92. "blue moon"

by Horace P. Sternwall

edited by Dan Leo* 

illustrations by roy dismas , danny delacroix and eddie el greco

*Associate Professor of Sumerian Literature, Assistant Water Polo Coach, Olney Community College; editor of How’s Tricks on the Outside? The Prison Poems of Horace P. Sternwall, Vol. 1; Olney Community College Press; underwritten in part by a generous grant from The Pep Boys: “Hey, you know you can’t afford a new car! Let Manny, Moe & Jack help keep that old jalopy of yours running just a little bit longer!”

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I say again, Mr. Sternhagen," bellowed Lord Wolverington, "don't you agree that youth is wasted on the young? Haw haw haw!" Harold P. Sternhagen returned from the story (or was it a first chapter?) that had just passed through his brain, to the here and now, to this table in the Prince Hal Room of the Hotel St Crispian, and to the sight of the horrible gaping rictus of that old pansy Lord Wolverington across the table, to the leering wizened painted mask of his companion Miss Charlton, to the terrified pale face of that Michael fellow (or was it Henry?) squeezed in between those two ancient wrecks. “Farmer” Brown clapped Harold on the shoulder, bringing him ever more fully into this world, the one people called reality.  "Oh, I completely agree!" said the Farmer. "My own youth was entirely wasted on me!" "As is your middle age," muttered Fred Flynn, sitting to Harold's left. "What's that, Mr. Flynn?" said the Farmer. "I said as is your middle age being wasted, and as will your old age and senescence, should you live so long." "Ha ha!" said the imperturbable Farmer, leaning across Harold, so that Harold could smell the man’s Old Spice aftershave and the Brylcreem in his harshly dyed bright-brown hair. "So right you are, Mr. Flynn! But I shouldn't have it any other way! Ha ha! No other way indeed! Ha ha!" "Haw haw!" bellowed Lord Wolverington. Miss Charlton made a cackling sound, like the sound an old hen makes as she's being throttled for the stew pot. Michael or Henry continued to look terrified. And Shirley, Shirley De La Salle, continued to sing, over there across the smoky room.  “Blue moon,” she sang, “You saw me standing alone…” If Harold had any sense he would get up from this table at once, go right up to his room on the mezzanine, and type up that new story (or was it a chapter?) which had just played its way through his head like a two-reeler movie. At the very least it could be something that old Max Shambleton might take for Man Up! magazine, an easy ten bucks, maybe more if he could stretch it out into a serial novel. After all, his last serial (The Dead Man’s Horse, for Max’s Western Terror Tales) had netted him a cool one hundred bucks, with a possibility for another C-note if the paperback deal went through. But... "Blue moon," sang Shirley, Shirley De La Salle, "you knew just what I was there for. You heard me saying a prayer for someone I really could care for..." No, Harold decided, he would stay, maybe just for one more drink, one more song. The story (the chapter?), the story could wait, or it could tumble into oblivion, never to be written, never to be published on cheap pulp paper to be read by a few thousand semi-literates soda jerks and bus drivers and then forgotten forever, it didn't matter. This is what mattered, sitting here at this table among these idiots, listening to Shirley over there across this smoky room, singing her heart out… Blue moon Now I'm no longer alone Without a dream in my heart Without a love of my own And, who knew? Maybe, maybe after one more Manhattan, Harold would screw up the nerve to go over to her when