The Double-Time Slide: A Dieselpunk Adventure (The Crossover Case Files Book 2)

by Richard Levesque

  “It’s not long,” he said. “Not exactly scientific, but…” He shrugged again. “The best we’ve got for now.” Picking up his pencil, he turned to a new page on his tablet and then tapped the book with a thick finger. “Beadle says these other worlds, they’re created when there’s a split, yes? Like a decision.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Big decisions,” he said. “Like…we get the bomb. Do we drop it or no?”

  He drew a line on the tablet and then two lines splitting from it, like a Y. Tapping one branch of the Y, he said, “We drop the bomb. One world.” Then he tapped the other branch. “We don’t drop the bomb. Another world. Yes?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Small decisions, too, though. Yes?” Tapping one end of the Y, he said, “Jed Strait asks a girl to marry. One world.” Then he tapped the other end again. “Jed gets wet feet. Another world.”

  “You mean cold feet?”

  “Same thing. Makes sense, though?”

  “Yes, but I still don’t see what this has to do with why that Jed was so much older than me.”

  He held up a finger, a signal that I should be quiet and patient while he walked me through it.

  “Let’s say your grandparents marry in…1890.” He tapped one branch of the Y. “They have your parents. They meet, grow up, marry in 1915.” Here, he drew another Y branching off from the one he’d just tapped. “You’re born in 1918. Sound okay?”

  “Give or take,” I said.

  He tapped the other branch of the first Y. “But maybe it’s your abuelo who has wet feet. So, he doesn’t propose until 1892. Everything else gets pushed back.” He drew another Y extending off the second branch of the original Y. “Now your parents don’t marry until 1917, give or take, and your birth gets pushed back to 1920. So, in our world, you’re 30, turning 31. But in this world…” He tapped the end of last Y. “You’re only 28. Now you see?”

  “You’re saying the Jed I was just occupying…he’s a product of bigger shifts than just a couple years.”

  “Si,” he said. “Grandpa, great-grandpa, great-great…enough of them get wet feet, you get an old Jed in some other version of 1949.”

  “But the chances of that are astronomical, aren’t they? All of those guys would have to meet my grandmothers at the same proportional time, wouldn’t they? So, all those other sets of great-greats had to have cold feet, too?”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “Something like that.”

  “But what are the chances of things working out like that? Of the right people meeting in world after world if so many things get changed so randomly?”

  “Probably not so good.”

  “So how is it there’s a Jed Strait in every world?”

  He smiled. “There’s not, lobo.”

  “What do you mean? I’ve been in at least a dozen so far. In every one, there’s a different version of me.”

  “That’s just it,” he said. “You’re only able to go to worlds where there’s another Jed for you to slip into. It’s probably a smaller number of possible worlds than you think, yes?”

  I hadn’t thought about this before, but now the possibility made me smile. “Yes,” I agreed. “You’re right, Guillermo. Why didn’t we talk about this before?”

  His smile turned sad. “Porque I didn’t want to worry you.”

  This confused me, but not enough to erase my smile. “I don’t get it,” I said.

  He tapped the tablet where he’d been recording all of my attempts to find my proper world. “You can only go into worlds where there’s another Jed Strait waiting to be occupied. What if, in the world you belong in, the world where Annabelle was waiting for you to come home from the war…what if Jed Strait didn’t make it in that world?”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. “Didn’t make it?” I repeated. “But how? That wouldn’t make sense. He and I switched places in that electrical accident and…”

  “And lots of men died in that accident, yes? You said so yourself. This world is close to yours. Not too many differences. You and he were both guarding that weapon in your proper worlds, almost parallel. Then the accident. What if one of you died and the other got zapped over in his place?”

  My voice a monotone, I said, “Then there’d be no Jed for me to slip into in that world.”

