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David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Sixty-Two

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. They fail to kill Hitler.
“I’m scared.” The young black busboy shivered in the alley behind a Los Angeles café a little after midnight Oct. 25, 1937. He wore a suit coat over his white service jacket. “I ain’t never killed a man before.”
“I promise you won’t ever do it again.” Leon put a fedora on the boy’s head, a size too large to hide his face. Leon did the same with his own hat. Then, he handed the boy a revolver. “It has seven shots. Empty them into the man eating the lasagna. Call out his name to make him look up. That way you’ll be sure it’s him. Then run out the front door. Throw away the hat, gun and jacket, go around the building and in the back door. Don’t come out of the kitchen until the cops come for you. After they let you go, head straight to the Hot Kitty Club and I’ll give you your cut.”
“I’m scared.”
“Don’t be. I’ll be shooting too. I’ll run out and keep running.”
“But—but why are we doin’ this?”
“Don’t ask so many damn questions. The mob, they don’t like him.”
“Won’t the cops catch us? Don’t they say they always get their man?”
“They will. It just won’t be us.”
“But why me—“
“Go!” Leon pushed him into the dining room. He stood behind the boy and nudged him to say the mobster’s name. Leon didn’t want anyone to hear him speak. The boy emptied his revolver into the man. Leon shot also, but he left one bullet in the chamber. He pushed the boy toward the door, but Leon led the way out the door. When they were both on the street, Leon turned and shot him between the eyes.
With the efficiency of a professional killer, Leon stripped the boy of his jacket, gun and hat. He took off his own hat and jacket, rolled his gun and everything else together and tossed them into the shadows around the garbage cans in the alley. As he fell to his knees by the body, he put a notepad and pencil in the dead boy’s palm. Then he began howling in hysteria. People from the café and other buildings crept out. In the background police sirens wailed.
“Oh Lordy! They just killed this boy! He chased two men in coats and hats out the door. And they had guns. And they shot this poor boy! I guess they didn’t see me or else they would have shot me too! Oh Lordy! I’d be dead too!”
A couple of people from the neighborhood tried to comfort him as a police car pulled up and a sergeant got out. Several customers from the café surrounded him and started telling the story. They pointed to Leon as an eyewitness to the shooting on the street. By the time the cop got to him, Leon was spouting gibberish.
“Thank you, sir! Thank you! I gotta get home to my mama!”
Leon ran into the dark alley but stopped a few yards away, waiting for the crowds to disperse, an ambulance to take the body away and the police to leave. He grabbed his bundle and went back down the alley, crossing a couple of streets, until he found a large garbage can in which he dumped the wad. He ambled over to his hotel, the nicest in the black part of town, went to his room, bathed, changed into his white linen suit and arrived at the Hot Kitty Club.
He sat in the back of the strip club, nursing a Cuba libre, when one of the strippers, still wearing her G-string and pasties, sat on his lap.
“Les dead?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And the busboy?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She took a key from her G-string and handed it to Leon. “This goes to a security box at the train station. Pick up your money and get the hell out of town tonight.”
Leon did exactly as he was told. With the heft reward he got himself a private compartment. During the three-day journey, he slept, meditated, exercised and read newspapers all the way from Los Angeles to Miami. He noticed that Los Angeles gangster Les Bruneman was shot about fourteen times about 1 a.m. by two gunman. A busboy was killed trying to get the license number of the getaway car. Underground rumors indicated he wasn’t splitting his gambling money, and the mob had him bumped. Leon smiled to himself. It wasn’t the mob. It was the organization. A job well done, he thought. By the afternoon of the third day he arrived in Miami. Leon took a small boat to Freeport where his favorite fisherman was waiting for him. He was pleased with himself. With payoffs from Biarritz and now Los Angeles he could afford to relax a while and spend time with his son. Sidney was ten-years-old but he was far more advanced than Leon was at that age. As the dock at Eleuthera appeared, he saw a crowd waiting for him.
To one side was Jessamine with her arms around Sidney. Spearheading the rest of the throng was a broad-shouldered woman who held her son in front of her as though he was evidence in an assault trial. Leon gracefully alit from the boat and headed to his family but the angry woman accosted him.
“Leon Johnson, with your fine clothes and big house, you have to face the wrath of God for raising your son to be a ruffian, leaving months at a time so he can terrorize the community!”
First Leon kissed his wife and hugged his son. Then he turned to consider what the woman had said.
“How can a ten-year-old boy terrorize a community?”
“He broke my son’s nose!”
Leon looked at Sidney and then the woman’s son who was several inches taller. “He must have been standing on a box at the time. Now why would my little boy want to hit your bigger boy?”
“That’s what I want to know!”
“Have you asked your son?”
“He’s too upset to talk about it!”
Leon turned to Sidney. “Did you hit this boy?”
Sidney wriggled free of his mother. “Yes, I hit Bobby.”
Leon smiled, “Oh, this is the Bobby I’ve heard about?” He leaned into the boy’s face. “You like to bully children, eh, Bobby?” He looked at the mother. “By the way, the nose is not broken. It’s just a little bloody.” He stared at her. “Tell me, did you raise your son to be a bully?”
“He is not a bully!” The mother huffed. “Some children get what’s coming to them, that’s all!”
“So what did Sidney have coming to him, Bobby?”
The bigger boy stuck his lower lip out. “He sounds like a girl.”
Leon stepped so close to Bobby’s mother that she took a step back. “I agree with you, madam. Some children get what’s coming to them. Now if you will step aside I want to go home with my family.”

Remember Chapter One

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Author’s note: My novella Remember is a reflection on how we treat our young people going to war and especially the ones who will never come back. They are human beings like the rest of us with hopes, loves and fears. It deals with a retired college English teacher remembering her favorite student, how she loved him and eventually let him down. I particularly like the student Vernon Singleberry whose dreams come true only in the memories of others.

