword-swallower might a sword. And then, to my astonishment I saw her mouth was nestled in the curls of my pubic hair.

I felt the head bump against the back of her mouth; felt the vibrations of her throat all around the rigid stiffness of my pulsating prick. I heard her gulp for air, and wondered if she might suffocate, or choke to death trying this insane thing. It just wasn't possible... was it?"

Then she did some kind of trick with her throat and my prick started to back up and out of her mouth until only the head remained, lolling against her tongue.

Taking me all the way out, she grinned at me and said, "I wondered if I could manage to get it all in there."




The Storytellers Ch. 04



"What you did was impossible! How did−?"

But she was already repeating the procedure; taking the entire length of me down her throat, and when it hit bottom, backing it out again.

"I'm almost...." I started to say. But Belva apparently was well aware of my current state, and nibbled feverishly on the head of my cock until one final suck did me in. 

My hips lurched up and locked. A jet of hot cum exploded into Belva's wanton, oral cavity and had her half-gagging, half-choking as she tried to swallow it all. After the first two fusillades, Belva gained control, swallowed twice and cooed, "Mmmm, mmm, mmm," while gulping down the remainder of my seminal flow.

Soon the jerking spasms of my prick began to subside, and I was able to catch my breath. Only when my cock began to shrivel did Belva allow it to flop from between her lips. She looked up at me and said, "That was good for me. Did you like it?"

"Belva..." I gasped, "It couldn't have been any better."

"Was that your first?"

"You mean, was it my first blowjob? Yes it was. But regardless, it was wonderful."

"Well, you pleased me. I had to return the flavor," she said and gave a little chuckle.

I stood up and pulled my pants up, buttoned the fly and buckled the belt.

Belva gave me a curious look.

I smiled at her and said, "I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Is that diner down the street still open?"

"Yes," she said, drawing the word out to sixteen syllables. "We can go, but only if you're coming back here with me so we can do a little fuckee –fuck."

There was a wicked gleam in her eyes.

"Well, a man needs to eat," I said.

"You do that already, and so well too. I guess you deserve dessert though," she admitted.

"Now you're cooking with gas," I said, reaching for my jacket.    Belva was already straightening her dress and reaching for her purse.

"When we get back we can try playing a doubleheader."

"Oh, I love baseball!" Belva chirped.

"Don't go flippin' your wig, Belva.  



The Storytellers Ch. 05



Chapter 5

The Black Dahlia

July 18th, was a hot, sultry afternoon in Los Angeles. Belva had left for work and I was reading the Examiner and having a second cup of coffee in a diner around the corner from Police Headquarters. It had taken me a week to gain access to the investigating officers in the Short case. I had spent the time trudging the streets of Los Angeles covering the scene of the crime and as many of Elizabeth Shorts haunts as possible. I had spoken to several of the principal witnesses in the case and learned absolutely zilch.

The front page of the Examiner was still buzzing about the engagement of Princess Elizabeth to Lieutenant Philip Mountbatten. It was being turned into a rags-to-riches fairy tale. He didn't have a dime, or so they said. In the pictures I saw, he looked like a pretty dapper guy. But what did I know. What didn't look to good for him was the fact that his sisters had both married Germans with Nazi links. What did look good was the fact that the princess loved him, and we all know that love conquers all.

Turning to the sports pages, the Yankees were rolling again; having extended their winning streak to 19 straight victories with a doubleheader sweep over the Indians. This equaled the American League record set by the White Sox in 1906. In the first game, Bobo Newsom got his 200th career victory and George McQuinn hit a two-run homer in a 3-1 win. Billy Johnson's three RBI's were enough to get Vic Raschi the 7-2 win in the second game. 

Along with almost everyone else following the National Pastime I had been watching the early going for Jackie Robinson, the first Negro to play in the majors with the Dodgers. Now in a small sidebar, I noted that the St. Louis Browns had bought the contracts of two other Negros, Hank Thompson, an infielder and Willard Brown, an outfielder from the Monarchs of Kansas City. It might take a year or two, but I figured baseball was definitely upgrading its talent base.

I left a ten cent tip; lit one of the Pall Mall's Belva had left on a bedside table, and found my way to the Homicide Division of the LAPD. 

It was not as easy to find as I'd thought it would be. The third floor of the police department in downtown Los Angeles carries the aura of decades past. Old battered lockers are crammed against the walls of a winding corridor. The black speckled floors and orange walls reveal that the divisions housed on this floor haven't had a major overhaul in years. 

It was a classic looking division though, filled with old desks, and even older telephones. The files and desks were lodged against one another, creating small aisles from which one could move from one detectives "space" to another. To me, it looked very much like the newsroom at the Tribune. I met with the detectives assigned to the case and found them cordial enough; and considering that they had come to a virtual dead-end in the Black Dahlia case, I guessed they felt that I might possibly develop a new twist that might lead them to the killer. 

"The case is different from most," Harry Hansen, the lead detective told me. "It's got signs of serial murder all over it, but we haven't been able to link any other murder to it."

He went on to explain what I already knew, that the fact that Elizabeth Short wanted to be a movie star was an emotional factor that caused the public to hang onto the story long after most such murders had faded into obscurity. She was constantly being depicted as the girl next door who had such dreams. This, along with the brutality of the murder itself was the reason the Black Dahlia murder remained as prominent now as it was back in January. 

"Here's the deal," Detective Harry Hansen told me after I'd sat down at his desk. "Me and Finis Brown are the lead dicks on this case. By the time we arrived at the crime scene it was swarming with reporters and gawker's who were trampling the evidence. We ordered the crowd to back off, then got down to business. 

"What we found was the nude, mutilated body of a young woman, cut in half at the waist. The bottom half lay in the weeds a few feet away from the top, legs splayed open. Her gash had been sliced open, the flaps of skin pulled back and her sex organs had been removed. The top half was worse: the breasts were dotted with cigarette burns, the right one hung loose, attached to the torso by a few shreds of skin. The left one was slashed around the nipple. The cuts went right to the bone, but the worst was the girl's face. It was one purple bruise, with the nose crushed into the facial cavity, the mouth cut ear to eat into a smile that leered up at us, mocking the brutality that had been inflicted on her. I'll carry that smile with me to my grave."

"From the lack of blood on the body, or in the grass, we determined the victim had been murdered elsewhere and dragged onto the lot, one piece at time. There was dew under the body, so we knew it had been placed there after 2 a.m., when the outside temperature dipped to 38 degrees. The victim had rope marks on her wrists and ankles indicating she'd been restrained while being tortured.

"After calling the County Coroner to retrieve the body, we were left with finding out just who the woman was. We identified her as Elizabeth Short from fingerprints on file with the FBI in Washington, DC two days later.

"The case itself took a life of its own," Hansen explained. "It was front page news every day for almost two months. The pressure to solve the murder was unbelievable."

"I understand you had a number of people try to take credit for the murder," I said. 

"We sure did. We always get a number of "confessions."

"Any possible suspects emerge?" I asked.

He laughed, and said, "Sure," as he handed me a slim file. "Here they are. See for yourself." 

The first page dealt with one, Joseph Dumais: This combat veteran was reported to military police by another soldier. The two had quarreled over money. After returning from a 42-day furlough, Dumais was found with bloodstains on his clothing. He also had a slew of newspaper clippings about the murder. Dumais was promptly cleared of any suspicion as he was not in Los Angeles at the time, but he was fascinated that he might be a suspect, and stated, "It is possible that I could have committed the murder. When I get drunk I get rough with women." Dumais was sent to a psychiatrist.

The next page was about one Daniel S. Vorhees: This 33-year-old former restaurant employee, called the police, telling them to come get him. He was brought in, and he mumbled, "I killed her." But when asked about details, he replied, "Ah, I'm not going to talk to you anymore. I want to see my attorney." 

He was jailed, not as a suspect, but as a mental case.

Vorhees was followed by one John N. Andry: A pharmacist who boasted about his ability to cut up bodies. When the police arrested him, he first insisted he had killed Elizabeth Short. Later, he said, "Well, I'm capable of doing it." Then he admitted that he was kidding.

The remainder of the folder touched on various men and women who confessed and later recanted, unable to provide any clear details of the murder, and who were also proven unreliable as they had confessed to other crimes in the past, or were mentally unstable and, or attention seekers. Detective Hansen also told me that dozens of letters and phone calls continued to pour in about the murder. They are all checked out against "sealed" information to help rule out hoaxes and crackpots.

I spent two days going over the photos of the crime, and talking with the lead detectives, and several others, including the reporters covering the story for the LA Times. I made extensive notes and came up with the following: Elizabeth Short was hacked in two, reportedly with a butcher knife (there is some speculation that that the precision used required a saw or medical instruments). Some authorities believe she was alive, yet unconscious at the time she was being held by the limbs with rope, or some other tying device, and severed in two. After her body was drained of blood, it was delivered to the Crenshaw district, where it was discovered in the early morning.

I learned that while an autopsy report for Elizabeth Short does exist, I was unable to obtain a copy. In fact, the LAPD doesn't possess the report, which is instead kept at the coroner's office "under lock and key." 

There was also an envelope supposedly mailed to the LA Times. I was not able to persuade anyone to let me see it. The detectives would not even say if the envelope was thought to be mailed from the real killer, or if it was fabricated. 

They also admitted that the killer probably knew Elizabeth Short, but would not say if the killer was thought to be just an acquaintance, or someone who knew the victim well. Anyone with a known connection to Miss Short had been interviewed; some for longer periods than others. Over time all had been cleared of any suspicion of the crime.

Then too, the LA Daily News published a story on January 17th just two days after Miss Short's body was discovered leading off with the headline: "The Grizzly LA murder similar to sex slaying of seven San Diego women." The failure to solve those murders resulted in the entire San Diego Police Administration being replaced. But when I brought this up, Detective Hansen was adamant that there was no direct tie-in between those murders and Short's, but neglected to say why.

I drove down to San Diego to see for myself if there was any connection to the Short murder with those they had on file only to be rebuffed by a Police Captain at the Main Headquarters. When the police don't want to cooperate, even money doesn't loosen lips. Not that I had ready cash to dole out. So I turned tail and returned to the City of Angeles and its somewhat friendlier police force.

On my own dime, I determined the following; Elizabeth Short embodied the feminine ideal of the time, with her meaty legs, full hips and a small, up-turned nose. From a writer's standpoint, she was drama personified. She dyed her mousy brown locks raven black, painted her lips blood red, and pinned white flowers in her hair. With her alabaster skin and startling light blue eyes, she looked like porcelain doll. The provenance of her nickname is unclear. Some say her friends started calling her the "Black Dahlia" because of her fondness for the color black and in reference to a 1946 movie called "The Blue Dahlia." The press liked it and ran with it, and doing so, made Elizabeth Short a legend.

After leaving LA Police Headquarters that afternoon, I sat back in a booth of a cocktail lounge on Hollywood Boulevard toying with a scotch and envisioned Elizabeth Short sashaying down the sidewalk in peep-toed heels. She would have held her head high, primly aware of her effect on each male passersby. They undoubtedly gawked, whistled, and more than one might have offered to buy dinner.

I know this. All too often, she accepted dinners and dates. Eager beavers to fuddy-duddies, they paid for her meals, bar tabs, rent, clothes. They gave her cash. What were a few greenbacks for the privilege of basking her dazzling aura? 

I wondered if Elizabeth had taken this to an extreme and worked as a prostitute; but there was no solid evidence to back this up. It had been established that whatever money she managed to accumulate on her own through waitressing was used to expand her wardrobe. Several reliable witnesses had told police that she'd rather go hungry than wear outdated, or worn clothing. When she stepped outside, she was always dressed to the nines, favoring tailored black suits, feminine ruffled blouses, high heels and long gloves.

Elizabeth embodied the cool sophistication of a post-war working gal. It was also clear that she had a particular fetish for men in uniform. In July 1946, she had returned to Southern California to be close to one Joseph Gordon Fickling; an intensely handsome air force lieutenant with sensual dark eyes. They'd met in California two years earlier, shortly before he was shipped overseas. It was a rocky relationship from the start. In their private letters — which were confiscated by the police and excerpted in newspapers after Short's murder — Fickling expressed impatience with Short's flirtations, wondering if he ranked higher in her heart than any other man.

Apparently she wasn't able — or didn't try — to convince him that he did. He moved to North Carolina to work as a commercial airline pilot, but they stayed in touch. And he continued sending her money, including a $100 wire transfer the month before she died. The last letter Fickling received from Short was dated January 8, 1947, seven days before her murder. In it, she told him she was moving to Chicago, where she hoped to become a fashion model.

In the last six months of her life, Short moved constantly between a dozen hotels, apartments, boarding houses and private homes in and around Los Angeles. She crashed for free where she could; paid as little as possible where she couldn't. She was chronically short on cash.

From November 13 to December 15, Short lived in a cramped two-bedroom apartment in Hollywood with eight other young women — cocktail waitresses, telephone operators, dime dancers — other out-of-towners who hoped to break into showbiz. The women paid $1 a day for a bunk bed and a couple feet of closet space. But Short couldn't even afford this paltry sum, and snuck out a side door to avoid the manager when the rent was due.

Her roommates told the LA Times after her death that Short was out "with a different boyfriend every night," and didn't have a job. "She was always going out to prowl [Hollywood] boulevard," Linda Rohr, 22, had told the paper.

The last person known to have seen her alive was a recent acquaintance, a 25-year-old married salesman named Robert Manley, nicknamed "Red" for his flaming auburn hair. According to press reports, Manley had picked her up on a street corner in San Diego. He noticed her standing alone, a beautiful woman with no apparent destination, and pulled over to ask if she wanted a ride. Short played coy, turning her head and refusing to look at him. But Manley kept talking, reassuring her that he was harmless, that he just wanted to help her out, give her a lift home.

At the time Short was staying with a family who took pity on her after finding her at the 24-hour movie theater where she'd gone to spend the night. But they soon tired of her. She lazed around their small house during the day, and spent her evenings out partying. In early January 1947, they asked her to leave. It was Manley who came to pick her up.

They stayed in a local motel, but Manley insisted — even took a lie-detector test — that Short slept in her clothes, and that they didn't have sex. The next day, January 9, he drove her to Los Angeles, and helped her check her luggage at the bus station. She told him she was going to Berkeley to stay with her sister, whom she was meeting at the Biltmore hotel downtown. Manley accompanied her into the hotel lobby, but took leave of her at 6:30 p.m. to return to his family in San Diego.

The Biltmore was exactly the sort of place Elizabeth Short loved to hang out in. It was as glamorous as she aspired to be, filled with wealthy travelers and luxuriously appointed. Built in the early 20s, it was the largest hotel west of Chicago, with 1,000 rooms. This elegant setting could offer no greater contrast to the dirt lot where her desecrated body was dumped one week later. 

In the wake of her murder, 40 police officers scoured the neighborhood, going house to house looking for clues and evidence. The checked gutters and Laundromats for blood-stained clothing, interviewed residents, poked through dumpsters. They gained no solid leads.

They questioned more than twenty of Short's former "boyfriends," but gained no solid leads. The police interviewed thousands of people who had even the slightest knowledge of Short or her acquaintances and quickly stuffed a steel filing cabinet with notes and affidavits.

On January 25, Short's black patent leather purse and one of her black open-toed pumps was found in a dumpster at 1819th E. 25th street, several miles from the crime scene. One Robert Manley identified the items as hers. He recognized the shoes because he paid to get them re-soled in San Diego and said the handbag smelled of the heavy perfume that Short wore, and had permeated his car as they drove from San Diego to Los Angeles. Someone — possibly the killer — had mailed a package to the Examiner nine days after Short's death. It reeked of gasoline the sender used to erase his or her fingerprints from the envelope. Inside were Short's belongings, including photographs, her birth certificate, social security card, and Matt Gordon's obituary. It also contained an address book containing the names of 75 men. The police quickly tracked them down and they told investigators a surprisingly similar story: they'd met Short on the street, or in a club, bought her drinks or dinner, but never saw her again after she made it clear she was uninterested in a physical relationship.

The FBI was inundated with hand-written letters to J. Edgar Hoover from individuals claiming to know who the murderer was or blaming the crime on someone they held a grudge against. Each one was investigated and proven to be unsubstantiated. Eventually, Detective Hansen confided to me that in his opinion, the murder was a stranger that Elizabeth had allowed to pick her up. I gave this some credence, but in view of all the men in her life decided to keep the door open that someone close to her had done her in. I took the opportunity to raise the question of the San Diego women whose murders appeared similar to that of Short's again.

"Forget it," Hansen replied. "We looked into it. There's no similarity."

"So the newspapers got it wrong?' I said pushing the subject.

"The only similarity is that San Diego's got seven dead women. And yeah, they were sliced with a knife. That is, five of them were. Two were strangled. But the modis operandi was different in that the bodies were left in one piece, and the number of wounds inflicted scarcely approached those in the short murder." 

He gave me a baleful look and said, "We did compare and contrast the killings. San Diego was all too willing to hand the crimes over to us if we had seen anything because they had run out of leads. So drop it, will ya?"

I nodded acceptance and left headquarters. I spent several days reinterviewing witnesses, but uncovered nothing of consequence. I wondered about just what had happened from the time Short was seen leaving the Biltmore to the time her mutilated body was dumped in the dirt lot. One thing was certain: sometime during those seven days, she had a fatal date with her killer, who taunted and tortured her before snuffing out her young life in a horrific fashion.

I went back and quizzed Hansen again. Eventually, Detective Hansen and the others grew tired of me hanging around and asked me to leave the precinct, and I did. 

*****

It was seven-fifteen when I trudged back to Belva's apartment. She was dressed and waiting for me. I begged her to give me fifteen minutes to shower and shave, and managed it in ten. I slipped on a new soft-tailored sport jacket with a shirt-like spread collar, patch pockets, and a two-tone look. 

Belva was pleased with it. "Love those new threads, it's one of those Loafer Jackets, isn't it?" she said, telling me something I didn't know. 

I decided to thank her with a compliment of my own and studied her briefly. She had her hair up giving her a different look. Of course she was a cool kitten, and it was a good look; my Belva couldn't manage not looking good. 

"Your hair... it looks different," I said as I lit up a cigarette.

"Oh, you noticed!" she beamed at me. "Lots of girls wear their hair this way, it's called a Chignon."




The Storytellers Ch. 05



"Lot of girls may wear their hair that way, but none of them look as good as you, baby," I said and was rewarded with a deep kiss that had my toes curling. For a moment I thought we might not be going out.

Fortunately for my stomach, I was dead wrong. We wound up in Chinatown between Gallery Row and Hill Street, trudging through a foggy alley that looked like something out of the 19th century. We disturbed two cats eating food out of the garbage cans littering the vile, smelly alleyway. The sounds and smells of the Chinese delicacies awaiting us overrode the repellently foul odors of the alley itself. Belva, trying to divert my attention from our surroundings, chattered away about the opium dens scattered about Chinatown when we came to a restaurant at the foot of the alley, named the Golden Pagoda. We entered and found ourselves in a fairly small establishment. But the small size belied the fantastic food that they served there. 

We feasted on won ton soup and egg rolls. 

Actually I was stuffing myself while Belva talked about the dishes themselves. I hadn't an inkling that the strange looking, meat filled dumplings were meant to represent clouds (the word won ton translates roughly into "swallowing a cloud"). All I knew was that I couldn't get enough of them! 

I followed that with an order of Ginger Beef; crisp, chewy morsels of beef that are coated in a tangy sauce. Belva satisfied me with a healthy portion of her dish, Kung Pao Chicken, which was a spicy Szechuan dish made with diced chicken, peanuts and chili peppers.

As customary with us, Belva talked while I ate. I learned that we were sitting in what was the 'New' Chinatown, several blocks removed from the "Old" Chinatown. The Chinatown of the '40's was thought to be a tourist attraction by the local politicians, but as Belva said, "It's nothing more than a Hollywoodized version of Shanghai, with new streets named Bamboo Lane, Gin Ling Way and Chung King Road filled with crooked alleys and such. I don't know about the tourists, but the locals love it."

After I paid the check, Belva insisted we go to Musso's for drinks. The real name of the place is Musso and Frank's Grill. I loved it. It had an unparalled history involving writers like Faulkner, Fitzgerald and Chandler, as well as a story behind almost every table and booth for movie stars like Charlie Chaplin and John Wayne who still eat there. Belva gushed that the locals loved the place. 

I told her that this place should be the first place the tourists came to on visiting Los Angeles because it is a genuine attraction and filled with Hollywood type history as well as great food. Okay, I didn't sample it, but I certainly took in the orders delivered to surrounding tables. 

One last thing, as we were leaving, Van Heflin sauntered in with a gorgeous blonde on each arm. I wanted to go back to our table, but Belva pulled me out of the place. Fortunately for me, she was laughing all the way.

We went at it again after returning from Musso's and then, thoroughly sated, we began to talk, really talk, telling one another of our hopes and dreams. She had aspirations of rising up through the management of her company, but with all the GI's having returned from the War, her hopes had begun to wane. I encouraged her to keep trying, and drew a grimace when I said that at least she had a decent job and steady paycheck. 

For her part, she listened to my hope of completing my novel about the recent Black Dahlia murder. Something told me not to mention meeting Arthur. Later I wondered if it was Arthur himself.

Belva was surprised to learn that the lead detective on the case had basically told me to take a walk. I grinned, and told her that so far they had drawn a complete blank on the case, and no new leads had surfaced. 

"So," Belva said, "it's as if they expected you to develop a new lead, or something, and when you didn't..."

"They told me to take a walk," I widened my grin, but I was hurting inside. I really needed their cooperation if I was to get anywhere on the case.

Belva seemed upbeat about it all. She was impressed that I had gotten them to talk with me, and glibly assured me that I would uncover something they had not and that would change things.

I told her that I was probably just whistling Dixie and that I had better think about whether I was going back to Chicago or staying in Los Angeles. It was the first time I had spoken of that possibility, and I had to admit it sounded good to me. 

Belva pushed on, saying, "But you're smart, and a reporter. You guys uncover all sorts of stuff; people open up to you, where they won't say anything to the law."

"Believe me, Belva; people are just as reluctant to talk with investigative reporters. I know. I've talked with hundreds of them."

"I still think you'll uncover something good. You should keep working on it."

"I'd love too, but my job won't let me, and I need the job."

"You're going back to Chicago?" The alarm was all over her face as well as her voice.

"The day after tomorrow; that is, unless something happens in the meantime."

"I don't understand, what could happen?"

"Err, the Dahlia case might get solved; if that happens, goodbye book. Or, my editor at the paper might assign me to another department at the paper, keeping me from covering the crime beat and essentially cutting off my sources in the police department in Chicago. It would also prevent my returning to LA on their ticket, and I wasn't making enough to go off on my own. Not yet anyway."

"So we have a today and tomorrow..." Belva left it there and I jumped in.

"You could come with me," I said, hoping she'd say she would.

"Roy, you know I want to...."

"I know, I know... you could get a job in Chicago, Belva."

"Do you know if you still have a job with the paper, Roy?"

"Well, yeah, sure I do. They said...." It occurred to me that 'they' hadn't said anything. I had told them I was going on vacation. My vacation had ended several days ago.

Deciding to change the subject, I said, "There must be plenty of joints around town we could pop in and out off."

Belva gave me a faint smile and nodded. Suddenly her smile widened and after winking at me, she pointed to her pussy and said, "That's so true, but why not pop back in here for starters."

I could hardly turn an invitation like that down, and so we spent the rest of the evening getting better acquainted while The Lux Radio Theater and Fibber McGee & Molly droned on around us.

****

The next morning after Belva left for work, I sat at the kitchen table and went over my notes for the hundredth time. If Short had sought a career in show business it didn't come up anywhere. The character testimony I glommed over only had her hanging around radio and movie studios. Well, so did most everybody else for that matter, they were free and for someone who was broke most of the time that must have been an attractive offer.

She spent more time in bars and nightclubs along the Sunset Strip. She sponged money off man pals and friends. She was too trusting of men she'd just met in dark dives. She was too willing to get into an auto with a strange man. She mingled with shady characters and had a date almost every night. Her norm was seven different hombres a week. Non-achievers ran rife; a part-owner of the Florentine Gardens nightclub said most of Short's dates were bums he wouldn't allow in his house.

But there was one person I found especially interesting. Short had met a guy named Ed Burns that October. He had attended USC Medical School for a time and was a rare bird amongst the flock she normally flew with. Short was the type that might have been his dream girl. She didn't jape him about his looks, (In the pictures I'd seen of him, he had a sort of goofy grin that I would never have taken as a serious stud, but that was me.) Short might have seen him differently, especially if he had the dough-ray-me to help her pass her evenings in her customary style.

Admittedly, the evidence was slim, but they had done the deed, or at least spent several nights together in places like Ocean Park and the Long Beach Pike, and in a cheap hotel on Washington Boulevard in LA.

But my own clock was ticking. My time in Tinseltown was coming to an end. I decided to spend most of it with Belva, and just a little in tracking down someone who might have known the ball player, Bill Harbridge years before.

I called a friend over at the L.A. Times and got a referral to Myer Copely, in the sports department. Myer had been covering baseball for thirty years and knew everyone worth knowing and then some.

Meyer invited me to sit down next to his desk while he thumbed through a thick pad of index cards, pulled one out and studied it for a moment. "Maybe this guy, if he's still kickin'," Meyer said as he reached for his telephone.

Five minutes later I was talking with Sadie McMahon, eighty-one years old and a former player with the Philadelphia Athletics. "Mr. McMahon, I'd like to test that memory of yours. I'm looking for a fellow played around the same time you did."

"Now who would that be?"

"Ever hear of Bill Harbridge? I think he was nicknamed, "Yaller" Bill."

"I played for the Athletics, Orioles and the Brooklyn Bridegrooms, silly assed name, you ask me. I won 173 games for 'em."

"Yes sir," I said, as respectfully as possible, not wanting to offend him.

'"Ever see me pitch?"

"No sir, I'm afraid that was long before my time."

"Damn shame. I was a good one. I played on a couple lousy teams. No support -- defensively or with the bat. That son-of-a-bitch Billy Hamilton never scratched out a hit off me." He cackled, "Didn't steal a base either. Couldn't, I never let him on base!" He chortled obviously very happy with himself.

"Now, what was it you wanted from me?"

I repeated my question: "Have you ever heard of, or played against Bill Harbridge? I think he was nicknamed, "Yaller" Bill."

"Yaller Bill Harbridge?"

"Yes sir," I said and waited for his reply.

"He's dead."

"He's dead?"

"That's what I said."

"Mind if I ask how you know this?"

"Tom Carey told me. Me and Tom played together over in Brooklyn and then again in the minor leagues for at least one season. Tom wrote me a letter some six months before he passed, and in it he mentioned going to Harbridge's funeral back East. I think it was Philadelphia, but can't say for certain. That was 1922. I'm pretty sure of that, yeah, it was1922."

I thanked him for his time and help and hung up. It was a relatively easy matter to have Meyer call the New York Times and get his counterpart there to check out the obituaries in their morgue to verify McMahon's story. It checked out, although the year was wrong, Harbridge died on St. Patrick's Day, March 17, 1924. He was 68 years of age. Arthur had been right; I would have to let Harbridge find me.



The Storytellers Ch. 06



Chapter 6

Getting Settled in LA

I killed an hour at a friendly bar waiting for Belva to get home from work. I was sitting on her stoop when she turned the corner and saw me waiting. I received a wave that promised more than a simple hello, and quickly got to my feet and ran up to her, lifted her off her feet and half carried her up the steps and into the vestibule of her apartment.

I had to release her to let her get the key out of her purse, but I was sporting a gigantic woody and rubbed it against her ass, causing her to drop the key. When she bent to pick it up, I moved in and poked her sharply with my harpoon. Giggling with pleasure, she told me I had better stop for a minute before a neighbor came in on us.

"Would that be so bad?" I asked playfully.

"No, but it would mean you might get sloppy seconds. I can't alienate my neighbors."

I was shocked by her language, but recovered enough to reply, "What if it's a female neighbor?"

She purred out a sexy giggle. "That might prove interesting, wouldn't it?"

That gave me pause for thought. Could I possibly handle two women like Belva? I had strong doubts about it, Belva was plenty enough for me and I told her so.

"Good answer," she chirped and gave me a deep kiss. I made my way over to her liquor cabinet and made us both martinis. We settled onto her couch and relaxed with her body nestled against mine. Somehow her hand found its way inside my shirt and gently stroked the hair on my chest. I gulped the rest of my drink down when her hand moved lower dragging her lacquered talons across my stomach in the most intimate fashion.

In our fooling around I soon found my arm draped over her breasts as we kissed. It was difficult, but I managed to open several buttons and got my hand inside her C-cup. Belva chided me, saying I was a "Naughty Boy!" But the word "No" was nowhere in evidence, and so I began twiddling her rapidly stiffening bud and heard her moan her appreciation.

Our tongues searched each other's mouth and Belva's hand wandered farther down, rubbing and squeezing my rock hard dick. I shifted my hips, more or less presenting my manhood for further inspection. I heard but didn't feel the zipper of my fly moving downward and a breath of cool air floated over my suddenly exposed dick, and then Belva's fingers made their way through my nest of pubic hair and wrapped themselves around my throbbing shaft. 

Belva broke away from the kiss and whispered, "Ohh, Roy, you horny dog! Is that for me?"

"For as long as you want it, baby," I replied as she squeezed the first drop of precum from its tip.

Playing tit-for-tat, I twisted slightly, changing my position so that my was free and moved it between Belva's legs, dabbing my fingers up and down the slippery furrow of her pussy. "Just being with you like this is enough to keep me continually hard. You're so sexy and you're pussy is so hot and slick, I don't think I'll ever be soft again."

Belva smiled her mischievous smile again and said, "I'm glad you brought lots of rubbers then. I intend to take complete advantage of the situation while we have the chance. And speaking of chance, right now seems like the perfect one: you're hard and horny, my hole is hot and needs plugging in the worst sort of way, so what say we see if we can use all those rubbers before we call it a night?"

The implication of what Belva had said sunk into my brain and ran straight down to my cock. It jerked in Belva's hand in response not only to her stroking but at the thought that in seconds I would be plunging into the het of her wet sheath.

By way of answer, I sat up on the side of the bed and reached down to the floor and took several condoms from out of my pants pocket. I lay down on my side and showed them to her. She took one out my hand and tore the cellophane wrapper from off it. 

"I'm sorry to make you have to wear this, but I'm right between periods and figure I'm fertile as a turtle. Maybe a couple of weeks from now, when I'm in my safe period, we can screw skin-to-skin. If you wouldn't mind getting a red dick, we could even do it doing my period. It's kind of sloppy, I know, but I like getting it then. Not having to worry about getting pregnant makes it especially good for me."

God, if she only knew! I would have worn an inner-tube if necessary to get back in her pants! I would have wrapped my dick in layers of cellophane if I needed to. It didn't matter to me; I just wanted to get my prick in her pussy. 

I kept things simple and said, "That's okey-doke with me."

"Let me put it on you," Belva said. "I just love putting rubbers on guys." 

It was the first time I wondered just how many guys she'd done this with. I closed my mind to the thought, telling myself that there had been a war going on, and she was performing her patriotic duty; at least as she saw it. 

She put the condom on the head of my penis and slowly rolled it down until its hard circle of elastic fit snugly at the base of my shaft. 

"There," she said, "it's all dressed up in a shiny new raincoat." 

Stroking my dick up and down, Belva giggled and said, "You look like you're ready for action − let's see if we can give that rubber a good work-out."

I got on my knees and scooted up between Belva's thighs, wedging them apart as I did so.

"Wait just a sec, Roy, let me get a pillow under me," she said, pulling a pillow down and putting it under her butt. Her pussy lips were gaping wide, glistening with the liquid evidence of her arousal. I moved up on my knees until the knob of my prick was lodged between those pouty labial lips then I stroked it up and down the slick furrow. Belva hunched her hips up toward me and I sank into her furnace.

I pumped twice and found myself buried in her gash. Another thrust and our groins met.

"Ahhh, yesssss! That's... the... right... place!" Belva growled, as she lifted her legs up and wrapped them around my thighs then squeezed tight.

"Oh, is that EVER the right place!"

I remained still for a few moments, reveling in the pleasure of her heat and tightness around me. When I resumed moving, I pulled the entire length of my shaft out of Belva's hot scabbard then drove it back again as hard as it would go. The force of the thrust drove her hips down to the bed, and I pressed my groin hard against hers, seeking to extend my entire sexual being inside the unbelievable pleasure of her womanhood. 

Belva pressed back against me, and there was not even a millimeter of my penis that wasn't inside her. I felt as though my prick was a foot long and that it had penetrated into the very deepest part of her belly.

Belva had her eyes closed, a look of deep concentration on her face as if she were focusing all her mental energy on the coupling of our organs. As I pulled out, with just the tip of my prick still lodged inside her, she opened her eyes and said, "What school did you go too to learn that?"

"Like it?"

"Brother, do I! Keep on doing me that way. I'm going to start coming soon. Please don't stop and don't you dare come first!" 

I took both of Belva's legs and lifted them straight up and spread them apart. Her pussy was completely exposed to me in this position and I watched gleefully as my dick plunged in and out of her sex-pit.

The feel of Belva's tight pussy rubbing against my shaft was one thing -- and I really mean that − but being able to see the action of each stroke made it incredibly exciting. I laid her legs on my shoulders and put both hands down on her jiggling mound and kneaded them while she moaned and arched her back up to my hands, forcing more of the soft globes into my hands for their massage. 

"Oh, yes! Yes! That's so good! I'm getting so close." 

Only seconds before I had felt I could keep going all afternoon, but with Belva's reaction − her eyes were tightly squeezed together and her head was turning from side to side. Suddenly she opened her eyes and reached up for me, pulling my chest against her breasts. "Oh, God, Roy, I'm gonna come again!"

Belva's whole pelvic area went into spasms, grabbing at my prick as it plowed in and out. She grasped my waist between her thighs and squeezed hard. Her hips rose completely off the bed as she arched her back and pushed her pussy up to me and held it there. Except for the spasms that wracked her whole bottom half, Belva was motionless, thrust up against me. I knew she was peaking in her orgasm and that carried me over the edge and I spewed my load in her -- well the rubber, anyway.

I collapsed on top of Belva, limp and exhausted. Her legs fell from around my waist and nestled on the outside of mine then gently wrapped around mine and relaxed totally. About a minute later I rolled off and lay beside her, our bodies touching from toe to shoulder, reluctant even in the aftermath of our orgasms to break contact with each other.

Suddenly Belva moved completely on top of me and sat up, legs spread apart and her ass on my stomach. The juice from her spread-wide pussy coated my belly and made it feel slippery-nasty and very erotic.

"Roy, baby, just when are you going back to Chicago?"

That caught me completely off-guard. "What?"

"Be straight with me, Roy. Are you bailing out on me?"

"Belva, I've no intention of hitting the silk on you."

"Your job is in Chi-town, you've been gone how long now?"

"Almost three weeks, but...."

"No buts, baby. You've got a job there, don't you?"

I hesitated before answering her. The truth was I didn't know if I still had a job with the Trib.

"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't."

"You really don't know, do you?"

"No, Belva, I don't."

"Then you better get some threads on and make a call. Things are still hopping back there."

She had me cornered, so I did what red-blooded American men have done since revolutionary times. I followed her advice, got dressed and strolled down to the corner bar and made the call.

I got McGriff at the City Desk. He transferred me over to Shaunnessy, my so-called boss.

"Who's dis," he yelled into the phone. 

"It's Roy Shannon, boss. I'm calling to ...."

Shaunnessy interrupted me. "I ain't your boss, Shannon. As far as I know, you ain't got a boss here at the Tribune. Kozak fired your lame ass last week. I tole ya not to dawdle in La La Land wit all dem fairies and movie pitcher stars. So your job hunt didn't pan out. Too fuckin' bad, Shannon, Too fuckin' bad."

He hung up on me and I cursed myself for not having called back sooner. Perhaps if I'd told them I was coming back ... No, neither Kozak or Shaunnessy had ever liked me enough to give me that kind of benefit. 

I trudged back to Belva's trying to work out a plausible story to tell her. The last thing I wanted at the moment was to have her harp about my lack of a job. I made up my mind to make some calls around to the local papers. Maybe something was open, maybe.

The words were out of my mouth as Belva opened the door for me.

"I'm fired."

"I knew it, Roy. That's why I made you call them."

"Yeah, I was just whistling' Dixie, the whole time, I guess."

"Oh, Roy, sweetie, you couldn't have know the Black Dahlia was gonna be a dead-end."

"Maybe, maybe not. But I should have had a backup, an idea of what I was going to do if it didn't pan out."

"Don't you know some people here in town?"

"A couple. I'll call them later; see if they know of any openings."

Belva leaned over on me and gave me one of her soft, sensual kisses. It was slow and gentle, not hungry like her usual kiss.

My dick stirred. I was pleased to find that I still had some life in me. I shucked my threads, sat back down and pulled Belva onto my lap. 

 *****

I started called people I knew at the evening editions. That drew a blank, although Mia Culpa, an editor who had left the Chicago papers for the sunnier climes of LA for health reasons, gave me two names to try on the afternoon and morning papers. 

The following morning -- earlier than I ever expected to get up again after my military days -- I made the requisite calls. They were both cordial, but had nothing open. I heard the usual, "we'll keep you in mind," gave them Belva's phone number and went back to sleep as Belva was getting up.

Just for the hell of it, I went out to find a witness the LAPD had interviewed. I had been doing this to see if any disparities arose in the version they gave me and the one they gave the cops.

I had a late breakfast in a diner just off Wilshire Boulevard. There was a little plaque on the wall by my booth, as I read it I learned that Wilshire Boulevard was named after H. Gaylord Wilshire who was a socialist with a picture of Karl Marx hanging in his office. Wilshire started Wilshire Boulevard by carving a four block street out of a field he owned on what the boondocks of Los Angeles were then. The builders of the Gaylord Hotel / Apartments named the place after Wilshire without his permission. He promptly sued the builder and in settlement they offered him a room in the apartments for life (which he most likely never used since he died soon after the settlement). 

I finished going over my notes on witnesses about the same time as my third cup of coffee. There was a luncheonette three blocks from where I sat where a waitress worked who seemed to have known Elizabeth Short. I left a fifteen cent tip, grabbed my fedora and hoofed it over there.

I was in luck, she was there, and after agreeing that I wouldn't use her name, opened up like a cluster of rosy-red four o'clock.

Most of what she had to say had been said before by several other witnesses, but there was this one part: "Last year (1946) I was going to high school and working part-time at Brittingham's on Sunset Boulevard near Columbia Studios. Elizabeth Short was a frequent customer. We knew she wasn't a hooker; she just didn't look the type. She was a woman of mystery, soft, feminine and fragile. People noticed her and wondered about her. She never laughed loudly. She always had this pale face, always wore black. I spoke to her a few times in the powder room, she seemed normal... you know, no different than me or you. There was a rumor that she was going with someone connected to Columbia Studios, someone named Mac or Max. Exact dates are hard to remember but it was around the time Orson Welles was shooting The Lady from Shanghai. He was one of the regulars." 

Harry Hansen was in and willing to talk with me. I ran the waitress' story by him and he nodded several times. "Yeah, Roy, I interviewed her myself."

"Have any luck with what she had to say about that certain someone at Columbia?"

He laughed and said, "There's 3,457 people work at Columbia, and that's only on the site, not out in the field, which is another 1200 or so."

I began to squirm.

"But I did check it out. I narrowed the personal down to the crews working on the Orson Welles flick, and The Jolson Story. Of course all we learned was what that prick Harry Cohn wanted us to learn, and not an iota more. I will tell you, although it's not for publication, the guy is capable of covering up the beginnings of World War III should he want to." 

"So, I'm nowhere."

"Well," he said and paused, "You maybe nowhere, but you've got a lot of company."

"Shit!" I said, and Harry laughed. "Don't feel bad, you've got a check coming in every week, something else will turn up, it always does."

"I got canned by my paper. I took too long in developing nothing, Harry."

He shrugged, "So try the local papers, there's enough of them, you'll find something."

"I have, and I'm still looking."

"Ah, what can I say, life sucks and then you die." I got up, put on my fedora and shook his hand. 

"Be seeing ya, Harry."

"Take care, Roy, don't quit on this, someone will find that clue that leads us to catch the sonofabitch."

I hope so," I said and headed for the nearest bar, which was only three doors down from Police Headquarters.

****

After my third beer I began reflecting on my life and life in general. I had come home from the war, snagged a good job with the newspaper and decided to write the great American novel. I wasn't unique in this. Some major changes were taking place in the good old USA. All too many Americans were not satisfied with their old ways of life. They wanted something better. And with the resurging economy, they were earning enough money to make a better life for themselves.

