by Al Macy
He spun the dial this way and that. I couldn’t help but think of the lyrics to “Pinball Wizard”: How do you think he does it? I don’t know! What makes him so good? Different situation but eerily similar.
After five minutes, he stopped, turned the lever, and started to open the door. Bolton jumped up and slammed it shut. Andrei returned to the living room.
I wished we hadn’t come over for grilled cheese sandwiches.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I smiled while reading the San Francisco Chronicle’s story once more:
Mob Boss Arrested, Dies of Heart Attack.
Early Friday morning, a package from an anonymous tipster was received at the Richmond Police Station. The package contained the 1934 Academy Award Oscar Statue that had been stolen from the Disney Family Museum. Fingerprint analysis revealed the fingerprints of suspected mob boss Ignazio Mizrachi.
A warrant for Mizrachi’s arrest was prepared. When served at his home in the Golden Gate Heights, the eighty-seven-year-old businessman suffered a heart attack and died at the hospital. An officer, who spoke on condition of anonymity, described the arrest. “The old man was sitting in a wheelchair when we arrived. My lieutenant radioed in for an ambulance then informed him he was under arrest. ‘What the hell for?’ Mizrachi asked. My lieutenant informed him about the statue and the fingerprints. The old guy stood up and turned purple, his mouth moving like a fish. Then he collapsed.”
All attempts to revive him failed, and he was pronounced dead at the hospital.
I took another bite of my bagel. Of course, I wasn’t definitely out of the woods. Paraphrasing the margarine commercial, it isn’t nice to fool the mob. Would the second-in-command put things together? Would he believe that I broke into Mizrachi’s mansion without being detected, wiped my prints off the statue, and then pressed the mob boss’s fingers against it as he slept? That would be a stretch. I’d even wiped away the traces that my grappling hook had made on the edge of the roof. Perhaps they’d believe that Mizrachi picked up the statue by mistake—no. That was even more unlikely.
La naiba! My smugness disappeared when I read a story on page eight. The body of a Hector Rosso, a suspected foot soldier in the mob, had been discovered in the Mission District. Coincidence? Was that the body of the guard in the car who’d failed to see me? That would make sense if they’d figured out what had happened. If so, the mob would probably be seeking to kill me in revenge. Unless their desire for my help prevailed. In any case, it was time to make some contingency plans.
* * *
Bolton wondered what the big deal was. “I can handle it, sweetheart. I’ve been with kids before.”
They’d just had a delicious lunch in Viviana’s condo, and the scent of the garlic-filled hamburger-like things still hung in the air. She was watching her nephew for the day. They’d run out of coffee, and Viviana wanted to zip down to the corner and pick some up. Bolton was reading the paper.
“No, I should take him with me.” She went over to where Andrei was sitting on the floor and kneeled down. “Andrei, I have to go down and do an errand. Do you want to come with me?”
Without looking at her, he pressed the No button. Buzz.
“Do you want to stay here with Bolton? It will only take—”
Buzz.
“Should I take you back to Pathways?”
Buzz.
She looked over at Bolton.
He looked back, unable to tell what she was thinking. “Really,” he said. “I can handle it. It’ll only be—what?—ten minutes.”
Viviana came over to him and kneeled down, beautiful in her black turtleneck sweater.
Now she’s going to talk to me the way she talks to him.
“Bolton, you have never seen him when he’s not with me.” She looked out the window and rubbed her cute chin. “Okay. If he gets upset, don’t touch him or hug him.”
“I’ve seen you hug him.”
“He knows me.” She took a big breath. “Okay. If it seems that he’s going to have meltdown, tell him I’m coming right back. Try to reason with him. It doesn’t seem that he listens or understands, but he does. He hears every word you say.”
She went over to Andrei and spoke in the same tones. “Last chance—”
Buzz.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m only going to be gone for ten minutes, and I’ll be right back. Do you want me to bring you anything?”
Ding.
“A donut?”
Buzz.
“A candy bar?”
Ding.
“Nestle’s Crunch?”
