Boom Time Page 3

  Charlie Chaplin in The Gold Rush?

  Pierce wondered if the play would be any good.

  The theater, however, wasn’t opened yet. The first performance, Peter Pan, wouldn’t start until noon.

  “I was thinking about seeing this one,” said the man beside him.

  Pierce jumped away with a shout. “Christ!”

  The Trickster smiled at him and Pierce’s cold fear turned to hot rage.

  “You bastard!” he yelled, taking a swing at the Trickster’s face.

  His fist hit nothing. The Trickster’s face wasn’t there anymore. Pierce twirled, caught his footing, and searched until he spotted the dandy-faced cocker.

  He was dressed in a jacket made of brown leather with a wool collar and wore a cap and black slacks.

  “You fuckin’ left me in some tunnel where I was nearly used like a cheap whore by a band of hobos!”

  The Trickster pursed his lips and cocked an eyebrow. “Really? I thought the building would be perfectly safe.”

  “Did you, now? Then you need to learn a thing or two about surveillance. I escaped with little more than luck.”

  “Ah, luck. You are blessed with that. Freya tried cursing you with terrible misfortunes, which she only mildly managed.”

  “Freya? Who the bloody hell is she?”

  Pierce suddenly remembered when he and Joaquin were both hauled off to the Foundling Hospital Orphanage after a woman had accused them of stealing her compass in Abney Park. Pierce had noticed the intense stare his brother had given her as if trying to place her somewhere.

  The brothers had been taken to the office of the orphanage’s owner, Mr. Hamish Attwater. He was a greasy looking tosspot with unkempt hair and oily skin. His office was neat but reeked of onions.

  “They were caught stealing?” Hamish had asked the fat officer who brought the boys in.

  “We haven’t stolen anything,” Pierce grumbled.

  Hamish glared at him.

  “Speaking without being spoken to is unacceptable here.”

  “I think you’re going to have your hands full with the likes of them,” the husky officer chuckled, standing behind the siblings. “They’re cut from Gypsy cloth, they are.”

  “Are they?” Hamish mused. “Well, from here on out, you two are nothing more than a pair of guttersnipes who will behave, work for your daily bread, and be disciplined whenever you step out of line.”

  “Essentially, you’re aiming to break our spirits, eh?” Pierce remarked hotly.

  “Quiet!” the owner shouted brusquely, standing from his chair with a long stick in his hand. “You shall not speak unless spoken to.”

  He walked around the desk and gave Pierce a hard whack on the arm. The impact hurt worse than anything Pierce had ever experienced before in his young life.

  As he rubbed the stinging spot, Joaquin whispered, “Pierce, shut it.”

  Once the boys were signed over to the orphanage, they were led into a room packed with orphan lads of different ages. Pierce and Joaquin weren’t given a warm welcome. Once Hamish introduced them and left, the other boys mocked the brothers for their Gypsy clothing. Being the smallest of them all, the taunting youngsters started trying to strip Pierce of his garb when Joaquin stepped in and fended them off.

  That night, while the children slept, Pierce crept over to Joaquin, who was lying awake in his bed.

  “What are we going to do?” Pierce wondered fretfully. “How are we going to get out of here and find Mum and Dad?”

  “I dunno yet,” his brother whispered in return. “I’ll think of something.”

  “What about that woman? How did she know about your compass, and why did she accuse us of stealing it? Have you met her before?”

  “I thought I did.” He sounded as if he was struggling to recall. “I . . . I could’ve sworn it was Freya.”

  “Who?”

  Joaquin opened his mouth as though to answer but then shook his head.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Joaquin rolled over onto his side. “Get some sleep, eh?”

  Now, Pierce nodded at the Trickster.

  “She’s the woman who was responsible for us getting separated from our parents,” he recalled with bile.

  “She was, indeed. And she has big plans involving your son.”

  “My son? I don’t have any children.” He snorted. “Oh, you’re talking about the son I’ll have someday, eh?”

  “No. Your current one. I’d tell you his name if I cared enough to learn it.”

