The Prophet of Queens

by Glenn Kleier

  “Wow,” he said, looking Tia up and down. “You’re a knockout!”

  She thanked him, returning the compliment, albeit he looked stiff in a coat and tie.

  Rolling up next to him was Max in an open-collar sport shirt and khakis, sipping a beer. He was accompanied by a man Tia didn’t recognize, and Max introduced him as a bouncer he knew from a local nightclub.

  Max told her glibly, “You clean up well.”

  She thanked him thinking, You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

  The song ended, and the band segued into a slow ballad, when out on the floor appeared Ariel, escaping the circle of men, heading for Tia holding her shoes. And smiling, Tia was elated to see—until Tia realized with alarm, a tipsy smile. Ariel wobbled up giggling, and suddenly some guy took her by the arm and wheeled her away, leaving Tia holding Ariel’s shoes.

  Stan, Max and the bouncer gaped, and Stan cried, “Holy moly! Who was that?”

  Max decided, “She’s sure as hell not from TPC.”

  The bouncer replied, “Well she’s not from around here. No forgetting that face and figure.”

  Max turned to Tia, frowning. “How the hell do you know her?”

  “She had a wardrobe problem, and I helped her out.”

  Soon Ariel and partner danced back into view, and Max was all but drooling. He fancied himself a man with moves, and was no doubt looking for a chance to impress the lady in black. But to meet her, he’d have to take a ticket. More than a score of men was clustered ahead of him, angling for their own shot. Likely more prospective partners than the band had songs.

  Max crossed his arms on his chest, staring at Ariel. Tia gave him a moment more to simmer, then offered, “I can get you a dance.”

  He paid her a withering look, and Tia explained, “She owes me.”

  He scoffed. “And why, exactly, would you do that for me?”

  “Not out of the goodness of my heart,” she said, tugging Stan’s coat to bring him in as witness. “I’ll hook you up, but I want something in return.”

  Max unfolded his arms, and Tia dropped her voice a full octave.

  “I want you to end your war on Ariel and let her keep her dog in peace.”

  That caught him off guard. He studied Tia warily, and she returned his gaze. Finally, he realized she was serious. Looking to see Mystery Lady glide across the floor in the arms of another suitor, Max snorted, “Fine. You got yourself a deal. Now, deliver.”

  Tia stuck out her hand and they shook. She couldn’t restrain a grin. Telling Max to wait for her signal, she headed for Ariel, pulling her from her partner’s arms, ignoring his protests.

  “You won’t believe what just happened,” she shouted with glee into Ariel’s ear. “Max just agreed to let you keep Newton.”

  “Oh my God,” Ariel gasped, tears welling in her glassy eyes. “Are you serious? For real?”

  “For real,” Tia replied. “One dance, and it’s done.”

  The elation in Ariel’s eyes turned to fear. “Dance? You never said anything about a dance! I’ve never even been close to Max.”

  The song ended, replaced by a country version of the old standard, Get Lucky. Squeezing Ariel’s hands, Tia assured, “One little dance, that’s all. Hang in there just three minutes, and Newton’s safe. You can do it.”

  Max stood poised like a runner at a starting line. Tia waved him in before Ariel could object, and he bolted ahead of his competitors. Ariel looked to Tia with panic, but too late, Max swooped in and spun her away, men crying foul from the sidelines. Ariel gaped back over Max’s shoulder, terrified as they vanished into the crowd.

  Tia rejoined Stan, who asked, “What the heck did you tell her?”

  “I said, if she wants to keep Newton and get Max off her back, she had to dance with him.”

  Stan nodded, smiled, and did a double-take. He squinted at Tia, then Ariel, watching as she twirled into view again. “Can’t be,” he sputtered. “That’s our Ariel?”

  “That’s our Ariel.”

  Max waltzed her by, flashing his teeth. Next trip around, however, Ariel looked wilted, eyes glazed. Max was oblivious as he put on a show, swiveling nearer to Tia and Stan, setting up a dance move. Then planting his feet, he took Ariel’s hand and flung her toward them to the extent of his outstretched arm.

