Julie—no, Juliet—came in then. She was wearing a sleeveless violet pullover and dark-gray slacks. And the tattoos on her arms and neck were different now. They were all roses, from the top of her throat down to her wrists. Lavender, blue, and black roses, with thin, thorned stems crossing one another.

  She thanked the nurse as he left, then she stood just inside the closing door, looking at me.

  A black rose in the center of her throat turned scarlet, then black again.

  A buzzing sound came from the Midnight Angel, and she produced a phone from I don’t know where. “Mr. Fullerton,” she said, glancing at the screen, “your escort to New York, and from there to London, has arrived. So I’ll take my leave.” She went to the door, opened it, and nodded to Juliet. “Thank you, Ink.” Then she looked back at me. “And God bless you.” The door clicked shut behind her.

  I tried to look at Juliet without staring.

  “That lady is a trip,” I rasped. “Shouldn’t she have left a silver bullet or something?”

  Juliet smiled. “No, it’d be a flaming sword. There’s a whole shtick.” She stepped closer, moving stiffly. “I guess some of those old American movies you watched as a kid must have starred the Lone Ranger. Silver bullets and all that.”

  I couldn’t help smiling back. “Actually, it was an old American televised serial. Clayton Moore and Jay Silverheels. And their horses, Silver and Scout. ABC Television, 1949 to 1957.” My voice was getting stronger. “For a long time, I was obsessed with the idea of being a western hero. Wyatt Earp, or the Lone Ranger, or Tonto. It seemed quite the romantic lifestyle, watching it from that little flat. Riding a horse over the rugged plains, saving the endangered, aiding the imperiled, helping the helpless. All that rubbish.”

  Juliet was beside me now. She touched my cheek and it made me shudder. “Well, now you’ve ridden a mule, at least,” she said.

  “And it was lovely.” My voice started to fail again.

  “Yes,” she said. “We’ll always have Ike and Clementine.”

  I tried to reach for her hand, but I couldn’t seem to raise mine from the bed.

  She stepped farther back. “I wrote you a letter,” she said. “It’s in your backpack, with your clothes in the closet over there.” She gestured across the room and winced. “Everything’s been laundered. It all got so dirty up there on the North Rim.”

  I was worried about her. “You made a face. Are you hurt?”

  “Just a few cracked ribs,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  Then she put a hand over her eyes, and the blue and lavender roses on her wrist crept onto it. Their stems slipped onto her fingers, and the thorns drew tiny drops of blood. “I wrote you a letter,” she repeated. “How quaint is that? But I didn’t have your email address.”

  Juliet lowered her hand, and now her face was covered in lavender, blue, and black roses, too. “I have Michelle’s and Adesina’s, though.”

  I drew in a deep breath, and it hurt.

  “I didn’t write the same things to them that I wrote to you,” she said. “Or the same thing to Adesina that I wrote to Michelle. But they needed to know.”

  I tried to reach for her again, and this time my hand rose. But she was too far away.

  The handle on the door clicked.

  Juliet turned toward it. “It would be worse for you,” she said softly, “if I loved you, too.”

  The door opened and my Big Sis, the Amazing Bubbles, stepped into the room.

  She was wearing her usual black leggings and oversized, loose top. This one was jade green, matching her eyes. Her hair was down, like silver waterfalls on either side of her face. She was heavy enough at the moment that she looked dangerous. She could knock down the entire hospital, if she chose.

  Michelle and Juliet stood there, each looking at the other, saying nothing.

  Big Sis had no expression.

  All I could see of Juliet’s face was her right profile. But the roses there had turned black.

  After a minute or more, Big Sis came farther into the room. Juliet stepped forward and caught the door. “Goodbye, Freddie,” she said.

  As the door closed, I looked at Big Sis. She was watching me, but she still had no expression. And she still said nothing.

  I closed my eyes. That was it, then.

  I had thought the worst moment of my life was behind me. I had thought that when Mum had hit me in the face, and I had shouted my first terrible shout and flung her across the room, nothing could be worse.