It was a spring morning in 1980. Lucinda Cambridge, a terribly thin and brittle woman in her early seventies, sat in a rocking chair in her sparsely appointed bedroom in a boarding house in a small Texas community, reading from two books at a small table. One was Homer’s Odyssey, and the other was Ernest Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea. She did not know that by nightfall she would be dead.

“For two nights and two days he was lost in the heavy seas. Time and again he saw his end at hand,” she whispered in the same monotone voice she used as she recited selections of literature to her bored junior college students.

A 10-year-old blonde with large eyes crawled through the window by Lucinda’s bed. The retired teacher jumped slightly at the noise and turned to see the little girl plop her feet on the old wooden floor.

“Shirley Meyers!” Lucinda did not know whether to startled or terribly pleased by the impromptu visit.

“Shh! The old women will hear you!” She wandered over to the bed and hopped up on it, dangling her legs in carefree abandon.

“Oh no! You haven’t skipped school again!” Lucinda decided upon the imperious, judgmental tone to defend the honorable institution of education to which she had dedicated her life.

“Today’s Good Friday. They let us out early. Before lunch. So they didn’t have to feed us.” Shirley’s eyes wandered around the room.

“Does your mother know you’re here?”

“No.” Shirley jumped from the bed and walked to the far wall which had stacks and stacks of books against it. “You sure do have a lot of books. If somebody read all of them they’d be the smartest person in the world.”

“Why didn’t you tell your mother?” Lucinda would not be diverted from her well-intentioned meddling.

Shirley went back to the window and leaned out, inhaling deeply. “You’re so lucky to have honeysuckle growing right outside your window. Doesn’t it smell sweet?”

“Shirley?” Lucinda risked sounding school-marmish, which, indeed, she was.

“Because I’d have to sit at the beauty parlor and listen to mama talk about Warren Beatty and hear the women giggle about how silly it all sounds,” she replied, her eyes moving from the honeysuckle to the sky. “The clouds look so fluffy.”

“So the boarding house has become your sanctuary?” Her tone melted into sympathy. Lucinda could not help herself.

“No. Only your room.” Shirley pulled in her head, turned and smiled.

“Why, thank you, Shirley.”

“Those old biddies at the beauty parlor– they look at me funny and murmur, “Love child, love child.”

“That’s why you visit me so often.” She felt like her heart was about to burst with happiness.

“You don’t make me feel different.”

Lucinda extended her arms, and Shirley came over to give her a hug.

“Ah, but you are different.” She closed her eyes to keep from crying. “You’re so fresh and open and sweet.”

“And that name, love child.” Shirley asked, “What does it mean?”

“Well, it means . . . .”

“I know what it means. My mama and daddy weren’t married.” She pulled away and sat on the bed again. “But what does it really means? If my daddy loved me why isn’t he here? Wouldn’t it make more sense to call me a sex child instead of a love child? I don’t feel loved.”

“I love you.”

“I know.” Shirley smiled. “That’s why I like talking to you.” She walked back over to the stacks of books. “And I like your books.”

Lucinda joined Shirley and picked up a college yearbook. “There’s one I want you to see.”

“What is it?”

“The Lion. The junior college yearbook from 1970. I want to show you someone in it.”

The bedroom door opened with an angry bang. Nancy, Shirley’s mother, stalked into the room. She was pretty, but in her short thirty years on earth had given her a hard-edge. Shirley nervously hid the yearbook behind her back.

“I thought I’d find you in here.” Nancy put her hands on her hips.

“Shirley’s not bothering anything, Mrs. Meyers.” Lucinda tried to use her best tutorial voice.

“You know very well it’s Miss Meyers.” She glared at her daughter. “What’s that?”

“A yearbook.” Shirley slowly brought it from behind her back.

Nancy grabbed it from her, looked at the yearbook and threw it on the floor next to the stacks of other books. “You don’t need to look at trash. Git out of here.”

“Yes, mama. Bye, Mrs. Cambridge.” Shirley went through the door, closed it but put her ear to it.

“I know what you’re up to, old woman.” Nancy pointed at Lucinda.

“Shirley deserves to know about Vernon Singleberry.”

“It’s none of your business.” She clinched her jaw tightly as though to end the conversation.

“But—“

“I don’t want to hear it,” Nancy cut her off.

“Please—“

Nancy opened the door, and Shirley jumped back as her mother stormed into the hall and gripped her daughter’s arm. “What are you doing?”

Lucinda cocked her head to hear the rest of the conversation, but Nancy dragged Shirley down the stairs, muttering the entire time. The old woman stared at the door a moment, sighed deeply and returned to her reading. “But in the morning of the third day, which Dawn opened in all her beauty, the wind dropped, a breathless calm set in and Odysseus keeping a sharp lookout ahead as he was lifted by a mighty wave, could see the land close by.” She tapped the book with conviction, then opened her volume of Hemingway. “Now where is that passage? Ah, here it is. She read moving her lips. Similarities, similarities. Man against the sea. Man as one with the sea. Did Hemingway know what he was doing? Was he inspired by Homer? Oh, we shall never know! Why oh why did such a gifted writer have to blow his brains out?”

She unconsciously rubbed her right arm, then momentarily she felt dizzy. Shaking her head Lucinda looked up to see that she was mysteriously in her old classroom at the junior college, and saw Vernon Singleberry—a tall, blond young man, about nineteen, with large, soulful eyes— lope in just as the bell rang. He was dressed in blue jeans and a crisp plaid short-sleeved shirt and carrying too many books.

“He couldn’t write no more — I mean, anymore. Isn’t that what you told us, Miz Cambridge?”

