Last Year

by Robert Charles Wilson

  “The moral of the story is, I’m not shocked by the fact that you wake up in a cold sweat in the small hours of the morning. I don’t think it’s some kind of weakness you have.”

  “Do you think I’m dangerous? Like Javiar?”

  “I don’t know you well enough to say. But on slim evidence, no, I don’t think you’re dangerous.” She added, “In that way.”

  Clearly, she knew she was treading on troubled ground. But Jesse guessed she wanted to clear the air. She valued honesty. After a moment’s thought he said, “You twenty-first-century women remind me of whores.”

  Elizabeth stiffened in her chair. Her eyes went narrow and hard.

  He said, “That’s not an insult. I don’t mean you have loose morals or that you’re venal or contemptible. I was raised around whores, and for the most part they treated me well. What I mean is, whores tend to speak frankly. They see much, and they take a cynical view of things. Listening to their talk spared me a host of polite delusions. It made me harder to fool, and it forced me to think honestly about myself. Do you understand?”

  She was a long time answering, but she said, “I guess so.”

  “I think you’re an honorable woman, Elizabeth. And I hope things go well for you and Gabby.”

  “Okay. So what would you say to a whore who asked you about your bad dreams?”

  “I would thank her for her concern,” he said, “and I would tell her it’s a subject I don’t care to discuss.”

  * * *

  Futurity Station was a different town after dark. It was still a circus, Jesse thought, but it was a night circus now: fewer lion tamers, more cooch shows. Storefronts closed and saloon doors opened. Lookout Street was crowded with men, many of them spitting tobacco with carefree abandon, and on the side streets gaslights gave way to torches.

  Onslow’s store was shuttered now, but there was a saloon around the corner. Jesse went inside and was assaulted by the smell of adulterated liquor and cigar smoke and the bodies of unbathed men—four years of sanitized City life had made him as sensitive as a woman.

  The saloon served beer at tables, like a German establishment, but featured frontier attractions: faro, poker, California pedro. Jesse spotted Onslow standing at the bar. He turned away and took a table at the far end of the room and paid for pickled eggs and a pitcher of beer.

  He thought about what Elizabeth had said about PTSD. The letters, she had explained, stood for post-traumatic stress disorder. Post, a Latin word meaning after. Traumatic stress, self-explanatory. Disorder, because the people of the future liked opaque words; since the condition was treated in hospitals, Jesse guessed the word was a euphemism for disease.

  Did that mean he was suffering from a disease? Maybe so, by Elizabeth’s standards. But it didn’t feel exceptional enough to qualify as diseased: His condition wasn’t exactly uncommon. The whole nation has PTSD, Jesse thought. It was a plague that had started at Fort Sumter and grown virulent at Manassas. Its nightmares were lynchings, Indian wars, and the pick-handle brigades that hunted Chinamen on the docks of San Francisco. And if we ever wake up from such dreams, he thought, then yes, we’ll likely wake up screaming.

  Onslow drank continuously and methodically for most of an hour, his back to Jesse. He didn’t stir from his barstool until three men entered the saloon and approached him. One slapped him on the back as the other two laughed amicably. Onslow accompanied them to a table. Jesse tried to memorize the features of these men, insofar as the flickering light of the kerosene lanterns permitted. Two of the men were strangers to him, but one looked tantalizingly familiar. He couldn’t be sure … but he thought it might be the coach driver, the one who had handed down his and Elizabeth’s bags after the trip from the City of Futurity.

  He left the saloon before he could be recognized in return. He needed time to think.

  He thought about the man who looked like the coachman. If he was a City hire he would probably be staying at the Excelsior. Maybe the desk clerk could identify him, or maybe Elizabeth could talk to Barton about it. Jesse stood in the dimness beyond the torchlight, in the shade of a wooden building he took to be a brothel by the sounds emanating from it, and watched the saloon for most of another hour, but the coachman didn’t emerge. He was about to give it up when the door of the building behind him flew open and a woman stepped out to empty a slop jar into the alley. He turned and exchanged a look with her, and before he could walk away she said, “My God, is that Jesse Cullum?”

