“Just wait until we find out that we’re trapped in an F. Scott Fitzgerald story,” Alistair said. “Or James Joyce. Maybe the world would be a better place if we let a few of those snoozers wink out of existence.”
“You have to be kidding me,” Bombo said.
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“No. You look like an idiot, and your words confirm the theory.”
“Hey, you two,” said a huge man in a black suit. “Are you here to drink or run your mouths?”
“Definitely drink,” Bombo said.
“Um, drink?” said Alistair.
“Bar’s that way,” said the huge man. His hair was close-cropped, and as far as Alistair could tell, he had no neck.
They waded through the crowd and approached the bar. “I’ll take a beer,” Bombo said, “and my friend here will have…”
“A glass of white wine,” said Alistair. “Something with nice mouthfeel.”
The bartender looked at him with derision. “Very funny,” he said. “We have moonshine. You can have it straight, on the rocks, or in a cocktail. I’d suggest the cocktail, unless you like the taste of gasoline.”
“Moonshine?” Alistair said.
“Oh,” Bombo said, realizing that they’d just stepped into the era of prohibition. “We’ll take two cocktails,” he said. “Whatever you think is likely to taste the least like gasoline. Thanks.”
When the bartender turned away, Bombo leaned over to Alistair and whispered, “Prohibition! Isn’t this cool?”
Alistair shook his head. “If you find a Tommy gun please shoot me in the face.”
“Oh man, this just gets better and better,” Bombo said with a smile.
The bartender set about making their drinks as Bombo explained to Alistair what he’d deduced about their situation. Given the time period, Alistair’s earlier remarks about the possible author of this story now seemed highly likely. “This is the Jazz Age,” Bombo said. “We're probably dealing with a member of the Lost Generation,” he said. “Maybe if we could figure out our exact location, that would give us an indication of what we’re dealing with.”
They looked all around, but the walls were bare. Very likely this speakeasy was in the basement of another establishment, a business that was run merely as a front for the saloon.
“Here you go,” said the bartender. He handed them their cocktails. “That’ll be two dollars.”
Bombo and Alistair exchanged a look. They had only the clothes on their backs and the cash in their wallets—which was going to be in modern bills. Alistair reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out his billfold. He removed two crisp dollars and was amazed to see that they were both dated 1925.
“Here you go,” Alistair said. “Thank you.”
The bartender looked at him with disgust. It wasn’t until they found a table in a corner of the saloon that Alistair realized he’d forgotten to give the man a tip.
“Do you recognize this bar?” Bombo said. “I’ve read a lot of literature from this period, but it doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Not at all,” Alistair said.
“It’s not Paris or Spain from what I can tell, what with it being prohibition and all.”
Alistair just grunted and held up his drink in a mock toast.
They sipped their cocktails and sat amid the din and activity of the other drinkers. Bombo found himself watching a man and a woman sitting at the next table. The man had dark hair and thick eyebrows, a mustache and a square jaw. He had cauliflower ears and a crooked nose and a twinkle in his eyes and a five o’clock shadow. He was a man’s man—anyone could see it. The woman was a blonde, with full, pouty lips and a figure shaped like an hourglass. She was clearly drunk, her voice rising and falling as she spoke. Bombo and Alistair listened closely, hoping that fate, luck, providence, or whatever it was that was steering them through the Legendarium would once again guide their steps.
“I can’t believe you would do this to me,” the blonde bombshell said. “It’s like you don’t care at all about how I feel.”
The man quaffed a cocktail in one manly gulp and banged the glass down on the table. “It doesn’t matter how you feel,” he said. “I’m gonna win the fight and that’s that.”
“But what if you lose?” she said.
“I won’t,” he said.
“But what if you do?” she said.
“Woman,” he said, “that isn’t going to happen, so you don’t need to worry about it.”
“Oh my God,” Bombo said. His eyes had a faraway glassy look as his memory registered what was happening. “This is Hemingway.”
Alistair’s eyes widened. “That dreadful man is Ernest Hemingway?”
“No,” Bombo said. “This is his first novel: The Pugilist.”
“I’ve never even heard of it,” Alistair said, and took another sip from his cocktail.
“No, I don’t believe you would have,” Bombo replied. “You’d have to have even a cursory knowledge of literature and history, coupled with a love for the written word.”
“Stuff it, Dawson,” Alistair sneered.
“I just can’t believe you would treat me like I’m your property,” said the blonde. She took a sip of her cocktail.
The man shrugged. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it,” he said. “Everything is going to turn out fine.” And with that, he stood, hoisted the woman to her feet, and kissed her.
“He seems like a real asshole,” Alistair said.
“He’s a man’s man,” said Bombo.
“I can’t stand Hemingway,” Alistair said. “O-ver-rated.”
“You have just cemented your position as the worst literature critic in the history of the world, Alistair. Did your mother have any kids that lived?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Alistair said, waving his hand. “What happens in this story?”
“That guy is Jack Walcott,” Bombo said. “He’s a boxer.”
“That sounds like a Hemingway story,” Alistair said.
“The woman is his lover, Agnes. Jack owes a lot of money to a man named Danny Hogan. Danny is another boxer. He owns a gymnasium in New Jersey.”
