The group pushed back their pastries and shook their heads almost in unison as their appetites waned. They looked at Joseph for his thoughts and, knowing that, Joseph stood and thrust his hands deep into his pockets as he started to pace the floor.
“We need to stop this from happening.”
Jerry Sullivan raised his hand and at a nod from Joseph, said, “I just entered her name into the computer and it confirmed that she sailed from the U.S. about seven days before docking in London on December 3, 1888. The computer is still cranking the info so let’s see what it comes up with on Jeanine Larsen.”
The nods from the members as they sat back told him that they agreed.
“Well,” answered Joseph as he sat, “if our computer can’t give us some more info on her, nothing will.”
They didn’t have to wait long as Jerry’s laptop chimed.
“Search is done,” said Jerry as he rubbed his hands together and slid his chair close to the computer.
Jeanine Larsen: age 27. Born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. Five-feet seven inches with dark brown hair and green eyes. Ms. Larsen was an accomplished singer in her church choir and an artist who wanted to travel the world. She bordered the English passenger ship, Prince Eugene on November 25, 1888, bound for England. She completed forty-four oil paintings while visiting England, France, Germany, Switzerland and lastly Italy before boarding the Bella Madonna on February 3, 1889 for home. She returned to New York City and her paintings were the talk of the art world. She met and married Andrew Buist but kept her name, as it would forever be connected to her art. Her grandson was one of the Secret Service agents who protected President Reagan when he was shot on March 30, 1981 during an assassination attempt.
Joseph Sergi stood. “Okay, that’s all we need. We have to send someone back to make sure Miss Larsen completes her trip and gets back to the U.S. Besides preventing her from becoming a victim, if she dies her grandson will not be born and we simply cannot allow that agent to be missing when the president gets shot. All in favor?”
All raised their hands in agreement as Joseph opened the door and summoned the Probe Tech sitting there. “James, will you come in a moment?”
The young man entered and opened his notebook as he awaited his instructions. “Yes, Mister Sergi?”
“James, would you, please summon our emissary to the 1800 Club. I believe that would be Edmund Scott.”
“Yes sir, Mister Sergi I’ll get him straight away. And you are correct, Edmund Scott is our contact with the 1800 club.” He picked up his communicator and called Edmund Scott as Joseph went back into the room.
Thirty minutes later Edmund Scott, the emissary from the Time Watcher’s group 2068 to the 1800 Club of 2013, left the conference room with a hologram in his hand. He had a broad grin on his handsome face, as he knew he was going back in time to see his grandfather, Bill Scott, president of The 1800 Club.
DATE: JUNE 4, 1897 PLACE: LOMBARDI’S PIZZERIA, 53 ½ SPRING STREET, LITTLE ITALY, NEW YORK
The sun was right overhead and beating down on Bill Scott and his Beagle, Samson. The dog was going wild at the smells emanating from the store, as was his master. The squeal of young children caught Bill’s attention. A big man with a large wrench opened a fire hydrant and the children left their hot stoops and ran through the cool gush of water, splashing each other in their attempt to cool off on this 90-degree day. Soon they had to share the flowing water with cab drivers and deliverymen who allowed their horses to cool down and drink their fill of the fresh water. Bill would love to walk Samson through the cooling water, but he knew Samson would look upon this act as some kind of a punishment as he simply avoided getting wet whenever he could.
“Boy, Samson, you just don’t know what you’re missing,” said Bill as he waited for the door to be unlocked. Yep! he thought, checking his pocket watch, twelve noon. Perfect timing. Finally, there was a click and the door was pushed open by a small, wiry middle-aged man with a deep tan and long thick, black hair and droopy mustache.
“Hey,” the man said with a thick, Italian accent, “You wait-a for me ta open?”
“Yes. I was hoping you were making those tomato pies.”
The man squinted his eyes and shrugged his shoulders as he said, “How do ya know I make-a tomato pies?”
This was Bill’s turn to shrug his shoulders. “I was walking my dog when I heard someone say that you made the best pies, and,” Bill said as he rolled his eyes, “if they taste like they smell, he was right.”