Ding.
“Okay, Nestle’s Crunch it is. May I give you a hug?”
Buzz.
“Okay. No problem. Do you promise to be good?”
Andrei looked out the window. He didn’t move his hand toward the board.
“Andrei?”
Nothing.
“I will be upset with you if you aren’t good.” She stood. “I’ll be back soon.” She picked up her purse and kissed Bolton on the way out. She closed the door.
Bolton turned the page. “It’s just you and me, buddy. Two guys hanging out.” He looked over at Andrei. Piece of cake. Viviana’s wall clock ticked away the seconds.
Bolton had turned to the sports section, when a strange moaning sound hit him. Like the recordings of whales. He looked over at Andrei, who hadn’t moved but was taking deep breaths. Was that where the sound was coming from? Bolton put the paper down and walked over to his soon-to-be nephew-in-law. Yes, Andrei was making the sound.
Bolton squatted down, started to reach out and tousle Andrei’s hair but stopped himself. “Hey, it’s okay, buddy. Viviana’s coming right back. Ten minutes, tops.”
Andrei stood up and threw the yes/no board across the room. It bounced on the couch, hit an end table, and slid into the corner. Because it came to a stop on the No button, the buzzer sounded and didn’t stop. Andrei stomped his foot. Then he hit himself in the forehead. Hard.
“Hey, hey! Whoa! Don’t do that.”
Andrei didn’t stop.
“Stop hitting yourself!” Bolton yelled. He ran over to the board and flipped it over. At least that stopped! He ran back to the out-of-control teenager.
Viviana had said not to touch him, but the kid was going to cause brain damage if he didn’t stop hitting himself. His forehead was already turning red. The moaning rose to a tortured wail, as if someone were crushing his foot in a vise.
Bolton made an executive decision. He lunged and got his arms around Andrei in a bear hug. But the head hitting didn’t stop. If anything, it got worse. He shifted his grip and got both of Andrei’s arms pinned by his sides. But the kid was strong. His feet were crashing around, occasionally knocking Bolton in the shins. Ow! Shit! His wailing got even louder. Someone was going to call the police.
The door burst open and Viviana came in. She dropped her purse and rushed over. “Andrei, stop. Stop it this instant.” She pulled her nephew from Bolton and held him tightly, pressing his head against her neck. Slowly but steadily the wail dropped to a moan and finally stopped. His breathing slowed. Viviana continued to hug him.
Bolton stood watching them. “I couldn’t … how did you—?”
“I didn’t go. I waited out in the hall and listened.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I really tried, but—”
“No, it was my fault. Or nobody’s fault.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Uncle Zaharia and I had plans to make. His research was ahead of its time, and his colleagues simply couldn’t accept or even believe his theories. His solution: jump forward in time. I’d tried to dissuade him from that, but now, in light of the threats from the mob, his idea was looking more attractive.
We huddled over a legal pad, late at night in my condo. I hadn’t told him of Bolton’s discovery that Andrei could open safes. Or that the mob had made a thinly veiled threat to harm Zaza: Your uncle’s lab is a dangerous place.
La naiba! My inconsiderate
actions had put my loved ones’ lives in peril. What was wrong with me? But according to the book I’d read, this wouldn’t bother me at all if I were a sociopath. A sociopath had no feelings of guilt or remorse, no concern for friends of family members. Maybe I was only a temporary sociopath now and then. Like temporary insanity.
If we did indeed choose to jump ahead in time, we’d arrive in the future without even the clothes on our backs. Apparently, you can’t take it with you applied to time travel as well as to death. On the other hand, the obvious solution was to hide some assets to be recovered after the jump. The problem was significant, since Zaza still hadn’t been able to predict how far we’d jump. If we buried something in the ground, could we still find it twenty years later? Surely we wouldn’t jump that far into the future.
We came up with some possible solutions, but I was beginning to think it might just be best if we fled the country. But that would leave Andrei alone at Pathways. His father was dead, and his mother had pretty much abandoned him. And Zaharia could never give up his research. Rebuilding his lab would take years. And could I give up Bolton?
