fun, part 5

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

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

for previous episode of "fun" , click here

to begin "fun", click here

in our previous chapters, we met jerry and roselle winfield, socialites and slummers extraordinaire. roselle has enticed the drifter "humphey p strawfeather" to help her murder jerry. but jerry has intuited that roselle intends to kill him. * the tip of roselle's cigarette glowed red in the dark like the eye of a vengeful god having a little chuckle before sacrifice was offered to it. jerry didn't even try to meet her gaze, or to pretend he was still asleep. he could never stare her down, or fool her. "are you all right?" roselle finally asked him. as she blew a smoke ring. "yeah, i'm fine." the paralysis of fear he had felt on waking started to fade. "i just - i just -" "what?" "i just need some fresh air." jerry pushed himself up on his elbows. "i think i'll go out and get some." "suit yourself. " roselle blew another smoke ring. "it's still raining out. we've got plenty of liquor in the cabinet if you just need some hair of the dog. i stocked it up for marge and chester. they are coming over at nine, remember?" "oh, right. what time is it?" there was a clock on the table right beside him. roselle did not point that out but just said " a little after seven." jerry's head started to clear - except for his headache. what was he afraid of? roselle was going to murder him, but she wasn't going to murder him right now - not with marge and chester yardwell coming over. " plenty of time - they are always late anyway. i just need some air." "do as you like. i can amuse marge and chester - they are easily amused." "yes." jerry sat up. "yes, they are." he just wanted to get away. "how hard is it raining?" "i don't know. how hard does it ever rain? rain is rain." roselle blew another smoke ring. then she went over to the wall and switched the light on. *** morris, the doorman who had carried him up to the apartment, had gone off duty, and jerry just nodded to his replacement as he stepped out into the rain. it was raining steadily, but with no wind. "would you like an umbrella, sir?" the new doorman asked. "no, thank you." jerry smiled at him and headed downtown. he didn't mind the rain. raindrops bounced off his hat. he probably should have worn his rubbers, but he was not going to go back to get them. away from roselle, his panic had completely subsided. he felt a little foolish, but nobody passing him in the rain, even if they looked at him which they did not , would have any inkling of his pathetic cowardice. he needed to think. once he had thought things through then he might stop in at some little bar and have one drink, just one, before going back to the apartment and the yardwells. marge and chester yardwell - his friends. actually roselle’s friends. what was a friend, anyway? did he really have any? did anybody really have any friends? he thought of asking his “friend”, chester yardwell, for help against roselle, and laughed out loud. a woman with an enormous red umbrella over her head and walking a big dog, looked at him as she passed in the rain. do you want to be my friend, lady, jerry thought, you or your dog? but somebody must have friends, right? or there would not even be a word for it. regular guys had friends. they even sang songs about them, like al jolson singing “my buddy”.” “my buddy… my buddy… your buddy misses you…” roselle was all right in her way - until she decided to murder him - but it wasn’t the same as having a real pal that he could go to hell and back with… for the thousandth time, jerry thought about how tough and unfair it was to be born with tens of millions of dollars. but he had been real pals with a regular guy once… almost… sort of… funny, he had not thought of whitey wilson for a while… whitey had been supply sergeant of the 973rd consolidation company at camp richard foster in louisiana when jerry, as a first lieutenant, had been the commanding officer. whitey was a natural born businessman who knew how to seize his opportunities. like taking things that the army provided to the company that the g i’s had no real use for - like pork chops and potatoes that would just make them fat and lazy, or heavy clothes and boots unsuited for the steamy bayou climate - and selling them to people who could pass them on to the more needy and deserving. whitey would then take the money he got from these sales to purchase and sell to the g i’s what they really wanted - like moonshine or even real liquor in bottles with seals on them. when jerry had learned of whitey’s dealings - because he was actually pretty blatant about them - instead of “bringing him to justice” or just turning a blind eye, he had teamed up with him and helped him, taking a cut of his profits and even going