I was one of many. But how many had met an alien? And... Arthur's words floated back in my memory. "If you choose to write about... Bill Harbidge, you'll become famous enough."

What was it that he had added? Arthur had rewarded Harbidge by allowing him to take over the body and minds of... anyone he thought might prolong his playing days, or lifetime....

No, he had not added that. That was part and parcel of his story about Harbidge. He had added something about his name... "When you find him ..." this implied that I was capable of locating this man, this shape-shifter. "Call him Bill. No matter what, always call him by that name and no other. I am not at all sure that Bill has remained a good boy. I have serious doubts that he has used the power as I thought he would."

"Arthur, is Bill dangerous?" "Not to you, nor do you pose any real threat to him. Again, I see no reason to fear him as long as you call him Bill. Please, Roy, keep that thought foremost in mind when conversing with him."

The thoughts left my mind as I worked on my fourth beer and dealt with my immediate problem, finding gainful employment.

I left the bar, found a delicatessen and bought a half pound of corned beef and a loaf of rye bread for Belva and me to munch on for dinner.

*****

Belva was cleaning the dishes and I was drying, in as cute a domestic scene as one might imagine, when the phone rang. Drying her hands with a dish towel, Belva answered and listened then held the phone out toward me.

"C'mon, handsome, it's for you," she said. I watched her eyes brighten as I walked toward her and took the phone from her hand. "Hello?"

"Hello, Roy?"

"Yeah?"

"Mia.... Mia Culpa, over at the Times?"

"Hi Mia, what's the buzz?"

"You still need a job?"

"I do, I do. What's changed since this afternoon?"

"Harry Dalton was fired."

"I'm sorry; I don't know Harry, um...."

"He got drunk once too often. They were forced to let him go when he... um urinated on the lead editor's desk.

"Ruined his Begonia's huh?"

Mia laughed. "You might say that. So are you still looking?"

"Yes, I am."

"Why don't you amble on over here in an hour or so? I'll introduce you to the nice folks who do all the hiring and firing around here. They like to fill any vacancies as soon as possible."

"Mia, darling, I'm on my way. I don't know how to thank you."

"Flowers would be nice, but not Begonias."

We laughed and ended the call. Belva threw her arms around me and we hugged for a good five minutes. It might have been longer, but when Woody arose, Belva giggled and shoved me away.

"Not now! But for sure later. We have something to celebrate. What a turnaround!" 



The Storytellers Ch. 07



Chapter 7

Arthur Returns

The job was mine for the asking. I started then and there, following up on a domestic dispute where a wife had repeatedly stabbed her husband because he brought home pork chops instead of veal cutlet. Returning to the Times after interviewing the police officers who made the arrest, I typed the story up and handed it in to my new editor. He read it, made one grammatical change and sent it out for publication in the afternoon edition.

I was back on the job.

That night I took Belva out to celebrate. Charlie Parker had a regular gig at the Tiffany Club at 8th and Normandy. Parker a relatively unknown musician had seemingly burst upon the jazz world overnight with his sparkling sax work as he played what was being called 'bebop.' 

Having spent a few years in Chicago, I was familiar with several of the giants of Jazz, like Muggsy Spainier, Louis Armstrong and Jack Teagarden. I had seen Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker at a club in St. Louis some months earlier and looked forward to sharing Parker's stultifying saxophone again; this time with Belva, who knew little about bebop, but loved the big bands of the day.

Parker was in rare form, and we stayed for three sets, only leaving because Belva did have to get up early for work the next day.

For the next month or so I worked diligently for the Times, covering the police blotter mainly, but also filling in whenever another reporter called in sick, (read to hung-over to walk into the office) and so I wound up covering everything from weddings to ribbon-cutting ceremonies.

Belva began making noises about wedding bells and I wasn't adverse to the idea, but I still had the novel as something I had to get out of my system before hopping down the matrimonial trail.

Then on August 28th, I was walking down Normandy when I heard my name called out from an alley. It piqued my curiosity as I wasn't that well known in the City of Angels. I ventured into the alley, my right fist clenched into a fist in the event the caller suddenly became confrontational, only to recognize Arthur, my alien colleague New Mexico.

"Arthur?"

"Hello Roy, how are things?"

"Things are swell. Um, what do you want with me?"

"I thought I'd look you up; see how your novel is coming along," he said smoothly, ignoring the hostility in my voice.

"It's nowhere, man. I hit a dead-end on the Black Dahlia case, just like the LAPD."

"You weren't able to uncover any new data on it?"

"No, Arthur, I hit a dead-end, like I said."

"That's a pity, Roy. So have you looked into the Bill Harbidge thing?" 

"The Harbidge... oh, that. No, Arthur, I haven't. Well, I have found out that Harbidge is dead."

"Harbidge may be dead, but Bill isn't. I'm sure of it. There's a great story there, Roy."

"Look, Arthur, that may be true, but I've found this girl...."

"Yes, Belva; she seems very nice, Roy."

"You... know about her?"

"I told you I'd be in touch, didn't I?"

"Yes, but I didn't think it meant you'd be hovering over me."

"Very aptly phased, Roy; you do have the makings of a great writer."

"You're spying on me? But why?"

"It's not spying, Roy. It's merely observing. That's what we do. We observe you and others like you. We've done so for thousands of years."

"Yeah, yeah, but why me? Why this thing about Harbidge?"

"I believe we made a mistake with Bill Harbidge, Roy. That's why I want you to find him and write your novel about him. His story... when you learn it, will fascinate you and whoever reads your book. That I guarantee you."

"Well, Arthur, it's like this; I need moola to get by. I was fired from my paper in Chicago for taking too long on the Dahlia case. I was lucky to hook up with the local paper here in Cinematown."

"So its money that's holding you back."

"I don't...."

"How much do you need to carry you through the next... say, two years?"

Something in Arthur's voice, (He wasn't actually speaking. His voice was inside my head. For that matter, I wasn't speaking to him either. He made do with my thoughts. Some of which aren't going to appear on this page) told me he was deadly serious about this, so I didn't make light of it.

"I make $2460 a year at the Times, Arthur."

"Would $7500 take care of you and Belva for a two year period?"

"Yeah, sure, if we were separated as I expect we would be under the circumstances."

"Ah, yes, separation would be best. In fact, when you meet Bill, keep Belva out of any conversation. Don't mention her name at all. He might just inhabit her body to force you do his bidding. That's to be avoided at all costs."

"So mum's the word on Belva, huh?"

"Yes, mum's the word on everything about you. As far as Bill is concerned you have no traceable past. Be warned, he will attempt to learn about you. He will trace you back to Chicago and to Columbia. But that segment of your life is essentially a closed door. Your parents are deceased; you don't have any real ties with anyone in Chicago. Really, there's only Belva and a few people at the Times. Leave that door to your life closed."

"Are you going to give me money to leave the Times?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Walk with me to the Bank of California. I believe its three blocks away."

"You're going to walk down the street?"

"No one will see me, except you, Roy."

So we traipsed over to the bank of California. He had me loiter by the counter with the deposit slips while he wandered into the vault. Less than five minutes later he was ushering me out of the bank and into the park across the street from the bank.

"Here you are, Roy," he said and handed me an envelope filled with moola.

I counted it. There was $8200 in it. A veritable fortune.

"You robbed the bank?" I was incredulous at his nerve.

"They won't miss it until the end of the month when they perform a cursory audit. What follows is that they will chalk it off to either an embezzlement or miscalculation somewhere along the line. In any event, they can stand the loss. It won't affect their bottom line at all. In my opinion, banks take in depositor's money and lend it out at much higher interest then they give their clients. It's always been that way.

"I recommend you give some to Belva to provide for her in your absence. The occasional phone call will have to suffice until you have the book written."

"But... I mean, the money's fine and all, but, how do I find the guy who changes bodies on a whim?"

"Why that's the easy part. Write him. He'll answer you."

Arthur faded away then, like a morning mist on a summer's day. I recounted the money to make certain my imagination wasn't playing tricks on me. It was still there, legal tender and green as grass. I popped into the nearest watering hole and had two quick Glenfidich's, surreptitiously counted the money again, and made my way back to Belva's place. 

I had some thinking and even more explaining to do.

Belva was horny after coming home and taking a shower, so we made love; then on the rumpled sheets I told her the whole story.

She didn't believe a word of it until I showed her the $8200. That opened her eyes and her ears. I told her the story a second time. This time she listened to each and every word.

"You really met... an alien?"

"I did, I really did."

"Jesus Christ! I remember reading about that, Jesus Christ!"

"It's true. I mean, why the hell would I make up a story like that?"

"To explain the money, honey."

"No, no, Belva. Look I write for a living. That means my imagination is maybe a little better, or at least more active than the next guy's."

"So?"

"So I could make up a more plausible story than meeting an Alien."

Belva drew her knees up under her and gave my response some thought. "How are you supposed to find this guy?" she asked.

"I'll place an ad in a couple newspapers, I guess."

"The Sporting News," she said emphatically. "If he's involved in baseball, he'll read the Sporting News."

It hadn't occurred to me, and I had to wonder why I was thinking New York Times, Chicago Tribune and even the Los Angeles Times, rather than the baseball bible.

"That's good, Belva. I wish I had thought of it."

"You would have baby, but what the hell, you just met an Alien who gave you a boatload of doe-ray-me. You got the priorities straight and I'm not jiving you." 

And so the following day I called the Sporting News in St. Louis and placed my ad: Looking for Bill Harbidge, former player with the Hartford Baseball team. I also respectfully bid the kind folks at the LA Times adieu; talked Belva into taking a couple days vacation, got us both into my Desoto, and headed off to a southerly sojourn in Tijuana. 

And after five days of beachside tedium and a gaggle of bright and noisy lounges that clustered around our secluded Tijuana cloister, we packed up and returned to Belva's LA apartment and waited.

With Belva's salary and the bundle provided by Arthur, making us feel like we were millionaires, we went out on Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

Friday we caught the Ritz Brothers hilarious act at a place that burned to the ground later that night after everyone had left.

Since the notorious Cocoanut Grove nightclub fire in Boston in 1942, claimed 492 lives was still fresh in everyone's mind, at least in the good old USA, we were counting our blessings and decided to "get back on the horse," as it were by going out again.  

Celebrating our good fortune not to have been in the club when it went up in flames found us at the legendary Blue Room Saturday night where Stan Kenton was appearing. Belva had heard great things about Kenton and his "Progressive" style on KFWB, where a disc jockey named Al Jarvis hosted a popular show called Make Believe Ballroom. For the record, he was also known for writing the song of the same name that Martin Block made famous after appropriating it and the programming concept from Jarvis at WNEW in New York City in the early forties. 

During the course of the evening, Belva and I met with Kenton's lead singer, a young blonde named June Christy. And when I told her I thought she was an up and comer vocally, she didn't jape me, but was down to earth, saying: "I have a lot of shortcomings technically. The worst being my intonation. I don't swing all that well either.

It's not easy to render the be-bop improvisations in tunes like 'How High the Moon' but I love singing and the monies pretty good." 

Her candor left me speechless. As we got to know her over drinks following a set, June told us that before her gigs with Stan Kenton, she would step outside onto the loading dock and scream bloody murder at the top of her lungs to prepare her in competing with the blaring brass of Kenton's band.

Sunday evening found us at the NBC Studios to watch the Spike Jones Show, which was broadcast nation-wide. Jones and his merry men, called the City Slickers took popular and classical numbers and butchered them, using satire and plain old slapstick comedy. They were all talented musicians, with a flair for comedy and they used gunshots, whistles, cowbells, and outlandish vocal to accomplish it. 

George Rock played trumpet and performed a couple vocals that had Belva and me laughing so hard the tears were rolling down our cheeks. Two remained with us after the performance: Dressed as a little boy with missing teeth, he sang "All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth" and followed it later and in a different outfit with "I'm Forever Blowing Bubble Gum." 

But the absolute highlight of the evening was when Doodles Weaver was introduced as Professor Feetlebaum, a character who spoke in Spoonerisms. Which is to say that as part of his schtick, he regularly mixed up his words and sentences in various songs and recitations as if he were suffering from myopia and/or dyslexia? 

Weaver's rendition of Rossini's "William Tell Overture," was pure genius as he pretended to be the gravel-voiced sports announcer, Clem McCarthy in a satire of a horse race announcer who forgets whether he's covering a horse race or a boxing match ("It's Girdle in the stretch! Locomotive is on the rail! Apartment House is second with plenty of room! It's Cabbage by a head!"). The race features a nag named Feetlebaum, who begins at long odds, runs the race a distant last—and yet suddenly emerges as the winner.

On Monday, Belva went back to work at the insurance company, and for something to do; I rode over to Venice Beach, watched the muscle-men do their thing; watched the girls in their bathing suits do their thing, and went home horny as hell to wait for Belva.

Of course I jumped her bones seconds after she walked in the door.

The next day, left to my own devices again, I regretted quitting my job at the Times. I headed out the door, thinking I needed a drink or some male companionship, when it occurred to me that I hadn't checked the post office box to see if Bill had tried to contact me. Opening the box, I saw a return address for the Middlebury Home of the Aged, Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. I tore it open with shaking hands.

Dear Sir I hurd you're trying to find me. At lest that's what a friend a mine tells me. I wuz a ball player of note a while back, and could probably still play the game better than soma these pitiful bastards cavorting in the ball parks today. I seen Lajoie, Cobb, Ruth, Young, Mathewson, Joss, and a whole lot more close up as it were. Right now I am being held prisioner. I am one hundred ten years old and don't have all that much time left before they ship me to the bone orchard, so get here quick. 

I will sell/tell you my story for twenty-five thousand dollars American. I am legit. You'll make a bundle off me, but I want the money up front. So get your ass out here before I croak on ya.

Sincerely, Bert Burr, Esq.

The letter was soiled and smelled like someone had wiped their ass with it. It had the name and address of the Middlebury Home of the Aged at the heading on the top of the page. Belva couldn't believe it when I showed her the letter. "So you're going to Pennsylvania?"

"I have too, Belva."

"Are you sure I can't go with you?"

"You know what the alien said. I don't want you getting hurt."

"Why would this... old man want to hurt me?"

"I'm not sure, but there's something Arthur said about him; something about not trusting him, and that he was very dangerous."

"Oh, pshaw!" Belva said, not believing a word of it.

"No, Belva, baby, there's more. He can take over a person's body any time he wants to. Arthur's given me some form of protection against it. I'm not sure how it works, only that I'm to call him Bill at all times. My guess is that... now bear with me on this... he might take over your body and manipulate me through you."

"You really believe all this hokum?" 

"I believe meeting an alien is not a usual occurrence."

"Well...."

Sensing that Belva wanted to buy my story, I pushed it a little harder, repeating the key sequences again to make certain she understood how important I thought they were.

She was quiet for a minute or so; and when she started talking again, she didn't make any cutting jibes about the alien or Bill Harbidge.

She didn't like it when I told her our contact would be limited to the occasional phone call and getting her to promise not to come east, or to try to locate me under any circumstances.

"How long will you be?" Belva sniffed, holding back tears.

"I honestly don't know. If I had to guess, I'd say a little over a year."

"A year! I thought we'd be...."

"What... what was it you thought?"

"Never mind. When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning I guess," I said forlornly. At that moment I was so weakened in my position that if she had raised any argument at all I might have dropped the entire idea and begged to get my job at the Times back.

But Belva adopted a stoic attitude and the following morning at a little after nine, I said adios to Oscartown, and headed East in my Desoto.



The Storytellers Ch. 08



Chapter 8

The Second Storyteller

Seven days later I arrived in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. The next morning I made three phone calls before confirming that a gentleman by the name of Burr actually did reside at the Middlebury Home of the Aged and that afternoon, just a few minutes before five, I found myself at the reception desk stating my case; a few short minutes later, I was being escorted down a corridor toward what had to be Harbridge's room, by a stout, over-curious, and evidently, spiteful middle-aged nurse.

Opening the door to a room that appeared to be almost filled with potted geraniums, she exclaimed with what seemed like disgust and distrust, "Visitor, Bert," and to me, "This would be the esteemed Mr. Bertrand Burr, Mr. Shannon. He ain't a day over ninety. Don't believe anything he tells you. I'll leave the two of you together..." and, in an aside to me, "for as long as you can stand him."

There in a wheelchair, bent almost in two by arthritis and other maladies, sat a wizened old man who looked every bit of the one hundred and ten years he claimed to be. His face appeared to be filled with fury, his eyes hot and blue as an Arizona sky. He had a wrinkled little head that trembled ever so slightly as he looked me up and down. His skin give the impression of being very much like worn out oilcloth; and his arthritic hands resembled bird-claws. 

Did I mention that he was filthy, and smelled something awful? He had soiled his pajamas from both ends. I glanced at the nurse with a question on my lips, but she answered me before I got it out.

"Does it all the time... likes to annoy us. We take him into the bathroom like clock-work, but he'll wait until he gets back to the room here, and then let go of either his bladder or his... well, you know. Just to spite..." she paused, obviously wanting to say "me," but finished the sentence with -- "us."

"How 'bout you do your god dammed job, and clean me the fuck up?" he spat out.

The nurse stiffened, and I detected a fear come over her as she took a step backward. 

"Got me a witness, nursie," he said; a mean glee dripped from every word. Without another word, the furious nurse spun his wheelchair around and wheeled him into the oversized bathroom. Ten minutes later, she wheeled him back out. He fairly gleamed with freshness, and the foul odor that had clouded the room earlier was now gone.

The nurse had more to say about his poor behavior, and I listened until she ran out of words, turned on her heel, and shut the door firmly behind her.

"Aw, she just gave me a lick and a promise, that's all," he said wiping some drool from his mouth with the sleeve of his right hand. "See them elastic stockings she wuz wearing?"

I shook my head. I hadn't noticed them.

"She wears 'em 'cause of her very close veins."

He means varicose veins, I told myself. Then I met Burr's rheumy eyes, and said, "I'm looking for a former big-league ballplayer by the name of Harbidge. Would you be him?"

"My name's Burr, Bert Burr. I might know something about baseball, but I ain't anybody named... Harbridge."

"I'm looking for a man goes by Harbidge. That's spelled H-a-r-b-i-d-g-e. He played with a couple different teams before the turn of the century."

"Did he now?"

"He did."

"You look it up, did you?" He licked his lower lip, and I felt my stomach cringe. Was he always going to be this difficult? I wondered.

"Let me start over, Mr. Burr."

"Please do," he said, and cackled, "I'm waiting to hear your preposition."

"Find me funny?" I was wondering if his malapropisms were deliberate or accidental. 

"Nope," he said answering my question.

"You sent me a letter, Mr. Burr."

"What are you incinerating?"

"I'm not insinuating anything; I'm here because you answered my advertisement in the Sporting News about a ball player named Bill Harbidge who played for the Hartford team among others."

"Got the money?" He replied, finally getting to the point.

That told me he was, or at least knew who I was looking for. In response to his question, I asked, "I need proof before I give you any money, Mr. Burr."

What kind of proof?"

"For starters, I believe you met a man... a very unusual man who changed your life."

"I'm a hundred ten years old; I've met plenty of unusual people in that time."

I felt a kind of bump just then, and looking around saw nothing that might have caused it. I took a deep breath, realizing that he had just attempted to take possession of me. Arthur had been proven correct. I was grateful to him for preventing just that from occurring. 

All this took place in mere seconds. Trying not to show him that I thought anything was awry, I said, "I'm referring to the person who gave you a certain power."

Burr's blue eyes flickered, was it from remembrance of their actual meeting? Or was it that perhaps for the first time his attempt to take over someone's mind and body had failed? In any event, I kept my face from sending any helpful signals to him.

He smiled, and I was surprised to see he was in possession of most of his teeth.

There was another bump. I looked at him and smiled back.

He nodded, as if satisfied about something. I assumed I had passed his test, for he said, "Oh, you mean the shifting?"

"I don't know what you mean by 'shifting.'"

"How 'bout, I met a man from Venus."

"A man from Venus?"

"Well, all right, I don't know where the fuck he wuz from, but it wasn't this planet!" he spat out at me.

"Are you speaking about an... alien?"

"I ain't talking about no menstrual show!"

"You mean minstrel show, don't you?"

"Don't go getting a brain conclusion over the way I talk, Mr. What's-your-name."

"It's Roy Shannon, Bert."

His blue eyes seemed to glow and I realized my mistake in not calling him Bill.

"Yeah, yeah. It's the pills. I gotta take these big pill everyday and drink a lot of water 'cause I got trouble with my probate.

"Did you mean to say, prostrate?"

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever...."

"Alright," I replied, "let's get back on track. You met an alien, and...?"

"Show me the money." 

"I don't have the money with me, Mr. Burr. I can arrange for the money to be delivered to you when you satisfy me that you are the person I am looking for, and after you tell me your version of the story."

His eyes glowed even brighter and I willed myself to use Bill... to always use that name or prepare to suffer the consequences. 

"You ain't flush are you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Rich, you ain't rich, are you?"

"No, I'm not rich. I'm a writer; I was working for the Chicago Tribune, now I'm working on a novel."

"You're asking me to take you at your word?"

"Yes, I am."

"Get the fuck outta here!"

Ignoring him, I asked, "How did you learn I was looking for you?"

He cackled and some spittle drooled from his mouth. "Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on!"

"Like that word, do you?" I said, trying to turn the tables.

"Love it," he replied, denying me my wish to reverse matters.

I decided to take another course with him, and reached for my fedora, and carefully fixed it on my head.

"Nice meeting you, Mister whoever you are. Well, so long, I have other fish to fry." I turned to leave. I got as far as opening the door before he called out, "Wait up!"

I stopped and turned to face him, I kept my face steeled against revealing my true emotions to him.

"It wuz very nice of you to look me up."

"You're a very hard man to find."

"I know. That's why I wrote you."

"I'm going to call you Bill."

"Why not? It's my name... at least when it began." 

His eyes lost the glow, returning to the rheumy blue that I'd noted on first meeting him.

"By now I've had a hundred or more names. Can't recall a lot of 'em, at least not so easily."

Opening my notebook, I glanced down and said: "I know you were born in the middle of the 19th Century that would make you ninety something, and not a hundred and ten. Just how old are you?"

"It doesn't matter, Roy," he said, using my name for the first time. "I take on the age of the person I adopt. That's the way it works. Of course, this time, I aged another fifty years after a month or so. Actually, I'm about a hundred and forty years old at the moment."

I realized his speech had noticeably improved.

He looked at me, smiled, and said, "Got all my teeth too, see?"

I ignored him, and asked, "Who was the last ball player you used?"

"I'd prefer to answer that later; it might confuse matters just now. Let's just say there wuz a number of 'em and leave it at that."

"How did you get to be the person you are now?"

"Same way as everybody else,' he cackled; and then appeared to sober. "Truth is I got tired of the ball playing. I decided to call it quits, and picked up on Mr. Burr here. He's got a couple months left in him," his shoulders sagged even more, and his rheumy eyes seemed to tear up as he added, "Should be long enough to tell my story."

"So you're not really after any money," I said.

"Nah, I wuz just bulldozing you. I got all the money I need. Always had all I needed. Just change with a banker, or a millionaire, siphon off some information on whatever they're working on to fleece the public at the time, and use it to feather my nest. I got personal accounts all over the place, but unlike W. C. Fields, I got 'em written down so I won't forget. Heh, heh, heh."

Reaching into his pajama top pocket, he pulled out a plug of tobacco and bit off a sizable chunk, chewed it for several seconds and turned his rheumy blue eyes back to mine, waiting for my next question.

"How did you get started in baseball, Bill?"

He coughed, and spat a wad of tobacco juice into the cuspidor next to his left foot. I had to give him credit for accuracy, or maybe it was just luck. I expect he'd perfected his aim over time and stopped thinking about it while awaiting his response.

"Loved the game since I wuz a tike; seemed like everyone wuz playing it. All day long, soon as we'd got done with our chores. Some of us got so we wuz pretty good." 

He wheezed, coughed twice and then spat a thick gob of phlegm into the cuspidor without bothering to look. There was a soft "Ping." Damned if he wasn't right on target. 

"I wuz born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in the grand old year of 1855. I'm told there wuz about two hundred and fifty thousand people living there at the time. I grew up in a nice two-storied wood frame house, typical of the time. Many of the things we take for granted now weren't even in existence -- the telegraph, telephone, express companies, ocean steamers, city delivery of mail, postage stamps, and even street cars, hadn't arrived. Omnibuses crowded the narrow streets getting in everyone's way, including their own. Even the railroads had yet to really develop into anything close to what they are today. Most freight moved through the canals back then.

"Anyway, my Father, bought a hotel... well, rented one anyway about when I wuz turning thirteen. I can still see the long spaces of the lobby, where forty people could sit, in contrast to the little parlor of the house I wuz born in. It had tall brass cuspidors, an enormous dining room, with printed menus; at least for Sunday dinner; and there were unending rows of bedrooms, with no less than four bathrooms. 

The building itself wuz three stories of brick, and an entrance that still fascinates me - not just a door flush with a wall - but right on the corner, cut diagonally across. 

Oh, I met a lot of people. All kinds, too, traveling men in sporty vests and ascot ties; actors and actresses, who I wuz warned under penalty of a strapping to stay away from. Had us a bar too, but my job, or jobs, wuz doing what no one else wanted to do; scrubbing floors, wiping dishes, cooking the eggs for breakfast; all before galloping off to school.

He wheezed, and then sighed, recalling a particular segment or moment of his long ago youth. 

"Don't expect you're interested in my kiddy ball days. Guess you want to hear about how I got to the big leagues, eh?"

I nodded, not wanting to break his concentration.

"Wuz a Sunday in the summer of '71, had to be a Sunday, 'cause they didn't play big league games on Sundays; especially in the City of Brotherly Love. But we amateurs did. Hell, we got paid good money - a dollar a game for me to catch, and Randall Beals, our pitcher, got two bucks. 

Course they would pass the hat around the crowd, and some days I got as much as two bucks for myself. This easy money attracted some of the Philadelphia Athletics, and they joined in with us. Sometimes we even got some players from the visiting team who wuz in town to play them on Monday. 

"The Athletics happened to be the best team in baseball that year. 'Course it was a close race, with the Red Stockings eventually finishing second. I seem to recollect that because the Kekiongas, out of Rockford, Illinois, wuz forced to fold after two of their best players, Bobby Mathews and Tom Carey defected; and others following soon after, they wuz without any players. So their unplayed games wuz forfeited. 

I forget exactly how it worked. Of course, late that season there was that famous fire in Chicago which destroyed the Chicago team's ballpark, most of the player's homes, and even worse, the banks with their life savings. The boys from Chicago were demoralized and lost most of their remaining games, which, of course, helped the boys of Philadelphia.

"Anyways, one particular Sunday, I met up with, and played alongside some big leaguers; them being: Levi Meyerle, who hit .492 that year. You heard me, he hit .492! Of course they only played 30 odd games that year, and there was that "fair/foul rule helped. 

Count Sensenderfer, wuz another good hitter, come with him. The Count played center field, and Meyerle walked out to third base and claimed it from our regular third baseman, Rudy Radcliff, who moved to left field. And a fella named Bob Ferguson, from the New York Mutuals joined us and played some first base. I didn't know it then, but Ferguson also managed the New York team, and would be instrumental in signing me a couple years later. 

"We played a game and beat our local rivals, the Bulldogs; and I suppose I had a decent game behind the plate. Randall threw a four hitter and I had three singles, and in the fourth inning I drove in what proved to be the winning run.

"Meyerle had four doubles and Ferguson a single that would have been more had the Bulldogs right fielder not made a great play and throw; and in his last at bat, he tripled to right. I felt I'd impressed them, since my hits and theirs were all we got off the Bulldog's hurler that day.

"I remember it pretty good 'cause after the game I happened by Ina Claire Hodge's house; oh, I wuz love-sick over her alright. Her father, Truman Hodges wuz the best druggist in the city as far as I knew; that made him the same as a doctor, and while he wasn't rich, he wuz an upstanding member of society. Me and my family wuz on a lower tier in that social circle and I knew I didn't stand much of a chance of winning Miss Ina Claire Hodge's heart." 

"In school, Ina Claire sat only three desks from mine; and just looking at the nape of her neck everyday I'd fallen volcanically in love with her. She wuz a tall wench, with a high old laugh, and rich chestnut hair, which she had started putting up long before any of the other girls in school. Anyway, she knew I wuz crazy about her 'cause some snooty bitch sent her a note saying so.

"We had happened to meet at several parties, and I got to waltz with her some, and it happens that I waltz pretty good, but wuz clumsy trying to caper through the figures of the square dance -- 'Grand right 'n left, sashay all' -- shit, I wuz dreadful at it. 

"Aw... she wuz my Helen of Troy, you know? I mean, I wuz entirely vague about what I wanted to do to her. I'd never thought more than dare to dream about sitting next to her on the steps of her front porch. 

And there she wuz, sitting on the swing on her front porch as I happened by.

"I said, "Hello, kind of cool, ain't it?"

She replied, "Yes, it is kind of cool."

Then I surprised myself and said, "You all alone tonight?"

"Yes, all alone. I guess nobody loves me."

"Gee, I do, all right." And I wuz beside myself at being able to reveal my true thoughts about her this easily.

"Oh, you do, do you? Well you never come around."

"I got my work at the hotel, Ina Claire. You know I have to help out."

"You must get off sometimes," she pouted.

"Well, I gotta play baseball, too."

"Why do you have to play baseball?"

"It's darn good money, that's why."

"If you wanted you could get away and come to see me,' she said wistfully.

"Would you really like it if I came over?"

She tossed her head, and sniffed, "It don't make me no never-minds, smarty. I guess you don't want to come, or maybe you like baseball more than you like me."

"I can try to get off work and maybe miss a game now and then."

"Well, if you manage to get off once in a while, then maybe I'll believe you want to."

"Well, would you like to go for a buggy-ride with me this Sunday afternoon?" I didn't bother to mention the Sunday baseball game would start just before noon, probably end by two in the afternoon. I knew Ina Claire went to church and didn't get home until around three.

To my surprise, Ina Claire weakly peeped, "Oh, I'd like it, but Pa and Ma wouldn't stand for it."

"Why not?"

They wouldn't mind it if you came here, right under their noses, but they wouldn't let me go riding with you."

"Why the heck not?"

"I didn't want to tell you, but they don't exactly approve of you. I mean, your Pa's a saloon keeper."

"He is not! He runs a hotel! True enough we have a bar and all, but..." I didn't know what else to say, the inequality of our social status had never really come between us before.

"Thinking I might never see her again under these circumstances, I wuz emboldened and said, "Then how about given me a kiss right now? You know, being there ain't anyone else around and all?"

"I wuz stunned beyond belief when she said, "Oh, all right." 

"I leaned toward her lips, mechanically like, but received no mechanical kiss from her. Ina Claire's mouth wuz like hot cream; it wuz not the sensation less mouth like the chilled lips of the schoolgirls I'd kissed at parties and such, but had a tense, skilled life of its own."

"I shook with astonishment and bewildered emotion, and did not draw away from her until she pushed me away with a hand to my chest, laughing. "Now there, how did you like that?"

"I loved it."

"That's for asking me to go on a buggy ride with you."

"I'd like another," I said plainly and directly.

"Not here. Someone might see."

"Let's go into the barn, then."

"You want me to go into the barn with you?"

"Sure, why not?"

"It's not very clean in there for one."

To my surprise it took only two or three more minutes to persuade Ina Claire to accompany me to the barn. We climbed up to the loft, providing me with a glimpse of her ankle and even a smidgen of calf.

Ina claire quickly agreed to another kiss, and that led to another and another. I wuz emboldened enough by this point to ask her to let me see her breasts, which had been pressed against me non-stop throughout our kissing.

"No, I shan't let you see them," she said after thinking it over. She and I were both breathing heavily. I had already gotten further with Ina Claire that I had any right to expect, and so what she said next, floored me.

"You may feel them if you want," she said breathing even heavier than I was. She didn't need to tell me twice; I wuz cupping one of her delightful boobies with one hand, and squeezing the other, and listening to her soft moans.

I had me a boner of gigantic proportions and wuz about as uncomfortable as a man could be under the circumstances.




The Storytellers Ch. 08



After some more torrid kisses, I said, "Let me gaze upon your delightful breasts, my sweet," and gave a light tug on a button or two, but only a little of her breasts were exposed to my eyes as she hastened to turn her back on me. I became confused, should I stop, or not? This was a golden opportunity, and not likely to occur again anytime soon. Her parents were away, we were already in the loft and out of view of any passersby and she was breathing hard and moaning from all the kisses.

But still, one did not proceed further when a young lady said "No." 

But had she said the word? I thought about it, and as I still had at least one breast in hand, I figured she hadn't told me anything, but merely turned away, and that could be for any number of reasons.

'Did she fancy a fuck, or not?' I hesitated, then went on talking quietly and respectfully as my hands sought to uncover more of her person. 

Ina Claire did not resist. I kept going, but now my ears were fine tuned to the sound of any approaching buggy that might be bearing her parents back home. I had reached the point of thumbing the nipple of her right breast, making it stand up, hard and juicy as a plum when up she scrambled away from me. 

"We mustn't," she said, obviously frightened of what might happen.

"Oh, please, favor me with a kiss," I pleaded.

"Just one?"

"As many as you desire to bestow, my precious Ina Claire."

My words apparently had some influence upon her and she pursed her lips. We kissed and I realized that she had not closed the buttons on her dress and sent my hand out to explore the silken mounds of each teat in turn.

Ina Claire was back to moaning again, even clutching me too her as our kiss went on and on. I sent my free hand up and along her thigh. Her lips pressed harder on mine.

I sent my other hand inside her dress and cupped a breast.

She moaned into my mouth. My fingers gripped the nipple, and pulled. Ina Claire broke off the kiss and moaned, "Oh, oh, oh!"

"Do you fancy this?" I asked, and licked her earlobe.

"Yes . . . ."

"Which do you fancy more?" I asked, nipping at her ear lobe and then giving her nipple a little squeeze.

"Oh... Bill!"

"It's a simple question, Ina Claire."

"Both! I fancy both! Oh, I'm lost!"

And when I kissed her again, her mouth opened and our tongues met. I'm fairly sure this wuz accidental, as neither of us had any inkling of Frenching. At least I know I didn't, and cannot imagine Ina Claire possessing such knowledge after what came next.

When our tongues met, twas like an electrical current had shot through the both of us. We stopped what we were doing, looked at one another, and by mutual consent, did it again.

This time we did some exploratory moves, and then settled on a simple my tongue in her mouth, then hers in mine.

My hands, of course, kept busy. By this time I had one breast fully exposed, although I must tell you, I really hadn't seen it. Maybe ten minutes passed with us tonguing one another, and then Ina Claire's hand covered my hand... the one on her thigh, and half-dragged it so that it now lay directly upon her cunt.

Now, I'd be a liar if I said I knew this at the time. That tongue of hers had kind of shut my brain off. Oh, all my sensory parts wuz functioning, and by and by I realized what wuz going on, but not just then. 

That tonguing was really something. Ina Claire agreed with me on that a little later when I put the question to her.

And when the kissin' finally ceased, I lowered my face to that exposed breast and partook of her asparagus-tipped bud and sucked gleefully away. Ina Claire liked that, I guarantee it. And that's when I realized where my other hand wuz; she wuz rocking her palm on my hand, mashing it into her cunt.

I wuz under her petticoats like a flash, and rubbing her cunt through her bloomers, and all the while she wuz moaning, "Yes, yes, yes!"

"Let's get you outta these duds," I said.

Ina Claire made no objection to this; in fact, she divested most of them without any help from me. I, of course, started on losin' my own clothing, especially my pants.

I took great pleasure in hearing her gasp at the sight of my boner springing forth. And I said, "Quick now, take it in hand!"

She did, and gave it a hearty squeeze, while I took her nakedness in for the first time.

"Ina Claire, you're truly beautiful!" I said.

She was greatly pleased at my words, and kissed me, sharing her tongue with me; never letting go of my prick.

After the kiss, Ina Claire thanked me for the complement. It wuz the first time anyone had seen her naked and also the first time anyone had told her she wuz beautiful.

"So then what do you make of it, now you've seen it?" I asked, my manly vanity wanting to be stroked about as much as I wanted her to be stroking my manhood.

"It's much bigger than I had thought it would be."

"Thank you," I said, and began rubbing my hand against her sparsely haired quim, prior to aligning myself with her so as to complete the union.

"OH!" she gasped, and her hand clutched my prick, and started jacking me up and down. 

I rubbed a little harder, and felt her growing wet.

"Oh, Bill! What is that you're doing to me?"

"I'm warming you up, do you like it?"

"YES! YES! Very much!"

"So let's try this, then, I said, and scrunching around her cunt for a moment until I found her hole, and then my fingers were sliding along her sopping wet gash as I whispered, "We'll be fucking like two dogs on an August afternoon in a minute!"

"And who's to throw cold water on us?" Ina Claire groaned.

"Mother Nature herself, Ina Claire, my love."

"OH, I need you in me!"

"Yes, well...put up your legs, Ina Claire. There's a darling!" And I covered her face with a thousand kisses as she did as I'd asked.

"Don't hurt me," she whimpered, and I in turn assured her I would be as gentle as a lamb, even as I pictured myself ramming my prick in to the hilt. 

Then my prick entered her. There was a bit of resistance as her cunt wuz fairly tight. But Ina Claire didn't cry out; just bit her lip as I forged ahead, paying little heed to any discomfort she might be experiencing.

Once in, we rutted about for a short time before I spewed my load into her. I had not doubted for a minute that Ina Claire was a virgin, and saw proof as I withdrew my blood-specked prick from her wondrously warm sheath.

"Did you find it enjoyable, my sweet?" I enquired.

"We'll be doing it again, won't we?" she replied.

"Oh, yes. Give me a minute or two."

Bill sighed, and wiped what I took to be a tear from his eye. Then he said, "We went at it again, and wuz about to add a third fuck to the list, when we heard the carriage with her parents clattering across the wooden bridge leading to their property. We dressed in record time and Ina Claire made me promise to hide in the barn until everyone was safely in the house. Then I was to steal away, and come by two days hence.



The Storytellers Ch. 09



"Ninety feet between home plate and first base may be the closest man has ever come to perfection." − Walter "Red" Smith


Chapter 9

Getting to the Big Leagues

The large colored man whose body Bill now occupied sat down next to me. His breath reeked of both tobacco and whiskey, and I turned my face slightly to avoid his fetid bad breath.

"Like I said, we played every Sunday, and when Philadelphia was at home there wuz always one or two of their players come by to pick up some money." 

Bill coughed, and a shrewd glint came into his eyes.  "How much you think they got paid?  I mean them bein' major leaguers and all," he asked.

"I'd guess about two or three thousand," I answered.

He cackled, and spat a thick stream of tobacco juice past my shoe in into the cuspidor he'd brought into the pew with him. "Ha! How's $750 tops sound?"

"That's all?" I stammered, thinking of how players of today made at least $15,000, and some like Ted Williams and Stan Musial, over $50,000.

"It was a small fortune back then.  Four, maybe five years later when some ball clubs were taking in more at the gate, the better players started getting more;  something around $1500 to $2000 for the season.  Of course the season wuz longer too, that might have had something to do with it.  It wasn't until some other fellers started fielding teams and brought some serious competition into the game that salaries went up.  But with the teams folding left and right back then, salaries went up and down like one o' them Otis elevators in downtown Philadelphia.

"Anyways, the '72 season saw a lot of players changing teams.  The Athletics picked up a good one in Cap Anson and a couple others, but finished fourth.  Oh, I recall there wuz one rule change I found interesting in that the pitcher was allowed to bend his elbow, snap his wrist, or jerk his arm while delivering the ball to the batter.  So now pitchers no longer had to throw the ball purely underhanded and soon enough there were changes underway in the pitcher's deliveries.  

"For example, I saw Candy Cummings pitch against the Philadelphia team one afternoon, and my jaw dropped when he delivered a ball that seemed to curve as it neared the plate.  The next day, I told our pitcher, Randall Beals what I had witnessed, and while he scoffed at me at the time, two days later he was throwing the ball sidearm, not underhand as was usual; and getting a tiny break to some of his tosses.  He got better at it as the season progressed, and we won more than our usual share of games thanks to his new found curve ball.  

For a time there, I thought Randall was a sure fire big leaguer. But he hurt his arm throwing the damn curve ball, and by the end of '73 he was watching us play from the sidelines, reduced to the role of a substitute.

I nodded as I studied Bill's countenance.  "How did you make the jump to the Athletics?" I asked innocently, wanting to see if he would divulge his contact with Arthur.

"They called me, 'Yaller Bill,' he said in return, avoiding my question.

Not wanting to challenge his veracity at this point, I did not pursue the matter, but nodded for him to continue.  I knew we'd come to Arthur eventually, and that when he admitted his encounter with the alien, I'd have a firsthand explanation that would be the foundation of my novel.

