Charles Lindbergh, Babe Ruth, and Charlie Russo's race against time. Charlie Russo is a part of the remarkable events of 1927, including Babe Ruth's quest for 60 home runs and Lindbergh's flight across the Atlantic. Jamal, from the distant future, befriends and falls in love with Charlie. From Boston to Niagara Falls they are chased by government agents and bioenergy beings. Under attack, Jamal tries to save the human race from eventual destruction, by attempting to send an outer space signal high above midtown Manhattan
	1927

1927 Robert P. Fitton     1927   1 Yankee Stadium May 1, 1927       A great ball club, like a remarkable woman, comes around once in a lifetime. Charlie listened to the rousing crowd. The spring air, fresh and cleansing, filtered through the ballpark, ruffling the tiny flags atop the stadium wall. The crack of the ball against the bat sent tingles up his arms. If someone handed him a glove he would probably run out on the field.   In the midst of the colorful multitude, his eyes were drawn to The Babe. It was only the beginning of May, and Ruth had six home runs, two in this very game. It might be possible, if he continued at this pace, to break his 1923 record of fifty-nine home runs. The Babe trotted like a bow legged ox across the outfield, loosening up between innings. Charlie's eyes darted across the field to Pennock, sizzling the ball into the catcher's mitt. This team had it all. The superb pitching, only one component, complimented the hitting attack. Charlie shook his head as he watched Gehrig throw practice balls across the infield grass. He had never seen a team like this. God, they were good. Not only could they head to The Series, but might just squash everyone along the way.   He looked at his friends back in the seats. They would razz him if they knew earlier he was watching the cavalcade of women under the grandstand. He could not keep his mind off one woman he had seen near the concession. Tall, with expressive blue eyes, she mysteriously walked under the stands with that odd beeping leather radio box strapped to her shoulder and had had disappeared just as he carried his food from the counter.   Joel cupped his hands. " Hey, Charlie! Either go get some more food or sit your arse down!" 1

1927 Robert P. Fitton       " I need a smoke, Joel," said Charlie. He took a pack of Luckys from his shirt pocket.   Ray, rapped on his leg. " Francine know you're at the ballpark, Charlie?"   Charlie, cigarette hanging from his mouth, squinted at Ray, and then lit up. He shook the match and tossed it to the cement as he exhaled." I don't discuss baseball with Francine."   Ray leaned toward Joel. " Any dame that wouldn't let me go to the ballpark."   " I know you guys don't like her."   " It's not that we don't like her, Chuck." said Joel. Charlie squeezed toward the aisle. " She's just not right for you."   " Rumfords have too much dough," added Ray.   " You can never have too much dough, Bud. I'm getting some more food."   What he really wanted was to find that dame again. Phily was batting and Pennock fired a strike, but Charlie had lost interest and plodded down the ramp. Ray was right. Francine would be upset if she knew he had traveled to the stadium. She was the boss's daughter, but the old man had pushed the relation-ship. Rumors abounded about her alleged affair with a guy named Rick Serone from Chicago, and she had seen her old beau, Wil Dillin-gham, on occasion, but the Rumfords were stinking with money and Charlie was set for life.  Once under the grandstand girders, he searched for her blue chiffon frock. The crowd cheered above and realized how much he loved the game. He could taste the feeling, a raw combination of hot dogs, onions, and cold beer, accented with passing stale cigars and pungent bags of second-rate peanuts.   Starting at the concession, he thought about his ambition and began a methodical march under the grandstand. After his arrival from his parent's Ohio farm, subsequent graduation from New York University and employment at the Woolworth Tower, he remained fueled by a lust for wealth and power. 2

