fun

by harold p sternhagen writing as "ralph desmond"

as originally appearing in the july-august 1951 issue of sinister destinies magazine

illustrated by konrad kraus and roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

part one of several

jerry and roselle winfield were a beautiful couple. they had been together for almost five years, longer than any of their friends would have expected. and longer than any of their married friends had been together. in most ways jerry and roselle were typical members of their class of people, and did the same things and enjoyed the same things as their friends. they enjoyed spending money (which they both had huge amounts of), drinking , smoking opium and reefers, skiing in the winter, frolicking on european and south american beaches in the summer, having intense but casual affairs with strangers, and all that sort of thing. but what jerry and roselle really enjoyed more than anything else, and what they enjoyed doing in one another's company more than anything, was making fun of people. their friends and relations of course, but even more so complete strangers. they enjoyed sitting in bars and cafes and restaurants, and in good weather, park benches, and looking at the people they saw sitting or passing by, and speculating about their miserable and dreary little lives, and making up stories about them. it was all great fun. often when they had a load on or were high on gage (which was most of the time) they spoke a little too loudly, and the objects of their derision would hear them. some of these people would pretend not to hear or even slink away, but more often than not, they would take exception and attempt to mock jerry and roselle in turn - with the pathetic and transparent jealousy of the peasantry. sometimes they would even threaten jerry and roselle with violence. jerry and roselle had a cure-all for these awkward situations - money. they both carried thick rolls of twenty-dollar bills, and a few hundred dollar bills, and found that these, used judiciously, would inevitably placate the most surly and aggrieved proles. one afternoon jerry and roselle arranged to meet at one of their favorite spots - a bench in a small park behind a bus stop on broadway near 112th st. jerry had spent most of the morning at his office - actually his grandfather's office - where jerry put in an appearance about once every two weeks, and he only had a mild buzz on, from the couple of drinks he needed after his ordeal. roselle had spent the morning in a hotel on tenth avenue with a cab driver who was of course also an artist, and they had enjoyed a couple of reefers, and she was in a very mellow mood. which was in no way spoiled by the light rain that was falling when they met. they retreated from the park bench to a small coffee shop on the other side of the street. which turned out to be empty. it was just after two o'clock, and the lunchtime customers, if there had been any, were gone. jerry and roselle purchased cups of black coffee and jelly doughnuts from the disgustingly friendly little woman behind the counter , and sat at one of the three small tables, the one closest to the window. jerry did not seem much in the mood for fun, but roselle was planning an attack on the woman at the counter when the small bell above the door rang, and a man walked in. the man was about thirty, neither fat nor thin, short nor tall, and kind of shabby, one or two steps up from a complete bum . the friendly woman addressed him as "sir" and not by name when he bought a cup of tea and a danish so he probably was not a regular customer. he took a seat at the table furthest from the window, without glancing at jerry and roselle. jerry was not in the mood. the guy didn't inspire any humorous thoughts in him, and besides, the place was so small and empty he was certain to hear anything they said. all jerry wanted to do after his hard morning in the office was finish his coffee and doughnut and find a dark bar and get smashed. if roselle didn't want to come with him she could go shopping or to a movie. the man at the other table took out a handkerchief and placed it in the saucer under his tea cup. then he took his spoon and squeezed the tea bag against the inside of the cup with it. "darling," said roselle in a loud voice, "do you remember my aunt betsy?" oh no, thought jerry. "aunt betsy" was a fictional character, one of many jerry and roselle used when they wanted to actively antagonize one of their targets. "sort