by MK Alexander
“Okay, and the unlikely?”
“It’s too much of a temptation to speak of.” Fynn paused and his expression changed. “Sadly, I don’t ever recall your presence in that particular timeline. It is quite far from here and it’s best I don’t mention anything.”
“Hang on a second. You can’t just dangle that in front of me and then pretend you didn’t.”
The inspector laughed. “Very well,” he began, “though I am not an expert on this. It’s not a place I normally dwell either. You would have to talk to the Inquisitor for the specifics.”
“Specifics, huh… how about just a general overview?”
“The power of radio in these days is formidable, as well as the fracturing of nations and races…”
“You seem to be avoiding my question, Fynn.”
“Am I?” He paused to smile. “I suppose it’s for the best.”
“The best?”
“It’s best that you don’t know.”
“That is so unfair.”
“As you say,” Fynn agreed but continued, “Human history will not change at all, despite its myriad of timelines and permutations, until this one thing happens.”
“What thing is that?”
“The day humankind learns it is not alone in the universe.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
“When will this happen?”
“On the thirtieth of October, nineteen thirty-eight, some six years from now.”
“Wait a second. You’re not talking about Orson Wells… the famous Martian invasion broadcast? That, I do remember.”
“Certainly not.”
“What are you saying then?”
“The first signal from intelligent life in the galaxy is received on earth. This changes everything of course…. there is a new Other. From then on, our own differences seem quite small in comparison. This is a very powerful concept. It may bring fear, wonder, paranoia and curiosity— all these things, yet the mere fact that we are aware of another sentient life is transformative.”
“But not indisputable?”
“Come again?” Fynn seemed surprised.
“The evidence is not indisputable.”
“There lies the key of course. You’ve hit it on the head as usual, Patrick.”
“But you encouraged Jansky because of this.”
“Yes. It could be important.”
***
I must have dozed for a while. I woke to find Fynn writing furiously at a miniature desk, then constantly crumpling up the paper into a little ball and starting again. The cabin was littered by such attempts.
“What’s up, Inspector?”
“Ah, I am writing a letter.”
“To whom?”
“Various people… I have a list somewhere.” Fynn shuffled through his papers and handed me a page of names. It read like a who’s who of American history, though some of them were more familiar to me than others.
“Who are these people?”
“Those with some influence in this time period.”
“Who is Frances Perkins?” I asked.
“Fannie… a charming woman with an astounding intellect…”
“Seems to be a lot of generals on this list. I see Smedley Butler and MacArthur on here.”
“As you say… And I seem to recall that General Butler was at the forefront of an ill-fated coup d'état.”
“Really?”
“The Business Plot, it was called.”
“What are you trying to tell all these people?”
“A warning of sorts, I suppose you might say.”
“A warning about what?”
“Well, read it for yourself and tell me what you think.” Fynn handed me his letter that was written in a shaky hand:
However flawed, this republic is in grave jeopardy. We must ask, will democracy vanish from the world? In the time of the nation’s greatest crisis, your wisest president once pleaded that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. Yet this very danger looms large at present. The nation is surely in peril. The temptation to restore civil order and economic well-being by any means holds a powerful allure throughout the land. And while we can agree that bold action is necessary, indeed, a strong leader must emerge to guide the nation to safety, to act rashly is the path to our doom. I implore vigilance, and appeal to your nobler inclinations. Do not be swayed by the short term. Do not succumb to dreadful historical trends which sweep over other nations such as Germany, Japan, Italy and Russia.
“Should I make revisions?” Fynn asked.
“I wouldn’t change a word.”
“Well thank you, Patrick. I take that as a great compliment.”
“But why are you even considering this? If we fix the timeline, stop the assassination, everything should go back to normal.”
“We can hope for the best, but certainly we’ve seen a slide towards fascism in this timeline. It may occur even if we do rescue your president. Better to be safe than sorry.”
“Well, don’t get me wrong, Inspector, the letter is great. I wouldn’t change a word. It’s your handwriting… Might be a little off-putting.”
“As if written by a madman, you mean to say?”
I just shrugged.
“It’s difficult to maintain good penmanship while writing on a moving train.”
“So, you do care what happens then?”
“Not as much as you’d like to think. My only concern is for Mortimer. The closer this timeline is to your recollection, the better chance I have of catching him.”
“And you think this letter will do some good?”
“Well, I am known to a few of the people on this list. My name carries some weight— I might at least hope.” Fynn paused for a moment. “If I remember my history, even First Lady Eleanor had the idea that a dictator was necessary at this particular time, albeit a benevolent one. Only your president Roosevelt seemed to think otherwise.”
***
The Havana Express rolled into the station on Sunday morning around six thirty. We hailed a taxi that took us across to a very nice hotel on Miami Beach, the Excelsior Buena Vista. Our cab driver pointed out Al Capone’s mansion as we drove along the narrow County Causeway, though I couldn’t see it from the window. “A whole lot nicer than a prison cell,” the driver joked more than once.
“Wasn’t he on that list of yours?” I asked the inspector.