1927 Robert P. Fitton       He snuffed out his cigarette on the concrete. Then he saw her. She was tall and slender within the transient crowd, but over-dressed in the blue frock, and her rusty hair was bobbed in the shingled look.   Something about her, an aura of mystery, drew him closer. He drifted inauspiciously under the grandstand and stared at her large leather case, but this time it emitted no beeps. Sweet jasmine filled the air even before he was near her. She panned the rafters as if she were structural engineer. He could not keep his eyes off her tight, tanned face, scattered with freckles. As he inched closer, the stadium light cast an iridescent glow within her blue eyes.   " You come to the stadium often?" he asked.   She kept studying the girders. " You've been watching me."   " Who me?"   She lifted her brows and her tiny mouth evidenced a smile as she turned. Her perky but proper, almost British accent, surprised him.   " To answer your question, not as often as I would like."   " I'd like to get out here more often, too," said Charlie.   " Then again, actually being at the ballpark is better than watching ... news reels."   In her face he sensed a youthful exuberance and appreciation of life, but the glint in her eyes suggested she was holding something back. She pushed something inside the leather case.   Charlie folded his arms. " Right. It's like reading about the game in the Sun or the Times. Not the same."   He could sense, as she stared at the girders again, she was not the typical Yankee fan. " This is a unique era. Babe Ruth had two home runs today. I actually saw the second one."   " The Babe's gonna have a good year, I can feel it."   " Oh, he definitely will."   " Is that right? And how do you know that Miss ..."   " Jamal."   " French?"   " No, no." She covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.   " Did I say something funny?" 3

1927 Robert P. Fitton   " No, you didn't. I'm laughing because I do have a unique name." She stared into his eyes. Charlie knew that look. What would Francine say to the old man if she saw him talking to this bright-eyed chickadee? Returning to the stands would be the smart move, but wanted to know more about Jamal.   " You live around here?"   Before she could answer, the leather case erupted with a series of high-pitched tones and static. She backed away with a panicky look and spoke into the case. " Not now, Elf. It's a malfunction, that's all. Charlie stepped toward her. " Hey, what is that, some kind of radio?" She stopped, still flustered. " Right, radio ..."   " Are you with the army or something? It's none of my business, but I've never seen people carrying around a radio."   " It's really not important." Her smile was fixed.   " Who's Elf? Are you in the army?"   " Well, I am on a mission of sorts."   " I don't understand."   " I'm sorry," she said, extending her tiny hand.   " My name is Charlie."   " I'm sorry, Charlie."   She started away, but he caught her." Hey, was it something I said?"   " No, maybe it's better I don't get involved. This is all so precarious. I'm afraid I might change something. I know you don't understand."   " No, I don't."   She paused, again staring into his eyes, and shrugged her shoulders.   " Enjoy the game, enjoy the season. You won't see the likes of it again."   With ambivalence in her eyes she turned and scurried toward the gate. Charlie took two steps and then stopped. The fact she was hiding something made her more appealing. He watched her frock swaying at the hips all the way to the turnstile. She stopped on the other side and gave him a quick wave with her fingers.   As quickly she had come into his life, she vanished into the stadium parking lot. He had no business chasing after her, but she had sent his head spinning. Without a second thought, he sprinted across the concrete and rushed through the turnstile. " Where did you go?"  He chided himself as he surveyed the area. For a few moments a hint of jasmine lingered in the fresher air. He checked the stadium and the mass of parked cars. That bright-eyed woman, tall and slender, was gone with her radio bag.   He shook his head all the way back to the grandstand ramp. The crowd buzzed as Yankee pinstripes and the trimmed green outfield grass rose above the ramp. Before he returned to his seat, he looked toward the turnstile one more time. Letting her leave was a premier boner. As he took his seat, Charlie heard Ray's prattling. " Do you realize how many clean plays he's made?"   " Who?" asked Charlie.   " Tony the Wop. It's like he can't make an error." Charlie, still distracted, bit his thumbnail as Joel leaned over.   " Hey, what ya say we get outside after and see if we can catch The Babe before he leaves."   " Great," answered Charlie.   " Somethin' wrong, Charlie?" asked Joel.   Charlie lit another Lucky and shook his head. " Nah. Everything is fine, Bud. Just fine." 4

1927 Robert P. Fitton   2         At his Bronx apartment, Charlie, in his sleeveless undershirt, was sprawled on the sofa and listened to the radio. But his mind drifted back to Jamal at the turnstile. More important than his attrac-tion to her, his indecision concerning his pending marriage to Franc-ine plagued him. The rumors of her infidelity would not go away, but neither would his own ambition.   He scrawled batting averages on a white paper pad as the phone rang. Ruth had sunk to .275, but Gehrig, who never got the headlines, had at-tained an impressive .447. The Yankees as a team were at ten and five. He reached and fumbled for the phone.   " Well, I've been wondering what happened to you."   " Francine, darling."   " Don't darlin' me! I've been trying to contact you for three hours! You could have, at the very least, tried calling me... I suppose you were out at the baseball park again."   Charlie gulped before he spoke. " Francine, I know that I take the Yankees a little too seriously."  " I knew it! Charlie, following those games is not the best use of your time. You eat, drink, and sleep the New York Yankees."   " But, Francine-"   " You don't see father out at one of those baseball games, do you?"   Charlie paused and then muttered slowly. " No, Francine, I don't."   " You will find as you move up the ladder, there comes added responsibility. Time must be structured around your job."   Charlie rolled his eyes and held out the phone. Then he lit a cigarette.   " Look, I like the Yankees. What do you want from me?"   " Well, in this life, we can't always get what we want."   " Isn't that the God's honest truth?"   " Are you trying to intimate something, Charlie?" She changed the tone of her voice, playing the hurt woman. " I hope that's not the case since I was only calling see where you were..."     5

