by Janet Leigh
~
I followed Ace outside. My outhouse sat looking forlorn in the shadow of Ace’s photo booth. I couldn’t help feeling responsible for Gertie and my inability to travel in my own vessel. I’ll get them back. I rolled my slouching shoulders back, pushed my chest out, and braced myself for the mystical ride. Ace grabbed me and pressed his cheek up to mine as we stared into the mirror in front of us.
“Smile, hon.” He made a kissy face at the mirror.
“What?” I started to say, then a light flashed. Orange and purple swirls formed in front of my eyes. The Rolling Stones sang “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction,” and we landed with a quick rock back and forth.
The lights blinked on, and Ace pulled back the purple curtain and jumped out before I could get my eyes to focus.
“Let’s have a look at our photo,” he said, doing a disco spin, and he picked up a strip of black-and-white photos from the little slot in the front of the booth.
“Oosh, honey, you gotta relax.”
I stepped out and looked at the photo. I had my mouth open, my eyes were squinting, and a “what the hell” expression contorted my face.
“You could have warned me you were taking my picture.” I frowned.
Ace shrugged and tucked the photo strip into his shirt pocket. I looked around and saw we had landed in a park. A large tree partially camouflaged our arrival, but we were not too far from a hot-dog vendor whose cart was positioned on the stone walkway. He didn’t seem to notice we had just materialized from thin air.
“Didn’t he see us pop in?” I asked.
“No, it’s so subtle; we sort of glide in, and people just don’t notice. Besides, people believe what they want to believe.”
The vendor was busy stacking his buns and barely gave us a second thought.
“So, where are we?” I asked.
“Central Park, baby.” Ace swished his hips and started walking. I sped up to match his pace.
We walked through the park, passing a large fountain. A few joggers ran around us. People were out for morning strolls, walking their dogs and picking up the dogs’ poop with plastic bags. A few businessmen rushed to work with the papers under their arms, coffees and briefcases in hand.
“Why didn’t Jake tell me about my aint Elma and Marco’s grandfather?” I asked.
“Agent McCoy is new, and I am sure the boss upstairs said you are on a need-to-know basis.”
“But he’s my friend.”
“Not when it comes to General Potts. All work and no play, that one. He most likely has something to do with making sure you are with the WTF and not the Mafusos.”
“Why would I work with the Mafusos?”
“Oh, power, money, fame… what most people who live in Manhattan are striving for.”
“But the Mafusos are bad.”
“Easy to turn the other cheek when your pockets are lined with gold.” Ace put his hand on my shoulder and gently nudged me to the right, gesturing for us to turn off the path.
“Why don’t you work for the Mafusos?”
“Doll, I do this for my family. It’s expected, and I like the perks of lateral travel. If my family thought for one minute I was working for anyone but the WTF, they would rip the key right off my neck.”
“But you would have to be dead for that to happen, right?”
“Exactly. Besides, in between transporting the bad guys, I can be in Rome or Greece doing as I please.”
“How do you afford to go to these places? I mean, I understand how you get there, but where does the money come from to hang out?”
“Trust fund, baby.” Ace grinned.
“I don’t have one of those.”
“It makes traveling a little more difficult, but I know several of us that hold down regular jobs in between travels.”
“Like Caiyan?” I asked shyly. I was dying to know what the guy did for a living, but the opportunity to ask had never presented itself while we were being chased by Villa.
Ace laughed. “Caiyan owns things. He flits around the world buying art and real estate. If you need a place to stay, he would be the one to contact, because he probably has a place in every city.”
“Figures.” I shrugged off the news that Caiyan was out of my league, but my subconscious pulled out a tissue.
“The Mafusos, of course, have a family business,” Ace said. “They practically run Staten Island.”
“That’s what Cousin Trish said.”
“Who?”
“Gertie’s mom. She is married to Vinnie the Fish.”
Ace froze. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, why?” I asked, stopping and looking at myself in the reflection of his sunglasses.
“Because everyone knows the Gambinos and the Mafusos are archenemies unless they are working together evading the law.”
“Aren’t we the law?”
“Exactly.”
“I thought the WTF would have known all about my family tree.”
“After Elma died, they assumed the ability to travel was lost, and stopped monitoring. I think they do a periodic check of the dead families,” he said, making air quotes.
“But what if they miss finding a traveler, like they did with me, and the Mafusos get them?”
“Trust me, you are the exception.” He smiled and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “If you were from a family that has a strong gene lineage, your grandparents would have been slapping that key on you from the moment you got your first pimple.”
