Throwback, p.17
Throwback, page 17
Still, she was cool, and he’d never met anyone like her. And for the teeniest fraction of a second, he thought it might not be the worst thing in the world.
HO-O-O-O-ONNNNK! HO-O-O-O-ONNNNK!
“You guys having a tea party over there?” Mugsy shouted. “We’re late on the pickup!”
Corey grabbed Paisley’s reins and looked at Quinn. “I need to go home,” he said.
“This doesn’t sound like a foolproof plan,” Quinn remarked.
“Then I’ll keep digging until I get one,” Corey said.
Quinn sighed. “All right. But you’ll miss me.”
“Maybe I’ll come back.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Quinn said. “But if you do, bring back some food.”
“Woo-hoo,” Corey said.
“Yee-hah.” Corey stepped into the stirrup and mounted his horse. “See you at the lot near Grumney’s at eleven o’clock, Mr. Schein!” he called out. “With Ratboy.”
32
Leila used a tissue to scrub the mouthpiece of the clunky old telephone handset. It was gross looking—a round plastic thingy with a matrix of little holes that looked like they’d trapped germs, disease, and bad breath from thousands of New Yorkers since the beginning of time.
She could not fathom how people willingly used phone booths on the street to make calls. It wasn’t as if they really needed to in 2001. Up and down Columbus Avenue near Ninety-Third, she could see a lot of people talking into cell phones. Yet just a few moments earlier, some old guy had grabbed the handset of the pay phone next to hers and grumbled, “You can’t find a gosh darn phone booth anywhere these days!” Only he didn’t actually say gosh darn.
But Leila wasn’t picking up a signal on her own cell. Obviously iPhones weren’t compatible with time travel. So it came to this. A phone booth.
Cradling the boat-shaped handset between her ear and shoulder, she read a sticker that had been smacked onto the huge box that contained the phone’s buttons: For Information Dial 411.
She punched the number and waited. A mechanical voice prompt asked for a name. With an impatient sigh, Leila said, “Maria Fletcher.”
“Marie O’Fincher,” the voice responded. “If this is correct, press one. To try again, press two.”
Leila pressed two. “MARIA . . .” She waited a moment. “FLETCH-ER.”
“I am having trouble recognizing the name.”
“Because you’re a machine,” Leila yelled. “May I have a real person, please!”
“Ariel Persson. If this is correct . . .”
“Aaaaagh!”
“I am having trouble recognizing the name.”
About seven very frustrating minutes later, Leila had a phone number. She checked her watch. 10:31 p.m. Not too ridiculously late. Maria F. might be awake.
And if Leila could talk to her, maybe she could prevent her death.
This is crazy! a voice shouted in her head. The odds of Leila being a Throwback were teeny. Like, lottery odds. Maybe worse. Papou had failed to save Maria. Corey had failed to save her—and he was a Throwback.
Still.
She stared at the mouthpiece and took a deep breath. You never knew. Even if she could do nothing, she had nothing to lose.
Leila inserted two quarters into the phone and tapped out the number. After four rings, a male voice answered, “Hello?”
Leila choked back a gasp. She recognized the voice. It was a little more energetic, a little higher-pitched than she knew—younger, but unmistakably him. “Papou?” she said.
“Hello?” the voice repeated. “Who is it you’re looking for?”
Leila cringed. Of course he didn’t respond to the name Papou. He wasn’t a grandfather yet.
But before she could reply, he blurted out, “Maria? Maria, is that you? Please, honey, talk to me. I miss you!”
“No, it’s not. It’s . . .” Leila’s brain was spinning. “It’s a friend. Of Maria’s. From college. Lily.”
Lily? Leila almost hung up the phone right then, embarrassed by her own lameness.
“Oh, hi, Lily. She’s not here. I’m her husband. We’ve . . . separated, I guess you’d call it. Temporarily.”
Leila’s jaw dropped. He’d actually fallen for it. “I’m so sorry! Um . . . are you still in touch? Is there a number where she can be reached?”