on “runs” with him into the surrounding bayou country to wheel and deal. of course jerry had not needed the money, and only done it for fun. one of his first experiences, before he met roselle, of doing things just for fun. and it had been fun, and whitey had been his pal… sort of… but it had only lasted for a few months. whitey had been transferred to a supply outfit in england, and jerry and the 973rd had gone to san diego to prepare for the invasion of japan. now jerry wondered, as he had occasionally before, what had happened to whitey. all he knew he about whitey was that he was from some small town in north carolina, that jerry could not remember the name of. it was raining a little harder now. maybe he should have taken the umbrella the doorman had offered him. it was raining too hard to light a cigarette. jerry ducked into a little diner. it was empty. it was the littlest diner he had ever been in. if it even had a name jerry had missed it in the dark and rain. the waitress behind the counter was the most bored looking waitress he had ever seen, and he had seen a lot of bored looking waitresses. she looked like she was asleep on her feet. just the kind of person roselle and jerry liked to have fun with. but he wasn’t in the mood. he sat down and shook himself a little bit and took his hat off and shook the rain off it and put it on the stool beside him. the bored looking waitress just stared at him without speaking. “coffee, please,” jerry told her. she turned to get the coffee. was she a mute, jerry wondered , not that he cared. he took his cigarettes out. the door opened, and a little rain came in, followed by a fat woman who took the seat right inside the door, as far from jerry as she could. great. it probably meant she wasn’t going to start a conversation. the waitress brought jerry’s coffee, still without speaking. he lit his cigarette. out of the corner of his eye he saw the fat woman take her wet coat off and put it in the seat beside her. she was wearing a fuzzy pink sweater. pink. that was whitey’s home town in north carolina. something pink. pinkville. pinkerton. pinkerville. pinkerville. that sounded right. pinkerville, north carolina. jerry looked around. small as the place was, it still had a phone booth in the back. the waitress was bringing coffee and a slice of apple pie to the fat woman in the pink sweater. who must have been some kind of regular, because no words had been exchanged. “excuse me,” jerry said to the waitress after she served the fat woman. “ i want to use the phone. have you got two dollars worth of dimes?” “if i do, i need them.” so she wasn’t a mute after all. “i’ll give you three dollars for them. three dollars for two.” the fat woman laughed. so did the waitress. “you hear that?” she asked the fat woman. “we got a big spender here.” “i guess he wants to call his pal bernard baruch at monte carlo,” the fat woman replied. she still hadn’t looked at jerry. “do you want the three dollars or not,” jerry asked the waitress. “it’s my final offer.” “oh, it’s your final offer. o k, j p morgan, i’ll take your three dollars. you in a hurry?” “no, i’m not in a hurry.” “then let me count out these and make sure i got them right.” she opened her cash register. the fat woman laughed again - at what? jerry finally got in the phone booth and asked the operator for long distance information. “long distance information, can i help you?” with a lot of back and forth jerry reached an operator in raleigh north carolina. as he waited between connections he looked through the glass. he had left his hat on the stool and wondered if the fat woman would steal it. “i am looking for a william wilson in pinkerville.” “hold on.” the fat woman lit a cigarette. she didn’t steal jerry’s hat or look in his direction. the waitress was out of sight somewhere. no one else had come in to the diner. it was still raining. “there is no william wilson in pinkerville. there is one wilson listed, a pearl wilson “ “i’ll take it.” “the number, sir, or would you like me to connect you?” the operator had a drawly, southern belle voice. “connect me.” “that will be one dollar and twenty cents.” this is ridiculous, thought jerry, but i might as well go through with it. he started putting his dimes in. “hello?” a woman’s voice, rough, on the end of a crackling connection. jerry decided not to bother with any preliminaries. whitey was either there, or more likely, not. “hello, i’m looking for william wilson, whitey wilson -“ “whitey? you’re looking for whitey?” jerry could barely hear her. “yes, yes, i’m a friend of his from the army, and i -“ “whitey ain’t here, mister, he moved away.” “oh? do you know where?” “up north. new york.” “whitey is in new york?” “he sure is. he’s a real big shot up there. he’s making enough money to burn a wet mule. he even sends his old mama some sometimes. “ part 6

