By Ed Staskus

   “We have got to hurry,” Lucky Legs said. “Once the sun comes up out of the eastern ocean he will be impossible to see in the daylight.” The 19^th century Boston man picked up the pace. Oliver stayed hard on his heels. It was 1871. They were after a spook. The phantom was rubbing everybody the wrong way and had to go.

   Oliver and Lucky Legs were after Jim Stubbs, a ghost who had been conjured up by one of Boston’s spirit photographers. After he sold the printed picture the photographer thought that was the end of Jim Stubbs. What he didn’t know was that Jim Stubbs liked being conjured up and had no plans of going anywhere. In the meantime, he was scaring the pants off Easties from Beacon Hill to Chinatown.

   When Oliver had gotten the photographer William Mumler’s SOS, he fired up his time machine. It was a long way from Perry, Ohio, and his time machine had long ago gone clanky as a bygone AMC Rambler, but he  always went where he was needed. Jim Stubbs drifted ahead of his pursuers through Boston Commons and down a side street. He was drifting almost faster than Oliver and Lucky Legs could run.

   They ran past a man who, even though he looked fit as a fiddle, looked like he could barely take another step. He was Al Spalding, a baseball player who was the starting pitcher for the Boston Red Stockings. He was their only pitcher. He started and finished all 31 games for the team that season, eventually winning 19 of them. The ball club was formed the year before by a Boston businessman who saw gold in the game. The team was made up of former players from the Cincinnati Red Stockings, who had gone out of business in their hometown. They brought the team’s name with them to Beantown.

   “That was a great game the other day,” Lucky Legs shouted over his shoulder. “You was hurling that pea.”

   “Thanks,” Al said. “I can’t wait for the season to end, though. It’s wearing me and my arm out.”

   Lucky Legs waved goodbye. Al tried to wave back but could barely raise his hand above his shoulder. He was in a bad way. He needed a rub-down in the worst way.. He needed a jigger even more.

   Oliver and Lucky Legs kept their eyes on the prize, which was easier said than done. Jim Stubbs could go through closed doors. He could go through walls. He could disappear through a ceiling. He made street cats and night watchmen jump out of their skins. Oliver had a sixth sense about ghosts and guessed right every time about where it was Jim Stubbs was going to twist and turn next.

   They stayed close, but not too close, not wanting to tip their hand.

   “What hand are we playing?” Lucky Legs asked.

   “What do you mean?”  

   “I mean, what are we going to do when we corral the rascal?”

   “To be honest, I don’t have a clue,” Oliver said.

   Lucky Legs didn’t like that but bit his tongue. So far the lad from the future seemed to know what he was doing. Maybe something would come to him before he went back to where he came from.

   When Jim Stubbs stopped to get his bearings, Oliver and Lucky Legs stopped. They crouched behind a bench. Oliver looked down at the seat where there was a stack of newspapers. It was the Woman’s Journal and Suffrage News.

   “What does suffrage mean?” Oliver asked. 

   “It means the women folk are fussing about getting the vote.”

   “How come?”

   “Because they can’t vote for nuthin’,” Lucky Legs said. “They don’t got sense.”

   “Where I come from, everybody can vote, men, women, and fools. My sister says wise men and fools both have gotten their names on the ballot. She says the president we had who just  got locked out of the White House, he was a Grand Dragon. She says he is Fool Number One.”

   Emma was Oliver’s older sister by two years. She told everybody she was the brains behind her brother’s monster hunting. Oliver scoffed at that, but knew it was true. She seemed to know everything he didn’t, and more besides. 

   “How can that be?” Lucky Legs asked. “Our president has just sent federal troops down to North Carolina to put a stop to Klan vigilantes taking the law into their own hands. U. S Grant is running the white hoods out of that state and out of the country.”

   “Our ex-president was a Klan man from his red cap on down.”

   Boston suffragist Lucy Stone founded the Women’s Journal and Suffrage News. The first issue had come out earlier that year. Oliver glanced at the front page, full of news and a poem. The verse was called “Looking Forward.” It was written by Lucy Larcom. “Beyond the boundaries of the grave send I a single fear, O spirits I have clung to here, will ye fulfill your dreams of immortality, my fear is, to be left of you alone.” Just then Lucy Larcom walked up and picked up the stack of newspapers on the bench.

   Oliver excused himself. “I was only looking,” he said.

   “Would you like to buy a copy?” Lucy asked.

   “How much is it?”

   “A penny,” Lucy said. 

   Oliver pulled a shiny dime out of his pants pocket. He handed it to Lucy, who made to make change, until she stopped herself. She turned the dime over several times. She was puzzled and said so.

   “This coin says it was minted in 2021,” she said. “How come you to have it?” 

   “I’m from the future, from the year 2023.”

   “Oh, I see,” Lucy said. “I need to turn a penny but I can’t take your coin. There are not many women who can do like I do with impunity, for I am above the little fears and weaknesses which are the inseparable companions of most of my sex, but taking a coin from the future is too much even for me.”

   Lucy’s hair had a careless if studied look. Tendrils fell around her face while curls and waves hung behind a large, loose topknot held in place with a comb. Her brown skirt was narrow and close fitting. An overskirt was draped to an apron front. A flounced underskirt and full petticoats threw out the bottom of the skirt.  As she made to go, Jim Stubbs drifted under the flare of her petticoat. Lucy jumped when she realized a ghost was breathing on her ankles.

   “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded of him.

   They were arguing his right to do as he pleased when Al Spalding came strolling their way. A thirty minute rub-down and a jigger had worked their magic. He felt like a new man. When he saw what Jim Stubbs was up to he pulled a baseball out of his back pocket. He spit chewing tobacco juice on it and rubbed it in. He threw the ball straight at Jim Stubbs.

   When the ghost ducked the sinkerball took a dive at the last second and beaned him in the head. The ball went through his noodle like it was a noodle. Jim Stubbs dropped like a shot. He fell into a pool of inky shadows. A train appeared out of nowhere and he was dragged into one of its coaches by a spectral arm. They watched the train go until it was gone.

   “Where did he go?” Lucky Legs asked.

   “I suspect  he went back to where he came from, which is nowhere,” the baseball player said. “My magic juice always gets the job done.”

   Oliver and Lucky Legs went to where Oliver had left his time machine behind a blacksmith’s shop. The monster hunter eyeballed the spot where he thought it might be. He had sprayed it with invisibility spray. He gathered up a handful of loose sawdust and tossed it into the air. When it fell like snow on the time machine it revealed its outline. Oliver had a Yale key in his pocket. He put it in the ignition. He fired the time machine up.

   “What shall I remember you by?” Lucky Legs shouted over the noise of the engine.

   Oliver flipped the shiny dime in his hand towards him. Lucky Legs plucked it out of the air like an Old World Flycatcher. Oliver’s time machine spun in fast furious circles until it wasn’t there anymore.

   “Yes, my boy, I shall certainly be in remembrance of you,” Lucky Legs said.

Previously: Searching for Jim Stubbs

Ed Staskus posts monthly on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com, Made in Cleveland http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com, Atlantic Canada http://www.redroadpei.com, and Lithuanian Journal http://www.lithuanianjournal.com. 

A New Thriller by Ed Staskus

“Cross Walk“

“A once upon a crime whodunit.” Barron Cannon, Adventure Books

“Captures the vibe of mid-century NYC.” Sam Winchell, Beyond Fiction

Available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CRPSFPKP

Late summer and early autumn. New York City. A Hell’s Kitchen private eye. The 1956 World Series. President Eisenhower at the opening game. A killer in the dugout.