This brought a big grin to the man’s face and he held the door open.
“C’mon in outta the sun.”
“Can I bring my dog in?”
“Why sure! He gotta eat too. No?”
Bill followed the man into the store. The wooden floor was already old and it creaked as they walked down a short hallway. There were no tables and chairs and the man motioned for him to stop before an opening in the wall. There was a small counter and the time traveler could see the oven from where he stood.
“Just-a gimme ono minute, my friend,”
Bill felt a rush of heat as the man opened the door to the oven and with a long paddle, removed a round, red pie. He placed it on the counter and said, “How much do ya want?”
“Actually,” said Bill as he fished for his money, “I was hoping I could buy the entire pie.”
The man scratched his chin as he said; “Each slice is two cents, so I figure there‘s, what, maybe ten slices? So, twenty cents sound-a fair to you?”
Bill put fifty cents up and said, “Here’s some extra to encourage you to keep making them, Mister Lombardi. I bet before long there’s going to be lines of customers waiting for your Pizza pies.”
The man squinted again as he asked, “Do I know-a you, my friend?”
“No. I must have heard your name when that man spoke of the pies you make.”
“Here, mister,” Lombardi said as he started to cut the pie into slices, “let-a me wrap them for ya.”
He took the individual slices and wrapped them in brown butcher paper then took them all and put them in a large paper bag. “Here, my friend. “It’ll be easier ta carry this way.” He gave a big smile and said, “I hope-a you come back again soon, my friend.”
“Oh, I will, Mister Lombardi. And just to let you know, there is no other pie maker in New York so, Gennaro Lombardi should have the whole field to himself for a long time.” (Author’s note: Lombardi’s, America’s first pizzeria, now occupies the entire corner of Mott and Spring Streets in Little Italy, Manhattan.)
Lombardi just looked as the stranger and his dog left his store with their pie.
Bill wanted to get back home before the pie got cold so he hailed the first cab he saw. It was a typical horse-drawn cab powered by a sorry looking horse that pulled over to the curb. Bill called up to the heavy-set man who was biting the stem of a long clay pipe and said, “520 East Ninth Street, please.”
The man nodded as Bill picked up Samson and climbed into the cab. He put the pie on the seat facing him and put Samson on his lap. All the way home the Beagle tried everything he could to get at the pie but Bill was onto his tricks and at the journeys end, he left the cab with his pie intact.
The time traveler unlocked the gate and led Samson into the club’s garden, locking the gate behind them. He then opened the steel door of the building and Samson trotted up the stairs trailing his leash and sat on the landing waiting for his master. Bill was about to unlock the door to his apartment and 2013, when Matt opened it for him.
DATE: FEBRUARY 14, 2014 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY
“Welcome home, sir.” He took Samson’s leash and removed the harness allowing the Beagle to jump up on to his favorite, soft leather easy chair.
“Good trip, sir?”
Bill smiled and said, “Excellent trip, Matt. Grab some paper plates and we’ll eat some of the best pizza ever made.”
Matt visibly cringed and asked, “Paper plates, sir?”
“Sure
, no big deal.”
“It truly is no big deal for me to use our china, sir.”
Bill answered with a smile on his face as he kicked off his late 1800s high-top shoes, “If you want to use china, Matt, that’s fine with me.”
Matt had a satisfied grin as he said, “Fine, sir. And I assume Samson will be having some of the pizza?”
“Yep! After all, he went all the way back to 1897 with me. And he’s famished.”
“Sir, I do believe that he is famished all the time as the kitchen is one of his favorite places to stand in, hoping that I will drop something. But I do suggest he use a paper plate. Agree?”
“Agree.”
Five minutes later the three of them were eating pizza. Samson’s was gone as soon as the plate was set on the floor, and he sat hoping for seconds.
“Maybe,” said Bill as he picked up a second slice, “I should tell Gennaro to cut some sausage to put on the next pizza we get.”
A light tap on the Time Portal door got their attention and before they could get up Samson was at the door sniffing and scratching at it as his tail wagged.”