  He stared, speechless.

  “It is!” she said.

  He knew her, of course. Her name was Heddie Finch. She used to work at a white bordello on Pike Street, back in the Tenderloin. “Well, Heddie,” he said. “You’re a long way from home.”

  She stepped away from the light that shone through the half-open door. It seemed to dawn on her that Jesse Cullum might not want to be recognized. “How are you, Jesse?”

  “I’m all right. You?”

  She shrugged. “I left San Francisco after the trouble. A lot of us did. Some went to Sacramento, or back east. I ended up here. But not permanently, if I can help it—Illinois winters are colder than a nun’s cunt. I swear, Jesse, I thought I’d never see you again, not after—”

  She registered his expression and stopped speaking.

  “I’d appreciate it,” he said, “if you didn’t mention my name to anyone.”

  Whispering now: “They still talk about you in the Tenderloin. The man who shot Roscoe Candy. We all thought you was dead.”

  “I left right after I killed him.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Is that what you think? Oh, Jesse! You shot him all right. Dead center. But you didn’t kill him, worse luck.”

  5

  Jesse braced himself for bad dreams. Running into Heddie Finch had provoked all kinds of troublesome memories. But from the moment he put his head on his pillow, he slept as soundly as if he had dosed himself with laudanum. When he next opened his eyes Elizabeth was standing by the bed, fully dressed, and sunlight streamed through the window curtains.

  Another bright, cloudless day, cooler than the one before. Over breakfast Elizabeth described her wireless conversation with the security chief Barton back at the City. Barton had thanked her for what they had learned, but his only advice was to “keep Onslow under surveillance.” Spy on him, in plainer words. But Jesse had a better idea. “Do you carry your phone when you go out?”

  She nodded. Jesse supposed it was tucked into some hidden compartment of her day dress, probably secured with Velcro.

  “Will it work from anywhere in Futurity Station?”

  “As long as it’s within range of the repeater on the roof of the hotel, yeah. Why?”

  “Keep it with you. We may need it. The first thing I want to do is talk to the owner.”

  “The owner of what?”

  “Of this hotel. Or at least the manager.”

  “What do you think the manager of the Excelsior can tell us?”

  “He can tell us who runs this town.”

  * * *

  The hotel manager, a cadaverously thin man whose name Jesse promptly forgot, was reluctant to speak to them until Elizabeth reminded him that they were from the City.

  The manager escorted them to his office, a room furnished with a few chairs and a pedestal desk with a chased silver inkwell on it. “We have excellent relations with the City of Futurity. We allow you to install your machines, we let you inspect the kitchen, we let you poison the bedbugs—I don’t know what more you could possibly want.”

  Jesse said, “There’s no problem with the hotel. Everything’s very satisfactory. You’re doing a fine job.”

  “Well, we try.”

  “When you say ‘we’—?”

  “Speaking for my staff and myself. The hotel is owned by a partnership in Chicago, as I’m sure you know.”

  “The Excelsior is the town’s preeminent business, isn’t it?”

  “I like to think so. We’ve been here since the beginning, wh
en the agents of the City and the railroad first put these lots up for sale.”

  “I’d guess a gentleman like you knows everyone worth knowing in this town.”

  “You give me too much credit. But I keep my eyes open.”

  “The town’s high rollers, could you name them?”

  The manager’s face clouded. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

  “Well, say we wanted to throw a party for the men who matter in Futurity Station. Who would be the first five names on the list?”

  “Is this—are you actually planning such a party?”

  “Remains to be seen,” Jesse said.

  “Well. Five names? I would have to say … Karl Knudsen, who holds leases on half the properties on Lookout. Billy Mingus, the restaurateur. A shop owner, Elbert Onslow. Casper Brigham, if I have to name another hotelier. Oh, and of course Marcus Frane. Mr. Frane would be at the top of the list.”

  “Marcus Frane?”

  “He owns the Stadium of Tomorrow.”

  “Does Mr. Frane live in town?”

  “He winters in Chicago but he’s usually here until the end of September. He stays at the Dunston House when he’s not supervising the show.”