she took her next break, introduce himself, tell her how much he enjoyed her singing… “Haw haw!” yelled Lord Wolverington, leaning across the table toward Harold. How did he keep that monocle in his eye while he contorted his face so hideously with his mirthless laughter? “Haw haw!” “Oh, Wolfie, please,” said Miss Charlton with her voice which sounded like, like what? Like sandpaper rubbing against sandpaper? “Ha ha,” said Farmer Brown. “Ha ha!” “Oh, Jesus Christ,” said Fred Flynn. “I don’t think I’ve ever paid so dearly for supposedly free drinks in my entire life!” “But you agree with me, don’t you Mr. Chandler?” said Wolverington to the Michael or Henry fellow. Harold couldn’t tell for sure but it really looked like Wolverington had his hand between the fellow’s legs. “I, I, I —” said the fellow. “Oh, leave the poor boy alone,” said Miss Charlton, and, yes, it looked like she had her hand between the guy’s legs also. “She’s a peach all right, isn’t she, that Shirley De La Salle?” said the Farmer, holding his face very close to Harold’s. “If only I were twenty years younger!” “You would what?” said Fred Flynn. “Why, I’ll tell you what I’d do,” said Farmer Brown. “Do you know what I would do?” “Oh, Christ,” said Fred. “I should march right over to the end of the bar there, where Miss De La Salle sits when she’s ‘laying out’ as the ‘cats’ say, and I should offer to buy her a cocktail! That’s what I should do! That’s what a fellow did back in my day!” “Oh, I’ll bet you just made out like a bandit back in your day, didn’t you, Mr. Brown?” said Fred, staring grimly at the Farmer. “I had my share of the young fillies,” said Farmer Brown, smiling broadly, as usual. “Frisky young bangtails, dancing the Charlton and the Black Bottom, on this very dance floor, and gazing at me not with the contempt I admit I now so richly deserve, but, yes, with eyes filled with feminine concupiscence!” “Haw haw!” bellowed Lord Wolverington. Miss Charlton cackled, and then coughed a couple of times. “Oh, my God,” said Harold. He put his glass down on the table, even though there was still booze in it. He pushed back his chair and stood up. “I say, where are you going, Mr. Sternhagen?” said the Farmer. “I think he’s going to be sick,” said Miss Charlton, and then she cackled again, and then coughed again. “Haw haw,” bellowed Lord Wolverington. “Are you gonna finish that drink, Sternhagen?” said Fred Flynn. “Please don’t leave me here,” said the Michael or Henry guy. Harold stood there, gazing across the room. “Blue moon,” sang Shirley, Shirley De La Salle. “Now I'm no longer alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own.” Tony Winston played a showy run on his piano and the song ended with the drummer thrashing his cymbals with the brushes, bending forward as if in concentration, as if he really cared. “I said are you going to finish your drink, Sternhagen?” said Fred Flynn. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” said Shirley into her microphone, even though hardly anyone was clapping. “Thank you very much! And now Tony and the boys are going to do a little instrumental number for you entitled ‘Hot House’. Take it, boys!” Then quickly she went to the side of the small stage, stepped down, and took a stool at the end of the bar. Harold pushed his chair back further with his leg and he took a step, and then another, passing around behind Fred Flynn. “Hey,” said Fred, turning, “can I have your drink?” “Haw haw!” bellowed Lord Wolverington. Miss Charlton cackled, then coughed. “Ha ha!” laughed Farmer Brown. “Wait, don’t leave,” said Michael or Henry. Harold headed straight for the far end of the bar. 93. "a penny in the pistachio machine"