Lucinda’s mouth flew open in shock. It was as though the last ten years were as a moment in time. She took a moment to recover. “Vernon Singleberry! What — what are you doing here!?”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Eighty-Nine

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Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Ashamed and distraught, Adam gets drunk and kills the butler who stops him from molesting the cook. Six months later Richmond falls to the Union. The captives in the basement learn the war is over.
Alethia looked out of her bedroom window at the setting sun. She thought of the late afternoon, two years ago now, when she unpacked her bag. She had been afraid until she met Duff. The last year had been the happiest in her life, and she had hopes it would continue. She was a little sad that she would never see Tad again. He had been so wild when they had first met, but now he was a kind, loving child. Perhaps she would have her own child soon, if Duff proposed marriage. They would live in Michigan. She didn’t want to go back to Maryland.
“Molly,” Duff said at her bedroom door, “it’s time for supper.”
“I thought the crowds would never leave.” Alethia rushed to him and hugged him tightly. Looking up, she kissed him. “I missed you so much while you were in Richmond.”
“I missed you, too,” Duff echoed. His face seemed to darken. “You know, the war will be over soon.”
“Yes, I know,” Alethia replied, taking Duff’s large, rough hand in hers as she led him out the door. “I can hardly wait. We’ve so many plans to make, plans we were afraid to make before now.”
“I thought you might be doing that.”
“Of course. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of the day when all of this would be over.”
They entered the dining room, and Tad was already there. Cleotis appeared with their dinner of beefsteak, gravy, potatoes, and greens. Smiling graciously, he put the plates down and then poured milk for Tad and coffee for Alethia and Duff.
“Thank you, Cleotis,” Alethia said.
“My pleasure, madam,” he replied and left.
“I like Cleotis very much.” Alethia sipped her coffee. “He’s much friendlier than Neal—not that Neal was rude, but there was something aloof about him. Neal’s departure was so sudden. Do you know why, Father?”
“No. Perhaps he finally crossed the line of proper behavior,” Duff replied.
“Shouldn’t you have been told why?” she asked.
“Sometimes it’s best not to be told.”
“Anyway, I like Cleotis very much.” Alethia smiled as she cut into her steak.
As they finished their meal, Stanton opened the door and sat in the empty chair at the end of the table, his face as somber as ever.
“General Lee surrendered today at the Appomattox courthouse in Virginia.”
“The war’s over!” Tad exclaimed. “Good! I can finally—”
“Tad dearest,” Alethia sweetly interrupted, “have you finished your supper?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Would you like to inform the staff the war’s over?”
“Yes, Mama.”
After Tad closed the door, Stanton listened for the little footsteps to fade. After what Alethia thought was an interminable pause, Stanton put on his pebble glasses and pulled out a notepad, opened it, and read slowly.
“Your debts will be canceled Friday, and you both can leave after sunset.”
“Thank God.” Alethia crossed herself.
“Thank me.” Stanton’s cupid lips turned up in a smug smile. “Both of you would have surely hanged if I hadn’t intervened.”
Alethia stiffened. Looking at Duff, she could not sense a direction to follow. In the last two years, she not only had fallen in love with Duff, but also had learned to lean on his judgment. At this moment, she found him indecipherable.
“So, it’ll be as simple as that,” Duff finally said. “We pack our bags, mount a carriage, and disappear in the night.”
“As simple as that.” Stanton’s eyes narrowed.
His tone bothered Alethia, until she thought of her new life in Michigan. Once they were on the steamboat up the Potomac, they could forget the lies, pretense, and, most of all, Edwin Stanton.
“Your duties aren’t over yet,” he continued. “There’ll be a candlelight parade tomorrow evening, so you’ll have to read a speech on the balcony.”
“Will Lincoln write it?” Duff asked.
“Yes, like the others,” Stanton replied. “And then the Cabinet meets on Wednesday and Friday.”
Alethia concentrated on experiencing spring in Michigan; frankly, affairs of government no longer interested her.
“Enjoy your supper.” Stanton stood. “Take everything with you; we don’t want any evidence that anyone other than the Lincolns have lived upstairs.”
No evidence left to show they were there, she repeated to herself; a disturbing notion. Shrugging, she decided not to dwell on that thought.

Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Twenty-Five

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Previously: Man in the Red Underwear is a pastiche of prose and poetry with hints of parody and a dash of social satire on gender roles and class mores. Cecelia throws a society ball, where former lovers Andy and Bedelia meet. Andy and friends try to stop villain Malcolm Tent. The good guys finally get the goods on Tent. Tent accuses Andy of wearing red underwear.No big deal. Everybody’s wearing red underwear.
“If he isn’t going,” Tent retorted while pointing at Andy, “I’m not going!”

“Oh, yes you are!” Cecelia said as though demanding a recalcitrant child to come to the dinner table.

“Who’s going to make me?” His smirk was most arrogant. You and who else?”

“Oh Billy!” Cecelia swept over to her potential new lover.

“Yes, Lady Chatalot?” Billy’s eyes glowed with mischief.

Tent cast a wary eye toward his henchman and the licentious lady who was whispering in his ear. He looked at Millicent. “Lady Chatalot? What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Maybe some secret code.”

“I think it’s dirty,” Eddie offered softly.

Billy then grabbed Tent’s arm and twisted it behind his back. “Come along, sir.”

“But Billy!” He sputtered frantically. “I thought you were on my side!”

“She kisses better than you do, sir,” he informed his former boss.

“But, Billy.” Tent was getting really desperate by this point. “You don’t know how I kiss!”

The very thought caused Billy to grimace. “Sorry, sir. I don’t care to find out.”

“Oh dear, Billy, but you may have to go to jail too.” Cecelia went to him and tenderly stroked his filthy cheek. “However, your good deed in bringing Tent to justice may weigh with the judge.”

“That’s all right, Lady Chatalot. It won’t be the first time I’ve been in the slammer.”

Cecelia blew a kiss to Billy as he manhandled Tent out the door. “I’ll be waiting, with canapés.” She followed them to the front door and graciously opened it for them.

Millicent grabbed Eddie by the elbow. “Come on, Eddie. The party’s almost over. Let me walk you home.”

