Tales of the Continuing Time and Other Stories

by Moran, Daniel Keys

  Sam shrugged, smiling. “I’m an old-fashioned guy.”

  Sam could see Mrs. Jones discard it as unimportant. “Have you spoken to Richard?”

  “No, ma’am. Neither has Jaclyn. She waited for him to die and when he didn’t, she called in. Protocol.”

  “Protocol is good for the young,” Mrs. Jones agreed. “It gives them guidance when they might otherwise be confused. Who is the second person in your car?”

  “A prostitute I sometimes hire. She heard Mohammed’s Radio.”

  That got an eyebrow. “And here she is being dragged through our ... messy business ... as you follow protocol.”

  “I’d be happy to drop her off with you, Mrs. Jones. Someone needs to look after her ’til she’s trained.”

  “Or fails,” Mrs. Jones suggested.

  “She’s gifted.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Jones dryly, “I don’t doubt that. I’ve always admired your taste in filth, Samuel.” Her eyes went vague for a moment. “She costs” – her eyes snapped back into focus – “two thousand a night? And you tip her five hundred that she doesn’t tell her pimp about. I would hope she’s gifted.”

  Brett stared at Sam. “Twenty-five hundred?”

  Sam shrugged.

  Brett said blankly, “Nobody’s worth twenty-five hundred.”

  “I think I’ll pass on training her,” Mrs. Jones continued, as if Brett had not interrupted her. “She seems much more your type of person ... overall.”

  “Interesting to see Brett and Terry. Here to help, are they?”

  “I haven’t decided.” Sam suspected she was telling the truth about that. “Perhaps you can explain the sword?”

  Sam used the sword to point. “I used it to kill the sniper you left over there.”

  She looked startled. “You killed Mikhail?”

  Sam grinned. “Another Russian? You’re as predictable as the sunrise.”

  Brett grinned too. “Let’s kill him now, Mrs. Jones.”

  Terry said, “The gun in his pocket is a snub-nosed revolver. They’re blue bullets but there’s only five rounds.”

  Sam was still amused. “There’s only three of you: one bullet each for you boys ... and three for you, Melinda.”

  Mrs. Jones said, “That’s ‘Mrs. Jones.’” To the Brothers she said, “Check on Mikhail.”

  “No.” Sam and Mrs. Jones stared at each other. “You can take my word for this,” Sam continued. “He’s dead and you three are gonna stay here, and I’m gonna go talk to Richard and find out what happened.”

  Mrs. Jones said softly, “You’d disobey my orders?”

  Sam considered it. “You haven’t given me any ... and the Code doesn’t require that we obey orders.”

  “Protocol does.”

  “Protocol is good for the young,” Sam agreed.

  Mrs. Jones took a step toward Sam – and paused as Brett and Terry stirred behind her. She seemed more curious than angry: “Did you really kill my man?”

  “I did,” said Sam, staring at her. “I want to ... discourage ... people pointing guns at Jake.”

  The blue glow that appeared on the hands of the Wickersham Brothers, at that point, would not have surprised another member of the ancient Order of Navigators – but the white glow that appeared around the edges of Sam’s eyepatch would have surprised all of them, and badly frightened the very few who knew what it was. Mrs. Jones might have been one of those few.

  She took a sharp step forward, gesturing irritably at the Brothers. “Samuel ... please investigate Richard’s unusual failure to die. A resolution and report by tomorrow morning will be acceptable.”

  Sam nodded, backing up and away from the three of them. “I’ll be in touch.” He reached the edge of the small clearing, turned and ran.

  The Wickersham Brothers ran as well – not after Sam, but toward the spot they’d left the sniper. They found him, chest drenched in blood where Sam had run him through. Brett grabbed the bloody rifle lying beside him, took two steps to the treeline and lifted the rifle –

  Through the scope Brett watched Sam drive away.

  He sighed, and lowered the rifle.

  His brother said, “Took the clip?”

  “Yeah.”

  BY THE TIME Sam hit Winnetka Avenue he had the old Bel Air up to speed. He crossed Ventura Boulevard and swung onto the 101 North, accelerating. At 90 miles an hour with the top down the wind made him hard to hear.

  “I’m gonna be late,” Sam yelled. “Damn it, I hate being late!”

  Isabel raised her voice. “Late for what?”

  “I play basketball on Saturday mornings with my riend Smitty.”

  In the rear-view mirror Sam could see Isabel staring at him. “We’re not being chased?”

  “No!”

  “We’re doing ninety miles an hour ... because you’re late for basketball?”

  “It’s what normal guys do on Saturday mornings, they play basketball.” Sam shook his head. “I’m gonna be late again!”

  SMITTY WAS ALREADY shooting hoops at the Woodland Hills Recreational Center when they arrived. The park is large – a baseball diamond, a soccer field, an indoor basketball court, an outdoor basketball court, and a playground for small children where I used to play when I was little.

  My father’s spent much of his life on that outdoor court; watching him play there is one of my strongest memories.

  Mostly he played with Smitty. Smitty’s real name is William Jones, not Smith. He’s Mrs. Jones’ father, and he’s maybe fifteen years older than my father. I don’t know where he got the nickname Smitty.

