Wealth of Time

by Andre Gonzalez

Martin had no idea if any of this was true, but played the year to his advantage. Delmar couldn’t log on to Google to confirm the Bulls schedule and would have to take his word.

  “We’ll see. Here we go.” Delmar chuckled then leaned back and crossed his hands behind his head.

  Martin’s pulse pounded in his head and he wondered why he was still nervous. The starting lineup was healthy for the Bulls, eliminating any suspicion from his off-the-wall bet. He knew the outcome, so why the rush of adrenaline?

  The thrill of gambling had its same attraction even when the result was set in stone. Having the bookie rub elbows with you during the game added extra spice as well.

  The Bulls started the game on a 14-2 run, and Martin could see Delmar nodding his head out of the corner of his eye.

  “Well, at least you tried,” the mobster said, taking a sip from a glass of beer. “I’ll be back later,” Delmar said and returned to his office, Hammer following behind like an obedient puppy.

  “C’mon, Raptors,” Martin said under his breath and finished the glass of Coke in front of him.

  The crowd in the bar shifted from the day drinkers to a somewhat younger crowd coming in for pre-dinner drinks. Many sat around the outer tables, with a young couple getting cozy on the opposite side of the bar where Martin watched them out of the corner of his eye. The woman wore a tight, glittery dress that revealed every curve on her slender body.

  Her date, a buff man in jeans and a dress shirt, leaned over and whispered in her ear. She giggled as she brushed a lazy hand on his back. The man kept his face hidden, but Martin could sense him staring across the bar in his direction.

  Martin returned his attention to the game and was pleased to see the Raptors tighten the contest to a six-point deficit after the sloppy start. On the next commercial break, he watched as the couple had their tongues in each other’s mouths for a few seconds before they stood and exited the bar, the young man keeping a steady eye on Martin as they crossed the room, sending chills down his back.

  “Excuse me!” Martin shouted to the bartender as soon as the couple was gone. “I need a shot of Jameson, please.”

  The bartender nodded and brought the whiskey over within a minute.

  He said I would lose my emotions, not my mind. Goddammit, Chris, what are you doing to me?

  Martin leaned back in his bar stool and tried to focus on the game, eyes staring at the basketball game, but not watching. Somewhere in Toronto the Raptors led the Bulls by one point at halftime, but all Martin could think about was Chris.

  14

  Chapter 14

  Three shots later Martin cut himself off. He basked in the pleasure of knowing Delmar was nervous. Toward the end of halftime, Hammer approached Martin at the bar and proposed an offer from his boss.

  “We’ll pay you out on half your odds right now,” the gargantuan man said.

  That’s not a bad offer, Martin thought, but he knew the outcome of the game. At the moment, he would win $4500 should the Raptors hold on to their lead. Hammer’s proposal was to pay $2250 right now and call the bet off. Martin had never heard of such a proposal in sports betting, but supposed bookies were constantly wheeling and dealing to stay in the black. He’s sweating back there. He thought the Bulls would already be winning by 30, which they should be.

  Martin stared down this first crossroads since arriving in 1996 and considered his cash flow, his kneecaps, and his overall future. Hammer breathed heavily beside him as every scenario ran through his mind.

  “Well, do we have a deal?” Hammer insisted.

  “I’ll pass. It’s tempting, believe me, but I wanna see the game through the end.”

  “Whatever you say, pal – it’s your money lost,” Hammer said in a final attempt to pressure Martin. The lackey wheezed as he turned and left. It likely made no difference to Hammer what Martin did; he still got paid the same.

  The game resumed and people started to trickle out for dinner, leaving Martin alone at the bar. The alcohol finally numbed his mind, and his confidence burst through the roof. “Let’s go Raptors!” he barked as they extended their lead over the Bulls to six points. The music that had boomed all day now felt like background noise as all of his attention focused on the game. Even with no volume, Martin felt like he was there, hearing the squeaks of sneakers on the court, the players shouting, and the roar of the crowd. He grew so entranced and didn’t realize he was the only person in the entire bar once the third quarter ended.

