by Martha Carr
“Nothing happened,” she said quickly. “We need to come up with a plan. Are you here for the duration or was this a drive-by?”
“I was given a directive to stay for as long as it takes. To keep you safe and to return Bill Somers.”
“I can keep myself safe. Don’t use that as an excuse to get in my way. I’m the lead detective,” she said fiercely. Leira got out of the car, leaving the luggage behind. “We need to get on the road, sooner than later. What are you doing?”
“What is that wonderful smell?” he asked, turning around in a circle, smelling the air.
“You’re easily distracted like a dog and a squirrel. It’s got to be the Bangers truck in the food court. They sell all kinds of hot dogs. It’s like a tube of hot meat. Delicious. Yes, I’ll get you one,” she said.
She stepped into the line behind two men talking about a bet.
“We only bet a dollar and he argued about losing. A dollar!” The two men were laughing, betting another dollar on whether their friend would ever pay up. Leira watched them, wondering what it would be like to have friendships like that. Losing her mother and then her grandmother had set her on a course that didn’t leave a lot of time or desire, until now, to just hang out, cracking jokes. Her pocket uttered a muffled, high-pitched whine, causing the men to turn around and look at her.
Leira tried a half-smile on them, acting like she was just waiting to order.
“How fortunate you found a place right in front of this truck to put your car,” said Correk, nodding to the person next to him. “Hello.”
Leira turned around and looked at the car and back at Correk, puzzled. “Yeah, kind of lucky,” she said.
“Nice costume, dude,” said the young man in cargo shorts standing behind Leira. “You doing some kind of medieval gig?”
“This isn’t medieval. Entirely different era. This is one of my favorite capes,” Correk replied.
“I get it,” the man said, nodding his head and smiling. “You got your own thing going on. Keeping it real. Should monetize that feel and get a booth at the Sherwood Forest Faire. People would eat that up. Look, you even have the ears!”
“Two bratwursts with everything,” said Leira. She handed over a twenty and took the two sausages piled high with mustard, peppers and onions, passing one of them to Correk. “Here,” she said. “Stop playing with the locals.”
She waited for the change and threw a dollar into the tip jar, taking a big bite of her bratwurst before heading back toward the house.
“Yummmm, fuuuuuck,” drifted from her pocket before Leira could clamp a hand down over the opening.
“Should have known.” She rolled her eyes.
“Should be their new slogan,” the young man laughed. “Yum fuck!”
Correk was already halfway through his sausage when Leira caught up to him and they walked down the block together, weaving through the crowd. A few people took a second look at Correk but no one said anything else.
“Do I stand out that much?” he asked, taking another large bite.
“You’re good. This is Austin. We keep it weird.”
“What was that language that man was speaking back there? How do I monetize that feel?”
“It’s Austin English used mostly by street performers,” she replied. “Means you don’t have a regular job. You might want to slow down a little. A bratwurst can talk back to you if you eat it too fast. Could find yourself face down on the floor. Do you even eat normal things over there on Oriceran?”
“It’s very similar to Earth but nothing like this. You don’t take advantage of the nutrition in insects.”
“We eat Doritos in eight flavors. That should count for something.”
Correk groaned softly as they neared Estelle’s, pounding on his chest with his fist. “Ooof,” he said and belched, the smell of bratwurst lingering in the air. “That’s better.”
“Told you. You could have left that cape in the car.”
“I have too many valuable things in it.”
Leira held the side gate open for him. “I get it. Like a man purse.”
He glared at her but walked through the gate.
The regular crowd was already filling seats near the bar. Craig and Paul were still there listening to Janice tell what looked like a long, involved story. Most of them were dressed in blue bowling shirts with their names embroidered on the pockets and the team name, Pin Pushers, embroidered in navy blue on the back.
Leira thought about trying to slide by them, hanging back behind the crowd at the edges. There was a table of women, some of them with a dog sitting at their feet, all talking at once.
Fat chance of that with a giant elf in a cape, she thought.
“Leira!” several of them called out.
“Hey, I thought you would be passing Dallas by now. Who’s your tall friend?” shouted Paul.
Mitzi’s schnauzer, Lemon let out a sharp bark.
“Ooh, good, does this mean you’re not going?” Craig asked.
“Don’t say that!” said Margaret, swatting Craig on the arm. “She was going to take an actual vacation! And from the looks of things, a really good one.”
“What’s your friend’s name, honey?” Estelle was tending bar on the patio, standing on a metal box behind the bar so she could reach all the taps and get the beer across to the customer. She was wearing a similar bowling shirt but her participation on the team was limited mostly to cheering them on and a free round back at her place after games.
A cigarette was dangling from her mouth and one eye was closed as smoke spiraled above her bouffant. No one who came to Estelle’s would rat her out for any health violations.
Estelle inspired that kind of loyalty in her customers by treating them all like family. She showed up at bedsides in hospitals, fed hungry musicians, and gave unasked for advice.
“This is Bert,” she said, not looking at Correk. It was bad enough she was going to have to explain the outfit. A long conversation about his name and where was it from was not on Leira’s agenda.
