Throwback, p.10
Throwback, page 10
“Aaayy, just a second!” Rusty followed right after him, his face growing red. “Where’s the quarter you said you’d pay me for helpin’ out?”
“I must, erm, collect some debts first. . . .”
As Corey watched them go, Millie put her arm around him. “You gonna be okay, big guy? You got a place to go?”
Corey nodded. “I’m fine,” he lied.
“Well, I’ll be at the market on Christopher if ya need me.”
Blowing a kiss to Corey, she walked uptown. Corey was relieved to be alone. He glanced up and down the street. It wasn’t much of one, really, just the big ditch surrounded by debris. On either side were the remnants of destroyed buildings. Side streets, lined with gas lamps, retreated from sight. Where those side streets intersected the hole, rickety bridges had been built. People were trying to walk carefully across, ignoring the catcalls and noises from the gang below. The women were in long dresses, the men in loose-fitting shabby pants and shirts. Nearly everyone wore hats of some kind, and all the clothes seemed to be some shade of brown, gray, or black. Makeshift street signs had been put up at each block. Corey was at Morton Street and could see that the next block was Barrow—streets that still existed in the twenty-first century. They were nowhere near the World Trade Center site. Just as Filcher had said, it was the West Village.
The crack of a whip made him spin around. A horse was trotting toward him, pulling a wagon piled with garbage. “Outta my way, boy!” the driver shouted, his mouth missing so many teeth that it looked like a piano keyboard.
Corey had to get somewhere quieter, less dangerous, less bombed-out. He ran up the avenue, over piles of rubble, and turned up Barrow Street. It was paved with cobblestones and lined with neat brick and stone buildings. But garbage was strewn in the gutter, and the air reeked of horse poop. He stopped in mid-block, at an empty lot. An older couple was sitting on the stoop of the brownstone next door, and they stopped their conversation to give him a curious look.
His breaths were shallow, panicked. The shock was wearing off, and questions flooded into his brain. Why was he here? Why wasn’t he back in the present? You needed metal. Steel, nickel, copper, gold, silver. He didn’t have any 1917 coins or subway tokens or belt buckles. Just coins from the present and . . .
A passport.
Could that be it?
Believe it or not, often a photograph alone will do, because of the silver content, Papou had said.
Quickly Corey reached into his pocket for the passport of his great-great-grandfather-of-the-unpronounceable name, Evanthis Harvoulakis. Once again he opened it.
The date under the photo was June 9, 1917. Corey had been holding on to it when the first plane hit the World Trade Center. He looked closely at the face. It was clearer, less yellow than it had been in 2001. Brand-new and warm to the touch.
Corey was alive. Because of Evanthis.
He hadn’t saved his grandmother. But her grandfather had saved him.
“Thanks, E.,” Corey whispered. Talking to the image of his ancestor made him feel weirdly sane. “Hey, I know you’re around here, somewhere, at the same time as me. That’s cool. In case I don’t get the chance to meet you, which I probably won’t, I just want to say I’m sorry. I let you down. I didn’t save your granddaughter. I mean, I know that doesn’t make sense. In 1917 you don’t have a granddaughter yet. And you probably died before 2001, so you have no idea what I’m talking about—I mean, you wouldn’t have an idea if you could hear me. Which you can’t. Because you’re a photograph . . .”
Now the old couple were staring at him, slack-jawed. Corey smiled tightly. “Gotta go! Have a nice day!”
He ducked into the empty lot and pressed himself to the side wall of the brownstone, hidden from sight. He had to get back home and talk to Papou. He wanted to try 2001 again. With better planning.
Hopping to 1917 was an accident, but getting home shouldn’t be too hard. He was a veteran time-hopper now, with four hops under his belt—on his block, in Central Park, at the World Trade site, here. Papou said it got easier and easier to do. Corey was glad he’d brought coins and his cell phone, all the metal he’d ever need.
He reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around a Snickers wrapper and a pack of tissues.
He checked the other pocket. Empty.
What?
He tried again. He scoured the sidewalk in case they’d spilled out. He’d been dropping a lot of stuff lately. But he saw no coins. No money at all. No phone. Not even the 2001 subway token.