91. "again"

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by roy dismas, konrad kraus and rhoda penmarq

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

for previous chapter, click here

to begin at the beginning, click here

click here for synopsis of all chapters so far

"Don't you think so, Mr. Sternhagen?" shouted Lord Wolverington. "Haw haw haw! Don't you think so?" "What?" said Harold P. Sternhagen. As so often happened with Harold, an entire short story (or was it a chapter from a novel?) had come to him as he sat somewhere ignoring his companions...

"again" by harold p sternhagen i was down on my luck - again. i had been played for a chump - again. the wind was whipping down broadway - again. i was headed for maisie's. she might be open. she might not. another bum passed me by. i didn't say nothing to him. he didn't say nothing to me. he disappeared into the night. i guess he disappeared into the night - i didn't turn around to watch him. but i didn't disappear. i was still freezing. maisie's was open. that was something, anyway. i opened the door. it creaked, but maisie didn't look up from the counter where she was reading some big fat book, the way she does. the place was empty. maisie must have a heart of gold. or a heart of something, because she will let a bum come in and sit down even if he don't buy nothing, as long as the place isn't full, and it never is. once i asked her, what's that book you are reading, the bible? she didn't look up, she just said "no" and kept on reading. i went over to the corner and sat down at my favorite table. i wished i had a smoke. i looked around. i did a double take. the place was not as empty as i thought. there was a girl sitting at the next table. a blonde, real pale, in a crummy gray raincoat. she wasn't very big, maybe that's why i hadn't noticed her . she looked at me through the smoke of her cigarette. "spare a smoke?'' i asked her. "yeah, i can spare one." i moved over to her table. at first i thought she looked about fifteen years old. then i looked again and thought she might be about 15,000 years old. she nodded at the pack of cigarettes on the table in front of her. herbert tareytons. not my brand. but of course i took one. she stared at me as i lit up with the book of matches in front of her. i looked at the matchbook when i put it down. there was writing on it, but it was in french or chinese or something and i couldn't read it. "down on your luck, huh?" she asked me. "you're very " - there's a big word starting with a "p" that i tried to remember but i couldn't - "you're pretty smart " - i ended up with. she looked at me some more through her smoke. for about five seconds, but it felt like five million years. "want to make a little money?", she finally asked. i had been down this road before. "how much?" i asked. the herbert tareyton didn't taste half bad - it wasn't stale. maisie's was nice and warm. she laughed. "what are you, choosy? you got a briefcase full of good offers? i don't see no briefcase." she sounded like her mama didn't beat her enough. "no, just asking." she looked over at maisie. she still had her face in her book, not paying us no never mind. the girl lowered her voice. "listen, you want to know how much? i'll tell you how much. untold riches. untold riches, how does that sound?" "pretty good. say, how about a little advance on the untold riches, like the price of a cup of coffee?" "sure. hey maisie!" maisie looked up from her book. "give this joker a cup of java. on me." "coming right up." maisie put her book open but face down on the counter. "his name is slim, by the way." maisie was like that, very polite, big for introducing people to each other. "and that's iris, " she told me as i went up to the counter. i nodded back at iris to show i got her name. maisie shoved the little of pitcher of cream at me and turned around to the coffee machine. "what's that you're reading?' "you mean the name of it? 'lord ormont and his aminta,' by george meredith. it's one of his later works." "oh." i took the cup from maisie, sipped off about a third of it and filled it up with cream. i always did it that way. maisie went back to her book and i took the coffee and went back to my new friend iris. iris lowered her voice again. "so - you want to be a bum all your life?" "not really, but i'm getting used to it." "listen, pal - slim - while we're sitting here, you know what?" "no, what?" i took a sip of coffee. it was still nice and hot, even with all the cream in it. "somewhere in the universe a caravan loaded with amethysts and emeralds is setting out across a silver spangled desert under a purple sky. and in the desert is an oasis filled with roses and orchids. there is a castle in the oasis, a castle with golden towers and ruby corridors and marble rooms filled with precious paintings and priceless statues just begging to be stolen and added to the caravan. but there is no rush. because outside in the garden there is a breeze from a green river just over the horizon that will take you to even bigger castles and richer palaces. and harps and drums are playing, and dark eyed servant girls are passing out opium pipes in the shape of golden dragons. are you with me so far?" " yeah." "opium, frankincense, myrrh, a thousand wines - whatever you want. and food? they got platters of sizzling steaks from animals you never even heard of. spiced up with recipes it took a thousand years to perfect. and here come the women, the dancing women, not scrawny puppies like me but real women, panther women, cobra women, python women with the meat shaking on their bones as the drums beat in the endless night..." "and what do i got to do to get all this?" "i'm just using these as examples. i'm just saying there's plenty out there if you got the nerve to take it. have you got the nerve, brother?" "it depends. what exactly are you proposing?" i was hoping for another cup of coffee out of her, or at least another cigarette. she lowered her voice even more. "there's an old lady lives a couple of blocks away - in an alley off west 49th street. she pretends she don't have no money, but she's really rich!" i had to laugh. "are you kidding me? do