  She snapped to a halt, and for an instant, Tia got a closeup, alarmed to see Ariel’s complexion a very different shade. Green. And when Max reeled her back to catch her, she exploded on him in a purge of tomato soup, grilled cheese, and beer.

  The shock on the floor was palpable, as if the barometer had just plummeted. Dancers stopped, the band trailed off. Stunned silence. Max let go of Ariel, gaping down at his sodden self. Ariel faltered, and Tia and Stan rushed to shore her up.

  “She needs to sit,” Tia told Stan.

  They ushered her off the floor, the crowd parting like a curtain. Spotting an empty bench under a streetlamp, they made for it, gently depositing her. Stan fanned her face with a handkerchief, and Tia snatched it to tidy her up, surprised at how unsullied she was. Max had borne the brunt.

  A volley of expletives drifted over on the night air, and Tia looked to see Max shaking himself off in the grass, bending to empty his shirt pocket. His bouncer friend brought him napkins to clean up, and Stan fetched Ariel water. She recovered quickly, green hue fading.

  Tia squeezed Ariel’s hands. “Bad idea giving you that beer.”

  Ariel blinked, eyes clear now, and Max approached smelling ripe. Tia braced for battle, but when Max beheld Ariel again, he softened.

  “How you feeling?” he asked Ariel.

  She looked up, eyes gleaming blue and huge in the lamplight. “I’m so sorry.”

  “My fault,” he exhaled. “Spinning you around like a cyclotron.”

  “I never danced before,” she tried to explain. “Never had a beer. I was so nervous.” Tears welled, and her voice broke, pitiful. “You’re not mad at me again, are you? You’ll still let me keep Newton, won’t you?”

  Max went rigid, eyes bugging. He examined her close under the light. “No way,” he gasped. And turning on Tia, he snarled, “I don’t know what your game is, but I’m not falling for it.”

  Tia stood hands on hips, telling Ariel, “Show him, mi corazón.”

  Ariel bent forward and shed the wig, undoing pins in her hair, giving her head a shake. Her platinum locks unfurled to her shoulders and she raised up again, even more gorgeous than before. Tears etched her makeup, and she blubbered, “We went to town today. I got contacts, my hair cut, new clothes.” She trailed off adding, “I just want to keep my dog.”

  Her voice and hair color were indisputable. Max went crimson.

  Unable to contain herself, Tia burst into laughter. “Men are sooooo superficial,” she said with a smirk. “Same woman you’ve seen every day for weeks. Give or take a little primping.”

  Max fumed, “You punked me!”

  “A deal’s a deal,” Tia declared. “And we’re damn-well holding you to it.”

  Chapter 51

  Saturday, October 13, 1:43 pm, Talawanda

  Tia brought another cup of tea to the living room, and Ariel accepted it numbly, still in shock over the loss of Newton. Taking a sip, she felt its warmth radiate, and quickly fade.

  Stan was in the tent, Max in his room, and Ariel heard footsteps in the hall. She turned to see Max with a new blimp in hand, rolling his fingers on its gasbag. The Charles Fort II, product of another trip to town. During his breakout, Newton had damaged the original beyond repair.

  “Come,” Max snapped, still brooding, “let’s do this.”

  The men would need help to pull off the delicate maneuver. Tia gave Ariel a squeeze, telling her, “Stay here and drink your tea, we’ve got this covered.”

  Ariel set down her cup. “There’s still a chance,” she sniveled.

  Poor Newton. Not much of a life she’d given him here. Barred from the house, tethered most of the time for fear he’d run off or get run over. Neg
lected, deprived of the companionship he craved.

  She’d had a dog before. Well, it was Nana’s—Dad’s mom. Nana took in Ariel and Mom after they lost Dad (special ops, Middle East). Ariel was three at the time and didn’t remember him. Mom and she left Dayton for Nana’s old house outside Toledo, and spent the next four years in an idyllic little town where no one seemed to think twice about Ariel’s rare condition. Nana was kind and doting, and her little mutt, Otto, followed Ariel everywhere.

  Then Mom found Phil, and God, and within a month, Ariel had a new father, a new home, a new city, and no dog. Phil, like Max, didn’t like pets.

  Ariel dried her eyes and followed Max and Tia to the tent. But stepping inside, she was met by the acrid scent of burnt fur, and the horrors of this morning flooded back, bringing tears again.

