by Robert Ocala
days they’d be rich, rich, rich. And in twenty–five minutes he’d be long, long, gone. Man, could he keep body and soul together with this scam!
Considering the size of New York, he could pitch it for years and never work the same neighborhood twice. But if this time–travel gimmick was the hook, what was the catch? In a scam this involved, the payoff would have to be big—way big. Wait’ll the dip finds out all I got is a lousy forty bucks. What youse get for not qualifyin’ your mark first, kid.
Lyman yawned and stretched the stiffness out of his bones. Fordham Road all the way down to Manhattan’s theater district, whew. For a man of forty, he felt like eighty. But this was no time to relax, learn first, rest later. With a glance at his watch he turned the clock’s dials back to the present date and minute. Now he’d look about, watch and see how the trick was done. He pressed the clock’s red button.
Nothing.
He pressed it again, still nothing, then again, and again. He shivered in his skimpy jacket and slippers, the night’s cold air enveloping him like tentacles. Something ain’t right here. From over his shoulder came that fluttering sound again. He spun about this time to see a different face flapping in the breeze; an actor whose sneer seemed to say, “Gotcha now, sucker.”
Lyman began to wonder if pulling this scam off might be beyond his kin. He cocked his head up to those glinting eyes again; “Whaddja do, Dracky–poo, gimme a broken clock? What’s the point of showing a mark his future if he can’t go back an’ buy it? Here, keep your crap.” He tossed the clock back into the tray, only to catch a glimpse of his face in its mirror.
Whoa! His hands shot up to his cheeks and his eyes bulged out like stalks.
Staring back at him was a bald domed, wizened old face, its hairy nostrils bulging out at him like something in a Fun House mirror. The wrinkled chin began to quiver, a plaintive wail rising from its cracked lips and Lyman recognized the cry as his own.
“Easy, easy,” the string bean piped. “Don’t panic, sir. Knock and ye shall enter.” He pressed the clock back into Lyman’s hands. “Set it forward another—“
“The fuck I will!”
“No, no, just for a minute, sir. Time it by your own watch, you’ll see, it works.”
“It damn well better!”
Lyman nudged the clock’s minute hand exactly one increment ahead then eyed his watch. When its second hand came up on twelve he pressed the clock’s button, felt the sidewalk ripple beneath his feet, and watched the second hand sweep to the next increment. Whew!
He looked up at the masked kid, embarrassment wrestling with relief, and got a caped shrug. “Told you so.”
His confidence returned, Lyman traded grins with the rat–like face in the mirror, ever–so–carefully readjusting all five of the clock’s dials back to the present again. He double checked to make sure he’d set them exactly right, then smirked at the wizened old mug, “Adios to youse, pally,” and pressed the red button.
Beady eyes stared back out at him in intense expectation, seconds ticking, five, ten. Again the wrinkled old chin began to quiver, its expectant look slowly morphing into something sick, and a worm of fear began to coil in Lyman’s gut.
He peered up at the grimy buildings hovering over him. Were they leaning in? They seemed to be crowding him, the darkened windows in their gritty facades staring down at him like the milky eyes of the blind.
Enough! He wanted out of this scam, to be done with this weird kid; but not frogged like this. He winced at the sight of the decrepit face in the mirror only to get a ghastly wince back.
God!
Don’t panic, panic only plays into a con man’s hands.
“Listen,” Lyman snarled, gripping his fear with all his might, “youse said forward for future and back for past—right?”
“No, sir. I said you could go forward or back. I never said you could do both. Both would be greedy. Avarice is one of the seven deadly—“
“Why you Bible thumpin’—” But Lyman no longer felt strong enough to kick a hole in a wet paper bag. “Okay, okay,” he wheezed, “how do I get outta this?”
“You could buy another clock, sir.”
“Oh ho, so that’s the catch. Hook the mark inta thinkin’ youse stole his life with the first clock so youse can scare him inta buyin’ the second ta get it back. Cute, pally, but I been in worser spots.” The con’s catch revealed, Lyman rocked up on his toes, his grin triumphant. “So,” he said, “push a lot of these gizmos, do ya?”
“Sir, there isn’t a billionaire on the planet who doesn’t own one,” the string bean piped. “Are you sure I can’t sell you one too?”
Upon my soul, the onions on this kid. Lyman almost thought he saw the Dracula mask smile. “Bite me, pally. All I got is forty bucks so youse can take that silly mask off now an’ tell me what’s your real price.”
“Oh, come now, Mister Lyman,” the string bean said in a suddenly sonorous voice as he doffed his mask to reveal a beet red face, stubby horns and black goatee, “I think you know the price.”
THE END