"Not Yellow Bill?" I countered.

"Nope," he said, and spat into the cuspidor once again.  His uncanny accuracy was unnerving, as I fully expected him to miss and cover my foot or slacks with the indelible stain of tobacco juice.

"Yaller, cause I did a lot of hollerin' to the pitcher during the game.  I found it perked Randall up, and it kept the infielders on their toes; least that's what they told me when we wuz up at bat one time.  'Course Bill was my name at the time.  So it was natural that it followed 'Yaller,' understand?"

I nodded again.  "So, did the Hartford team scout you playing for your local team?"

"Nope.  Just before the '75 season they... well, twas Bob Ferguson, himself, come by my house and asked me right out if I cared to play for the Hartford Dark Blues.  He said they wuz in need of a capable catcher, and wuz I interested?  I said, "I seen you at the game the other day.  I thought you wuz lookin' at the first baseman, Big Ned Fuller."

"No," he sez, "I wuz watchin' the way you handled that half-assed pitcher of yours.  Don't know his name, and I don't want to know it.  I couldn't figure out why the other team didn't tear into him for ten or twelve runs.  But I got to watchin' the way you helped him with each batter, and realized you were probably much better than you were that time I played with you a couple years ago."

"How much money will I be playin' for?" sez I.
"You'll be a rookie, so I can't pay you more than $350."

"$350!" I yelled, doing my damnedest to sound disgusted with the offer.  In fact, it was more money than anyone I knew had ever made in a year.
"All right," Ferguson said, "$400, and not a penny more."

"I accepted without saying another word, and the next day I wuz working out with the Hartford team.  Working out... that's a laugh. They had each player run a quarter mile, then we exercised on the horizontal bars. That wuz followed by an adventure on the damn vaulting horse, and then of course we swung those Indian Clubs. We finished with the whole team pulling on the oars of the rowing machine. If I recall correctly, we rowed about a mile before ending the exercise at the bowling alley. 

It wuz early in the season, May I think, when we walloped the Philadelphia Centennials 13-4. I remember 'cause they caught us using an illegal bat. See, the rules say the bat must be round, but some of us were using a bat wuz whittled down so as to be flat on one side. They took it out of the game, but that wuz all they did about it.

"Turns out I wound up sharing the catching duties with a fella name of Allison.  I can't recollect his first name, but I played in 53 games, 30 some as catcher, but also a little at various infield positions, and a dozen or so in the outfield.  I only managed to hit .240 for 200 at bats, and I was kinda pissed about that.  But Allison was only ten points higher than me, and I had three triples to his none." 

"Oh, it just come to me, we played what they called the best game ever at New York Mutual's place, the Union Grounds, when Candy Cummings beat the Mutual's 1 to 0. I caught him and he told me I'd done a good job behind the plate; I wuz strutting like a bantam rooster that night. 

"A month later we battled the Chicago Whites for ten scoreless innings before Jim Devlin scored on a fly out by Paul Hines in the 11th to win for Chicago, 1-0.  Guy named Zettlein beat our Cummings."

Bill laughed, and I had to ask him what he was laughing at. His reply had me smiling as well. "They always refer to this time period in baseball as the "Dead Ball Era. Well, it wuz and it wasn't. See, most games they put a ball in play and left it in for all nine innings. Only if it got lost or something wuz another ball put in play, and it wuz just as likely that ball would have been knocked around in an earlier game as not. But one day, I think it wuz over in Brooklyn in July; they kept putting new balls into the game. Don't ask me why, I wuzn't there. Anyway, the Mutual's edged the Athletics 16-13, with Joe Start smacking 3 home runs and a triple to lead the way. 

Well it wuz the talk of the town, all them home runs. These days no one would think twice about it, but back then... well it wuz the bee's knees."

"How did you manage on that meager salary, Bill?" I asked, recalling his earlier comment about receiving $400 to play that year.

"Meager?  Shit-fuck-man, I lived like a king!"

"Really?"

"I don't recollect the exact cost of things back then, but they wuz cheap by today's standards."

"Give me some examples," I asked, probing for details.

"I lived at a boardinghouse near the ball park. That cost a dollar a night, and included breakfast and dinner.  After a home game, or a road game for that matter, I'd head for whatever saloon was all the rage, and have a few beers and some whiskeys.  The beers were a nickel and the whisky two-bits.  That's if the Hartford fans let us pay, which they mostly did not.

"I recollect laundry wuz cheap enough, might have been a nickel for clean underwear, maybe a dime for a starched shirt and collar."

"What about a suit?" I asked.

"What about a suit?" Bill replied, not understanding my question.  "Oh, I had a summer suit, pale tan in color, it wuz too tight in some places, too loose in others, since it was picked off a rack."

"Sorry, Bill. How much did it cost to get a suit cleaned?"

"Gee, I don't recollect," he said.  "I didn't get them cleaned but maybe once a year.  I guess it musta been about two-bits.  Don't know for sure.  I bet you could look it up at the library, downtown. But I do recollect that a fella could get his ashes hauled for two-bits."

"I don't understand, what does that expression mean?"

"That wuz the going rate for a two-bit whore, get it?  Fifty cents?"

I waved my hand indicating that I'd understood him, and went on taking notes.

"Did you frequent them?" I asked, curious about sex in the 1870's.

He spat another juicy gob into the cuspidor and smiled. "'Course I did.  But there was free stuff around for the ball players to latch onto. Mostly young girls in their late teens, early twenties, some of 'em married; all of 'em wanting some excitement in their lives."

Ever the voyeur, I licked my lips and nodded, encouraging Bill to continue.  He did just that.

"People talk about the Victorian Age like nobody ever got laid. Shit, it wuz like plucking eggs from under a hen with them women.  I was gawking at some femmes' fatales in the stands during my first game with the Dark Blues, before Ferguson put me straight. They wuz mainly lookin' for a husband, or a meal-ticket, he says. But, then, Hartford, Boston, and Chicago... hell, all of 'em, had Tenderloin districts offering gambling, stage shows, and dozens of brothels.  

On Ferguson's orders, our shortstop, Tom Carey showed me around the better brothels of Hartford."

He had a far-away look in his eyes, and I remained quiet, letting him relive the experience.   

"The Tenderloin's only took up a couple of blocks in each city. Hartford had Lulu's Blue Saloon and the Opera House.  They wuz on the fancy side of the tracks, on the south, or wrong side, was the lowdown, or better known as the 'fourth grade.' 

The women they had working workin' the fourth grade wuz diseased, and dirty. The houses redolent of bad booze; and wuz patronized by the vilest of men. These, I wuz told to avoid at all cost, as they were not conducive to a ballplayer's well-being.  

In other words, a fella could, or I should say would, get a dose of the clap, or worse.  A player named Phinny McGinty come down with syphilis and went blind before anyone, including McGinty himself, knew he had it. 

Anyways, Tom Carey took me into Lulu's and introduced me around.  I remember the bartender wore a striped shirt with sleeve garters, and sprouted a handlebar moustache.  The place offered a dance floor, and all kinds of gambling games. It had a stage for variety shows, although there wuzn't any there that night except for the dancing girls; and they wuz just whores who had to dance between fucks.  They would flash their bloomers and give you a peek at their garters in hopes of luring you upstairs.  

I learned that the girls working there didn't have to be whores if they didn't want to be.  What I mean to say is, there wuzn't no compulsion, or white slavery.  There wuz even those who disapproved of the selling of flesh as a degradation of the fair sex.  But aside from the preachers, it wuz a rare man who shared this opinion; the exception being one's own daughter, sister, wife, or mother.  

There wuz the usual distinction between good girls and bad, and for the most part, if you didn't consort with a soiled dove, you might have to wait a few years between having any woman at all." 

His cackle reverberated through the small bedroom we were residing in. Then he added: "Except for us young, good-looking ball players, and stage actors who were damned near irresistible to the fairer sex."

"Anyways, Tom plied me with whiskey and beer.  Didn't take much, I wasn't used to hard liquor, and I lost my cherry that night to either a sweetie name of Mindy-Sue Sullivan, or her girlfriend Corry.  

Sounding more wistful than I'd ever heard him, Bill described the girl named Mindy-Sue as if it were yesterday.

"She was a year or so younger than the girl who had admitted me and Tom. Fairer and more expressive, more perishable, and a great deal more insistently feminine than any of the others. Her eyes were almost as dark as Corry's, but unlike Corry, hers were sweet, yet unrestful. Still they seemed to be looking for someone right behind me, you know? Like a long-lost friend, or lover.

"Mindy-Sue could have drunk me under the table, since she was downin' two or three to my one.  Anyways, I must have shown how green I wuz, cause once we got to the boudoir, she asked if I wanted to play a game."

"Cards" I asked dumbly, and fumbling my glass of whiskey, spilling some on the knee of my brand new black and green checked pants.

She laughed, and said, "No silly, a game with me, and my best friend, Corry."

"Now, I would learn that these girls had a knack for making a fella think he wuz real special to them.  Many a customer came back night after night to spend his hard earned money on them.  A few were even known to have married some of 'em.  Some of 'em were pretty enough to make you wonder why they wuz whoring, until you considered how good the money wuz, and the alternative, marrying some miner like their Pa; and between child-bearing and all the heavy-labor chores, dying young while living in one of them Pennsylvania mining towns, or a tenement in the city, and breathing the bad air from either place."

Mindy-Sue slipped out and returned a moment later with a plump little blonde who wuz introduced as "My best friend, Corry."

"Mindy-Sue says we should all play a game," I said genially, hoping the room would stand still for a minute.

"Is it the gamahuching you'll be asking of us?" Corry inquired brightly in her lilting Irish accent; obviously hoping it wuz.  

Now gamahuching, well... I had heard of it in snide remarks by some of the older fellers in Philadelphia.

"No, darling, no gamahuching," Mindy-Sue quickly interjected.  She turned to me and asked, 
"Unless, of course, you want us to."

I paused, not wanting to slur my words, and more forthrightly, wanting to form the correct word to be uttered from my drunken mouth.

And after careful consideration I replied, "Can we just fuck?" 

"Yes... we can do that..." Mindy-Sue replied, then hesitated, undoubtedly trying to recall my name; and when she did, she said, "Corry, Bill here is a baseball player for the Hartford Dark Blues."

"Really?" it seemed to impress her.

"Corry is a big baseball fan," Mindy-Sue informed me.

"Ya root for the Dark Blues of Hartford do ya?"

"Oh, no," she answered with a certain pride. "I'm for the Athletics of Philadelphia!  They're in first place, don'cha know?"

Oh, I knew that well enough, we lagged three games behind them, and worse, they had been soundly trouncing us whenever we played each other. That would change soon enough, for we got to rolling pretty good in August. Actually it wuz just a few days after I met Corry and Mindy-Sue that Tommy Bonds one-hit the Mutuals, and we won, 1 – 0.

And a day or so later, and it's funny how clearly I remember this ... with the score 1-0 and 2 out in the last of the 9th inning‚ our Tom York hit a triple over the center fielder's head. The next batter‚ Bob Ferguson‚ fouled off about twenty pitches batting left-handed, and then turned around and batting right-handed‚ smacked a double to tie the score. Rain ended the game with the score Hartford 1‚ Mutuals 1."

I waited a second or so, and then reminded Bill that he had been telling me about his night in the brothel.

"Oh, right... well, we undressed, taking our time and hanging our clothing carefully on hangers and chairs so that after finishing up the girls could make a quick appearance downstairs in hopes of landing another customer.

"We sat on hard wooden chairs in what I came to realize wuz the boudoir. The bed was sound, and the sheets clean. I learned that they had maids in to clean each room after it had been used for illicit purposes.

"I began by kissing Mindy-Sue. We'd been kissin' for some time before her mouth opened and her tongue slipped out, inviting mine to enter. I hadn't tasted another's tongue since my wonderful afternoon with Julie. It was still a novel and exhilarating experience for me.

She seemed to be as excited as me, and the game went on with me begging her to let me have her, and she denying my advances by jabbering that she was only 14 and a virgin. But the both of us knew full well that she wuz a whore about twenty years old, working a customer for all the dough she could get.

"Surely you're at least 16," I countered, "A woman by any standard." 

That seemed to delight her and Corry no end, as they took a fit of laughin' until Corry switched places with her, and began kissin' me with a vigor that Mindy-Sue lacked.

"You, on the other hand," I said," appear to be at least nineteen," at which Corry maneuvered her body against mine so that I had free access to her breasts, which I commenced to fondle.

"We're both twenty-one, mister smarty-pants," Corry laughed, as I raised her clothing up to her belly, my hand between her thighs. Then cried out, "No, no, Mr. Harbidge!" but so quietly I knew she meant for me to continue. I was still so big a rube as to think I wuz succeeding with them beyond my wildest expectations. 

"I kissed Corry, and groped Mindy-Sue's arse; even pinched her cheeks at which, she shrieked so raucously that I made straight for her cunt and found as hairy a bush as I've ever seen to this day."

"Who to do first?" Mindy-Sue howled boisterously. 
"Is that yer problem, Billy Boy?"

"I made a grab for Mindy-Sue and hugging her to me, gave her a long, wet kiss, and sent my saliva pouring into her mouth; a mouth that eagerly accepted it all, and signaled it was hungry for more. While I wuz manufacturing some more spittle, Corry took my cock out and dropped it onto her tongue.

"Whoa!" I yelled, as startled as I'd ever been to that moment. I swallowed my own saliva and began coughing. Mindy-Sue slapped me on the back, but Corry commenced to suck me off... and I don't mind saying that didn't take all that long.  

My coughing abated and I came a load down the young thing's gullet.  She swallowed it all effortlessly. Mindy-Sue wuz laughin' and giggling' at my surprise that Corry would do such a thing.

"It took maybe a minute for me to acclimate to the situation, then, holding my flaccid penis in one hand, I inquired of them just how in hell they were going to make it hard again. Still laughin', they mounted each other with their faces in one another's crotch, and set out a lickin' and a suckin' on the other. 

'Gamahuching' it was called, and after I'd watched 'em going at it for several minutes, my dick was poking straight out ready for action again.  I knew then that these gals knew their business... in more ways than one.  But before I set out to fuck one of 'em, I decided to try this gamahuchin' for a spell. 

I dropped to my knees and presented my face and mouth to Corry's petticoat covered cunt. But before I actually went down, I worked my fingers between her cunt-lips, twiddling and rubbing, and felt Mindy-Sue's tongue lick my fingers as it sought Corry's inner pink walls.




The Storytellers Ch. 09



"Then she moved aside, not so far that Corry couldn't reach her cunt with her mouth, but enough so that I had free access to Corry's sopping wet cunny for myself. Well, it wuz a mind-boggling experience to be sure. Corry's cunt had a faint fish smell to it, along with that of lavender scented water and God know what else.

A woman's hole can be dammed rank if they don't take care.  Both girls knew that much. It was their livelihood after all, and so they smelled a hell-of-a-lot better than some others I've encountered.

"Anyway, I put my hand to her cunt, and she opened her thighs a wee bit wider, and I saw the cleft, with a pair of large lips hanging loosely on each side. Thanks to a bright light from the window, I was able to see it as plainly as if under a microscope. Then I found myself suckin' and lickin' away at her. It wasn't long until she started to convulse in the throes of her climax. 

Maybe, just maybe, she faked it. I've since learned that women will do that to hurry things along. I didn't care one way or the other.  I was ready to fuck her, or Mindy-Sue, my prick didn't care which one it was.

"They decided for me, and I found myself shoving a finger into Corry's wet hole, and soon my cock was knocking against my belly, demanding to take the place of my finger. I grabbed my prick and waved it in front of her as a Calvary-officer might wave his saber before leading a charge into battle. She yielded easily enough, and I wuz soon buried in her cunt.

"Good old Corry joined me in all the rutting, wrapping her lustrous thighs round my arse as I clutched and pulled her buttocks to me to attain even more of a purchase of my prick within her. I realized that Corry was enjoying this fuck as much as I wuz; only I wuz payin' for it.

"After I'd filled Corry's cunt with my spunk, Mindy-Sue told me that we had about an hour left. I insisted on helping Corry clean her cunt up. This was rewarded when they pointed out Corry's clitoris to me. Until then, I had been unaware of its existence. And so, as we washed her off, I made sure I kept her titillated and juicy by constantly rubbing her clitoris along with an occasional tickle of her asshole, so she was giggling throughout the cleansing.

"Being a relatively young man, I was soon ready to perform once again, and mounted Mindy-Sue, and I must say that Mindy-Sue appeared to love the feel of my prick in her. 

I'm not bragging when I tell you that no sooner was I lodged in her, than her arse, cunt, thighs and belly, all worked as energetically as the finest piece of machinery in all of Philadelphia. I discharged my final burst of seed and moved to pull out... only Mindy-Sue's cunt closed round my prick with a strong muscular action, as if it did not wish my warm pipe withdrawn. I found this disconcerting and intensely pleasurable -- an interesting series of sensations to be sure.

"It appeared she was holding me fast by using the muscles of her cunt alone, although at the time I was sure it was a feminine trick of some kind. In any event, she proceeded to milk the last drop of lingering spunk out of me; it twas vexing, troublesome, and highly pleasurable, not at all bad for a first fuck as a professional baseball player."

Bill appeared to run out of steam on the subject; it's possible he was reminiscing about things he wasn't about to share with me. At any rate, he fell silent, and other than an occasional spit into the cuspidor, made no sound for some minutes, and I decided to take another tack with him. 



The Storytellers Ch. 10



"Baseball is the only sport where the team that has the ball is on defense."

Chapter 10 

Recollections of Old Philadelphia

"So you came from Philadelphia. Tell me, what was Philadelphia like in those days?"

"Hmm," Bill sighed, closed his eyes, and gave it some thought, then said, "The air smelled of chimney smoke and cooked lard. There wuz old women wuz waddlin' along the half muddied streets. On the main streets wuz cobblestones and carts and horses seemed to be everywhere, and where they weren't, there wuz streetcars clanging past.  

You could hear coughing coming from nearly every window. Babies squawking and crying at so high a pitch you'd want to cover your ears. In most tenements, hens roamed the hallways, goats shit on the stairwells, and sows nestled in torn newspapers and there wuz always this dull rage of flies.  

Most folks tried to get jobs in the factories.  Soot from the smokestacks along the Delaware River spewed chemicals and other shit into the air that we breathed.  Most days it wuz kinda quiet though, I mean mornings you'd hear shop grates rolling up and the clop-clop of horse drawn wagons delivering ice, hay and fruit and vegetables, or wood or coal. Then the streets would fill with vendors and livestock and truant kids. Later some of the men would hit the saloons for a late breakfast, or lunch and some musicians would occupy a corner trying to drum up enough money to buy some food or booze, or both."

I was surprised at his eloquence in describing his native city, and told him so.

"You're surprised? What the hell for? I wuz born and raised there, you know I've lived a long time; been around the world more than once."

I was quick to apologize, and asked him quietly if he would do me the honor of continuing. 

His nod told me he accepted my apology; then he went on as if nothing had happened moments earlier.

"Most people wuz poor. It wuz just about the same as the Depression we just finished with, thanks to the War Between the States and all. It seemed to get better with time, but really it didn't.  The rich got richer, and the poor got poorer. It seems to be the rule of things.  I doubt it will ever change. 

"Oh, but things perked up some with the Exposition of '76."

"You mean the Philadelphia Exposition?" I said, having been caught off guard. 

"Yes, of course I mean that Exposition. Philadelphia's my home town, how could I possibly miss out on that event; and it wuz a marvelous event at that.

"As I recall, we wuz playing the Philadelphia team that July 4th weekend. Now because of the game I couldn't get over to the opening day ceremonies. I could'a got there after though, but there wuz this young lady wanted to... well you know what she wanted. I wuz able to get there on the second day of the Exposition and two other times as well later on that year. They did a bang-up job, really made a mash of it. 

"Why not give me your overall impressions... what you saw, what you liked."

"Sure," he said, spitting into the cuspidor at his feet, "I'd be happy too. One thing stays with me wuz the display of the Liberty Torch as a preview of the Statue of Liberty, which they wuz still putting together. But for 50 cents you could climb the ladder to the balcony, and the money raised this way was used to help fund the rest of the statue. 

"I'll tell you something you probably didn't know about Lady Liberty."

"What's that," I said, anxious for a piece of hitherto unknown information.

"Bartholdi, the sculptor, modeled the statue's face after his mother's, and the story goes that the body was modeled after a prostitute." 

"Are you pulling my leg?"

"No, I'm serious. I really am. You could probably look it up."

"The arm and torch wuz at the Exposition, but it took 'em years to finish the job on account of politics and insufficient monies to complete the job."

Bill laughed and spit unerringly into the cuspidor once again; and again I had to glance down at my shoes to ensure that he had not stained them with his expectorant.

"My aim is true, sir, of that I guarantee you."

Defensively, I responded weakly with, "Well you came awfully close."

"Close don't count, except in horseshoes."

I waved my hand, trying to dismiss the event, and Bill was kind enough to let it pass.

"Anyway, as politicians are wont to do, they formed a committee to finance and arrange for the construction of the pedestal. But when Bartholdi announced that the Statue would be completed in 1883, relatively little money had been raised for the pedestal. 

There wuz opposition to the Statue, among them wuz artistic and religious criticisms; and of course, plenty of dissatisfaction with the proposed location. Surprisingly, plenty of people objected to New York City as the place where the Statue should be erected. And when they wuz pushed aside, some leading newspapers said New York should foot the bill and not the good old US of A. 

"Actually, I found it funny. Here wuz France trying to honor us with the Statue and we couldn't afford to pay for the pedestal, or agree on where it should go. It might have become an international embarrassment had not Joseph Pulitzer, railed at the New York money boys for their lack of generosity and appealed to the "working masses" to make up the deficiency in the fund.

Other American cities started to make noises about providing a home for the Statue (Philadelphia, Boston, Cleveland, Minneapolis, San Francisco, and Baltimore) but it wuz only after Joseph Pulitzer published the names of those who had already donated to the project that the funds really started flowing in. 

That's how things like that work. Once it's known that so-and-so gave, the rest of the phoney-balonies want in on the act. 

"I think it took about nine years to complete the statue in France, and then it wuz shipped to the States. It became a political football in that they couldn't figure out where to put the statue. It took a special trip by Bartholdi himself to discuss the location of the statue with president Ulysses S. Grant. Eventually it was decided to erect the statue on a small island in the harbor of New York City. The statue was erected in 1886; ten years after I'd climbed the arm in Philadelphia. 

"Opening day of the Exposition saw about 185,000 people in attendance, but the crowds dropped off after that mainly due to a deadly heat wave began in mid-June and continued into July hurting attendance. But I remember reading some place that attendance picked up later on and that maybe upwards of ten million people attended the Exposition before it closed."

"What else of significance did you see?"

"That's a good question, Roy. I'm gonna answer it this way: It's not so much what I saw, but what the rest of the world saw. Our image before the exposition wuz that of an upstart country: a country not ready to join the biggies of Europe. America had just come through a difficult period; the years following the Civil War wuz marked by political scandal and lack of leadership. 

Visitors and businessmen from abroad wuz astonished at our industrial productivity, creativity, and progressiveness. The country wuz hailed as the land of progress and increasing economic power. The Centennial gave Americans pride in the present and confidence in an even greater future."

I realized that Bill had just shown me his intelligence was far removed from that of the average ballplayer. I should have known this... well perhaps I did, but I hadn't understood the full weight of just how his "gift" had allowed him access to the finest minds of the century and the fact that he had taken advantage of it by "entering" world leaders whenever he thought it worthwhile. 

I tabled that subject for another time, and let him finish his discourse of the great Philadelphia exposition of 1876.

"Representatives from other nations came over to display their own products had found a variety of products to purchase from American firms. So we found what amounted to a new market for many of our homegrown products.

"Well, you asked what else I saw that impressed me. Remember I wuz only a baseball player, so I probably missed some important things. But one of the most popular exhibits in the Machinery Hall was a prototype slice of the cable that the Roebling Brothers would use for the Brooklyn Bridge. The Machinery Hall also featured other novelties, such as the first typewriter and a telephone. 

Telephones and typewriters wuz nice, but what people wanted was power. Towering over the hall was the gigantic Corliss Steam Engine, taller than a house, powering 13 acres of machinery in the great hall. The 1500 horsepower double Corliss steam engine connected to 5 miles of shafting used to move this power throughout the vast machinery hall. You had to see what wuz going on. The amount of activity in the hall boggled people's minds. The New York Herald, the Sun, and the Times all printed their daily editions in the hall. Machines started sewing, pins got stuck into paper, wallpaper printed, and logs were sawed. What really amazed people, though, was the Corliss Engine itself. The machine had only one attendant, who sat calmly on the platform and read newspapers." 

"Other major attractions were the Main Building, devoted to manufacturing capabilities of the U.S. and other countries; Memorial Hall, dedicated to the fine arts; and Horticulture Hall, a conservatory for the display of native and exotic plants, to which I would take any lady accompanying me to the exposition.

 "There wuz obviously more, much more, but a lot of time has passed by and I don't recall much more than that."

I thanked Bill for his lengthy explanation, and switched topics, asking, "How did your first season in the big leagues go?" 

"Better than I had any right to expect," he said, and sent another line of brown juice past my shoe and into the bucket.  

I pointed at the cuspidor, and asked, "Do you ever miss?"

He laughed, "Sure, every once in a while."  He saw me wince and glance down at my newly shined wing tips.

"Don't fret none sonny, I won't hit them shiny shoes of yours though." 

He paused, thinking about something, and then picked up his conversation. "I was just a kid back in '75. We had Candy Cummings the curveball ace, come over to the Dark Blues that year. He won about 35 games for us. I shouldn't leave out Tommy Bond, who was a pretty good thrower himself; won 19 or 20 games, although he lost a bunch.  He was pretty good though. A Mick from Ireland, I think. Let's see, he won 40 games with Boston a couple years later, and they took the championship."

"That's right," he shouted, and slammed the table, "he won 40 again the following year, and 43 the year after that. But Monty Ward and Providence finished ahead of them. Yeah, Cummings made the Hall,probably for claiming he invented the curve ball; but Tommy was a hell-of-a-lot better thrower."

Just then, the nurse came back into the room with a burly attendant.

"Ah, shit!" Bill exclaimed before leaning back into his chair and looking down at the floor.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Shannon, but it's time for Burt's bath. Visiting hours are up too, so you'll have to leave. You can come back tomorrow at nine."

"Give us a god damn minute, willya?" Bill beseeched her and to my surprise, she relented.

"Only a minute, now, Burt, no stalling."

He beckoned me closer then whispered in my ear, "Don't come here tomorrow. Meet me at the Lord's Will Baptist Church over on Glenwood Avenue at nine. Sit in the back of the Church. I'll be there and I'll bring us coffee."

"I told him that was fine with me, and left him arguing with the nurse and attendant.

I drove to the closest diner, had dinner, and then I Ameched Belva in Los Angeles. 

After the usual lovey-dovey hello's, she asked, "Is it really him?"

"It sure is. He's the real McCoy, Belva."

"How do you know?"

"He mentioned the alien. Said he met a man from Venus."

"Oh, my God!"

"Yeah. The man I met looked to be over a hundred years old. He also appeared to be near death's door."

"But your guy isn't near that old."

"Remember he changes bodies at will."

"You're saying he picked an old person? I thought he only picked baseball players."

"Well he doesn't. My guess is that he's taken over some of the world's renowned persons, including monarchs and maybe even presidents."

"Jeez! I think I'm going to flip my wig."

"It is scary, doll."

"Better be extra careful of him."

"I will. He seems to have the real goods on the old time ball players, although he played hard to get at first, denying he was the man I wanted. He kept asking for the money."

What money?"

"I mentioned a reward in the ad and he asked for $25,000 in his reply."

"You don't have that kind of money, Roy."

"I know, but it was only a come on on my part. When he kept yammering about the dough, I threatened to fade.  He came around then and that's when I found out he was the real deal. Anyhow, I'm meeting him tomorrow morning at a Baptist church."

"Be careful, honey."

"I will. I'm pretty sure he wants me to write about him. Arthur was right, he's as anxious as I am to get things on record."

"I don't care," Belva said. "You better be careful."

"Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. He tried to enter me. I felt this thumping thing, like he bounced off of me."

"No!"

"And later on, it happened again, only he wasn't trying to get into me. He was lying. After it happened I recalled Arthur mentioning something about my knowing when he lied; that must be it."

The operator interrupted us to demand another $1.75 for another three minute's conversation. We said our goodbyes and I closed by telling Belva I didn't know when I'd call her again, but it would be soon. 

The operator cut us off and I immediately regretted not throwing the additional quarters into the phone. But we really had said all we had to say, other than getting mushy and lovey-dovey, so it was probably best.

I went back to my room and transcribed my notes while listening to Amos & Andy on the hotel radio. Falling asleep proved difficult as my mind kept searching out new avenues of approach in uncovering Bill's secrets. It was well after eleven when I finally went out like a light.

*****

The following day brought a light rain and I walked two blocks to a small café getting moderately wet in the process. I had a breakfast of pancakes and crispy bacon, with several very tasty cups of coffee then set off for the Lord's Will Baptist Church, which was another two-block walk in the drizzling rain.

I entered the old white, wood framed building and sat down in the next to last row of pews. Ten minutes passed before a huge colored man wearing a white collar, approached me with a broad smile. 

"Good morning, Roy!" he said in a deep baritone.

My face must have revealed my shock in seeing him in another body, although I did try to hide it when replying, "Good morning, Bill, I see you're not as wet as I am."

"Meet the Reverend Howard Pentecost, Roy. This is my place of business; of course I'm not wet. If I venture out, I've got my choice of umbrellas..." he pointed to an umbrella stand with at least four umbrellas in it.

I nodded in understanding.

"I will say you look a lot better today, Bill. Obviously a good night's sleep did wonders for you."

He laughed at my attempted humor and said, "It unnerve you seeing me as a colored preacher?"

"It's not the color of your skin, Bill. But seeing you in another body... well, I admit it set me back some."

After sticking a chew of tobacco in his mouth, he replied, "You fared better than many folks seen me change." 

I thought nothing of the comment at the time, but it would come back and haunt me later.

Then Bill/the Reverend laughed again and got down to business. "So where do we begin today, Roy?"

I glanced at my notes and said, "As I recall, we were interrupted about the time you were going to tell me about your first season with Hartford."

"Yes," he said, and then waited.

I realized he wanted me to lead off with a question, and did: "So, how did you do?"

"Aw, I earned my pay, but I didn't get to be famous like Bonds, or Cummings, or Ward, or even Ferguson." Bill grew pensive, and said, "You know, there's something people don't know about those days."

"What would that be?"

"Because of the number of teams failing financially, you couldn't play out a full schedule; or the owners couldn't put enough teams on the field.  

One year we'd play 80 some, the next, 70, and then 60. That's what I meant about Bonds winning 40 out of the 60 played. Sure, it was a short season, but look at what the man accomplished.  He ain't in the Hall, but he should be."

"What about Bob Ferguson?" I asked.

"Well, he wuz good, maybe the best of that period, but he wasn't Hall of Fame material.  Maybe if you lumped all the things he wuz good at, you might make a decent argument on his behalf, but if I wuz votin', I couldn't see giving him my vote, and I really liked him."

"How about telling me how the game was actually played back then... say, as opposed to the way it is today?"

"That's a good question, because it wuz played a lot differently back then; of course, you understand, they wuz still inventing the game." 

He fed more tobacco into his mouth and chewed it for a minute before continuing.

"When I wuz playing back then you could say the game wuz played a lot like fast-pitch softball is today. The pitcher delivered the ball underhand from a distance of 45 feet, that's fifteen feet closer than now.  The pitcher's arm had to be stiff, so as to control the speed of the pitch.  But plenty of hurlers gave the ball a flick of the wrist, adding some additional spin, and sometimes a change in the ball's flight to the batter.

"Most things wuz about the same as they are now, except for the ball itself; the ball wasn't wound so tight, and remember it wuz handmade. It wuz so soft and all, I doubt anyone could have knocked it 400 feet.  It took nine balls to get a walk, but no one really wanted a walk, and the batters would be hollering for the pitcher to "Put it over, so I can hit it."

"Did the players of '75 really know how to play the game?"

"Course they did."

"Sorry, I meant, did they have a feel for the basics of the game... the inner workings... as the players of today do?"

"Same damn answer.  Go back into the archives.  You'll be impressed with how much was already known about the fundamentals of the game. Take Harry Wright for instance. He wuz a baseball genius, a master of strategy and tactics. He had that something extra, that geniuses possess. He invented drills, including backup drills for infielders and catchers. I think someone dubbed him the 'Father of Baseball.'   

He started with the first professional team out of Cincinnati. His teams played position baseball; what they call 'insider baseball' these days.  Guy's played off of first base long before Comiskey did - that lying, cheatin' cocksucker."

"You have a problem with Mr. Comiskey?" I asked, hoping to pull some new detail from him.

"Me, and every other baseball player ever set foot in the big leagues, yeah!"

I was busy scribbling into my notebook and suddenly realized that Bill had stopped speaking.  

I looked up at him.

"We're speaking of the 1870's right now.  I'll come back to that prick, Comiskey later, you don't mind."

"That's fine with me, Bill.  Go on with your story."

"Let's see, we wuz talking about first base, right?"

"Right."

"They wuz holding the runner on if need be, and played off the base when it wuz empty.  It was recognized that a left-handed first baseman had an advantage in throwing the ball to second or third over a righty.  

Um, let's see, okay, the pitchers tossing underhanded could change speeds, with some even throwing a curve ball.  I caught Candy Cummings that year, and he sure threw one.  He wasn't the best pitcher around. Certainly didn't deserve election to the Hall of Fame like I said earlier. But he talked it up, you know?"




The Storytellers Ch. 10



"Talked what up, Bill?"

"That he invented the curve ball. Wuzn't anyone disputed him, and he talked it up for years.  Damned if they didn't put him into Cooperstown along with the really good ball players."

Bill reached into his right hand pocket and pulled out a plug of tobacco.  Taking a bite, he seemed to relax a little more, and after expectorating into the cuspidor, he resumed talking.

"Teams tended to put the best fielder at shortstop. Remember, no one was using a glove.  Well, maybe a guy here and there, but until Al Spaulding donned one, making it fashionable, damn few players used one.  

"Don't think that ball didn't hurt when you tried to catch it.  Mostly they blocked the ball with their chest, then pounced on it and then threw to first. The first baseman had to catch that throw.

By the way, that was Spaulding's position after he quit pitching.  As a catcher, I stood maybe ten or twelve feet behind the plate.  I would try to catch, or block the pitch on the first hop.  I might mention that plenty of balls got past me."

He laughed, and added, "Me, and every other catcher.  What helped wuz that base stealing was not a big thing back then.  So if a ball got by me, and let me be honest with you, at least two or three got past me every inning, mind you. Still and all, I wuz considered a good defensive player.  Well, the game wuz rife with errors in those days.  Think about it. Player's hit the snot outta the ball, just like they do today, and for the first 250 feet or so it moved like greased lightning. Well, the players' hands would swell up after catching it slightly off center.  As for me, as a catcher... well, hardly a day went by during the season that I wasn't soaking my mitts for an hour or more after a game.  

"Did I mention that I wuz a lefty?"

"No, you hadn't, Bill. You mean you hit lefty?"

"Yeah, and I threw left-handed too. Not many catchers did that."

I nodded, and made a note to that effect.

"Anyways, we had relays from the outfielder to the shortstop or second baseman, as the situation dictated.  And the infielders and outfielders would shift their positions to play the hitters.  And then there was bunting aplenty. It was and still is, a very effective way to move runners around into scoring position.  A bunt is actually difficult to defend in that when properly placed -- and back then there was plenty of that – the player fielding the bunt had to make a split second decision as to where to throw the ball. He couldn't just concede the base to the runner and content himself with throwing to first base for the out. That puts runners in scoring position, and is the purpose of the bunt in the first place."  

Bill stopped talking and strolled over to a large cabinet, where I thought the church stored its hymn books. He opened the cabinet and reached in behind a row of hymnals and took out a small brown bottle, and took a swig. 

"Cough medicine," he said, with a wink.

I already considered him incorrigible and so ignored him, waiting until he resumed talking again.

"Now, in some respects the game still had some adjustments to make.  For instance, a ball was fair if it bounced in fair territory, even if it then went foul. Fella name of Ross Barnes hit over .400 in '76 by perfectin' the "fair-foul bunt," which was nothin' more than bunting the ball into fair territory and then having it roll foul.  Well, that wuz in play, and more often than not he would beat it out for a base hit.  Then too, if you walked, and mind you, that took nine balls, you were charged with a time at bat.  Though on reflection, I can't say all that many guys actually walked." 

He appeared thoughtful for a moment, and then said, "Oh, you'll like this one.  The batter would tell the pitcher where he wanted the pitch; that is, high or low."  

He paused, "You know, it just occurred to me..." 

I felt that he'd been saving this for me for some time.  

"...Baseball is the only sport where the team that has the ball is on defense."

I thought about what he'd just said, and slowly nodded my agreement.  "That's true, isn't it?"

"So while there weren't many walks or home runs back then, there wuz lots of base runners, thanks to all the errors and singles.  That would be the major difference between the game of say, 1875 and that of 1920 – all those errors.  I mean there wuz three or four an inning, or did I already say that? So the winning team usually scored around twelve runs a game, with the loser averaging around eight."

"Some time during the '76 season, I began wearing a glove.  It helped considerably in that it allowed me to move closer to the batter.  It sure saved my hands -- and I'd stand with my knees bent, no crouching mind you, that was years away...."

Bill appeared somewhat distracted and fidgeted with his hands. I coughed to catch his attention, and his head snapped up alertly, and he said, "Where wuz I? Oh, yeah... back in'93, I was long gone as a player, in fact I wuz looking for my new, um, self by then."

I didn't tell him he had been discussing 1876, and he continued speaking about 1893.

"That year they moved the pitcher back to 60 feet, six inches, which it still is today.  Of course by then the pitchers could throw the ball however they damn well pleased.  

And there was one last change that made a big difference. In 1900, home plate was changed from a square to a larger five-sided slab, increasing the size of the strike zone. This produced fewer walks, fewer hits and fewer pitches per batter. The following year, pitchers got another break when the National League declared the first two foul balls, strikes. No longer could a hitter like Billy Hamilton slap away pitch after pitch, tiring the pitcher out until he grooved one that Hamilton was waiting for."

I interrupted Bill's story, saying, "You mentioned that you were looking for your new self, a moment ago."

"Yeah, you may recall, our mutual friend gave me a certain power..." He let the sentence die.

"I do recall his mentioning it.  Would you mind going into the details of what and how you used that power?"

"Tired of hearing how the game's changed?" he said with a sneer in his voice.

"No, but it seems like the right time to bring it up."

"All right," he said, reaching for the bottle of whiskey and taking a long slug before restoring the cap to the bottle and placing it back in its hiding place.



The Storytellers Ch. 11



Chapter 11

Meeting Arthur

"I had always admired the boys from Pennsylvania University sculling up and down the Delaware River as a kid, and after my dismal showing in the '82 season, I wanted to get away from both Troy and Philadelphia, so I headed for South Carolina with the idea of joining up with a couple players from the Troy team, namely Bob Ferguson, Bill Holbert, who had taken over most of the catching on the club, and an up and coming pitcher, named Mickey Welch who lived to hunt and fish. Now I liked fishing as much as the next man, but when I arrived at Cumberland Island, I saw a row of canoes, and knew I wuz going to try my hand at a solo journey around that coastal area.

So as not to hurt anyone's feelings, I did go fishing with the boys the first three days we were in camp. It wuz a good time too, but when they decided to get some pheasant hunting in, I told 'em about my plan to canoe as much of the coast as I could; and if I had to, to take the train back to Savannah, where they would be whooping it up with some of the local whores after three or four more days of hunting and fishing.

Now, my original plan wuz to attempt to canoe along the 100 mile coast in three days, bringing enough food and water for four days if my body and the weather didn't cooperate. I packed up and launched from Jekyll Island, just north of Cumberland Island and paddled south to the Brick Hill campsites on the northern marsh side of Cumberland. But Ferguson and the others were not to be found. I later learned that they had gone into town, gotten drunk and slept right through the next day. I wuz a little annoyed at not finding them because they had taken the tents and other supplies with them. Anyway, I slept next to my canoe in a bivvy, and the following morning made ready to start paddling north.

The first day I paddled from the marsh, what we call 'the back side,' on the west side of Cumberland, and then north to the front side of Jekyll. I was blessed with warm temps and a tailwind. 