“I don’t have the number at present. You know . . . we’re working things out. You could leave a message at her work number. She’ll get it first thing in the morning. Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Yes!” Leila lied.
As he gave her a number, Leila fumbled to pull a pen from her pants pocket. She scribbled the number on her arm while cradling the receiver between her ear and shoulder. “Thanks and, by the way,” she said, “if you do talk to her, please tell her not to go to work tomorrow. I know it sounds nuts. But you have to believe me. I’m . . . like you. I can hop.”
“Hop?”
“In time!” Leila said. “You know, like the Knickerbockers?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Leila cringed. He didn’t know. In 2001, he must not have started time traveling yet.
“So she’s not to go to work,” Papou continued. “And that would be because . . . ?”
“Because—because . . . ,” Leila stammered. Because a plane is going to fly into her building? Anything she said would make her seem like a lunatic or a stalker. Still, she couldn’t say nothing. “Because there is a report of a possible terrorist attack.”
“Well, they tried that in ninety-three,” Papou said wearily, “and they didn’t get too far. Anyway, if you reach her first, please call me back and let me know.”
“Will do.”
She hung up, quickly inserted the coins into the pay phone, and tried the work number. She thought hard about what kind of message she would leave. The phone rang once . . . twice . . . three times.
Okay. Okay. Slow down, she told herself. It was silly to do this before planning out exactly what to say. As she pulled the phone away from her ear to hang up, she heard a voice that made her blood run cold.
“Karelian Group, Maria speaking.”
33
Leila had taken first place in the Frederick Ruggles Middle School Improv Contest two years in a row, and she had captained the school debate team. She was known for thinking fast on her feet. But all she could manage over the phone was “Uh . . . you’re at work?”
“Yes,” said the voice of Corey’s dead grandmother. She didn’t sound at all like Leila expected. Not ghostly or saintly, not musical or magical. Just preoccupied and a little annoyed. “This is the Karelian Group, import-export. Who are you calling?”
“You!” Leila blurted. Her brain scrambled for some convincing excuse that would keep Maria F. on the phone. If Leila could do that, she might be able to set up a meeting. “We are . . . Nighttime Munchies! A . . . new food-delivery service for the World Trade Center area! Yeah. We specialize in fast, reliable delivery to hardworking New Yorkers at friendly prices.”
Lame. Lame-o. World Series of Lameness.
She waited for an angry click at the other end. But instead she heard a muffled mumbling of voices, as if Corey’s grandmother had placed her hand over the phone.
“Do you have pizza with pepperoni?” Maria finally asked.
“Sure!” Leila piped up. “I mean, we’re a service, so we order from a number of restaurants and shops and bring the food to you! Just let us know if you have a favorite, and leave the rest to us!”
“Oh, okay. So . . . let’s get this from Sal’s on Church Street,” Maria continued. “One large pepperoni; a pastrami sandwich on rye toast, extra mustard, no mayo; one turkey club, hold the bacon; one cheeseburger medium rare with fries; two Diet Cokes; three coffees; two bottles of seltzer; a brownie; two chocolate-chip cookies. Let me know if you need me to repeat it.”
Leila was scribbling wildly all over the back of her arm: pizz pepp l—past rye xtr must no may—1 tclub no bac—1 cb med r + ff—2 DCs 3 cof 2 seltz—browny—2 chc chp cook. “I got it all.”
“Do you need my credit card info?” Maria asked.
“Yes!” Leila squeaked. She hadn’t even thought of that. Her own cash would be too new, and her mom’s credit card wouldn’t work in the past. After taking down the info, she looked at her watch. She could call in the order from here, then twenty minutes for the cab ride downtown, another ten for the pickup and delivery . . . “That’ll be half an hour to forty-five?”
“Half an hour would be better.”
“On my way!”
Leila hung up the phone and shouted, “Yyyyyes!”
She darted to the curb, holding out her hand for a cab. She could google Sal’s on the ride down and . . .
As a taxi screeched to a halt beside her, she realized the flaw in her logic. No cell reception. She didn’t even know if Google existed. “Uh . . . never mind,” she said to the driver. “Sorry.”
