by Rysa Walker
∞7∞
New York City
July 24, 1929 – 2:35 p.m.
The Cyrist Union Bank of Manhattan has a very nice lobby. After the past eight days, I can speak as an authority on all things related to bank decor. The routine is always the same—some Cyrist banker, usually overstuffed, claps Simon on the shoulder and they go into a private office. Twenty minutes or so later, Simon comes out, usually smelling of smoke, scotch, or both.
I wait outside like his faithful hound.
Simon has a list of twenty-three different coordinates we're assigned to visit, mostly banks, in preparation for the next timeline adjustment. This is our second jump to this particular bank. Yesterday we visited the March 2008 version and I spent about an hour in this same little alcove. It looked almost identical—dark polished wood and marble everywhere. The chairs were less comfortable in 2008, however, and about half of the people in the lobby had their eyes glued to cell phones.
And they had air-conditioning. The bank doesn't seem to have sprung for that luxury in 1929. Everyone in the building is regretting that fact today, since it's in the mid-nineties.
The 2008 jump to this particular bank had the words housing and gold noted in the margin, but here's no need for any notes on this jump. The year is 1929, and even Simon knows its economic significance. Bankers and brokers will be leaping from skyscraper windows in a few months, after the stock market plummets. People will panic and decide to pull their money from banks and stash it beneath their beds or inside their mattress. I don't blame them. I saw what the Panic of 1893 did to my parents. I don't trust any bank until they start putting those little FDIC signs in their windows.
We'd have been finished with Simon's list several days ago if not for the fact that he distracts easy—all it takes is a movie marquee, a steak, a strip club, a sports match, pretty much anything that looks mildly amusing, and Simon is off. Each time we strike a bank or office from the list, Simon comes up with two or three things in that city and year that he has to experience before we move on.
And I can't argue that we're on a tight schedule, that we don't have time, because the CHRONOS key means we always have the bloody time. We could hang around for a year at each of those twenty-three locations and still be back at Estero at the appointed hour. We'd just be twenty-three years older.
Truthfully, I'm beginning to suspect that's the main reason Simon wanted me here. He could've easily knocked out these jumps in three days on his own. But having me tag along with my "infirmity," as he calls it, gives him an excuse to hang around a while and do what he wants to do—play.
More than a week of following him around and I still don't have a clue what he knows about Kate. We've been to London (twice), Frankfurt, Zurich, Tokyo, and now New York. The only thing I've learned is that Simon can speak German and that he's built up a much greater tolerance to alcohol in the past year. Before, if I wanted information out of Simon, all I had to do was steer him toward a few pitchers of beer or, better yet, a bottle of scotch. This last time we hit a club, Simon sucked down an entire bottle of whisky in one sitting and was still as sober as a bloody judge.
That's when it occurred to me to check his jacket pocket. Sure enough, he has one of June's pill bottles and I'm betting the little blue capsules contain an alcohol blocker. I opened most of them and dumped the better part of the powder into the toilet, keeping back two full capsules for my own use. Unfortunately, the odds are still stacked against getting him drunk on this jump, since we're smack in the middle of Prohibition.
I read through everything remotely interesting in today's Times while I hang out in the lobby waiting for Simon. The big news for July 24, 1929 is that the Kellogg-Briand Pact is officially in effect, which means war is now illegal. A nice idea, but even without a CHRONOS key, I could've told you it would never work. And in sports news, Yankees are in town, facing off against the Detroit Tigers.
I've just turned the paper face down so that Simon can't see the sports section, when he comes up from behind. He thwacks me on the back of the head with something, and then drops it into my lap.
It's a cigar, like the one that he's clutching between his teeth.
"Cuban," he says, as he heads for the revolving door.
I stick the cigar in my pocket, and follow him outside. Grand Central Station is just across 42nd Street, right where it was when I walked through this revolving door into 2008. The only real change is that there's no eagle perched over the entrance and the building looks kind of barren without the bird keeping watch.