Once I got my canoeing figured out, I poured it on, knowing that I had two days of warm weather with good tailwinds. The first day I stayed out front, that is, on the ocean side as opposed to the back side in the marsh, and paddled past Little Cumberland, Jekyll, St Simon's and Little St Simon's. I stopped on Wolf Island between Sapelo Island and Little St Simon's Island. 

There I stayed on the beach as I didn't want to risk having some joker take off with my canoe. I slept a full eight hours, and got in two big meals before leaving the next day in the fog. 

The second day out wuz another warm, beautiful day with a nice tailwind, and I felt great. I had the wind behind me and I wuz full of beans, so I paddled my hiney off from Wolf past Sapelo, St. Catherine and Ossabaw Islands. 

My three day plan included camping on a great hammock, without nobody else around in St Catherine Sound. I paddled up to the north end of St Catherine Island and had to make a choice. See,I had pulled two forty mile days, and doing the coast in three days wuz looking like it was going to happen. I don't know if it was the wind and sun and spending all day on the gorgeous Georgia coast or hypoxia, limiting my ability to make sound decisions, but I decided that if I pushed ahead and made the north end of Ossabaw Island, I might be able to get to the last island on the Georgia coast, Tybee Island, in 48 hours. 

Well sir, I paddled through dusk; and when I started to get cold, I beached on Ossabaw's front side, put on some more clothes, ate some canned beans and got back in the canoe before I thought better of my crazy plan. I paddled the rest of the way to the north end of Ossabaw Island in the dark under the nearly full moon, while the shrimp boats passed me headed in the opposite direction with seagulls following in their wake.

On the north end of Ossabaw, I made camp just above the rack line, made dinner, and started preparing for the next day. Eventually I fell asleep looking up through the mosquito netting of my bivvy at the clouds scudding across a bright Georgia autumn moon.

I woke up at 4 am in the dark, having heard a strange series of sounds. They wuz unlike anything I'd ever heard before, or since. The wind had shifted, and the temperature had dropped. I shook my head to clear away the cobwebs of slumber, but the sounds persisted. 

I got up, and taking my hatchet with me, started out toward the noise. In my haste to find out who, or what was out there, I tripped over a root and fell, sustaining a nasty gash on both my chin and elbow. 

Bleeding profusely, I cursed and thought about turning around and taking care of my wounds. But right then this voice came into my head, I shit you not. Clear as a bell, the voice sez to me, "Hurry, I'm sinking!"

"Where the hell are you?" I yelled. And into my head comes this voice again, telling me where to go, and then as I neared him, to be careful not to get trapped like he wuz.

"Twas quicksand, he wuz fixed in. Up to his neck he wuz. 

Now it was dark, and I could make out a shape, but had I seen more of him, I might a shit my pants, 'cause he was not like anybody I'd ever seen before . . . or since."

Anyways, it wuz dark. So I wasn't afraid or nothin'. Like I said, he was caught in some quicksand and about ready to go under for good. I found a decent sized branch, and offered it out to him. He took hold, and together we managed to pull him outta the quicksand. 

When I actually seen what he was, I fainted. Now I am not a coward, having had many a fight with boys and men bigger than myself. And I came out of those spats okay for the most part. I even had a husband catch me with his wife and come at me with a bone knife, and me with nothin' but my skivvies between that menacing blade and my flesh. I'll let you guess what part of my anatomy he wuz going for. But that's another story.

I woke up and found myself back at my campsite with this creature holdin' my canteen to my lips. I took it from him and drank deeply. 

Then I heard that voice in my head again.

"Thank you for saving this wretched creature from the sucking sand. I was not aware of such things until it had me in its clutches."

"How can you get in my head like that?" I asked, overcoming my initial fear of him.

"First, allow me to introduce myself. I am called Arthur. As you must realize, I am not of this planet, but another, so far away that even the greatest telescope you have cannot see it."

I was studying this creature. He was shorter than me by a couple inches and at least thirty or forty pounds lighter. But it was his gray pallor that I had some trouble with. Now I been around Indians and Niggers enough so that a man's pigment ain't going to throw me off my feed. 

But gray is the color of a dead man, or so I've been told. He didn't have a nose either, but I seen many a guy with their nose's bitten off in a bar room fight, so while unusual; I didn't think much of it, and in just a few minutes, in the earliest of dawn's light, we wuz conversing, and getting on just fine.

Arthur, I might as well call him by his name, asked me question after question. Where had I come from? Where wuz I going? What did I do for a livelihood? And he wuz puzzled when I told him I wuz a baseball player. A professional baseball player, and got paid right handsomely for doing just that.

Arthur nodded, and studied me some, and then he said, "I want to reward you for saving me from the quicksand, but you appear to be well off and not in need of anything."

"What do you mean, reward?"

"You saved my worthless skin, isn't that what you people say? I mean, is that the correct expression? I don't get to have many conversations with Earthlings, so I have to ask."

"Yes, that is an expression people use. But as for me saving your skin, don't think nothin' of it. I'd have done the same for anyone, and hope that someone would return the favor if needed."

"That's exactly what I mean," Arthur told me. I gave him a puzzled look, and he continued. "I wish to return the favor. I understand that I cannot save your life this very moment, but I am capable of performing some favors that you might consider magical in nature."

"You a magician?" 

"Well, no. But... let us see... for example, you said earlier that you were a professional baseball player."

"I did," and to my surprise, my voice took on a sorrowful tone. "But my career is just about over with. My performance this year was not what I expected it to be, and if it weren't for old Bill Ferguson, the Troy club would be letting me go before the new season gets kickin'."

Arthur looked thoughtful for a minute, and then seemed to brighten somewhat. "Suppose, just suppose, that you could perform well indefinitely, would this Troy person keep you on the team?"

I laughed at the thought of me playing baseball at age forty-five.

"What, have I erred?"

"No, I seem to have misled you though. See, a fella can't play baseball past a certain age. It varies from player to player, but still most don't perform so well after turning thirty or so. So thinking about me playin' at forty-five made me laugh, 'cause it's downright silly."

"What if I gave you the ability to play on, with no loss in ability; with perhaps an ability to improve on your... performance, was it? Each succeeding year?"

I laughed at the thought, but sobered quickly when it occurred to me that Arthur might be able to do just what he was proposing. 

"I appreciate what you're saying Arthur, but it don't work that way here. People'd get suspicious. Why some would say I wuz a witch or something. They'd be frightened of me; some might try to tar and feather me." I paused to form my thoughts, and then went on. "People do that when they're afraid of someone. They do it to the Nigger's all the time. They do it to keep them in line. I think it's 'cause they're afraid of them. Lincoln may have set 'em free, but there're plenty of white folk wanting to make them slaves again."

"I may have the solution," Arthur's voice spoke in my mind, his tone calm and soft. "Tell me, Bill, what if I gave you the power to take over someone else's body for a period of time you elect to chose, and when you leave them, they remain intact, while you move on to someone else?"

"I don't follow you," I said.

"How much longer do you think you can play baseball?"

"A year, maybe two," I said, knowing it to be true.

"I propose this: that you spend the next two years looking for a fellow who has the ability to play baseball. I mean really play it, better than you have thus far."

My ears began to burn; and I guess I turned beet red.

"Have I angered you, Bill?"

"You want me to look for a fella plays better than me? You got a nerve. I'm a big league ball player. There ain't but a few of us. It takes great skill to play ball, and where am I gonna find someone better than me? And how will I know that he's better than me?"

Arthur regarded me quietly for several minutes before answering.

"You will know. Of this I am certain. You have the ability to see such things in others."

After I considered what he'd said, I had to agree with that. I had spotted several kids on those Sundays we played with the local yokel's for pin money. One or two I had brought to Bob Ferguson's attention, and he had seen to it that they wuz signed up. But none had made it to the Big's."

Of course, Arthur wuz reading those thoughts and he nodded, saying, "You see, you can pick out someone with the ability. What you need to do is to find the right person. Don't make a casual guess about their abilities. Be certain. Watch them play, watch them work. Good habits are vital; don't pick on a heavy drinker. Check his eyesight. Better if he doesn't chew or smoke tobacco."

"Okay," I said, "How do I take over his body, and how in hell will people think he's me when I move on?"

"Good questions," Arthur's mild voice echoed inside my head. 

"Once assured the other has greater ability than your own, you wait until you are alone with him then engage him in a conversation. It should be easy enough, you're both ballplayers. Then... now listen carefully, I am going to give you a secret word that once uttered will complete the transition between the two of you. Be certain no other person is nearby. That could complicate things beyond what either you or I can imagine. "The word is "Elephtheria." Repeat it three times," he said, and I realized that for the first time he was speaking aloud.

I did as requested, and he laughed. "Did you think, even for an instant that we two would switch places?"

I had not, and said so.

Arthur laughed again. "There was a split second when the thought was forming, but I quenched it rather than cause either of us any embarrassment."

"So I utter the secret word, and me and the other guy kind of switch places?"

"No, you take over his body and his thought processes. It is possible than on occasion you will meet some small form of resistance between their mind and yours; but rest assured, yours will dominate. And, when your new career begins to wane, you only need to seek out a replacement repeat the procedure to continue playing the game you hold so close to your heart."

"How long will this go on?"

"By your standard of counting... that is in years, I would be 5000 years old. I think that might suffice to quench your appetite for baseball. But believe me, you can continue switching indefinitely, there being no limitations set on you."

My jaw hung open as his words sank in.

"By the same token," Arthur went on, "you can stop anytime of your choosing by uttering the secret word backwards three times. You will age fifty years in the next fortnight, and pass on to your reward within a reasonable time thereafter."

"And should I change my mind?"

"You mean to reverse the procedure?"

"Yes."

"Then you merely utter the secret word again within proximity of another person, and renew your youth by taking over that person's form."

"Um, Arthur, I noticed you used the word person instead of man, or boy."

"You may change sex, should you so desire."

I thought about that for a while. Change into a woman. Had I ever wanted to be a woman? Not hardly. They wuz good for humping and all, and keeping a person warm on those cold winter nights, but turning into one, not on your life.

"Won't happen, Arthur. It just won't happen."

"After a few years you may reconsider, but it will be up to you."

"Will you be stayin' in touch?" I asked, half hoping he would.

"Each time you use the secret word I will know. I won't be bothering you; you need not worry yourself about this gray alien coming to the ballpark and yelling your name."

"No, no," I protested, although I had been worried about exactly that.

"I will monitor your career, but you probably will never hear from me, nor see me after today."

"Why not? I'd say you're kinda growing on me?"

"What? Like a fungus?"

"No," I laughed, "like a friend. We could meet from time to time. No one would have to know."

"Thank you, Bill. It's very kind of you to say, but I fear that future contact between us would probably draw attention to me. And that is to be avoided. After all, it's not likely people would react as you have to my alien form."

I thought about what Arthur had just said and found myself agreeing with him.

"Well, then Arthur, I'm glad I met you."

"And I you, Bill. Remember; take your time in selecting your next form. Should it not work out, you can repeat the process. I would think you'll get better at it as time passes. And remember, you have all the time in the world, use it wisely."

"Um, Arthur?"

"Yes, Bill? Oh, how did I get to your world?"

I nodded; it was just what I was going to ask him. "There is a mother-ship. You can't see it, but it is near. We have been coming to visit your planet for thousands of years. From time to time we get involved with certain of you, but never more than one person at a time. We prefer to remain anonymous, for what should be obvious reasons."

"I understand," I said and looked down at my toes.

"You have a voyage to complete," he told me. 

Yeah," I muttered under my breath.

"And a future to select."

"A future..." I repeated.

"Goodbye, Bill."

"Arthur... I... thank you. I mean it from the bottom of my heart."

"And I thank you, from mine, Bill. You saved my skin, right?"

I laughed. "Yup, I sure did. Take care, Arthur, wherever you go."

"Thank you, Bill," and he offered his hand to me and we shook. It wuz strange grasping his hand, unlike anything I'd ever touched before or since. But the feeling remained with me for weeks before finally fading. 

Sometimes I can still feel his touch, and I think, well, maybe wonder if he's lookin' in on me from his mother-ship.

Arthur left me standing there, walked into the interior of the island just like that. Never turned back to wave, and then he wuz gone. I stood there hoping he'd reappear but after a time when he didn't, I set out for my canoe and found that the wind had shifted, and the temperature was growing colder. 

I loaded the canoe, and paddled across the sound. The wind and waves were blowing out to sea, so I was sharply attentive as I was alone off the Georgia coast. 

At first light I had almost reached the north end of Wassaw Island, and as the light came up I could see Tybee in the distance north of me. 

Here is where I made the only mistake of my canoeing adventure: Thinking myself in home waters because Tybee was in sight, I made the tactical error of letting the wind and outgoing currents in Wassaw Sound take me out to sea a bit. 

My original plan wuz to hug the shore of Little Tybee to hide from the wind, but I hadn't. This caused me a scary twenty minutes paddling as hard as I could to get back in to shore. 

I dragged my sorry arse in to Tybee bucking the outgoing tide on the Back River, and hit the beach at 9:30am. 48 and 1/2 hours after I left Cumberland Island. So I didn't quite make it in two days, but after meeting Arthur I didn't really care, except that I had to rig a plausible story for Ferguson and the other fellows.



The Storytellers Ch. 12



Chapter 12

The Color Barrier as Bill Saw It & Albert Spalding

Bill's host, the Reverend Howard Pentecost's brown eyes crinkled at the corners. "C'mon," he said, "we'll be more comfortable in my office."

He led me up the aisle to the front of the church then turned to the right. We went through a door and I found myself in a small, but very comfortable office with a desk and two chairs.

He settled in behind the desk, opened a drawer and took out two glasses. Taking the whiskey from his suit jacket, he poured us both a drink.

As I sipped mine, he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a Cuban cigar and carefully lit it with a kitchen match. He held the match in the air, still burning and watched the flame crawl close to his finger tips. He blew it out at the last possible second, and dropped it in the ash tray on his desk then cackled at me: "Think I wuz gonna burn myself?"

"Not after all the practice you've had. All those years, all those fine cigars...."

"Yeah, all them fine cigars..." He appeared to be off chasing a memory.

"You know," Bill said, "I ain't sure, but it seems that these here cigars had a better taste about forty years ago. Could be wrong, but it sure seems that way." "Let's get back on track, Bill."

"Sure, what do you want to talk about?"

"How about you telling me some of the memories you have of that first year or so with Hartford?"

"Just random like? I mean, I can't rightly recall things in the order they happened."

"That would be fine, Bill."

He started laughing, then almost choked, but after bringing up some phlegm, regained his composure and laughed. "Maybe I should have picked a healthier person."

I waited. He gave me a cagy look and began talking. "Okay, my first year in the big leagues I saw this guy... lemmie see, I know his name like the back of my hand...um, he wuz a first baseman from New Haven name of Waite, Charlie Waite. I remember laughing at him. Here I wuz catching bare-handed and this clown is wearing a glove to protect his itty-bitty fingers from throws by the infielders! 

"You know, I shouldn't have been laughing at him, 'cause before you could say Jack Robinson − Al Spaulding, the pitcher, wuz wearing one too. He told everyone who bothered to ask that his hand hurt from - now get a load of this horse-shit − bruises he got from catching the return throws from his catcher! Well, to be fair he also claimed batted balls coming back at him hurt his hands as well, and I won't argue that. 

"I'll have more to say about Mr. Albert Spaulding later on. But for the moment I'll just say he wuz a hell-of-a pitcher, glove or no glove. But you asked me what I recall from that first year in the majors, didn't you?"

"Yes, that's right, Bill, it can be anything. I just want to get a feel for what was going on at the time."

"Yeah, well there wuz the time old Dick Higham hit into the first triple play in the history of the National League against the Mutuals. It's funny because even though they pulled off the triple play, we walloped 'em 28-3, or something like that. Anyway we also set another record that day scoring 15 runs in the... um, fourth inning I think it was." 

"Now that's good stuff. People will enjoy reading about that. Anything else?"

His brown eyes lit up. "Yeah, there wuz a series with Chicago where we got our ass handed to us. In the first game they scored in every inning but one. I think it wuz the first or second inning. But this guy they had, name of Cal McVey got himself six hits that day." 

"That's unusual enough," I said, "Six hits, yeah that's some hitting."

"Did it again the next day, too." Bill said nonchalantly. "Crushed us something like 23-3. McVey went on to record 18 hits in the four game series. In fact he hit in 30 straight games. And in the third game of the series, another guy, name of Ross Barnes, got himself six hits against us. We lost that one as well. See the thing wuz our regular pitchers weren't able to take the mound on account of food poisoning. We had to grab two guys off the street. Oh they wuz local ball players and not all that bad, but Chicago wuz seeing the ball pretty good, and the locals were probably known to them, as they played each other on Sundays, you know? What I'm saying is the Blue Laws prohibited Big leaguers from playing on the Sabbath."

"Our pitching wuz actually pretty good that year. And once our boys were able to play again we did very well.

Another memory must have occurred to Bill as his brown eyes flashed, and he blurted: "Oh, yeah! We kinda got even in a way later in the season, Chicago come to town and we pulled the hidden-ball trick on Cap Anson of all people. I'd never seen it done before, but the way it happened wuz our shortstop, Tom Cary, you remember, he showed me around the whore houses?"

"I remember, Bill."

"Well he kept the ball instead of handing it to the pitcher. Now Anson wuz on third and strolled off the bag, intent of watching the pitcher, who wuz fiddlin' around waiting to see what Tom would do with the ball. Anyway, to make a long story short, Anson takes that one extra step off the base and Tom wings the ball over to Bob Ferguson playing third. Of course he puts the tag on Anson, who is livid with rage at getting caught like that."

"He was a pretty famous player," I said.

"He was, got over 3000 hits and all. As a manager, he took his Chicago team to five pennants. And if you count his five years in the National Association, he played 27 seasons in the big leagues and was a regular each year."

"You sound like you're holding something back, are you?"

"Hmmm, I wuzn't going there, but that son-of-a-bitch is the one single person responsible for keeping players like Jackie Robinson out of the majors all those years. 

"I thought it was the owners, like Clark Griffith."

"He wuz one of 'em too. But it wuz Anson started all the bullshit about them being inferior. You see, back in 1890 or so, there wuz quite a few colored players in the minors. They could play the game as well as any white-skinned guys and the fans came out to see them play. That meant the owners had an interest in them as anything that brought money in was right up their alley.

"Some of the colored players of the day that I recall wuz Bud Fowler, George Stovey, Frank Grant and Sol White, anyone of 'em could have played in the big leagues. They did play some in the in the International Association, as it wuz sometimes called in the mid-1880s. 

George Stovey, a lefty, had two good years, one with Jersey City in 1886, and another with Newark in 1887 when he won 34 games. 

"Mind you, the International League was maybe a step lower than the majors; what with the constant expansion and contraction of franchises I think it moot when comparing the players.

Stovey's battery mate with Newark was a colored kid named Moses Walker, making them the first black battery in organized baseball history. The next year Walker shifted to Syracuse, where he caught Bob Higgins, who had a 20-7 record in 1888.

"As I recollect, Bud Fowler hit about .350 with Binghamton in 1887; and old Frank Grant was with Buffalo, where he hit .366. In my opinion, Grant wuz probably the best colored player in the 19th Century, and wuz with Buffalo for three years, 1886-88, a record for a colored player with a white team.

"Getting back to Cap Anson and the coloreds... his team wuz supposed to play the Newark team, but he told the Newark owner he wouldn't let his team 'set foot on the same field as any nigger played on.' Well the Chicago team wuz a great drawing card, and there wuz a big crowd showed up to see them. So the cowardly owner set Moses Walker down. But it wuzn't enough for that bastard Anson. He demanded Walker be released and not resigned after he left town. The owner agreed and that wuz that. 

Walker wuz the last colored player to play in the International League. There wuz a couple guys managed to get some play in the lower minors, but that didn't last very long since there wuz no future for them and the team owners couldn't make any money trading them.

"Now, I saw Walker play with Toledo in the American Association which wuz a major league at the time. He got off to a poor start and then his teammates made him look worse than he was. 

Someone wrote a poem about him, don't recall who, but it went:

There was a catcher named Walker, Who behind the plate is a corker. He throws to a base with ease and with grace, And steals 'round the bags like a stalker. 

"Wonder why I wuz hung up on Walker? Walker was a catcher, and I wuz looking at catchers... well, you know why."

"Anson didn't stop there. No sir, he got a full head of steam and blocked John Montgomery Ward from signing George Stovey to a major league contract. As I said earlier, Stovey went 34 -- 15 with Newark -- only to be released. So his performance wuzn't the reason they let him go,it wuz his color, pure and simple.

"But Cap Anson wasn't alone in his intolerance against the nig... sorry, I should'a said, colored. It's just that that was what most everyone called them back then. These days, they're called colored, and that's fine with me. I always tried to judge a person by their actions and ability, not their race. I mean, look at me, I'm a nig... I mean a Negro preacher at the moment. I know how it feels to be put upon, and take it from me they have been put upon something terrible since coming to this great country of ours as slaves.

"But the colored didn't walk away from the game, no sir. They set up their own teams, and some of 'em wuz pretty good. There wuz the Chicago Leland Giants who gave the Cubs fits in '09. And in Havana, several colored players hooked up with a team named the Reds and won two out of three from of major leaguers including Addie Joss and Three Finger Brown. Then they played Detroit and took four of six from Cobb and his mates. Fella name of John Henry Lloyd wuz their best player; hit over .350 against good major league pitching. I would've signed him and some others in a minute if they'd of let me. I might of won a pennant or two with them fella's, dad gum it!" 

"Since we're talking about colored folk, I did see a hell-of-a fighter, named Joe Gans, from Baltimore, who was the light-heavyweight champion in '02, and probably already suffering from the tuberculosis that would kill him six years layer. 

He lost that night to a Danish born puncher out of Chicago known as "Battling Nelson." I never saw Jack Johnson, but he musta been something, 'cause everyone in the know talked him up as the cat's meow."

"After 1889 there wuzn't another colored ballplayer to play in the bigs until Mr. Rickey brought Jackie Robinson up."

Wanting to question Bill's memory with respect to recent years, I asked, "Did you know that Bill Veeck tried to bring colored players to the Majors, um, I think it was 1943?"

"I heard about that, yeah. It wuz a neat trick he tried to pull off. Veeck's a shrewd baseball man.

The Phillies sucked. As the 1942 season came to an end, the Phillies were in their customary spot, last place, for the fifth year in a row. Home attendance was sad. I don't think they drew 250,000." 

"That's right, Bill. Gerry Nugent, the owner, was a savvy baseball executive, but he had no money and for years had performed feats of financial legerdemain simply to keep the club afloat. Now he was in debt to the league, after an advance that had enabled the team to go to spring training in 1942, and in arrears for the rent owed to the Athletics, who owned Shibe Park. He really had no choice but to sell the club to the highest bidder. 

"Eventually, the National League purchased 'substantially all' of the club stock from Gerry Nugent and other stockholders. 

As I recollect, Ed Pollock in the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin said the league had given him 'what amounts to a dignified `bum's rush',' the Phils' owner himself said he was 'entirely satisfied' with the league's action. 

"A week or so later, a syndicate put together by lumber broker William D. Cox, purchased the Phillies from the National League for approximately $250,000. On paper, Cox and his group looked like just the sort of well-endowed ownership that the Phillies had long needed, but within a year Cox himself had been booted from the game by Judge Landis." 

"Somewhere in there Veeck got pushed out the door. I never knew if he couldn't raise enough money, or what the problem wuz," Bill said as he scratched his nose.

I had to jump in with some personal knowledge, saying: "The way I heard it at the Tribune was Veeck had the inside track until he let it out that he intended to sign several colored ballplayers to help raise the Phillies in the standings. Then Ford Frick jumped in and shut his offer down by ignoring it and calling on Cox, who he knew had an interest in purchasing the ball club."

"That so? Well Frick's another racist prick. Hey, I made a rhyme. I bet when he wuz a kid his schoolmates called him Frick the Prick."

"I wouldn't go that far, Bill. He's done a few good things for Baseball."

"He wuz a hack. A piss poor writer who couldn't carry Ring Lardner's typewriter, or Grantland Rice's either. Hell, I can't think of another writer who he might be compared with, and God knows there's a shitload of drunks among them couldn't spell their own names."

"Okay, Bill, enough of Veeck and the Phillies. Let's get back to the Hartford team."

"All right... let's see... I got to face Albert Spalding, the man who popularized the baseball glove. By the by, he also made himself a rich man two years later when after popularizing the glove, he and his brother began a sporting goods store in Chicago.

"Spalding's Boston club won the league and if I remember rightly, his record wuz 57 and 5. 

Boston finished 71 and 8 that year and easily outclassed us. Anyways, I played in 53 games, hit .240 and not much else. Oh, I played half-dozen different positions that year. We wound up finishing third. St. Louis beat us out of second by two games I think. See, we won 47 and lost 21. St. Louis won 45 and lost 19. That year it wuz the number of losses that counted, not the wins. 

But they had a guy name of George Bradley won every one of their games. Imagine that? And what's more, he had 16 shutouts!"

"The following season, there wuz a change or two from years past. Mainly, the owners got together in New York City and formed the National League of Professional Baseball Clubs. 

This happened after some hanky-panky in which several owners urged the other owners to drop out of the National Association and join a new league, consisting of some eight teams: Boston, Chicago, Cincinnati, Hartford, Louisville, Philadelphia, Brooklyn, and St. Louis. 

They also agreed to play a 70 game schedule, with ticket prices set at .50 cents. The pitcher's mound wuz to be 45 feet from home plate, and the pitcher's arm wuz not go above his waist. There were to be written player contracts, and no raiding any other team's players.

"The game of Baseball was evolving, but it would be a few more years before the rules segued into what we know the game to be today. But I'll touch on that as we go along.

"During the '76 season, Albert Spaulding picked up where he'd left off, throwing two straight shutouts. We, the Hartford Dark Blues, come to Boston right after that and beat them 3-2 in 10 innings.

"All sorts of records wuz set that season because it wuz considered the first year of the National League's existence. I guess all of 'em were surpassed in short order, as nothing spectacular happened that year, other than Sitting Bull wiping out General Custer at the Little Big Horn and the Philadelphia Exposition about which we discussed earlier.

"Anyways, the White Stockings won the pennant by 6 games. We finished 2nd; this time we beat out the St. Louis team because the winner was determined by the number of games won. If you recall we lost out to them in '75 when they used losses. Go figure. Eventually they settled on using the winning percentage as the determining factor, and even then there were legitimate challenges as to who really deserved to finish ahead of another.

"I should talk about Spalding some more in that he wuz very influential in baseball history. I'll discuss his baseball career first for clarity purposes. The man could pitch. His record wuz 253 won and only 65 lost. His ERA wuz 2.14 and he played the field when not pitching and batted .313 over his 8 years as an active player. Spalding's .796 career winning percentage is the highest ever achieved by a baseball pitcher."

"In 1877 there wuz some chicanery pulled off by William Hulbert, the owner of the Chicago White Sox. Hulbert didn't care for the loose organization of the National Association or the gambling element that influenced it, so he decided to create a new organization, which he dubbed the National League. To aid him in this venture, Hulbert enlisted the help of Spalding. 

See, I bet you thought I wuz gone off on a tangent. Is that the right word, Roy?"

"I wouldn't have used it, but yes, it works just fine."

"What Hulbert knew wuz that Spalding wanted to end his career in Chicago which wuz close to his basic roots, and that he didn't like playing with ballplayers who drank, which wuz true of many of the Boston players. So it wuz easy to convince him to sign with the Chicago team, which by the way, is presently the Chicago Cubs, but back then wuz the White Stockings. All them moves between cities and teams are confusing ain't they?"

I agreed with him, saying, "You almost need a scorecard."

"Hell, you DO need a scorecard," he cackled. "Then Spalding coaxed teammates Deacon White, Ross Barnes and Cal McVey, as well as Philadelphia Athletics players Cap Anson and Bob Addy, to sign with Chicago. This wuz all done in secret during the playing season because players were all free agents in those days and didn't want their current club and especially the fans to know they were leaving to play elsewhere the following year. 

News of the signings by the Boston and Philadelphia players leaked to the press before the season ended, and all of them suffered verbal abuse and physical threats from the cranks, as baseball fans were called at the time.

"In the following months, Hulbert and Spalding organized the National League by enlisting the four major teams in the East and the three other top teams in what was then considered to be the West. Joining Chicago initially were the leading teams from Cincinnati, Louisville, and Indianapolis. The owners of these western clubs accompanied Hulbert and Spalding to New York where they secretly met with owners from New York, Philadelphia, Hartford, and Boston. Each signed the league's constitution, and the National League was officially born. 

"Although the National Association held on for a few more seasons, it wuz no longer recognized as the premier organization for professional baseball. Gradually, it faded out of existence and was replaced by myriad minor leagues and associations around the country.

"And with all that he had on his plate, Spalding managed to win 47 games as the prime pitcher for the White Stockings, who captured the National League's inaugural pennant by a wide margin.

"Spalding's Sporting Goods Company took off , and he became a very rich man. He retired from the game in 1878, but managed the Chicago team for several years, one of which had me playing for him. Bob Ferguson persuaded him to sign me after my club thought I wuz washed up as the '78 season kicked off. 

I made it up to him by hitting for a career high of .296, and wuz the regular catcher. It was a mystery to me how that ball club with all its heavy hitting finished in the second division. Al Spaulding was honest, wouldn't have no time for the hangers-on, or gamblers that followed the teams. But it was Harry Wright's Boston team that won, with Tommy Bond winning 40 of the 60 games played that year.




The Storytellers Ch. 12



"Now you may recall I said earlier that the league would be playing 70 games each season, not the 60 mentioned above. Well, financial problems plagued a couple of teams, namely the New York Nationals and the Philadelphia Athletics, both of whom cancelled their last swing west and were expelled from the National League, cutting about ten games from each teams schedule. The expulsion also served to deprive the populations around both cities from having a baseball team until 1883. 

"One last thing about Spalding, and I promise I won't mention him again. He had balls all right, not a drinking man, but he had balls in more ways than one. He published the first official rules guide for baseball. In it he stated that only Spalding balls could be used (admittedly, the quality of the baseballs used previously had been subpar). Spalding also founded the Baseball Guide, which at the time was the most widely-read baseball publication. 

"Let's see," Bill said, scratching his chin. "1876 wuz also an election year," he said as he wandered away from baseball to discuss the political situation of the day. "A Presidential election that proved to be one of the most intense and disputed elections in American history. 

Samuel J. Tilden of New York defeated Ohio's Rutherford Hayes in the popular vote, and had 184 electoral votes to Hayes' 165, with 20 votes yet uncounted. 

"Ah, politics. Ain't nothing pure about them skunks. These electoral votes were in dispute: in three states, Florida, Louisiana, and South Carolina, each party reported its candidate had won. But in Oregon, one elector was declared illegal (on account of being an "elected or appointed official") and replaced. The votes were ultimately awarded to Hayes after a bitter electoral dispute. A lot of backroom shenanigans took place there, I assure you."

"Were you in the room, Bill?"

"Naw, I didn't meet Arthur until '82; and then didn't use my gift for several years after." 

I felt a thump in my chest. He was lying. 

Then then he grinned and said, "But I did visit one or two of them what wuz in the backroom in later years. They made all kinds of deals before deciding on Hayes. By the way, Tilden had a few offered out there as well. But the Southern vote wanted the troops out and that wuz what it took."

"Now I have to admit I didn't know about the election that year," I told him.

Bill nodded sagely and continued, "Politics is like playing with the Devil. You never know what kind of bargain you're gonna strike. In this case a kind of informal deal wuz struck: In return for the South's acquiescence in Hayes' election, the Republicans agreed to withdraw federal troops from the South, effectively ending Reconstruction. 

This deal became known as the Compromise of 1877. The Compromise effectively pushed the colored out of power in the government; soon after the compromise, coloreds wuz barred from voting by poll taxes and grandfather clauses.

"In return the Southern Democrats would acknowledge Hayes as President, but only if the Republicans acceded to various demands of which only two were acted upon. 

The first had all Federal troop removed from the former Confederate States. The second involved the appointment of a Southern Democrat to Hayes' cabinet. There wuz no serious effort made to fund a railroad or provide other federal aid. As to the other demands, there wuz no serious effort made to fund a railroad or provide other federal aid that might help industrialize the South.

"In any case, Reconstruction ended, and the supremacy of the Democratic Party in the South wuz cemented with the ascent of the "Redeemer" governments that displaced the Republican governments. After the Compromise of 1877, white supremacy generally caused the South to vote Democratic in elections from that time on." 

"Oh my gosh! I almost forgot."

"What is it, Bill?"

"Back in '77 or '78, I think it wuz; a feller from Harvard invented the catcher's mask. I think his name wuz Thayer, or something like that. Can't recall his first name; and I don't think he ever played in the majors. The only reason I remember it at all is 'cause Mr. Spaulding started selling this (it wuz a modified fencing mask) for $3, and of course I went out and bought me two of 'em. 

A couple years later, Thayer, or Smayer, sued Spalding for patent infringement, and Spalding was ultimately forced to pay royalties. "Tell me, Bill, did you play alongside any of the great players of the 19th Century?"

"Sure I did. I remember when Buck Ewing come up in 1880. I wuz hurt most of that year with Troy, and a feller name of Holbert caught most of the team's games. But you could see this Ewing wuz a comer. He didn't play much that year, but he got rolling the next year and there's many call Ewing the best player of his time. 

When they got around to electing the first players to the Hall of Fame they wuz supposed to be five pre-1900 players elected along with Ruth and Cobb and them. It didn't work out that way. Needing 59 votes to get in, the leading vote getters were Buck Ewing with 40, Cap Anson 40, Willie Keeler 33, Cy Young 32, Ed Delahanty 22, McGraw 17, Herman Long 16, Charlie Radbourn 16, Mike Kelly 16, Amos Rusie 12. So none got elected. 

So, in 1939, Judge Landis, Ford Frick and William Harridge selected Buck Ewing, Cap Anson, Al Spalding, Candy Cummings, Comiskey, and Old Hoss Radbourne for inclusion in the Hall. A much less desirous way to get in. Apparently, the post 1940 world has forgotten why 40 original voters thought Buck Ewing was fully the equal of Anson, as a player. 

I played with Tommy Bond, Candy Cummings, both good pitchers with the Hartford club. Spaulding's '78 Chicago team had a bunch of great players: Starting with Cap Anson, Bob Ferguson (also w/ Hartford) Spaulding, and in '79, Ned Williamson. 

Ed Delahanty Roger Connor, Tim Keefe, Mickey Welch wuz on the '80 Troy team. And with a terrible ball club in Cincinnati in '83, I'd have to include Blondie Purcell, a decent enough pitcher, although as I recall he lost 68 while winning only 13. Still, you had to good to get that many decisions, wouldn't you think?" 

"I might as well put together a list of who I think wuz the best of that time. Save us both some time, anyway. I already mentioned Buck Ewing as the all round best, he wuz a catcher, after all. Then in no particular order I'd have: Cap Anson, Roger Connor, Ned Williamson, Ed Delahanty, Dan Brouthers, Hughie Jennings, Willie Keeler, Michael "King" Kelly, and I have to mention another catcher, Charley Bennett. I thought that after Ewing, he wuz the best catcher during my time. He went through several seasons without having a passed ball. He never had an equal as a thrower to bases, and he caught for the world champion Detroit Team of 1887. 

"There you have it. My so-called career in Baseball."

"Bill Harbridge's career, I'm sure you had many others."

"Not so many as you'd think."

"So tell me, who came next?"

"That's easy, Napoleon Lajoie. But that will have to wait until tomorrow, see I got a service to run and the congregation might think it peculiar to see a white man sitting here with me."

"I understand, Bill. So right here again tomorrow?"

"No, meet me at Morrison's Restaurant on Elm, say six o'clock tomorrow evening?"

"Why so late in the day, Bill?"

"Got places to be, people to see, that's why."

I could only nod my acceptance, and walk out of the church.

I went back to my hotel room and worked on my notes. I did not call Belva, something told me that he was lingering about, watching my every move, probing for a weakness on my part. I wasn't about to give him one. At least not easily.



The Storytellers Ch. 13



Chapter 13

The Master -- Napoleon Lajoie

I met Bill the following day at Morrison's Restaurant at exactly 6 pm. He had changed again. No longer a colored preacher, he was now a tall, gaudily dressed gentleman in a camel's haired jacket and dark brown slacks. He had a corn colored pompadour that most women would covet, and he was unabashedly good-looking.

He greeted me in a loud, but modulated voice that I soon learned was that of a popular local radio announcer, named James Dennis.

The waitress tripped not once, but twice in her eagerness to serve him his coffee and then his breakfast of ham and eggs. ("Over lightly, please!") I had to smile at his choice of persona.

"You like it?"

"It is different," I admitted.

"I'm keeping it for a couple days. I'm a well known, at least in these parts, announcer on WQAN. Scranton. Mostly I sell Pall Mall's. You know," he grinned, and I saw a mouthful of tobacco stained teeth. "Pall Mall. Wherever particular people congregate." 

I had heard him deliver those very words the night before on some already forgotten radio program.

"Catchy," I said, returning the smile.

"You're taking me lightly, Roy. It takes a lot of hard work to deliver those lines and others like it to a huge audience. What's more, I have to please the sponsors more than the listeners."

After forking a portion of scrambled egg into my mouth, I told him, I appreciated his choice of persona. 

"Oh and why is that?"

"Makes it easier to listen," I said, carefully chewing my eggs.

Dennis laughed. "That's true. But my reason is slightly different."

"I might have expected it to be," I replied.

He nodded and bit off a piece of toast. The waitress was hovering nearby and refilled his coffee and ignored my empty cup until Dennis motioned toward it.

After swallowing the toast, he pointed the rest of the toast at me and said, "How'd you like to go into New York City with me tomorrow and catch the World Series?"

"That sounds like a great idea," I said. "I've never seen a series game."

It occurred to me that there had been no meeting of the congregation for the Reverend Howard Pentecost; he had watched the first game of the Series on a television somewhere. And I strongly suspected he had done the same earlier that day. Why else set up a meeting at 6 in the evening?

For my part, I had listened to the radio broadcast of both games, bemoaning the fact that the Yankees had won both games. I was a Cub's fan; which meant I rooted for the National League team no matter what.

"I'll call in a favor; get us a couple ducats for tomorrow's game at Ebbets Field."

"You can get them at this late hour?"

"It's who you know, chum. It's who you know!"

The waitress came by to see if he − not me, that was for sure − wanted anything else. I saw Dennis' hand reach out and caress her lower thigh. She stiffened, but made no move to get away from the hand. By the time I finished my coffee, she was grinding her pelvis against his knee. It seemed I was the only one with a view of what was happening. Dennis had a shit-eating grin on his face. The waitress a rapturous expression on hers. 

Just when I thought they couldn't continue their sordid rutting at the table without being seen by the manager among others, Dennis pulled his knee away and asked her what time she got off work.

"Eight, but if you want I could ask to get off earlier," she rattled off as if reciting the specials on the menu.

"Eight is fine, sweetie. What's your name?"

"Rosie. That's great; I'll have time to...."

She didn't finish, for Dennis stood up, left a generous tip and was walking out the door by the time the word 'great' left her mouth.

We left the diner and in an unbelievably off-handed manner, Dennis said, "I might just get us laid while we're in New York."

I didn't doubt him at all.

We adjourned to a nearby bar, took a booth in the rear and began talking about baseball.

But we didn't discuss the 1880's or '90's, we both began talking about the game of the present.

Dennis opened with, "Who's gonna win the MVP in the American League?"

"Ted Williams, of course," I said. "Hell's Bells, he won the Triple Crown. He's locked the MVP up."

"Sorry to disagree," Dennis smiled.

"Oh, you're gonna tell me DiMaggio takes it?"

"I am," he said calmly. "I know Williams hit... what was it .343? While Joe managed only .315."

"Williams also belted 32 homers to DiMaggio's 20."

"I know," Dennis said with a knowing smirk. "He even routed Joe D. in ribby's, 162 to 97. Still and all, Joe D's gonna win it."

"And you know this how?"

"The Boston writers hate William's guts. They won't vote for him. Well, I mean enough of them won't vote for him to cost him the MVP; which, in my opinion, he very much deserves."

"I've heard them talking, but I never thought they'd stoop to leaving him off the ballot."

"He hit .401 in '41 and they gave it to DiMaggio for the same or similar reasons."

"Yeah, but that year, DiMaggio had a 56 game hitting streak, and he led his team to the pennant."

"One could make an argument either way that year, I agree. But those Beantown writers have a thing against the Kid. He snubs the writers. I'm not saying he's right or wrong here. But they resent him and if at all possible, will vote the other player over him."

I decided to change the subject, and brought up the two teams we'd watch the next day at Ebbets Field. "Ya know that kid, Robinson is really special."

"Well, yes, but in what way?"

"For starters, he was a four-sport star at UCLA."