  The game tightened, and the Bulls took a four-point lead into the final quarter, prompting Delmar to come out of his cave.

  The music cut to silence, leaving only the sound of the buzzing neon lights decorating the bar.

  “Well, here we go,” Delmar said calmly, approaching Martin at the bar with his hands clasped together. “Fourth quarter time. We all know this is when Jordan puts the nail in the coffin.”

  The game broadcast blared through the speakers, bringing with it the steady hum of a sold out arena on the TV.

  “The Raptors are very much in this game going into the final period. I’ll tell you, no one here saw this coming tonight,” the color commentator said as the game returned from the commercial break.

  Martin sensed that Delmar was genuinely enjoying this bet and poked back.

  “Jordan’s tired, tonight’s not the night. Just wait and see.”

  Delmar clapped Martin on the back and kept his hand gripped tightly on Martin’s shoulder. All those fucking rings.

  The mobster released his grip and sat in the stool next to Martin. “Mind if I finish the game here with you? I’ll help wipe up your tears when it’s over.” He chuckled hoarsely. Hammer wasn’t in sight, possibly staying in the room to prepare the crow bar that would bash Martin’s knees into tiny shards.

  The final twelve minutes dragged, practically staying frozen in the moment. Martin watched every single second tick off the game clock and approach zero. The contest continued its back-and-forth, the teams trading buckets. At one point Delmar ordered a round of shots for the two of them when the Bulls pulled ahead by eight with six minutes left.

  “You’re done!” he shouted over the speakers. “It was close, but it’s over!”

  Clearly someone has never watched basketball. It only takes 90 seconds to score ten points.

  “Eight points in six minutes, you’re getting cocky now,” Martin said calmly.

  On queue, the Raptors roared back, leaving the game tied with 30 seconds remaining. The Bulls had the ball and prepared to inbound. Martin watched Delmar out of the corner of his eye. The mobster fell silent, rocking in his barstool as the game had become a virtual coin toss.

  Even though he knew Toronto would win the game, Martin still sat on the edge of his seat because he didn’t know how they would win.

  The Bulls threw in the ball to Michael Jordan. He made a quick spin move and darted toward the rim, elevating an outstretched arm towards the basket. Doug Christie, a long-time role player in the league, came from behind and swatted the ball out of Jordan’s hand. Jordan then fouled the Raptors’ center, who had rebounded the ball, out of frustration.

  “Holy fucking shit,” Delmar muttered.

  The Raptors made one free throw to take a one-point lead, but the Bulls had one more chance and sprinted down the court. The Raptors fell out of position and left Steve Kerr, a three-point shooting specialist, wide open as the clock winded down to three seconds. Jordan passed the ball to Kerr and the stadium held its collective breath as he lifted for the deep shot.

  The ball hung in the air forever, and actually looked in line to go in by Martin’s judgment. It came down and hit the back of the rim, bouncing out and falling to the ground as the stadium erupted in chaos.

  “The Raptors win! The Raptors win!” the commentator screamed as the players jumped around like they had just won a championship.

  Delmar slammed a fist down on the bar, causing the empty shot glasses to hop and rattle.

  “You have got to be shitting me
,” Delmar said, and gestured to his bartender to cut the volume. Seconds later, the empty bar fell silent. “Well, congrats. I’m shocked at what I just watched.”

  That makes one of us.

  Delmar stood from his stool and stuck out a hand to Martin. “I hope you’ll give me a chance to win this back.”

  Like I’m ever showing my face here again.

  “Of course. Next time I have a crazy hunch, I’ll be sure to let you know.” Martin winked at the mobster, his confidence soaring along with his alcohol levels. Delmar had ordered two more rounds of shots, and Martin now felt a familiar numbness in his lips and fingertips.