His stomach seized up. He ran back out to Barrow Street. He followed his path to the ditch. As he got to the edge, he looked over. The two drunken men were awake now, trying to build a fire using newspapers. One of them glanced up. “Uh-oh . . .”
“We didn’t do nothin’,” the other protested. “It was Hans.”
“And Benny-boy,” the first guy said. “They both got sticky fingers. Said you was carryin’ a lot of scratch. And other interesting stuff.”
“They—they pickpocketed me?” Corey cried out. “When I was unconscious?”
The first guy shook his head in sympathy. “A sleeping kid. Imagine that! No morals. We’d never do that. We got mannerisms.”
“Do you know where they went?” Corey asked. “The ones who took my money?”
The two men shared a look. Then they piped up at the same time, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world:
“To spend it!”
18
Corey checked the address on the old lawyer’s business card against the number on the tiny brick building—345½ Hudson Street.
The door was tilted, the building narrow. Its rows of brick, instead of going straight across the front, sagged downward toward the middle. It was as if the two apartment buildings on either side had expanded toward each other, squeezing the little house between them. Just above the door, on a rusted metal hook, dangled a wooden shingle that said H. P. FILCHER, ESQ., ATTORNEY AT L.
It looked like termites had gotten to the AW.
Corey knocked on the door once . . . twice. Finally he heard the heavy thumping of footsteps on the other side. But the door did not open. Instead a weirdly high-pitched voice called from within: “Helloooo! This is Mr. Filcher’s secretary! Consultation by appointment only!”
“Uh, this is Corey Fletcher?” Corey said.
“Is that a question?” the voice said tentatively. “How would I know who you are?”
“No, it’s a statement!” Corey said.
“I heard a question mark at the end. It sounded to me definitely like a—”
“I’m identifying myself!” Corey interrupted. “I met Mr. Filcher a little earlier today? I’m the victim of a theft. I don’t have an appointment but he said I could see him anytime from—”
The door swung open. Instead of some dotty old woman, it was Filcher himself. The bags under his eyes had deepened. He was no longer wearing a hat, and his hair was all bunched up on one side, brittle and white. “Ah, yes, I know exactly who you are!” he said.
“Wait, that voice . . . it was you?” Corey said.
“Yes, well, you see, my . . . uh, staff is out ill today, so to fend off all the inquiries . . . you know how it is . . . popularity,” Filcher said. “Come. Sit. Are you injured? Headaches? Double vision? Triple vision? The courts are very sympathetic to triple vision.”
He led Corey down a dark, narrow corridor. A string of bare light bulbs hung overhead, but only one of them was working. At the end of the hall, they stepped into an office. Corey couldn’t tell if it was small or large. There wasn’t much to see besides piles and piles of papers jammed together, rising practically to the ceiling like a city skyline. A pathway snaked through them, leading to a desk and a metal file cabinet, both of which seemed to have papers growing out of them. Perched atop the unruly pile on the cabinet, a metal fan whined noisily but generated no breeze.
Filcher pushed a fat, bored-looking black cat off one of the massive stacks. As he lifted the papers off and shifted them to his desk, he revealed a hidden chair that looked like it hadn’t seen a human butt in years. “Sit. Sit! Make yourself at home!” Filcher said. “Ignore the untidiness. My cleaning staff is—”
“Out ill,” Corey said. “I know. Thanks for seeing me, sir.”
Filcher sat in a worn leather seat behind his desk and leaned toward Corey. “Unlike most attorneys, my boy, I let my clients call me by my first name. You see, I have three names—Mr. Horace Filcher. So you can call me . . . Mr. Filcher. Haaa! You see what I did there?”
Corey stared at him, speechless.
“Yes, well, this is what we call breaking the ice,” Filcher said. “Loosening up. Always room for humor, eh? Go on.”
“Okay, so you were right about those guys in the ditch,” Corey said. “You called them thieving. And that’s what they did. They stole all my money while I was unconscious. All my possessions!”
“I see . . . ,” Filcher said, stroking his sideburns thoughtfully. “You know, judges are very generous with a combination of memory loss and double vision—”
“This is about theft!” Corey said.