"I meant with regard to baseball," Dennis said laconically.

I nodded. I was well aware of Mr. Robinson's accomplishments. "I wrote an article about him when Rickey signed him for the Dodgers last year." 

"Did you?" Dennis smiled almost scornfully. "Have you seen him play?"

"No, I missed him when the club came to Chicago. I was covering a murder in the spring, and in July I took a vacation and went to Los Angeles."

"What brought you to Los Angeles, Roy?"

I realized he was interrogating me, and having prepared for it, or so I'd thought, I answered truthfully. "Like many G.I.'s I wanted to write the great American novel."

"Ah, the great American novel; so how did it go? I don't recall seeing your name on the New York Times Best Seller List."

I couldn't help but flush from his sarcastic, but very accurate summation of my feeble attempt to solve the Short murder.

I held up a hand, telling him he needn't go any further with his remarks and when he stopped and waited, I told him about my trip west. Not everything, but most of the details; how I met Arthur, although I'd touched on that earlier, and how my search for clues in the Black Dahlia murder had been a waste of time.

"You thought..." he began and then burst out laughing. "No one's going to solve that one, Roy, I'm glad you realized that. So I'm the next subject in line for your novel. I gotta tell ya, I'm offended at being your second choice."

"I don't know about the Dahlia murder never being solved, Bill." 

He dismissed my statement with a wave of his hand and I decided to take a different tact. "I understand it was a really long shot and all, but if you examine the information Arthur gave me you might understand why I wasn't anxious to chase down a ballplayer that died in, what was it, 1924?"

"Are you currently employed, Roy?"

Coming out of the blue, the question caught me off guard. "Yes and no."

"Interesting answer," he replied as he lit up a Chesterfield and blew the smoke through his nostrils. "You smoke Chesterfields but work for Pall Mall. I find that interesting too."

"Answer my question, Roy. I sell Pall Mall's; I don't have to smoke the damn things."

"I lost my job with the Chicago Tribune. I told them I was going to LA to see a sick aunt. They saw it differently. My guess is they figured I was casting an eyeball at an offer from one of the LA Dailies. I wasn't. I was hot to trot on the Elizabeth Short murder. 

"And drew a complete blank there, I'll bet."

"Totally."

"So to compensate for a complete loss you came looking for me."

"Actually I nailed a job at the Times, and it was only after Arthur ran me down and gave me enough money to last me awhile."

"Find me interesting enough for the great American novel, Roy?"

"You're certainly worth writing about. As for the great American novel... I'll let others be the judge. I'll write it and let the chips fall where they may."

Dennis shrugged and resumed talking about the Dodgers again. "Well, Jackie Robinson has made quite an impression on me. I know he only hit .297, but consider the pressure he was under. I mean, people threatening to kill him, opponents trying to hurt him so he couldn't play; and everyone doing their best to drive him out of the league."

"Rickey got the league offices to back him up on Robinson," I said.

"But he left Robinson to face his enemies all by his lonesome."

"I think I recall Reese taking up for him one time," I said trying to make a point.

"One time... and that was a maybe he was and maybe he wasn't kind of a thing."

"Well I think he's here to stay. With Cleveland bringing Doby up in the American League means others will follow."

"Oh, you're right as rain, Roy. The floodgates are open. Don't expect a tidal wave of darkies to sweep into the big leagues, though. Some teams, like Washington, Boston and even the Yankees will resist hiring any of them until they can't afford not to."

"Don't forget Cincinnati and St. Louis in the National," I said. Then added, "I know the Brown's have signed a couple to contracts."

"The Giants will be signing some too. They have to keep up with Brooklyn. But to get back to the Series, I like the Dodgers chances, even if they lost the first two games."

I agreed with him, and said, "Reiser's made a significant come back this year."

Dennis smiled, and said, "He's one of my all time favorites."

"Really, I wouldn't have expected you to favor him that much."

"Did you see him when he first came up?"

"No, I was off to war."

"It was before the war, but maybe you enlisted early."

"I did."

"He was what I call a five-point player. He could hit for average, had power, ran like a deer, fielded with the greatest ever to play the field and had a cannon for an arm."

"He kept finding walls to run into," I said reminding him that I too had at least heard about Pistol Pete.

"He did. But he was making plays that no one thought possible in running into them. But you're right. The collisions took a lot away from his game. For a time..." His voice trailed off. 

It was the first time since he'd told me of his long ago sweetheart, Julie, that I'd heard him sound so wistful.

He glanced at me to see if I'd caught him, decided I had and changed the subject. "The Yankees have superior pitching. Connie Mack once said pitching is 90% of the game. He may have gotten it right. Pitching is the most dominant part of the game, always was, always will be."

"Brooklyn's pitching isn't all that bad. Branca won 21 games and Joe Hatten won 17."

"And Hugh Casey picked up another ten in relief," he added.

"You weren't kidding me when you said you could get tickets for tomorrow's game?" I said, hoping he hadn't been pulling my leg.

"Either first or third base, guaranteed."

There was no nudge after he'd uttered those words and I knew he was telling the truth. 

I picked up my notebook, turned to a blank page and said, "Bill, can we go back to your career? Um, I note in your records that you hardly played at all during 1879 and 1880. And that you didn't play at all, in fact you weren't with any team in 1881. What happened?"

He scowled and nervously tapped his fingers on the table we were seated at. 

"Wuz my fucking knees," he said, reverting to the voice I had heard him use the past two days. "First the left one, then the right. It started shortly after the season started. Then it got progressively worse. I wound up going home to try and nurse it back so's I could play. While I wuz recuperating, I met and married, Florence, my lifelong wife. Bill died in 1924, you know. Florence survived another thirteen years, passing on in 1937." 

"Anyway, in '80 I reported for spring training and did as well as could be expected. I wuz hitting the ball better than ever. It seems my hitting improved with age. The season started and I had just won the starting catcher's job back when my other knee buckled on a play at the plate. Nine games in and I wuz fucked for the rest of that year and all of the next. But rest and easy living -- thanks to an inheritance from my father's passing, allowed me to recover completely. If you bother to check, you'll find that my game numbers... hell, all my numbers wuz up in '82 and '83." 

"So while I'm recuperating, this is 1881, I'm talking about... President Garfield got himself shot at the Washington railroad depot. I think it wuz around July 4th, but I ain't positive about the date. One bullet grazed his arm, the other lodged in his abdomen. That wuz the more serious of the two bullets. 

"I won't bother with all the gaudy details of President Garfield's medical treatment except to say that in more competent hands the man would have lived to fill out his term in office. The so-called leading medical experts of the time flocked to Washington and probed his wound with their fingers and dirty instruments. And though the President complained constantly of numbness in the legs and feet, which implied the bullet was lodged near the spinal cord, his witch doctors thought it was resting in the abdomen and treated him accordingly. 

"I understand that by the time Garfield died in September of that year, his doctors had turned a three-inch-deep, harmless wound into a twenty-inch-long contaminated gash stretching from his ribs to his groin and oozing more pus each day. He lingered for eighty days, wasting away from his robust 210 pounds to a mere 130 pounds. He died of a heart attack caused by the constant pain from the gash." 

"That sounds typical of those more interested in making a name for themselves then actually performing to the best of their ability."

"It wuz, Roy, sad to say it wuz. During the war, that would be WWI, I saw some surgeons pull off what some might consider miracles with wounded men. Others, I'm speaking of the medical profession back in the States, would have taken those doctors medical licenses' away, simply because they failed to follow proscribed methods, medically speaking."

"God bless 'em, they got the job done," Bill said, and I could tell he meant it.

"Well let's get back to your career, Bill."

"Yeah, sure. I wuz healthy enough to play in '82. That would have been with Troy. Truth is, I didn't play very well. Anyway, you know that after that season I met up with Arthur and got the power.

"Now that year, 1882 wuz the year the American Association began competing with the National League by lowering their ticket prices and placing several teams in the opposition's cities forcing an accord between them. 

"You may ask why I bother mentioning it. Well, the agreement introduced the Reserve Clause, now this is why I mention it; it granted teams the rights to unilaterally renew a player's contract preventing him from entertaining other offers. And that bastard clause still keeps the players under the owner's thumb to this day.

"Infuriated, the players formed the Union Association in 1884 and siphoned off dozens of the better players. Unfortunately, they lost too much money and wuz done after the one season. They tried again six years later with the Players League. The best players joined, but like its predecessor, the Players League went bankrupt after one season. However, the competition and loss of players forced the American Association to fold too, with four of its best teams joining the National League." 

"What about you, Bill? You were nearing the end too, weren't you?"

"Yeah, although I wuz much better with Philadelphia the next year, which wuz um, '83. I managed to play in most of the games, although I only hit .221. It's worth noting that this wuz the first year of the Philadelphia Phillies.

He grinned at me and said, "I'm proud to say that I played in their first game over at Recreation Park on the corner of 24th street and Ridge Avenue. Of course, I'm from Philadelphia, but you know that. We lost, wuz a harbinger of things to come, for the Phillies. We only won 17 games that season, but I would return in a few years as Nap Lajoie, and the team would fare a little better."

Actually, the team fared better the following season when Harry Wright was named manager. He led the team to respectability during the next decade, with the team finishing out of the first division only once during his reign. It would seem that Bill attempted to mislead us ever so slightly on this. Perhaps because the Phillies performance rose after he left, and he resented being cut loose by them.

Bill jumped back into the conversation, to tell me of his last season. 

"My last year, which wuz with Cincinnati, I hit .279 in 82 games, but by the end of the year I knew I wuz finished as a player. When your legs go, you go. That could be the motto for a baseball player, you ask me. But I did get to catch a no-hitter by Dick Burns. Now there's a name you can remember, hee, hee, hee. Old Dick finished with a respectable 23-15 record, but threw his arm out the following year and wuz washed up just like me."

"Well, Bill, with your retirement at the end of the 1884 season, did you go on a spree with your power, or settle down as a happily married man?"

"Roy, I didn't use the power at all until I come across Lajoie in '95."

I felt that all too familiar nudge, at these words, signifying a lie and so I pushed him, saying: "You want me to believe you went eleven years without using the power one time?"

"I don't give a rat's ass what you believe. That's my story and I'm sticking to it."

I changed the subject rather than get into an argument. "Any children with Florence?"

"Actually, not while I wuz Harbidge. A year or so after I became Lajoie, Flo got pregnant and had the first of two children. But I had nothing to do with it."

I stopped for a moment to tap a Lucky Strike out of a pack I had in my shirt pocket. I offered one to Dennis, but he declined, lit one of his own, and then lit mine. 

As he tossed the matchstick away, I said, "Let's talk about you and Napoleon Lajoie, Bill."

"Fine, happy to do it. I had been scouring the east coast... mostly Pennsylvania, New York and New Jersey to tell the truth, but hadn't found the player I wanted. I did happen on a couple of decent players, but I wuz looking for potential greatness. I kept telling myself I'd know it when I saw it. And that turned out to be the case, although I didn't find him, I ran into a fellow I'd played with and against a few times named Tim Murnane. He was a decent enough player, and like me bounced from team to team until his legs betrayed him. I met him just before he landed a job as a sportswriter for the Boston Globe. He did very well there. But I happened on him in a saloon following a Phillies game, and he seemed to think I was a scout for them, and I didn't tell him otherwise.

"I saw this kid up in Rhode Island last week, bill. He knocked the snot out of the ball every time."

He did, did he?' I said, getting interested.

"Has a great arm too. He's just a kid, mind you, but they have him playing shortstop, and they're a pretty good semi-pro team."

"Well, Tim, semi-pro is just that."

"I saw him against a bunch of the Red Sox, and he was hitting major league pitching."

"So, the Red Sox are hot to trot over him, then?"

"No, and that's the thing. He embarrassed them. And I heard them disparaging his abilities. Said he was a fluke, but they're dead wrong, Bill. The kid has what it takes, believe you me."




The Storytellers Ch. 13



"A few more drinks bought me all the information I needed, and the following Saturday I wuz in Woonsocket, eyeballing this kid named Napoleon Lajoie.

"It wasn't long before I discovered he wuz the youngest of eight kids; wuz French-Canadian, and lost his father when he wuz only five forcing him to leave his formal education after only eight months and take a job as a card-room sweeper in a local textile mill. . "About the same time the young lad was seized by the baseball craze sweeping the country. His mother did not approve of his ball playing and so his teammates gave the dark-haired Lajoie the nickname Sandy to hide his presence on the diamond. By 1894 Lajoie was clerking for an auctioneer named C.F. Hixon and playing part time with the semi-pro Woonsockets. As word of his ability spread, Lajoie discovered that other semi-pro teams wanted him to play for them in critical games. 

He obliged them all, and his rate of pay ranged from $2 to $5 per game, plus round-trip carfare. Off the diamond, Nap followed in his father's footsteps and became a teamster. He drove a hack out of the Consolidated Livery Stable, providing him with the nickname The Slugging Cabby. 

"He didn't play that Saturday mainly because the rain washed the game out, but I did get to see him fielding ground balls and tossing the ball around. He had big leaguer written all over him, but could he really hit? I needed to see something special in that regard; and so I hung around another day. Lajoie's team played another semi-pro team from Providence on Sunday. Apparently the Red Sox were in Cleveland and their players were unavailable to help me in my decision.

"The kid went four for five, denied a fifth hit by a great stop by the third baseman. He played flawlessly in the field, but wuzn't really challenged with any tough chances. Did I mention he wuz 6' 1" and weighed in at 195 pounds, all muscle.

"I talked to some of his team mates about him and ran into some difficulty. I had misjudged them in that they wanted the kid to stick with them. The mill paid bonuses' to them if they won their league and while they had it locked up, they were already thinking about the next season and wanted Lajoie with them again.

"But I went after the kid anyway, and while I wuz talking up the possibility of trying out for a professional team, two of his teammates started shoving me around. We had us a nice scuffle with several punches thrown, but none landed where they'd do any harm. Several other players stepped in and separated us. My willingness to fight it out with them made an impression on young Mr. Lajoie. 

"You handle yourself pretty good," he said. "I sucked in my belly and professed to having sparred with the Great John L. Sullivan."

I gave Bill a dubious look and he quickly came up with: "Well I did, it wuz in Philadelphia in the fall of '82. The Great One wuz in Philly to fight an exhibition against some minor pugilist from Hoboken, New Jersey and jokingly asked for volunteers to spar with him. Bob Ferguson pushed me forward and I wuz afraid of backing down, so I got into the ring with him."

"Bare-knuckled?" I asked, still doubtful, but beginning to become convinced he was being truthful.

"We used gloves, and I only danced around while he threw some jabs at me, never rushed me like he did to most opponents. He didn't even try to hit me. He could have if he'd wanted to, I wuzn't no match for him, no sir.

"Anyway, Lajoie wuz impressed and even more so when he found out I wuz a major leaguer.

"I told him I wuz a scout and wanted to know if he wanted to try out for the Fall River team in the New England League.

"He jumped at the chance. He took me home with him to meet his family. He wuz the youngest of eight children; his father had passed on when he wuz only five. Mrs. Lajoie was most cordial, and professed wanting nothing more than to have her son get away from the cotton mill. I had my doubts, but kept quiet as she didn't protest his visiting Fall River with me. She also knew that Fall River would offer more money in six months than the mill paid in a year, even though no one had offered him a dime as yet.

"The following morning we boarded the train for Fall River. I switched bodies when the train wuz rolling into Fall River. I wanted to be part of him at the tryout.

I'm sure it helped him get rid of the jitters. He certainly impressed the manager and club owners, for they tendered a decent contract following the workout, $500 for the upcoming season.

"We and I mean me as Lajoie and Bill as Bill without me, returned to Woonsocket, with the good news. Bill spent the night and the next morning returned to his wife in Philadelphia. I did see him several times thereafter, but never took possession of him again. 

"I used the winter months to work on building Lajoie's confidence and strength, and when spring training arrived he established himself as the starting left fielder.

"If you don't mind I'm going to use I or me instead of he or him from now on," Bill said.

"How did you do?"

"Pretty good if I say so myself; I wuz hitting a torrid .429 and had a slugging average of .726 when the Phillies paid $1500 for me and Phil Geier.

When I joined the Phillies, manager Billy Nash installed me at first base, which had been manned on an emergency basis by Ed Delahanty. This allowed Big Ed to return to his best position, left field. I believe I played in about 40 games and hit .326. It wuz the following year I established myself as a player to be reckoned with. 

Even so, I learned a great deal about hitting from Ed Delahanty who dominated the 1890's like no other hitter, batting over .400 three times on his way to a lifetime average of .346, the fifth best mark in history. From 1892 to 1901 Delahanty anchored a powerful Philadelphia lineup that featured the likes of Billy Hamilton, Sam Thompson, Elmer Flick, and me. All Hall of Famers, yet we didn't win a pennant. 

"Now Roy, I have to say that while Lajoie was about as fine a hitter as ever played the game, he wuz completely undisciplined at the plate, regularly swinging at pitches down at his ankles or up at his eyebrows, and occasionally thwarting attempts to intentionally walk him by reaching out for those pitches, too. For years the conventional wisdom among American League pitchers was to try to upset his timing with off-speed stuff, but no single pitch could fool Lajoie for long. 

"But I'm getting ahead of myself again. In 1898 manager George Stallings shifted me to second base, adding to my confidence by saying, 'He'd have made good no matter where I positioned him.'" 

"I quickly matured into one of the game's best second basemen, causing Connie Mack to complement me, saying: "He plays so naturally and so easily it looks like lack of effort," and later when I wuz playing for him with the Athletics, "Larry's reach is so long and he's fast as lightning, and to throw to at second base he is ideal. All the catchers who've played with him say he is the easiest man to throw to in the game today. High, low, wide -- he is sure of everything." 

I had to ask Bill a key question, and did so. "Bill, how often did you miss games once you got to the big leagues?"

"Hmmm," he replied, giving my question careful thought. "I missed a few games over the years, but the reasons for it wuz anything but typical.

"In 1900 I recall missing about five weeks after breaking my thumb in a fistfight with teammate Elmer Flick. Two years later, legal squabbles between the American and National Leagues cut into my playing time, which I'll come back to in a minute. Oh, in 1905, my leg wuz nearly amputated after the blue dye in my socks poisoned a spike wound. The leg recovered, but the incident led to a new rule requiring teams to use sanitary white socks. 

"I also had some infamous run-ins with my friends the umpires. I threw tobacco into umpire Frank Dwyer's eye. That would have been in '04. That incident drew a suspension of several games. Um, the year before that I wuz so pissed off by an umpire's decision to use a blackened ball that I picked up the ball and threw it over the grandstand, resulting in a forfeit.

"But we both know my most famous battle came off the field, when I jumped my contract with the Phillies to join the insurgent American League in 1901. Understand that I did have good and sufficient reason to do it.

"See, prior to the 1900 season, I had been assured by Philadelphia owner John Rogers that me and Ed Delahanty would receive equal pay. After the season began, however, I discovered that my salary of $2,600 was actually $400 less than Delahanty's pay. I saw the fuckin' checks. Incensed, I exacted my revenge on Rogers in the off-season by jumping to Connie Mack's Philadelphia Athletics when Mr. Mack offered me a contract that nearly tripled my annual salary with the Phillies.

"And in doing so gave the American League legitimacy," I said while Bill nodded vigorously.

"I caused a shit-load of trouble too."

"Care to elaborate, Bill?"

"Not at all," Bill smiled broadly. "My very pissed off owner moved to block the deal, suing for the return of his "property." And while the case worked its way to the Pennsylvania Supreme Court, I capitalized on the golden opportunity of playing in a newly formed league with a diluted talent pool by putting together one of the most impressive seasons in major league history. I wouldn't be bragging to say that I punished the American League's overmatched pitchers that year and became the third triple crown winner in baseball history with a .426 batting average (the highest posted by any player in the twentieth century), 14 home runs, and 125 Runs Batted In."

Bill shrugged and looked down at the ground.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Shit, with all that hitting, we still finished fourth. Ironically, Connie Mack's team would win the pennant the following year, but they would do so without me. I wuz traded to the Cleveland franchise after Rogers succeeded in getting an injunction from the Pennsylvania Supreme Court which prevented me from playing ball in the state for any team other than the Phillies.

"I wuz able to circumvent the ruling by signing with Cleveland, and skipping all of the club's games in Philadelphia. All the legal wrangling limited me to just 87 games and 352 official at-bats in 1902. Nevertheless, I captured my second consecutive batting title, finishing the year with a mark of .378 and resuscitated a moribund Cleveland franchise; which subsequently honored me by changing its name to the "Naps" at season's end. 

"The two leagues brokered an agreement of sorts in '02 and Rogers dropped his claim to me so I could play in Philadelphia again. 

With my legal status secured, in 1903 and 1904 I solidified my reputation as the league's best hitter, winning my third and fourth consecutive batting titles. In 1904 I hit .376, led the league in on-base percentage (.413), slugging percentage (.552), hits (208), and RBI (102). 

Despite that performance, and despite the considerable offensive contributions of teammates Bill Bradley and Elmer Flick, the Naps finished a disappointing fourth, and in September manager Bill Armour tendered his resignation. After the end of the season, I wuz made the manager of the Cleveland team."

Bill gave me a wide grin and said, "You know, a large part of Lajoie's success can be attributed to the specially designed bat he used. It had two knobs, one of which was partway up the handle; it enabled Lajoie to employ a split-handed grip which offered him superior bat control. As a result, he was usually able to place the ball where he wanted. Cobb had a slightly different split-handed grip and also had unbelievable bat control.

"And let's not overlook his slugging power. He hit the ball as hard as anyone in the game while he played." As if his statement required support, he added,"Cy Young said so, said Lajoie wuz one of the most rugged hitters he ever faced. He'd take your leg off with a line drive; turn the third baseman around like a swinging door and powder the hand of the left fielder.'"

"Unfortunately I wuz not a successful manager; I inherited one of the league's most talented rosters for the '04 season. In addition to me, the Naps featured several promising players under the age of 30: Bradley, Flick, shortstop Terry Turner, and center fielder Harry Bay. Their pitching rotation was anchored by a trio of young pitchers, none of whom were older than 25: Addie Joss, Earl Moore (who had won 52 games in his first three seasons), and Bob Rhoads, who would post a record of 38--19 for the Naps in 1905 and 1906. 

"Despite this assortment of talent, we only challenged for the American League pennant twice under my leadership; losing out to the White Sox by five games in 1906 and the Tigers by .004 in 1908. 

I blame myself for the team's second-place finish in 1908, as I batted just .289 for the season and failed in the clutch in two critical games down the stretch. In fact, there is some evidence to suggest that my managerial responsibilities detracted from my on-field performance. 

After winning four consecutive batting titles from 1901 to 1904, I put together only one comparable season during my managerial career when I batted .355 in 1906. In both 1907 and 1908, I failed to clear the .300 barrier."

"Care to elaborate on your managerial weaknesses, Bill?"

"Sure, it's all in the past, can't fix it now. There were those who said my way of relaying signals to the outfielder's wuz foolish. Maybe it wuz; I would wiggle my finger behind my back when the pitcher was going to throw a fastball, and wiggled two fingers for a curve. I guess the opposition in the bullpen could read my signals, and they were never a mystery to Connie Mack. He told me so himself after I quit managing. Someone else, I can't recall who said: "Lajoie knew how to do a thing, but to impart to another how it should be done eluded him."

"Kind of a cruel thing to say about a great player," I said.

"Wuzn't talking about my playing; wuz talking about my managing."

I had no answer that would mollify him on that and so said nothing.

After a while, Bill stood up and turned back to me. "Roy, as far as I'm concerned there are only two other things worth mentioning in the rest of my time as Lajoie." 

I waited patiently for Bill to continue.

"Ah shit, let's get us a drink," Bill said, ending the conversation for the time being.

Actually, we wouldn't resume this particular discussion for a few days, but neither of us knew it at the time.



The Storytellers Ch. 14



Chapter 14 

The Train Ride

The following morning, I met Bill, AKA, James Dennis at a nearby café and, after coffee and doughnuts; we walked two blocks to the train station and waited for the train to arrive. 

I should take a moment to describe Mr. James Dennis to the reader. He was a tall, well-favored young man, dressed to the nines in tight-fitting dark brown slacks which were pegged at the cuffs in the current fashion favored by the under twenty-five set. He topped them off with an expensive camel's-haired sport jacket. He could easily have passed for a male model in a cigarette ad found in popular magazines or billboards along the highway.

While not a homely man myself, I wore a casual pair of corduroy slacks, along with a tweed sports jacket that had seen better days.

Dennis had purchased first class tickets which caught me off-guard. I hadn't thought of him as a big spender, but here he was picking up the tab, not only for the train ride to New York City, but for World Series tickets, which as one might expect, are very difficult to come by any year.

But this year with an inter-city rivalry between the Yankees and Dodgers obtaining tickets was almost impossible. Yet he was non-plussed about the whole thing, even though he had yet to come into possession of the ducats.

I assumed he would be using the power to achieve his goal, and as the train pulled into the station put that very question to him.

"Of course I will, Roy. You know how hard it is to get tickets to the Series."

Moments later we boarded the train and were led into the first class compartment, where we found that we were the only passengers.

Dennis queried the conductor and learned that we would be the only ones in the car until Trenton, and even then there was the possibility we would remain the only ones in the car. This was unheard of in my traveling experiences, but then most of that had been just prior and after the war when traveling by car was difficult since gasoline was rationed.

Just about a minute before the train pulled out, I saw two women scurrying along the platform, trying to board the train. I presumed they were mother and daughter because of the disparity in their respective ages. The younger woman was striking in her beauty and I couldn't keep my eyes off her.

To my surprise, only the younger one boarded the train; this I knew for a fact, for the train began to move and the older woman ran a few steps after the train waving to the younger woman. When I turned to mention it to Dennis, I found that he'd not only seen them, but had left the compartment to seek out the woman.

I was astonished when Dennis opened the door to our compartment with the young woman in tow, prattling on about how we would welcome her company and it was not at all unbecoming for her to join us.

Ushering her into the seat facing us, he presented me to her first and then introduced himself. "James Dennis, at your service, Madam, you may recognize my voice as I am heard on the radio twice weekly announcing the All Mall Hour on WQAN out of Scranton."

"Well... yes, I believe I have heard you, Mr. Dennis, and I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance Mr. Shannon. Oh, but let me introduce myself. I'm Beatrice Stringfellow. Um, that's Miss Stringfellow," she said, and then appeared stricken with shyness as she sat back in her seat and stared at the floor.

"You may want some reassurance that we've not kidnapped you by whisking you out of the common compartment to join us in first class, but I want to assure you, Miss Stringfellow that we have only the purest of motives in doing so."

I chimed in with, "They may appear to be selfish motives, Miss Stringfellow, but I do believe that while Mr. Dennis has acted on impulse, his intentions are honorable."

"Of course my motives are selfish, Miss Stringfellow. I couldn't bear to share your company... your beauty with the common ilk that sits in the passenger car beyond that door."

Dennis continued along this avenue, with lie following lie and if I were asked to support just one word of his I couldn't venture to say how I would answer as I considered it all drivel. I had to ask myself if he had been plying me with more of the same in our discourse on his adventures in baseball as Napoleon Lajoie.

It seemed evident that Miss Stringfellow saw through his charade too, for after a while she said: "I... I... really should go back to the general seating. The conductor...."

"The conductor will say nothing to you, Madam," Dennis said smoothly. "It's all taken care of. Consider yourself our guest. Why you're far too pretty to be sitting amongst the rabble."

"Oh they're not rabble, Mr. Dennis, not at all."

"I know, I know," Dennis replied, his oily tongue gliding over her protests with an ease that amazed me. "But we certainly welcome your company, and find the cost of a first class ticket a bargain if it allows us to enjoy your presence for the trip to New York City. You are headed to the city, are you not?"

"Um, yes I am, Mr. Dennis."

"Wonderful! We shall lunch together, then."

And as fate would have it, the conductor made an appearance, Dennis made a show of paying for Miss Stringfellow's first class ticket and gave the man another bill or two to secure lunch for the three of us.

Twenty minutes later we were eating Cobb Salad and drinking a very good white wine. Miss Stringfellow no longer made any protest about moving back among the rabble, as Dennis succinctly phased it, and appeared eager to share her life story with us.

It seemed she was going to visit her sister, who resided in the Bronx. Her sister's name was Lizbeth, and her husband was stationed in Germany and this opened a new stream of conversation dominated by Dennis.

For the record, having defeated Hitler, we occupied Germany, sort of. Actually, the victorious Allies split Germany into four parts: The British got the West, the French got the highly industrialized Ruhr Valley, The Russians got the East and the US got the South, principally Bavaria. Goals for the occupation were varied: those who had been conquered by the Nazis wanted an impotent agrarian Germany; the United States wanted a neutral self-governing democratic version of the dynamic industrialized Germany before the Nazis. Each of the occupying powers was territorial and for the time being each of the four sectors or "zones" was almost a separate country. The only "universal" in the Germany of 1947 was that the American cigarette was accepted everywhere in lieu of currency.

American goals were to de-nazify and rebuild the country, which we certainly were striving to do, despite the resistance by the Russians every step of the way.

Miss Stringfellow's brother was a sergeant in the United States Army and had written his wife about the obstructionist policies adopted by the Russians in the Eastern Zone.

Dennis offered his opinion on the matter, and I had to wonder how he had become so well informed. "We'll be at war with the Ruskies before long," he said, startling Miss Stringfellow and myself.

Being a journalist, and having kept abreast of the world situation, I was quick to challenge him. "My God, Dennis, how could you say such a thing? You've caused Miss Stringfellow unnecessary alarm with this preposterous statement."

A bemused expression crossed Dennis' face, but he was quick in his reply. "Unnecessary alarm? I doubt that. We have every reason to mistrust the Reds. We shouldn't underestimate them either. Their goal is fairly obvious. At least it should be to our military men, and of course Harry Truman's seen Stalin's mind work up close."

Miss Stringfellow was nervously nibbling on a corner of her dainty hanky as I objected again. "Where are you getting this... this drivel, Dennis? I haven't seen anything in the press, or heard Winchell utter a word about it."

"What I'm getting at is the obvious differences we already face with the Ruskies: Currency, German Unification, Soviet War reparations, and mere ideology are among the many differences the two sides have. Of course I'm lumping France and Great Britain in with us. The Russians won't compromise on anything. That, my friend, has been reported in the press and on Winchell's show. They really want us all out of Berlin. They see it as the key to taking control of all of Germany." 

His reply left both Miss Stringfellow and me speechless. Seemingly satisfied with himself, Dennis settled back in his seat and lit up a cigarette. 

Miss Stringfellow appeared flushed and began to squirm in her chair. Dennis noticed it immediately and said, "But now, you must be exhausted, let me show you where the powder room is. You can freshen up there, my Dear."

"Oh, there's no need, Mr. Dennis," Miss Stringfellow murmured as she peeked out shyly through her lashes at both of us.

"But I insist. Even though the powder room is at the end of the compartment any number of things might befall you if I didn't provide you with assistance."

Miss Stringfellow blushed under his effusive words of gallantry and stood up awaiting his "assistance" in walking the aisle to the powder room some thirty-five feet from where we were sitting.

Dennis shot me a grin that told me many things. Foremost was his mentioning that we might get laid in New York. I suddenly recalled Miss Stringfellow's deliciously innocent eyes, luscious lips, and pure complexion. And as I watched her lithe body traverse the short distance to the powder room on Dennis' arm definite scenarios ran through my mind. But the moment Dennis disappeared in the powder room on her heels; I was up and moving to the powder room myself with a secret smile on my face.

When I opened the door to the powder room, Miss Stringfellow was standing and Dennis was already seated and patting the seat next to him. He saw me enter, but did not acknowledge me.

Miss Stringfellow fussed with her dress and then sat demurely next to him on the settee and fiddled nervously with her white gloves.

Finally, having run out of things to fiddle with, she looked sideways at Dennis, I believe she also saw me standing there, but she didn't acknowledge me either.

"May I call you Beatrice, Miss Stringfellow?" Dennis inquired.

"I suppose you may," she replied.

"I would appreciate it if you would then call me by my first name, James," he said.

"James... yes, I suppose I could."

They conversed quietly for a few moments, while I puzzled as to why neither of them had deemed to recognize my presence in the room with them.

I heard Dennis say, "So, Beatrice, did you leave a boyfriend, or a special friend back home?"

Beatrice blushed and shook her head, "Oh, no, after my sister got married so young, my mother wouldn't permit me to see anyone, anyone at all."

It occurred to me that Dennis had begun a seduction and was determining how best to approach the extent of Beatrice's sexual experience. 

I studied her as he asked his next question.

"I can't believe... you've no boyfriends, as beautiful as you are?"

"I don't... no, no... no boyfriends," she stammered. 

"Well perhaps there was a boy who lived nearby that you had a crush on... someone who caused butterflies in your nether regions, perhaps?"

"Mr. Dennis! I don't appreciate your taking that tone with me."

"It's a simple, honest question, Beatrice. Everyone meets someone who causes such feelings... down there," he added, pointing at her crotch to emphasize his point.

She responded weakly."Oh, no, no... nothing like that." Her voice trailed off. Dennis, sensing something, pressed her a little more.

"Surely, my dear, there was some boy that caught your eye? After all, a girl as pretty as you, I'm sure many boys flirted with you." He smiled a cat's smile at Beatrice.

Beatrice didn't understand why Dennis was being so persistent, but a childhood memory had surfaced at his question. 

"Well, actually..." she stopped for a moment, started to mumble an excuse then jumped up from the settee just as the train hit a curve and caused her to stumble toward the sink just outside the commode. She had no idea that I was also in the room with them, and barreled into me. I managed to catch her before she plunged face first into the large oval mirror behind the sink. 

Beatrice looked up at me, stunned. My yes followed hers and saw that I was clutching her right breast with one hand and her derriere with the other.

I was terribly embarrassed and began an apology, but Dennis cut me off, and took her into his arms in more of a hug than an embrace, cooing soft words into her ear. The next thing I knew the three of us were seated on the settee with Beatrice between us. And she began talking as if nothing had happened.

"Well, there was my piano teacher, he was so nice and kind to me, and I think maybe I had a little crush on him." Beatrice admitted finally. Dennis put an arm around her shoulder and winked at me. 

"See my dear, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" 

Beatrice was still too stunned by what was happening to her to react. Dennis took her hand in his free hand, and said soothingly, "Don't be so bashful, Beatrice, having a crush is perfectly normal. Why, if you didn't have crushes, you'd be abnormal. Everyone has them, it's what you do about them that matters." 

His eyes gleamed at Beatrice mischievously, inviting her to laugh along. A moment later they were giggling together.

Suddenly, Beatrice turned a delicate shade of rose and announced that she really must allow us to excuse her.

"Whatever for, my dear?" Dennis asked softly, leaving no choice to reveal her reasons to us.

"Um, nature," she said. Then standing up, added, "Nature calls."

"I didn't hear anything," Dennis said, causing me to guffaw and Beatrice to giggle inanely.

"Mr. Dennis, you don't understand, I came into the powder room to... to take care of business. I didn't expect both you gentlemen to accompany me. Now if you'll please excuse me," 

"Oh, you have to pee," Dennis said, and you could have heard a pin drop. Beatrice's rosy cheeks brightened into a deep red as she nodded her head and held up a fluttering hand. "Yes."

"Right there, then," he said and shooed her into the stall and actually closed the door before she could.

"Lock it please," he said, taking charge before she summoned up the courage to request we leave the room entirely.

I had never witnessed anything like it. In fact, I was speechless, and remained so another minute. There was the swish of rustling clothing followed by the unmistakable sound of a woman urinating into the water below her hind quarters. Beatrice definitely had to go. Her stream of piss went on unabated for a full sixty seconds, possibly longer. I was beyond counting.

Suddenly, we heard her bleat out, "For heaven's sake, there's no toilet paper in here!"

I pulled a handkerchief from my breast pocket and held it over the partition. "Please, make use of this anyway you see fit."

She plucked it from my hand and I heard a muffled, "Thank you, Mr. Shannon, I appreciate your generosity in my time of need."

"You're welcome, I'm sure," I replied and glanced at Dennis who was trying not to laugh. The toilet flushed and a moment later, Beatrice reappeared, went to the sink, washed her tiny hands and came back to the settee and sat between us again as if nothing unusual had just happened.

Dennis reached into his hip pocket and produced a flask. He opened it with a flick of the wrist and tendered it to Beatrice. "I think we should celebrate our good fortune in meeting one another," he said. "It's really remarkable when you think about it."

To me his words were almost meaningless, but to Beatrice it was as if he'd thrown her a lifeline when she was sinking into the ocean's depths.

Beatrice wasn't even paying attention as she gulped down the finger of brandy. She spluttered as it burned a hole down her throat. "There, there," Dennis patted her back, even reaching around to gently rub her tummy, as though he could take away the sting of the potent alcohol. With a gasp, Beatrice jerked away a little bit, but his hands caged her in.

"It's alright, Beatrice, we're not going to hurt you. You're perfectly safe with us. Rest assured no one will come bursting in on us." That said, he gave me a warning glance that told me to remain quiet for the time being, and I did. But my cock had begun to stir at the possibilities before us.

I must admit that not once during this episode did I ever think of Belva. I am ashamed of that to this day, but I would still have been a willing participant to what followed regardless of my feelings for Belva.

Beatrice turned big, liquid eyes up to him. "Oh, Mr. Dennis... it's very improper for you to...." For a second I wondered why Beatrice had stopped in mid-sentence then I saw my partner's hands sweeping in widening circles on her back and tummy.

"Now, now," he repeated soothingly, as though his actions were completely normal. "Lean back just a little, my dear, the brandy may have been a little much for you."

I realized that he had mesmerized her to some extent, for his hands kept sweeping in such broad circles that the edge of his palm had just brushed the underside of her breasts. At the same time, the hand on her back swept down to her lower back in counterpoint. Beatrice arched her back slightly in automatic response to the drugging pleasure of his warm hands. She could feel the heat of the massage even through the layers of clothing she wore. 

I saw her lick her lips in the same manner as Belva had when I got her aroused, and I understood that Beatrice, unbidden by either of us, was entertaining the most wanton of thoughts.

I couldn't believe my ears when Dennis whispered, "In concert, Roy, in concert," and began a light massaging of Beatrice's left breast. She didn't jerk away, and I adhered to Dennis' instruction and reached over and began to massage her right breast.

I felt her heart flutter and realized it was racing much faster than one's heart does normally. Although encased in a fairly stiff brassiere, my thumb felt her nipple rising up to meet my caress. 

Denis was whispering in her ear and I heard every word. "Beatrice, my dear, what's causing your nipples to press so hard against my fingers?" 

I should point out that both Dennis and I had our palms pressed against her delicious mounds while our fingers mischievously squeezed her nipples ever so lightly. The combined surge of sensation caused her to arch her back, and wrung a whimpering sigh from her luscious bee-stung lips. "Ohhh... we shouldn't...." 

But that was all the resistance she put forth as we continued to ply her nipples in tandem.

"Beatrice, look at me," he said sternly, and as if expecting some form of punishment, Beatrice obediently opened heavy eyes to look at him. I realized then that the young woman seated between us had a penchant for submission, and that both Dennis and I would have her before the train reached Pennsylvania Station if we wished.

Dennis slowly unbuttoned her dress. There was no protest whatsoever from Beatrice. And when the dress was half open her brasserie and the tops of her swelling breasts were exposed to both of us, Dennis said, "Lift one out, Roy, I'll get the other."

I did just that, scooping a pale globe from its lacey shelter into the slightly cooler air of the room while Dennis did the same with her other breast while the brasserie remained in place. Beatrice's head lolled backward and fell over my left arm, while Dennis continued to support her back to some extent. "We shouldn't," she protested weakly.

"And why not?" I said a beat later, not having heard Dennis respond for the first time.

"It's so naughty, I've never...." Beatrice said after a short silence, and then belied her protest with a groan of pleasure from Dennis lifting her breast to his lips and giving suck to her turgid nipple.




The Storytellers Ch. 14



It took a full three seconds for it to register on me then I too swooped in and began suckling the other breast while Beatrice squirmed and whimpered on the settee.

I'm sure it was more reflexive than anything else, but my hand found Beatrice's leg and began traversing its way north over her nylons only to encounter Dennis' hand as I neared her crotch.

"OH -- OH -- OH!" Beatrice exclaimed in a shuddering moan.

Releasing her nipple with a soft sucking pop, Dennis whispered, "Just wait until I stroke your clit, my dear Beatrice."

"My what?" she said so softly that I had to strain to hear although scant inches from her mouth.

My fingers had already crawled over a garter, brushed against her girdle, and were at the apex of her crotch, and I detected both a strange aroma and wetness emanating from the gusset of her underwear.

"Your clit, Beatrice, every woman has one," Dennis was saying. "One might say it is the key to all pleasure.