  “Give me a few minutes to get your cash together,” Delmar said before trudging away to his office. The heavy man seemed more disappointed than angry, and Martin suspected his knees would stay intact, at least for the time being.

  The bar stayed silent as Martin watched the muted post game report where fans in Toronto danced outside the stadium. The win over the Bulls would serve as their best memory of an otherwise failure of a season.

  Delmar returned moments later, a wad of cash wrapped in a white band. “Here you are. $4500 to spend on all sorts of fun things.” He didn’t stick the cash out toward Martin, instead holding it close to his body.

  Martin stuck out an open hand, and Delmar forced himself to hand over the money. “Thank you for taking my bet. I’m new around here, so I’ll definitely be back.”

  Not!

  “I appreciate that,” Delmar said softly, still a sliver of defeat lying beneath his attempted stern tone. “Don’t go spending this all in one place.”

  “Of course not, I’ll see you around.” Martin stuffed the money into his back pocket and shuffled his feet backwards. Delmar held his ground and watched as the chubby man from the future inched toward the exit. The silence in the bar was deafening after a long day of constant noise.

  Delmar didn’t break his stare with Martin until he leaned into the exit door and a gush of fresh air blew through the doorway. In the dark lot, Martin ran to his car with a hand on his back pocket to keep the money from spilling out. Crickets chirped in the silent and abandoned parking lot. The lights from inside the bar provided a soft glow, but no actual visibility to its surroundings. He felt eyes watching him, but had no idea where they were hiding in the night.

  Get in your car and get the hell out of here.

  Martin reached the car and fumbled in his pockets for the cool metal of his keys. He unlocked the door and turned on the ignition in a swift motion. Toni Braxton came on the radio as Martin sped out of the parking lot to the main road. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and kept checking his rear-view mirror for anyone who might be following.

  15

  Chapter 15

  The next morning brought a pounding headache, but a wad of cash lay on Martin’s nightstand, and he knew he was set for the next few months. He had driven to his apartment with a constant eye on the rear view, but no headlights followed after leaving the bar the night before.

  “What now?” he asked his apartment. With money in hand and nothing but free time ahead, Martin decided it was time to finally track down his daughter. Before doing so, he’d need to find a liquor store as he owed a bottle to his landlord.

  He dressed quickly, knowing a day of fun awaited with more booze. And Izzy. Thinking of her, knowing he would see her, caused a tense heartache that wouldn’t go away. So many years had passed where all he wanted was to kiss his daughter on the forehead and smell her sweet, innocent scent before bedtime. I’m gonna save you, Izzy, if it’s the last thing I do.

  Once he was dressed and swallowed a few sips of mouthwash, Martin headed back to his car to drive to the local liquor store. The store was a few blocks past The Devil, which he drove by with regret. The money was nice, but his inner guilt reminded him that he had won his small fortune by cheating the system. What would Delmar do if he knew the truth? He’d either kill him or hire him to set absurd lines for future games, assuming he believed it.

  Speculation did no good in a stressful time, and he reminded himself to focus on the task at hand.

  He pulled in to the liquor store parking lot, seeing only one other car at its opening time of ten in the morning. A homeless man sat on the ground, leaning against the store, snoring. Martin parked and closed the door quietly to not wake the passed out drunk. We’ve all been there, brother.

  Neon lights hung in every window, but none had been turned on yet. The sign on the door had been flipped to say, “We’re open, come in!”

  The hobo tipped over and grunted, licking his dry lips in a sticky sound that made Martin queasy. Martin pushed the door open and walked in to a chime from above.

  A young Asian man stood behind the counter and watched Martin cautiously as he strolled in for what would surely be the first of many visits.

  “Hello,” Martin greeted from across the floor as he searched for the scotch section.

  The clerk nodded in response, maintaining an awkward amount of eye contact toward Martin.

  “I’m looking for a high-end scotch for a friend. Do you have anything special?”

  “Yes. Back there.” The clerk spoke urgently and nodded toward the back corner of the store where a rack of bottles stood next to fridges full of beer.