  Then, when I had found my sister and my niece, and they had accepted me, I had thought nothing could be better. But then I had met Julie. Juliet. Ink.

  Now Michelle and Adesina would never see me the same way again. They would never see me without seeing me with Auntie Ink, betraying my sister, blindsiding my niece.

  The Amazing Bubbles was here to be my escort. My safe passage. That was all.

  I lay there for the longest time, my eyes clamped shut, my fists clenching the stiff hospital sheets.

  The chair beside my bed creaked.

  A moment, a minute, or an hour later, Michelle spoke. Her voice was so soft I could hardly make out the words:

  “She’s a really good kisser, isn’t she?”

  I couldn’t open my eyes. But I gave a scarce, shallow nod.

  And felt my sister’s hand close over mine.

  2020

  The Long Goodbye

  by Walton Simons

  En Route to Chicago, 2020

  The private jet was a rental. Jerry had more than enough money to own one, but he only occasionally left New York City, so it seemed like a needless frivolity. Normally when he traveled for non-business reasons he wore his Jerry Strauss face, but this time he was William Creighton. It seemed appropriate. The wild card had given him the ability to shapeshift. It was quite useful in his line of work as a detective.

  He slowly swirled the cold drink glass in his right hand, clinking the melting ice gently against the sides. After a deep breath he took another sip—a whiskey sour, not usually his drink, but this was an unusual moment. He moved his finger across the surface of his tablet, hesitating above the Play button of a YouTube video. The title was “Unknown Woman Dancing,” but the woman wasn’t unknown to him. It was Irina. He’d been standing behind the camera when the film was shot. Over a hundred years ago.

  He started the video.

  She moved across the frame from left to right with perfect fluidity, her arms gracefully extending and selling each move her body made. Her legs rushed underneath her and brought her to a moment of taut stillness. Then she smiled, like she knew something special that no one else would ever know. Jerry took a deep breath.

  After the YouTube countdown, another video started. Two men and one woman were seated in chairs, having just watched the film of Irina dancing.

  The taller and older of the two men, his back braced perfectly against his chair, said, “This brief clip is believed to be of one of the stars of the legendary Fortune Films Studio, the lost kingdom of Atlantis in the history of film. It was located in Chicago, during the early teens of the twentieth century.”

  The woman, who wore her dark hair in a bob, tilted her head before speaking. “What little is known comes from newspaper articles and notices of the day, and from a few diaries. Although no features or short films from the studio exist, its work was considered groundbreaking for its era.”

  “Yes,” said the other man, raising a finger. “Supposedly the company used editing techniques and camera movements that were unheard of at the time.”

  “You’d better believe it,” Jerry said softly. “We had an entire century-plus of films to steal from. And we stole from the best.”

  “Yet Essanay and Selig Polyscope Company are the studios remembered as the pioneers of the Chicago film industry.” The tall man’s back had gotten straighter, if that was possible. “And Essanay did bring Charles Chaplin to Chicago, where he filmed a series of classic shorts.”

  Jerry muted the video. “Essanay; give me a fucking break. I’ll give even money they were spying on us to see how we were doing it. And Chaplin went back to California after a few months.”

  He went back to the video of Irina and played it through a few more times. He remembered the soft noises her feet had made on the floor and the swishing of her costume. Mostly he remembered the smile, because she’d been smiling at him. He didn’t recall for certain, but he was sure he’d been smiling back. Those were the days.

  Chicago, 1913

  A well-built man in suspendered pants and a rolled-up denim work shirt was unloading ice from a People’s Pure Ice wagon when Jerry drove up in his red Pierce-Arrow 66. The car backfired as he stopped in front of the two-story brown brick house, momentarily startling the man who was hefting the ice from the back of the truck with a large pair of tongs.

  Jerry slipped out of the vehicle and opened the front gate. “If you’ll bring it into the kitchen, we have a large pan for it there,” he said. He was exhausted from his excursion with John Fortune. The man nodded.