“Let me guess,” Alistair said. “Jack bets a night with Agnes that he can beat Danny in a boxing match.”
“Right,” Bombo said. “I thought you didn’t know this story.”
“I hate Ernest Hemingway,” Alistair said.
“What books do you like?” Bombo asked.
“I really enjoyed the Harry Potter series,” Alistair said. “I gave all of those five stars.”
Bombo just stared at Alistair and blinked. He couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say.
“This story is appalling,” Alistair said. “Maybe we should just let it go.”
“How can you say that after what we just went through?”
Alistair took a sip of his drink. He was beginning to appreciate the faint gasoline flavor in the beverage. “I know, I know… you’re right,” he said. “But what are we supposed to do here? Are we still looking for the vorpal sword, or was it lost on the space station?”
“I don’t know,” Bombo said. “We just need to keep our eyes open and act whenever it seems like the story is about to go off the tracks.”
“What happens next?” Alistair asked.
“The fight,” Bombo said. “Jack and Agnes are probably on their way to the gym right now. We should go.”
The writers finished their drinks and followed Hemingway’s protagonist out of the saloon. They tailed the boxer and his girl through the filthy streets of Jersey City, occasionally having to step over or around an unconscious wino as the lights of Manhattan glowed in the distance. Before long, they came to an ancient gymnasium with a sign overhead that read:
THE HEALTH FARM
A bouncer stopped them when they reached the front door. He appeared to be the identical twin of the bouncer at the speakeasy.
“Five dollars each for admission,” he said. His voice
was thick and slow. He was a no-nonsense fellow who’d seen his share of troubles.
Alistair reached into his wallet and produced a ten-dollar bill. Once again, the Legendarium had provided exactly what they needed, exactly when they needed it. How it was able to do this, and yet was seemingly incapable of protecting its stories from destruction, was a mystery to Alistair.
The writers slipped into the gymnasium and were immediately overwhelmed by the aroma of sweat and greed and broken dreams. Half a hundred men in working-class clothes were jammed into the small space. A throng they were—a hive mind buzzing with hopeless activity. They were crowded around a boxing ring that dominated the room like an altar in the high church of despair. The purpose of this fight, for the audience in any case, was to offer something, anything, upon which they could gamble. It was a frantic grasp at a solitary instant of hope… hope that lightning might strike and the sun would shine on them for a moment. Like all such worshipers, the men peered up at the altar with prayerful eyes. They would have bet on anything—turtle races, dog fighting, whatever—but two men knocking one another senseless was the main event of this particular evening.
“Who wins the fight?” Alistair asked.
“Danny Hogan,” Bombo said.
“He gets the girl for the night?”
“Yeah. She leaves Jack standing in the locker room with a broken heart and ten grand in debt.”
“Is that the end of the story?” Alistair asked.
“No. Jack hangs himself from the rafters,” Bombo said.
“That’s terrible,” Alistair said.
“It’s Hemingway,” said Bombo. “It is what it is.”
“I hate Hemingway,” Alistair said.
“I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t care much for you either,” Bombo replied, “but who could say, considering you’ve never published anything.”
“You’re a real peach,” Alistair said.
The lights dimmed then, and a skinny man in a black suit climbed into the ring. He raised a bullhorn to his lips and spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he said. “This fight is scheduled for ten rounds. Introducing first, in the black trunks… Danny Hogan!”
A man in a black bathrobe appeared out of the locker room. He had thinning hair and a scowl permanently fixed upon his face. He walked slowly to the ring, his eyes darting all around as if he expected someone in the crowd to jump at any moment. Boos and catcalls filled the gymnasium.
“You know what I like?” Alistair said.
“What do you like?” said Bombo.
“Professional wrestling,” Alistair said.
Bombo gave Alistair the long, slow blink again.
“Professional wrestlers are at least as athletic as participants in any other sport, and since the stories are plotted out in advance, they almost always put on a good show.”
“It’s fake,” Bombo said. “You do know it’s fake, right?”
“Of course I do,” Alistair said. “Don’t be silly. That’s the point. Because it’s fake, I don’t have to feel guilty about them actually hurting one another. It’s all just great fun.”
“Have you ever looked at the statistics on dead wrestlers?” said Bombo. “It’s like the most dangerous entertainment there is, other than maybe… I don’t know… bullfighting or something.”
“Shhh,” Alistair said. “He’s going to announce the other guy.”
“And now,” said the announcer, “his opponent, in blue trunks… Jack Walcott!”
There were cheers and wolf whistles, but Jack didn’t show up immediately. The announcer said his name again, and after a few long moments, the man from the speakeasy appeared in the entryway that led from the locker room. He wore a white bathrobe and had a cocky smile plastered on his face. His girlfriend darted out from the locker room several seconds later. She looked like she’d been crying.
“Maybe I should go after her,” Alistair said.
“And miss the fight?” asked Bombo.
“She might be the cornerstone of this whole story,” said Alistair.
“This is Hemingway,” said Bombo. “I kind of doubt it, but whatever you think is best. Say, do you think they have any concessions? I’m starving. Bring me back a hot dog, will you, precious?”