you know how many times i heard this tale?" "but it's true! she lives in this little room but there's a big room behind it that she keeps locked. why does she keep it locked?" "it is probably filled with old newspapers. old people like to keep them some times. it's just what they do," "but why keep it locked, huh? i'm telling you she's got more than king tut, king midas, king solomon, jesse james and j p morgan all rolled into one. and it's there for the taking. if you got the nerve." i finished off the coffee. "so what are you suggesting, that we bump her off?" "if that's what it takes." she leaned forward. "what are you, afraid?" "sorry, i burned my fingers on this match before." "so you ain't with me?" "uh - it sounds like kind of a long shot." "so what? you got to take a chance! look at you. are you going to be a bum all your life? how are you going to feel when you're dying in the gutter with walter winchell's column flapping around your face in the cold morning light and you know that king farouk and joe dimaggio and the duchess of windsor are drinking martinis in monte carlo and you'll never be there! take a chance. for once!" i stared at her. "okay, i'll tell you what. i'll go with you. we'll see what happens. but when we're through, you buy me another cup of coffee. and give me another cigarette. " she stared back, with a look of disgust on her face. "sure, big guy. i'll buy you another cup of coffee. i'll buy you two cups, how's that?" "how about another smoke, right now,?" "help yourself." i lit up and then we both stood up. "so long," iris called over to maisie, reading her book. "yeah, so long." maisie didn't look up. if she had heard any of our unseemly conversation, she didn't let on. outside the wind had picked up. i put my head down and headed into it, walking as fast as i could. "hope i'm not going too fast for you," i told iris. "don't worry about that." we were down 49th street and in the alley in no time. iris looked around, then rapped on a door almost hidden behind the trash barrels that were rattling around in the wind. i was ready to do anything, just to get out of the cold and wind. no answer. iris rapped a little louder. "okay, " i said. "we tried." then i heard a little voice. "who is it? who's there?" "it's me, mrs mccarthy. iris, from st clorinda's girls home." "iris, honey, do you know what time it is?" "yes, but it's freezing out here. let me in, please." the door opened a crack, and iris pushed it open and i followed her in. mrs mccarthy, the possessor of untold riches, looked like she weighed about twenty-five pounds. she blinked at me, like she could hardly see me. i figured she was at least half blind. "who's this?" "this is father mike. he's a new priest, helps out over at the home." "oh? a little late for a priest to be out, isn't it?" "we were out comforting the sick. can we come in?" i had closed the outside door behind me. a door behind the stairwell was half open, and a very dim light came through it. iris and i followed the trembling mrs mccarthy through the door behind the stairs. as soon as it was shut behind us, iris got down to business. "all right, mrs mccarthy, the time for talk has passed. your bags of money are going to some one who can use them - me!" "iris, that's crazy! i thought - i never thought you of all people would believe those crazy stories!" the old lady looked around at me, like i was going to help her. "give me the key to the big room - now!" iris kept her voice low, but it still filled the little room. the old lady tried to get to the front door but iris grabbed her and pushed her into me. her bony little hands flapped at me and i shoved her back a little. she fell back on the floor and i heard her back or her neck snap or maybe both of them. we looked down at her. i looked around. there wasn't much to look around at. a little bed, a chair, a crooked little table and a little window that looked like it never opened. i wondered if anyone had heard anything. "that was easy," i said. "we have to find the key." i wondered if i was dreaming. "you find the key. it's probably in her pocket." iris knelt down and had a key in her hand in five seconds, "listen!" i said. "do you hear something behind that door?" "you just hear your own crawling guts." she got up and put the key in the door. it swung open easily, soundlessly. a huge black dog sprung out over iris and slammed me down on the floor. "yikes! i never knew she had a dog!" the dog pinned me down and started barking loud enough to be heard in brooklyn. i grabbed at his throat. but i didn't have to worry about him killing me. because in five seconds the room was filled with people. "it's all right, buddy, it's all right," somebody was saying to the dog, and it backed off of me, kind of snarling and whining at the same time. i sat up. a couple of red faced guys built like charles atlas and primo carnera were staring down at me. iris was gone. the little window was open. i don't know if she got through it or what, but she was gone. mrs mccarthy's body was still there. "poor thing," i heard a woman's voice. "i always knew something like this would happen." the two big guys just glared down at me. i didn't move. someone took the dog away, and i could hear it barking outside. another minute, and a cop in uniform and two detectives filled the room up even more. "well, mac, i don't think we need to call in hercule poirot on this one, do you?" "no." mac looked around the little room and down at me. "i think this is what you call - what's the word - begins with an 's'? "sordid?" "yeah. sordid. a real sordid affair." they cuffed me and took me outside. the cold air almost felt good. the uniformed cop turned to me. "what kind of guy are you, anyway? murdering a helpless little old lady?" i didn't answer. the sun was coming up, filtering down 49th street from the east river. how many cold dawns like this had i seen through the centuries, how many times had i been hung, and burned at the stake, and drawn and quartered, and run through with pikes, and split open by cavalry swords, and blown to bits by cannonballs? they put me in the back of the squad car. i was headed to the chair. again. the end