“Indeed, though I may have his address wrong.”
Fynn had booked a room on the fifth floor with a nice view of Biscayne Bay and the city. Miami was larger than I expected, even with a few tall buildings, though many of those were probably hotels. The whole area was dotted with pines and palms, and even a few live flamingos sauntered by on their stick legs. Mostly though, the houses were white stucco with colorful awnings on the doors and windows. Terra cotta tiled roofs hardly seemed like the best idea for a hurricane-prone metropolis.
“How do we stop this assassination?”
“It’s rather straight forward, I imagine.”
“Like?”
“Many ways are available to us. I suppose, some easier to accomplish than others… cancel the event… delay Mr Roosevelt’s arrival, alert the authorities, detain Giuseppe Zangara, or dissuade him from making this particular appointment.”
“Or tackle him on the street?”
“This too may be one of our options.”
That afternoon we explored our island by walking down Collins Avenue to South Beach. We ate lunch on the pier at Hackney’s Seafood Restaurant. They had alligator on the menu, though I wasn’t sure how that qualified. Fynn insisted that we take in the show at Minsky’s Burlesque. Afterwards, we both declined the dog races at the nearby Miami Kennel Club.
The following day we searched for Giuseppe Zangara on 19th Street. He was not there, indeed a neighbor told us “Joe” had moved, and thanks to Fynn’s fluent Spanish, we came to learn he had relocated to a cabana
along Seybold’s Canal. It took us another day to find him, after walking many miles and riding several electric trolley cars. It was the morning of February 15th.
Along the way, I heard a droning noise from the sky, engines, pretty far off. I looked up and saw the Goodyear Blimp slowly pass overhead. Fynn gave me a glance and a chuckle. “Not quite the Hindenburg…” he remarked.
We headed east along the canal. The once affluent homes were now shuttered and closed, most in a state of disrepair, many abandoned and many with “for sale” signs. As we continued east, shanty towns began to line the vacant lots, odd neighborhoods filled with threatening characters. I began to fear for our safety but Fynn doggedly walked on until we found the cabana in question, though I would have called it a tin-roofed shack, or a two-room shed.
A couple of alligators slid into the canal when we approached and banged on the door. A short man in an undershirt, and high-waist pleated brown trousers greeted us with a certain defiance in his expression. His suspenders hung to either side and he gestured us in without a word. Flies hovered all around the makeshift kitchen. A curly strip of sticky paper was already covered in insects. I doubted there was room for another to land.
“You guys the police?” Giuseppe asked.
“No, not at all. What makes you say that?” Fynn replied.
“Are you rich people? I don’t a like rich people.” He looked us up and down.
“No.”
“Who are you then?”
“We’re time travelers from the future,” I said with a straight face and glanced at Fynn.
Zangara looked at us both for a long moment and just laughed. “Funny guys.”
“We’re here to tell you to give up your plan tonight.”
“What plan? To make pizza?”
“Pizza?” I asked, and could hardly mask my surprise.
“Yeah, pizza or a nice calzone— what d’ya think?”
“To shoot the president,” Fynn said.
“You’re a crazy,” Zangara replied. “He’s out a fishing on a yacht with his rich friends.”
“How would you know that?”
“I read a newspaper.”
“Then you wish him no harm?”
“I don’t a like rich people, but he a seems okay to me. I got this idea… In my mind I see a lot of poor people, hungry, hungry for a piece of bread.” He spoke rapidly, gesturing with his hands and glancing back and forth between Fynn and I. “People, they a want a bread. Maybe this guy, he feeds the people.”
“Joe— can I call you that?” I paused. “Joe, who would you rather have running things— a president, who turns out to be like a good king, or a banker?”
“What’s that you are a saying?”
“It’s a simple question.”
“No, it’s a stupido question. I don’t a like either.”
“Which is worse?”
“A king.”
“Not a roomful of greedy bankers?”
“I don’t have enough bullets for a whole room.” Zangara laughed. “Hey, maybe you guys are a hungry? I am gonna be cooking some pasta now.” He moved over to a primitive stove where a large pot of water was boiling. He dumped in some spaghetti and started to stir. “You are gonna cut up the onion, okay?” Zangara said and handed me a knife. He nodded to the wooden cutting board. “And you, kind sir, chop the garlic, alright? Nice and fine— okay?” He handed Fynn a knife as well, and positioned him at the counter.
“Gotta find fresh basil in the garden, be a right back,” Zangara said, grabbed a shirt and quickly made for the kitchen door. Before Fynn and I could react, he was gone, running towards the canal and vaulting over a broken fence.
“That went well,” I said and turned off the stove.
“We know exactly where he’s going, yes?” Fynn replied. “Let’s look for a gun. It should be a thirty-two calibre revolver, probably stored in an oily rag.”
We made a thorough search of the hovel. “No, nothing here,” I said.
“Well, he has forgotten this,” Fynn said and glanced over to a cap hanging on the door.
***
We left the hotel early that evening after a supper of oysters Rockefeller. They didn’t sit all that well, and Fynn and I decided that we had time enough to walk the two miles back to the city. It was warm for the middle of February.