“No, this is about compensation!” Filcher pounded his desk, sending up a cloud of dust. “I happen to be one of New York County’s most reputable personal injury attorneys. If you follow my line of thinking, my lad, you will be sure to get more money than you lost! Er, how much did you lose?”
Corey had to cough out a lungful of dust before he could reply. There was no way he could explain why he needed the coins, or what a cell phone was. “Well . . . the amount isn’t the important thing.”
“True,” Filcher said, “we can round up generously.”
“Is there any way we could get back exactly what I lost, sir—I mean, not an equal amount but the exact coins?”
Filcher sat back, his brow furrowed. “That’s an unusual request. But brilliant in its own way. We may be able to do this quickly, without involving the courts at all.” The lawyer leaped from his seat, grabbing his jacket. “These thieves tend to go to one place. Follow me.”
Haak’s Pawnshop was marked by a faded sign above cement stairs that led down to a dark basement entrance. As Corey descended behind Filcher, he nearly gagged at the stink. “That’s disgusting,” he said, pinching his nostrils. “Doesn’t he have a bathroom inside?”
“You get used to it,” Filcher said. “The smell is kind of a filter, you see. Only serious customers will endure it, and Haak likes his buyers motivated.”
The door at the bottom was thick with layers of paint and festooned with signs: BEWARE DOG!! MARKSMAN INSIDE!! SHOPLIFTERS SHOT ON SIGHT!! PUBLIC URINATORS SHOT TWICE!!!
“Don’t be dissuaded,” Filcher said, pushing the door open. “Haak is a puppy dog. And none of these warnings are true.”
“I figured that out,” Corey said.
As they entered, Corey slammed the door hard behind him.
“HORACE, YOU OLD HORSE-TRADING, BOOTLICKING, LYING SKINFLINT, HOW DO YOU INTEND TO CHEAT ME TODAY?”
A thickly accented voice bellowed from inside, so violently loud that Corey almost had the urge to open the door and leave. Instead he turned to see a man with a girth so wide he could have swallowed a small bus. He waddled out from behind a long glass display case, wearing a white tank-top T-shirt soaked with sweat. A pair of threadbare suspenders stretched over his torso so tightly you could almost hear them groan. His face was perfectly round, his cheeks red and juicy like beef patties not yet cooked. On his shiny head was a single tuft of blond hair shaped like a question mark. Despite the harsh words, he was smiling broadly at Filcher.
“Good morning, Haak,” Filcher said quietly, shrinking away. “But please spare my tender, crooked back. Whatever you do, please do not strike—”
With an open palm the size of a dinner plate, the man smacked Filcher on his back and sent him staggering to the wall. “Love this guy!” he said, turning to Corey with his hand extended. “Otto Haak! Welcome! Don’t tell me Horace the Miser hired an assistant!”
Corey backed away, tucking his hands behind his back. “Corey Fletcher. I’m not his assistant.”
“The boy . . . is a . . . client . . . ,” Filcher said through gritted teeth, holding his back with his right hand. “Has been . . . robbed.”
Corey’s eyes swept around the shop. It was larger and neater than he expected, its walls lined with floor-to-ceiling glass cases displaying typewriters, vases, bowls, silverware, plates, binoculars, eyeglasses, odd contraptions Corey didn’t recognize, and jewelry. Lots of jewelry.
There was one other customer, a handsome, apple-cheeked guy in his teens or twenties. He was wearing a tan, wide-brimmed cowboy hat, a bright plaid shirt with a string tie, a leather vest, loose jeans, and cowboy boots. At his feet were a beat-up old canvas satchel and a coiled rope. He tipped his hat to Corey, revealing thick, slicked-down brown hair. “Robbed, huh?” he said. “Hoo-ee, sorry to hear that, Corey Filcher. Back home, they told me if you didn’t want to lose your money in New York City, you had to sew it to your skin! Guess they was right!”
Corey smiled for the first time that day. “I’m Fletcher, he’s Filcher.”
The guy burst out laughing. “Now that’s funny. This whole city’s like a burlesque show, ain’t it? I’m Quinn. Quinn Roper. From Casper, Wyoming.”