  The clock neared 2:00, and Max took his place in front of the table with the blimp, Stan close by with a rake. Hopefully, something good would finally come of all their work and sacrifices.

  No sound of barking to herald the thunder this time, and when the vortex appeared and the hole unfurled, Stan inserted the rake to report, “All clear.”

  Max replaced him at the hole, raising the blimp, and as he did, a black and white blur came leaping out of the hole straight into him, bouncing off, past Ariel, out the door. Ariel shrieked and chased after, and Newton reversed direction and bounded back to her. She collapsed to her knees on the grass, wrapping him up, bawling as he licked and wriggled.

  He was a mess. The fur atop his head was singed, as were the tips of his ears and along his back and tail where he’d brushed the vortex rim. No burns to his skin that she could see. Miraculously, other than looking ridiculous and smelling awful, he appeared fine.

  Stan and Tia raced up smiling, and Stan panted, “That’s one small leap for dog, one quantum leap for mankind!”

  Ariel laughed through her tears, and Max stamped from the tent looking as crushed as the blimp in his hands.

  Chapter 52

  Sunday, October 14, 9:55 am, Talawanda

  For the third time in as many runs, Max stood poised to breach the vortex with a remote-controlled blimp. He stood near the center of the tent grumbling, holding the Charles Fort III, the product of another trip to town.

  Though the previous launch attempts had failed, they were by no means a total loss. Thanks to Newton, the team now knew that living creatures could safely navigate the wormhole. And while the aperture was too small for a human, it nevertheless opened vast new possibilities for science and industry.

  On the other hand, Newton’s reappearance was also cause for concern. No one on the other side had either returned the plant to its upright position or dealt with a surprise, four-hour visit from a strange dog, enabling Newton to leap back out the hole into Max. Yesterday was a Saturday, not a workday, and Max feared Newton’s intrusion caused the occupant to pack up and flee, perhaps leaving nothing behind to identify himself or his location. If so, the voyage of the Charles Fort III would be a short and dry run, spoiling Max’s plan for a press conference.

  Ariel watched him sulking in a corner of the tent, drumming his fingers on the blimp’s gasbag. Gone was the bombast, and she worried about these mood swings. How would he react today if his blimp encountered an empty room?

  Before her on the table sat a laptop wired to an antenna in Tia’s hands. Its screen showed live video of the tent floor—the blimpcam’s current perspective. If things went as planned, everyone would have a bird’s-eye view of the ship’s maiden voyage as Max guided it remotely.

  The top of the hour arrived, and Newton began to bark, now safely tethered to his house by a new chain. Then came the familiar sequence: thunder, whine, silence, vortex, wormhole.

  Ariel gave a countdown and started her stopwatch, and Stan raised his rake and attacked the hole with the cry, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends.” He quickly added, “The plant’s back!”

  Max blinked, and like a switch flipping, he was his old showman self again. Stan removed the rake and stepped aside, and Max took his place, blimp’s little propellers whirring soft, searchlight on. Smiling for the camera, Max presented the blimp to the hole, aimed, and let go. The ship set off without incident, disappearing into the narrowness of the black abyss.

  Tia replaced Max at the hole, inserting the antenna, and he hustled to the laptop keyboard, all eyes jumping to its screen. Snow at first, then darkness as Max adjusted the lens. Quickly there materialized the dim suggestion of a room.

  “All systems ‘go,’” Stan hooted.

  The room appeared gloomier than before. Perhaps due to the blimpcam’s tiny spotlight. Apart from that, the only illumination came from the window, in diffused shafts.

  Stan observed, “Wherever this is, it must be cloudy.”

  It was perfectly bright and clear outside their tent.

  Ariel observed no movement. The blimp tilted down, and a white halo appeared at the bottom of the screen. Ariel watched enthralled as the spotlight wafted over foliage of a fallen plant, large and bushy, green leaves popping vividly out of ghost-gray ambiance. Surreal. Like being in a deep-water bathysphere exploring the ocean floor.

  Suddenly the light exposed a large black ring seared onto the back of the plant, and Stan noted, “The vortex singed the leaves!”