"OHHH, WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?"

"Lean back a bit for me. That's the girl," Dennis cooed seductively while easing her down on the settee. I had already dropped to one knee in order to maintain my place at her dampened crotch.

"That's it," he continued, "spread your legs a bit more."

Beatrice was shaking so badly at this point that I feared she might go into a convulsive state. "Is she..." I started to say, when Dennis interrupted me. "She's fine, Roy, continue with what you're doing."

I was amazed at the lack of resistance on her part, and then it occurred to me that Dennis had probably entered her body at some point and determined that poor Beatrice was ripe for plucking.

I was amazed that she hadn't called a halt yet. Most of the young ladies of virtue put up at least a token resistance. She must be absolutely ripe for plucking, I thought, and chuckled nervously.

Dennis slowly drew her dress upward. "Beatrice, my dear, hold this for me, please." The seemingly sluggish girl grasped the material in her hand obediently. "That's a good girl."

Both Dennis and I maneuvered her legs further apart. I could see her pink undies quite clearly, and the center point covering her thickly bushed cunt was quite wet with her excitement.

Keep your eyes closed, Beatrice, my sweet. You'll really appreciate what comes next, I promise you," Dennis crooned into her ear.

Then, before I could react, Dennis' hand brushed mine aside and burrowed under her pink undies to the secret place Beatrice normally touched only when bathing.

Her body jerked convulsively as his hand reached her nether lips. I watched as his hand moved about under the gossamer material covering her cunt. Smiling wolfishly, Dennis withdrew his hand and displayed his wet fingers to me.

His fingers quickly returned to her sex and Beatrice groaned as her hips involuntarily jerked upward. 

"Ah, yes, Beatrice. Let me pleasure you," he whispered as her thrusting continued unabated.

I believe she started to scream, but anticipating it, Dennis covered her mouth with his free hand. "No, no, don't scream, try to be quiet. We don't want the conductor joining us, do we now?"

Beatrice moaned softly in acceptance, and he croaked, "Good, that's a good girl. Now open wider for us."

He pushed the loose, drenched material into her slit. "Does that feel good? I think that it does, Beatrice. I can feel you dripping all over my fingers." 

Beatrice moaned and I glanced at her breasts, her nipples stood out about a half inch signaling her intense pleasure at our ministrations to her bodies sexual parts.

"Finger her, Roy," Dennis said, and I did, sinking first one digit into her marshmallowy soft folds and then managing a second until I met resistance, probably from her hymen.

Dennis' hand crossed mine as he sought out the tiny nubbin that is known as the clitoris and gently rubbed over it time and time again while the young thing moaned repeatedly.

"I'm touching your clit, Beatrice. The proper name for it is clitoris, it's just a tiny thing really, but super sensitive, don't you agree?"

"Ohhhh!" she moaned.

"That's it," he said, urging her on, "move your hips. Do you like me touching you there? And how about where Roy is fingering you?"

She muttered something unintelligible.

"Cum for us, Beatrice," Dennis said with a rising urgency. "I know you're close. Can you cum for us?"

As I dug into her slippery folds my balls were roiling with the need to ejaculate, and I had to assume Dennis was similarly affected.

Suddenly, Beatrice's breath stopped, her hips arched up off the settee, and she came with small spurts of love juice ejaculating over my fingers and palm as she stared unseeingly at the ceiling.

Dennis held his hand still, waiting for the muscle spasms to stop, feeling the tiny bump of her clit throbbing madly as her sexual apparatus boiled over. I wondered if he would attempt having her accept both our rampant cocks, one by mouth, one by cunt, but perhaps he wanted to take those orifices in a more salubrious surrounding. Then again, perhaps he felt he had pushed her far enough for one day.

While I wasted time wondering about what we would do next, Dennis covered her mouth with his, tonguing her mercilessly while sending his index finger into the hot little cunt I had just left off of.

Then I caught another movement on his part. He was inserting a drenched finger into her anus!

"OH, MY!" Beatrice gasped, as she came out of her climactic stupor. He kissed her again and she quit any attempt at struggling against the constant pressure he was bringing to bear against the entrance to her rectum.

I watched his finger slowly forcing its way into her virginal ass, I heard Beatrice moan her pleasure into his mouth. Unable to resist participating any longer, I lifted her breast to my mouth and nibbled at each of her turgid nipples in turn.

Her moans grew louder.

I couldn't resist seeing how he was faring with his anal attack and glanced down; saw his long finger being swallowed to the first knuckle. I could clearly see the mouth of her anus sucking wildly at the invasive finger.

Unable to stop myself, I hurriedly unbuttoned my trousers and freed my throbbing cock from its confinement.

"You've done very well Beatrice, I had no idea you were so naughty," Dennis said, praising her; keeping his finger in place, but not venturing any further. 

Beatrice opened passion-glazed green eyes and stared at him, not really seeing him, her lips slick from his kisses, cheeks flushed. I saw his cock kick against his trousers, demanding attention. Dennis ignored it for the moment.

"You... you... the finger..." she moaned weakly. "Yes, Beatrice, my finger is in your bottom. Can you feel how your rosebud is suckling on it? I think you like this, don't you, girl? Hmm?" Dennis watched the impact of his words.

Beatrice's eyes fluttered closed then opened. "Hmmm..." she agreed without actually saying yes. 

At this point, Dennis made a decision and removed his finger from her asshole. Beatrice flinched at its loss, but would have blushed fifteen shades of red had she seen him raise the two fingers of his right hand to his mouth and smell them deeply, then slide them slowly, sensuously into his mouth and suck them clean of all her fluids. 

I released her breast with one last caress, and after tugging her dress down to its normal level, helped Dennis smooth it out. We helped Beatrice to her feet, and took turns kissing her for several lovely minutes.

She was still somewhat in a daze, and didn't notice me shove my erection back into my trousers. She did take notice of us both standing before her with our dicks thrusting out so forcibly that it must have tested the strength of the trousers material.

."Beatrice?" Dennis cooed seductively, "Do you hear me?"

"Huh? Oh... yes, I hear you, Mr. Dennis."

"Can you imagine, after all that, you're still a virgin. Isn't that nice?"

"Yes, it is," she replied, although she seemed somewhat disconcerted. Turning to face us, she said, "Mr. Dennis, Mr. Shannon. I'm still intact then?"

"Oh, yes," I said agreeably. While Dennis nodded his head.

Beatrice glanced down at our erections. "Does it hurt to be so stiff down there?"

"A little," Dennis said, but don't fret about it. We'll be fine in a short time. Now, Beatrice, why don't you splash a little cold water on your face?" 

And while she splashed some water on her face, Dennis unlocked the door to the powder room and ushered me out, quickly following.

"We'll have her yet, Roy, oh yes, we'll leave her hymen ruptured nine ways from Sunday."

"But we've got the Series game," I said lamely.

""There's life after the game, my good man, and she has a sister."

*****

The train pulled into Pennsylvania Station on time and Beatrice excitedly waved at what I presumed to be her sister through the large window separating her from the platform.

"That's Lizbeth," she fairly shouted excitedly, "My sister!"

Lizbeth was every bit as attractive at Beatrice, only she appeared to be with child.

Dennis picked up on it too, saying, "How far along is she?"

"Almost five months, now. Isn't she pretty?"

Dennis laughed and said, "She is indeed, one can hardly tell she's that far along."

The train came to a stop, and Dennis and I led Beatrice solicitously down the steps of the Pullman car, keeping one hand under each of her elbows. Lizbeth hurried along the platform toward her sister, concern written all over her attractive face at seeing us escorting her younger sibling.

As usual, Dennis was ready with an answer, "Beatrice was feeling a little off-color, so I had her rest a moment before disembarking, but we thought it best...." 

He didn't bother finishing the sentence as Lizbeth was already embracing her sister.

"These... two gentlemen have been so kind to me. I can't begin to tell you how much...." All this said with a straight face. My respect for a woman's ability to lie went up several notches.

We introduced ourselves to Lizbeth, who shook our hands while thanking us for looking out for Beatrice. "It's so kind of you gentlemen to look after Beatrice. I really do appreciate it," Lizbeth said with a dazzling smile.

"It was our pleasure," Dennis said so smoothly that I almost missed the sarcasm in his choice of words.

"In fact, and I must apologize in advance for being so forward, but we understand your husband is serving our country and...." He paused as if knowing what Lizbeth would say and wanted to let her say it.

"Yes, he's in Germany," for a moment it looked like she was about to cry, but she summoned up the strength to fight off the tears of loneliness that had welled up inside her for the months of separation and ended with, "God help him and all our other troops over there."

"Yes, yes, Indeed," I said.

But Dennis seized the moment, saying: "These are troubling times... I had thought that after the war...." 

Lizbeth finished the sentence for him, with: "The Russians seem to be provoking us at every turn."

"We have the A-Bomb though, Mrs. Hunt, and that should keep them at bay for the foreseeable future," Dennis said as he took hold of her elbow, and turned her toward the interior of Penn Station, urging us by his action to walk toward the street and the taxi that would whisk us to Ebbets Field.

As we emerged from the cavernous main floor of Pennsylvania station we were smitten by the cacophony of sound epitomizing New York City: car horns, screeching brakes, newspaper vendors hawking the daily papers by yelling out the headlines of the moment, and the bustle of pedestrians, seemingly going in every conceivable direction as the swarmed around us. It was impossible to stand in one place for long. Dennis obtained Lizbeth's phone number and told her he insisted on taking them both to dinner later that evening.

I noted the look of surprise that crossed her face at the invitation; saw Beatrice nudge her with an elbow, and saw the surprised expression leave her face to be replaced by a more knowing look. 

"We'd be delighted to join you gentlemen. Where shall we meet?"

"We'll be by to pick you two charming ladies up," Dennis said effortlessly, where I would have stumbled and probably fouled everything up.

Lizbeth gave him her address and repeated the phone number and we hailed a cab for them and saw them off before whistling down a cab for ourselves.

"City Hall, driver," Dennis said, sounding awfully official. The driver nodded once and drove like a madman using Broadway as his avenue of choice in heading Downtown to City Hall.

"The games in an hour and ten minutes, Bill," I said, remembering to use that name as a safeguard against his taking over my person.

"I know, Roy," he said, allowing more than a little sarcasm to creep into his voice. "We do however; require tickets to get in, don't we?"

I couldn't believe he had yet to purchase the tickets. "But the game..." I began lamely before it occurred to me that this was why we were headed to City Hall, and I shut up.

The cab pulled up at the entrance to New York City's famous City Hall. I saw a nervous looking man in a three piece suit of very expense cut, pacing back and forth near the entrance doors.

Dennis hopped out of the cab, leaving me alone in the backseat and trotted gracefully up the steps to greet the nervous looking gentleman who quickly handed Dennis an envelope.

Without so much as a thank you, Dennis turned away and loped back to the cab and got in.

"Take us to Ebbets Field, driver and don't spare the horses."

"Going to the Series?' 

"We are going to the Series, yes." He replied to the driver's question.

"Are youse Dodger or Yankee fans?"

"We're one of each," Dennis answered, "I'm the Dodger fan," he added, knowing this would lead to a conversation on the merits of each team and the hopes of the driver for one or the other to win.

"The Bum's is down two to zip already. It don look to good for us," the driver said, looking over his shoulder at us as he barreled onto the Brooklyn Bridge.

"That Allie Reynolds was tough on us yesterday, but we'll be back today. There ain't no quit in dem Dodgers," the cabby said, obviously enjoying himself as we spun off the bridge and headed toward Flatbush Avenue.



The Storytellers Ch. 15



Authors comment: I admit to being perplexed over the scant number of readers this novel has attracted thus far. I am surprised and depressed by this and will finish the piece off as quickly as possible. For those few who have stuck with it, well I apologize for this, but I hope you understand the amount of time and effort that goes into such work. I wish I knew how to reach a wider audience. evidently I don't. PW

*

Ebbets Field -- 1947 World Series

I entered the famed portals of Charlie Ebbets ballpark with Dennis at my side. We stood on the Italian marble floor under the baseball bat chandelier while the crowd swirled past us.

"Ever been here before?" Dennis inquired as we walked toward our seats.

"No, I've been to Wrigley of course, and Comiskey too. Caught a couple games in Detroit once and both ball parks in St. Louis. But although I've been to New York twice, I've never seen a baseball game here."

We came out into the open and a sea of green greeted us. It was, as it always is with me, a breathtakingly beautiful sight. 

Before us, on the field, the batting cage was in place, and Pistol Pete Reiser was hitting. The Brooklyn pitchers, except for Hatten, the starter, were running in the outfield. The rest of the team lounged alertly on the field in their immaculate whites with the blue trim. Some infielders were in the outfield shagging the balls hit there and some outfielders and catchers were cavorting in the infield, making behind the back catches of pop flies.

"They seem relaxed after losing two straight," I said.

"That's in the past," Dennis said, "They're professionals; it doesn't matter if the Yankees kicked their asses 18-0 yesterday. Today is a new day and a new ballgame. 

"Bobo Newsom's going today. I said.

"Yeah? Well several Dodgers see him real good," he replied.

An usher showed us to our seats behind the Dodgers dugout on the home plate side rather than the first base side. "These are great seats," I told Dennis. 

"Yeah, well it's who you know."

"My guess is you know a lot of people."

"I've been around. You get to know people if you're around long enough."

"The fellow gave you the ducats seemed kinda nervous," I said, fishing for more information.

Dennis bit, and told me, "He had every right to be nervous. I caught him with the Mayor's right hand man's dick up his ass."

"Wouldn't that be more of a problem for the Mayor's man?"

"Might be if you weren't the City Comptroller."

"Hmmm, you have a point there."

"I always have a point, Roy. Now Robinson's going to take his turn, let's watch him."

We watched as the first negro to play in the major leagues in this century hit line drive after line drive to the farthest reaches of the ball park.

"Reminds me of Stan the Man," I said off the top of my head.

"Some, yeah," Dennis smiled. "More like Lajoie, you ask me. See how he looks like he's gonna fly apart as he starts his swing and then his bat levels off and meets the ball squarely? That was Lajoie." 

"I never saw Mr. Lajoie hit," I said.

"Didn't see him field either, right? He was nearly flawless in the field. And him with that little-bitty glove they used back then."

"I've read that he was renowned for his defensive play," I replied.

"No one ever played a better second base, although some might argue Eddie Collins was better. Collins was great too, but better? I doubt it."

We watched Robinson hit another screaming line drive off the Schaffer Beer sign in deep left-center and then vacate the batting cage.

"Stanky will be gone next year," Dennis said knowingly.

"And you know this... how?" I asked.

"They got a kid named Hodges needs to play. He'll move from back-up catcher to first. Robby will take over at his natural position. For that to happen Stanky has to go."

I didn't argue with him. His knowledge of baseball and its inner workings far surpassed mine. What he said made sense, Stanky, although one of the better second basemen in the majors was getting old; and if Hodges could hit with power... well you'd be hard pressed to keep him on the bench. As for first base, Robinson was clearly uncomfortable there. It was entirely possible he would blossom at the four position with his speed and agility.

The crowd continued to file in, and the excitement rose with each passing minute.

"We missed seeing DiMaggio hit didn't we?" I said.

"That must have been about an hour ago," Dennis replied laconically. "Usually its only the kids get here that early. They catch one of his longer shots he might sign the ball after he's finished batting."

"That's nice of him," I said.

"He's a shy guy, but likes the kids. Adults make him uncomfortable. When he goes out its usually with an entourage. They fend off the bothersome types. He's a regular at Toots Shor's although you can't get near him. 

We each had a beer bought from a vendor bouncing up and down the steps while a Dodger coach swatted long, lazy fungoes out to the outfield. The crowd, mostly men, many of them with boys, scorecards clutched in their hands, filtered slowly into their seats. 

Over the loudspeakers, Buddy Clark was singing "Linda." 

I sipped my beer as we listened to it. Dennis finished his cigarette and snubbed it carelessly with his foot into the stadium's concrete flooring. I saw that it wasn't completely out, and a small acrid twist of smoke rose from it still. I leaned across him and snuffed the butt until it was completely out.

"What do you think...?" He started to say, but I interrupted him. 

"Of the girls? I like the both of them. Why, do you favor one over the other?"

My question caught Dennis off guard. It may have been the first time I ever did so. 

"Yeah, the girls; they'll put out, I guarantee it. And to answer your question, no, I don't care which one I wind up with."

"You, um, visited them?" I asked, suspecting as much.

That got me a wolfish grin. "Of course I did."

"And?"

"Like most women, their first consideration was are we matrimonial material? In that regard we passed with flying colors."

"But Lizbeth's married," I protested.

"He's in Germany. Might get killed at any time. Who knows? It doesn't hurt to have a fellow in the bull-pen, so to speak."

"How callous is that?" I said.

"The ladies think ahead. They have to look out for themselves."

"So, is Beatrice really a virgin?" I asked, knowing he had the answer.

"Surprisingly, yes. Her mother has kept the men at bay. It seems Lizbeth got the hots for guys early on. She had a close call with pregnancy at eighteen, and that was before husband number one. That had the mother on the alert to anything in pants. Anyway, Lizbeth married him just before her twentieth birthday, and got knocked up in a flurry of frenzied fucking just before he shipped out."

"What else is there to know about Beatrice?"

"I would add that Lizbeth is about as horny these days as a woman can possibly get. Did you see her checking our packages out?"

I had to admit that I hadn't, and said so.

"Well, she did. Took a long hard look too, and I mean at both of us. Beatrice saw her do it and almost bit her lip off, she was really surprised by her sister's actions. But knowing women, they'll have a long, detailed discussion about us before we meet them tonight."

"You think Beatrice will tell Lizbeth what we were doing to her?"

"I'd bet on it."

"But why? How?" I blurted, unable to conceive of the younger sister telling the older what had gone on in the Pullman Car's powder room.

"She'll see how horny her sister is. She knows Lizbeth won't want to go out with us and will use her marriage as an excuse. But little Miss Beatrice wants to get laid. For that matter, so does her sister. They'll meet us and we'll wine and dine them."

"And then?" I asked like a love-sick teenager.

"We take them to our hotel room for a night-cap and fuck their brains out. I intend to screw each of them in turn. You can too if you want."

It had never occurred to me that we might share the sisters although I had fantasized about nailing each of them; only not the same night.

Glancing out on the field while thinking of what to say in answer to his last remark, I saw the starting pitchers' ambling down to their respective bullpen's to warm up. A moment later the umpires began gathering at home plate. The managers strolled out a minute later and presented their respective lineup cards while the crack of a fastball landing in a catcher's mitt reverberated throughout the ball park.

Then the player's from each team were lining up along the foul lines, followed by the playing of the National Anthem, and then George Stirnweiss was stepping into the batter's box to face hard throwing, Joe Hatten.

Stirnweiss rapped a slow curve into right field, but Henrich promptly grounded into a double play and the Dodgers were out of the inning one batter later.

The Dodgers rocked the Yankees in the 2nd when catcher, Bruce Edwards doubled Hermanski home and scored when Reese singled to center. Then with two out, Hatten singled to left; and when Lollar allowed a passed ball the runners advanced to 2nd and 3rd only to score on Stanky's double off the right field wall. That made it 4-0 and the beloved Bums weren't done.

Vic Raschi replaced Newsom only to give up a base hit to Robinson moving Stanky to 3rd. 

"Oh, look at this!" Dennis exclaimed. Out of the Dodger dugout came Carl Furillo swing three bats. They were pinch-hitting for Reiser! 

Moments later I thought it was a stroke of genius as Furillo promptly doubled scoring the two base runners. Dodgers 6 Yankees 0, after two innings.

But the Yankees weren't rolling over just yet. In the top of the third, the first two men got on base, and with two out, Johnny Lindell singled one run home; and DiMaggio drove in another with a single up the middle, before McQuinn struck out to retire the side.

In the bottom half of the inning, Spider Jorgensen single Hermanski home, making it: Dodgers 7, Yankees 2.

"Looks like we've got a high scoring game today," I said to Dennis, who nodded his head in agreement. 

"The pitchers don't have it today. You know, some days the ball won't move as much as it normally does. This seems like one of them."

"Does the wind have something to do with it?" I asked.

"You're from Chicago, what do you think?" He replied, and wasn't smiling.

I thought he might be testing me, but didn't know why, and so I said, "The wind certainly helps the ball leave Wrigley Field some days, that's for sure, but I don't see it affecting the game in any other way."

"What about the humidity, or even a windless, or almost windless afternoon, like we have today? I've seen those kinds of days when a good curve ball pitcher can or cannot snap his pitches off in the usual manner. Those days the pitcher sucks it up and throws the heater until his arm gives out."

I waited, knowing he'd have more to say on the subject.

"At the moment, the Dodgers have Hatten on the mound; he's a breaking ball pitcher. You watch, the Yankees are going to score again in this inning."

And they did. Hatten couldn't find the plate and walked the third baseman, Billy Johnson. One out later, Lollar doubled off the right field wall, scoring Johnson. Hatten got the pinch hitter to fly to Hermanski in left, but hung a curve to Stirnweiss, who slapped it to center where Furillo bobbled it as Lollar scored and Stirnweiss took second. The Yankees had narrowed the Dodgers lead to 7 -- 4.

"Well it looks like you were right," I said and waved a vendor over to buy two Shaffer beers. "Drinks on me," I said.

"Good, and thanks. Now watch, Chandler's coming in for the Yanks, and he's a breaking ball pitcher. If the wind doesn't pick up the Dodgers will rip him for a few more runs."

Dennis was right again. Chandler couldn't buy a strike. He walked Stanky, got Robinson when he sacrificed Stanky to second; and I would add, he bunted a pitch that was well outside the plate. Chandler proceeded to walk the next batter and it seemed he was almost forced to throw the ball over the heart of the plate enabling Walker and Hermanski to single up the middle, scoring Stanky and Furillo in turn. So the Dodgers matched the Yankees with two runs in the 4th inning, making it 9 -- 4 Dodgers.

The Yankees almost came back after "Joe D" hit a two-run blast in the fifth, Tommy Henrich doubled home a Yankee run in the sixth and Yogi Berra added his own homer in the seventh. 

Unfortunately, it was too little - too late and the Dodgers held on for a 9 - 8 victory.

It's worth adding that the breeze picked up in the fifth inning after Hatten gave up DiMaggio's home run and Branca, a fastball pitcher came on. And as it proving Dennis' point, following Berra's two-run homer in the seventh, Hugh Casey replaced Branca, and Casey, whose slider was his best pitch, effectively shut down the Yankees the rest of the way. Final score: Dodgers, 9 -- 8. 

We made our way out of Ebbets Field along with thousands of happy Dodger fans, boarded the subway and thirty minutes later were back in our hotel in Manhattan. It was ten minutes to five. Dennis excused himself for a moment, saying he had to make a couple phone calls. I bought an afternoon paper and caught up on the latest news, comforted by the fact that I had borne witness to the real latest news wherein the Dodgers had beaten the Yankees. I didn't even wonder what Dennis, AKA Bill, was up to.

At any rate, I found out soon enough. Some ten minutes later, Dennis strode into the hotel's bar where I sat nursing a scotch and soda. 

"We're set for tonight," he said smugly.

"Oh...?" I said, hoping that Beatrice and Lizbeth were actually going to meet with us that evening.

"We've got tickets for A Streetcar Named Desire and Lizbeth and Beatrice couldn't be more thrilled."

"You got tickets... for Streetcar?" I couldn't believe my ears. It was the smash hit of the season; tickets were absolutely unavailable to all but the 'In Crowd' and biggest celebrities about town. I had just finished reading in the Daily News the night before that Walter Winchell was having trouble getting tickets for the show, and here was Dennis coming up with four for tonight, with a phone call or two. And the girls were joining us! The guy was incredible!

That's when I realized that his ability to merge with others around him might present a danger to me, and part of my conversation with Arthur came back to me. "Arthur, is Bill dangerous?" 

"Not to you, nor do you pose any real threat to him. Again, I see no reason to fear him as long as you call him Bill. Please, Roy, keep that thought foremost in mind when conversing with him."

"Roy, there is one last thing."

"Yes, Arthur?"

"Don't trust him."

Dennis was taking a sip from his martini when I asked my next question. I won't ask how you managed to get those tickets, but how did the girls sound when you invited them?"

He laughed, paused to light up a Camel, and I realized he seldom had the same brand of cigarettes on him.

"They're going to put out for us, Roy. I guarantee it."

I started to say, "How can you...." But stopped, he could and they would. He'd already shape-shifted with each of them and he knew what they knew and would use it to seduce each of them. Hell, he already had seduced Beatrice, except for taking her virginity, and that would fall later tonight.

To be continued...



The Storytellers Ch. 16



Chapter 16

The Sisters

I came out of the shower drying my hair. On the radio Martin Block was signing off with his signature recording of Glenn Miller & the Modernaires, Make Believe Ballroom Time. 

Dennis inhaled deeply from his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly, watching it spiral upward. 

"Hurry it up, the girls are in the lobby," Dennis said calmly, and then stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray at his side as he rose up from the chair he was sitting in and shot his cuffs as he checked his image in the mirror.

I tossed the towel aside and got dressed. Dennis, of course was already dressed and ready to go. The Modernaires stylistic rendition filled the room as I hurriedly buttoned my shirt and slipped on my jacket. 

It's make believe ballroom time, the hour of sweet romance. It's make believe ballroom time, come on children, let's dance.

Five minutes and a little dab of Brylcreem later, I was ready too. We took the elevator down and met Beatrice and Lizbeth in the hotel bar where they were waiting for us. It was difficult to tell that Lizbeth was pregnant even though she was wearing a fairly snug skirt and jacket over a white blouse, but it was evident that the blouse did little to conceal her rather large breasts. I had, of course, sampled her sister Beatrice's breasts the day before, and while they were sizable enough, Lizbeth's pregnant state had obviously enhanced hers a great deal. 

Dennis greeted each girl with a kiss on the cheek, and then said, "I hope you'll allow us to pay for those drinks, after all we made you take a cab over here and then added insult to injury by having you wait while we got ready. It's the least we can do to make up for it."

Lizbeth looked at her almost empty martini and Dennis immediately ordered another for her and Beatrice and then after the bartender placed their drinks in front of them, ordered martini's for us as well, throwing a twenty on the bar in payment.

In my heart I knew that had I been left to offer an apology to them I would have stumbled and probably fouled everything up. The man was damn near incredible. A moment later I corrected myself. The man was incredible, but he had a decided advantage in knowing beforehand what the other person was, or might be thinking.

I should add that with Dennis'body between me and the girls, I didn't get to kiss ether of them. All I could do was smile and nod hello. But there was a discernible flush to Beatrice's cheeks, and a sly, knowing glint in Lizbeth's eye when we looked at each other. Things certainly looked promising.

We hailed a cab and were whisked over to Toot's Shor's Restaurant on West 51st Street and found ourselves seated at a table between DiMaggio and several other Yankee players along with the inimitable Toots himself on one side, and Ernest Hemmingway and two gorgeous women on the other.

The girls and I were agog and almost speechless when Toots patted DiMaggio on the shoulder and came over to us to greet Dennis as if he'd known him from childhood. "So how's the food tonight, Toots?" Dennis asked genially.

"Nuttin' fancy, have the shrimp cocktail, steak and a baked potato," Toots said as he slapped Dennis on the back and checked out Lizbeth's breasts when she wasn't looking. A moment later he was leaning over one of the beauties seated with Hemmingway, joking with the famous author about a fish they had let get away off the shores of Havana some years earlier.

As our Steaks were being served, Dennis regaled us with a typical story on Toots. "What a guy, what a guy," Dennis laughed. One day, the head of MGM, Louis B. Mayer complained to Toots about waiting twenty minutes for a table. He said something like: "I trust the food will be worth all that waiting." There was a gleam in Dennis' eye as he leaned closer to the girls and whispered the punch line: "Shor replied: 'It'll be better'n some of your crummy pictures I stood in line for.'"

Lizbeth shrieked with laughter. Beatrice followed a split second later. I think she was just following her sister's lead, and really didn't get the point, but I never found out it that was so.

Twenty minutes later our cab pulled up in front of the Ethel Barrymore Theatre, where 'Street Car' was being performed. The girls held back briefly to study the picture of a shirtless Marlon Brando just outside the lobby doors. With his hand on Beatrice's waist, Dennis escorted her into the lobby. I followed suite with Lizbeth, only to find that somehow she managed to press her breast against my arm in what had to be a deliberate act on her part. I started thinking about whether she was lactating and if I would have an opportunity to sample some breast milk that evening. I was sporting an erection in no time at all, and not having had any release after the previous day's session with Beatrice, I knew that blue balls were not all that far off.

"Are you a fan of Brando's?" I inquired, hoping to spark a longer conversation with her then I had thus far, and keep any curious looks at my groin to a minimum.

Lizbeth pressed her breast harder against me as she responded. "Oh, yes. He's a man's man. I was lucky to see him in Truckline Café, which although it bombed, earned him Broadway's Most Promising Actor Award for his role as an anguished veteran."

Her breast was hard and firm, although it also was pliant as breasts tend to be; I felt the first twinge of tension in my testes. Discomfort was not far off.

I told her I had first heard of him when he appeared on Broadway as the young hero in the political drama A Flag is Born, and made headlines by refusing to accept wages above the Actor's Equity rate because of his commitment to the cause of Israeli independence. 

Lizbeth countered by telling me how Brando got the role of Stanley Kowalski. "He... he had the audacity to drive up to Provincetown where Tennessee Williams was spending the summer, to audition for the part."

"I didn't know that," I said,

"Oh yes," she replied keeping her breast firmly lodged against my arm. "Williams has said repeatedly that the moment he opened the screen door and saw Brando, he knew he had his Kowalski."

I presented out tickets to the ticket taker and whisked Lizbeth into the orchestra, where we joined Beatrice and Dennis.

Beatrice took her seat and Dennis sat beside her and patted the seat next to him and Lizbeth sat there and fussed with her skirt as I sat down next to her.

People were still streaming into the theater. I checked my watch and found we had about ten minutes before the curtain was scheduled to go up. Lizbeth broke the silence. 

"I understand that you were raised in Missouri, Mr. Shannon, would it have been St. Louis? I ask because I visited there when I was twelve. I liked it and found the people there to be very outgoing and friendly."

"Actually, I was born and raised in Columbia, the state capital, and home of Missouri University."

Her hand was suddenly on mine. "Really?" she said. "And did you attend the university?"

"I did. I majored in journalism. After the war I was hired by the Chicago Tribune."

"Oh, you're sort of a celebrity then."

"Not at all, I'm just a working stiff."

"How is it that you're here in New York and not in Chicago?"

"Mr. Dennis was kind enough to invite me to see the World Series, and I could hardly refuse."

I heard Beatrice remark to Dennis that the other patrons were watching each other as avidly as they would the stage when the play began. Dennis laughed and told her they were people watching; a sport that New Yorkers loved to take part in, hoping that they would spot a celebrity.

I caught a glimpse of Dennis' hand on Beatrice's thigh, and glanced at her face. It was aflame with guilt and possibly lust. I thought of placing my hand on Lizbeth's thigh as well, but the lights dimmed and went out a moment later. 

And as Streetcar of Desire began to unfold before us, I was caught up in the brilliance of Jessica Tandy's, Blanche and Brando's, Kowalski. The spell remained unbroken until the curtain came down at intermission. Then I blinked owlishly around as the audience streamed past me on their way to the lobby to discuss the performance thus far, and to quench their thirsts with a glass of wine or Champagne.

I turned to Lizbeth and saw that Dennis had his right hand on her upper thigh. I was stunned for his left hand was similarly placed on Beatrice's thigh, only that hand was moving into the area of her crotch while she stared straight ahead at the stage.

I distinctly heard him tell Beatrice, "You don't hate me, do you?" And her answer left me dumbfounded. "Of course not," she gasped, "How could you think that?"

His hand was rubbing her cunt through the dress and she was actually squirming around in her seat. Anyone bothering to look could see what he was doing, but apparently no one could be bothered.

I put my arm around Lizbeth's shoulder and received a sheepish smile from her. Dennis promptly removed his hand from her thigh and motioned for me to take its place. 

But my arm was around her shoulder, and so I did what I presumed Dennis would have done in my stead, reaching across my body with my right hand and laying it directly on her belly swollen with child. 

I couldn't believe my ears. Lizbeth actually purred and covered my hand with her own, squeezing it gently.

"I was beginning to wonder about you, Roy," she told me in a whisper.

"There's nothing to worry about," I said as my hand swept lower and lower and her hand went with mine.

"Did you really do all those things in the ladies room on the train?"

"Beatrice told you?"

"Of course, we're sisters. She told me everything. I can't believe she let you insert a finger in her heinie. It's unlike her."

As she uttered those words my middle finger dug through the folds of her dress and into her vagina. Of course it had been Dennis who had the finger up her ass, but why would I quibble at this point?

"YES!" she moaned softly.

"Like it, Lizbeth?"

"It's been so long since anyone's touched me. I've begun to feel like a pariah."

"After the show I'll do more than touch you," I said breathing heavily. 

"Will you?" she gasped and gave my hardon a quick squeeze as the house lights blinked twice, signaling the end of the intermission.

I glanced over at Beatrice and Dennis. His hand was clearly under her skirt, and unless I misjudged him, he was already fingering her to a climax. Beatrice's eyes were tightly closed and her lips were compressed as if she were in pain. But I knew she felt no pain, she was feeling intense pleasure as he strove to bring her to a fast orgasm before the audience returned to their seats.

"OH!" Beatrice drew in her breath with a short audible moan. "S... Stop it!"

"What is it, Beatrice?" Dennis asked innocently. Lizbeth giggled and I reluctantly removed my hand and placed it on my own lap.

Beatrice had reached down and now had Dennis' wrist in her hand and was tugging it out from under her dress. 

"Everyone will see!" she whispered then realized that both Lizbeth and I had heard her. "He's being a bad boy!" she said as if that explained everything. 

As far as Beatrice was concerned it did, for neither Lizbeth nor I made any comment on the matter, but looked at the stage as if the performers were already on stage.

Both Lizbeth and I knew that Beatrice may have feared being caught, but certainly welcomed not only his touch but mine as well. I proved this by reaching across Dennis to squeeze her breast without drawing any semblance of protest from her. I relinquished my hold on her tit and turned back to Lizbeth who still had a firm grip on my cock.

"She's putty in his hands," I said into her ear and followed up by licking her ear lobe.

Lizbeth shuddered, and then squeaked, "I think I am too, but we're not in the balcony of the local movie theatre. People will take note and very possibly complain."

"You're absolutely right, my dear. Let's hold off until we get back to your place."

"I couldn't agree more," Lizbeth answered; "although I have to tell you..." she gave me another hard squeeze... "I'll miss holding this monster of yours."

And so we pretty much behaved ourselves until getting in the cab on the way to Lizbeth's. Beatrice sank back into the seat, her thighs almost involuntarily parting to allow Dennis' magical hand access. Then, as though waking from a dream, she slammed her legs closed. "Um, I can't!" she gasped.

"Sure you can," Dennis said persuasively.

"Oh, go on, Sis," Lizbeth added, "You know you want him too. Don't be a cock teaser."

I was stunned to hear Lizbeth telling her younger sister to grant Dennis anything he wanted. Dennis added a few additional honeyed words to Beatrice and her legs parted.

Moments later I was kissing Lizbeth and she was trying to swallow my tongue. Yet in all this turmoil, I could clearly hear the squishing sound from between Beatrice's thighs as Dennis fingered her to a rousing orgasm. 

Absorbed with watching the shenanigans in the back seat, our cabby almost lost control of the taxi. He managed to get back on course as the brakes squealed just a fraction louder than Beatrice did on coming from Dennis' fingering.

I was busy myself. I had a hand under Lizbeth's blouse and busied myself with trying to get my hand into the cup of her brasserie. I wasn't having any success until she reached in there herself and hauled a heavy breast from the brasserie and plopped it in my hand. The nipple felt firm and supple to my fingers and after several soft flicks and a squeeze or two she was moaning into my ear and squeezing my cock again.

Seeking a greater reward, I left her breast hanging over the top of her brassiere and whispered: "I'm going to put my hand underneath your skirt in a moment, no one will see us except perhaps your sister, but she has her eyes closed and I doubt she'll care anyway.

"Okay, Roy, do it!" she hissed in my ear then sent her tongue into it, swirling about and driving me half mad.

I didn't come to my senses until my hand was at the gusset of her undies and the heat and dampness that greeted my fingers brought me back with a jolt. 

I watched her closely, my own breathing rate increasing at a dangerously high level. Men have been known to have heart attacks or strokes under similar situations.

Alongside me, Beatrice emitted a soft moan that trailed away as she placed several fingers in her mouth to stifle an even louder groan.

I had two fingers buried in Lizbeth's twat and her head was nodding jerkily, her breathing already hurried. "I can't believe how wet you are," I said, my voice merely a soft rustling sound, heard only by Lizbeth. I can't wait to taste you down there."

"You... you'd do that?" Lizbeth replied in a hushed voice.

"Of course; I love doing... that." I replied in kind.

"But it's considered so... nasty!"

"Don't you want me to do the nasty with you?"

"I... I don't... yes! Yes, I do!"

"And then what, darling? Will you do the nasty to me?"

"I... I've never... but I will. Yes, I will!"

"Will Beatrice do it too?" I said, pushing my luck.

"I don't know... why wouldn't she? Especially if I urge her to do it."

Our conversation and my fingering her twat came to an abrupt end when the cabbie pulled up in front of a typical Brownstone and announced that we were at our destination.

Dennis unhurriedly withdrew his hand from under Beatrice's skirt, smoothed the wrinkles from it as he whispered our arrival into her ear.

I gave him a five dollar bill and told him to keep the change, which was about three dollars. He gave Dennis and me a broad grin and wished us a good evening, and then he ogled the girls as they headed for the entrance of their building.

Once inside, Dennis took charge, made us all martinis and had Lizbeth sit on my lap on the divan, and after turning the lights down low, took the sofa for Beatrice and him.

"Cheers, everyone!" he called out and we raised our martinis up in acknowledgment. Both Dennis and I pretended not to notice the flushed faces of our respective partners. 

"Drink up, Beatrice," Dennis said, urging her to do so by emptying his own glass in one long gulp.

Lizbeth emptied her glass as well, handing me her glass with a trembling hand. 

"Beatrice, we should get more comfortable, here, let me help you off with these, they'll only get in our way," Dennis said cheerfully as he opened her dress and deftly unhooked her brassiere, letting her generous breasts spill out into the open. 

I freely admit I gawked at seeing them again. They were magnificent -- twin peaks with pebbled areola and stiffened nipples 

Dennis chuckled, his teeth gleaming whitely in the dim lighting. "Lizbeth, my sweet, let us see your breasts too so we may compare. But I promise the both of you; neither Roy nor I will make any comment as to whose are the nicer."

I was stunned to see that Lizbeth was already opening her blouse to release her heavy breasts to view.

If Beatrice had a magnificent pair I don't know what Lizbeth's were. First of all, they were filled, or beginning to fill, with milk for her as yet unborn child. Blue veins were evident in hers, but not in Beatrice. This was, of course, due to her pregnant state. Her areolas were pebbled as were Beatrice's, but much larger in circumference. Again, a factor of her pregnancy.

Other than that, the girls were identical, but I digress, for although my memory of their respective breasts is filled with descriptive adjectives and superlatives, Dennis and I did not spend all that much time in admiring them. Instead, we set out to pay homage to each of them in turn, burying our faces in their bosoms' and suckling like babies.

I heard Dennis croon to Beatrice that he was not going to take her virginity; that he would leave that honor to her future husband. Shyly and somewhat taken aback, Beatrice replied, "But I thought..."

"There are many ways to give and receive pleasure, my dear Beatrice. I had thought Lizbeth might have discussed them with you?"

"I... I haven't had any...."

"But you told her what happened on the train didn't you?"

"Yes, and she had questions about it..."

"But didn't offer any advice?"

"Um, well... she told me that she lost her virginity before meeting her husband." "Oh, who was it, a boy from high school?"

"No, it was a friend of my father's. Just after his funeral, he paid us an unexpected visit. I was at a piano recital with my mother, Lizbeth was home alone.

She confided to me that he took her on father's leather couch; that it hurt dreadfully the first time."

"So they met another time?"

"Yes, she agreed to meet him at his office the next day."

"So it wasn't as bad as she made it sound, was it?"

"No, and she explained that to me, saying that afterward she had this wonderful feeling... down there, and she was more than receptive to trying the experience again."

"How long did this go on?"

"That time in the office was the last time. Lizbeth feared being caught. Then she met Steven, her husband. She told me they did it after the second date. He didn't have any protection, but persuaded her to let him in the back door as she couldn't get preggers that way."

"They must have gone at it like rabbits after they married," I said.