“This a regular getup or for something special hon?” Estelle asked, looking Correk up and down. She opened two Shiner Bocks and put them down near Correk and Leira. Estelle claimed she knew best what people needed to drink or eat and often ordered for someone before they had a chance to say anything different. Leira found it easier to go along with it, and besides, there was something oddly comforting about her confidence.
Leira handed Correk the beer, whispering, “This won’t send you over some magical edge, will it? We don’t need to see your skin suddenly light up with some ancient language or sparks shoot out of your hands.”
“The next time you’re on Oriceran I’m going to give you a longer tour. Somehow, you’ve gotten the idea that we’re fragile creatures wandering around, barely getting by. Who do you think taught your ancestors how to grow good hops?” He took a large gulp of the beer. “Perfect thing after that sausage.”
“You went to Bangers?” Mike asked. He glanced sideways at Estelle.
“As long as you don’t bring it back in here,” she growled, as she poured a shot for someone at the other end of the bar.
“Be right back,” he said, sliding off his stool.
“Not the side gate. We’re not that close,” said Estelle, pointing over her shoulder at the bungalow she had turned into the bar.
“Bring me back one,” yelled Craig.
“Yeah, with everything,” said Margaret.
“Me too!” said Mitzi. “Don’t worry, I’ll share pumpkin,” she said, looking down at Lemon.
Mike looked back at Estelle, waiting to see if she objected.
“Bring me one too,” she said, sucking on the cigarette. “Just this once.” A cloud of smoke hid her face for a moment. Correk coughed and tried to blow the smoke away from his face.
“Okay, sucking on burning sticks is one thing we don’t have,” Correk whispered at Leira, coughing again.
“Craig, come help me carry,” Mike yell
ed. They could see him scooting around the tables inside, making for the front door.
“You have a friend for your road trip,” Margaret said cheerfully. “Good for you!”
“It’s not like that,” Leira insisted. “Bert needed a ride at the last minute.”
“Honey, a fine-looking man like that suddenly shows up wanting a ride with me somewhere and I promise you, I’ll become wittier, prettier and tittier, like that,” Estelle quipped, snapping her fingers.
Even Leira couldn’t help laughing at that, even in the middle of all the chaos.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The black bespoke tuxedo was costing Bill Somers a month’s salary but it would be worth it. All the local press would be at the university’s centennial celebration and stories would be posted online.
When everyone saw what he could do, there would be pictures. He wanted to look good.
“You only need a deposit today, right?” he asked nervously, running his hand down the expensive wool, smudging a chalk mark. The tailor gently pulled his hand away.
Never bat at a paying customer.
“Professor Flanagan sent me,” he said, remembering what his friend Professor Randolph had told him to say. The tailor owed Flanagan a favor and was known to give discounts to friends of friends.
“You’ll have this ready by the weekend? Seems like a lot of work,” he said, admiring himself in the mirror. He couldn’t remember ever looking this good.
The tailor was deftly pinning the hems of the pants and nodded his head without looking up at Somers.
“This will change everything,” Somers said in a hushed voice. “No one will ever doubt me again.”
“The single-breast gives a man some authority,” said the elderly tailor, in heavily accented English. Somers was sure it was German, or maybe Viennese. It added to the experience.
“Slims you down,” the tailor smiled. He was pulling pins from a black pincushion attached to his wrist, steadily moving around the suit and adjusting the fit. “No bow tie. Go with a nice silk tie. Lets them know you’re not a child and you’re not retiring. Old men and little boys. They should wear bow ties.”
“And a good white shirt,” said Somers, smiling nervously at his reflection.
“Perfect,” said the tailor. “You will get all of the attention.”
“You have no idea,” he replied. “Are you done yet? I have to be somewhere.”
“Done,” the tailor said with finality, smiling and holding out his arms as if he was conducting an orchestra. Somers liked being treated as if he was worth all this trouble.
It had never happened to him before despite his best efforts.
“Let me help you out of the jacket,” said the tailor, easing the jacket off Somers’ shoulders. “Wouldn’t want the pins to shift.”
Somers went back to the small changing room and pulled the heavy blue velvet curtain shut. He looked down at his jeans and t-shirt and felt embarrassed to put them back on and march past everyone. Today’s t-shirt had a picture of a wanted poster featuring a cat that read, ‘Wanted Dead and Alive, Schrodinger’s Cat.’ A puffy green coat completed the ensemble.
He was sorry he didn’t think about what he was wearing a little longer this morning.
“You have the pants off?” asked the assistant who had shown him to the dressing room. A hand appeared through the curtain, hand open, waiting to receive the pants.
“One, one second,” he stuttered, sliding the pants off. One of the pins in the hem caught on his sock and he found himself hopping over to the bench and plopping down next to his clothes. The wooden bench felt cold against the back of his legs.
There was a chilled glass of champagne waiting for him next to his pile of clothes. He jostled it as he sat down and lunged for it, sloshing some of the champagne on his hand.
“Everything all right?” the assistant inquired, pulling his hand out
Somers licked his hand and looked around for something else, settling on wiping the rest on his faded white underwear, gulping down some of the champagne. The bubbles tickled his throat and made him want to sneeze.