of," jerry answered, in a tone indicating he wasn't quite up to playing along with her. "well, she used to squeeze her teabag in her cup the way that man just did. i thought it was the most disgusting little old lady thing. even from a real little old lady, let alone from a grown man- ohhh!" roselle pressed her hand to her throat. "i don't think i've ever seen such a thing anywhere else, not even from the biggest pansies on park avenue." the man was startled. he made no pretense of not hearing her, but stared right at her. "excuse me," roselle asked him, "but why are you looking at me like that? are you eavesdropping on us?" the man did not reply. he had seemed nondescript when he came in, but now jerry thought he had a real mean look in his eyes. not that jerry didn't think he could handle him if he had to. but what a bore. roselle was enjoying herself. she raised her eyebrows at the man. "hmmm? were you listening to our private conversation?" "i know you," the man said. "excuse me?" "i seen you two before. pulling this same kind of malarkey. trying to rile people up, just for fun. and because you think you own the earth." "really? you don't think we should own the earth? are you some kind of red?" the man ignored this. "yeah. somewhere downtown. bennie's on 44th street maybe?" roselle laughed. "bennie's on 44th street? i am afraid that doesn't sound like quite the sort of place we frequent.." "somewhere else, then. but i seen you." "look here, fellow," jerry put in. "that's quite enough." "you started it," the man answered. "hey, hey!" the woman behind the counter cried. "that's enough! this is a coffee shop, not a barroom on the bowery. we are in the shadow of columbia university, where they developed the atomic bomb, so let's act civilized." jerry wasn't sure she had her facts straight, but he nodded to the man. "if my wife's sense of humor doesn't sit well with you, that's just too damned bad. it's a small place, do you expect us to whisper?" the man stood up. "where do you think you get off making fun of me?" "where do i get off? i get off because i go to bed at night on east 85th street, and you look like you sleep in the back row of a movie theater on 42nd street, how does that suit you?" "nobody talks to humphrey p strawfeather that way." roselle whooped with laughter at the man's name. "humphrey! oh humphrey!" now the little woman came out from behind her counter. "i said that's enough! do i have to call a cop?" "no, lady, you don't have to call no cop," humphrey p strawfeather assured her. "i ain't starting nothing - here." he picked up his cup and for a second jerry thought he was going to throw the tea in his face, but he drank it down in one gulp. then he wrapped the danish in the handkerchief he had put across the saucer, and put it in his pocket. "see you around, pal." he touched his hat, which he had never taken off, and left. "my, my, that was exciting," roselle laughed. "he actually threatened you." her eyes widened in mock horror. "maybe we should call the police. or - i know! - hire a private eye to track him down." jerry managed a laugh too. "well, if that was his his real name, and he's in the phone book - which is rather doubtful - they shouldn't have any problem." the little woman went back behind the counter. her friendly manner had completely vanished. "let's get out of here," jerry said. he stood up and took out his wallet. "all right," roselle wolfed down her doughnut with a swig of coffee. "look here." jerry approached the woman at the counter. "we are sorry we caused you any inconvenience or made you nervous. let me make it up to you." he put a twenty dollar bill on the counter. she looked at him warily but picked it up. "now what?" roselle asked when they got outside. the rain had stopped, but it looked as if it might start up again at any minute. "now what? i'm going to find the darkest bar i can and drink everything they have behind it. you can come with me if you like. or you can go shopping or - " "yes, i think i'll go shopping." "fine. i'll see you tonight." turning up he lapels of his jacket against the wind, jerry pointed himself downtown. "don't forget - marge and chester are coming over at nine tonight." "i know." "enjoy your afternoon." roselle watched as jerry moved away. perfect, she thought. she had no intention of shopping unless she had to. she had noticed humphrey p strawfeather heading uptown and she had decided to try to follow him. the fun might have just started. part 2