  “Can we find him at the stadium, if we want to talk to him?”

  “This time of day, almost certainly.”

  “Thank you,” Jesse said, standing. “That’s all very helpful.”

  “You’re welcome. About this party—”

  “We’ll let you know if we need to make arrangements.”

  * * *

  The manager was wrong. Marcus Frane wasn’t at the Stadium of Tomorrow. The ticket-taker directed them to the Deluxe Barber Shop on Depot Street, where Frane was holding court with a half dozen cronies.

  Or thugs, Jesse thought. More thugs than cronies by the look of them. Their presence suggested that Frane was the right person to talk to, though possibly dangerous.

  Elizabeth came into the barber shop with Jesse, which made everyone sit up and stare. Frane’s men occupied all the chairs, but only Frane was getting service. After a long moment the barber whipped away a cotton bib as if he were unveiling a statue, and Frane wiped his face and gave Jesse and Elizabeth a long, thoughtful look.

  “We’d like to have a word with you,” Jesse said.

  Frane was a big man, neither very young nor very old, strong and confident in his body. He stood up. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced.”

  “We’re from the City.”

  “Is that so?”

  Elizabeth spoke up: “Yes. That’s so.”

  In this case, her frankness was as good as a calling card. Frane asked the barber to take a break. He told his boys to wait outside. The doors creaked closed. The shop seemed suddenly larger. Sunlight striking bottles of pomade made rainbows on the ceiling. “I don’t have any beef with the City,” Frane said. “Does the City have a beef with me?”

  “I’d say the City does pretty well by you,” Jesse said. “It flies the airship that puts paying customers on those bleachers of yours every day.”

  “What of it?”

  “Given how much you benefit from the City, we hoped you’d be willing to do the City a favor in return.”

  Frane paused long enough to take a cigar from his pocket and trim it and light it. “What kind of favor?”

  “We both know this town runs on contraband. Men like Elbert Onslow make their entire living from it.”

  “Is this about Onslow?”

  “In a way.”

  “So go talk to him. I don’t deal in contraband, and I don’t have much to do with Elbert Onslow.”

  Though you drink with him, Jesse thought. Jesse was fairly sure Frane had been one of Onslow’s companions in the saloon last night. “Mr. Onslow might be reluctant to tell us what we want to know.”

  “I don’t see how that concerns me.”

  “Mr. Frane, has the City ever interfered in your business?”

  “No—”

  “No, nor has it interfered in Onslow’s business. What goes on in this town doesn’t always please us, but our attitude is live and let live. Everybody gets along and everybody makes money. As long as everything stays within certain limits. The trouble is, Onslow overstepped those bounds. He’s been buying from someone who shouldn’t be selling, and we want to know the name of the person he’s dealing with.”

  “Ask Onslow.”

  “He has every reason not to tell us. The City isn’t the law here. What Onslow’s doing is underhanded, but it isn’t illegal. We can’t easily dispossess him and we’re too civilized to burn his shop down. All we want to know is who he buys his guns from.”

  Elizabeth gave Jesse a sharp look. He probably shouldn’t have mentioned guns. But it had the desired effect on Frane, who grew more serious. “If Onslow’s selling guns, I don’t know anything about it.”

  “But you can find out. And when you do find out, you can tell us.”

  “Are you drunk? Onslow’s not stupid—if he won’t talk to you, he won’t talk to me.”

  “We think you’re wrong. We think he’d be willing to share the information on a friendly basis, if you ask him politely. Or you can be impolite and unfriendly, if the first approach fails.”

  “You want me to intimidate a fellow businessman, for no better reason than that you’re unwilling to intimidate him yourself?”

  “You seem like just the man who could do it.”

  Frane drew himself up to his full height. He had the thick hands and scarred knuckles of a brawler, and his nose had been broken at least once. Jesse had seen plenty of men like Frane in San Francisco, men who had prised gold out of mountains and imagined themselves transformed into imperial powers. Men who wore silk hats and pissed in the street. “I’m not your servant,” Frane said. “Do your own dirty work.”