  Jerry unlocked the door and made way for the ice man to enter. He indicated the kitchen to the right and set a large aluminum pan on the heavy oak table. “Here is fine.” The man dropped the ice into the pan with a thud and wiped his hands on his pants. Jerry gave him a quarter, which was a generous tip. After fishing an ice pick out of one of the table drawers, he set it in the pan and carried it slowly up the stairs. His shoulders and back ached from the digging and reburying he’d done with John Fortune.

  Jerry straightened his shoulders when he reached the top of the stairs and elbowed the bedroom door open. Irina looked up and smiled, folding the latest issue of Cosmopolitan closed and setting it on the ornate bedside table. She was wearing one of his white button-down shirts and not much else. “You boys get it done?”

  “Yeah, but it took a while. Enough loot for a pharaoh.” He set the ice on a table in front of the fan and turned it on to blow cool air on Irina. He indicated the ice pick. “Make yourself useful while I take a shower.”

  He struggled out of his damp clothes, dumping them heavily into the hamper, and pulled the circular curtain closed. Reaching behind it, he turned the shower handle. The pipes vibrated and shuddered as the water passed through them. Jerry stepped into the tub and into the curtained wall of soothing water. He bowed his head and stepped forward, letting the spray rush over the back of his neck and his shoulders. His muscles started to relax and he took several deep breaths. He now had more respect for the poor men who had to dig graves for a living, at least pre-backhoe.

  He stayed in the shower until the hot water was almost gone. After toweling off and donning a robe, Jerry made his way back to the bedroom. Irina had made two whiskey sours, with plenty of ice. One was already in her hand. Jerry picked up the unattended glass and took a sip. He’d gotten fond of the taste over the past few years, but this one needed stiffening. He opened the bottle of Old Forester and poured in a finger or so.

  “Thirsty man,” Irina said. “I assume Mr. Johnson is now in his final resting place—well, until you dig him up in 2017 or so.”

  “Yes, indeed.” The headstone said Tor Johnson, the appearance Jerry had assumed at the poker game in 2017. It was a high-stakes affair. Jerry had been a bodyguard, John Fortune was a player, and Irina was a bartender/hostess. The game had gone sideways, and things were on the verge of getting dangerously ugly. Somehow, the Sleeper, also a bodyguard, had dislocated them in time—although to the best of his knowledge they all wound up in Chicago, and naked to boot. No doubt that looked better on Irina than on Jerry in his Tor Johnson guise, or even John Fortune. Irina and one of the other players, Pug, had ended up in Chicago a few years earlier than the time Jerry and John Fortune arrived. Croyd had already encountered Irina and Pug, but because she saved his life, he’d allowed her to remain in the past. Pug had apparently been whisked back to the present. In any case, Tor Johnson’s casket was now full of things that were inexpensive in 1913, but would be worth plenty in 2017.

  “So now that you’ve taken care of your future, assuming this all works out, are you ready to focus on the present?” Irina sipped at her drink.

  Jerry sat on the bed next to her. “If by focusing on the present you mean lying down and knocking back a couple of these bad boys, then yes. Any chance I can have you massage these aching muscles?”

  “I might be inclined to fetch the liniment and give you a decent rubdown if you direct a bit of attention to me.” She patted a place on the bed next to her.

  “My goodness, ma’am,” he said, “I will surely miss you.”

  Irina sighed. “I thought you were still trying to convince me to let the Sleeper bring me back with you.”

  Jerry took another large swallow. “Is that still an option, or are you just playing with me?”

  “I’ll never tell.” She batted her eyelashes dramatically, then shrugged. “Everything is still an option, until Croyd shows up.” She looked directly into his eyes. “There are pluses and minuses to both sides. You have to understand how awful things were for me back in the future.”

  Jerry figured it was time to back off. She’d come with him, or she wouldn’t. He decided to change the subject. “How about some music?”

  “Sure. Then get over here.”