1927 Robert P. Fitton     " Francine, do you really want to get married?"   " Of course, Father insists."   " Never mind your father, what do you want?"   The silence revealed more than he wanted to know. " I will marry you as planned on September thirtieth. And if I didn't want to marry you, do you think mother and I would be spending our days shopping and planning for the wedding?"   " Well-"   " Do you think we'd be inviting guests for our engagement party at The Gables on the Hudson? Everyone in mother and father's social circle will be at that party! My God, Charlie, all of that and you would imply that I don't want to marry you?"  " What I think, Francine... is that you and I are spending less and less time together."   She next alluded to the formal china selections, furniture for their new apartment, and a hundred other aspects of her own agenda. Then she informed him about weekend plans with the family at the Rumford's spacious Connecticut retreat house. He pinched the bridge of his nose until she finally hung up.   Confused, he strutted over to the window and forcefully puffed on his cigarette as he watched the sun's last rays pierce the blue steel clouds over the city. He wanted to end the relationship, but feared he would jeopardize his position with the old man. E.B. Rumford might just release him if his daughter was jilted. Upsetting the old man in any way was dangerous. He had not even bothered to inform E.B. about taking a day off next week, to catch some of the flyers, including the young pilot, Lindbergh, before they attempted to cross the Atlantic from Long Island. Maybe things would get better away from the city, in Connecti-cut, and he would not have to risk throwing away his future.   Something about the relationship rattled him from the beginning. Now, the pressure now ripped him apart. He longed for the solitude atop the Woolworth Tower, where he worked, to peruse the city at night from the gallery, and sift through his burgeoning problems. Then he might make sense of it all.  * * * Charlie closed his eyes most of the way to the top. He did not want to ruin his career. The doors opened, he looked at Herbie, and stepped onto the gallery above the city. His friend held the doors open.  " Thanks, Herb. I appreciate the information. I think..."  " Charlie, drop her. E.B. likes you. He won't let you go."   Herbie let the doors close. Charlie meandered onto the gallery and the cooler, dank air blew his thinning blonde hair back. He quickly lit a Lucky and leaned toward his favorite view, a span of lights and traffic reaching out twenty-five miles past Brooklyn. The cars crossed the bridge and along the city streets like internal parts of some larger organism.  And where was Jamal? Letting her pass through the turnstile was dumb. After what Herbie just told him about Francine, he wished he had caught Jamal. He had no address or phone number, but he could vividly see her body gently swaying under the grandstand. He pictured that one final little wave with her fingers and could almost smell the jasmine as he spoke into the night.   " Dead end thoughts."   6

