by Tom Rich
“Why don’t you beam out when you’re ready to go?”
“You know that spot where cells don’t work? Same goes for the transporter.”
“I know what you mean, though. It’s a source of amusement for us Northside Folk. We think it’s ODOT’s way of saying Northside Folk should never leave Northside.”
“Maybe not such a bad thing, considering it could add fifteen years to your life.”
“You know, I think ten is the actual number. Although ten years in Cincy probably—” Aly pointed. “Look, there’s his building. Think he’s sitting up there gloating about the prospect of out-OJaying OJ?”
“Best you don’t discuss anything to do with Franz among your Northside Folk.”
“Yeah, I know.” Aly gave up her view of the building. “Hey, you know how last night you were talking about one way of seeing the end of something coming is when that something becomes more of what it is than it’s ever been before?”
“Uhh, you’re referring to The Myth of the Eternal Return? Or something from Nietzsche?”
“Cripes, Jones, I don’t know. You brought up so many concepts and theories it felt like school. How do you keep all that stuff straight?”
“Actually, I don’t. It all frays and twists inside my head and melds together.”
“Uh huh. And all that churning with your hair is like stirring the cauldron?”
Pelfry gave Aly another sideways leer. “You were saying?”
“I was saying, there was this place I used to go to. A really great, great bar called Night Town. I mean, that bar was my favorite place in the world. Well, a close second, maybe, after Wrigley Field.”
“Hmm, baseball. Not my game.”
“Yeah, well, that’s Cincinnati,” said Aly. “Can’t be helped. You don’t like baseball in Cincinnati, that’s what you’re known for, the person who isn’t into baseball. Anyway, Night Town was a great bar. Then the owner sold it to someone who turned it into an Irish pub. And from what you were talking about last night? Well, no one ever said so, but I always thought the name Night Town was a reference to Ulysses. You know, the book by James Joyce, the Irishman.”
Pelfry looked at Aly. “Talk about school. You’ve read Ulysses? I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, well, never finished it.” She turned her head to the window, said quietly, “Huh. Least I’m not alone on that one.”
“So you’re associating your inability to finally get home with Odysseus—”
“HEY! What the fuck? Stop the car! I mean it! Pull over on the shoulder! NOW!”
Pelfry hit the brakes and swerved onto the shoulder. “What?”
“You didn’t see that? There’s a woman ducking behind those bridge abutments.”
“You sure?” He looked. “I don’t… Probably a homeless person.”
“I don’t know. Not the way— It just didn’t look right. Too dolled up.”
“Probably a hooker.”
“Doesn’t matter, Jones. She must be freezing out there.”
Aly got out and ran to the cluster of concrete columns supporting an overpass. She caught a flash bright of colors behind one column, then a bit of yellow hair.
“Hey. Look, girl,” said Aly. “I just want to help out.”
They played cat and mouse around the column for half a minute, Aly slapping the cold concrete every time she changed direction. The morning traffic thumped her as each car whizzed by.
The yellow-haired girl in the skimpy, brightly colored outfit shuffled sideways from the column, away from the traffic, one hand shielding her face.
“You must be freezing out here,” said Aly. “The car over there is nice and warm. We’re not going to hurt you. We’ll take you— Hey! Do you know who you are?”
Sylvie slumped to the ground and sat with her legs sticking straight out. “I’m tired of keeping track.”
Aly stood over Sylvie, gaping. Then, “Come on. I’ll get you out of here.”
Sylvie looked up. She smiled.
Aly pulled Sylvie to her feet. “What in the hell are you doing out here? Never mind. Come on.” Aly pulled Sylvie towards the car. Sylvie’s skin felt ice cold. She shivered uncontrollably.
Pelfry met them halfway. He wrapped his coat around the girl and helped her into the back seat, followed by Aly. He got behind the wheel of the idling Mustang.
“Crank the heat,” said Aly.
“Yeah, got to watch out for pneumonia,” said Pelfry. He pressed the clutch and watched for an opening in the traffic. “She already has the sniffles.”
“Cripes, Jones, good thing you’re in homicide. You’d never make it as a narc.”