She would need to get Sal’s phone number first. The old-fashioned way. Running back to the pay phone, she lifted the receiver and tapped out 411 again. “The number for Sal’s on Church Street?”
“Hello. You asked for Selsun Church. Is this correct?”
Leila hated 2001.
Getting through security at One World Trade Center was easy. The guy at the lobby desk took one look at her with the pizza box and all the bags from Sal’s and waved her through. “Where you headed, miss? I’ll let them know.”
“Karelian?” Leila said.
“That’ll be the ninety-fifth floor, last bank of elevators. You have a good night.”
“Thanks! Hope you get to leave work and go home! Like, before tomorrow morning!”
The man smiled and bowed slightly. “Yes, I do. At midnight.”
Leila felt a wash of relief. At least this guy would be alive and sleeping the next morning. His family would not be torn apart forever. He was lucky. But what about these other people?
All around, everyone else seemed placid, bored, content. A group of three bros exiting the elevator burst out laughing at some joke. Near the glass doors a couple stared dreamily into each other’s eyes. A custodian pushed a broom, dancing to some music only she was hearing. How many of them would be here tomorrow morning? How was it fair that these people didn’t know what was about to happen? How was it fair that she could know and they couldn’t? Leila felt like everyone here was in some horrible recurring nightmare, a tragic Groundhog Day where you wake up over and over again on the day you die. Only she was the one who got to escape the dream.
Focus, she told herself. She had to focus.
As Leila headed across the polished floor, she could barely feel her feet touching the ground. She gulped panic-shortened breaths as she stepped into the elevator. Pressing 95, she closed her eyes and could not stop imagining herself rising through floors of black smoke, offices of dust.
At the ninety-fifth floor, the door slid open into a hallway facing a glass door. Beyond it was a vast office with sweeping views of the city and the two rivers. The carpet smelled new. Expensive-looking art had been carefully placed on the walls. As she approached a wall with a button marked After-Hour Deliveries, Press Here, Leila shook. Before she could touch it, a smiling young woman pushed open the door and said, “Yay! Food! Hey, I’m Sarah. Come in, I’ll show you to the conference room.”
“Thanks.” As Leila followed Sarah through the door and down another hallway, she felt herself starting to cry. Sarah wasn’t much older than she was.
“Just leave it here and I’ll get Maria. . . .” As Sarah opened the door to a big, empty room with a shiny oak desk, she turned to face Leila and her voice trailed off. “Hey, is everything all right?”
“Just . . . stay here when she comes in,” Leila said. “Okay?”
Sarah looked at her uncertainly. “Um . . . okay.”
She went away and returned in a moment with a woman who was tall and lanky like Corey, her hair a glorious mass of dark brown curls gathered in a haphazard ponytail. Her clothes were elegant and professional looking, and when she smiled Leila could see Corey behind her eyes. “Thanks very much,” Maria said, reaching into a purse. “Let me give you a little something.”
“I don’t want a tip,” Leila said, sitting. “I’m Leila. All I ask is a few minutes of your time. Sit?”
The two women exchanged a glance. Maria sat but Sarah remained standing by the door. “What is this all about?” Maria asked politely.
Leila took a deep breath and said, “I admit this is going to sound absolutely wack, but I know your grandson.”
Maria laughed. “I don’t have a grandson.”
“I know. I know. You don’t now,” Leila said. “But your son and his wife will have a boy, and that boy will be named Corey. Corey Fletcher. They will live on West Ninety-Fifth Street.”
“Oh?” Maria’s eyes were darting toward the door.
“And I really, really want you to meet him someday.”
“Well, I imagine I will,” Maria said.
Leila shook her head. “He doesn’t know you. He has never met you. If you listen to what I’m about to say, then he will. But I need your trust. You, too, Sarah. Because what I’m about to say will save your lives.”
“I do trust you, Leila,” Maria said, leaning forward on the table.
“You do?”
Maria nodded. “You seem like a sweet girl. Just tell me, how much did my husband pay you?”