"Secret Agent of the Overlords”

by Horace P. Sternwall

Originally published in “Science Crime Stories”, December, 1950; reprinted for the first time ever in book form in Elevator Operator: The “Mortimer” Stories of Horace P. Sternwall, Vol. 1, the Olney Community College Press; edited by Dan Leo, LL.D., Assistant Professor of Demotic Literature, Olney Community College.
illustrated by eddie el greco and roy dismas

for previous Gwendolyn story, click here

to begin the Gwendolyn stories, click here

Now in my line of work I meet all kinds of people, all kinds, famous actresses like for instance Miss Hyacinth Wilde, international jewel thieves like my good friend Mr. Stanley Slade, big shot gangsters like the late Mr. Tommy Sullivan (another good friend of mine, and no matter what the papers said about him, he was always nice to me, and a real good tipper), and even some famous writers, like Fred Flynn or Harold P. Sternhagen, who both live at the hotel I work at (the Hotel St Crispian if you want to know), and this other famous writer named Horace P. Sternwall who don’t live at the hotel but he comes up every Monday night to play cards with Mr. Flynn and Mr. Sternhagen and the play writer Mr. Angus Strongbow, and Mr. Sternwall he always tells me I should be a writer on account of I tell so many interesting stories in the elevator. He says I got a real knack for it, specially because I got to tell the stories real quick on account of the longest elevator ride we got is only twelve stories. So anyways, I decided, how hard can it be? Writing a story is just like telling a story except instead of telling it to somebody you’re writing it down, right? And I may not have much of an education, but I do know how to write. And working at the hotel all these years, believe you me I got a million stories. I figure if I can sell some of them to the magazines then maybe I can buy my mom a new Frigidaire, on account of we’re the only people in the building still got an old-fashioned ice box. So I went to Pop Greenwald’s store on the corner of Bleecker and the Bowery just across the street from where me and my mom live and I bought one of them back-and-white marble copy books and a pencil and I started to write. Here’s one good story and I swear it’s true. I ain’t making nothing up. Way I figure it, people want to read true stories. Because anybody can make up a story. If people wanted to read made up stories they could just make them up themselves and not have to buy a magazine to read it. At least that’s how I figure it. Where was I. Oh, right, my story. Here goes. There’s this little girl lives at the hotel, really polite and well-spoken little girl named Gwendolyn. She lives in one of them really nice suites on the seventh floor with her Auntie Margaret, a really nice pretty lady, and in the adjoining suite live her auntie’s two friends, Mr. Pierre and Mr. Serge. I was never quite sure but I always figured Mr. Pierre and Mr. Serge were like business partners of Miss Margaret, although I wasn’t really clear on what their business is. But I figured they must make pretty good gelt at it because they all sleep pretty late every day. Except for Miss Gwendolyn who gets up bright and early at least on weekdays and goes to the Miss Churchill School for Young Ladies down the street. But Saturdays and Sundays and holidays, forget it, little Miss Gwendolyn she don’t roll out of the sack neither before noon at the earliest. And another way I know they ain’t hurting for dough is, this crew, they take just about all their meals either in the Prince Hal Room at the hotel or at other fancy restaurants around town, like 21 or the Stork Club or Toots Shor’s or the Rainbow Room, I know because I ask them when they’re riding down in my car and that’s what they tell me, they ain’t shy. Sometimes Mr. Serge cooks though, I know that, and Mr. Pierre, too. I know this because I got to talking to Mr. Serge one time and I mentioned my mom liked a good bowl of borscht now and then, and the next night he gave me a big half-gallon jar of borscht he had made hisself and told me to take it home to my mom with his compliments. Then another time I told Mr. Pierre that I really liked a good hot grilled ham and cheese sandwich – hey, that’s just me, some people don’t like them but I do – it’s a free country, right? And wouldn’t you know it, one nightshift I was just about to get off at six a.m. when I get the buzz to go up to the seventh floor and I opened the door and there’s Mr. Pierre, wearing his smoking jacket and ascot and he hands me this big loaf of bread wrapped in warm tin foil. “Here ya go, Mortimer,” he says, “wrap your gums around this baby. It’s what we call in my country a Croak Missouri,” or at least that’s what I thought he said. Boy was that Croak Missouri good. I ate the whole thing back in the employee dressing room, sitting on the bench next to my locker. Thought I’d just eat half and maybe save the rest for later but I just ate the whole thing right there it was so good. Miss Margaret never gave me no food she cooked herself, but I think that’s only because she don’t know how to cook. You see, one thing I have learned about rich ladies, they ain’t like regular ladies. They don’t cook. I ain’t sure why they don’t cook, but I think it’s because it just ain’t something rich ladies do. It ain’t their fault. Everybody’s got some things in life they’re supposed to do, and they also got things they ain’t supposed to do. Nobody knows why this is, but I think it’s just because that’s what the Overlords of the Universe want. And you don’t question them Overlords of the Universe. I learned this on account of a story Mr. Flynn wrote in Space Adventure Stories, which he loaned me to read one time on my break. The story was called “Overlords of the Universe”, and it explains the whole deal, and once you read it then a lot of things about the world that don’t make too much sense start to make sense. Where was I. I know I had a story, but I got sidetracked. Oh, right, now I remember, it was about this little Miss Gwendolyn. She never gave me no food she cooked neither, but that’s okay, because after all she’s just a little girl, and little girls don’t cook, so I ain’t holding that against her, especially because she gave me something else. Something everybody can use. She gave me money. This is how it happened. One night I’m working the late shift and around 4am the buzzer goes off for the seventh floor. So I takes the car up and who should be standing there to my surprise but this little girl Miss Gwendolyn, wearing her little blue coat and one of them little round flat hats that ladies and French guys in movies wear.  