“Who is it?” Bill asked the Beagle as he approached the door. “Is it Edmund?” The Beagle started to scratch wildly at the door and gave a small howl at his master’s future grandson.
Bill unlocked and opened the door. Edmund Scott stood there smiling as Samson was on his hind legs sniffing the time traveler’s pockets. Edmund took out a treat and tossed it to the dog and Bill put his arms around his future grandson.
“Edmund, how are you?” he asked as he hugged the young man then escorted him into the room.
“I’m great, Bill. How are you doing?”
His grandfather walked him to the leather couch and pointed, “Grab a seat, Edmund. Is there a mission or are you just ‘pushing it’ and visiting me?”
Edmund sat and immediately Samson leaped up and sat on his lap. The young time traveler scratched the Beagle’s head as he said, “There’s a mission, Bill. As much as I’d love to ‘push it’ as you say, the air here is really foul for us future Scotts.”
“Kidding you, Edmund, just kidding.”
The young man from the future looked at Matt and said, “How have you been, Matt?”
“Just fine, Master Edmund and although I already know the answer may I bring you something to drink?”
Edmund took a shallow breath and shook his head, no. “I appreciate it, but I’m afraid the water doesn’t agree with me neither.” He put his hand into his jacket pocket and retrieved the hologram and passed it to Bill.
“The Time Watcher in charge of this mission is Joseph Sergi and as usual he said that anything you need, just ask and you’ve got it.” He sat forward and coughed into his handkerchief. “Sorry, fellows.”
A concerned look came across Bill’s face as he said, “I hate to chase you, Edmund, but I think it’s best that you get back to your own time where you can take a deep breath without any difficulty. Don’t worry about the mission, just tell Mister Sergi it’s in good hands.” He stood and picked up a slice of pizza still wrapped in brown paper and placed it in his future grandson’s hand. “Take this back with you and if you can get it down, enjoy the best pizza in the world.”
Edmund allowed himself to be helped to stand and be escorted to the door. With a smile he said, “Some day I’m going to get used to this foul air and hang out with you guys.”
“And the three of us will have a cold beer in Diamond’s Bar and Grill, but till then,” Bill said as he hugged him, “take care of yourself.”
Bill locked the door behind his future grandson, walked back to his seat and sat looking at the hologram. “Let’s watch this together, Matt. Okay?”
“That would be fine, sir. I’ll enjoy another slice as we do.”
Bill pressed the indent on the top of the stainless steel cylinder and a six-inch tall figure of a man appeared. It was Joseph Sergi and he started telling Bill of the mission by pushing back a lock of hair from in front of his eyes.
“Hello, Bill. As you probably remember, I’m Joseph Sergi of the Time Watchers Group and we have a problem and need your help once again, . . . “
Both men watched as they ate their pizza and as the hologram finished, they sat back and silently reflected on the new mission.
Matt broke the silence with, “Will it be you going on this mission, sir?”
“Not sure, Matt. I think before I make that decision I’ll read up on that bloody killer then check our club members bios and see if any of them are knowledgeable of The Ripper.” He stood and went to the large bookcase that ran the length of the wall. Not finding what he was looking for he went to another bookcase and after studying them pulled one out and placed the large leather book on the coffee table.
“Jack The Ripper,” he said as he read the title, “The Man Who Beat Scotland Yard’s Best.”
Seeing Bill lost in the mission already, Matt cleaned up and quietly left the room as Samson, sensing that snack time was over, curled up in the corner of the large, leather couch and closed his eyes.
Four hours later there was a soft rap on the door. Bill looked up as Matt entered carrying a tray of grilled cheese sandwiches and hot chocolate in his large Donald Duck mug.
“Wow, perfect timing, Matt. Thanks a lot.”
“I thought perhaps I would take Samson out for a walk, sir, as you are busy with the mission.”
“That’d be great, Matt. Thanks again.” He closed the book, grabbed a sandwich, took a bite and opened his laptop. Bill went to the 1800 Club Membership and scrolled down until he got to the name he was looking for: Patty Gelardi. Next he opened the member’s bio, sat back and read it as he took a sip of his drink.
