Storytellers
Chapter 7: Arthur Returns

Copyright© 2012 by Paris Waterman

Time Travel Sci-Fi Sex Story: Chapter 7: Arthur Returns - Its 1947, war veteran, Roy Shannon encounters an Alien in New Mexico. As a reward for helping him escape the alien provides Roy with what he calls the story of a lifetime.It takes us back to the origins of baseball; introduces a man who can merge with whomever he pleases; and along the way becomes the most terrifying serial killer in history.

Caution: This Time Travel Sci-Fi Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Romantic   Lesbian   Heterosexual   Science Fiction   Time Travel   Historical   Incest   Sister   First   Oral Sex   Anal Sex   Masturbation   Pregnancy   Caution   Violence   Prostitution  

Old Yaller, Bill Harbidge

Old Yaller, Bill Harbidge

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

I was back on the job.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Arthur?"

"Hello Roy, how are things?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You ... know about her?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, Arthur, it's like this; I need moola to get by.[1] I was fired from my paper in Chicago for taking too long on the Dahlia case. I was lucky to hook up with the local paper here in Cinematown."

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

"I don't..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"When?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had some thinking and even more explaining to do.

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

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

"You really met ... an alien?"

"I did, I really did."

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

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

"To explain the money, honey."

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

"So?"

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

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

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

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

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

 
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