  “Thank you.” Martin pivoted and walked to the back, sensing the man’s eyes on him the entire way. A radio blared with a morning talk show, filling the store with background noise. When he arrived to the rack of scotch, Martin was surprised to find such a wide selection for a hole-in-the-wall liquor store in Larkwood. Not many in town had the resources to buy expensive bottles of booze, but there were four different options priced over $100 for him to choose from.

  Vinny would’ve been pleased with any free bottle, but Martin wanted to make a stronger gesture than a friendly wager. He wanted his landlord to know he was a man of his word, and that he took care of his friends. Vinny’s reaction to receiving such a fine bottle would also show Martin everything he needed to know about the man.

  Martin settled on a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label, a newer blend, for the time, from the iconic distiller. He held the bottle in two hands, admiring its perfection, and knowing he could never afford such a bottle in 2018. You better pour me a glass, Vinny.

  He turned to return to the cashier and froze, his heart leaping up his throat.

  The Asian man stood five feet away from him with a rifle pointed directly at his face. Martin saw the blackness in the barrel, death taunting him with its black eye.

  “Whoa, man, I don’t want any trouble,” Martin said, trying to sound calm beneath his panicked surface.

  “Who are you? What do you want from me?” the clerk asked, his lips trembling nervously.

  Martin gulped, wondering what the hell he did to make this man think he needed to pull a rifle on him.

  “Look, I think you have me mistaken for someone else. All I want is this bottle.” Martin stuck the bottle in front of him, but the clerk kept the gun aimed at his face.

  “Bullshit! Who sent you?”

  “No one sent me. I live down the street. I’m new in town.”

  “That’s exactly what a Road Runner would say.”

  Road Runner? What the fuck?

  “Okay, can you please put the gun down? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The man refused, and Martin’s heart tried to burst out of his chest. The adrenaline heightened his every sense as he caught the light reflecting off the man’s shiny black hair, heard the buzzing of the lights above, and could smell the overall fear present in the room. The man’s eye appeared magnified through the scope he looked through.

  “Tell me what year you came from and what your business is here,” the man demanded.

  “Uh.” The question smacked Martin with shock and confusion. “I’m sorry, what did you just ask?”

  “You heard me just fine,” the clerk barked, not budging his shotgun.

  “How do you know?
” Martin uttered in a soft whisper.

  “Stop playing with me and tell me who sent you!” the clerk screamed, his hair ruffling as his body convulsed in rage.

  “An old man named Chris sent me here. I’m from the year 2018.” Martin decided to stop asking questions and cooperate with the crazed gunman.

  The clerk lowered the shotgun from Martin’s face, but kept it pointed to his chest. The rage behind the man’s eyes softened as he cocked an eyebrow. “And why are you here? In this year? In this city?”

  Martin hadn’t realized his hands were raised in defense, so he lowered them to his sides. “I’ve always lived in this city, born and raised. My daughter went missing in 1996…was never found. I’m here to figure out what happened.”

  The clerk lowered the shotgun more as it now pointed to Martin’s knees. “Prove that Chris sent you.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Tell me the name of his store.”

  “Wealth of Time,” Martin said with complete confidence.

  “How did he send you here?”

  “With a pill.”

  “What’s the painting hanging on the wall in his back office?”

  Martin closed his eyes and imagined the painting. “I don’t remember what he called it, but it was a sailboat in a storm with Jesus Christ.”

  The response satisfied the man and he lowered his gun all the way to the floor, loosening his tense shoulders in the process. “Okay, I believe you. What’s your name?”

  “Martin,” he said, his heart rate dropping back to normal.

  “How did you meet Chris?” the clerk asked, still sure to keep his distance.

  “At his store. My mom loves antique shops and dragged me in there.”

  “How did you know to come find me here?”

  Martin threw his hands in the air. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know who you are. I honestly came in here to buy this bottle. Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

  “Did Chris not tell you?”