Red, White, and the Blues

by Walker, Rysa

  “I’m not a thief,” Lawrence says. “I just want to look at the damn thing.”

  I take a step back and reach into my sports coat, pulling out the gun. Which he apparently hadn’t noticed, despite my slightly gaping jacket. Unfortunately, the two figures in the doorway have let their curiosity get the better of them, rather than doing the smart thing and slipping back into the club. I hear footsteps behind me. They’re definitely not male footsteps, however, since I can hear the distinctive clicking of women’s heels against the pavement. I’m about to glance back when I hear Bankhead’s unmistakable throaty laugh.

  “I don’t know about you, Billie, but I think I can predict the winner of this little tête-à-tête.”

  Holiday, who sounds slightly less drunk than her companion, says, “She’s right, Lonnie. I’ve got to get back inside for the next set. Barney’s already alerted Jeeves, though, and he usually calls the cops. Unless he’s in the mood to take care of things himself. A doorman’s job can get a bit boring.”

  Dennis gives me a baleful look, retreats to the sidewalk, and then begins walking briskly toward Seventh Avenue. The sad thing is that both of the women probably assume that he’s leaving because he’s already got a record, rather than because an arrest for even a minor infraction could reveal the secret that ends his career.

  It’s the sort of thing that I could easily leak to a few sources in the media. Some might have the decency not to print it, but there are always those who value a scoop over ethics. Normally, I wouldn’t even consider doing something like that, especially when I know that the man ends up in court for sedition in a few years, anyway, effectively ending his career and his influence. The case will be dismissed after the judge has a heart attack and the government decides it’s not worth the effort to start over from scratch, probably because the damage will already be done to most of the people on trial. I listened to the evidence when I was there with Glen, and while I’m no legal expert, I think the government overstepped its bounds. As much as I may not like Lawrence Dennis’s views, or those of many of his codefendants, only a few of them (like Coughlin) were actually in league with Hitler.

  In this timeline, however, there will be no tribunal that curbs his influence. Instead, he’ll be a cabinet member in a fascist administration and do untold damage to millions of people. So anything that exposes him, that keeps him from being part of that, would be a very good idea. This would be a great opportunity to halt him in his tracks.

  But I can’t, because the fucking style points dictate that we have to work in reverse chronological order. Everything in 1940 has to be handled first.

  Tallulah places her hand on my arm and then presses her body close to mine. A curl of menthol-scented smoke rises from her cigarette, and her breath is heavy with gin. “You should come back inside, dahling. Have another drink and keep the two of us company.”

  I thank her for the invitation, which is very clearly for more than a drink and, God help me, is actually a bit tempting. But I make my excuses, telling them I have to be at work early in the morning.

  Tallulah gives me a little pout, and then holds her arm out to Billie. “Well, then I guess we’ll have to amuse each other.”

  When the two of them are back inside, I stash the gun back in the holster, then take out my key and pull up the stable point back at the apartment. Before jumping, I scan the alley briefly to see if anyone is watching, but . . . it’s dark. Who knows? Lawrence Dennis could have circled the block.

  There is someone moving toward me from the far end of the alley, but it’s not Dennis. Not unless he found a CHRONOS key in the past minute or so and shrank a few inches. The figure is bathed in purple light. I think it’s a woman. Alisa, maybe. Or Esther. But according to the rules they provided, their team members are not supposed to be interacting with us. Team Viper made their moves, and now it’s our turn to make ours.

  She does look familiar, though. I take a few hesitant steps closer, and so does she. Then she takes one very purposeful step that puts her inside the range of the dim light bulb outside the back door to Café Society.

  “Marcy?” I ask.

  The word seems to flip a switch. Marcy Bateman begins running toward me, nearly stumbling over a piece of broken pavement in the alley, and flings herself into my arms. I start to ask if she’s okay, but before I can get the words out, she’s pulling my face down to hers for a kiss.

  This is not the first time we’ve kissed. But it was never this sort of kiss. For one thing, her face is wet with tears. Something must feel different to her, too, because she steps back and wraps her arms around herself.