  Smitty was an amazing shot, even without cheating. He hit eight or nine shots in a row while Sam walked over to the court, Two Knives and Isabel trailing slightly behind him. After making his last shot he waited while the ball rolled back to him, let it bounce off his foot and up into his hand, and sauntered off the court to greet Sam and the women.

  (A dark-haired girl a little older than Jake Two Knives sat on a bench at the edge of the baseball diamond. She wore headphones and appeared to be reading, but really she was watching the four of them – though not even Sam, who was usually sensitive to such things, realized it. Her name was Robyn Devlin, and Two Knives didn’t get to know her until much later – )

  “Hey, Sam,” Smitty said. “Sorry for your loss.”

  “He didn’t die.”

  Smitty didn’t blink at the news. “Hello, Jaclyn.”

  Two Knives nodded. “Hi, Smitty.”

  Smitty turned to Isabel. “And you are –” He glanced expectantly at Sam.

  “Isabel,” Isabel said. “I’m a ... friend of Sam’s.”

  Smitty smiled at her and shook her hand. “Pleasure. Would you ladies excuse us while we get some exercise?”

  TWO KNIVES AND ISABEL lay side by side on the grass in the warm sunlight. Two Knives had her eyes closed, tired after her long night – she could hear Smitty and Sam swearing at each other and at the basketball, accusing one another of cheating and occasionally, grudgingly, complimenting the other’s shot.

  “It’s just a job,” she said in response to a question, a while later. Two Knives wasn’t sure Isabel believed her, and didn’t really care; she was cranky as well as tired and was only there to make sure Isabel didn’t run. “We make sure that what’s supposed to happen ... does. And sometimes we get to help people, which is nice.”

  “Sam’s your dad?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t look much like him.”

  “They say
I look like my mom. I don’t remember her, but she was a Navigator too. The gift runs in families.”

  “You’re mad at him because he’s sleeping with me?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “You are too young for him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you get involved with him?”

  Two Knives thought Isabel wasn’t going to answer the question, right before she found herself wishing Isabel hadn’t.

  “My pimp Nico sent me over one night about six months ago.”

  Two Knives sat up on the freshly mowed green grass, pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs.

  She stared into the distance.

  “An unexpected meteor could crash down out of the sky and wipe out Los Angeles. That hasn’t happened yet.”

  “What?”

  “Things can always get worse.”

  “YOUR DAUGHTER SICCED the Wickersham Brothers on us.”

  “She try and kill you?”

  “Pointed a sniper at Jake. I had to kill him.”

  “One of us?”

  “One of those Russians she likes.”

  “That’s something. If you’d killed one of her protégés that would have been hard to smooth over.”

  “Can you talk to her? One father to another, I can’t have Melinda gunning for Jake.” Sam dribbled the ball around the three point line. Smitty watched him from a few steps away, waiting for Sam to pick up his dribble and square up for a shot the way he always did; Sam was an okay basketball player, but he couldn’t really shoot on the move.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Smitty said, watching Sam’s feet, “but you have to handle this thing with Richard. If this goes on, my daughter will be the least of your worries.”

  “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition,” Sam agreed, “except me!”

  He took a step back and launched a shot from nearly thirty feet as Smitty lunged to get a hand in his face. From thirty feet away, the shot touched nothing but net.

  Smitty stood and stared at him. “You navigate that shot?”

  “Pure talent, Smitty.”

  The ball had rolled to within a few inches of where Smitty stood. He used his foot to roll the ball over to the spot Sam had shot from. “Do it again.”

  Sam picked the ball up, took another step back, and from thirty-two feet hit nothing but net.

  Smitty shook his head in disgust. “You’re a cheater, Sam.”

  “IS YOUR STEPFATHER still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “How come you never left your pimp?”

  Again, Two Knives thought Isabel wasn’t going to answer. Finally, in a flat, affectless voice, she did. “Nico’d kill me. He killed another girl who worked for him. He got six years for it. Was out in three. Jail doesn’t scare him. When Nico says he’ll kill me, he means it.”

  Two Knives found herself genuinely curious. “Why not kill him first?”

  “I’m not a killer.”

  “You’re going to need to get past that. Want me to kill your stepdad for you?”

  Isabel propped herself up on one elbow. “Is that a joke?”

  “No,” Two Knives said promptly. “Might not be possible,” she warned. “There are ... constraints. Do you want your stepfather dead?”

  Isabel hesitated. “I – yes – I mean, I’ve dreamed about that son of a bitch being dead. Him and –”

  “Want me to kill your pimp for you?”

  “How many people have you killed?”

  Two Knives didn’t answer her, exactly. “You can solve a lot of problems,” she observed, “killing the right person.”

  SAM AND SMITTY walked toward Two Knives and Isabel.

  “She have family?” Smitty wanted to know.

  “A mother, four sisters, and a daughter, all up in San Jose.”

  “I’ll ride up today and take a look at them.”

  Smitty’s job was the mirror image of Sam’s: Smitty brought Navigators into the Order, and Sam made sure they left on time.