Leila cocked her head. “Pay? Wait, you think Papou—I mean, you think your husband paid me to—”
“Get me to come back to him, yes. He’s tried singing telegrams, flowers, and chocolates. He’s been pestering our own children, and now they don’t want to talk to either of us. He paid a mutual friend to fly all the way here from Oregon and talk me into returning to him. And now . . . soothsaying! Grandchildren!” She shook her head and gave a sad laugh. “I’m so sorry he’s putting you through this.”
“He’s not putting me through anything!” Leila protested. “Look, there’s this group of very special people. Here in New York they’re called the Knickerbockers. Your husband will discover them after you—”
“After I what?”
“Die,” Leila said.
Maria’s tight smile vanished. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. I know it sounds horrible. It is horrible. But let me explain. There are people who can travel in time. Your husband is one of them, and so am I. I can show you my school ID and my money, all dated from the future.”
“I must ask you to go now.” Maria stood. She pushed the food back to Leila. “And you can take this. I changed my mind about the order.”
Leila sprang up from her seat. “You don’t understand! You’re going to die!”
Sarah was opening the glass door now. The security guard from downstairs lumbered through with another, bigger guard. They both looked baffled. “Did this girl threaten you, ma’am?”
“No,” Maria said. “She just fooled me.”
“Wait, what?” Leila said. “No! Please—”
“That’s my fatal flaw, too,” the guard said to Corey’s grandmother with a sheepish smile. “I always trust a girl with pizza.”
34
At 10:45 p.m. on Bank Street in 1917, there were more rats than people. Most of the gas lamps were shattered. The only two working ones cast small, pallid pools of light onto the cobblestones. At the end of the block, on Washington, an open door cast a third splotch of light. Raucous honky-tonk piano music and laughter blasted from within. “I’m guessing that’s Grumney’s,” Corey whispered.
“Yup,” Quinn whispered back.
“Do you see Oscar?” Corey continued whispering.
“No,” Quinn said. “Do you?”
“No.”
“So why are we whispering?”
“I don’t know.”
Quinn began walking in rhythm to the music, the clop of her cowboy boots echoing against the cobblestones. “Okay, let’s repeat the plan,” she said.
“Why?” Corey asked.
“Because I’m nervous,” Quinn said. “And when I’m nervous, I forget things.”
“Me, too.” Corey took a deep breath. “Okay, so we know that Oscar knows this guy, Batboy.”
“Ratboy.”
“Right. We wait in the lot for Oscar to lure Ratboy in. You and I stick to the shadows. I distract him—”
“And then . . .” Quinn pantomimed whirling the lasso over her head. “We show him that crime does not pay!”
Corey nodded nervously. “Right. You rope him, and I get back all my stuff.”
“Providing he has it,” Quinn reminded him. “Which he might not. In which case, we say excuse me and run.”
As they approached the end of the block, Corey could see an expanse of blackness the width of a brownstone, right next to the bar. “There’s our empty lot,” Quinn said.
It looked like once upon a time a wooden wall had been built across the lot to keep people out, but it was now a few cockeyed splintered panels like a gap-toothed grin. A rusted metal Keep Out sign lay on the ground, but it didn’t seem necessary.
Beyond the wall was sheer blackness.
“We didn’t bring a lantern,” Corey groaned.
“Oops,” Quinn said.
From behind the wall, Corey heard a shhhick sound, and a light flickered in the darkness. “That you, boys?” came a croaky voice.
Corey and Quinn stepped forward. “Oscar?” Corey said.
The light moved forward, through one of the panels. It revealed the face of Oscar Schein, who was holding out a kerosene lamp. Lit from below, his fleshy, friendly face seemed almost sinister, the crags deep and shadowy. “Bless you, boys,” he said. “I been crying all night. With gratitude for my good fortune. From this day on, Oscar Schein turns over a new leaf, you mark my words! I got no use for these lowlifes and sinful honky-tonks no more. Tonight, for you, I deliver Ratboy.”
“Have you seen him?” Corey asked.
“Not yet, but don’t worry.” Oscar looked up and down Bank Street. “For a corrupt, evil butcher of men, he’s usually pretty reliable.”