  Pierce didn’t quite believe him, and yet he asked, “Who’s the mum, eh?”

  “Again, it doesn’t interest me. Would you like to go inside the theater now?”

  Pierce folded his arms. He wasn’t completely convinced about what the Trickster was telling him, but he doubted he’d elaborate. Besides, the cold was getting to him.

  “Aye. But the theater isn’t opened yet.”

  The Trickster snorted and turned on his heel, heading for the door. “Oh, by the by, it would be wise for you to go by another name.”

  Pierce followed. “Why? It ain’t as though I’m an outlaw here—or is there something else you need to tell me?”

  The Trickster again laughed. “If you stay out of trouble, as I told you before, you’ll be fine. However, there might be someone searching for you, even here, and the name Pierce Landcross isn’t exactly common.” He flicked his wrist. “It’s up to you.”

  The manager unlocked the door just as the Trickster reached for the handle. The man didn’t seem to see them as they passed through the lobby. A loud popping sound came from a machine behind a wooden counter. It smelled both salty and sweet. Corn kernels, Pierce reckoned. There were also sweets with names such as Babe Ruth, Milk Duds, and Bit-O-Honey in the counter’s display window beside another window that read: Enjoy your Buttered Popcorn! The floor was made of tile in all sorts of patterns and the walls were of decorative steel square panels.

  There wasn’t anyone else but the staff inside the theater, which suited Pierce just fine.

  “The show won’t start for another thirty minutes,” the Trickster informed him, snapping his pocket watch closed as they entered the auditorium.

  It mattered little to Pierce. He was only happy to be out of the cold and away from the noise. He went down a row of seats and sat shivering in the cushy chair, rubbing his arms.

  “Brandy?” the Trickster offered, holding out a flask.

  “Aye!” Pierce said, happily accepting it.

  The first drink burned his throat as the warmth blossomed throughout him.

  “Have any food on you?”

  The Trickster sighed. “Next, you’ll be asking me for money.”

  The smell of broiled veal cutlets and fried tomatoes snapped Pierce’s head around.

  “Bloody hell!” Pierce exclaimed, setting the flask on his lap and taking the plate. “Cheers.”

  “I suppose I can offer you this olive branch. Don’t get used to it.”

  “Olive branch?” Pierce returned with a mouth full of veal. “You’re the sod who kidnapped me, remember? Have you any idea what you’ve been putting me through?”

  “You are being dramatic,” said the Trickster. “Learn how to be grateful for what you receive, especially during trying times.”

  “Speaking of time,” Pierce said, biting into a fried tomato. It felt like it had been ages since he’d last eaten anything. “Why here?”

  A shrug. “I think this era will suit someone of your character. Besides, traveling through The Gate offers only so many safe passageways.”

  “The Gate? I don’t remember us going through any gate.”

  “Because you were unconscious, silly boy. If you’d been awake, you would have been seriously injured in the mist.”

  “Mist? I thought it was a gate.”

  The Trickster gave him an annoyed look, one that Pierce often received when he asked a lot of questions.

  “Never mind,” Pierce said, retracting the question. “Is it yo
ur fault my ribs hurt?”

  “I’m the reason why they’re not broken anymore. Again, display some gratitude for what you receive, for it can be taken from you . . . in . . . a . . . blink.”

  Pierce bit down on what he expected to be the rest of his veal cutlet, but all he got was a mouthful of air.

  He no longer held the plate or had the flask on his lap. “Fuckin’ hell.” He looked over to discover he was alone. “That bloody bugger.”

  He also noticed a few newcomers had arrived and taken their seats. They stared at him quizzically. Clearly, he was quite visible now. Instead of causing a scene that would most likely get him tossed out, Pierce settled into his chair and crossed his arms, a sour expression on his face.

  “Bastard,” he muttered as his belly grumbled.