“Don’t forget your hat, Patrick. You do not want to be conspicuous tonight of all nights,” Fynn admonished.
As soon as we crossed the Venetian Causeway all hopes of catching up with Giuseppe were completely dashed. There were thousands of people on the other side, lining Biscayne Boulevard and crowding together in the rather small Bayfront Park. He would be impossible to find.
It was a surreal scene: I heard a marching band in the distance, their familiar Sousa repertoire drifted over the bay. It seemed like a cross between Christmas and the Fourth of July— red, white and blue lights hung from the branches and reflected off the water. Unintelligible words spewed over the loudspeakers that had been set up. The crowds cheered intermittently, and I noticed a great many more round brimmed straw hats now.
“Do you know what time it is?” I asked Fynn as we approached the park along the bay.
“No, I don’t have a watch, but nonetheless we should hurry.” Fynn quickened the pace. “We need to be closer, much closer… to the band stand,” he said and pointed.
We sifted through the crowds as quickly as we could. I could now hear the motorcade approaching slowly down Biscayne Boulevard with sirens and shouts behind us, but I stopped in my tracks.
“What?” Fynn asked.
“The ghosts are back,” I said, and stared at dozens of shadows that flitted in between the thousands of onlookers.
“Yes.”
“What should we do?”
“Grab one by the arm, I suppose.”
“Are you serious?”
“No. I’ve tried that many times to no avail. They are rather non-corporeal it seems to me.”
“What does it mean?”
“We are at a juncture of history that generates considerable interest, I would guess.” Fynn resumed the pace. “Keep your eye out for any Drummond twins though,” he warned.
A big green open Buick gently poked through the crowds and finally rolled to a stop to be surrounded by adoring onlookers. A tall smiling man waved to everyone and started towards the podium.
“What’s wrong, Patrick?” Fynn asked, as I had come to a halt again.
“He can walk,” I exclaimed and turned to watch the stage.
“Who can walk?”
“The president.”
Fynn looked at me oddly. “And why is that so strange?”
“In my history, FDR had polio. He was crippled by it. They’d prop him up at the podium and he’d wear braces and all, but he couldn’t really walk, not far anyhow. And not like that...” I directed Fynn’s attention to the stage with a nod. “Look… no cane, no braces, he’s walking normally.”
“Perhaps this is significant.”
“I’ll say.”
Someone started giving a speech. I didn’t hear a single word, instead, I scanned the crowd for our would-be assassin. I spotted a man standing shoulders above everyone else and thought I recognized him. Yet how could it be Giuseppe Zangara? He was certainly hatless, but far too tall; then I realized he was standing on a rickety folding chair. He didn’t seem to be holding a weapon. I started moving towards him. As I did, I saw another familiar face nearby: one of the Drummond twins— and he was holding a pistol. I sprinted over as quickly as I could. I lunged and grabbed the Texan’s arm. It was probably a useless gesture. I was too late, though I may have foiled his aim.
Shots rang out in rapid succession, five. The crowd gasped, yelled, shrieked and ducked. A few people rushed towards Zangara and he fell from his chair. I saw another Drummond run past. Fynn came over a moment later.
“Did you see them?”
“Who?”
“The Texas Twins…”
&
nbsp; “Yes, and your president has been hit by a bullet.”
“What about Joe?”
“There’s little to be done for him.”
* * *
chapter thirty-five
the return
Inspector Fynn and I sat side by side in large wicker chairs on the expansive veranda of the Buena Vista Hotel. I was looking out at the restless Atlantic and several hundred yards of beachfront. Above us, a line of tall palm trees swayed in the gentle breeze. I could also see storm clouds. It seemed like everyday in Miami there was a rainstorm of one sort or another. Today promised a hard rain, I thought, but we were safe for this part of the day. I glanced over at Fynn who was completely buried in his morning paper, the Miami Herald. The headlines were enough for me. I was very relieved that FDR would recover from his wounds. Fynn had said little during breakfast and I thought he was deeply contemplative. I heard the paper rustle sharply and the inspector finally turned to me.
“If one were to invest in land, this would be the place,” he said brightly.
“What?”
“I was just looking at the advertisements. Land here in Florida is very inexpensive. If timed correctly, one could probably make a small fortune.”
“Don’t we have more pressing concerns?” I asked, using one of his favorite phrases.
“Indeed we do, Patrick,” Fynn replied and put his newspaper down, then turned to me with a slight grin. “We must decide on how best to return.”
“To the present?” I asked.
Fynn gave me a long sideways glance. “And which present do you mean?”
I had no answer to that.
“There are any number of ways to return,” Fynn said. “We must choose our approach wisely.”
I thought he was being enigmatic as usual. “Return to where?”
“Sand City, of course.”
“To find Mortimer, you mean.”
“Yes, and this is exactly why I’ve been studying the morning edition so diligently.”
“I get it… you want to see if the timeline is all fixed.”
Fynn glanced over and seemed a bit surprised. “No, not exactly that.”