She gives me the shoosh sign and steps in the car, and I am so like taken aback I shut the door, and I’m just about to start the car down when I stops and says, “Hey, Missy Gwendolyn, what’re you doing, going out at 4am in the morning, a little girl like you.” “I am twelve years of age,” she says. “That’s not a little girl.” “Well,” I says, “maybe not a real little girl, but still and all, shouldn’t you be home in bed at this hour?” “Mortimer,” she says, “please just take me down to the basement and keep it on the QT, and there’s a buck in it for you.” “To the basement?” I says. “What the heck you want to go to the basement for? None of the guests ever go to the basement, and besides, it’s dark and scary down there. I really don’t think I should take you down there, Missy Gwendolyn.” At first I thought she was gonna take a swing at me with this hard little black purse of hers, but then she kind of took a deep breath and then looked both to the right and to the left like to make sure nobody was listening, even though we was the only two people in the car. Then she looks up at me, real serious like. “Listen, Mortimer,” she says, “you remember what you were telling me about the Overlords of the Universe?” “Sure,” I said. On account of I talk to lots of people about the Overlords of the Universe. I find that kind of stuff interesting, and you’d be surprised how many people still don’t know about the Overlords. “Okay, Mortimer,” she says, “I’m gonna tell you something, but if I do you got to cross your heart and hope to die you don’t tell nobody else, and also there’s a fin in it for you in the bargain.” And sure enough she opens up this little black shiny purse of hers and pulls out a five-spot. But she don’t give it to me yet. “Here’s the dope,” she says. “My Auntie Margaret, and Mr. Pierre and Serge, and me,” she says, “we work for the Overlords of the Universe. We are their representatives in New York. Now sometimes my duties will demand that I leave the hotel through the basement at what might seem to you simple humans as odd hours. But I am really on secret missions for the Overlords.” “So that explains it,” I says. “Your Auntie Margaret, and Mr. Pierre and Mr. Serge. How come they don’t work and they keep such late hours.” “Exactly,” she says. “Now, how would you like to be a special secret agent for the Overlords, Mortimer?” “Gee, I don’t know,” I says. “What I gotta do?” “Here’s how it’ll work,” she says. “Every once in a while I may ask a slight favor of you. Like maybe go down the basement yourself and open the alley door at a certain time and one of my associates who also works for the Overlords will give you a package or maybe an envelope or something, and you’ll bring it up to me without nobody seeing you. And each and every time you perform one of these secret missions I give you another five-spot.” “Another five-spot?” I says. “Like, every time?”  “Yeah,” she says. “Except you gotta keep it all on the QT. Don’t tell nobody.” “Not nobody?” I says. “Not nobody,” she says. “Not your mother, not the police, not J. Edgar Hoover, not nobody.” “And I get five bucks every time?” I says. “Every mission you complete,” she says. “Five smackers.” “Jeeze,” I says. “Five smackers! That’s like very generous.” “The Overlords are very generous people,” she says, and she sticks this five-dollar bill into my paw, and then she folds my fingers over it. “So,” she says, “will you please take me down to the basement now. I will leave through the alley door, and be gone maybe ten minutes, then I want you to take the car back down to the basement and take me back up to my floor.” What could I say? Who was I to go against the will of the Overlords of the Universe, and besides, a five-spot in the hand is better than a kick to the head if you ask me. So I did what she told me, and I been doing what she told me ever since.  **** Well, that’s my story. I told Mr. Sternwall about it and he said it sounded pretty good, and if I would give him the copybook he would fix the spelling and punctuation for me and type it up and try to sell it to one of them magazines for me and split the money with me. He told me it would be best if he put his name on it because it wouldn’t do to let the whole reading public know that I am a secret agent of the Overlords of the Universe. He said he would split whatever the magazine paid him with me, fifty-fifty, and I said sure, especially since he would be doing all the typing and fixing the spelling and all and making sure the commas and the punctuation is right. It seems like to me that anybody can tell a story, especially if it’s true, but the spelling and them periods and commas, that’s the hard part. When I asked him how much we would get paid for the story he said he could probably get at least twenty bucks, which means a sawbuck for yours truly, and a sawbuck’s better than two kicks to the head. I figure if I can knock out a few more of these stories, what with my regular elevator operator pay and the money I’m pulling in on the side as a secret agent of the Overlords, I can get my mom that Frigidaire for Christmas, and who knows, maybe next year even one of them television sets. -----------