. “No wait. I almost got it.” Eddie was hunched over in a most unseemly manner, still trying to unbutton his pants.

Millicent slapped his hands to make him stop as they walked out the door. “It doesn’t make any difference now.”

“No, really, I almost got it. I swear I got on red underwear. Just like you told me.”

By the time they made their way through the ballroom, Eddie finally unbuttoned his pants and dropped them, only to reveal forest green tights. Very Robin Hood.

A voice in the crowd called out, “Is that guy wearing green underwear? I’ve never seen anything like that before! This is the weirdest party I’ve ever been at! I like it! Let’s be sure to come again next year!”

Back in the library, Bedelia snuggled close to Andy as he pulled up his pants. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Never!” A rakish grin spread across his face. “You will have to spend the rest of your life begging me.” He paused to kiss her. “And begging.” Another kiss. “And begging.” Yet another kiss.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is the end of the tale of Andy, Bedelia and the rest. If you liked it, please drop a dollar or two in my tip basket above.

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Eighty-Eight

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Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Ashamed and distraught, Adam gets drunk and kills the butler who stops him from molesting the cook. Six months later Richmond falls to the Union. The captives in the basement learn the war is over.
“Cordie will fix me a good supper once I get home tonight.”
“It’ll be end of the week before you can leave,” Stanton said.
“That’s fine.” Lincoln put his arm around his wife. “We’ll arise Easter Sunday.”
His mind a blank, Adam unlocked the door. Not knowing where his feet would take him, he did not care; this was the first happy day for many months and he was unable to deal with it. Out the door and in the hall, Adam looked both ways. When he focused on the kitchen, he thought of Phebe. Even though he knew she would never forgive him, Adam felt an obligation to let her and Cleotis know the good news. He found Phebe sitting and rubbing her feet while the butler swept the floor.
“The war’s over.”
Phebe dropped her feet and slipped on her shoes.
“Thank you, Private,” Cleotis replied in deep, solemn tones. “The struggle for freedom is at last over. Hallelujah.”
“We can go home,” Adam mumbled.
“You may be going home, but, the Good Lord willing, we are home. Free and where we should be.”
“Yes, sir.” Looking at Phebe, he saw her reach for Cleotis’s hand and smile. Adam left the kitchen, looked down at his clothes, and rubbed his chin. He needed to clean up, he decided, before he went to Jessie to beg for her forgiveness.
In his room, Adam removed his blue tunic, stained with bean soup and mustard. Looking in the mirror, he brushed his fingers through his unruly red hair. They would have beautiful red-haired children, and he would be a good father. Adam brushed lathered soap onto his stubbly face. Perhaps he could get a job at one of the pottery factories in Steubenville. He did not want to be in the army anymore. Next he searched his room for a spare tunic, finding it under the cot, stained with vomit. Deciding the first tunic was better, Adam put it back on and took a wet hand cloth to wipe away the worst of the stains. When that failed, he told himself it did not look all that bad.
Making his way through the crowded streets, Adam crossed the iron bridge and ran to the Armory Square Hospital. Inside the ward, he looked furtively around, hoping to find Jessie, but could not see her. He did notice the odd-looking man who had approached them on the street the night of the Gettysburg celebration. Adam walked over to the odd man who looked up from writing a letter for a soldier whose hands were covered with bandages.
“Where’s Jessie?”
“She’s in a back room with Miss Zook,” the man replied. “The dear old lady doesn’t felt well. I’m afraid the war has not been kind to her.”
“The war’s over.”
“I was expecting it.” The odd man looked down at the wounded soldier. “I have to finish this letter. He wants his mother to know he’s coming home.”
Adam walked down the long aisle, his stomach turning from the mixture of smells—liniment, incontinence, alcohol. Opening the door at the end of the hall, he saw Jessie sitting on the edge of Cordie’s cot, wiping the old lady’s moist cheeks. Jessie turned to look at him, her eyes blank.
“The war’s over,” he said.
Jessie turned her attention to Cordie, who was delirious.
“I’ve got to get it done,” she mumbled. “Gabby needs a quilt. I can’t get it done just lying here. I got—I got…”
“Of course, me dear, get your strength back,” Jessie said. “Be quiet, me love. Try to sleep now.”
“Did you hear me?” Adam fidgeted.
“Yes.”
“Gabby’s got to get a quilt,” Cordie insisted feverishly.
“Darlin’, I’ll finish the quilt meself.”
“So tired.” Cordie shook her head. “Can’t finish the Gabby quilt.” She looked up at Jessie and grabbed her arm. “Take care of Gabby. He used to be so smart, but he needs somebody to take care of him.” Her eyes searched Jessie’s face. “Take care of him.”
“Of course, me darlin’. Try to sleep.”
“Gabby’s leaving the White House soon,” Adam told her. “He can help you get well.”
“Gabby’s coming home?” Cordie’s eyes widened. “Good. Good.” She focused on Adam. “Bring him here as soon as you can.”
“I will.”
“Gabby’s coming home. That’s good. I feel better now. Gabby’s coming home.” Cordie coughed, gasped, and stopped breathing. Her eyes gazed blankly over Jessie’s shoulder.
“God bless ye, me darlin’.” Jessie closed Cordie’s eyes.
“You were good to her.” Adam put his hand on her shoulder. “We can take care of Gabby. He’ll like it in Steubenville. It’s a friendly little town.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you all right?” Adam realized how warm her body felt beneath his hand, and that her face was moist with perspiration. “You seem awfully hot.”
“I’m fine.” She coughed.
“How long have you been sick?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you seen the doctor?”
“The doctors are for the soldiers.”
“But you’re important too,” Adam insisted.
“I can take care of meself.”
“But I want to take care of you.” He could only whisper.
“Ye can’t take care of yourself.”
“You’re right.” Adam’s mind raced to form the precise words to win her back. “I’ve behaved terribly, but all that’s behind me. I’ve grown up.”
“I have to make funeral arrangements.” Jessie stood.
“What about Gabby?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“What about me?”
“You’re grown up. Take care of yourself.”
Adam followed her out the door, watching her cough as she disappeared into the crowded ward. The odd-looking man walked up.
“Miss Zook is dead, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“You love Miss Home, don’t you?”
“She hates me.”
“Love and hate are related; she could not be so deeply hurt if she did not love as deeply.”
“No, she hates me.”
“She loves you. Give her time.”
“We don’t have time.”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Sixty-One