What a tangled web!
* * *
As I’ve mentioned, I often keep a piece or two from a job. A memento—something I don’t fence. I kept them hidden away. While driving to the East Bay to visit these souvenirs, I thought about language.
No time like the present. I laughed. What a crazy idiom. Yes, I understood that it meant that one should do something right away, but the words barely made sense when read literally. English! On the other hand, Romanian expressions could be just as silly. If someone loses his temper, we say, îl sare muștarul, his mustard will jump off. If he lies to you, we say he vinde gogoși, sells you donuts.
In any case, when it came to preparing my cache, my personal time capsule, I decided there was no time like the present. So after my meeting with Zaza, I hopped in my Porsche and headed for the East Bay. Traffic was light on the Bay Bridge.
Yes, it was risky to store my souvenirs—worth millions?—in your everyday neighborhood mini-storage facility. But I didn’t depend on my mementos to live. Perhaps it would be better if they were stolen. Was it healthy to periodically go and pore over them, remembering my jobs? Probably not.
But I did use the best storage facility in the area. It was like self-storage for the rich and famous. It came with locked gates, motion detectors, and the best guards money could buy. Getting in and out was always a hassle, but that came with the territory, as they say.
I rolled open the door of my garage-like space. It was filled with junk. Decoy junk that I’d picked up at garage sales. An exercise bike, a broken dishwasher, chairs, tables, bicycles. All the stuff that most Americans seem to accumulate.
A large, fake ficus tree stood in the back. My keepsakes were hidden in a plastic bag buried in the soil of the tree’s pot. I froze when someone walked by my unit, even though I had closed the door. Silly, I know, but I was vulnerable there. It sounded like a potential customer was getting a tour.
I didn’t linger over my souvenirs—not much anyway—I just selected the diamonds and gold that would be most easily converted to cash in the future. Together with my other ill-gotten gains, I had more than enough booty to give me a head start in any future life.
* * *
On February 15, 1979, he left me. Uncle Zaza. There was no proper goodbye, just a scribbled note on his desk in the lab.
Dragă Viviana and Andrei,
I apologize deeply for my rash action. Can you ever forgive me? I have become despondent over the lack of acceptance for my energy device. I’m convinced that a future world will be a more fertile substrate for my ideas. One can only hope.
My decision to bail out of this present world was crystallized with the appearance of several unsavory characters who made vague threats. I hypothesize this was due to your unintentional involvement with the underworld, but I do not hold you responsible for my actions. I would have jumped anyway. This event simply solidified my decision because it allowed me to prevent them from blackmailing you.
I am sure we will meet in the future. As we discussed, I shall go to Coit Tower on the first of every month at noon, exactly. Whether you jump to the future or arrive there through the normal means of aging, I look forward to the joyous moment of seeing you again.
I am truly sorry, as well, for missing your upcoming wedding to Bolton. I’m sure you two will be happy together.
Cu toată dragostea,
Zaza
One of my tears fell onto the paper. Why couldn’t he have said goodbye in person? I stamped my foot. How would I explain this to Andrei? Despite his protest, I was sure it was my fault that he felt he needed to leave us. Perhaps he thought he was protecting me by eliminating the mob’s threat.
I went over to the time machine. It was empty, but strangely there was some … device part sitting on the stainless steel bed. It was a finely manufactured metal doohickey—titanium?—with a thin, plastic tube about twenty centimeters long. I looked at the top of the machine’s tunnel, but it was unbroken metal. That is, nothing could have fallen down onto the tray. It was important that the machine remain functional if I was to ever use it to jump.
I shook my head. Doesn’t matter. I would soon be happily married. I wasn’t going anywhere.