sport

by jasper mccarthy

illustrated by roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

norton palmer was a sensitive young man. that is, sensitive to what other people thought of him. he had a strong sense of his own importance and a stronger sense of grievance. he knew enough to try to make these qualities not too obvious. the greatest burden of his life was that he had gone to the university of pennsylvania. he now wished he had gone to penn state - although his mother and his aunt daphne would not have approved, uncle sidney might have intervened on his behalf - when it became apparent that he could not get into princeton or yale. true, he had avoided the fate aunt daphne - the family matriarch and purse-string holder and a great social reformer- had envisioned for him, to go to nyu - with a lot of jews! - but the penn state men - among whom he spent much of his life - tended to look down on penn men as sissies, though they could hardly have taken issue with a man's going to princeton or yale. how norton wished he could tie his ties with the easy mastery of a princeton man, or hold a scotch and soda in his hand with the effortless insouciance of a penn state man! norton's life had reached a turning point. he was twenty-seven years old and not married. mister talbot, the elderly head of the firm, liked his employees to be married. it was almost impossible to be promoted unless one's seriousness and dependability had been demonstrated in this time-honored way. norton's mother and his aunt ellen had been trying to find him a suitable girl - such things were beneath aunt daphne, who believed that old-fashioned matchmaking went out with the model t and kerosene lamps - and his sister paula had made a few half hearted attempts to help out. norton made a sincere attempt to appreciate their efforts on his behalf - but could they really find a girl that would not excite the secret - or maybe not so secret when norton was not in the room - amusement of fellows like phil packer and dennis clevenger, the leaders of norton's group? who themselves were determined to remain bachelors until they were thirty at least. neither of them had to worry about a mister talbot, as phil packer had his own law practice, and dennis clevenger did not work regular hours at all but just played the market. as for the idea that norton might find and win a suitable girl on his own... * norton stood before a fireplace on a cold january evening, at phil packer's apartment on the south side. light snow was falling outside. phil was still sporting the vestiges of a black eye he had received on new year's eve, when he had added to his legend by getting arrested and spending five hours in jail on the busy night before his bail could be processed. but that was already ancient history and an old joke. dennis , and phil's girl samantha winston, the only persons who had been allowed to twit phil about it , had moved on. it had been a dull night. phil was not in the best humor. strangely, neither dennis nor samantha were making much effort to cheer him up. norton and bill meriweather were the only other persons left. fat bill meriweather was totally tanked, and had a strange smirk on his face, as if he expected something amusing to happen at any minute. norton wondered if he should make his excuses and leave. with almost nobody left he could not slip out without being noticed, and if he announced he was leaving might that not look as if he, norton, was not pleased to be in phil's company? suddenly the phone rang. after a couple of rings samantha picked it up. "hello? helen! " samantha listened for a few seconds. "sure, come on over. i'll tell the doorman to let you in." pause. "all right, i'll go down and be there myself." samantha headed for the door of the apartment. norton wondered if this might not be time for him to leave. apparently reading his mind, bill meriweather leered at him. "can't leave now, old man. this helen might be a hot number, ha ha!" and then dennis clevenger was in front of norton, taking his glass from him. "here, let me freshen that up." norton was trapped. he started to lean back against the fireplace, then decided to find a chair. phil got up and began poking at the fire, making it blaze up. samantha arrived with helen, who was surprisingly ugly. skinny, with a muddy complexion and a nose that was way too long. norton immediately deduced that she must have lots of money. lots of money. phil and dennis would never be in the same room with such a girl unless she had enough money to load the queen mary with gold bullion and sink it. samantha was acting ecstatic at seeing helen. phil stood up and seemed quite happy to see her, as did dennis after getting norton his new drink. phil himself was making the introductions. "helen, this is bill meriweather. he doesn't look like much, but he's got enough money to burn a wet mule." "charmed, i'm sure," helen rasped in a rough voice. "likewise." bill made a half hearted attempted to get up from the soft couch he was slumped in, but gave it up. norton stood up. "and this is norton." phil gave norton a slap on the back that would have knocked him over if he had not been expecting it. "he's a bit of a pansy, but one thing about him, he can hold his liquor. isn't that right, nort?" what could norton say? "i try," he laughed. "nort!" cried helen. "nort the sport! pleased to meet you, nort the sport!" norton realized helen was already quite drunk. "and he tries!" she turned around to bill, dennis and samantha. "what can we all do but try?" "i know! " cried samantha. "i know what we can do." "and what's that, sweetie?" asked helen. "let's get drunk!" "we get drunk every night," drawled bill meriweather. "i mean really drunk this time!" "great idea!" dennis chimed in. "and let's get out of here," samantha shouted. "it's too damned hot in here!" * norton was climbing a long flight of dark stairs. it kept getting longer and longer. he started crawling on his hands and knees. he heard voices, loud confused voices. suddenly something hit him in the face, blinding him. something ice cold! and waking him up. he was suddenly awake, lying on his side. on the sidewalk, in a couple of inches of snow. with a puddle of cold water forming under his face. he tried to get up but could not. there was something tied to his back, preventing him from sitting up. and there was something else on his head and falling into his eyes. he reached for it. it felt like - a wig of some kind? now he was aware of laughter. very loud laughter from in front of a bar across the street. he recognized it as the 262 club, where he had tagged along after phil and dennis on their slumming expeditions a couple of times before. phil, dennis, and helen were standing on the sidewalk and laughing to beat the band and pointing at him. then norton heard other laughter behind him. more like the laughter of children. he turned and saw a couple of little boys. one of then was very dark - was he actually a negro? - and holding a pail in his hand. "they paid me, mister, " the little negro boy said, still laughing. "it was your friends over there, they paid me to do it." norton tried to right himself again but could not. what was stuck to his back? he heard another voice. "william harrison, you get away from that man!" a negro woman in a heavy overcoat and with a red kerchief on her head appeared in norton's sight. "what mischief are you up to now?" she cried. william harrison dropped the pail with a clang and he and his lighter skinned friend ran off into the darkness. the pail rolled around in the snow. "and you, sir!" the negro woman shook her finger at norton. "a grown man up to such nonsense! dressing up like a chicken! and it's not even new year's eve. new years was two weeks ago!" "help me," norton begged her. *** "hey, jasper! " jasper looked up from his typewriter. flossie flanagan was standing in front of his tiny desk with her hands on her hips. "think you can tear yourself away from the great american novel long enough to do a little work for the good old federal-democrat?" jasper didn't bother explaining he was only writing a short story. "i did some work this morning." "well, your uncle seems to think you can do some more. he specifically wants you to go with me on this story." jasper sighed. "and what story might that be?" "the jimmy mazzaro and friends murder mystery." "aw, that's yesterday's news." "we'll try to make it today's news. get the scoop, if i may coin a phrase." "but i - " 'let's go, jasper." ***