Patty Gelardi: Born September 3, 1974 in Brooklyn, New York. He is a successful voice teacher and (as of 2011) is single. He attended John Jay High School and then Nassau Community College. Mister Gelardi is the author of three books on the subject of England’s notorious killer, Jack The Ripper. His grandfather, Pasquali Gelardi, lived in England during the same period that the killer was active. He ran a thriving business as a voice teacher and collected numerous newspaper clippings of the killer and when he emigrated to the United States he brought these clippings with him. It was these clippings that sparked the interest in his grandson, Patty, to investigate the murders. Mister Gelardi has been an 1800 Club member since 2011.
Bill nodded and said to himself, “Bingo! Sure hope Patty Gelardi is into adventure.”
The door to the past opened and Matt entered with Samson and a package. He dropped the leash and the Beagle sprinted and jumped onto Bill’s lap. He was rewarded with his master scratching his ears, . . . something that the dog would sit still for all day.
Matt opened the brown paper bag and smiled as he presented Bill with an ice cream cup. Bill’s eyes went wide as he saw that it was more than just an ice cream cup, but that it was a Dixie Cup.
“Matt,” he said as he removed the round cardboard lid and stared at the vanilla and chocolate ice cream in the cup, “where did you get this? I haven’t had a Dixie Cup since 1970!”
“Sir, I figured that if I was taking the dog out for a walk, why not take him to that very same time period and pick up desert for us?”
“Perfect,” said Bill as he attacked his cup with the rounded, wooden spoon that came with it as he looked at the inside of the lid. “Hey, Matt, I have a picture of Harmon Killebrew on the lid. Whose picture do you have on yours?”
Matt picked up the round, cardboard ice cream cup lid and looked at the name beneath the photograph. “Ah, I have a mister Hank Aaron, sir. Does this mean something?”
“Boy, Matt. We used to collect all of these cards back then and now you have the card of the man who hit the most home runs ever, 762.”
Matt just grinned and put the card in his pocket as he asked, “Have you worked out your mission, sir?”
“Well, at least I narrowed the choice down to one of the club members: Patty Gelardi. Perhaps after our
dessert you can let me know if he is attending tomorrow night’s dinner.”
Matt nodded as he took a spoonful of his ice cream as he exited the room. “Yes, sir.”
Bill scooped out a wedge of vanilla with his thumb and offered it to his Beagle who licked it dry.
Ten minutes later Bill’s intercom beeped, “Hey, Matt,” he answered, “ What’s the word?”
“Ah, the word, sir, is that Mister Gelardi said affirmatively to tomorrow’s dinner.”
“Great! Thanks again, Matt. I’m going to call it a night. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Six-thirty the next evening Bill sat in the open bay window of his apartment as he puffed on a Cuban cigar and proofed the newspaper copy he had forwarded to Matt for the evening’s newspaper to be put out for the club members. Usually he selected an article of the War Between the States but a few articles caught his eye and he decided to give the club members something lighter to chat about.
The article was dated October 1, 1865 and that would be the latest date that the club members would be allowed to speak of, . . . as though they were dining on October 1, 1865. Should they speak of an event that took place the following day, they would be ‘speaking out of club-time’ and as that was the club’s only rule, it was strongly frowned upon. He folded the specially made, thick, yellowed newsprint and flicked his ash in a tall, silver ashtray. The movement made Samson open his eyes for a moment. Satisfied that his master wasn’t leaving the room, he resumed his napping and Bill grinned as he read on:
The Game Of Base Ball.
PHILADELPHIA, Sunday, Oct. 1, 1865
In the match game between the Athletics and the Nationals, of Jersey City, yesterday, the former beat the latter by a score of 114 to 2, in a full game of 9 innings. More than 5,000 spectators witnessed the contest, over 500 of whom were ladies. This is the greatest game ever played. On Monday, the Pastimes, of Baltimore, a superior organization, will play with the Athletics in Philadelphia. A grand banquet will be given to the Pastimes at the St. James Hotel after the game. The long pending contest between the Atlantics and the Athletics is a common topic hereabouts. 50,000 spectators will witness this game.
Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club Book VIII Page 9