"They certainly did! Lizbeth even told me that a woman was capable of enjoying two men at one time. Can you believe it?"

"I can visualize it. Would you be interested in trying it?"

"I... I was thinking about it on the train. You know, when the two of you..."

"But fear of losing your virginity kept you from going ahead with it, didn't it?"

"Yes... and that's all that stopped me. God, I was so...."

"Aroused?"

"Yes, that's the word. Aroused. Mmmm, and then... Lizbeth told me she wanted to meet the two of you, and... um...."




The Storytellers Ch. 16



"I see. Well, she has, hasn't she?" Dennis said, glancing over at Lizbeth and me as I fondled and nuzzled her bared breasts in full view of the others.

Then, and I believe it was at the same moment I tasted the milk from Lizbeth's right breast, Dennis kissed Beatrice passionately, causing her to become faint enough that she made no protest as he adroitly removed the remainder of her outer garments, leaving her attired in only panties, garter belt and stockings.

Before she could be overcome by modesty, Dennis swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bedroom, laying her down on top of the covers. I could see into the room where he stood back for a moment, admiring the beautiful sight of Beatrice spread before him, breasts heaving with her quickened breaths; skin a fiery red with shyness. He tossed his jacket off to the side and wrenched at his tie with impatient fingers, then swiftly kicked off his shoes and dropped his pants and shorts to his feet.

A moment later he joined Beatrice on the bed, taking the hardened, sensitive tip of one succulent breast into his mouth even before he climbed on top of her.

I asked Lizbeth if she wanted to move over to the sofa, thinking she, like me would find it more comfortable for what we were undoubtedly going to be doing in the next minute or so. To my surprise, she demurred, saying, "We can see them from here, at least to some extent. If we move to the sofa we can't."

I hadn't thought that Lizbeth was as much a voyeur as I, and was taken aback.

"Surely you like to watch them, Roy. I've seen you staring at them. Well, she's my sister, and I care what happens to her. I have to watch."

"But you want to watch too, don't you?" I said, perhaps it was a cruel thing to say, but I said it anyway.

Covering her breasts with feigned modesty, Lizbeth answered me, saying: "It's true; I'm excited by the thought of what they're doing, or going to do. I haven't had sex in months and even then it was sporadic, he'd come home after drinking beer all night and jump on me, wham, bam, and not even a thank you ma'am."

"Then let's have sex right now," I said lowering my zipper.

"Not so fast, Roy. We will, I promise. But let's watch them for a while. You can... you know, put your finger in me if you want."

"I want to..." I murmured, and sent my hand between her legs and under the panties my hand had stretched previously into the hot, wet groove of her cunt.

Both our faces were turned toward the bedroom and Lizbeth smiled hotly as I fingered her relentlessly while her eyes were riveted to Dennis' feverish expression, or perhaps it was his cock, as he prepared to mount her sister.

In the bedroom, Beatrice was in the hottest of heat, rubbing herself against Dennis' rampant cock. Her moans were low, throaty; almost maddening when compared to the self control Dennis exhibited. 

He had promised not to take her virginity, or get her pregnant. He would honor that, but I knew he would violate the girl in one way or another and probably in more ways than one. I was no one to talk. I wanted her myself, and was already hoping to possess both sisters before the night ended. In my heart, I knew that Dennis would in all likelihood do just that and perhaps more.

Dennis' fingers were soaked with Beatrice's bodily fluid, and I gasped as he rubbed three fingers over her rosebud then sent them one after the other into the mouth of her puckered crease.

Next to me, Lizbeth moaned quietly at the sight. I sent my errant fingers to her spidery hole and teased her while we watched Beatrice's rectum draw his fingers in, one by one while he sucked on her throat like Bela Lugosi. 

It was evident to me that Dennis intended to take Beatrice to a higher level of satisfaction; and when she cried out when his mouth moved to the hollow of her throat, his middle finger pushed strongly into her fundament; pushing halfway in without pause. Beatrice jerked at the unexpected entry into her rectum, moaning fiercely but continuing to move on his cock. 

*****

By this point, my fingers were sopping with her juices and I meandered upward seeking the almost invisible nub of her clit.

I only found it when she moaned and I connected the moan with a little bump at, or near the top of her opening. Gorged with lust and success, I began to gently pluck and pinch. 

Lizbeth was quickly roused her to a fever pitch. I sent my fingers downward, one fingertip pushing gently at the opening to her sex, and felt a gush of liquid at the touch. Then back up again, a hard pinch to her clit, and then back down. This time using both fingertips to part the inner labia, holding her slightly open. Lizbeth's back arched and her eyes fluttered rapidly, almost melting at the sensation of openness and vulnerability this caused. 

"Ohhh, Roy, I can't stand it," she whispered frantically. I grinned in the dim lighting but said nothing. I continued bringing her close to peaking before backing up and allowing her to cool off before renewing my fingering. Lizbeth, unable to control her whimpers, didn't seem to care if her sister and Dennis heard her.

Perhaps it was because Lizbeth was so plaint in my arms, I felt safe in taking the occasional glimpse of the couple in the bedroom. I'm glad I did, for I learned many things about women, for Beatrice far from resisting Dennis' fingers in her anus, appeared to welcome them. In no time at all she was thrusting her rump in time to meet his fingers as they delved into her dark hole.

Suddenly, Beatrice screamed and exploded into orgasm; her teeth biting into his neck and nearly causing Dennis to explode without having penetrated any of her orifices with his cock.

Both Lizbeth and I were now paying rapt attention to them and ignoring one another as Beatrice finally shuddered into silence, with only the occasional tremor running through her. Dennis kept his finger immersed in her rectum, running the other hand soothingly up and down her back.

After a few moments, Beatrice raised her head to look into his eyes. Lizbeth and I heard her voice, husky with lust moan, "Your fingers are still inside my bottom."

Dennis gave a guttural laugh. "Yes, darling, and that's not all I'd like to put inside your bottom, but this is neither the time nor the place. You liked it, didn't you? Come on, you can tell me. Or was that someone else screaming for me not to stop?" he teased her gently, delighting in her blush.

He slowly eased his finger from her bottom, watching the expressions that crossed her face as the ticklish, pleasurable feeling was replaced by a brief sense of emptiness. It seemed that Beatrice was quite anal-erotic. Of course, she had no idea what else he wanted to put in her bottom. That would not be so painless, but there was much pleasure to be found in that delicious pain.

Beatrice pulled away, putting perhaps six inches between them. "I feel," she announced then paused a moment to wrinkle her nose, "sticky!" 

Dennis smiled sympathetically at her, but most of his attention was focused on his bone-hard erection. "Darling, there's something I'd like you to do for me. That hard thing you were rubbing your cunny against is called a 'cock.' When a man is aroused, his cock gets hard. Right now, I'm so hard that it hurts. I'd like you to help me find satisfaction, just as I helped you."

Beatrice looked up at him for a puzzled moment. "You want me to rub against you and put my finger in your bottom?" she asked him innocently.

Dennis snorted. "No, another time perhaps; there are so many ways to bring your partner pleasure. The pinnacle of pleasure is the orgasm, which you have twice experienced. Would you like to make me orgasm?" 

Beatrice nodded shyly, her curiosity and remnants of arousal wiping away any reservations. Lizbeth and I looked at each other and she whispered, "Whatever she does, I want you to do to me."

Dennis was holding his erection under Beatrice's nose. She seemed fascinated by it. I was impressed myself. The tip was swollen to the size of a small plum, and almost as purple. The thick shaft pulsed as Dennis slid his hand slowly, mesmerizingly up the underside, cupping the large head in his palm.

"I want you to take my cock into your mouth, Beatrice. I want you to suck on it. Lick it with your tongue." 

Beatrice watched hypnotized, her eyes all over the large member, especially the single pearly drop of fluid that welled up from the open slit in the top then hung trembling on the plum-like top. Dreamily, she reached out and caught it on her fingertip, brought it to her mouth and tasted his essence. She was oblivious to the gasp and lurch of Dennis' body as the tip of her fingernail gently scraped his urethral slit.

Lizbeth and I watched Beatrice savor the salty taste of his fluid with her eyes closed in concentration. When she opened them again, she blushed to find us all watching her. Dennis' eyes were hot, and predatory. The planes and angles of his face clenched with an effort to restrain himself.

"Beatrice," he growled. His tone raised chills on my back. "Suck my cock!"

For some reason, I found the demanding way that he spoke highly... erotic. 

I moved my right hand until my middle finger was pressing against Lizbeth's tight anal opening. Then I gently pushed it inside her, and started moving it in to the first knuckle and out of her. She liked what I was doing, and let me know so with a soft moan along with nestling her cheek into my shoulder.

I continued working my finger into her anus, but we both kept our attention on Dennis and Beatrice. Without appearing to give the matter another thought, Beatrice leaned forward and kissed the crown of his hard shaft, and absorbed the drops of pearly fluid escaping from the slit in the top as she did so.

"Alright, now take it in your mouth," Dennis ordered. Obediently, her eyes closing, Beatrice opened her mouth wide and engulfed the thick tip of his cock in her salivating mouth. 

"Watch your teeth, darling," Dennis warned. "A man's cock is very..." the feel of her young inexperienced tongue on his pulsing cock made him hesitate. "Sensitive," he hissed raggedly.

Then I got a wild idea, and began running my fingers to Lizbeth's pussy then to her anus, bringing back some of her juices with each trip. She apparently realized what I was planning, and softly shook her head as she whispered "No" into my shirt. So, this little angel didn't want me coming in her back door; or did she?

Well, we'd see about that. I whispered in her ear for her to lift herself up and move forward just a bit. She again softly told me no, but I was insistent and took it upon myself to lift her up by her beautifully soft ass cheeks and urged her forward just enough to line my cock up with her tiny puckered hole. Then I let her down, shifting one hand to my cock to guide it in while holding her up with the other. We remained at that impasse for the next few minutes. I didn't force myself upon her any further, and Lizbeth didn't try to remove me from my current gain on her anal orifice. What we did was watch her sister suck Dennis' sturdy member. 

Beatrice seemed to have a natural affinity for cocksucking. Within moments, half of his cock was swallowed into her mouth, laved with saliva as she swept her tongue around it. Even the occasional touches of teeth were erotic rather than painful. 

Beatrice listened happily to his groans and hisses of pleasure. Dennis raised both hands to her head, guiding her mouth into a rhythm that would lead to a swift conclusion. But he later confided in me that at some future time he would tutor her so that she would spend more than an hour in fellating him. Of this I had no doubt at all, for later that night I had the singular pleasure of her mouth on my own member, and delighted in her abilities at providing pleasure with her mouth and tongue.

Lizbeth and I heard him gasp a warning to her, "Beatrice, I'm about to come!" His voice was steady, but I could tell he was having difficulty forming his words.

"When I do, a lot of juice is going to shoot out of my cock and into your mouth. I want you to swallow it all darling." 

Beatrice hummed her agreement over his cock, bobbing her head a little bit faster.

"He's going to fill her mouth with his spunk," I whispered into Lizbeth's ear. She nodded her head in agreement at the exact same speed as Beatrice was bobbing up and down on Dennis' prick.

"Let's see if we can do it," I whispered again.

There being no objection on Lizbeth's part, I lifted her up and maneuvered my dick until I thought it at her entrance. I began lowering her, gripping my cock tightly, found her back door and wedged inside about a half inch, at which she balked at first, then moaned and husked, "Go on, put it in there."

What followed was a soft 'pop' which we both heard, for the two of froze until we were quite sure what had happened. And it was right at that instant that Lizbeth surprised me, slipping right into an intense orgasm without any warning whatever.

She buried her face into my shirt, moaned loudly and began driving herself down onto my straining cock while fingering her own pussy. In just a couple minutes she was coming down from her peak, and I was almost completely embedded inside her ass.

Moments later, Dennis grunted, arched his head back and began to discharge his semen into her eager, receptive mouth. Although startled by the force of his ejaculation, Beatrice struggled to swallow everything that came into her mouth. He was deep enough in her throat that she couldn't actually taste anything, but she could feel the fluid flowing through the underside of his cock, pulsing in time with his spurts.

Finally, Dennis groaned and rolled away from her, drained and sweating. Beatrice collapsed beside him. Unexpectedly, Dennis grabbed her and pulled her into a quick, hard kiss, voraciously thrusting his tongue into her mouth. Beatrice responded helplessly, feeling the arousal flare up again. She had the sudden thought that he might be able to taste his own juices in her mouth. It didn't seem to bother Dennis, so she dismissed it as normal behavior.

Later on, while Beatrice was nestled in my arms, she told me that the very idea of swallowing his essence brought about an intense shaft of pleasure in her cunny.

At any rate, watching them kiss after he'd cum in her mouth did it for me. Unable to contain myself any longer, I grasped Lizbeth's skirt, pulled it up, and told her to hold it tight. For the first time I had an unparalled view of Lizbeth's flanks and rear end.

I began lifting and lowering her on my shaft, but Lizbeth soon took over and began raising herself up and down. Then she turned to face me and we were suddenly engaged in a wild French kiss as she tried to once again choke me with her tongue. The sensations I was feeling were nothing short of incredible; like nothing I had ever experienced before. Her ass was so incredibly tight and warm and willing, and I continued to receive the most intense sensations ever. 

A satisfied moan came from Lizbeth's throat as she began to grind herself down upon my shaft. A few wriggles later and I found myself totally immersed in her ass. Lizbeth moaned happily and leaned into me, burrowing her face into my neck.

"It's... it's been so long, Roy. It's been so long. Please... be careful of the baby."

"I will," I said, and meant it.

It was a fairly awkward position for me, and so I got my hands under her rump and lifted her several inches then jack-hammered my dick into her.

"Oh, God, Roy... Oh, God! You have to stop. That feels too, too..." she couldn't complete the sentence.

"Too good?" I inquired. "Too hot, too wet, too... delicious?" With each descriptive word my cock seemed to sink until it finally hit bottom.

"The baby! The Baby!" Lizbeth cried out. "Be careful!"

"Let's try another position, shall we?" I said and Lizbeth nodded her head in agreement. The next few moments, were a scramble to divest our clothing and the only sounds were rustling clothes and heavy breathing.

For a change it was Dennis and Beatrice watching us. And we put on a performance they wouldn't soon forget.

I decided to abandon her ass while the others watched and had Lizbeth place a leg up on the divan then entered her hairy cunt from behind. 

This was an immediate success. 

Lizbeth moaned happily, "Yes, that's it! That's it!"

And to make her enjoyment even better, I sought out her clit, and on finding it, rubbed it repeatedly while her cries of satisfaction raised several decibels.

We were both overly excited from the long buildup that started in the theatre, bloomed in the cab ride, and reached high, passionate levels when I was fingering her on the divan. As a consequence, we both reached our orgasms fairly quickly.

I came first, spewing my load into her; that seemed to trigger Lizbeth's into her second climax. 

We lay on the divan, shuddering and breathing heavily. I was on top of her, but held most of my weight off her with my elbows.

I don't recall when it was that we changed partners. No one demurred. I remember that little fact, and so I found myself on the bed with Beatrice while Dennis had moved Lizbeth to the sofa, where we could no longer watch him perform.

Not that it mattered a damn to me. I can't speak for Beatrice, but since we kissed one another for at least half an hour, with real, not simulated passion flowing from one mouth to the other and back again, I'd think she was alright with the switch.

Beatrice's hands were busy rubbing the sides of my face, through my hair, or across my back and shoulders. My cock had apparently turned into a steel rod, and I was rubbing it gently against her right hip. Then, almost without thinking, my hand gently slid down and took a cone-shaped breast in each hand and began really squeezing, kneading and gently pinching both of them. I felt rather than heard her moans from all this activity, and knew for a certainty that, in just a few minutes, I would have my cock buried deeply inside this incredibly lovely virgin; although I would be taking the same hole previously occupied by my colleague, James Dennis.

I turned her over onto her back and, moving my hand down, rubbed her inner thighs as she began to pull at her very erect, perfect nipples. 

From the other room I clearly heard Lizbeth gasp, "Yes! There, right there!"

I longed to see what he was doing to her to elicit such cries, but realized that I had the real beauty right below me, and I had better do something about it before she decided to see what her sister was doing. So I slid down her silken skinned body until my head was just an inch from her sweet womanhood. I pressed my face forward into her sweet crease and flicked my tongue wildly. Moving slightly I found her clitoris, and concentrated my efforts right there for the next few minutes. 

My sucking, licking and general gentle oral agitation of that sensitive little bud brought her rapidly to the edge of her orgasm, and that's when I decided to try an experiment on her. Back in high school, I had played the tuba in the school band, and had been acclaimed for what I considered a rousing version of Hold that Tiger.

At any rate, when I applied the standard vibrating lips blow, a technique every horn player uses to her clit, the result was to see her actually levitate several inches off the bed while screaming out from what apparently was a non-stop orgasm. That included having her shower me with a stream of what I thought at first to be piss, but Dennis and Lizbeth rushed into the room and stood at the side of the bed. Lizbeth demanded to know what I'd done. When I told her, she wanted to know why I hadn't done it to her. Dennis quickly assured me it wasn't piss at all, but Beatrice had had the most powerful of orgasms.

In answer to Lizbeth's demand, I lied, and said, "Because of the baby," and that soothed her feelings enough to earn me a caress that ended with her cupping my balls and sucking my cock.




The Storytellers Ch. 16



She was good. She was definitely an accomplished cock sucker. Her technique was pretty straight forward, starting at the tip with a swirling tongue and quickly swallowing my entire length and then upped the suction while stroking me repeatedly from tip to base. I have always prided myself on my staying power under difficult situations, but this was something I was not prepared for. 

I didn't last five minutes before filling her mouth, throat and belly with an unbelievable quantity of my seed. I'm talking at least six forceful spurts and a lot of dribble. She moaned, slurped, sucked, and managed to seize every single drop without so much as a moist fleck escaping. She was that good.

But then, she didn't stop. I mean she kept going, sucking my cock hard and fast until there was absolutely no chance of my going soft after that tremendous cum. Then, without any hesitation, she moved up to straddle me with her knees on either side, and she sat down on my rock hard dock, taking the entire length inside her in one downward plunge. She gasped audibly at pleasurable sensation of being filled with my cock and in doing so, pleased me no end.

After that we kissed for four or five minutes, during which time, Dennis carried Beatrice into the living room and fucked her up the ass again. 

When I found out about it later, I couldn't believe he hadn't taken her cherry, but then he had promised her he wouldn't. Apparently, he was a man of his word.

But Lizbeth and I were not finished. She began rising up and down on my pole. Her movements were barely noticeable at first, but in just a few minutes she was stroking five inches on each rise. We ended our kisses when I began to match her rhythm only to have her increase her upward movements.

"The baby, Lizbeth," I huffed.

She gave a lewd laugh and said: "Fuck me, don't worry about the baby!"

It was all I could do to hang on and dislodge myself from her tight, sweet cunt, but I managed it and soon matched her stroke for stroke until she moved off me and hissed, "Do me like you did Beatrice! Do it now, for fuck's sake!"

I had my mouth on her twat in record time, and after a couple of misplaced licks and kisses, I remembered why I was down there and gave her clit an inspired stanza of vibrating lips and brought her to the most fulfilling orgasm of her young life. It took her a full minute to regain her breath and she was still quivering some ten minutes later.

Not wanting to make the same mistake I had with Beatrice, i.e. not holding her as she had her multiple orgasms, I kissed Lizbeth and held her close, whispering sweet nothings to her until she had calmed considerably.

****

The four of us were now in the bedroom. Dennis kissed Beatrice, and then began fondling Lizbeth's milk-filled breasts.

"Are you lactating, Lizbeth?" he asked. Dreamily, she nodded her head affirming the fact, and then verbalized it, saying, "Yes, I am. It's a kind of pre-milk, Mr. Dennis."

"Please, let's not be so formal, Lizbeth. Call me James; certainly not Mr. Dennis."

Dennis then went on to say: ""I must tell you Lizbeth, some women look overwrought when pregnant, showing the weight of the demands pregnancy places on their bodies. Other women, like yourself, bloom like flowers, glowing with a certain undeniable radiance of the life growing within them."

"Why Mr. Den..." Lizbeth caught herself and switched to "James, that's the nicest thing anyone has said to me in ages."

Dennis sat back on his hunches and studied the sisters. Both girls flushed under his scrutiny. I started to interrupt him, but he waved me off, saying: "The two of you are quite similar, almost twinish. Different colored hair, but in all other aspects it would seem... well, it would if we take into account the state of your pregnancy, of course."

"What are you doing?" I had to ask.

"Roy, I'm simply comparing the girls, I don't think they mind."

He hadn't asked them if they did object, but the sister's didn't seem to mind his comparing and contrasting of their respective bodies. In Beatrice's case, I suspect it was the first time anyone had openly discussed her beauty, and she appeared to like the complements she and Lizbeth were receiving.

Lizbeth certainly was enjoying his comments, so I didn't pursue the matter.

"Look at Beatrice's breasts and the natural slope they have to them. I'm reminded of the snowy peaks of the Andes, or the Alps.

"And Lizbeth's... ah, magnificent in their fullness, standing out probably a full cup size large than normal. Areolas enlarged and nipples shades darker than Beatrice's and stubby as they ready themselves for the daily suckling of her soon to be born child."

Lizbeth laughed delightedly at his words, rubbing a hand over the smooth, taut flesh of her swollen belly. 

"Tell me, Lizbeth, are you horny most days now?"

She laughed, and said, "Yes, I am!"

Beatrice was embarrassed at her sister's admission and covered her face with both hands.

"Beatrice," I said calmly, "don't let James get to you.

A split second later I felt a tremendous impact to my chest. I had forgotten to call him Bill, and he had attacked me! 

I staggered backward, trying to take stock of what had happened. I appeared to be as I always was. Somehow he had been rebuffed from entering my body. How? Why? Had Arthur seen it coming and protected me? Did I have a safeguard or two that would ward off attacks in such moments where I unwittingly lowered my guard?

"Roy!" both girls called out simultaneously, "are you all right?"

Bill had a shit-eating grin on his face. "Yes, Roy, are you all right? He asked as the girls had; only he didn't look at all concerned.

."I... I'm fine," I stammered, still taking inventory of myself.

"For a moment there I thought you'd seen a ghost," Dennis said with smirk.

"Yes, well, I'm fine now. I don't know what happened, but I'm fine now."

"Indeed you are. Tell you what, Lizbeth, why don't you be a dear and let him suckle from your breast? I'm sure that will calm his nerves."

Lizbeth made no reply to the request, but lifted her left breast and positioned it close to my mouth. I had no choice but to accept the offering the moment her hard nipple brushed my lips. Lizbeth's hand went behind my neck and drew me closer. The nipple had a sweet taste, as I gave a tentative suck. To my surprise and delight, unlike the last time when I received a snippet of nectar from her breast, this time a gush of milk suddenly filled my mouth.

I cupped the breast to insure I didn't lose it, and still sucking compared it with that of the milk I might buy at the corner grocer's. It was definitely thinner and perhaps sweeter. I lost track of what was going on as I savored the essence of it all, and suddenly my mouth was full of milk and started to dribble from between my lips.

Everyone laughed delightedly at my predicament, including myself.

And after swallowing the brunt of her gift, I discovered that that action caused even more milk to flow from Lizbeth's teat. Greedily I swallowed then sucked and then swallowed again, while the others laughed with Lizbeth laughing the loudest.

A minute or so later, I noticed the breast was diminishing in size. I wiggled a finger at Dennis, hopefully telling him that he should try the other breast.

He picked up on my signal and moved in, and as I had, cupped the other breast and gave suck.

Lizbeth moaned. It was obviously a sound of sexual gratification. When she opened her eyes and saw me staring at her, she giggled and said, "With the two of you nursing on me I had a thrill that went from nipples to pussy. Wow! I never thought...."

She stopped talking because at that moment, Beatrice placed her mouth on the teat I had relinquished and began sucking feverishly on it.

Lizbeth kissed the top of her sister's head, and cooed, "Oh, that's sooo nice, Beatrice, sooo nice."

Lizbeth's thighs began to part and Dennis' hand was quick to slide through her hairy blonde bush and sink two fingers into her furnace.

"Oh, James!" she moaned as he continued to suck and finger her. She might have said more, but Beatrice picked that moment to stick her middle finger in her sister's mouth.

Lizbeth fastened her lips around it and sucked hard. Was she pretending it was a cock, or had she a penchant for fingers?" I wondered.

The next thing I asked myself was: Why was I wasting time?

I began fondling Beatrice's breasts, caused her nipples to grow hard and expand in length and then I took the nearest one and sucked it into my mouth.

She moaned and I bit down on it, causing her to cry out. I didn't know or care if it was from pain or pleasure or both. And when I did it again, she took her breast from me and gave me the other, and I repeated the process only to have her hand go round my neck and hold me even tighter to her breast.

Lizbeth's breasts had become sore and she pushed us away from them, informing us that she was quite finished for the evening.

But Dennis asked Beatrice if she would like another fuck before we left, and received a happy, "Yes, certainly, sir!" So Dennis fucked her up the ass while Lizbeth and I snuggled next to them, watching his cock pull her asshole out what seemed an incredible way before he slammed back into her.

"It really does stretch, doesn't it?" Lizbeth marveled to me.

"Yours did as well," I told her and saw her flush with excitement.

"Would you like another back there?" I inquired.

"Not tonight, no thank you. If we meet tomorrow, though...."

"Yes?" I said expectedly.

"I would certainly entertain the thought of that lovely cock of yours stretching me out like that," she giggled.

Dennis was just finishing off his ass fuck of Beatrice about then, and I was astonished to hear him say, "Beatrice, my love, would you like to have Roy's cock back there now?"

"Oh, yes! It would be my pleasure. Roy? Come on, put it in me!"

And so I mounted her from behind and humped the hell out of her for the next three or four minutes. I emptied my sacs into her anus and I was finished for the night and knew it. 

We had another round of drinks before we bid the lovely sisters adieu, but we did, after arranging to visit with them the following evening. But as nothing unusual occurred that night, I won't burden the reader with what went on then, except to say, that when we left town, Beatrice was still a virgin, and her sister, Lizbeth, had a very well fucked glow on her face. 



The Storytellers Ch. 17



Chapter 17

The RMS Etruria -- NY to Liverpool

The next morning while I was shaving, Dennis strolled into the bathroom, tossed the newspaper on the top of the commode and announced, "No ballgame for us today."

"What happened?' I asked, and nicked my neck with my Gillette razor.

"My source for today's tickets got himself arrested," he pointed to the headline on the front page of the Herald Tribune. "City Controller Caught With Fingers in the Till!"

I sighed and applied some toilet paper to the cut, "Easy come, easy go," I said examining the cut to see if it had stopped bleeding. It hadn't, and Dennis dug into his ditty bag and handed me a tube of styptic powder. I applied some and after a minute or so, the bleeding stopped.

"Well I can use the time to go down to the main library and do some needed research. Look at some old newspapers, and that should develop new questions to put to you about your playing days."

"All right, I have some business to take care of too. Let's agree to meet around four. We can take the girls out to dinner and screw them silly after."

"Sounds like a reasonable plan to me," I said, laughing along with Dennis.

He left the hotel room about twenty minutes later. I followed him out ten minutes after that, taking a cab to the Main Library at 5th Avenue and 42nd Street.

I trotted past the two Lions protecting the prestigious building, secure in the knowledge that it was the nation's largest public library and one of the country's most significant research centers.

On entering the building, I found myself in the Rose main Reading Room, a majestic room some 78 feet wide and 297 feet long, with 52 foot high ceilings. The room was lined with thousands of reference works along the floor level and along the balcony. It was furnished with sturdy wood tables, comfortable chairs, and brass lamps. I soon learned that the material I sought would be brought to me by library personnel from the library's closed stacks.

I would later discover that the retrieved books were sought out by young people on roller skates, whizzing down the numerous corridors of the building unseen by the typical reader like myself.

But after an hour or so of turning pages in the baseball books I had requested, I concluded that newspaper articles would be more beneficial to my particular needs. A helpful librarian directed me to the Microfilm section, which consisted mainly of The New York Times on reels of 35 millimeter microfilm. 

I spooled through the Times baseball pages from 1885 to 1890 without uncovering anything important enough to include in my storyline. Bill had been very through, and although there were several areas he had omitted, I felt they didn't warrant inclusion and was about to hand the spools back to the librarian, when I remembered that Bill had retired in 1884 and maintained he hadn't used the power until 1895, eleven years later. I had strong doubts about this, and that was my reason for being at the Library. I began to think I was looking in the wrong place.

I left the library and bought two hot dogs from a street vendor and washed them down with an orange soda. I walked a block before finding an unoccupied phone booth. I fed enough quarters into the phone to satisfy the long-distance operator and was finally connected to Wesley Hancock, a former colleague at the Tribune in Chi-town.

"Shannon! You old bastard, where the hell are you?"

"No how are you, Roy?" I countered then laughed. "I'm in New York, taking in the Series, Wes."

"No shit! The Series, eh? You must have landed a job with one of the New York Dailies then. I told them you'd land on your feet."

"Not quite, Wes. I'm writing a book."

"Another author from the ranks, that it, Roy?"

"I guess. Say, Wes, you worked the travel section a while back, didn't you?"

"Ten years of bloody travel, Roy. Why, planning a trip to Europe?"

"No such luck. What I'm doing, or trying to do is figure out how people traveled, like, say a honeymoon back in the '80's."

"Not in any car, that's for sure," Wesley cackled.

"C'mon, Wes, help me out, here."

"Let's rule out horse and wagon, for a honeymoon, unless they were strapped for cash," Wes replied. "That leaves two possibilities. Do you happen to know where they honeymooned?'

"I don't."

"Well, how well off were they?"

"He was a baseball player... Major Leaguer."

"So he made more than the average Joe."

"I suppose so."

"My money's on a long train ride, say to one coast or the other. That would certainly be within their means."

"True enough, but I think he might have looked at trains as boring, having traveled them for years as a player."

"Then what's left to us is a steamship, say to Europe if he's from the East Coast."

"He is, Philadelphia. Born and raised. Even played some there. 

"Hmmm, let me do some looking. What number can I reach you at?"

"Let me call you, Wes. When would be a good time?"

"Gimme a couple hours, say flourish?"

Fine. Wes. I call you then." I hung up and went back to the hotel. Dennis was still out, so I ventured down to the bar and listened to the game on the radio.

And what a game it turned out to be! The Yankees chose Bill Bevens, who had only won seven games during the regular season, and the unlikely hero pitched one of the most amazing 9 2/3 innings in World Series history. Although he permitted a fifth inning run (on two walks, a sacrifice and a ground ball), he entered the ninth with a no-hitter and a 2-1 lead. 

The crowd at Ebbets Field was almost drowning the announcer's voice out as Edwards came to the plate to start the Dodger's off in the bottom of the ninth. 

I looked around the hotel bar; it was cloudy with cigarette and cigar smoke. I had a scotch and soda tightly clenched in my hand. I mentally cursed the man who'd gotten himself arrested last night and in doing so had denied me the chance to be at the ballpark watching Bevens make baseball history. 

Furillo drew a walk, and a comingled murmur of hope and despair echoed through the mahogany walled bar. Jorgenson fouled out, bringing Bevens within one out of the first no-hitter in World Series history. Shotton sent reserve outfielder Al Gionfriddo in to run for Furillo and Pete Reiser came in as a pinch-hitter for reliever Hugh Casey. 

"He's gonna do it!" said a man two stools down from me.

"Who's gonna do what? Bevens gonna get the next one out, or is the Bums gonna rock him with a barrage of hits?" said the man to his right, a working man in overalls who on any other day would have been out of place in the hotel bar. But there was a construction site directly across the street and the worker's had congregated in the bar to listen to the final innings of the dramatic game.

The man two stools down waved off the worker and everyone strained to hear what happened next. Gionfriddo promptly stole second, and Reiser was walked intentionally, despite the fact he represented the potential winning run. Eddie Stanky was due up and Red Barber, the Dodger's great announcer with the flare for southern phases that revolutionized the way games were broadcast, was taking about the fact that Stanky had broken up Ewell Blackwell's attempt at a second consecutive no-hitter back in June. In the background noise during that comment, I heard the P.A. announcer saying that Miksis was running for Reiser.

Then Barber said: "Wait a minute... Stanky is being called back from the plate and Lavagetto goes up to hit... Gionfriddo walks off second... Miksis off first... They're both ready to go on anything... Two men out, last of the ninth... the pitch... swung on, there's a drive hit out toward the right field corner. Henrich is going back. He can't get it! It's off the wall for a base hit! ....Here comes the tying run... and here comes the winning run! ... Friends, they're killin' Lavagetto! His own teammates, they're beatin' him to pieces! ... and it's taking a police escort to get Lavagetto away from the Dodgers! Well, I'll be a suck-egg mule! 

Everyone in the bar was stunned. The Bum's had tied the series and shaken the Yankees to their core. Or so I thought at the time.

I hung around listening to the various comments and offering several of my own for another hour, and then I headed back to my room and found Dennis waiting for me.

"Great game wasn't it?" he said for openers.

"It was. Were you there?"

"If I'd gone you would have joined me, Roy. I'm not that kind of guy. How'd it go at the library?"

"Um, I spent a couple hours working the microfiche machines. I found a couple things you didn't bother to mention. But when I thought about it, I decided they weren't really vital. 

You seem to have covered the most important issues. Besides, why weigh down the story with minutia from the '80's?"

"Or the 90's, for that matter. I didn't pick up on Lajoie until 1895."

"That's true. Say, are we meeting the girl's tonight?"

"Yes, I called Lizbeth after I got back to the room. We'll pick them up around eight, if that's okey-doke with you."

"Oh, sure it is. I can't wait to poke Beatrice again."

Dennis laughed. "She certainly has a tight asshole."

"As does Lizbeth," I added, laughing along with him.

"Say Bill," I said, remembering to use his given name and thereby avoid another jolt or worse as he tried to enter my body. "When you married Florence, where did you go on your honeymoon?"

"We didn't, at least not then. I had to help run the family hotel and when Flo's Pop passed on; I spent a lot of time on his farm, helping the family out."

"But you did take her someplace, eventually, didn't you?"

"Oh, sure, we went to England and France. I think it was in '89 and 90, but I'm not sure."

"Do you happen to recall the ship you sailed on?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. It was the RMS Etruria, of the Cunard Line. She was a fairly new ship back then, built in, I believe, 1885. The Etruria had many distinguishing features, including two enormous funnels which gave the outward impression of huge power. She also had three large steel masts which, when fully rigged, had an extensive spread of canvas. Another innovation on Etruria was that she was equipped with refrigeration machinery, but it was the single screw propulsion that brought her publicity later in her career.

"The public rooms in First Class were full of ornately carved furniture, and heavy velvet curtains hung in all the rooms. There was also a Music Room, Smoke Room for gentlemen, and separate dining rooms for First and Second Class passengers. Both Florence and me thought they did a bang-up job."

There it was. I had a ship's name; Hancock could easily verify what Bill was telling me. Had anything of import happened on the voyage? Maybe Hancock could answer that too, I thought, and felt like I was getting to the heart of matters for the first time. 

I excused myself and went to a row of public phones in the lobby and called Hancock. He answered on the second ring. It turned out he had nothing on a Bill or William Harbidge sailing anywhere in the 80's, but that meant little at the moment, since he had other venues to check when I provided him with the ship's name.

"Let me check the National Archives with that name and that vessel. I should come up with the arrival and departure dates. Call me tomorrow, Roy."

I told him I would and hung up. It was nearly time to pick up Lizbeth and Beatrice.

*****

What follows I learned several days later after talking with Beatrice and Lizbeth, both together and separately. It was a notable lesson in how women react to men and what they're actually capable of on their own.

Beatrice: "I awoke at dawn as usual. I recall stretching lethargically, and wondering why I felt so achy all over. Then the memories came flooding back, and with them mortification. How could I have surrendered myself to such lustful acts? and not only with two men but also with my sister as an active participant?

Lizbeth: "Nonsense, Sis. You're not mortified at all. For God's sake, you did it with them on the train and then the next day you and I did almost everything imaginable with them."

Beatrice: "But I ache all over! My thighs, arms, back and... and behind are sore."

Lizbeth: I bet it's a good sore though. I know I'm sore too, but in a delicious, pleasurable way. I needed a good fuck. You'll come to know what I mean. A woman needs a good fucking every once in a while. Oh, I could have lain in bed all day reliving last night's moments." 

She laughed happily. "I didn't get much sleep, although I feel rested. I lay there thinking about the two of them; comparing them."

Beatrice: "You compared them?"

Lizbeth: Of course I compared them! And they were both wonderful although both were different in many ways."

Beatrice: "Yes, I would say the same thing about them; wonderful, but different."

Lizbeth: "So tell me, Beatrice, did you want them to take your virginity?"

Beatrice: "Honestly? Yes. There was a time with each of them that I wanted to scream, 'Take it! Do me the honor of taking it!' but I managed to control myself, at least to that extent."

Beatrice suddenly found herself enfolded in a warm hug. And a moment later, Lizbeth was setting a brimming plate of bacon and eggs in front of the stunned, openmouthed younger sister.

Forking a huge portion of scrambled egg into her mouth, Lizbeth said, "And there is absolutely nothing to be ashamed about. We all have needs and desires, and it is stupid to have to wait until marriage to fulfill our desires. We aren't hurting anyone. Oftentimes the only carnal pleasure we will ever know is what we find before us at a given moment. 

"Look at me. My man is off in Germany. I don't know if I'll ever see him again. War could erupt tomorrow, or he might meet a German slut of a whore. God knows there seem to be millions of them, all too willing to spread their legs for nothing more than a candy bar.

"And you, Beatrice, you might marry the man of your dreams and find that he's inept in the bedroom. Don't look at me that way. It happens. I know it does. Not to me, but I have several girlfriends who go dancing every Friday night looking for a man who can get it up like James and Roy did last night."

Beatrice unglued her tongue long enough to gasp out, "Lizbeth, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying let's enjoy their cocks while they're waving them under our noses."

Beatrice: "Are you suggesting that I let one of them take my virginity?"

Lizbeth: "Why not? They know what they're doing and won't muck it up like some guys do."

Beatrice: "But what about the man I marry?"

Lizbeth: "What about him? Odds are he won't know if you're a virgin anyway. Women have fooled their husbands for thousands of years in that regard."

Beatrice: "They have?"

Lizbeth: "Of course they have. You think I was a virgin on my wedding night?'

Beatrice: "No, you gave it up in the backseat of a Studebaker. You told me so."

Lizbeth: "That's right, I did. Well, it was long gone before the wedding." 

Beatrice got up from the table and walked slowly toward the bathroom. "Beatrice, you seem to be walking with a bit of a limp." 

Beatrice glared over her shoulder at her sister. Lizbeth cried out sympathetically, "Oh, you poor darling! Let me see it. They may have torn something. Are you bleeding back there? I have a salve that will help."

"Do you? Oh that would be wonderful! Especially if they come calling this evening."

Lizbeth giggled, "I think they might. You do want more of their love sticks don't you?'

"Love sticks... that's a new one."

"Oh, there are so many names for their... cocks and balls, Beatrice, so many...."

Beatrice began to unbutton her dress. Lizbeth quickly turned to Beatrice, "I'll be right back, darling."

By the time she returned, Beatrice had removed her clothing and draped herself face down over the back of a couch. Lizbeth knelt behind her, her hands running all over the welted skin of Beatrice s buttocks.

"Oh! Which of those dreadful men did this to you?"

"What? What it is it you see back there?"

"Why, I believe he may have drawn blood right here," Lizbeth said as her hand went in between Beatrice's legs, sliding into the wet and welcoming warmth of her pussy. Beatrice gasped in pleasure. "Yes, I feel some moisture, spread your legs further and let me see what this is." 

Beatrice said nothing about Lizbeth's probing about the wrong hole and continued to play the game, spreading her legs further apart, feeling deliciously exposed in the bright sunshine that streamed in through the windows. Her eyes closed as Lizbeth's finger explored deeply into the wet lips between her legs.

Is this soothing, Beatrice?"

"Mmmm, it is... very soothing."

"Your bottom is bright red and the butt hole is still open. It's usually closed up tighter than a clam by this time."

"Well, Lizbeth, I did pass some stool this morning," she said, trying to be helpful.

"Well that may explain it, but let me try something here," Lizbeth said, and then leaned in and began to sensuously lick the red marks on Beatrice's ass, leaving a trail of wetness behind which gleamed in the sunlight. Her hand continued to stimulate Beatrice's pussy which was now very wet from her juices.

By now, Beatrice was panting and unable to speak. Moments later, she came, crying out her pleasure with a series of grunts and groans.

"Feel better now?" Lizbeth inquired with a giggle and gave one last rub to the reddened cheek in front of her.