We cross 42nd Street and start walking down Vanderbilt. Simon's business persona fades with each step and I can tell that his mind is sorting through all of the possibilities the city offers.
"You up for a short hop? I was thinking we could skip to about seven, grab a steak, a couple of shows—and then head over to the 21 Club?"
"Only if we sleep first. It's been—" I shrug, not quite sure how long it's been. Thirty hours, maybe more.
"Sleep?" He gives me this look like I can't be serious, then shakes his head. "I don't believe you, man. You've gotten to be such a wuss. Three months ago you did like five jumps in one day—we met those girls in Paris? Remember?"
"No. I don't."
He's been doing this a lot—making up crap that supposedly happened during the time he thinks my memory got whacked. It's pathetic and annoying, but it does make me think Kate was right about Simon being lonely. I'm probably the closest thing to a friend Simon's ever had, although to be fair, he has a limited supply from which to choose, since all the places he likes to hang out require friends who can use a CHRONOS key.
Even leaving aside what he may or may not know about Kate's disappearance, I'm short of sympathy for Simon right now. I need a break. For every hour I've spent waiting in a lobby or outer office this past week, I've spent three laughing at Simon's jokes and tagging along while he plays time-tourist. If I have to do any more of that without sleep, I'm going to snap and knock his head clean off his bloody neck.
"Sleep and a shower," I say. "Then we can do whatever you want. We can even move on to the next city on the list—it's DC, right?"
I don't remember the exact year of the DC jump. I do remember it's after Prohibition, however, and that would suit my purposes much better than being stuck here tonight.
Simon looks offended. "We're in New York, Kier. I've got tickets for a show. We can even catch a game if you want. The Yankees are playing."
"Sleep first. Otherwise, I'm not going to be able to jump anywhere when you're ready to actually leave New York."
Simon can be exhausting. I've seen him keep going for well over two days, then collapse for seven or eight hours of sleep, before bouncing back up. And that's if you keep him away from coffee. He'll sit stock still for hours if there's something to occupy his mind—something loud and blaring, like a computer game or an action movie. But sit still and read a book? Or just look at the stars? I've known him since he was nine and I've never seen that happen for more than five minutes straight.
Kate spent one marathon day of tagging along with us, a month or so before Simon clued in to exactly who she was and what she—what we—were up to. Her conclusion? "He's like the damn Energizer bunny."
The Roosevelt is four blocks down and we make it to our suite without Simon getting distracted, except for the knish vendor outside Grand Central. I grabbed a couple of those, however, so I can't really complain.
We stayed at the Roosevelt last time we slept, too. It's a convenient location because the alcove near the main staircase at the Roosevelt is a stable point after 1926. The hotel is still new and luxurious in 1929, and our suite costs maybe twenty-five bucks. In 2008, it was still nice, but slightly run down, and cost nearly four hundred dollars.
Fortunately, Simon seems to have an unlimited bank account, because a suite is a necessity. If he drags another girl back to the room tonight, it's bad enough that I'll have to listen to them. I bloody well refuse to be in the same room.
I sprawl out across my bed fully clothed and shut my eyes, thankful for the air-conditioning and a bit of privacy.
The privacy lasts maybe two minutes before Simon barges in. I feel the foot of the bed dip downward as he plops on the edge.
"You're really going to sleep?"
"Yes," I say, not opening my eyes.
He's silent for a minute and then says, "Have it your way. I'm gonna catch a movie and then we can—"
"Make it a double feature."
Simon mutters a curse that has something to do with my laziness, the likelihood that I had carnal relations with my mother, and the marital status of my parents at the time of my birth. Then he's gone, slamming the door behind him.
∞
New York City
September 10, 1930 – 10:45 p.m.
The show, a musical revue called Hot Chocolates, ended about an hour ago. I actually recognized one of the stars, a guy named Louis Armstrong. Not from my time. Later in his career, he'll sing this song called "What a Wonderful World," that Kate likes, although I think it's a bit before her time. The dancing was too frantic, but the music was nice, so I just closed my eyes and listened most of the time.