  “But . . . you know me,” she says. “You said my name.”

  “I know a version of you. We’re friends. The Marcy I know runs the Temporal Monitoring Unit at CHRONOS. Is that the job you have?”

  She shakes her head. “I teach. We’re just friends?”

  “We dated a few times. But that was before you went on that ski trip and met Annika. I didn’t stand a chance after that.”

  Even in the dim light I can see the effect that comment has on her. She shakes her head vehemently. “That’s not true. I don’t even ski.”

  I have to chuckle at that, despite the fact that she’s clearly upset. “You told me that. Both of you went with a group of friends. Neither of you liked skiing. Even with the stabilizing field, it made you anxious. Annika felt the same way. And so you said the two of you found something to do that was a lot more fun.”

  She draws in a sharp breath, as if my words stung her. Then she swings a hand back to slap me. I block it, grabbing her wrist.

  “That’s a lie,” she says. “A dirty lie. Three days before our commitment ceremony and you just vanish. Nobody knew where you’d gone. You just left. No message. Nothing. Then I saw you on TD Off-World, and Alisa said it wouldn’t really be you, but . . . I hoped maybe she was wrong. I hoped maybe . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Marcy. I don’t have a clue what happened in your reality. In this one, you’re with Annika. I have lunch with the two of you about once a month. You’re happy. In fact, you were talking about starting a family, but she said maybe the two of you should start with something small, like a dog or maybe a rabbiroo, and make sure you could handle it before considering a baby.”

  She twists the fabric of her skirt nervously. “You mean we’re together? In the open? And that’s okay here?”

  “Well, not so much in this era,” I say, and then decide to amend it slightly, given my recent acquaintance with the two women inside the bar. “Although, if you have enough money or influence, you can sometimes flaunt societal rules without fear even in the 1930s. But in my time, yes. It’s definitely okay.”

  I don’t add that there have been cycles of oppression, much the same as with race. Two steps toward equality were all too often followed by a step back, or sometimes two or even three. The worst backlash came during the early days of genetic engineering, as some parents sought to choose not only sex but also sexual orientation of their offspring. But I’m not sure that she needs the details right now.

  “We were happy, though,” she says. “You and me. At least, I was.”

  “Most people can be happy with more than one person.”

  “You’re with that blond girl now, aren’t you? Max? The one I saw you whispering with in the balcony at Madison Square Garden.”

  “No. I’m not with her . . .” Over Marcy’s shoulder, two people blink in. Esther and Alisa. Both of them are glaring at me like this is all my fault. Or maybe it’s just because I’m on the opposing team.

  “I can’t believe you broke our agreement,” Alisa says, turning to Marcy. “You know the rules. You’re not allowed to interact with any players on the other side during the course of the game unless you have explicit orders. I put my neck on the line to get you that academic slot, and you promised you’d wait and contact him after the match ends. You promised. Pull up the home point and let’s go.”

  “I need to finish talking to him,
” Marcy says. “I’ll only take a couple of minutes.”

  “No,” Esther says, moving up behind Marcy. She snaps one hand out and grabs the back of the cord holding Marcy’s CHRONOS key. In one swift move, she twists the cord to tighten it and pulls the key—and also Marcy—toward her. I have a momentary flash of déjà vu, remembering Richard doing the same thing to one of their observers in the bathroom at the Mid-South Coliseum the night of the Beatles concert.

  “Put that medallion in the palm of your hand, right now,” Esther says. “Otherwise, I will yank this cord, and you’ll vanish even faster than your version of lover boy here did after he realized it was a mistake to slip a ring on your boring little finger.”

  Alisa tsk-tsks. “That was really uncalled for, Ess.”

  I take a couple of steps back, then reach inside my jacket and draw the gun. “Let her go.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Esther says.

  “She’s right,” Alisa tells me. “That would violate the rules.”

  “Try me. Pretty sure that you’re violating them by being here, so who’s going to tell? Plus, I didn’t have any say in determining these rules. None of us did. And I’m beginning to wonder why in hell we should play by them.”