  The halo advanced past the plant to reveal hardwood and a braided rug. Max had equipped the blimp with a microphone, and Ariel heard muffled horn honks and what sounded like a loose manhole cover clunking now and again under passing wheels.

  Max sailed on, entering the aura of light from the window. He stopped to rotate toward it, asking, “How about a glimpse outside?”

  The image momentarily bloomed as the lens confronted the light. It adjusted, and blinds materialized, closed, blocking the view. Max completed the turn for a look back at the wormhole from the opposite side. Almost invisible in the dark corner.

  “Got to be impossible to see it behind the plant,” he said.

  Making an about face, he flew past the window toward the TV in the corner. To its left against the wall stood a small bookcase, a prime target. As Max drew close, Ariel saw DVDs, books, magazines. Most looked tattered. Chewed, she realized with dismay.

  Stan asked, “Any of those magazines have mailing labels?”

  Max sailed in tighter and hovered, his mastery of the blimp impressive. The only magazine facing out was a Popular Science, four years old, and no label.

  Ariel also saw DVD sets of the Rocky series, Terminator, Star Wars, Battlestar Galactica, and a host of sci-fi books and videogames. The blimp came about, and the better part of the room swung into dim view. In the foreground facing the window was a sofa with jagged rips across the backrest and arms. Only one cushion, ragged.

  “Newton,” Max spit. “When we do contact this guy, he’s gonna sue us.”

  Throttling up the blimp, he soared over the couch to the long wooden table behind. Shadowy forms resolved into the familiar. A flat-screen monitor, facing away. A computer keyboard and various other items they’d seen before. Max made for the monitor and circled to face it. As the screen became visible, Ariel saw animated fish swimming across its display.

  “Holy smokes,” Stan said. “He left his computer on! If we could get a look at its desktop.”

  Max replied, “I think I can manage that.”

  He reversed engines and tilted down to reveal a computer mouse next to the keyboard. Speeding forward again, he dove at it, struck it, and the blimp jarred and rebounded. The screen awoke, brightening the room as Max regained control and leveled off, squaring the ship to the monitor. Ariel thrilled to see the screen had changed from fish to an image of the Crab Nebula. In the toolbar, a clock icon displayed: Tues Oct 14 10:06 AM. The correct date and time, but the day was off—today was Sunday. Regardless, wherever this was, it appeared to be in their Eastern time zone.

  On the right of the screen were eight file icons. Max homed in on: Sent Emails; Browser Cache; Acct Recs; Ivy Fund; PL; R/U/God;
Infinitiman; and Blue Angels. The files might hold clues to the owner’s identity. But skilled pilot though Max was, he couldn’t possibly work the keyboard to open them with such a blunt instrument.

  “We’re recording all this,” he said, “we’ll study it later.”

  He moved on, shifted right, and panned across the desk to reveal ugly scratches.

  Ariel had been so absorbed, she’d almost forgotten her timekeeping. They couldn’t risk stranding the blimp and frightening the poor occupant more than they already had.

  “Four minutes to go,” she alerted Max.

  He started to bring the ship about, but suddenly Tia cried, “Wait. Stop. On the corner of the desk. What’s that?”

  Max swung back to throw light on a stack of unopened mail.

  Jackpot.

  Unfortunately, the top envelope faced down, blank. But no problem for Max. Circling away to approach from a different angle, he hit the throttle, lowered the nose, and crashed the pile kamikaze-style. The blimp staggered, corrected, and turned to troll the scattered pieces. Ariel was excited to see some envelopes right-side up, if askew and hard to read. She recognized a Con Ed logo, everyone calling it out. Then one envelope slanted their way. Its return address appeared first. Some charity from Eastpointe, Michigan: The American Autoimmune Association.

  The spotlight brought the mailing address into view, and Ariel held her breath:

  Scott Butterfield

  Apt. 2-A

  252 S. 34th Ave

  Queens, NY, 11369

  The tent erupted, Max howling like a coyote. It seemed the collider generated a wormhole reaching some two-hundred-fifty miles to an apartment in New York City. Not Hong Kong, exactly, but a momentous feat of technology, nonetheless. All that remained was to contact Scott Butterfield, gain his support, and it was onward to the press conference.