a changed man

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

on finally being released from jail after the unfortunate series of events at estelle's party, seamas mcseamas decided to amend his ways. he figured that three things had brought him to his sad pass - poetry, booze and women - and that it might be a good idea to give up at least one of them. why give up poetry? it didn't cost anything. he could always find a pencil and some sort of paper, and even if he couldn't, he could compose deathless verses in his head. it wasn't that hard to cadge a drink. especially after he had been out of commission for eleven months, all his old pals would surely be so happy to see him, they would be begging him to accept drinks. seamas decided to give up women - at least for now. with that settled, he headed for bob's bowery bar. he would let his old pals buy him two or three drinks - maybe four - then head to mrs mcgrady's over on houston street. his old room would have been let to someone else, but mrs mcgrady, good old soul that she was, must surely have kept his things - including his precious manuscripts which would bring him eternal fame - in storage. and maybe she would have another room for him, or his old room might even be available again. all that could wait. right now he needed a drink. seamas pushed through the door of bob's. it was just as he remembered it. how could it be anything else? after his eyes adjusted to the gloom - it was bright and sunshiny outside, though cold - he realized that it was empty, except for bob himself behind the bar. seamas looked over at the clock. it was only a little after nine. surely the place would fill up quickly, with people elbowing each other aside in their eagerness to stand him a round. he approached the bar. bob was staring into space, with that mean look he had. most people's expressions sort of softened when they stared into space, but bob always looked even meaner than usual. "remember me?" seamas asked with his biggest smile. "sort of. maybe." bob's lips hardly moved when he spoke. "seamas mcseamas. one of the celebrated poets - chief among them, if i may say so, ha ha, - who regularly gathered in this revered estabishment." "those bums." seamas felt a moment of panic. "you mean - you don't mean they are no longer welcome?" the toothpick in bob's mouth shifted from left to right. "they can come in before five o'clock, as long as at least one of them buys something. i don't want them in here at night. they were annoying people, and just taking up space." "heh heh. i always thought of bob's as a welcoming place - a home away from home for the most desperate and downtrodden - a safe haven from the bluster and turmoil of the grasping material world." "it still is - if you can pay." "i - uh - was sort of hoping for a free drink myself - to celebrate this beautiful morning." bob just stared at seamas. "to celebrate that i just got out of the tombs - after eleven months." bob's expression softened ever so slightly. "oh yeah, i remember now. that's all those clowns talked about for months." bob straightened up. "yeah, i'll give you a drink. one small rheingold draft." "thank you." bob looked over his shoulder toward the kitchen. "a guy came in about half an hour ago and ordered a breakfast special. then he left before he got it. you want it? it'll be kind of cold." a tear almost formed in seamas's eye . this was getting better and better - like an o henry story. "um - can you heat it up?" the cold look came back in bob's eyes. "some people will complain if you hang them with a brand new rope." "ha ha. i'll take it," seamas assured him. seamas was not particularly hungry - he had not been too proud or in too much of a hurry after eleven months to pass up a last breakfast in jail before being let out - but he figured he might as well fill up as he didn't know where his next feed might