“Not now,” he muttered, not wanting to look like he was at a complete loss in such a nice place. The truth was the shop was small and worn. It was the customers who were important, for the most part.
Somers felt a sharp pang in his chest, wondering what the person who delivered the glass must have thought.
“I’m no better than him,” Somers said quietly. “A glorified academic errand boy for Dean Muston.” The spark he felt seeing himself in the handmade suit was fading. He opened his leather satchel and dug around inside, panic rising in his throat when he had to dig deeper.
“There it is,” he said, grasping the stained leather pouch. He pulled the drawstrings and looked inside at the necklace. “You are my ticket to something better,” he whispered.
“The pants?” came the voice of the assistant again, the hand poking back through the curtains. Somers handed over the pants, still holding the pouch. He dressed quickly and went to the front, putting down the necessary deposit.
“I’ll pick it up on Saturday morning?” he asked nervously.
“Yes, it will be ready for you when we open,” the tailor replied, the same gracious smile on his face. It was only making Somers feel worse.
He left without another word and stopped on the sidewalk for a moment, getting his bearings. He lacked the ability to know instinctively where he was standing and was terrible at maps too. His mother called that ironic.
He learned to take note of certain landmarks when he got off the subway. Visual cues usually did the trick.
“Walgreens,” he said, doubting himself already, even though he was crossing the street and hiking up the long flight of stairs to the train platform. He was resigned to the idea that he could be wrong and might end up having to come right back down again, crossing the street and up the other stairs. It happened all the time.
“Today, it’s a character flaw,” he said. “After Saturday, it’ll be a quirky habit.”
He had picked right the first time, bolstering his confidence. He went and stood in one of the warming booths Chicago turned on during the winter and hit the button and the red lights came on overhead. Across the platform a flock of pigeons were standing around doing the same in another booth. He wondered how they figured out how to press the button.
“Anything is possible,” he reminded himself. He wanted to wave at the birds to see if they waved back. A sign from Oriceran.
A man in a suit and a black wool overcoat joined him in the booth, standing on the other side, his eyes glued to his phone. Somers made a mental note to get himself a better coat when the money started rolling in. “Saturday,” he said quietly.
He could see the Brown Line in the distance, the silver cars rattling on the curve around the Loop. When it arrived, the doors slid open and people streamed out, brushing past the small crowd waiting to get on the train.
Somers pushed his way on, getting the last seat. A man with a cane got on and stood in front of Somers, looking down at him, raising an eyebrow. Several others on the car were watching, wondering what he’d do, but no one was offering their seat instead.
Somers got up slowly and made his way to the pole near the door, not looking back. The man with the cane muttered a thank you, and sat down, letting out an “Oof,” as he landed.
Somers was stuck on the pole by the door and at every stop he had to adjust his position, depending on the stream of people pushing on or off the car. The doors opened at Fullerton and a large group of college-age kids got off, headed to the nearby campus. He slid into one of the seats by a window and looked out at the people anxious to get on before the doors closed.
“Doors closing. Do not hold the doors,” said the conductor over the loudspeakers.
No one ever listened to that admonition. The doors made feeble attempts to slide shut and someone shoved them back.
Somers reached inside his backpack and slid his fi
ngertips into the pouch, checking it was still there. He felt a small buzz that crept up his arm and filled his entire body, lifting his mood. He saw a glow from inside the pouch when he looked in the backpack.
A woman carrying a large Marshall’s bag slid into the seat next to him. She held the bag on her lap, glancing at Somers and looking away. He pulled his hand out of the satchel and felt the friendly hum drain out of him.
I’m special, he thought, reminding himself that the hooded creatures that found him, picked him out of all the archaeologists they could have chosen. Intelligent life from another planet wanted him.
The murder was an accident, he thought. An accident. Not a chance he could have seen that coming.
The dark mood was returning. He slid his hand back inside, feeling around for the pouch. He found it and pushed his fingers inside, opening it wider so he could hold the stone in his hand. He squeezed hard, feeling the edges digging into his skin.
The buzz was stronger, pulsing through him. He felt relief as the energy flooded his brain. “It worked again,” he said.
The woman next to him gave him the side eye. He smiled at her saying, “Looks like you found some things,” indicating her bag.
The train stopped at Wellington and the woman shut her eyes, saying loudly enough for everyone to hear her, “God grant me the serenity not to knock this fool out. The courage to let him live and the wisdom to do it anyway if he’s stupid enough to bother me again.”
A couple sitting in another row started snickering.
Somers squeezed the rock harder, feeling the pulse strengthen. It was responding to his touch. He found himself enjoying the attention.
“Next stop, Paulina,” the loudspeaker squawked and Somers got up, pushing past the woman and her large bag as she rolled her eyes, letting out a loud ‘tsk’. People looked up as if they expected something to happen.
Somers felt emboldened by the energy coursing through his veins and paused at the doors. “Have a fucking miserable day. Or in other words, an average day for you,” he said in a cheerful voice. He stepped out of the car as the woman scrambled to her feet, spilling out a stream of mumbled expletives. Her shopping bag was banging against people who were trying to get out of her way.