  Jesse could see Elizabeth’s impatience in her face. She was itching to speak. But she had agreed to let him handle this. “I remind you again,” Jesse said, “we represent the City of Futurity.”

  “Maybe so, but you don’t own my land, you don’t own my bleachers, and you don’t own the bright blue sky. I’m not about to strong-arm Onslow just because some hired bull strutted in here with the word ‘City’ on his lips.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “And I’m sorry you’re blocking my sunlight.”

  * * *

  “What the fuck!” Elizabeth exclaimed as the door swung shut behind her. One of Frane’s henchmen overheard her and laughed derisively. Jesse steered her farther down the sidewalk.

  “You’re attracting attention.”

  “Does it matter? Before midnight, everyone in town will know we’re City operatives.”

  An operative, Jesse thought—is that what I am? “Before midnight we’ll probably have what we came for.”

  “And what leads you to that conclusion?”

  “Yesterday at the bleachers you mentioned Vijay.”

  “Sandeep Vijay, the helicopter pilot—what about him?”

  “He’s a friend of yours, you said.”

  “We’re not best buds, but I know him.”

  “You have your phone. Can you call him?”

  “Sure, but why would I— Oh.” She paused. Jesse was gratified to see the smile that evolved on her lips. “Yeah, I can talk to Vijay.”

  * * *

  They took a midday meal at the Excelsior. Because there was nothing to do but wait, the conversation grew halting and awkward. Jesse was silent much of the time, casting glances through the window. President Grant had left the City this morning, and a little before noon a crowd of gawkers and newsmen had descended on the train station to look at him. Grant had waved at the crowd but said nothing—it had taken a gunshot to silence the eloquent Lincoln, but Grant was mute as a crawfish.

  Then the depot had reverted to its customary business. Later today a convoy of twenty-first-century visitors would be escorted onto a City train bound for a week-long tour of Manhattan. Of Futurity Stati
on they would experience nothing but its pervasive odor—like an outhouse on a summer afternoon, Jesse thought, a mingled perfume of shit and slaked lime, which even Jesse found galling, though he wouldn’t give Elizabeth the satisfaction of hearing him say so.

  He had taken delivery of his copy of The Shining from the store on Depot Street. It sat on the table now, and Elizabeth pointed at it with her spoon: “Are you actually going to read that?”

  “I don’t see why not. I’m braced for the obscenities. I’m not expecting Pilgrim’s Progress.”

  “Whose progress? No, never mind. You seem pretty well-read for a guy who claims to have been educated by prostitutes.”

  “My father loved books.”

  “I thought you said he was a doorman. Or a magician.”

  “He could read, and not just the Bible. He kept three volumes of Gibbon in a sea chest by his bed. I didn’t go to school—his books were my school.”

  “But he opened doors for a living?”

  Jesse saw by Elizabeth’s frankly curious expression that she wasn’t going to let the matter drop. “He was a large man, like me. I inherited his size. He wasn’t a doorman as I imagine you understand the word. He earned his income as a bouncer. Do you know what I mean?”

  “A big dude who kicks out troublemakers?”

  “Essentially.”

  “Kicks them out of the whorehouse?”

  “To be blunt, yes.”

  “So your father was a bouncer at a whorehouse in San Francisco?”

  “Originally in New Orleans. When war broke out he bought us passage to California by way of Cape Horn.” On a decaying freighter that wallowed in heavy seas like a damp cork. Jesse had been eight years old, and he had vomited himself senseless in the storms off Tierra del Fuego. Coming on deck after the weather cleared, dazed and drained, he had mistaken the petrels wheeling over the ship for angels. “He found similar work in the Tenderloin.” Similar but even more dangerous, in a city where women were scarce and the troublemakers tended to be hardened veterans of the gold fields.

  “Sounds like a rough life.”

  “Because of my size, he made me his apprentice. By the age of thirteen I was working the door at Madame Chao’s on weeknights. I took some knocks.” Some of which had nearly killed him. “I saw my father bloodied more than once and sometimes badly hurt. But coming to California kept him away from Manassas and Shiloh, which was the whole purpose of it.”