"May I ask who is speaking, please?”

by Horace P. Sternwall

Originally published in “Today’s Crime Stories”, December, 1950; reprinted for the first time  ever in book form in So Young So Bad: The “Gwendolyn and Auntie Margaret” Stories of Horace P. Sternwall, Vol. 11, the Olney Community College Press; edited by Dan Leo, LL.D., Assistant Professor of Young Adult Literature, Olney Community College.

illustrated by konrad kraus and eddie el greco

for previous Gwendolyn story, click here

to begin the Gwendolyn stories, click here

Mrs. Dooley was sitting in her rocker with her knitting and listening to Fibber McGee and Molly on the radio, and her son Dan was reading this self-published slim volume of poetry he had bought from that Seamas McSeamas fellow. The book was titled One More Bock for the Road, Me Lads! and the lines Dan had just now read and reread were: Aye, drink your bock beers swiftly, me lads, and whatever else yez all fancies! Just don’t forget your shots of Schenley’s because sobriety is for pansies! He closed the book over his finger. He had expected the book to be bad, but somehow it was hard to believe that it could be this appallingly bad. Was it possible that McSeamas actually meant it to be bad? No. As Dan recalled that red bloated face and that constantly shouting voice, he knew that “intentionally bad” would be something McSeamas would never think of attempting; badness came naturally to him, as naturally as his monumental thirst, as naturally as his completely tedious and overbearing personality… The telephone rang. Mrs. Dooley did not even look up from her knitting. She never answered the phone, even when she was alone in the house. Dan put down his book, got up and walked to the phone, which was on the wall just inside the kitchen. “Hello,” he said. “Hello to you,” said a woman’s voice. “Is this Detective Daniel Dooley, please?” “Yes, it is.” “I do hope you don’t mind my calling you at home.” “Well,” said Dan, “that depends on what you have to say.” “Ha ha, yes, I suppose it would, wouldn’t it?” The voice sounded young, and muffled somehow. It also sounded – how to put it – “cultured” – “May I ask who is speaking, please?” said Dan. “Such politeness!” said the voice. “And to think that New York City policemen have a reputation for being ‘rough’ and dare I say uncouth.” Dan was trying to place the accent, but it was an accent without region, unless that region was the unreal country of Hollywood movies, of cocktail parties in penthouses where the women used cigarette holders and the gentlemen addressed each other as ‘old man’. “I accept the compliment,” said Dan. “And I hope I won’t seem a typically brusque New York policeman if I ask again who is speaking.” “You didn’t say please that time, Detective Dan.” Dan considered hanging up. But something – he could only call it his cop’s instinct – told him not to. “Please,” he said. “My name is –” she said, and she, whoever it was on the other end of the line, paused. For thirty seconds the only sounds Dan heard were those of Fibber McGee and Molly from the living room radio, but then the girlish but cultured voice spoke in his ear: “Mrs. Big.” Mrs. Big. For almost a month Dan had been trying to find this “Mrs. Big”, on special assignment, and as far as he knew the only other person who knew about his assignment was the man who had given it to him, Captain Callaghan.  Well, someone else obviously knew about the assignment now, and she was on the other end of this line. “I wonder if we could meet and have a little talk?” said Dan. “Oh, ha ha, you are too funny, Detective Dan. Really quite droll. Ha ha.” “Mrs. Big,” said Dan, “is this phone call meant to frighten me?” “Oh, dear, no,” said the voice. “I would never stoop so low as to threaten the life of an honest policeman, nor that of his sainted mother.” “So I don’t need to worry about Molotov cocktails being tossed through the windows.” “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean? Is a Molotov cocktail anything like a Manhattan cocktail, or a gin fizz?” “Why did you call me, Mrs. Big?” said Dan. It felt odd calling her that, but what else could he call her?” “I called you to tell you that I know you’re looking for me, but if you ‘play ball’ as they say I can steer you to much bigger fish than poor dear Mrs. Big who is only trying to provide for her family by selling a harmless weed which as you well know from your own personal experience only makes people relaxed and happy, if, I must say, occasionally somewhat