“Haak, my good man,” Filcher said, ignoring the conversation, “the theft in question befell my client a mere hour or so ago. After an unfortunate fall into the pit of doom that has split our fair neighborhood—”
“The cursed Seventh Avenue subway!” Haak spat. “We need that like we need a hole into the head.”
“It’s in,” Quinn Roper said. “Hole in the head.”
“So there he was, an unconscious and helpless boy of eleven,” Filcher said, rising to his full height and gripping his lapel, “discovered by the lazy, drunken, immoral dregs of our fair city—in other words, your customers, Haak. And they, rather than show the decency we are used to in the higher classes, brutally set upon him and tore the possessions from his very pockets. Every last cent.”
Haak’s eyes had grown moist. “You always had a way with words, you old grifter.”
“Mr. Filcher, I’m not eleven,” Corey whispered. “I’m—”
Filcher elbowed Corey in the ribs. “I put myself at your mercy, Haak,” he barreled on, “on behalf of this innocent, orphaned babe with not a cent to his name.”
“Orphaned? Oh . . .” Now Haak was openly sobbing.
Quinn gave Corey a silent, quizzical look, and Corey shook his head. Not true.
“Don’t let anyone say Haak ain’t got a heart,” Haak said. “You can sleep on the floor, kid. Nice and warm. And I can give you work. I need a boy to take out the chamber pot, kill the vermin, clean up the spit—”
“He doesn’t need that!” Filcher leaned over the counter. “He needs money. As do I. I send you customers, Haak. They bring priceless goods—”
“Stolen goods,” Haak pointed out.
“Which you cheerfully sell. And from which you owe me a cut. I calculate your debts to me have risen to seven hundred ninety-three dollars and thirteen cents!”
“I can’t pay that!”
“I’ll take half,” Filcher replied, “or expect the full weight of the New York court system on your shady enterprise. Now, tell me, Corey, the name of the thieves were . . .”
“Hans and Benny-boy,” Corey offered.
“Regulars,” Haak grumbled. He lumbered around behind a glass-topped desk, pulled a fistful of dollars out of a drawer, and spread them out on the case. “A bunch of those fellas did come in to buy. Told me they inherited some cash from a wealthy aunt. Of course I didn’t believe them. But greenbacks is greenbacks. Go ahead. This is all I can give you, Filcher!”
Corey eyed the bills, but he wasn’t really interested in them. “What about coins? Did they bring any coins?”
“Of course they did,” Haak said, pulling open a drawer behind the desk.
Corey peered over. The drawer was deep and wide. It was piled at least two feet high with pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. Thousands of them. There was no way in the world he would find a random coin from the twenty-first century.
Haak dug his fleshy hand into the pile, pulled out a fistful of coins, and dumped them on the table next to the bills. “There!” Haak said.
“How about a weird subway token?” Corey said. “Did they return anything like that?”
“A what?” Haak replied.
“Or—or a little metal gizmo? With a digital clock and a selfie on it?”
Haak shook his head, staring at Corey as if he’d just spoken in Sanskrit. Quinn was staring at him, too.
Filcher quickly leaned across the counter, sliding all the bills and coins toward him. “Thank you, Haak, you are the soul of compassion and gullibility.”
“It’s my sweet, generous nature,” Haak said with a modest smile, as Filcher dumped all the money into a valise.
Quinn glared at the old man. “Hey, what about Fletcher?”
“I don’t know how they do it in Montana, young man,” Filcher sniffed, “but here in civilized society the attorney collects the money, extracts his proper fee, then pays the client his share.”
“Wyoming!” Quinn protested.
“Same thing.” Filcher turned to the door, hooking the valise over his shoulder. “Come now, Fletcher, before I choke on the smell of stupidity.”
19
Leila examined the lacquer box, holding it in two hands. The warmth of the wood was a great contrast to the cheerful, wintry skating scene painted on the top. It was so vivid and lifelike, Leila could practically hear the ringing of bells.
Actually, she was hearing the ringing of bells. Someone was at the door.
She set the box on her desk. The warmth of the wood made her curious about what Auntie Flora kept in there, but the thick brass hasp held tight. In its center was a small round keypad with buttons labeled 1 through 6.
She would have to investigate later.
“Leila, Rachel’s here!” her mother called.