“This guy’s a cop?” said Sylvie. She jammed her feet against the backside of the front seat.
“Relax, girl. Jones is more liable to score from you than bust you.”
“One time,” said Pelfry. “One fucking time.”
“Easy,” said Aly. “You’re scaring her.”
Cars whizzing past shook the Mustang.
“I’m getting her to a hospital.” He inched the car forward, readying it to leap.
“No hospitals,” said Sylvie. “No-ho way. Nuh uh. All they do in those places is stick you with sharp things and feel you up.”
“I got you, girl,” said Aly. “What say, Jones?”
Pelfry looked hard at the girl in the rearview mirror. He finally recognized her. “Well, isn’t this fortuitous.”
“Synchronous, don’t you mean?” snapped Aly. “She’s in no shape right now.” She softened her tone. “Why don’t you let me take you home, girl. Get you fixed up.”
A contrite Pelfry handed back a water bottle. “My place is a lot closer.”
“Who’s looking for you out here?” asked Aly. She and uncapped the bottle. “Somebody chasing you?”
Sylvie flinched at the bottle Aly offered. “Nah. I nutted him good. He passed out.”
“From a kick in the balls?” said Pelfry. He sounded half impressed, half like he felt the pain and nausea himself.
“I may have kicked him in the head.” Sylvie gripped the bottle, took a tiny sip, then handed it back. “Yeah. After he went down. A Laura Croft kick.”
“Good for you,” said Aly. “Was he beating you?”
A dreamy look passed over Sylvie’s face. “Ohhhh, he luhhhhves me. He’d never beat me.” She grew angry. “But he kept waving sharp things in my face. He wanted to cut me.” She pulled Pelfry’s coat closed and slid down in the seat.
“Whoa, time out,” said Aly. She tapped hard on Pelfry’s shoulder, then pushed on it as a warning to maintain proper distance. “With what? Did he have black knives? Do you know what obsidian is? Was he trying to draw blood from your tongue? Do you know what a stingray spine looks like?”
Sylvie’s nose crinkled. One eyebrow rose. “You’re dating Woody too?”
Pelfry’s eyes widened in the rearview mirror. “Ohhh ho ho, I have got to take her in for questioning right now,” he said.
“Uh uh. I said no,” Aly said firmly. “Just keep driving east.”
Pelfry felt a power emanating from the two women bonding. “Right.” He juiced the Mustang into the mad rush. “Right.”
“We’re taking you to my place to get you fixed up.” Aly pushed the bottle forward. “Here, baby, take some more water.”
“Fucker never planned on making Penance,” blurted Sylvie, ignoring the bottle. “But I would make one hell of a jungle queen in my pretty dress. Don’t you think? Should I go back? Or— no—make him come looking. Ha! Make him carry me to the top of that building like a great big hairy ape.”
“I think you should have some water. Then we’ll talk about whatever you want.”
Sylvie leaned forward and made a tight, protruding O with her lips.
Aly tilted the bottle for her.
After a tiny sip, “Uff.” Sylvie fell back. “Could we stop for Malibu?” she asked softly.
Aly made a sympathetic face. “Oh, baby, you’re a little far from home just now. But
I’m going to get you fixed up.”
“Okay,” whispered Sylvie “I’m going to sleep now.” Her shivering increased.
Aly wrapped her arms around Sylvie until she settled in and grew drowsy.
After several minutes, “I think Trish’s place might be better,” said Aly. “Who knows who might… I just think it’d be better.”
“Right,” said Jones. “But I thought you two weren’t—”
“She owes me big time,” said Aly.
“Yes’m.”
Sylvie nodded in and out as they barreled along I 74. From time to time she mumbled incoherently, turned, stiffened, then relaxed.
Traffic thinned considerably at the halfway point between the two cities.
“Hey, Jones,” said Aly very quietly. “You think finding her like this fits in with all your synchronicity stuff?”
Pelfry turned the rearview mirror to focus on Aly. “Tell you what I have been thinking, synchronicity wise. The name ‘Indianapolis.’”
“I can’t imagine where this is leading.”