92. "blue moon"

90. "the man who buys the mona lisa"

by manfred skyline

illustrated by konrad kraus and rhoda penmarq

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

for previous chapter, click here

to begin at the beginning, click here

click here for synopsis of all chapters so far

cosima watched from the window as fortescue and carol got into the cab and the cab pulled away from the curb and headed downtown. williams was waiting behind her. she turned to face him. "did you say i had a couple of phone calls tonight?" "indeed i did, miss. i wrote down the names and numbers. i can get them now, if you like." "no rush. anybody you didn't know?" williams hesitated. "one call was from mrs babson - young mrs babson, whom we both know very well." "yes, only too well. and the other?" "the other was from a gentleman who identified himself as mr slomo. he gave the impression of wanting to introduce himself. so i don't know if you are already acquainted with him." "slomo?" cosima seemed momentarily startled. then she laughed. "it was probably a joke. from bucky burnside or one of his pals. or pete palomine." "it didn't sound like mister burnside or mister palomine. of course i could be mistaken." "well, if they were joking they would have been trying to disguise their voices." "of course." cosima stared at williams. "was there something else?" "well, miss. perhaps i am being a bit presumptuous - " "oh, williams, williams, presume away, please." williams laughed politely. "but the name 'slomo' was not entirely unfamiliar to me." "oh?" "if i may continue in my presumptuousness, may i ask if it were familiar to you - apart from your perception of it as a joke?" "yes, it was familiar. anyone in the little world of art has heard of mr slomo - which is not to say they necessarily believe that he exists." williams seemed a little startled by this. "there is some disbelief as to whether mr slomo exists?" he stared at cosima. cosima stared back, amused. "well, do you believe mr slomo exists? have you had some experience of this legendary creature yourself?" "indeed i have, miss. i only had a few glimpses of the gentleman myself, but the late colonel had definite dealings with an individual assuming that uncommon cognomen during the now not so recent hostilities." "i see. you know, williams, if i didn't know any better i would think you had a story to tell, and would very much enjoy telling it." "oh, it is not so dramatic as all that, miss. but i would be happy to tell you what little i know." "excellent. but it sounds like it might be thirsty work. there is no sense standing here while you tell your tale." "you want a drink?" "oh no, no, i just meant coffee. why don't we go back to the green room and get comfortable and you can tell me all about this mystery man." "if you wish. i will get a fresh pot. do you want anything else?" "no thank you, just the coffee. get anything you want for yourself. take your time." williams departed back to the kitchen. cosima hesitated, then turned to the window again and looked out. but the street was completely empty. *** the cab containing fortescue and carol sped down an almost deserted sixth avenue . fortescue lit a cigarette and looked out the window. carol sat as close to him as she could without snuggling up against him. i made my pitch to him, she thought. no sense sounding even more desperate and whiny than i already did. i will just let him think about it. suddenly she was overwhelmingly tired. what a night! she yawned once, twice, and passed out, flopping against fortescue's shoulder. *** "so," cosima began, when she and williams had settled in in the green room, "this mister slomo that you caught glimpses of, he was involved in art in some way?" "oh, mr slomo was involved in anything that could be bought and sold." "ah." cosima picked up the coffee pot and filled her cup. "yes, i am afraid he belonged to - was the very embodiment of - the class of persons who regarded the recent hostilities not as an opportunity to defend the rights and safety of humanity, but to line his pockets." "shocking. but go on." "well, at that time and place the trick to lining your pockets was to have big pockets to line. only solid items - physically solid - were regarded as having value." "like gold. or silver. or art." "exactly." williams hesitated, then poured himself three quarters of a cup of coffee, careful not to spill a drop. "paper money had almost ceased to exist." "what about american money? good old american greenback dollars? " "it had just begun to flow in. and there were a lot of people who - did not feel in a position to wait for a new economy to stabilize itself." "so where did mr slomo fit into this" "mister slomo presented himself as a man who could get things done - who could provide papers, identities and so forth - for a price. and who could exchange anything for anything, taking his cut of course." "i wouldn't think he was alone in that. surely there was a great market for such things." "yes, but what separated him from the others was his willingness to accept payment in items of highly speculative value - almost anything except third reich paper - and his willingness to accept bulky items." "like art works." "exactly. of course the question then arose, where was he keeping it all? he was reputed to have a hiding place somewhere , a veritable alladin's cave or monte cristo's treasure house of untold and glittering wealth. naturally, this excited the jealousy and curiosity of those inclined to be jealous and curious." "like the colonel." "i wasn't thinking of the colonel. the colonel was a gentleman, doing what had to be done in sticky situations." cosima laughed. "of course. what about you, then?" "oh, i was just driving the colonel, keeping my mouth shut, and dreaming of returning to civilization. i was thinking of corporal gray." "the mysterious corporal gray. i think i have heard him mentioned once or twice." "there was nothing mysterious about him. he was a caveman, a barbarian with a primal lust for gold and riches. and not even the scruples of a barbarian. i still have nightmares about him. " williams took a sip of his coffee. " i was much more afraid of him than i was of the germans. in any case, he became very much interested in mr slomo." "and?" "i really don't know. gray disappeared - fortunately. i always thought perhaps he had found and made off with mister slomo's treasure. but gray is gone, and mister slomo - assuming the man who called and the man you know of are all one and the same - seems to be with us." "interesting." "and what of your mister slomo? the one you referred to as a legendary creature, whose existence was a matter of speculation?" "my mister slomo is the man who buys the mona lisa." "the man who buys the mona lisa?" "it's just an expression. it means the fabulously wealthy individual who can afford to buy stolen artworks and gaze lovingly at them in his private vault, because they are too well known to be shown on his walls or in galleries. you hear about such people from time to time, but of course no one ever actually meets or talks to one." "and mister slomo is reported to be one such?" "some times. and some times he is an agent for such people." suddenly they heard the phone, ringing down the hall and through the partially opened door of the green room. "who can that be, at this time of the night?" 91. "again"