"Oh yes!" the younger sister replied.

"I see where one of them, probably Mr. Dennis, was a little rough with you back there. If you like, I can lick it some more. Would you like that?"

"Yes... please do lick me there, Lizbeth."

Lizbeth didn't wait for the response, but was already combing through the damp curls of her sister's pubic hair with one hand while the other anchored Beatrice to the couch. She bent forward and Beatrice suddenly felt something soft and wet touch her rosebud. Lizbeth's tongue! Oh sweet Jesus, Lizbeth was licking her where she had just gone to the bathroom. Surely that could not be right. 

Beatrice jerked convulsively, but was easily controlled by her older sister. "Don't move, there's a good girl," Lizbeth cooed.

"But... you can't... it's dirty there." Beatrice moaned somewhat incoherently. Despite her shock, she couldn't stop the waves of pleasure as Lizbeth's tongue intruded delicately into her sore rear passage. Indeed, all pain was miraculously gone!

Lizbeth knew enough to ignore her sister's protests and continued to tongue and lick her delightful asshole. She sucked gently, knowing from her own experience that it would cause a lovely turmoil in her intestines. 

Beatrice cried out immediately, all thought of protest forgotten. Lizbeth used her hands to hold her buttocks open so as to help her tongue reach its maximum depth in Beatrice's rectum. Moments later she sent a hand, or rather its fingers into Beatrice's pussy and helped usher a shower of juices over them as Beatrice came a second time.

Lizbeth withdrew both tongue and fingers from her sister's orifices and helped her into the shower to clean up and whispered, "You can return the favor later. I'll show you how."

When Beatrice stepped out of the shower in a terrycloth robe, Lizbeth deduced that she was not ready for anything more of a sexual nature that morning, and the abrupt return to a "normal" topic was calculated to reduce what had happened into a bizarre, perhaps even imaginary event in Beatrice's mind. Thus, Lizbeth could keep her from thinking too much about what had just happened. She was right. After a dazed look at her sister, Beatrice took up a palette and brush without further comment.

The morning was spent in desultory conversation and idle painting of still life. By lunchtime, Beatrice had almost convinced herself that none of it had happened, so removed did it seem from the current behavior of her and her sister. They ate lunch together and then took a walk about the grounds. Beatrice was feeling decidedly tired and retired for a nap until two hours before the men were expected to pick them up for dinner.




The Storytellers Ch. 17



*****

I had an opportunity to call Wes back in Chicago and told him about RMS Etruria, of the Cunard Line. 

"I should be able to get a list of the passengers, for you," he said, and promised to get back to me the following day. I had to remind him that I was unreachable for the most part and would call him around four, the next day.

*****

We picked the girls up at six, took them for a carriage ride through Central Park; and when Dennis heard Beatrice's tummy growl, grabbed a cab over to Sardi's on West 44th Street. 

The restaurant was well known as a pre and post theater hang-out, as well as a location for opening night parties. Vincent Sardi, a renowned theater lover, often kept the restaurant open much later than others in the area to accommodate the schedules of Broadway performers.

Lizbeth kept telling Beatrice that Walter Winchell and Ward Morehouse added to Sardi's growing popularity. Winchell and Morehouse were members of a group of newspaper men, press agents and drama critics who met for lunch regularly at Sardi's and referred to themselves as the Cheese Club. 

Their frequent mentions of Sardi's in the New York dailies helped popularize the restaurant with the public who flocked there in hopes of sitting next to a celebrity or two. Dennis, of course, kept the girls fascinated with his stories about the place, especially with the one about Sardi and Gard drawing up a contract that stated that Gard would make the caricatures in exchange for one meal per day at the restaurant. Although the sister's enjoyed their meal and the electric atmosphere of the restaurant, their actions told both Dennis and me that they wanted to get back to Lizbeth's apartment and fuck. We postponed the drinking portion of the evening when Lizbeth assured us she had ample beverage back at her place for the third time since sitting down in the restaurant.

*****

Lizbeth came back carrying a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses. After handed one each to Beatrice and Dennis, she smiled and sat beside me. She handed me a glass and started to pour. "Say when."

"When what," I joked. 

"When I've poured enough into the glass," she giggled and continued to pour.

"Can't you tell that by the size of the glass," I smiled. 

"Not everybody's so greedy that they want a full glass," she stopped pouring, but she'd filled my glass.

"Thank you," I squeezed her shoulder lightly. "But I do have to admit that I tend towards being a little greedy."

She was pouring wine into her own glass. "What I need," I said looking at her, "is someone who'll teach me good manners."

"So," she put the bottle on the coffee table in front of us, "here's to you finding someone who'll polish your manners for you." 

We clicked glasses.

"Cheers," I sipped my drink.

"Cheers," she replied, then sat back on the sofa. I sipped my drink, but couldn't think of anything to say.

Dennis had his arm around Beatrice's shoulder. She had her hand on his thigh.

"So," Lizbeth put her glass down on the coffee table, her shoulder brushing against mine as she sat back. "How close do I have to sit to you before you'll put your arm around me?"

I smiled, "Well I suppose you're close enough now." I slipped my arm around her shoulders and rubbed my nose against her ear.

She half turned to face me and put her hand to my cheek. "Hmm," she ran her fingers along my jaw. "You've a nice strong jaw line."

"You smell delicious," I brushed my lips against hers and rubbed noses.

We kissed. At first just using our lips to take short nips at each other. Then I used the tip of my tongue and her lips parted and sucked it inside. A moment passed then her hand was at the back of my head pulling me closer, her other hand had some how squeezed between me and the back of the sofa to reach around and hug me. My hand tightened taking hold of her hair.

But my other hand held my glass, still half full of wine. I tried to ease my way towards the coffee table to put it down without spilling it. Lizbeth sat back a little.

"I sorry," I gestured at the glass. "I didn't want to get this all over you."

"That's okay, Roy," she smiled. "If you don't want to ruin my top I'll take it off." And in a fluid movement Lizbeth pulled it up over her head to reveal that she had nothing on underneath.

I hadn't noticed that she wasn't wearing a bra, but I could feel a tension in my loins at the thought. My eyes locked on her breasts and their milk filled magnificence and had to keep my tongue from hanging out.

A quick glance over at Dennis and Beatrice was all I needed to confirm that we were picking up about where we'd left off the night before. Beatrice had his cock out and was jerking him off while he kissed her throat and fondled her breasts.

I lifted a heavy breast to my mouth and gave suck. Lizbeth moaned with satisfaction. "Yes, That's it sweetie, suck on 'em," she whispered in my ear while her hand was digging my cock from its hiding place in my trousers.

I was stunned to hear Beatrice call out from across the room, "Save some of that milk for us, you two!"

Dennis laughed and freed her breasts from her brassiere then gave them several light slaps.

Returning my attention to Lizbeth, I renewed my kissing and licking of both her breasts. My free hand roamed down to her swollen belly and caressed it, hoping to feel a kick from its womb encased prisoner. 

Showing the dexterity that men can only hope for, Lizbeth reached behind her and unzipped her skirt, and then let it fall around her knees.

My thumb grazed her panties and she shivered. I kissed her mouth then sucked on her tongue when she ventured into my mouth. I felt a sudden wetness on my wrist, looked at it and saw that her right breast was squirting milk. Not a great quantity, just a little spray, but it was consistent. I lowered my head, took that nipple into my mouth and sucked.

"Is she lactating, old boy?" Dennis called from where he sat with Beatrice swallowing his cock.

"Um, yes, she certainly is."

"Taste good, does it?"

"You know it does," I replied.

"Want to change places?"

"Not now, J... Bill."

"Almost got you there, Roy," he snickered evilly.

"What are you guys talking about?" Lizbeth dully inquired. Apparently, relieving her of her milk made her both horny and somewhat docile. Thinking back, I may have phased that poorly for, as I recall, her hips were making tiny, involuntarily jerks as my thumbnail lightly traced the furrow of her sex, bumping gently over her clitoris. 

"HUH -- HUH -- HUH!" she gasped, holding my neck so that I remained in place on her turgid nipple.

The next thing I knew, both Beatrice and Dennis were on the floor in front of us. Beatrice reached up and took my penis in hand and began jerking me off.

Dennis slowly sidled up to Lizbeth's left. I happened to be on her right. Gingerly he lifted her free breast to his mouth and started to nurse away. Lizbeth's milky output suddenly quickened and I was forced to swallow at the same moment Beatrice took my cock into her mouth and sucked voraciously.

I watched Beatrice's cheeks go hollow then fill in rapid succession and marveled at her ability to fellate me so readily since she had so little experience... or had she done this before?. 

The three of us sucked contentedly, with Lizbeth's happy groans and Beatrice's squishy sucking sounds the only noise in the room until Lizbeth told us we'd had enough for the moment. "That's all for now, boys, I'm almost dry. Let's try another game, okay?"

The sweet, musky odor of her arousal hung in the air. Both Dennis and I breathed it in; and I recall closing my eyes as I savored the heady aroma of her rapidly moistening cunt.

Dennis left us and returned to Beatrice's side. A moment later my cock fell from her mouth as she returned to fellating Dennis.

Non-plussed about it, I placed Lizbeth's hand on my throbbing, saliva covered member confident that she would do something pleasant with it.

A moment later I felt the warmth of her tongue bathing my balls. After a minute of reveling in her soothing, yet highly arousing treatment, I returned the favor, slipping some fingers under the elastic of her panties and rubbing her wet folds. And when I applied a delicate pressure to her emerging nubbin, her hips began to tremble and she let out a moan.

Seeing that things were going smoothly for us, I checked on Dennis and Beatrice. His lips had a bright shine to them, wet from showering her with kisses. 

"I... I adore your kisses, James," Beatrice said in a low whisper. A moment later, his hot lips and nibbling teeth began to explore her neck and then moved to her shell-like ear, thrusting his tongue inside. At the same time, he slid one leg between hers and pressed firmly against her mound, thrusting rhythmically against her. Beatrice cried out, but the sound was quickly muffled by Dennis's mouth. He used his leg to spread hers apart; put both hands under her bottom and pulled her onto his hard, throbbing cock, settling it as deeply into her mound as he could in that she still had her panties on. 

I almost came watching them.

The firm thrusting motions ignited Beatrice; her head fell back; her eyes gazed blindly at the ceiling, and she must have been close to creaming in her pants.

"Oh God," she panted. "Dennis, please stop. We mustn't," she pleaded. She was not very convincing; her hips were thrusting with an urgency that was not going to be denied. I suspected her virginity was soon to be a thing of the past.

I saw Dennis smile down into her unseeing eyes, and then part her buttocks with his hands and settle more deeply against her wet, hot cunt. 

"Darling," he whispered, "this is only a taste of the pleasure I can give you. Let's continue this in your bedroom. I promise that you will be moaning, no, screaming with pleasure for the rest of the night." 

His hot breath tickled her ear, followed by some brief nibbling on her earlobe, and then he nipped her breast sharply, soothing the stinging pain with gentle laps of his wet tongue.

Beatrice was unprepared for the shafts of delight that went directly from her breast to her already moist cunt. The thought that he would suckle her like a babe was too delicious to bear. Beatrice arched her back, offering herself more fully to whatever he would do with her. 

Lizbeth brought my attention back to her as she started yanking on my arm, pulling me to my feet. 

"Let's join them. It's a big bed!"

"Fine, but I think he's about to take her cherry, Lizbeth."

"So what, she's going to lose it before she ever meets her future husband; why not with you two?"

That was fine with me. I figured the two of them had talked it over and agreed that Beatrice would let one of us have it. I had a minor pang of regret that it would be Dennis and not me, but I had a very pregnant woman to handle; a very sexy, pregnant woman. I had no pangs about that.

Wanting to atone for my recklessness in paying more attention to my voyeuristic tendencies than the woman who wanted me to fuck her, I swept Lizbeth up in my arms and covered her face, neck and earlobe while she laughed and tried to evade my torrid kisses, playfully swatting my hands away from her breasts and trying to get me into the bedroom.

"No, not here... in there!" she giggled. "You can jump her bones and I'll jump James'."

I made to kiss her again, but our momentum carried us into the wall with a thump hard enough to knock a print of Whistler's Mother from its hook and send it bouncing along the floor. The frame cracked, but the glass remained intact.

Lizbeth was laughing and her face now giddy with unbridled lust, turned to mine for an expected kiss. 

But I had other ideas. I dropped to my knees and spread her thighs. I knew what I wanted and would not be denied, at least not in the state of arousal Lizbeth was in at the moment. Lizbeth had a tangle of dark hair enfolding her cunt, thick enough to grip with my fingers, which I did, pulling her hips forward as I searched out her labia and spread them with my tongue. 

"Oh, Roy, you nasty boy!" she croaked excitedly.

Her odor of her tang was thick, almost overpowering. But I am unflappable by this point and sent my tongue into her inferno-like cunt. Her heat enflamed my tongue as I licked and kissed and sucked, even nipped at the loose folds of her entrance as I attacked her with a crazed passion. 

Off in the background, I may have heard Beatrice exhorting Dennis to: "Put it in! I want you to put it in there!"

Earlier, Dennis had told me that he found it impossible not to take advantage of a young girl, especially if it meant he was to her first. He added that Beatrice was one of the most passionate women he had ever met, and he would be her first and therefore her most memorable lover.

I attacked Lizbeth's clit, backed off, and attacked again. Her moans drowned those of her sister, and for the moment I lost track of what Beatrice and Dennis were doing.

Lizbeth's hips began bucking uncontrollably. She called my name repeatedly: "ROY, ROY, ROY!" 

I jabbed my finger into her asshole and she came with an unbelievable intensity. 

With almost no regard for her pregnant state, I tossed her onto the bed where her sister lay with Dennis. Lizbeth knelt in her favorite position, open mouth pressed into the rumpled sheets, ass thrust up in the air, hands clenching the covers. 

She had just come, and was going for another. She reached back with one hand and began to play with her dripping slit − sliding two fingers through her sopping groove, as I began a series of short, rapid thrusts.

At first, she was a tight, warm pressure around my erection, squeezing on every inward thrust. But as I slammed into Lizbeth's gaping cunt, hands locked on her waist so that I was able to slide in and out at high speed, her cunt walls gradually encased me in a vise-like grip that wrought a sensation almost to pleasurable in its intensity. She moaned encouragingly, thrusting back in time with my movements.

Although I pride myself on my ability to defer ejaculation in order to prolong the pleasure, no mental discipline in the world could have kept me from those last compulsive thrusts to orgasm. Lizbeth came with me, fingers slipping and sliding around her sensitive clit.

Spent, I collapsed on top of her, felt her shudder as my softening member slid from her. We lay compressed together, her breasts flattened against my chest like soft pillows. Her breath was hot and sticky on my skin. She was panting like a steam engine, and so was I. 

I thought my sexual fire was out for the moment. Lizbeth's inner fire was certainly banked for now, and my thoughts turned to Beatrice.

I pushed Lizbeth off me, climbed to my feet, steadying myself at the foot of the bed and gave my full attention to Beatrice and Dennis. 

He was fingering her with one hand and pinching her nipples, one at a time, with the other.

"Look, look at you clittie, love. You can see it's almost as swollen as your nipples."

"Ooooh!" she moaned as she peeked through the hand covering her eyes.

"Watch me tease it and make you cum again."

"Please, James... I can't...."

"Oh but you can, Beatrice. Your sister, pregnant as she is just came from a splendid fuck provided by your good friend, Roy. Would you like to suck his cock while I fuck you?"

"Why are you talking like that? I just don't want..."

"Now that's a lie! You definitely want it. You want me to fuck you up the ass. Well, I did that last night; as did Roy, if I remember correctly. Tonight, I want your cunt! I want your virginity, Beatrice. Are you willing for me to take it?"

He resumed his manipulation of her pussy with his fingers and she gasped, "Oh, no!" 

"Cum for me, baby!" he exhorted as beads of sweat flew off his forehead. I looked on fascinated as Beatrice's hips arched up off the bed and she gave a small scream. A small spray of her wetness covered Dennis' hand and her inner thighs. Beatrice's hips hung in the air for a long moments and I was able to see the mouth of her virgin cunny pulsing and sucking hungrily at the air. 

Finally she collapsed back onto the bed, covered in a fine layer of sweat, panting and obviously ready to surrender her maidenhead. . "Are you really going to do it?" I asked.

Off to the left, Lizbeth, on hands and knees had moved close to watch as well.

"She wants me too, Roy. I'll always oblige a lady."

"Beatrice," I said, "do you want this?"

Beatrice's eyes looked as if they were weighted by lead, but she slowly managed to look at me. She turned her head slightly to the left where Dennis stood, proudly holding his pulsing erection.

Apparently she didn't realize how intently she was gawking until Dennis cleared his throat and asked, "Shall I relieve you of your virginity?"

She thought about it for a short time, and then replied, "We've done everything else, haven't we?"

"For all intents and purposes, yes, we have."

Lizbeth chimed in. "It's a big decision, Beatrice."

"I know, Lizbeth. I think it's time. Take me James!"

Dennis reached out and spread Beatrice's legs apart. Her cunt glistened with her juices from his fingering.

"It will hurt for just a second," Dennis told her as he aligned his member with her sex.

Beatrice watched with wide, wondering eyes.

"Not really, Beatrice," Lizbeth said, "In your present state I doubt you'll feel anything unpleasant." Dennis turned to me and gasped, ""Oh, Jesus, look at that hole. It's not such a tight little cunt anymore, is it?"

To provide a demonstration of what he meant, he thrust two fingers into her twat with no warning at all. Beatrice huffed out a breath, stunned at the sudden invasion, but having had them in her earlier she accepted them, welcomed them actually, if my perception was correct.

"See how she's sucking on my fingers, Lizbeth?"

It took a moment for his comment to register with Lizbeth then she shuddered and said, "She's more than ready for you."

I sent two fingers into Lizbeth's sodden cunt, stirring them around as I thought Dennis was doing with her sister.

Lizbeth ground her pelvis against my hand, seemingly wanting more thrust inside her. 

Dennis yanked his fingers from the young virgin and centered his throbbing, shimmering cock on her gaping, yet virginal entrance.

"Ready or not, here I come!" he yelled and drove his lengthy penis into her, apparently meeting little or no resistance.

Lizbeth came from my fingering and hissed, "Put yours in me... now!"

Dennis rested momentarily, probably taking stock of the situation. Finding nothing to hinder him, he began a slow series of the old in and out. Beatrice, eyes tightly shut, clasped her legs around his hips in the age old manner used by women the world over to pull the man deeper inside them.

I missed some of what followed, for Lizbeth was on her hands and knees, head touching the floor for balance as she spread her cunt open with both hands.

"Fuck me," she grunted, panting with lust. "Ram it right up me! Oh God! Oh fuck, yeah!" I grunted back at her, "I love your cunt. It's so fucking tight... so fucking tight!" Then I was holding onto her waist, driving my dick as deep as it would go.

"Fuck me harder!" she yelled and I saw that she was actually drooling in her lust-filled state.

"Having fun?" Dennis called out from the bed. Glancing up, I saw that he was fucking Beatrice at a steady pace while leaning over the side of the bed to observe Lizbeth and me.

"Probably as much as you are, you son-of-a-bitch," I replied with a leering grin, and then wiped some of the sweat from my face.

"C'mon, big boy, slam it to me!" Lizbeth screamed so loudly that I stopped fucking her for a moment then started up at twice the previous speed, sending her huge tits swinging back and forth.

"That's better... Oh shit! Oh Shit!"




The Storytellers Ch. 17



"Something wrong?" I asked with concern.

"I'm coming! It... it's gonna be... huge!"

Her orgasm slammed into her. It lasted for quite a while, and as I hadn't finished, I waited for her to finish before resuming my session with her. I returned my attention to the couple fornicating above me on the bed.

Dennis had established a steady rhythm and Beatrice was already experiencing her first vaginal orgasm, tossing her head and leaving a trail of bloody scratches along his back.

He waited briefly for her to come down from her peak, and then no longer concerned with her pleasure, began thrusting faster and harder, pounding her hard as he sought his own long-delayed orgasm.

"OH YES, YES, OH YES! HERE IT COMES!" he roared.

"TAKE IT, TAKE IT! TAKE IT ALL!

His words appeared to inspire Beatrice, who although exhausted from her orgasms and aching from the unaccustomed throbbing hot rod pounding into her, thrilled to the thought of his seed filling her.

"PULL OUT! PULL IT OUT OF HER, YOU BASTARD!"

Stunned I realized Lizbeth was screaming at Dennis to withdraw before impregnating her sister.

To Dennis' credit he did pull out. And a second later sent a long rope of cum across her heaving breasts. This was followed moments later by a second line that covered her jugular. Then he rose up, and holding his shaft in his right hand, directed the following two jets of semen into Beatrice's face.

That precipitated the wildest orgy - yes, it has to be classified as an orgy -- I have ever witnessed.

Lizbeth, as pregnant as she was, sprang onto the bed and began licking the semen from her sister's face. Beatrice, curious enough herself, spooned some from her left breast onto a finger and sampled Dennis' life-making seed after seeing her sister's evident hunger for it.

I climbed onto the bed and stuck a finger up Lizbeth's ass.

"YES!" she howled, "BUGGER ME!"

I never hesitated. Using my thumbs I parted her cheeks and sent my cock about two inches into her shithole.

The heat emanating from her tight rectal sheath as it rippled round my cock was unbelievable.

I did glimpse Dennis devouring Beatrice's cunt as she lay supine, recovering from her deflowering.

Even though her ass was milking my cock as if there was no tomorrow, I seemed to have one of those hardons that last forever. I kept driving it into her, going deeper and deeper until it could go no further.

Lizbeth's face was buried in a pillow. She was supporting herself with one hand while the other rubbed her clit about as furiously as one possibly could.

I was deep within a sexual haze when I heard Dennis at my ear, asking me to pull out of Lizbeth.

"What? Why?" I gasped.

"Beatrice wants to suck your cock right after it comes out of her sister's ass."

"You're kidding!"

"I'm not, look. See for yourself."

Beatrice was indeed next to me, apparently avidly interested in watching my cock plunging in and out of her sister.

"You want a taste?" I managed. I also managed to continue pumping into Lizbeth, who was coming from both my ass fucking and her twat rubbing.

Beatrice licked her lips and nodded her head. I needed no further explanation. I smiled weakly and extracted my fecal flecked cock from Lizbeth's ass. It emerged with a soft pop, slick with the juices of her ass. I tendered it to Beatrice's mouth. She pounced upon it, slobbering on that soiled shaft and sucking deeply on the head. I watched her, enjoying the sucking, but slightly revolted by her actions.

"Finished!" Beatrice said with a grin, and smacking her lips. 

I could have sworn I saw a tiny piece of shit on her front tooth.

"Can I get on with fucking your sister?"

"Oh sure!" she chirped, as Dennis, having recovered sufficiently from observing Lizbeth and me, positioned her for an ass fuck of her own.

I examined my penis, found it still hard and renewed my sodomizing of Lizbeth. We fucked for a time and then I found myself spewing into her anal channel.

I dressed while both girls attempted to suck Dennis up again, but having sodomized Beatrice only minutes before, he couldn't get it up again, and with regret, left them on the soiled bed and followed my lead in dressing and bidding the sisters goodnight.

I never saw or heard from either sister again. Although I think Dennis in one guise or another did pay them periodic visits over time. 



The Storytellers Ch. 18



Chapter 18

Bill Opens Up

We returned to Pennsylvania the next day. No mention was made of Beatrice or Lizbeth, except for Dennis' comment that I would have enjoyed her pussy. I shrugged him off and changed the subject to baseball.

The Series was down to the seventh and final game. We found a tavern and settled in as the third inning started. The Dodgers had gone ahead 2 -- 0 in the second, knocking out the Yankees ace, Spec Shea in the process. From there on out it was all Yankees. They chipped away for five runs in four different innings, and Joe Page thwarted the Dodgers with five innings of one-hit relief work; the Yanks clinched the Series with a 5-2 victory.

*****

That night after several strong scotches, Bill/Dennis stunned me by saying, "I see your investigation is moving in the right direction now."

"I don't follow you, Bill," I said curiously.

"Oh, come off it, Roy. Arthur must have told you about me. You're not all that interested in writing a novel about an old time ballplayer."

Sensing something unusual was up with him, I merely nodded and waited him out.

When he remained mute, I decided to push the envelope, and taking a deep breath, exhaled and said, "Have you ever heard of the man known as Jack the Ripper?"

"Of course I have. Who hasn't?"

"What do you really know about him?"

"Why don't you tell me, Roy?"

I looked into his eyes. He seemed sincere and intent on what I was about to tell him, so I did. "Jack the Ripper stalked the streets of London from August through November of 1888. In the section known as Whitechapel, one of the poorest and most decadent parts of the city... not unlike Kingsbury Run in Cleveland. You do know Kingsbury run, don't you, Bill?"

"Course I do!" He replied. I played and managed the Cleveland club for years. You know that!"

"Yes, I do, Bill. Anyway, the Ripper was responsible for the death and mutilation of several female prostitutes. The victims had their throats slashed and their bodies mutilated in ways that revealed substantial physiological knowledge, perhaps medical training." 

"A doctor, you say...."

"Perhaps, but I didn't say he was a physician. He could just as easily have been a butcher. He seemed particularly interested in destroying female reproductive systems. Actually, he ripped them to shreds, hence the name."

"Go on," he said, and nothing more. 

I saw that I had his complete attention, gave myself a vote of confidence and continued. "The murders ended as suddenly as they had begun; one school of thought is that "Jack" was a Russian sailor, who left London, never to return. Over the years the killings have been ascribed to such varied persons as a doctor, a woman, a man in woman's clothing, a well-known painter, or a member of the nobility, or even the royal family. The crimes have given rise to many novels, plays, and other dramatic works." 

Bill reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a Cuban cigar. He took his time with it, sniffing the fragrant odor, biting off one end and spitting it deftly into the ashtray at his side and then lighting it and blowing the smoke toward my face.

"What I suspect..." I began, never once taking my eyes off his, is that you have taken the gift given you by Arthur and used it to kill people over a very long period of time. 

Bill closed his eyes as if lost in thought, and then opened them and stared back at me. "And you're implying that I'm this... Jack the Ripper as well as the one's killing people in Cleveland these last few years?"

I let my eyes drift heavenward, and answered slowly. "Yes, I am saying that. And I'll say a lot more if you'll continue to listen to me and not cut me off saying I'm crazy."

"I'm listening," he said. "You've got my undivided attention."

"Good, then please bear in mind that anything I say about Jack the Ripper, or anyone else for that matter is meaningless; unprovable in a court of law. Because of Arthur's gift, you cannot be punished for what you've done. I can and hopefully will write about what you've done and all you need do is change with someone new; someone I don't know exists and you're home free to kill again and again. 

"I can tell your story... but only as a work of fiction. Who would believe it was actually possible to do what I believe you've done? I still haven't put it all together, Bill. But I will. It will take time, but I will put the pieces together. Probably not all of them, for I suspect that aside from the serial killings, you've killed singularly and there is no way, short of a confession that anyone could possibly connect you to any of them. In fact, I doubt anyone will ever stop you. It's you who must stop yourself."

Bill smiled at me then. I will tell you, the reader that it was a friendly smile, with not an ounce of malice or threat in it. He glanced at my drink, saw that it was nearly empty and took a moment to refill both our glasses with scotch. Then he began to talk about what had happened back in August, 1888. 

"I wuz on the Etruria," he said, slipping back into Bill's familiar accent. "We spent six weeks in great Britain, mostly in London. Well, there wuz a side trip to Paris, but we wuz mostly in and around London."

"I happened to meet a gentleman named Tumblety on the ship, who professed being a medical doctor, but who struck me as something of a misogynist and definitely a quack. I entered his body and confirmed I was right on both counts. But there was something else about him that I found so compelling that I kept going back to him as we steamed across the Atlantic.

"He had earned a small fortune posing as an Indian Herb doctor throughout the United States and Canada. His hatred of women surfaced almost every time we came in contact with a female on board and I had to use most of my ability in manipulating him away from my wife to avert any embarrassing situations.

"I don't profess to posses any special medical skills, however, I have inhabited a few highly skilled physicians and as a consequence, do have certain knowledge that the average man does not. It was this knowledge that convinced me he was a charlatan insofar as the medical profession was concerned. 

"My main interest in the man was the fact that he had been arrested for complicity in the assassination of President Lincoln, but released without being charged. Once inside his mind I found that he had been involved more than from a distant periphery as thought. He had knowledge of Booth's intention more than a week before the act, but no one was going to prove it, and he remained a free man."

Having never heard of Dr. Tumblety, I interrupted him, thinking to get him back on track. "Where is this going, Bill?"

He glared at me with so much fire in his eyes that I was silenced for the next few minutes. 

"As I recall," he said, resuming his narrative. "It wuz the last day of August; we had left the ship in Liverpool and I found myself pacing up and down the lobby of our London hotel waiting for Tumblety to arrive while trying to quell a strangely exciting urge. Minutes earlier, my wife, Florence had complained of a headache, and I had left her after giving her a couple aspirin knowing they would help her sleep, freeing me to become one with Tumblety for several hours. 

"The craving intensified as soon as I took possession of his body, leaving Yaller Bill sitting in the hotel's spacious lobby reading the times. Ever since I'd taken over his body I'd felt these sensations. It wuz unlike anything that had occurred with the other times I'd moved into someone. I wondered briefly if it were some reaction between his mind and mine, but gave up the struggle and ventured into the foggy streets looking for god knows what. I say that because I honestly didn't know what I wuz looking for.

"I moved stealthily down the quiet streets, shielded by the darkness and fog. I examined my feelings as they emerged; found them to be violent, and evil. I wanted to smash, slash and savage the first woman I happened upon. Several minutes later I encountered a bedraggled, smelly whore, who made the fatal mistake of accosting me, offering her foul body for a meager fee. She hoisted her skirts and revealed her putrid cunt for my viewing. 

The sight so disgusted me that I wuz filled with a rage I had never felt before. Later I determined it must have been Doctor Tumblety's misogyny, spilling over and blending perfectly with a rage that had lain dormant within me all those years.

"I never even bothered to seek an alleyway, or other refuge from plain view, but hacked at her throat with such force that I nearly beheaded her. Then with the whore having fallen to the ground, I drove the knife into her, making a deep gash that ran along her stomach, ripping and tearing at her so that she was for all intensive purposes, disemboweled.

"Amazingly, there was only a small amount of blood on my hands, which I wiped on her skirt, and after glancing around and seeing no one, I quickly left the area and returned to my hotel where I returned to my own body, discarded the Times and went to my room and joined my sleeping wife in bed.

"The following day I read in the papers that her name wuz Mary Ann Nicholls, a forty-three-year-old prostitute, who had been ejected from her lodging house just two hours earlier, because she didn't have the money to pay her rent. "I'll soon get my doss money," she had confidently predicted, "See what a jolly bonnet I've got." "As for myself, I had these euphoric feelings after reading the lurid stories in the press. It seemed that they were attributing two earlier killings to me as well, that of one Emma Smith, on April 3rd, and of Martha Tabram, or Turner, as she wuz also known, three days later. But of course neither Tumblety or me wuz in London at the time of the murders ascribed to me.

"They had even come up with a possible suspect in the form of a man whom the local prostitutes had nicknamed, "Leather Apron," and whom, they were claiming, had been making violent threats toward them, including that he was going to "rip them up." Unfortunately they didn't know his name, couldn't provide an address, and the only description they could give was that he habitually wore a leather apron, and that he sometimes wore a deerstalker cap.

"Just such a man was seen at 5.30 am on the 8th of September, talking to a prostitute named Annie Chapman, whose mutilated body wuz found on Hanbury Street around 6 am. Of course I had gone out and purchased a deerstalker cap before the urges became overpowering and sent me back into the streets hunting, but not deer. This time, as a precaution, I wore a leather apron to keep the blood off my clothing and to add to the confusion of those investigating the murders.

"Actually, I didn't see Anne, but passed right by her, only to hear her calling after me. 'Would ye be wantin' a good time, mate?' she said. I turned and waited for her to come up to me. She wasn't as rancid as the first slut, but she had my blood a boil with rage all the same, and I hacked away at her throat, and then ripped her intestines out, taking them back to Tumblety's room, along with several rings she wuz wearing, while leaving the apron neatly folded on the ground next to her.

"The following day, after reading the papers, I/Tumblety placed the rings and intestines in a cloth sack and threw them into the Thames. 

"Since the leather apron was a standard garment worn by a wide range of Jewish workers from butchers to tailors, leaving it next to the body caused the neighborhood to erupt into anti-Semitism. Innocent Jews were attacked by angry mobs claiming that no Englishman was capable of committing such murders. The media frenzy would come to an end on the 10th of September, when one John Pizer was arrested as the "Leather Apron, killer." Pizer, however had cast iron alibi's for the nights of both murders, and was quickly eliminated from the enquiry.

"A dreadful quiet descended onto the East End of London, and by the end of September people began to wonder if the murders had come to an end. But what had happened wuz that I had taken my wife to Paris, leaving Tumblety to his own, less violent devices. In France, I did move from one person to the next, but none of them brought about the lust for blood in me. 

"Now that I knew how to end the murders the question I wrestled with wuz, did I want to? 

"The answer came on the last day of September when, as an experiment, I merged with Tumblety and immediately felt the rage roiling within. I went out again with murder in mind and nothing else. This attitude almost got me caught in the act, for after cutting a whore's throat, (Liz Stride) a cart pulled by a pony happened by, and I had to flee before taking the knife to her belly. But I didn't return to my quarters, having an overpowering need to disembowel another victim. 

"Around 1:30 that morning, I met this rather cheerful whore, named Catharine Eddowes, who told me she just been released from the Bishopsgate Police Station, and asked, 'Would yer be interested in shagging my arse, or twat? It don't make no difference to me.' As we talked, several men walked past us, thereby delaying her departure from this world for a few more minutes, while also providing them with a look at me which they would soon impart to the police. 

"Perhaps I rushed things, I don't know, but still I managed to rip her throat apart, almost taking her head off, and sated myself by laying her abdomen open and putting out her intestines, then draping 'em over her shoulder to give the press something to howl over the following day.

"But I must confess that for some unknown reason, I kept her uterus and kidney for a late night snack in Tumblety's room."

"They started called me Jack the Ripper when someone, not Tumblety or myself, sent a letter to the newspapers using that name for their signature. 

"And about two weeks later, another practical joker sent a small cardboard box to the president of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee with a letter "From Hell" along with half a human kidney. Alas it wuz not from me, but it wuz an excellent idea. I say this because we had already eaten the kidney taken from the whore. It did however; give me the idea to send messages taunting the authorities in later instances. In fact, I still relish doing it from time to time.

"Both Tumblety and me returned to the States in mid-October, going our separate ways. We never ran into one another again. So for the record, I do not take any credit for what is considered the last of the Ripper's victims, a woman named Kelly, who was savagely butchered the second week of November by what is now called a copy-cat killer."

Bill poured himself another scotch, ignoring my half empty glass. He gulped at it then pointed a finger at me and said, "Don't think for a minute that I had anything to do with the World's Fair killings back in '93; that wuz Mudgett and only Mudgett." 

"Okay," I said, but what about the Cleveland torso murders just a few years ago?"

"Pushy son-of-a-bitch, ain't you?"

"You opened the door, Bill."

"Yeah, it wuz me, but I'll get to that later. I wanna talk about my time with the Cleveland Baseball team and Ty Cobb among other things." I protested, trying to get him to continue with his confession. But Bill was adamant about resuming his discourse on his baseball days as Napoleon Lajoie.

Bill flat-out refused, saying, "I gotta wrap this part up 'fore moving on to the bloodletting." Finally I conceded, and readied myself to take notes on his days managing the Cleveland baseball team of that time.

"Now, Roy, you must know that my ball club, although decent enough, never put it together long enough to win the pennant, at least while I wuz there. They finally won it in 1920, but I wuz long gone by then. Anyways, were you aware that we had a chance to get Ty Cobb back in '07?"

I had to admit that I had not known about this. With Cobb, the Nap's would probably have run away with the pennant the following year; and perhaps several years thereafter. But it didn't happen. 

"I'm telling this for the first time now. The behind the scenes events that led to the proposed trade and what happened to let it fall through."

I had to admit that Bill had me enthralled with baseball again. I realize it's difficult to imagine since he'd just admitted to being both the infamous Jack the Ripper and the Cleveland Torso Killer. But with his mention of not trading for Ty Cobb in 1907 he had me hooked on the national pastime again. Yet I had to wonder what kind of person could speak of murders most foul in one breath then make an almost imperceptible transition from that to baseball without missing a beat.

"Well, the deal wuz gonna be a straight forward swap of Elmer Flick for Cobb. 

Elmer Flick wuz a fine ball player; he's in the Hall of Fame, so you know I'm not horse-shitting you. And he wuz well liked by the fans in Cleveland, but him and me didn't get along on account of what happened when we wuz both with the Phillies in 1900.  

"See, a player ain't supposed to fuck with another player's bats. That's an unwritten rule in the game. Well he fucked with mine and pissed me off. I threw a haymaker at him and of course I missed him. But I didn't miss the wall behind him and broke several bones in my right hand. Besides that, he liked to holdout every year, so as to miss part of spring training. And now I wuz the manager of the Cleveland team and him trying to sit out spring training didn't sit too well with me. But he had led the league in hitting in '05; and in triples three straight years, '05, '06, and '07; and he wuz a damn good base stealer to boot. 

"Okay, that's one side of the picture. Now, the Tigers had Cobb, but remember, he wuz only a kid breaking into the big leagues. We knew he could hit, but his demeanor left something to be desired. He kept getting into fights with fans and teammates. His teammates hated him, and they wuz quick to admit it. Hell, everybody knew it. His manager, Hughie Jennings, felt he was hurting the team more than helping it, and so that March, Jennings called us and offered Cobb for Flick, straight up. 

Now I'm telling the God's own truth here -- in July of '06 I missed three games because I'd twisted an ankle. We wuz scheduled to play Detroit at their ballpark. For the sheer hell of it I switched off from Lajoie and into Cobb.

"I had switched players before for a variety of reasons; to learn something about another team's strategy against us; to get an idea of how a pitcher would be pitching against me the next day, stuff like that. 

"Well sir, Cobb wuz different. I mean he wuz surprisingly different than anyone I'd ever mingled with before. You will recall my description of how Tumblety suddenly developed an overpowering lust for the blood of any woman he met after I merged with him. Well, with Mr. Tyrus Cobb something else happened. He knew right off that I'd entered him. No one else had. Fuck a duck! No one else ever did! 

"Get the fuck away," he says, only he didn't speak, he thought it. It wuz just like the time I wuz with the alien on the island, and he scared the shit out of me 'cause he kept saying it over and over again; and the fact that I could hear his thoughts had me convinced that he might kill himself to be rid of me. I can tell you this -- he wuz surely considering it."

"You're a fuckin' goner!" he screams and starts turning in a circle. 

"Hobble your lip," I say to him, hoping he'll stop for a second and actually try talking to me. I mean, I did that occasionally with people, but Cobb wuz fuckin' crazy. He wuz hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night; the man should have been in a mental institution, but because of his baseball talent he wuz becoming baseball's dreamboat. 

I told him to pull in his horns that I'd skedaddle as fast as I could. That calmed him down a mite, and he did ease off the suicidal thoughts. Anyway, I obliged him as soon as I could by jumping off to Hughie Jennings, who I knew was a sensible man. I got back to Lajoie soon afterward. 




The Storytellers Ch. 18



"Now I've never been sure that he knew it wuz me inside his head, but from that time on we wuz almost mortal enemies.

"So when Jennings called to ask if we wuz interested in the trade I pretended to be all for it. But I had already planted a seed in the owner, Charles Somers mind that Cobb wuz a major problem we didn't want. So when the offer reached Somers, he turned Detroit down. 

"We'll keep Flick," he said to me. "Maybe he isn't quite as good a hitter as Cobb, but Flick is much nicer to have on the team."

"Turned out that Flick had a good year in '07, but Cobb went and won the first of nine straight batting titles. You heard me, nine straight batting titles.

"The thing wuz, it turned out to be Flick's last good year. His stomach bothered him all through 1908 and he wuz released in 1910. By the way, his spot wuz taken by a kid name of Joe Jackson; I know you heard of him. He played well for us, but had a ways to go before becoming a truly great player. So we traded him to the White Sox," Bill said with a smirk. 

"Just goes to show you how hard it is to spot greatness early on."

"Um, Bill..." I began, only to be interrupted by him once again.

"I ain't finished with Cleveland. Let me tell it now, or I'll just clam up about my other activities."

I believed him and conceded, telling him that I couldn't help but be more interested in his murderous activities than baseball accomplishments.

He snorted and told me it was his way or the highway. I nodded and sat down, a glum expression all I could show of my exasperation.