  Of course, I know exactly why we’re stuck following their rules. If they don’t think we’re playing the game fairly, what’s to stop them from sending in dozens of players and screwing up the timeline so badly that human life is extinguished? Just jump forward a couple of decades and start the bombs flying.

  Marcy grabs for the key, but Esther has pulled the cord so far back that the key is now too high up for her to center it in her palm and still see the interface. Her eyes grow wide, and it looks like she’s having trouble breathing.

  Esther twists the cord a bit tighter, and I can tell she has every intention of calling my bluff. But then her eyes focus on something behind me. I don’t look back, because I’m more than a little worried that this is her bluff, and if I give her even half a chance, she’ll pull some sort of move she learned among the Akan warriors, and the end result will be my gun in her hand and my blood all over this alley.

  But she’s not bluffing. I hear the unmistakable sound of someone racking a slide. I do risk a quick glance over my shoulder at this point to determine whether the new arrival is friend or foe.

  “Gonna need you to let go of the lady’s jewelry right now.” It’s the guy Billie Holiday referred to as Jeeves. The fake patrician voice he used when he opened the door has been abandoned, and he now sounds more Bronx than Boston Brahmin. A sawed-off shotgun is pointed straight at Esther. He nods at me. “And you’re apparently a friend of Lady Day, since she sent me around here to check on you, but I’d appreciate it if you’d put that gun away, given that I don’t know you personally.”

  I do as I’m told, reluctantly. Esther lets go of the cord and steps back away from Marcy, who begins coughing as she pulls in air.

  “And before any of you get ideas about pullin’ another weapon, the bartender just called the cops. They spent the whole night protectin’ Nazis over at the Garden, and some of ’em ain’t too happy about it, so they’d probably be delighted to take you for a ride down to the station if you decide to stick around.”

  Alisa and Esther exchange a look, then tap the purple buttons on their cuff bracelets and vanish.

  “Son of a bitch.” The doorman looks from Marcy to me. “What the . . . How’d they do that? They’re just gone.”

  Marcy is trying to say something between gasps for air, but I can’t hear her over the doorman. Then she points behind me, and I make out the words stable point.

  But it’s too late. A shot rings out, and the doorman crumples next to me. A second shot, and Marcy clutches her chest as a dark stain spreads across the tiny blue flowers of her blouse.

  I spin around, reaching for my gun. Esther grins, taps her bracelet with the hand holding a gun almost identical to the one now on the pavement next to Jeeves, and vanishes.

  And so I turn back to Marcy, just as Alisa pops in behind her.

  “I told you she was ruthless,” Alisa says with a disgusted huff as she pulls the key over Marcy’s head and they both vanish.

  The back door to Café Society opens a second later. I press myself flat against the wall behind the dumpster and blink out.

  FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID

  COUGHLIN OFFICIALLY SEVERS TIES WITH CATHOLIC CHURCH

  (Detroit, February 14, 1939) After more than a year of escalating tensions with the Roman Catholic hierarchy, Detroit radio priest Charles Coughlin has formally severed ties with Rome. Coughlin, whose weekly sermons reach as many as thirty million listeners, enjoyed a certain degree of protection prior to the death of Bishop Gallagher in January 1937. Gallagher’s successor, Archbishop Mooney, rebuked Coughlin for comments supporting Hitler and Mussolini shortly after taking over, and Coughlin reined in the political content somewhat following censure.

  As commentary on political and economic events gradually found their way back into his sermons, astute observers noted that it was joined by occasional verses from The Book of Cyrus. Indeed, those verses have begun to nudge out biblical references in recent months. In remarks on the evils of workers’ unions and internationalism last October, for example, Coughlin cited Cyrus 7:14: “The moral objective of any life is its own existence, for its own sake. Each soul is an end unto itself.”