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. They fail to kill Hitler.
The train ride, spent in silence from Germany to Paris, became a tense ordeal for David and Wallis. They had failed in missions before but never one of such consequence. The death of Adolf Hitler would have saved the whole world.
“Why couldn’t you have waited another five minutes?” Wallis asked, more in exasperation than anger.
“We didn’t have five minutes.” His reply was passionless. His schwermut had full control of his soul. “The reception line took longer than we thought. Everyone thought you were charming.”
“Is this fiasco my fault?”
David turned to smile. “Of course not. You can’t help it if you are charming.”
She puffed on her cigarette. “You’re pretty damn charming yourself, buster.” Wallis paused. “Someday we’ll have to go to the rodeo.”
“Rodeo? What do you mean by that?” He crinkled his brow.
“I thought you’d been to Calgary.”
David laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “Anyway, it was imperative for us to be on that train. If we were still in the chalet when Hitler began to show symptoms, we would have been in dire circumstances.”
“What’s next?” Wallis looked out the window and noticed a change in scenery. They were safe in France.
Once they were entrenched in their third-story suite in Paris’s Hotel Meurice, they stayed in seclusion as they awaited new orders from MI6. As the days stretched into weeks without word, they were happy to have a peaceful time to relax. They were both in their forties now and the marriage melodrama, blowing up a train and attempting to assassinate Adolf Hitler wore them out. David and Wallis received absolutely no invitations to soirees, and they were glad. The rumors indicated that the French elite were afraid to socialize with the Duke and Duchess out of fear of offending the British King. They preferred to sleep in, go to the hotel spa for sessions with the masseuse and have their meals in their suite. One or two invitations to lesser events came their way, but the couple ignored them. Their major ritual each day was reading the Parisian edition of the London Times. In fact, they began a competition to see who could finish the crossword puzzle first. They were evenly match.
In early November they both noticed a story on the social page about a charity sale on behalf of the British Episcopal Church of Christ in Neuilly. Each copy of their papers had the event circled in red. Before they could comment on it, there was a knock at the door. A bellboy handed David an envelope, bowed, waited for his tip, which Wallis provided, and walked away. The Duke opened the envelope and handed the contents to Wallis.
“We’ve been invited to a charity sale.” Her voice was flat. “How boring.”
“The red circles in our newspapers tell me otherwise.”
On the night of the charity event, David chose a conventional business suit—appropriate for a church gathering—and then sat in the drawing room waiting for Wallis to appear and holding his breath; after all she was an American and tended to overdress for certain occasions. On this evening, however she did not disappoint. Wallis wore a modest grey gown fitted tightly to her slender figure. And the neckline was properly high considering they were to attend an event in a church.
When they arrived at the reception hall, the Duke and Duchess heard polite reserved applause. A gentleman, evidently from the board of church elders, greeted them.
“The bishop wishes to have a word with the two of you before the sale officially begins,” he said. “Follow me.”
As they made their way through the crowd, Wallis waved and smiled, though some of the older ladies chose to turn a cheek. The gentleman opened the door to a dimly lit wood-paneled office and closed it with efficiency as the couple stepped in. A man dressed in cleric robes with his back to them sat at a desk.
“The church absolves you of your sins.”
David thought the voice sounded familiar.
When he turned in his chair, they saw a smiling General Trotter.
“I thought you might feel bad about not killing Hitler.”
“We don’t need absolution from you or any church.” Wallis was testy.
“It’s just as well.” Trotter stood and crossed around the desk. “A half dozen or more lieutenants, just as crazy but quite a bit more lucid, would have stepped in and kept the world moving toward war. My real purpose tonight is to inform of your new missions.”
“May we have a seat?” David asked. “This might take a while.”
“Please do. But this won’t take long. It’s more of a general outline for the next two years. We need more specific data. Troop movements. Artillery placement. Intent of the French people. We know the government is fragile but we need the pulse of the common citizen. We need to find you two houses, one near Paris to make the duke available to the front and one on the Riviera so Wallis can get a sense of the mood of the people. Also, the beach house would be more secluded for our communication.”
“The important question is,” Wallis said with a flair, “will I be allowed to decorate them anyway I wish?”
“Of course,” Trotter replied. “If you became frugal now, the world would know something was odd.” He looked at David. “I hope you have kept your flying skills honed. We need your observations of the Belgian countryside.”
“You can count on me.” David smiled. “At first I thought this was going to be boring.”
Trotter handed Wallis a slip of paper. “Read this to open the sale. Then bustle round, complimenting everything and buying a few knick knacks. Win them over.”
She shrugged. “It’s what I do best.”

Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Twenty-Four

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Previously: Man in the Red Underwear is a pastiche of prose and poetry with hints of parody and a dash of social satire on gender roles and class mores. Cecelia throws a society ball, where former lovers Andy and Bedelia meet. Andy and friends try to stop villain Malcolm Tent. The good guys finally get the goods on Tent. Tent accuses Andy of wearing red underwear.
If you’re not wearing something red you might as well be stone cold dead!
‘Cause red is taking center stage! It’s right for any age! Bright red is all the rage!

Cecelia got right into the chief inspector’s face to wag a finger.

You’re such a dud and not a stud because you always dress in black.
And you should know some other things, you clueless old sad sack.
Don’t pink! It stinks!