  I pictured Annabelle and her grandmother standing beside a casket, an honor guard handing them a folded flag. If it was true, there was no way I’d ever get back there, not with Guillermo’s machine or anything else. They’d go throughout their lives thinking the man they’d buried was their Jed and could never know it was my double, a corpse from this world who’d slipped into theirs while I slipped out.

  “Sorry, lobo,” Guillermo said, his voice subdued as well. When I looked up, I saw that he’d tactfully shifted his gaze down to the little mechanical dog at his feet in order to spare me the embarrassment of having my darkest moment witnessed by someone else.

  “It’s okay,” I managed to say. “Thank you for telling me. I…I’d rather know about this now than keep on going and deluding myself.”

  “Just because it’s possible doesn’t mean it’s true,” Guillermo said. “The other you might have survived, just the same as you, yes?”

  I nodded. “That’s true. But…it’s something to keep in mind. There’s going to come a time when I’ll have to give up searching.”

  Guillermo shrugged. “Theoretically. Until then, we’ve got some good data. Maybe eventually I can use it to narrow down the best chances for the world you’re looking for.”

  I reached out a hand, glad to see the skin still tight and reasonably free of scars. Guillermo and I shook over the tablet. Then I looked at my watch and told him I needed to get going. The burlesque houses were going to be opening soon. I gave Perdida a little pet and let myself out the kitchen door, glad to have a case I could throw myself into and feeling renewed confidence in my ability to work it. If that other Jed Strait had managed to make it to fifty, there was at least a chance I could do the same, even if it was in the wrong world.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The ramifications of Guillermo’s theorizing didn’t slip my mind so easily. All the way back up to Hollywood, I was unable to shake my fantasy of Annabelle being handed that folded flag. Once I was on Hollywood Boulevard, though, I had to push those thoughts into the basement and leave them there, the same way I’d compartmentalized all manner of unpleasant things during the war. If I hadn’t, I never would’ve made it to the other side, and although I didn’t think I was up against such serious stakes now, the old habit of stuffing away the unpleasantness in order to focus on what was right in front of me kicked in as soon as I parked my car and headed to the first club on my list.

  It was called the Blue Flamingo, and it was tiny, much smaller than the Rose Room. Stepping through the door and into the dark interior, I figured the place was no bigger than my office. Cheap chairs and tiny tables littered most of the space, and there was a raised stage at the far end with two doors on either side. One likely led to the performers’ dressing rooms and the other to the manager’s office and liquor supply. A place like this, with no actual bar, probably served nothing in the way of variety—just slugs of rotgut to the patrons. The only variety was probably in terms of how many shots a person could stomach and still walk out of the place.

  Only a few seconds passed before I discovered which door led to the manager’s office, as a burly man with slicked back hair, a craggy face and a cigarette between his lips came out. He sized me up quickly and said, “Show don’t start ‘til four but we’re serving drinks now if that’s what you came for.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I was actually hoping you could help me find someone.”

  His face went from mild annoyance at my disruption of his routine to a serious scowl. “You a cop or something?” he asked.

  “Private investigator,” I said and flashed him my license. He did not look impressed. “I’m looking for a guy who’s gone missing
. His wife says he has a taste for…establishments like this one.” I held out Frank’s photo before the burly man could accept or reject my request for information. “Have you seen him around here?”

  He did not look at the picture right away. “Customers come in here, it’s their business, pal. If I helped every lonely wife who was cheesed off at her hubby for coming in and getting an eyeful, I’d never have a minute’s peace.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But…the thing is, this guy’s wife is sick. She needs to find him before…well. She’s pretty bad off.”

  My quarry drew on his cigarette, blew smoke toward the ceiling, and then shook his head. I don’t think he believed me, but he must have figured I wasn’t going to go away without getting what I’d come for. He leaned close to get a better look at the picture.

  “Ain’t seen him,” he said.

  “You’re sure?”

  He gave me an irritated look, and I saw that he had balled his right hand into a fist. “I said I ain’t seen him. You want me to say it again?”