One of the songs Armstrong sang tonight, "Ain't Misbehavin'," is echoing through my head now as a giggly, thoroughly drunk redhead runs her hand up and down my thigh.
It turns out that Prohibition isn't quite the problem I'd imagined it would be.
We ended up having to make a short time jump after the show because Simon had his dates wrong. The infamous Jack and Charlie's at 21 West 52nd was still the 42 Club over on 49th Street until January of 1930, and Simon was determined it had to be the real 21 Club.
I'm not sure why. The place looks like an ordinary row house from the outside, except for the large iron gates at the entrance. The doorman slid open a little window when he heard us knock, and Simon held something up for him to see. I thought it was money at first, but it was some sort of token. After a second or two, the door opened and we were in. Simon slipped the guy a couple of bills when we were seated and I suspect it's no coincidence that the redhead and her friend showed up a few minutes later.
The owners must have an arrangement with bootleggers and, most likely, an arrangement with the police, since liquor flows freely and it's not the cheap, homemade variety. Four rounds later, the only one at the table who's sober is me, thanks to one of the little blue pills I swiped from Simon earlier.
The redhead, whose name I didn't catch, is saying something I can't make out over the music and the crowd. I'm about to ask her to repeat it when Simon reaches across the table and yanks on my sleeve, jerking his head toward the exit.
I disentangle myself from the redhead, glad that we're leaving. But the girl follows me, so Simon must have invited them to come along.
The one with Simon is named Elsie. Her hat looks like a Roman helmet, with just a few blonde curls peeking out beneath. While she isn't quite as drunk as the redhead, or as drunk as Simon for that matter, she's way beyond tipsy. Once we're in the lobby where it's quieter, she asks Simon where we're headed.
"The Epicure. It's next door, right?"
She seems reluctant. "Yeah. Tillie and me've been there lotsa times. It's okay, but this place is nicer."
"Yeah," I say. "I thought this was the place you wanted to go, Si."
"Wanna do both."
Simon and Elsie stumble out the door and up the stairs to street level. Elsie totters slightly as her heels hit the sidewalk and she has to clutch onto his arm to keep from falling. The redhead, who must be Tillie, finds that extremely funny for some reason and explodes into a fit of laughter, hanging onto the iron railing for support. By the time I drag her up the stairs, Simon is knocking on the door of the neighboring brownstone.
Once we're inside, I see what Elsie means. It's a bit more run-down, just as smoky, and even noisier than the joint we just left. Simon orders a round of drinks—something called Bee's Knees for the girls, which looks pretty much the same as whatever this is he ordered for us. The cocktails are heavy on sugar, probably to hide the fact that the gin—if it really is gin and not wood alcohol—was brewed in someone's bathtub.
The music, however, is an upgrade. The band itself isn't great, but the vocalist is really good. Simon seems to be thinking the same thing, although his expression makes me think he's more impressed with what meets the eye than what meets the ear.
His eyes keep moving between the singer and the front door. When he catches me watching him, he grins and raises his glass, shouting out a toast that sounds like "To New York's finest!" before tossing back the rest of his drink.
My stomach sinks. The last time I saw this expression on Simon's face was in Cincinnati. He's up to something.
The band shifts into a rendition of "Fascinating Rhythm," and Simon pulls Elsie onto the dance floor. She's sober enough to be embarrassed by his dance moves, none of which belong in this half of the century and several of which probably violate local obscenity laws, even in New York.
Tillie is too drunk to notice anything. Her head of closely cropped curls is slumped against my shoulder and her eyes are almost closed. I kind of feel sorry for her and I kind of feel disgusted, but mostly I'm pissed that Simon is finally drunk enough that he might spill something about Kate and we're in a dive too noisy to hear anything below a scream.
Halfway through the second chorus, the band screeches to a halt and then shifts to an entirely different tune. The vocalist pauses for a beat, looking around at the patrons, then starts singing in a slightly louder voice:
I had a friend named Bill Campbell
Who used to rob, steal, and gamble.