  Recruitment was safer than Sam’s job. Baby Navigators didn’t know enough to run: most of them didn’t even realize they were anything but unusually lucky at games of chance, and some of them didn’t even know that.

  Sam looked at him curiously. “You ever feel bad about pulling people into this?”

  Smitty appraised Sam a moment, in what might have been honest surprise. “Son, anyone ever give you a choice about this job?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither.”

  Isabel looked up at them as they approached, squinting against the sun. “Who won?”

  Sam said, “Smitty.”

  “I mostly win,” Smitty said smugly.

  “Cuz he cheats,” Sam said irritably. “I guess we better go challenge Richard before he gets us all killed. Let me go change.”

  SAM PARKED ACROSS the street from the Starbucks at Ventura and Topanga Canyon Boulevard, in the Chase Bank’s parking lot. The bank’s clock said 2:12 – they were still open. Customers coming and going stopped to look at the old car, the eyepatch-wearing man driving it, and the two attractive women in the car with him.

  Isabel made eye contact with one likely looking young guy – big enough to slow down Sam, maybe tough enough. He smiled at her on his way into the bank – Isabel kept her mouth shut, not sure why she wasn’t asking the guy for help, finding herself remembering how the people in the cafe had acted.

  After ten minutes Two Knives said, “He doesn’t come here this late.”

  “Yeah,” Sam agreed. “I think we’ve missed him. Jake, what time did you leave his house this morning?”

  “Just after dawn.”

  “Okay. Let’s make it 7:15. Go.”

  Two Knives turned to look him in the eye. “The whole car?” she demanded. Sam nodded. “I can’t do the whole goddamn car.”

  “Sure you can,” Sam said simply.

  Two Knives glared at him – and then swiftly shut her eyes, and bent her head –

  For a moment Isabel felt as though she was going to vomit. Red dots danced in front of her eyes – it passed, and nothing had changed. They were in the same parking lot, in the same car –

  The light had changed. The sky had darkened, shading toward gray and it was cooler and the sun was low enough in the sky to cast the shadow of the tree beside them over the car.

  For the first time, Jake Two Knives sounded like a teenager to Isabel. “I’m tired. You know I was up all damn night.”

  “Hey!” It was Sam. Isabel jerked up from where she’d bent over in the back seat. “Don’t throw up in my car,” he warned her.

  “I’m not going to throw up.” Isabel swallowed, looking out at the morning. “I don’t think I’m going to throw up.”

  “Good girl. Hang in there.”

  “We –”

  Sam grinned at her. “Traveled in time. Yep. Check out that convenient bank clock, eh?” To Two Knives he said, “‘I’m tired’ is an okay answer. ‘I can’t do it,’ not so much. When you can lie to me without my knowing you’ll have a useful skill. I object to your lying to yourself, though.”

  Two Knives pointed. “How’s that for timing?”

  Across Topanga Canyon, Richard Goodnight had pulled up in a Cadillac that wasn’t quite as old as he was. Two Knives knew he was seventy-one, but he had the bearing of a man decades younger. Alone, he managed to walk into the Starbucks as though he were MacArthur returning to the Philippines.

  �
�He’s not running,” Two Knives said.

  “Who ever really thought he was gonna?” Sam replied. To Isabel he added, “This is how you can tell Richard’s not dead, he’s out getting coffee.”

  Isabel said slowly, “You’re staking him out ... in a yellow convertible.”

  Sam said, “It’s ‘Forum Gold.’”

  “It’s yellow.”

  Two Knives explained. “‘Forum Blue’ is what Chick Hearn used to have to say instead of purple when he called Lakers games. Because Jack Kent Cooke, the owner of the Lakers, thought ‘purple’ sounded gay.”

  “He knows he’s being watched,” Sam said. “He’s just waiting for me to come.”

  “The Inquisition hasn’t taken him.”

  “He’d be hard to take,” Sam said.

  “We let him go home?”

  “Protocol. We don’t fight in public.”

  Sam didn’t sound scared, which worried Two Knives. “You sure you have to fight?”

  Sam didn’t answer her. “Let’s go hit him this morning, right after you left.”

  “That’ll change this day.”

  “Richard’s already changed this day once,” Sam pointed out. “Let’s get this over with.” Sam glanced at Isabel. “You’re gonna have to stay with us. I’m sorry.”

  Isabel stared at him. “Your car is yellow, Sam.”

  Samuel Goodnight pulled the car onto the street, and it vanished as it turned the corner. As was normally the case, no one noticed them go –

  – almost no one. Sitting at a table outside the Starbucks, Robyn Devlin had watched the yellow convertible appear and watched it disappear, and almost uniquely, remembered them perfectly even after they were gone.

  JUST BEFORE DAWN, they parked down the block from Richard’s two-story, six bedroom West Hills home. Less than ten minutes later, Jake Two Knives drove by them in a green Honda. She glanced at them, looked startled and slowed down a moment – and then accelerated past them.

  “You remember seeing us?” Sam asked.

  “I do now,” Two Knives said grimly. “I wondered who the pretty Latina girl was. I thought I knew all the Latina Navigators in Los Angeles.”