Millicent stepped forward to snap her fingers.

Don’t blue! It’s flu!

In the spirit of the emotional riot occurring in the library, Bedelia broke out of her prim and proper mold.

Yellow? Hell no!

Andy caught on to the general mood and made his own offering.

Don’t green! Obscene!

As usual Eddie tried his best but stumbled on the rhyme.

Don’t purple! It’s burple!

Cecelia added another for good effect.

Don’t orange! It’s—
Orange, orange, no rhyme for orange.

Eddie patted her on the shoulder.

Oh, that don’t matter. I rhymed purple!

She nodded, ignoring Eddie’s advice.

Actually, orange is a shade of red so I suppose orange is acceptable.
So if you don’t wear something red, you might as well be stone cold dead!
We hear the Queen might make the scene and wear the current fashion rage!
‘Cause red is taking center stage. It’s right for any age! Bright red is all the rage!
We said not beige, and, damn not white, it’s such a fright, it’s red that’s all the rage!

“What do you mean?” Tent narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“I got on red underwear too!” Eddie tried to unbutton his trousers but without success. At the palace he had his personal valet to perform such intricate duties. He began to stumble around the library in an attempt unbutton them.

“And I have red underwear!” Millicent lifted her dress to reveal bright red lacy leggings.

“And I!” Lifting her gown, Cecelia revealed tights of more a dark crimson nature.

Bedelia put a finger to her cheek and smiled naughtily. “Come to think of it, I’m wearing red underwear too.”

In anticipation of making the lingerie preference almost unanimous, the heroes turned to look at Billy.

“Don’t look at me.” He shrugged and winked at Cecelia. “I don’t wear no underwear at all.”

“Be still my heart!” Lady Snob-Johnson swooned.

Eddie ran to swing open the ballroom door. He hollered at all the other guests who were in the middle of a proper waltz by Strauss.

“And you folks out there! How many of y’all have on red underwear?” He pointed at a lady closest to him. “You there, ma’am. I bet you got on red underwear!”

“Eddie!” One must wonder why anything Eddie did still shocked Millicent.

“Hitch up yo’r dress and let us see red!”

Millicent resorted to corporal punishment by slapping his face. “Eddie! Stop it!”

“Oh. Sorry.” That was the first time that Millicent was ever physically abusive. He kind of liked it. “You can keep yo’r dress down, ma’am.” He then decided to try again to unbutton his own pants and show his red underwear.

“As you said, inspector,” Millicent said smugly, “you have a date at headquarters.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Eighty-Seven

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Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Ashamed and distraught, Adam gets drunk and kills the butler who stops him from molesting the cook. Six months later Richmond falls to the Union. Lincoln impersonator Duff learns that he is officially dead.
Stanton unlocked the billiards room door, rousing Gabby from a restless afternoon nap. Gabby listened carefully to Stanton as he spoke to the Lincolns.
“The president has returned from Richmond.”
“With Tad safe and sound,” Mrs. Lincoln said.
“You have to learn the details of the trip,” Stanton said, ignoring her. “When you return upstairs, you’ll have to answer questions from the press.”
“Our places upstairs?” She sounded surprised. “This will be over soon?”
“General Grant is pursuing General Lee through the heart of Virginia.”
“I’ll be back with my precious Taddie.”
And I’ll be back with my precious Cordie. Gabby’s heart raced. What will I do first once I’m free to go to her?
“Calm down, Molly,” Lincoln said. “Listen to Mr. Stanton.”
“After Richmond fell,” Stanton began, “the navy removed Confederate torpedoes in the James River. You were aboard the U.S.S. Malvern until it could no longer pass the line of enemy obstructions, then you transferred to a barge pulled by the tugboat Glance. You were recognized by a group of colored workmen who shouted, ‘Bless the Lord, this is the great Messiah! Glory, hallelujah!’ From there you, Mr. Lincoln, and Tad went to the Confederate White House where you sat in Jefferson Davis’s chair.” He paused to cough.
“You don’t look well, Mr. Stanton,” Lincoln said.
Good. Gabby clinched his jaw. I hope he dies.
“You spent time reviewing troops, and left Richmond yesterday evening, and arrived at the capital this afternoon. You’ll speak to the public tomorrow and meet with the Cabinet on Wednesday.
“About reconstruction of the South?” Lincoln asked.
“I’m sure the topic will come up. I’ve encouraged him to pursue your agenda. He’s been so persistent he’s alienated several sympathetic Cabinet members.”
“When I return, I can soothe any hurt feelings,” Lincoln said.
“Perhaps.”
Gabby noticed a pause.
“Mr. Stanton,” Lincoln continued, “exactly what is your position?”
“On what?”
“Reconstruction.”
“Undecided.”
Stanton did not want reconstruction. Gabby glared at the war secretary. He wanted to keep the nation divided to make it easier for him to become king. Long ago, Gabby decided Stanton did not want to end the war, but wanted to be all-powerful.
“The rebels must be punished,” Stanton declared.
“I believe they already have been,” Lincoln replied.
“They certainly have,” Mrs. Lincoln agreed.
Gabby heard the door open. It must be the private with supper.
“When you return to office, you may pursue any reconstruction policy you wish, but I doubt you’ll succeed.”
“Excuse me,” Adam muttered.
Slowly rounding the corner, Gabby watched him place the tray on the billiards table.
“Here’s a wire from the War Department.” Adam handed Stanton the envelope and turned away. As he was about to pass Gabby, Adam lowered his eyes. Gabby noticed Lincoln studied Stanton as he opened the wire and read it. Lincoln reached out to squeeze his wife’s hand. Stanton cleared his throat, and Gabby watched Lincoln lean forward.
“This is the news we’ve been waiting for. General Lee surrendered at the Appomattox courthouse in Virginia. The war is over.”
The war is over. Gabby’s mind raced with a thousand thoughts. I don’t know what to do. I wonder if the President would mind if I hollered for joy. No. I want to see Cordie. That’s all that mattered. I’m going to see Cordie!