1927 Robert P. Fitton   He drove his Chrysler 62', a gift from Francine, through minimal traffic to lower Manhattan. The skyscraper cathedral's thirty-first to sixtieth floors were illuminated against the dark sky and had become a special place in his world. He parked the car and stepped into the night air. The first spring leaves burgeoned through the trees and flowery aromas sauntered about the plaza. But the buildin-g's pervasive glow, visible forty miles out at sea, captivated him. He walked under the plaza street lamps, and wondered if he had the nerve to break off the relationship. Then he headed for the Broadway entrance.   As he looked skyward, he knew he would be jettisoning everything this building represented. They called it the Cathedral of Commerce because its rich Gothic architecture connoted a religious flavor. The fact he could rise fifty-eight stories above the city and contemplate life sometimes gave him a sense of the divine.   He passed under the eagle at the Broadway entrance, as he did during the work week, wondering if his secre-tary had told E.B. about the Lindbergh thing on Long Island. A security guard waved him by and he stepped into what was akin to a marble palace, intricately carved within the Gothic style. The Grand arcade would grace any European cathedral. Such opulence reminded him what E.B. Rumford's daughter offered: A secure future beckoned within this building and the Rumford's social position would assure him a comfortable life.  He crossed the tile, as if he owned the building, and walked to the ornately crafted arches around the elevator. This area always reminded him of a church confession booth. He heard Herbie across the lobby.  " Hey, Bud," said Charlie.  The greasy haired Herbie looked at the elevator and then at Charlie.  " Trouble on the home front again, Charlie?"   " I know why you're here at night, Herb. I'll say it again. As head of operations, you're taking a big chance running booze out of the basement."   They both stepped inside.  " Got to pay the bills."   Herbie shut the outside doors, the car lurched, and they zoomed upward. Charlie held his stomach. " I always wonder if this elevator will come crashing down. Fifty-eight floors is a long way up."  " Charlie, there's a safety switch and what they call the air cushion zone. It can't crash... Listen, it's time to ditch Francine."  " Oh?"   " It's Serone. I have it on good authority-"  " You and your good authority."  " I have witnesses, Charlie. She's playing you for a sucker and trying to please the old man because he likes you."     7

1927 Robert P. Fitton     3     In the early morning hours, Charlie drove his 62' along a narrow muddied dirt road toward Roosevelt Field on Long Island. The sun hid behind the mist and he questioned whether they would even fly this morn-ing. He checked his watch. The old man had no problem with his taking the day off, but Francine had put a constraint on his free time, insisting he meet her and the old man at the tower for lunch.   The bumpy, monotonous ride resulted in spraying his shiny car with a muddy residue. A cigarette hung from his mouth as he slowed the 62' and approached a line of cars, uniformed police, and groups of people scattered over the field. He leaned out the window to a motorcycle cops. " Hey, Bud. Where do I park?" The cop pointed across the grass. " Looks kind of crummy to be flying."   " Twenty-five grand to whoever makes it. I'll fly out for twenty-five grand."   " You know how many guys have already died trying?" asked Charlie. " Lindbergh out there yet? I like him."   " They've already started rolling out his plane." He panned the field from his driver's window.   " Too muddy."   " Least it ain't rainin. "   Charlie nodded and moved his car across the grass. He gazed to his left and wondered why Lindbergh or any of these guys would want to fly on such a lousy day. It might be clearer over the ocean, but it was still risky.   He parked the car and traipsed across spongy field. In the commotion ahead, as he circled, Jamal walked within the crowd. His stomach tingled as he mired in the mud. Dressed in a pale gray flight suit, she carried the same brown leather case, strapped to her shoulder, and had a set of field glasses around her neck.     8

1927 Robert P. Fitton    Charlie ran across the grass, slipping several times, as he called out her name. Startled, she spun around with a fearful look over her freckled face, but she smiled when she saw him sliding on the grass. He was out of breath when he reached her. " Jamal, I knew I'd see you again."   " You did?"   " I kept kicking myself for not getting your number or your address."   " Kicking yourself? Oh... I see, you were upset with your-self."   Her sleek body, even more defined in the flight suit, moved gracefully. He was not going to let her get away this time. "Are you involved in this thing? This prize across the Atlantic? I mean, you're wearing a flight suit."   " Oh, no, I'm here, Charlie, merely as an observer of history."   " History? You really think this guy's going to do it?"   She touched his arm as she spoke. " Not just some guy. Charles Augustus Lindbergh. This is May 20, 1927. We're standing at Roosevelt Field... right on the edge of history, Charlie. No one has ever crossed this ocean by air. Six people have died trying. The amazing thing about this flight was that he loaded so much fuel into the plane. By all rights, he shouldn't have been able to take off. However, they constructed the struts and braces with aluminum or balsa. A very streamed craft."   Charlie perched on his toes, trying to view the action.   " Sounds like you have it all figured out. Like it already happened."   " Maybe it has."   She handed the glasses to him. The image of a small silver plane, blocks still wedged under the tires, came into view. He had trouble seeing the writing on the side. " Take me to St. Louis?"   " No, The Spirit of St. Louis." She chuckled as Charlie lowered the glasses.   " I'm glad I found you again."   " I'm sorry I left the stadium so fast. I have my reasons. I'm sorry." 9 Home Page       Unimited Annual Access to all Fitton e-books and PODCAST Episodes $ 6.99 © 2000 - 2007 Fitton Books. All rights reserved.