  “Nope. That’s fine.” I put the picture away and pulled out a business card instead. “You see him, though, you call me. There’s a payout if it actually turns out to be him.”

  “How much?”

  “That depends on the wife,” I said. “And it also depends on who’s the first person to call in with information.”

  He nodded and took the card. I didn’t know what I was going to do if my tactic started yielding leads that were going to cost me, but I figured I’d come up with something, somehow.

  The next three clubs went about the same way. Some were bigger, none were smaller. Some were dingier and more dangerous. Some looked like they aspired to respectability and artistry rather than being cheap and tawdry life support systems for liquor licenses. But none seemed to have attracted Frank Attentater.

  Telling myself not to be discouraged, that there were lots of adult entertainment venues and only so many nights to visit them, I pressed on, feeling in my gut that the man who had killed Mercy and Klaus had shown his face in more places in Hollywood than the Rose Room.

  When I went into the Speckled Hen, I had a feeling that things were going to be different. The place looked like the Rose Room—wide open and kind of classy with a full bar at one end and a stage with an actual curtain at the other. But I knew for certain that things were different when the manager came out. She was as tall as me and had a smoker’s voice, broad at the shoulders and narrow at the hips. Her make-up was a bit garish, and though it hid the stubble on her cheeks it could do nothing for her Adam’s apple.

  “Can I help you?” she asked with a smile.

  “I hope so. I’m a private detective, looking for this fella?” I showed her the picture.

  “Did he do something wrong?”

  “He’s just gone missing is all. His wife’s awfully eager to get in touch with him. She said he came to places like this a lot.”

  “Hmmm,” she said, running her eyes over the photo again.

  Then she nodded.

  “Saturday night, I think.”

  “This past Saturday?” I asked.

  “Yes.” She studied the photo some more and then nodded again. “Yes. Yes, I’m sure of it. He’s a good tipper.”

  “I see,” I said. “Forgive me for asking, but are you the manager here, or do you perform?”

  “I do it all, sweetie,” she said with a bit of a lascivious smile.

  Trying not to act taken aback, I said, “So you…performed for him.”

  “And everyone else. We don’t do private shows here. It’s not that kind of a place.”

  “I wasn’t trying to imply anything,” I said. “Was he alone or with someone else?”

  “Like a woman?”

  “Like with anyone.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. No. No, he was alone.”

  “Ever seen him before that?”

  “No, but I don’t work every night.”

  “All right. And do you know what time Saturday?”

  “Mmmm. Around ten, I’d say. When things really get swinging in here.”

  “And he stayed for…?”

  “I don’t know. An hour maybe. Long enough for a few drinks and a few acts. Then he was gone. Most of the boys who come in here can only take so much, you know?”

  I smiled at this.

  “You should come back later. We put on a good show.”

  “I’m sure you do,” I said. Then I handed her my business card and gave her the same spiel about a bounty on the man if it led to my finding him. After that, I thanked her and went outside where I stopped to lean against a wall and take a few notes.

  I hit a payphone next and got hold of Peggy, who was back at the office after going to Paragon Pictures. As I had guessed, Peale had given her the runaround, promising to pay up in a few days and making no bones about the fact that he was disappointed in the service I’d provided. “It was odd, though,” she said. “He sounded upset, but he had a hard time keeping a smile off his face.”

  “Any idea why?” I asked.

  “Nothing concrete. But he did look like he was in the middle of packing a few things in his office.”

  That was interesting, but my head was so full of the search for Frank Attentater that I decided to file it away for later. I told Peggy that I’d head over to see Peale in the next couple of days and would get the payment worked out with him. When I asked if she’d heard from Carmelita, Peggy answered in the negative, so I told her I’d check in again before she left for the day.

  Now I had some thinking to do. It was already close to three o’clock. The burlesque houses and peep shows would start doing more brisk business once the sun dropped beyond the horizon in a couple of hours, which would make things a bit trickier for me. Bartenders and managers wouldn’t want to be seen talking to someone who was so obviously on the hunt for information, waving a photo around and all. That kind of cooperation might make some patrons nervous.