I removed the whatever-it-was and put it on a shelf. If Zaza was to rematerialize, he’d do so in the chamber, so keeping it clear was important. He’d explained that despite the movement of Earth, the time travelers would always return to the same location from which they left.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Our January wedding was an affair to remember. We kept it small, chartering a yacht for ourselves and twenty close friends. It had been a mistake to invite Andrei. Bolton had argued against it. The novelty of the environment and the over-the-top sensory stimulation troubled Andrei, and he was stuck on the boat. But I’d brought along a variety of difficult wood puzzles and let him sit in a single cabin and work on them. I’d hired a nurse-slash-friend from Pathways whom he seemed to like, and she handled the situation admirably.
Samuel performed the ceremony. It turned out he’d been some kind of a monk in what he called one of his former lives. What a strange and surprising creature he was. But I’d come to … well, love him. Like brother, of course. Did I love Bolton as much?
We took our vows on the forward deck as we passed under the Golden Gate Bridge at sunset. Winter wasn’t a good time for an outdoor wedding, but we lucked out—both the wind and the fog were minimal.
Sure, I had a few qualms about making Bolton my husband. Every bride does, yes? I’d be thirty in less than a year, and the biological clock was ticking. Strangely, Samuel had once implied that it was “exceedingly important” that I had a child. I pressed him on the reasons, but he evaded my questions. More strangeness from the monk PI.
We’d had over a year to get to know one another. Bolton was no Goody Two-Shoes. As I’ve said, I’d caught him in a few lies. Also, he never gave me a credible explanation for the source of his wealth.
For my part, I had let him know that some of my past and the source of my wealth were off-limits, and he accepted that with surprisingly good humor.
So, we both had our secrets—perhaps not a good way to begin a marriage.
The ceremony went off without a hitch. Or with hitch, maybe should say. Bolton was fine with me leaving the word “obey” out of our vows. I decided to keep my last name, Petki, partly because I didn’t like the sound of Viviana Vance—sounded like stripper name—but I assured Bolton and his parents that my choice did not indicate a lack of commitment from me.
* * *
We couldn’t decide whose condo to move into, so we flipped a coin. It came up heads. We put mine on the market, and I moved in with him. This worked well, since his had the better kitchen, and we didn’t have to move his huge safe.
A funny thing about that safe: I couldn’t get in, because there was no way for Andrei to communicate the combina
tion to me. Even if he were perfect with his yes/no board, there was no way that it would work to ask him successively about each number. So many questions to get the first number, and so on. Not even worth considering.
Andrei could never be convinced to try opening the safe again if he felt that the combination hadn’t changed. I couldn’t lie to him, tell him the combination had been altered, because he had a finely tuned ability to detect when someone was lying. I’d seen it happen at Pathways once or twice. It was as if he had an infallible lie detector. But I didn’t need to get into the safe. I had my own cash for shopping.
We’d settled into marriage easily. It wasn’t that different from our situation in the time prior to our wedding, so the transition was easy.
I hadn’t heard from the mob in the months since they’d threatened Uncle Zaharia. I’d expected a revenge attack, but it never came. Could they still want me as their lock man? Surely there were other lock men who were as good as I was.
I went to the Coit Tower rendezvous on the first of every month, feeling a little silly. If Zaza had only jumped several months into the future, he’d just give me a call. I maintained his lab for him, sometimes looking at the chamber in the way that one might look up the road when anxiously awaiting someone’s arrival by car.
In early July, about six months into our marriage, Bolton was in Toronto for an American Institute of Graphic Arts conference, and I was picking up some special cheeses at a new farmers’ market. The stalls filled an abandoned field in the crime-heavy Hunters Point area of the city. Perhaps someone thought that a hippie-ish, rich-gourmet-attracting farmers’ market might help improve the area. Cans, broken bottles, and paper bags littered the street as if there had been some Mardi-Gras-like celebration the night before. A celebration that included hypodermic needles. Am glad am not wearing sandals.
Once among the stalls, the squalor disappeared. With the colorful canopies, organic vegetables, and farmerish characters, the place took on a healthy, holiday feel. The scent of incense overpowered all other smells. Rich women haggled over the price of tomatoes, yelling to be heard over Barry Manilow’s “Copacabana” blasting from someone’s boom box.