The devil went up to Fifth Avenue...

 

Riffing in this one off the headline from Duque's August 5th piece, "Did Yankee fans trade the blight of the Bambino for the Curse of Cashman?

"Allow me to be the first one to offer you my heartfelt condolences."

—A member of the New York sporting press to Col. Jacob Ruppert, on the sale of the "cursed" and "notoriously unlucky" New York Yankees to Ruppert and his partner, Col. Huston. New Year's Eve, 1914-15.

The salesman ran a finger under his celluloid collar, and squinted up at the mansion. It was a weird, old Victorian pile, built far up Fifth Avenue.  He had been to plenty of such grandiose mansions before. Indeed, the very rich were a specialty of his firm.

But there was something about this one that made him squirm. 

It almost seemed more like a castle than a house—like one of those keeps that evil old robber barons used to build along the Rhine, so they could waylay unsuspecting pilgrims to the Holy Land. Built so high on Fifth Avenue that it was almost as if its owners wanted to be able to see anything coming while it was still miles away.

The whole set-up made him want to run. To move on to his next appointment, some Tammany wardheeler who was seriously considering looting the party's orphaned children's fund to keep his mistress in the style to which she would never become accustomed.

But...an assignment was an assignment. The salesman had been at his line of work long enough to know that if he missed one, the consequences would be severe—as the Boss always liked to say.

With a lump in his throat, he climbed the front stairs, and was about to ring the bell—when the enormous, carved wooden doors opened before he could touch the buzzer.  He had all he could do to stifle a gasp. Before him stood a sepulchral butler in formal livery, bowing his head and ushering him silently into a gloomy, mysterious interior—a small, sardonic smile on his face, the salesman noticed.

"I'm, uh, here to see the Colonel. About, uh—" he began, cursing to himself over how squeaky his voice sounded.

"You are expected," the butler cut him off, motioning again for him to enter.

He followed the butler into the darkness, turning his derby over and over in his hands. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he could see that they were passing through one room after another, stuffed with expensive jade and porcelain pieces, and colored leather wall coverings.

Somehow, in some way, it all seemed weirdly familiar.

As they went, he caught glimpses of all sorts of strange figures passing through one doorway or another—the silhouettes of beautiful women in whispering silk dresses. Huge dogs and exotic animals that almost beggared belief. He was sure he saw a jaguar pad by, then a black panther, then some sort of immense ape.

It seemed to the salesman that the whole house was extremely overheated, and after they had been walking for a few minutes, he could feel the sweat running down his back.

It was then that he realized what it all reminded him of: Home.

A trim, fastidious figure suddenly loomed out of the gloaming. A man wearing a smoking jacket and a bow tie, with a well-trimmed, ghost of a moustache over his lip. 

There was no mistaking him.

"Why, uh, hello, uh, Colonel—" he started, damning himself for his hemming and hawing again.

"Ja, Mister Scratch, is it?" the Colonel said, in a wintry voice, and a distinct German accent.

What was it about that accent? the salesman wondered. He always hated to hear it. Whenever he did, it reminded him of the salesman's greatest fear: a mark who was far too eager to buy. He wanted to run back through all those dark, terrifying passages, right now.

"Uh, actually it's Applegate.  'Scratch' is a little old-fashioned," he babbled instead. "We try to keep up with the times. All the new literature on salesmanship, you know."

"I see," the Colonel said, as if he could see indeed. All the way through to his soul. Just the way the Boss sounded. But of course he—

"Come, Mr. Applegate," the Colonel was saying. "We have a contract to draw up. Let us go into the kneipstube, where we can do it properly."

"The whosit whatsis?"

"The kneipstube. The beer-drinking room," the Colonel told him, a hint of pride leaking through. "The Tribune called it 'delightful...in imagination, a trip to the Fatherland."

"Oh, swell. What could be better?"

Inside the kneipstube, the Colonel turned to the butler and told him peremptorily, "Leave us."

The butler turned on his heel and left immediately, shutting the door to the weird little, play-tavern room behind him. The Colonel bade him to be seated, and tried to give him an inviting smile.

"Let us have a drink with our business, no? This is some of Ruppert's finest ale. I shall be most insulted if you decline."

"Sure, why not?" 

It was strictly against regulations, but the salesman had never felt so disconcerted in a client's home. Outside, somewhere in the distance, he could hear the snarls and howls of great beasts—and what sounded very much like human screams.

Ruppert poured them each a stein of the ale. It was delicious—and went straight to the salesman's head. He tried to pull himself together as he opened up his briefcase and gazed over his material for this one.

"First, you should know, that I'm authorized to let you abrogate this sale and purchase another major-league team, instead. And that team would be the Chicago Cubs, who are currently between owners. That's right: the winningest team in baseball over the past ten years! In a dynamic, up-and-coming city—"

 To his amazement, the Colonel's hooded eyes merely glazed over.

"Chicago?" he said, with a sneer in his voice. "That's too far from Broadway."

The salesman decided he needed to get tough.

"I would advise you not to be too picky here. With the war in Europe, we have more product these days than we frankly know what to do with—"

"And I am sure most of that product is going to your competitor," the Colonel said without missing a beat. "Poor, innocent boys, who died praying and thinking of their mothers. Not so many generals are dying, I notice."

The salesman was chilled to his bones—or at least their remarkable replications. This was going to be the toughest deal he had ever negotiated.

"I believe these sorts of contracts are usually written in blood, ja?" the Colonel was saying. He tapped the spigot of another wall barrel, and a viscous, red liquid that, the salesman had to admit, looked a helluva lot like blood, poured into a new stein. The Colonel dipped an elegant pen into it, and began to write.

"Boy, you must have some sore fingertips," the salesman tried to joke. The Colonel regarded him only briefly, with a sideways glance.

"I did not say it was my blood."

There was particularly lethal howl just outside the door—loud enough that it made the salesman tremble. 

"I'll just be a little longer.  Mother," the Colonel called out.

An hour later, the salesman emerged from the mansion clutching the signed contract, and shaking uncontrollably. He forced himself to look over exactly what they had just signed—difficult as that was, in its close, immaculate, German Gothic script.

"What? The greatest team ever? Through the end of this century?! How long does the old bastard think he's going to live? And a fortune for him in the bargain?!!"

He stared closer, looking at the line above, "Name of soul to be consigned." His heart nearly leapt into his mouth when he saw that there was written, quite clearly, another name—not the Colonel's.

"Why he can't do that! It's strictly against the rules!!!"

For a moment, the salesman considered forcing his way back inside the mansion. Blowing in the heavy oaken doors with a burst of sulphur, really explaining things to the Colonel. 

But then...another look at the spooky old pile made him hesitate. It was going to be hell to explain back at the home office, but he dreaded the idea of how he might get bamboozled on a second go-round. 

"All right!" he said to himself, with a few curses that literally turned the air blue.  "But after your century is over, there's going to be HELL to pay!"

He glanced at the contract one more time, concentrating on the name of the promised soul, before he shoved it into his briefcase. 

"Now how the hell am I going to find—what's the name?—'Brian Cashman'?"