  So, instead of hitting the rest of the establishments on my list in the order I’d written them down—and risk getting very little return on the investment of my time—I figured I could work the list a bit smarter. Frank Attentater had been to the Rose Room. This I knew. And the Rose Room provided entertainment by women who were more pudgy than statuesque. He had also been to the Speckled Hen, a venue whose performers were not women in the traditional sense. The combination of these two led me to believe that Frank was interested in adult entertainment that was a little to the left or right of center. No pin-up girls for Frank. He liked things to be a bit different.

  Turning back to my list, I pinpointed three more clubs that I was pretty sure catered to more specialized tastes. The closest one to the Speckled Hen was called Let There Be Darkness. I rolled my eyes at the thought but got in my car and headed there regardless.

  I had been by the place earlier in the day when I’d made my list. Then, the black doors had been closed. When I parked a few spaces away now, the doors were open. Taking a deep breath, I walked inside.

  Not surprisingly, darkness was the main motif. The walls were painted black, as were all the tables and chairs. Bulbs burned dimly in wall sconces around the room. Somewhere, a phonograph played a scratchy recording of “Mama Got the Blues No More” by Slim Catbone; the song played over two large speakers mounted above the small stage. Behind the bar, a bald man with intimidatingly large arms rubbed a rag over the bar top.

  Rather than ask what I wanted, the bartender simply looked at me.

  Instead of playing coy with him, I returned his gaze and then dropped the photo of Frank Attentater onto the bar.

  The bartender looked at it for a moment, then looked back at me, and finally looked back at his rag.

  “Seen this guy?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “If I was to ask you to pour me a shot of whisky, would you have seen him then?”

  Again, his eyes shifted to me, to the picture, and back to me once more. He shru
gged. “You a cop?”

  “Private investigator. I work for a lawyer. He’s got a client accused of roughing up some working girls. The client says this is the real bad guy, though. I’d hate to see the wrong guy go down for something like this. What do you think?”

  “Nobody gets rough with our girls,” he said, and I saw his muscles flex under his shirt.

  “That’s…obvious,” I said. “Still, he might’ve come in here. He likes places like this, or so I’m told.”

  The bartender nodded. “I ain’t seen him. But I’m not here every night. Let me ask Sherise.”

  “And she would be…?”

  “The owner. Hang on a sec.”

  He left me there for less than a minute, disappearing behind the bar. When he came back, he said nothing, just gave me a nod before disappearing through a darkened doorway again. I figured that was about as much of a summons as I was going to get, so I grabbed up my photo and followed.

  The bartender led me down a narrow hallway, past one open door that looked like an empty dressing room and to the door at the end. Like everything else in the hallway, the door looked like it hadn’t been painted in decades. In the middle of it was a simple sign that read “Office” in gold letters. The bartender knocked twice, and I heard a woman on the other side of the door say, “Come.”

  “This is the guy,” the bartender said as he swung the door inward and stepped aside to let me into a tiny, cluttered office. I stepped in, and he closed the door, leaving me in the little space with a woman who sat not at the battered desk but rather at a small vanity on the other side of the room, her back to the door.

  I surmised immediately that Sherise was not just the owner. She wore a lacy black outfit that covered the lower half of her back, and her dark hair was half-hidden by a black veil. The bare portion of her back and her shoulders was decorated with tattoos—on one side the grim reaper pointed a bony finger toward her spine, and on the other a pin-up girl dressed in black pointed her shapely finger back at him. It looked like they were getting ready to dance. Not wanting to stare, I focused on the face in the mirror instead. It was an attractive one with wide eyes and high cheekbones; she looked a bit young to be the owner of the place—probably late twenties—but I figured that just meant she was savvy and probably tough, or at least knew how to make others believe she was. As if to support my theory, she was in the middle of applying make-up to her cheeks, white powder covering her farmgirl freckles.