Alistair disappeared after Agnes while Bombo settled back in his seat to watch the fight. A referee climbed through the ropes and called the two fighters to the center of the ring. They touched gloves in a show of sportsmanship as the referee explained the rules of the fight. He wanted a fair fight. He wanted them to observe the rules of boxing and sportsmanship and civility. He wanted them to put on a good show. He dismissed the boxers to their respective corners so they could pray or make peace with God or whatever.
A concession vendor walked past, and Bombo ordered a Coke and a bag of popcorn. He had just enough money in his wallet to pay the tab. He was still full of the vain hope that Foley would return with a hot dog, but he wanted to tide himself over until then. He munched nervously as the bell rang and the boxers darted back to the middle of the ring.
* * *
Agnes ran out a side door of the Health Farm and was pacing up and down in the alley smoking a cigarette when Alistair found her.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “I couldn’t help but notice that you were crying.”
“Mind your own business, creep,” Agnes snapped. Her mascara ran down her face in grayish streaks. She turned from Alistair, hiding her face.
“I’m sorry,” Alistair said. “It’s just that—I overheard your conversation with your boyfriend at the speakeasy. I know about the bet.”
Agnes bowed her head and cried. “How can he treat me like that?” she asked. “I’ve been good to him. I stood by him when everyone else thought he was a loser.”
“I know,” Alistair said. “It makes me sick to think he could treat you that way.”
“It’s like he doesn’t respect me at all. He treats me like a dog.”
“You shouldn’t put up with that kind of behavior,” Alistair said. “You deserve better.”
Agnes was angry now. She wiped away her tears, further streaking her mascara. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m not going to let him use me as a wager. I don’t belong to that bastard! I could get another man just like that.” She snapped her fingers and nodded before taking a puff from her dwindling cigarette.
“That’s right,” Alistair said. “You’re beautiful and smart and obviously loyal to a fault.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Agnes. She was in a feisty mood now.
“Nothing,” Alistair said. “So, what are you going to do?”
“I’m getting out of here,” Agnes said. “If you see Jack, tell him to forget he ever knew me. Which may not be all that hard after he gets his head caved in tonight.”
“I’ll do just that,” Alistair said. He smiled as he watched her walk away. She was a gorgeous broad, a woman any man would kill for.
Agnes reached the end of the alley and stepped out into the street.
Broad? Alistair thought. Where the hell did that come from? It was then, when it was too late, that he realized—to his horror—that his job here was not to save the dame from her abusive boyfriend. Rather, his mission was to see that this story unfolded in the way that Ernest Hemingway had originally intended. If Agnes walked out of the story, any number of things might happen, but most of them were bad.
“Wait!” Alistair shouted, but the damage was done. As Agnes stepped into the street, she turned at Alistair’s call. A white delivery truck was speeding down the street and she never saw it. She was killed instantly.
“No!” Alistair screamed. He ran to her, but as he ran, the bricks that formed the alley floor crumbled beneath his feet and transformed into quicksand. In a flash, he was sinking. As he sensed death approaching, he looked back down the alley and noticed the looming black shadows all around him.
Mome wraiths.
* * *
Bombo was on his feet, che
ering wildly as Jack landed two quick lefts into Danny Hogan’s face. The man in the black trunks staggered backward as Jack Walcott pressed his attack. He landed left after left on Danny’s head and shoulders. Finally, the owner of the gymnasium reeled and lowered his guard, and Jack connected a punch squarely on his jaw.
Danny went down like a sack of feed and the referee began to count.
In the crowd, Bombo’s eyes narrowed as he realized that something was wrong. “This isn’t how this was supposed to happen,” he said aloud.
“No,” said a sad voice, “it’s not.”
Bombo turned to see an old man with a bushy white beard sitting beside him. He wore a plain suit and a sweater vest. Bombo would have recognized the man anywhere.
It was Ernest Hemingway.
In the ring, the referee was signaling the timekeeper to ring the bell.
“Sir?” Bombo slid closer to the old man. “What’s happening?”
“You’re friend broke my story,” Hemingway said.
“He’s not my—what? What happened?”
“He talked Agnes into walking out on Jack. Now she’s dead, and this world is collapsing.”
“Alistair!” Bombo said. His anger was tempered only by his own sadness. “He destroyed your first novel… I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the announcer through his bullhorn, “the winner of this bout, by knockout: Jack Walcott!”
“That’s not all,” Hemingway said. “Do you know how I died?”
“Liver cancer brought on by hemochromatosis,” Bombo said. “You died in 1971. I remember—”
“No.” Hemingway’s eyes were full of despair. “I never saw those last ten years. I took my own life in 1961.”
“What? No. I remember…”
Danny Hogan was still lying flat on his back. The referee and the announcer were checking on him, but it was evident to Bombo that something was wrong. The man hadn’t moved an inch since he’d collapsed.
“He’s dead,” Hemingway said. “Jack killed him with that last punch. I almost had the story end this way, but I thought my other ending was more powerful. I thought it displayed more of the human condition.”
LEGENDARIUM Page 7