The Stowaway

A story derived from a prompt

I was inspired to write this story today by the Fictionistas’ ‘Great Substack Prompt Celebration’ for April 2023, which says: ‘in the United States from 1942-1976, pinball was outlawed in most major cities. Write about an illegal underground pinball club.’

Perhaps you may also like to read this 2014 San Francisco Chronicle article on prohibitions of pinball and internet gaming in California, and this California Historical Society article on President Roosevelt’s 19 February 1942 Executive Order 9066, which led to the wartime internment of Japanese-Americans.

Or, you can just read the story.

San Francisco under fog (Wikipedia)

-The Stowaway-

Mrs. O’Hara drew the porters for her two customers, and set them on coasters across the bar. Francis, a cigarette lit in the dark of his downturned face, frowned, barely noting his comrade’s declaration.

“I said, that’s grim reading,” Doyle repeated, nodding his great shining bald head. He pushed the newspaper in Francis’ direction and drank.

A momentary silence fell, save for the automatic click of pool balls from the barroom’s other section; and then, as if by necessity, a merry ringing resounded from one of the pinball machines in that distant region.

“You don’t hear that every day,” said Francis, dark visage obscured in a cloud of smoke, a sly grin on his face. Mrs. O’Hara looked peeved as the man from the pinball came up to collect his winnings.

“Three dollars exactly,” she said, retrieving the money from the till.

“Thanks,” said the man, who saluted and went up the stairs leading to the street-level exit.

“You know, Jim,” said Francis, “the pinball- that’s the business. Yer man there just solved this problem with the stowaway.”

“What do ya mean?” said Doyle, gazing into the obedient darkness behind the bar. “We haven’t much time- Mrs. O’Hara said one night only.”

Francis picked up the newspaper and scanned, pointing as he read.

“President Roosevelt has issued an Executive Order… persons potentially disloyal to the state… special zones… from which any or all persons may be excluded… you’re right Jim- grim enough reading.  I never thought I’d hear myself sayin’ I’m lucky to be Irish. It’s good Dev has kept us neutral in this mess.”

“Dev?” replied Doyle excitably. “I have… certain information he’s been sending his envoys to Madrid, to divine or deduce or even bribe it out of them, was his father not descended from royal blood. That would solve some issues. They’re neutral too, Spain is.”

“Don’t be talkin,’ man,” said Francis. “Dev never knew his father’s particulars. Imagine, the fella born for Ireland, born in New York City! We were aware of the missing information, even in ’22 when you stuck up that bank in Dublin. All in the holy name of Ireland. Only reason you’re here today.”

Doyle looked flustered and his head gleamed under the electric light, but Mrs. O’Hara was faster to respond than he.

“Enough with the both of you! What’s your idea for the stowaway?”
“It being Friday… Sergeant O’Brien is due for his pint,” said Francis. “I’d suggested Jim bring the misfortunate fella to this den of illegalities simply and precisely because no one would look for a disloyal alien in a place where the police were already on the take and toleratin’ its illegal practices.”

“Too kind, you are,” said Mrs. O’Hara.

“I haven’t certain knowledge… but the Sergeant may know of the stowaway,” said Doyle ruefully. “Someone at Izzy’s told me.”

“So we’ll assume the worst,” said Francis. “As a precaution, Mrs. O’Hara will make the Sergeant feel like this Friday he’s on the Entertainment Commission.”

God help us,” said the publican. “Some fella just took me for three dollars on the pinball. Sheer luck. You can’t expect”-

“It’s the safest thing for your premises, too,” said Francis. “A punter’s about as likely to find luck on the pinball as he is to find a Japanese chef stuck in the back closet of your place. But in this bar, anything is possible. Am I right?”

Mrs. O’Hara frowned as she wiped the counter. Doyle nodded meditatively as he drank. His face showed he thought the idea very clever, and he said so.

“That’s brilliant. You’ve saved us. But… the payout?”

“Dunno,” Francis replied darkly. “That depends on… ‘certain knowledge.’ And what the stowaway’s worth in that case.”

“Would certainly raise the price of doing business,” said Doyle. “If only the Sergeant wasn’t Irish- then we’d have some leverage. Well, he certainly enjoys takin’ it out on us every Friday.”

“He does take liberties,” agreed Francis. Mrs. O’Hara scowled at that and nodded.

“He’ll call in ‘round half-three,” she said. “I’ll clear out the lads playin’ and set it up nicely.”

………………….

When Sergeant O’Brien descended the stairs, punctual as always that afternoon, he seemed to bring half the fog of San Francisco with him, and all of its gloom. He surveyed the subterranean premises, and withdrew a notebook from his jacket pocket. Mrs. O’Hara had indeed cleared out the pool hall, and covered the pinball machines as if they were dead. Apparently satisfied, Sergeant O’Brien jotted in his notebook and sat down. Mrs. O’Hara had already poured his stout.