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Sixty

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. On their honeymoon they derail a train. Now they’re on their way to kill Hitler.
Wallis stuck her cigarette in her mouth to keep from laughing at the two men who obviously had been crawling around under a giant miniature train display so they could pop their heads up through a hole in the middle of it. Nothing seemed as ludicrous as crawling on the floor for a former king of England and the absolute leader of the Third Reich right before a magnificent tea party in the German Alps.
David extended a hand to Hitler to help him stand. The Fuhrer ignored it. Wallis grabbed her husband’s elbow and directed him out of the room.
“Am I mistaken or was there murder in your eyes?” she whispered.
“If you had been one second later, I would have stomped his head in.”
“Now, now, you know that would have been much too messy.” She jerked him toward the reception hall where all of the finest people gathered to participate in an authentically replicated high English tea. Wallis pushed him toward a bosomy blonde looking merrily quaint in her dirndl. She was in that marvelous time of life when no one could tell if she were twenty-five or thirty-five nor really cared.
“I must introduce you to our hostess, fraulein Eva Braun.” Wallis leaned into his ear. “She’s Hitler’s version of Freda Ward.”
“Does she speak English?”
“God, how would I know? Just try not to stare at her bosom too much.”
As David walked over to Eva, Wallis puffed on her cigarette and tried not to stare at Eva too much herself. Some time had passed since she felt an urge from her other physiology. She enjoyed the dresses and makeup too much. And nothing matched the exhilaration of bringing a man to ecstasy through the infliction of delicious pain. Every now and again, a woman—usually a blonde—would remind her of the condition she was born with. Most of the time she ignored it. Such a revelation would shock Aunt Bessie, and she was such a naïve dear. And of course, once the word got out she would not be invited to those divine parties. And sometimes she felt like she wanted to punish the sweet little blondes for reminding Wallis of what she was—not what she chose to be nor what society allowed her to be. The last time she felt such an attraction was for KiKi Preston, the girl with the silver syringe. Wallis found KiKi alluring yet such a bane to the existence of the Royal Family, which she had pledged to defend and protect. Eva, on the other hand, looked like a lost child wandering down a posy-strewn path to hell. Wallis was relieved she only had to kill Hitler and not his mistress.
“Ach, duchess, you left before I had a chance to show you, as you so quaintly called them, my choo choos.”
Wallis made a quarter turn, then looked over her shoulder through the black fur of her fox wrap to flutter her eyes at the Fuhrer.
Hitler stopped, his mouth dropped and the words that managed to escape his lips made no sense at all.
Half-covering her face with her fur piece was a cheap trick but it worked every time. Wallis walked slowly to the Fuhrer and extended her hand to be kissed—the same hand, by the way, which wore the opal ring which contained the poison.
“I’m sorry, Herr Hitler, you must repeat your last question. My German, unfortunately, is very weak.”
“I was going to say you are one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life. The newsreels do you no justice. It is a shame we are both married. You to the former king of England—
“But I thought you were single.”
“—and I am married to my beloved Germany.” He bent to kiss her hand again.
“No no.” She withdrew her hand. “No time for seconds. You must introduce me to all these fascinating people.”
Hitler stuck by her side as they made their way around the room for introductions. She remembered none of their names. Wallis was grateful none of them wished for piss on earth. German women, in particular, had trouble pronouncing the English word peace which turned into “piss”. Hitler, however, kept running his fingers up and down her back. It repulsed her, but she knew she must continue to lead him into her trap. Occasionally, she looked around at him, fluttering her eyes through the black fox fur.
“After the reception is over,” he whispered, “when these people have left and before your limousine arrives to take you back to the train station, you must see my choo choo set, up close and personal.”
“Shall I bring the drinks or shall you?”
Hitler gulped. “I will. What do you want?”
“A Cuba libre.”
“Of course, I will free Cuba too, but it will take time.”
“You don’t know what a Cuba libre is, do you?”
“No.” His dark penetrating eyes searched her face. “This is the first time I’ve told the truth to anybody. What is this strange hold you have over me?”
“Meet me in the choo choo room, and I will show you.” She winked.
For the next hour Adolf Hitler could not remember anyone’s name or title. He kept his hands to himself, now that he had been promised more than he could have hoped for. Finally, a short woman wearing too many pearls promised Wallis piss on earth. Hitler was still in his delirium and was unable to correct her pronunciation. Eventually the crowd began to drift away leaving only a core of diehard sycophants—field Marshall Hermann Goering who was in deep conversation with David, obviously about the train display; Joachim Von Ribbentrop who could not keep his eyes off Wallis; and Eva Braun who still wandered around like a lost waif.
“You must excuse me, Herr Hitler. I must freshen up a bit, if you don’t mind.” Wallis peeked through her fox stole again.
“Of course.” Hitler cleared his throat. I’ll be waiting for you in the—well, you know where.”
“And I’ll bring the drinks.” Wallis went directly to the cloak room where she had left her overcoat. She recovered from an inside pocket the drab gray uniform she had absconded from dress factory days earlier. She slipped it on over her fitted suit with the fox collar. After taking a moment to cover the fur with the uniform collar, she left and went to the bar. Along the way she commandeered a white servant’s cap. Poor girl was so intimidated by working in Hitler’s private residence, she said nothing when a strange woman snatched the cap from her head. Wallis properly adjusted the headwear before going to the bar where she ordered one Cuba libre.
The bartender presented it to her on a small silver tray. She then assumed the subservient posture of a servant as she passed through the reception hall. Wallis didn’t think even David noticed her. Right before she went into the train display room, she quickly opened her opal ring, emptied its contents into the drink and then turned it around on her finger so it appeared to be a plain band. Hitler was already positioned in the center opening.
“How dare you!” he barked. “How many times have you people been told to knock before entering?”
Wallis said nothing but tossed off her cap, unbuttoned the gray uniform and shimmied until it began to fall from her thin shoulders. She deftly switched the tray from one hand to another to allow the dress to land on the floor.
“I thought you were bringing two drinks,” Hitler commented in a dull school-boy voice.
“I drank mine at the bar. A double.”
“You don’t mind joining me in control central, do you? You have to crawl.”
“I won’t spill a drop of your drink. I’m quite agile, you know.”
Hitler let out a slight moan.
Wallis paused only briefly as she crawled under the table. She noticed the Fuhrer had already removed his pressed black slacks. Remembering her pledge to MI6, she trudged onward. Once she entered the central opening, Wallis rose like a navy-blue hyacinth. She heard Hitler breathe in deeply.
“You are one of the most fascinating women in the world, or am I repeating myself?”
“No. Earlier you said I was the most beautiful woman in the world. To be beautiful and fascinating blend together well, I think.” Smiling, Wallis added, “David and I must be back in town for the 6 p.m. train, so let’s get this choo choo out of the station.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.” He stepped closer. “I am developing a strategy I will call the blitzkrieg. The world will be astounded.”
“Well, before you astound me, please drink your Cuba libre. It may astound you.” Wallis lifted the tray.
The door swung open with a bang, and a wide-eyed Ribbentrop stood there like a frightened boy. “The duke is looking for the duchess, and is quite upset. They must leave now to make their 6 o’clock train.”
Wallis dropped the tray and glass to the floor before Hitler could drink it. The bastard couldn’t die now. The Germans would know for certain that she did it.
Wallis dropped to her knees. “I’m on my way.” She looked Hitler’s way. “The Fuhrer has a few things to put in order before he can join us.”
The Windsors were almost in the limousine when Hitler ran down the steps, smoothing out his trousers, reached for Wallis to pull her close for a kiss.
“You would have made a remarkable queen.”

Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Twenty-Three

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Previously: Man in the Red Underwear is a pastiche of prose and poetry with hints of parody and a dash of social satire on gender roles and class mores. Cecelia throws a society ball, where former lovers Andy and Bedelia meet. Andy and friends try to stop villain Malcolm Tent. Tent woos Bedelia. Andy woos Bedelia. Cecelia woos Billy. The good guys finally get the goods on Tent.
“You may have me, but as my last act as chief inspector of Scotland Yard I will arrest the Man in the Red Underwear!” Tent’s voice was filled with unbowed haughtiness.

Cecelia, Millicent and Eddie were shocked. “You will?”

“Yes!” He turned dramatically to point at the lounge. “I arrest you! Lord Andrew Taylor!”

The accusation broke momentarily his concentration on Bedelia and he reverted to his dressmaker affectations. “Oh inspector! How quaint! How droll! How divine! You’re bringing the giggles out of me!”

“Do you dare drop your pants and let us see your underwear?”

“Here!?” Andy stood and swished over to Tent. “Oh inspector! I don’t know what to think! I mean, I hardly know you.”

“Cut the act, Taylor. I’m on to you.”

“Ooh! I don’t know what you mean!” Andy futilely feigned feyness one last time.

“Drop ‘em.” He sounded like a boot camp instructor ordering a recruit to do twenty push-ups.

Bedelia, Eddie, Cecelia and Millicent broke into poetry tinged with a sense of urgency.

Don’t do it, Andy, it’s a trap to catch you with your trousers down.
So keep them up, don’t give the chief inspector cause to send you to jail!
He has no proof no way to say you are the Man in the Red Underwear.
It’s just his word against the word of everyone so don’t you dare
Reveal your underwear so he can cart you off to jail.
But if you do, don’t fret, don’t stew, we’ll pool our dough to make your bail!
Don’t drop your pants! You got no ants! So under no dire circumstance
Don’t drop your pants!
Don’t be naïve. It’s not the time to wear your heart upon your sleeve.
Remember Tent is the real crook; so don’t you let him off the hook.
He’s the one that’s criminal. We must be sure he’s off the street.
We’ve worked so hard, we’re almost there. He’s down and out. He’s almost beat.
We all love you, you’re our best friend. We’ll root for you right to the end.
So keep your trousers ‘round your waist. Please take your time, no need for haste!
Don’t drop your pants! You got no ants! So under no dire circumstance,
Don’t drop your pants!

Andy stared into Tent’s eyes, squared his jaw and dropped his pants, revealing red underwear.

“Come along, Lord Taylor. We have a date at headquarters.” Tent took Andy by his elbow.

Eddie stepped forward. “Excuse me, chief inspector.”

“Yes, what do you want?”

“Why do you think Andy is the Man in the Red Underwear?” One might supposed that Prince Eddie was, indeed, the dumbest person in the British Empire, but a rare intellectual glint in his eyes made one pause.

“Because he’s wearing red underwear, you idiot!” Tent retorted.

“Is that yo’r only evidence?”

“Of course not!”

One who loved to be in the middle of any conversation, Cecelia added, “What other evidence do you have?

“Miss Smart-Astin just announced, ‘I’d know that kiss anywhere!’ You are the Man in the Red Underwear!”

Millicent smiled broadly, a sign that she knew what Eddie was trying to present as Andy’s defense. “Bedelia, darling, do you remember saying that?”

“Me? Why I never said such a thing.”

“Liar! Liar! Pants on fire!” Tent paused, realizing he had lapsed into schoolyard behavior. “I still have him in red. That is evidence enough.”

“Wull, that ain’t no evidence at all.” Eddie nodded to the others indicating it was time for an all-out poetry performance, starting with Cecelia.

It’s plain to see you have no fashion sense, you dummy Malcolm Tent!
No one in London doesn’t know
That all the best dressed jills and joes
Are wearing red from head to toe!

Everyone else—except Tent and Billy, of course—came forward.