He did most everything that was low-down…
As soon as the crowd hears the first line, it's like someone rang the schoolbell. Everyone freezes and most of them dump the contents of their glasses onto the floor. The seats empty as people dash toward the back of the room, pushing to get through a small door that I'd have sworn wasn't there a moment ago. Most of those on the dance floor don't even bother to grab the things they left at their table.
The toast to New York's Finest suddenly makes sense, although I'm guessing the men at the door are federal agents, and not the local police. The band keeps playing, while waiters quickly scoop the remaining glasses onto trays, rushing them to the backroom.
I told him over'n over again
To lay off the whisky, lay off the gin.
He's in the jailhouse now.
Elsie abandons Simon on the dance floor, grabs my glass, which is still full, and flings the contents into Tillie's face.
"It's a raid!"
I don't know if it's the shock of the liquid or the word itself, but Tillie staggers to her feet and they half run, half stumble to the rear exit.
Simon stands in the middle of the dance floor, the CHRONOS key in his hand, singing along with the music, until the officers are maybe ten feet in front of him. I have no clue how he manages to pull up a stable point in his current condition, but he does, flashing out in full view of everyone in the room.
The next notes from the band are off-key, and then the song fades into silence. With every sober eye in the place still glued to the spot where Simon vanished, I pull the key out of my pocket, crouch beneath the nearest table and follow him.
∞
New York City
July 25, 1929 – 1:17 a.m.
It was 1:17 a.m. when I left the club. I locked in the date and the stable point we set back in our suite, not bothering to change the time. Simon must have taken the same shortcut, because he's there, cackling like a chicken, when I pop in.
"Damn it, Simon. You knew, didn't you? You knew there was going to be a raid at that place. "
"Of course, I knew! Tha's why I picked September 10th. So we could see it, you idiot. Wha's the point of having the key if you can't—" His expression turns serious in mid-sentence. "D'you set a stable point back at the Epicure?"
"No."
He slumps
down onto the sofa. "Well tha's a royal pisser."
Unsure what realization has brought his mood crashing to the ground, I latch onto the only reasonable option. "I think the girls got out, if that's—"
"What? No. They were prob'ly hookers anyway. So what if they spend a night in jail."
"Then…why?"
"So I could go back and see their faces when I popped out. The chica who was singing, did she—"
"Yes, she noticed you. She looked like her jaw was going to hit the floor. Are you happy?"
"I'd be happier if she was here. My room lacks the feminine touch, know what I mean? Maybe she's with the house band. She could be singin' there tonight. Come on."
"You're crazy."
"Why? It's only a year earlier. And if not, we c'n get some other girls." He picks up his jacket from the chair and pulls it on.
"I'm not interested in getting a girl."
He snorts, searching around in his jacket pocket for something. "Anythin' you wanna tell me, Kier?"
"No," I say. "I just…I don't think Prudence—"
"Never stopped you before. In Paris, you couldn' keep your hands offa…that…" Simon trails off as his hand comes out of his pocket holding the pill bottle.
My brain starts spinning, trying to cook up a believable lie, but Simon's too wasted to question why the pills didn't work. Or maybe he's just happy to have the sensation of being drunk again.
Seeing the pills does seem to have taken a little of the wind out of his sails, though. Giving the bottle a foul look, he pulls off his dinner jacket and tosses both the container and the jacket into the trash.
He walks over to the window and looks out at the skyline, which shines much brighter than the moon and stars above it. "She's dead anyhow. Same goes for that blonde—Elsie? The redhead, too. All of them are what? Maybe twenty? All dead. Just a sack of bones in a grave by our time."
I don't know what year Simon was born. He runs on Saul's clock, so I'm guessing he considers 2030 to be his time. None of those girls have even been born in my own time, but I don't bother to correct him. He seems to be warming up to a rant, and that's what I've been waiting for.