“The meeting of two worlds. You have the indigenous people of this hemisphere, the Indians, and you have the word for the Greek city-state, polis, which was supposed to be the embodiment of Greek of thought; a sort of city of philosophy. Taking into consideration our little adventure, it almost sounds like the Old World and the New are collapsing toward Indianapolis as a final battle ground.”
“I had to ask.”
Sylvie groaned, whimpered, turned so that Pelfry’s coat fell open.
Aly re-wrapped the coat. “Huh. Her boobs are a lot bigger than they look on screen.” She flexed her own chest.
Pelfry checked the scene in the rearview mirror. “Could be the mass that caused your rift in the space/time continuum.”
38: Sweet Daddy Sol
Both Aly and Pelfry pulled sleeping Sylvie from the Mustang. They propped her under the arms and took her to the side of Clove’s building where an outside door led to the second and third floor apartments. Aly rapped on the door. After a full minute there was no response. Pelfry rapped, harder.
They heard footsteps on the stairway.
Trish opened the door. Her eyes fell on Aly. She jumped her eyes to Pelfry. She looked at the girl propped between them. “Can’t you delivery people ever get it right. I ordered the Brad Pitt.”
“She’s getting awfully heavy,” said Aly.
“But…” Trish stepped aside.
Halfway up the stairs Aly looked over her shoulder. “Could you get my backpack. It’s in Jones’s car.”
“Not a problem.”
Trish caught up just as the trio reached her apartment. “Put her on my bed.” She led the way into the bedroom and pulled back the covers.
Sylvie opened her eyes when she hit the bed. Without appearing to wonder where she was or who she was with she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.
“Is she all right?” Trish asked. “I mean, what does she need?” She set Aly’s backpack next to the bed.
“Just sleep for now,” said Aly. “Then we’ll get her fixed up.”
Jones gave Trish a quick hug. “I have to get back to Indianapolis,” he said. He turned to Aly. “Call me soon as she wakes. That’ll give you an hour and a half to fix her up.”
“Mighty sensitive of you,” said Aly.
“I’m sticking my neck out as it is,” said Jones.
“Yeah. I’ll call you when I call you.”
Pelfry left.
Trish looked at Aly. “Well?”
“Found her under a bridge in Indy.”
Trish nodded to the movie star on her bed. “I know you’re mad at me, but that’s a strange way to take on a new friend.” She looked at Aly. “Was there a selection under that bridge? I always thought Christina Ricci would be fun to hang out with.”
“She was in trouble, we got her out of there. Could you cut with the jokes already.”
“Sorry. But why’d you bring her here?”
“She’s hooked up in the whole thing that has to do with Arby getting murdered. I really do not want to explain it all right now.”
“Sure. You don’t think your apartment is safe. Gotcha. But I’ve got to split in about forty seconds. I’m going to be gone right up until time for work.”
“Shit.”
“It’s okay. She can stay. Hey, come on, how often—”
“I should be here when she wakes up.”
“That’s cool. Do what you gotta do. I don’t see an overnight bag. Tell her to use whatever she needs in the bathroom. And she can borrow whatever clothes she wants. Shoot, man, she can keep whatever. Closest I’ll ever get to Hollywood.”
“I’ll tell her you…you know, it’s your stuff, your place.”
“Yeah. Gotta go.” Trish hesitated, then turned from Aly. Neither said goodbye.
Aly slumped into a chair next to the bed. She regarded Sylvie, now sleeping soundly.
Sylvie had mentioned something about being a jungle queen. Could Franz have stolen Ukit Took’s artifacts just to be props in a movie? That’s why Arby had to die? Maybe Sylvie was no more than a prop herself. Maybe Franz had chosen Sylvie because her penchant for substance abuse made her a candidate for dialing up the gods. But Franz couldn’t be that crazy. “Sylvie Averling is Mrs. Ukit Took in The Ultimate Last Call.”
Sylvie stirred at the sound of her name. She curled around Pelfry’s jacket.
Aly needed to clear her head. She left Sylvie’s bedside and wandered around the apartment. It felt strange. Aly wanted nothing to do with Trish. But here she was in Trish’s space; among her furniture, her plants, pictures, personal items and clothes; clothes Aly had seen Trish wearing, and new clothes Aly easily pictured her wearing. More of the girl was present than if she was actually there.