  “What do you want to hear?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “I’ll surprise both of us.” He fished a disk out without looking and pulled off the brown paper cover. He placed it carefully on the turntable, cranked it up to speed, and placed the needle at the edge. After some hissing and popping, Al Jolson began singing “You Made Me Love You.”

  “Lovely,” she said.

  Jerry sat on the edge of the bed and took the drink from her hand. He took a sip and gave it back.

  “Don’t get comfortable. You’ll just have to put on another record in a few minutes.”

  “Miss your iPad?”

  “Yes. Along with plenty of other things. You know what I don’t miss?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Shaving,” she said, parting the shirt.

  Jerry eased his head between her legs and traced a line with his tongue along her inner thigh. This was the right way to end a hard day’s work.

  * * *

  —

  Jerry entered the private office at Fortune Films and tossed his hat onto the rack, à la James Bond. “What’s the rumpus?” he said to John Fortune, who was seated behind his own desk. It was his customary greeting, stolen from Miller’s Crossing.

  The office was well furnished, with two dark-wood desks side by side, a comfortable couch, several file cabinets, and colorful posters from their films. Frankenstein was Jerry’s personal favorite. The artist had perfectly captured his/the monster’s face. Jerry had strayed far from what Jack Pierce would create for the Universal classic. He felt a little bad that they hadn’t paid the Shelley estate, but any potential lawsuits would vaporize with Fortune Films and the nitrate film stock they were making their pictures with. That was the Sleeper’s part in the story. Jerry felt he might show up any day.

  “Can’t complain. You look all-in. Gravedigging, or a late night with Irina?”

  “Both. You must be tired, too. That was a lot of shovel work.”

  “Totally bushed,” John Fortune said. He didn’t look up from his work. As usual his work suit, blue today, was perfectly pressed. “Still, there’s plenty that needs to be kept up with to keep our operation running.”

  Jerry and John Fortune had complementary skills when it came to the studio. Fortune was the organizing aspect of their partnership. He was always on top of how to make the best use of their money to benefit the studio and its owners. Jerry supplied the passion and filmic know-how, not to mention his ability to change his appearance. The public attributed that to his being a magician with makeup, when in fact it was his wild card ability. Of course, only he, John Fortune, and Irina knew that. This was 1913. The wild card wouldn’t happen for another thirty-plus years.

  “You know, John, you’ve got a real knack for direction.” Jerry was sincere. His partner had a good, if reluctant, eye for framing a shot. Initially, Jerry had been behind the camera for scenes he wasn’t performing in. Now he was more and more comfortable with John Fortune in charge of the shot.

  “Thanks,” Fortune said, placing a stack of papers in one of the many folders on his desk. “If I had less of this to deal with, I might take it up full-time.”

  Jerry eased his aching body into his slat-backed rolling chair, which creaked acknowledgment under his weight. “Take a gander at this, partner. I’ve been working on my Cyrano face.”

  Jerry took a breath and concentrated. His nose lengthened considerably, and his forehead took on a sloping, backswept appearance.

  “Imagine me with a mustache,” he said, winking.

  “And a wig,” John Fortune added. “But don’t get too far ahead of yourself. We have to finish Song of Solomon first.”

  “It’s a good thing there’s no production code at this point. None of Irina’s costumes would pass a censor.”

  Someone knocked at their office door. Jerry returned his face to standard Creighton. “Come in.”

  Helen Guentzel poked her head around the slightly open door. “May I come in, gentlemen?”

  “Of course, Helen,” Jerry replied. “I’ll bet you’ve got something to show me.”

  Helen took several quick steps to Jerry’s desk. She was wearing an artist’s smock over her gray work dress. She wore thick glasses and had quick, masterful hands. Her aging fingers were smeared with charcoal, the medium she preferred using for her sketches. Helen carefully spread several of them across Jerry’s desk, taking a moment for a sidewise glance to check his reaction. She’d been the head of the art department since they founded the studio, and her work rarely disappointed.