come from. bob went back in the kitchen and came back with the special - a cheddar cheese omelette with scrapple and whole wheat toast and with only the slightest trace of grease forming on it - and seamas accepted it and the draft beer gratefully. he started to take the special and the beer over to a booth but stopped. "could you spare one more thing,mate?" "what?" "something - anything - to write on." "sure. how's this?" bob reached down and produced a slightly torn paper bag. "thank you." bob nodded. a customer - a surprisingly well dressed man with a rolled umbrella and wearing a homburg - came in and bob turned away from seamas to serve him.. safely ensconced in a booth away from bob's sight, seamas took a sip of the rheingold, the first "real" booze he had in almost a year, although he had tasted horrible "hooch" in the tombs. it brought a real tear to his eye. he finished the breakfast, but still nobody showed up that he might cadge another drink from. suddenly he felt sleepy... with a deep peaceful tiredness... he head fell forward on to the counter, barely missing the greasy plate... he was back in his cell, but through the bars of the cell he could see green rolling hills.... there suddenly appeared before him his old mentor and tormentor st columba, the patron saint of poets... with his blue eyes and long red beard more blazing than ever... "mcseamas,!" cried the saint, "you fraud! are you back among decent folk now, ready to pollute the earth with your wretched doggerel and your pitiful posturing! oh, for shame, for shame!" seamas was walking through the green hills, but the saint's voice could still be heard - "and your poor old mother, your poor old mother who wanted you to be a priest or at least a respectable citizen or at least a half decent poet who wasn't a complete fake and a drunken jailbird ... you embarrass the whole irish race and the whole human race with your unspeakable tripe..." the green hills had turned into a steady rain of green tigers and red and orange crows ... mother macree and finn mccool ... and the cremation of sam mcgee and they're hanging danny deever in the morning... hailed as the greatest poet since tom moore... the irish answer to that british bastard kipling... the saint's voice had turned into a featureless roaring rain... seamas woke up. he could still hear the roaring... it was the toilet flushing behind his head in the men's room of bob's bowery bar. the paper bag bob had given him to write on was looking up at him from the table, beside the plate with the scant remains of the breakfast special. seamas took the pencil he still had from the jail out of his pocket. the dream had properly inspired him. he was determined to start over, and write a really good poem that st columba and st patrick and his mother could be proud of. the hero let me sing you a song of a hero true who knew what a hero had to do who braved the wrath of gods and men whose strength was the strength of a hundred and ten they tried to break his spirit bold and threw him out in the wind and cold those perfumed kings and smooth cheeked priests with the hearts of worms and the fangs of beasts but their evil plans were too little too late he had a weapon they could not confiscate a weapon that flashed from shore to sea - the golden sword - of poetry! yes, the poet will go where the warrior fears and shed his light in this dark world of tears no slavering monsters, no serpents cruel shall walk and slither when poets rule when darkness is chased and the sun comes round a glorious sight will the demons confound and clouds will part above the waves that break on a world of angels - not slaves! seamas put his pencil down, satisfied. that was the real stuff, the best thing he had ever done. now if fagen or howard philips stone or rooster or one of his other pals would show up and buy him a drink, life would be very heaven. ***