“How’re ya keepin’, Sergeant?” said Francis. “Lousy day out there again. But it could be worse.”

“You reckon?” replied the Sergeant, a ghostly expression on his thin face. “It could always be worse. And it’s my business to prepare for the worse things.”

“That’s the state of nature,” said Francis boldly. He intuited the Sergeant had ‘certain knowledge’ after all; there was no going back.

“I mean, just look at this war. A good thing Ireland’s not in it. If these Japanese madmen can fly kamikaze into a very well defended Pearl Harbor, imagine what they’d do to Dublin! God help us! Imagine, had they the petrol to reach us- even us here in California, now that we’re in it too.”

“Perhaps they do have the petrol,” murmured Sergeant O’Brien, with a sinister gaze. “Yes… now we’re in it.”

At this, Francis coughed, reached for his throat and asked for a whiskey. It was the signal they’d agree for the contingency of certain knowledge. Mrs. O’Hara poured the whiskey, and a second one for the Sergeant.

“You know, Sergeant, we haven’t tested the machines in ages,” she said. “Before you came in Jim was after sayin’ he’d like to try the pinball, if you allow it. Just for a laugh. His own nickel, of course.”

Sergeant O’Brien drank the whiskey and the others followed its course carefully down his well-buttoned throat. “No harm in it,” he said, and put his notebook away.

Mrs. O’Hara went to one of the pinball machines, removing its mourning cloth, and turned it on. Jim inserted the nickel and the merry game music began. Observing sidelong from his barstool, Francis leaned toward the Sergeant and spoke quietly.

“You know, those machines started payin’ out erratically. It’s why she had ‘em decommissioned- they were randomly slamming out winners. Like a Pearl Harbor of pinball, if you get my meaning.”

‘’Is that so?” said Sergeant O’Brien in a distant voice. He drank and gazed at the pinball player, then addressed Mrs. O’Hara as she was returning.

“You know, Ma’am, I’ve a mate on the Alameda County squad. His birthday’s coming up. One of those pinballs would be a grand gift.”

Mrs. O’Hara looked at Francis, who sat obscured in a deep and bitter exhalation of smoke. Neither had expected the stowaway to be valued at the price of a whole pinball machine.

“Well, these machines are not… reliable,” she said in a coy tone. “Not the most loyal servants a publican could have. That’s why I had to”-

“Francis told me,” said the Sergeant. He was about to speak again when the sweeping sound of victory resounded and Doyle hollered loudly.

“Ya see, Sergeant?” said Francis. “Told ya the machines have gone kamikaze.” He raised his voice and addressed the lucky winner. “How much you’re due there, Jim?”

“Twenty dollars on a nickel!” came the reply. “Sergeant, see for yourself!”

Sergeant O’Brien rose and crossed over, inspecting the pinball machine carefully. “You’re misreading it, Jim. You’re in for seventy dollars, not twenty.”

Mrs. O’Hara hissed through her clenched teeth but Francis was sanguine. He understood. He locked eyes with Jim as the latter returned to ensure he understood too.

“Well, Sergeant,” said Doyle, “I recall you said the other week your wife’s expecting… As we’re not legally operating these games anyhow, let me make a small gift for the baby.”

Before the Sergeant could reply, Mrs. O’Hara had withdrawn seventy dollars from the till. She handed it to Doyle, who handed it to the Sergeant, who pocketed it, half-astonished.

“Very kind of you,” he said, more softly. He seemed to have forgotten about his police colleague’s birthday and the machine he had wanted to confiscate for it. In fact, when Sergeant O’Brien finished his pint, flush with cash, he fell into a reverie matching the fog outside… he seemed to have forgotten all about possible lurking enemies of the state, too.

“You can buy a lovely pram for the baby with that money,” said Francis brightly. “And have plenty to spare for clothing and what not. A lucky day for everyone.”

“Yes,” replied the Sergeant, still dazed. “You’re… thanks very much- I’d best be off. A city to safeguard and all that, you know.”

They bade Sergeant O’Brien a good afternoon and then Mrs. O’Hara locked the door from within. The three all looked at one another in silence.

“That was painful,” said Francis finally.

“For meself, not for you!” scolded Mrs. O’Hara.

“It could have been worse,” mused Doyle.

“When the enemy comes at ya with certain knowledge, it’s always like that,” said Francis. “Thank God for your pinball machines, Mrs. O’Hara. And very good of you, Jim, tellin’ him his wife was pregnant. No wonder he forgot about having asked us to donate a pinball for his Alameda County mate’s birthday!”

“He said that?” asked Doyle, surprised. “Bill died in October. Funny.”

“That pinball is the business,” concluded Francis.

Mrs. O’Hara smiled at last. “Tell that Yoshi of yours it’s safe to come out now,” she said, pointing into the darkness behind the bar.