Then, “Hello. Clove’s End of the World Book.” It was on the kitchen table.
Aly weighed the book in her hands. The cover still bore only the fateful date. “Clove must be waiting for my title.” She sat. “The Ultimate Last Call. No wonder Clove balked. She thinks that I think the end of it all means the end of the alcohol flowing. Nah, that’s not me. I think the end will be the morning I wake up and there aren’t any birds chirping. The end of nature’s soundtrack. When the music stops, poof, all gone.”
She took her time leafing through. “Maybe I should draw a flock of sparrows choking on exhaust fumes and falling out of the sky over a crowded interstate. Hmm. Or a single Tweety Bird with pound signs for eyes, spiraling towards a Fat Cat wielding a luxury car. Yeah. ‘I tawt I taw a Puddy-lac,’ then, ‘Th-th-that’s all, folks!’”
Aly skipped several pages. “Lotta new entries since I last looked. Hmm The Attack of the Sixty Foot Woman. Perfect. Northside is the home of Tonguemongous.” She continued to page through. “All these astrological charts, stuff about Atlantis. ‘The Prophecy of Kali Yuga and the Culmination of the Harmonic Convergence,’ whatever that means. Yeah, these are by the real weirdoes who only come out after dark, they’re so freaky looking.” She flipped another page. “Whoa. This one’s different. This looks… Oh yeah, just what I need.”
Aly rifled through her backpack for her cell phone. She punched in the numbers.
“This is Pelfry.”
“Jones, Aly.”
“Hey. Look; take all the time you need with the girl. I’m sorry about—”
“Not that. You’ve seen Clove’s End of the World Book?”
“You know I have.”
“Man, there’s something in here you really gotta know about. A grad student from the university, an astronomer, what’s his name? Something I can’t pronounce. But that doesn’t matter.”
“He found the asteroid that’s going to hit us?”
“You need to take this seriously.”
“Sorry. First thing that came to mind. Go on.”
“This guy, Navneet Chaka-whatever, says the Earth is heading for an alignment that puts us right between the sun and the black hole at the center of the galaxy.�
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“Sounds plausible enough.”
“Don’t it though. But here’s what will happen when that alignment takes place. It’s going to cause the poles to flip flop. The North Pole is going to become the South Pole and vice versa. Only it doesn’t just mean a couple of benchmarks will suddenly be out of place. No-ho. What it means is that all the hot, liquid metal underneath the Earth’s crust will be on the move. Which means the continents will be on the move. The oceans will rise up in massive tidal waves caused by—”
“‘A great earthquake such as man has never seen.’”
“Exactly. And all that hot metal will spew out of cracks—”
“‘Flashes of lightening, loud noises and peals of thunder.’”
“Probably. And whatever doesn’t get wiped out initially will be suffocated by a nuclear winter from all the ash.”
“‘And the sun became black as sackcloth, the full moon became like blood.’”
“Cripes, Jones, you’re quoting the Bible?”
“Why do you choose to believe this over all the other tales of doom in that book?”
“The guy’s an astronomer, not an astrologer. He’s a scientist. He’s a grad student and a lab instructor at the University of Cincinnati. He’s not some drunk joking around in a bar.”
“It’s happened before, you know,” said Pelfry.
“What has?”
“The poles switching. Or so scientists believe.”
“What happened then?”
“Pretty much what you just described.”
“Jones, this whole prediction by the People of the Maize is real.”
“You’re talking about a theory from one scientist. Junior grade scientist, at that.”
“He’s got all kinds of charts and formulas on his page.”
“For your own peace of mind why don’t you find another astronomer for a second opinion.”
“It’s not my peace of mind I’m worried about.”
“Oh?”
“Look, this scenario is way outside of Kurtwood Franz’s influence.”
“You don’t find it odd we haven’t heard about this momentous event other than in Clove’s book?”
“Well…maybe it does seem kind of pat that he has it happening on the day of the winter solstice. That does seem religious. Not quite. Paganism, maybe.”