  Yesterday, at a meeting of the National Mothers’ Union held at Coughlin’s Shrine of the Little Flower, in the Detroit suburb of Royal Oak, Coughlin announced that he would be resigning his post effective immediately. The break with the Catholic Church became official in the wake of what many assumed was a clerical mix-up concerning an event in New York where Coughlin is scheduled to speak next week. Members of the Christian Front, a political organization connected both to Coughlin and the German-American Bund, were apparently aware of Coughlin’s plans in advance. The information they provided for the poster advertising the Bund’s upcoming “Pro-America Rally” listed him as Brother Coughlin, using the title given to Cyrist Templars, sparking speculation that a split was imminent.

  Coughlin initially discounted the rumors, but amid a flurry of questions from both his followers and his superiors in the Catholic Church, he decided that it might be best to make a clean break. At a press conference following his address to the National Mothers’ Union, Coughlin encouraged his audience to remain with the faith of their choice. “Christianity is a wide tent. I have chosen to reject the internationalism and creeping communist threat within some elements of the Catholic Church. This does not, however, mean that I reject the message of Christ, simply that I now believe it to be reflected in its most pure form within the teachings of his disciple Cyrus.” In response to a question from the press, however, Coughlin did note that the Christian Front, which he is now free to officially lead due to the less restrictive political guidelines for Cyrist Templars, would henceforth be called the Universal Front.

  At the conclusion of the press conference, reporters followed Coughlin to a location on the other side of nearby Roseland Park Cemetery, where construction has already begun on a Cyrist temple. The new church, tentatively called Temple of the Lotus Flower, is expected to open in early summer. In lieu of Sunday services for the next several months, Brother Coughlin will be speaking at various locations around the country, traveling aboard the newly christened One True Way, a Lockheed Vega six seater, piloted by aviatrix Laura Ingalls, herself a recent convert to the Cyrist faith.

  ∞18∞

  KATHERINE

  ROYAL OAK, MICHIGAN

  FEBRUARY 13, 1939

  Saul steps back and places one hand on each side of my face as he stares into my eyes. His hands are like ice, and my first thought is that this is a ghost my mind has conjured up to punish me for my earlier skeptical thoughts about ghostly visions. My second thought is that this isn’t my Saul. But the scar on his face is missing. These are the same eyes that have stared into my own countles
s times. It’s him.

  “Oh, God, Kathy. I didn’t know if you made it out. But I had to look, and the press conference seemed . . . and then I saw Richard but not you, and . . .” He lets out a long, shuddering breath and pulls me close again.

  I was too in shock to really respond at first, but now I clutch him to me so hard my arms ache, biting my lip to hold back tears. “I looked for you, Saul. I swear. Richard and I went to the Club, even though I knew you couldn’t be . . . How? How are you here?”

  “Let’s get out of the cold,” he says. “My car is in the lot.”

  “Your car? Why do you have a car?”

  “It’s part of my cover. We’re in Detroit. Everyone has a car.”

  That doesn’t exactly make sense. He could get anywhere he wanted to go by setting local points. My guess is that Saul simply saw a car that he wanted.

  “Okay, but I have to meet Richard soon. We’re on a tight deadline.” I stop, realizing that there are actually two huge questions. Not just how Saul survived, but also why he decided to look for me here and now. “How did you know where to find me, Saul? Out of all the places and times, why did you come here?”

  “Mostly because of the message the hackers sent out. When I went to the OC the day I burned my arm on that jump, Morgen showed me the message that popped up on all of the TD consoles. The one with our names on it. He asked me what was going on, and he didn’t seem to think it was a joke. I mean, I could see my name and Morgen’s being on that list if this was some time-chess fans playing a prank. Maybe even Esther or Alisa. They’ve both been ranked nationally a few times. But you barely play. I’ve seen Rich play a couple of times at most, and I’ve never even heard of this Max. I mentioned this when I got home, and you said you didn’t know anything about it, remember?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I was—”

  “I’m not blaming you, okay? You were under orders, I’m sure. Listen, could we just get out of here? It’s fucking freezing, and—God. I still can’t believe I finally found you. I’ve been looking for months.”