garrulous and idiotic.” How did she know that he had such “personal experience”? Oh, wait – he knew. He knew all right, or at least he strongly suspected: it had to be be Dolly – beautiful, rich, foolish – and damnably alluring – Dolly Mainwaring. She must have blabbed about her policeman friend who liked to smoke gage and go listen to jazz at Jimmy Ryan’s or Eddie Condon’s. Well, damn it, weed was harmless, certainly more harmless than alcohol – “What do you mean by ‘play ball’?” he said. “I mean live and let live,” she said. “Why pick on a poor honest businesswoman trying to sell a harmless product?” “Honest?” he said. “Ha ha,” she said. “Honest after my own fashion.” “And your product may or may not be harmless,” said Dan, “but I’m not so sure that you are harmless.” “Oh, but I am, as a lamb.” “I don’t think Jimmy Mazzaro and his four buddies whom you turned into human roman candles would call you harmless.” “Jimmy Mazzaro was a brutal murdering swine, and whoever turned him and his friends into human roman candles as you say did society a service. Not that I have any idea who it was of course.” “Sorry, Mrs. Big, but I’ve got a job to do, and I’m going to do it.” “Oh, how very admirable of you, Detective Dan. But let me just whisper three little words in your ear.” “I’m listening.” “Big Bart Baccini,” said the voice. “Baccini? What about Bart Baccini?” “You know who he is, I gather?” “Of course I know who he is.” “Boss of all the rackets from 42nd Street down to the Battery.” “So they say,” said Dan. “Boss of all the rackets that is,” said the voice, “except for that of one modest businesswoman selling a few reefers in the Village and the Bowery.” “What are you getting at, Mrs. Big?” “Oh, dear, look at the time!” said the voice. “I simply must fly, but it’s been so nice chatting with you, Detective Dan! I do hope we can chat again very soon.” “Wait a minute,” he said, “what’s this about Baccini?” “Oh, we’ll chat about that nasty fellow some other time. Ciao, Detective Dan!” The phone clicked, and all was silence, except for Fibber McGee and Molly in the other room.   **** Dan sat at the table in the automat, with his empty coffee cup and his day-old New York Federal-Democrat. Once again he hadn’t shaved, and he wore the old overcoat, and threadbare suit, the unpolished brogues, the beat-up fedora – the outfit he had picked up at the Salvation Army for a total of three dollars and a quarter. Another morning and afternoon wasted – waiting, looking, observing, watching, waiting. Waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for that break. It would come. It had to come. Or did it? Maybe he was really only waiting for it to be time to go home again, because maybe tonight she would call again. She had said they would “chat” again, and that was almost a week ago. No, it was only four nights ago, but it felt longer. Maybe she would call tonight… Those kids were here again. Three little girls in their Miss Churchill’s School uniforms, with two boys who were obviously public school kids if they went to school at all, and one older boy, who wore a Falworthy School blazer. Just a bunch of school kids, drinking hot chocolates and eating pie. Then the kids were putting on their coats, getting up and leaving. They walked past Dan’s table, laughing and chattering the way kids do. The last one to walk by was the pretty little blonde girl who seemed to be the leader of the group. She was perhaps twelve years old, but small for her age, and she wore a smart blue coat and a matching blue beret. As she passed his table Dan saw something white flutter to the floor, a handkerchief. He quickly rose from his seat and picked it up, it was a pretty lace-trimmed thing, with a large red “G” embroidered on it. “Excuse me!” he called. “Little girl!” Her friends were already out the door, but the blonde girl had lagged behind, and she turned, smiling. “Yes,” she said. “Are you addressing me?” “Yes,” said Dan. He held up the handkerchief. “You dropped this I think.” He went over and handed it to her. “Thank you ever so much,” she said, and smiling sweetly she stuffed the handkerchief up the sleeve of her pretty blue coat. “You’re welcome,” he said. She looked at him, smiling. It almost seemed as if she knew him, and Dan in turn had the oddest feeling that he knew her.  “I must fly,” she said. “Ciao!” Dan watched her as she turned and went out the door, joining her friends on Bedford Street. I must fly, she said. Ciao, she said. **** "Best Wishes for your Speedy Recovery"