  More people trailed into the auditorium. Pierce observed them and their clothing. He did fancy the men’s suits and hats, and the women did look rather fetching in their fur coats and pearls. It felt strange to be among those whose grandparents were his age in his own era. Well, if he was going to spend time here, he reckoned it would be best to learn about the events that had taken place in the past seventy years. He’d need to visit a library, but, in the meantime, he’d start with the newspaper he still had with him.

  There was a road stretching across the country starting from a city called Chicago and reaching all the way to Santa Monica, California, that had been built a couple of months ago. It was called Will Rogers Highway or Route 66, a news story explained.

  “California?” Pierce whispered in wonder. “Where the hell is that?”

  He read an article about Europe’s high unemployment rate due to the war. Britain had been heavily affected. He skimmed through the advertisements promoting Lucky Strike cigarettes, things called telephones, clothing irons, Wrigley’s Gum, and Black Cat stove polish.

  The lowering of the lights caught his attention. He quickly realized this century had electric lighting.

  Fascinating.

  He folded the paper and settled into his chair, ready for this Peter Pan play to begin. He hoped it would take his mind off his hunger. Bastard Trickster.

  The stage curtains parted, but he saw no actors, only a large, off-white square that instantly lit up. The source of the lighting was a tube of light that stretched out overhead and started at the rear of the auditorium. A humming sound came from the bright porthole in the wall, but it was drowned out by the sounds coming from the large canvas. Black and white images of jockeys, riding their horses, raced over the flat turf.

  A moving picture show!

  The entire thing was in motion. The horses crossed the finish line and spectators stood up in the stands, clapping. A narrator spoke throughout, talking at almost the speed of an auctioneer.

  “And in California, Firefly won again for the fifth consecutive time in the Western Derby Race, maintaining her crown as the fastest horse in the world!”

  The picture showed the horse, Firefly, and her jockey standing by each other, a wreath of flowers around Firefly’s neck.

  “In other news, today President Coolidge awarded four American soldiers with the Medal of Honor for their bravery during wartime. These men smuggled food, medical supplies, and weapons for miles behind enemy lines in order to bring them to their comrades. Saving lives and helping to win many battles.”

  A man who Pierce assumed was the American president placed medals around four uniformed soldiers’ necks and shook their hands. There was a crowd gathered, holding cameras with blubs flashing brightly from them. Other reporters, some with the word Press on their hats, were in the next story. They had pens and pads in their hands and were assembled in front of a podium where a man was speaking into some kind of devices.

  “New York City mayor, Jimmy Walker, announced that he will do everything in his power to stop organized crime running amok and imprison all criminals who continue to thumb their noses at the law.”

  The picture cut to a scene of officers raiding a building, and then it switched to an open door where over a dozen men and women were walking out with their hands atop their heads. The scene returned to the mayor, who was speaking into those devices. His voice sounded crackly through the recording.

  “Today, I’m issuing stronger law enforcement efforts against all gangsters, bootleggers, and patrons partaking in their criminal activities. We’re going to stamp out these lawbreakers who have displayed disobedience toward our prohibition law by using ruthless tactics and warlike strategies of our own.”

  The narrator spoke as a new scene unfolded of uniformed officers standing about with other men dressed in suits with badges pinned on them. All of them held rifles or had holstered pistols. “The FBI is working closely with police in helping to take these criminals down and bring peace to this dry city.”

  The picture went off and Pierce feared it was the end of the show. Seeing images in motion had captivated him greatly even if there was no color to them.

  Text suddenly popped up on the canvas, accompanied by music. The title, Peter Pan, appeared and then the names of the cast members: Betty Bronson as Peter Pan, Ernest Torrence as Captain James Hook, Ann May Wong as Tiger Lily, and so on. Pierce had never heard of this story, but he was on the edge of his seat to see it.

  The entire thing entertained him to no end, and when it was over, he stayed to wait for the next show until the manager ordered him out, calling him a bum and threatening to call the coppers if he refused to leave. Pierce wanted no trouble, and he especially didn’t want to end up in jail. He stepped out into the cold and noise, both of which had increased greatly. Away from the warmth of the theater and distracting entertainment of the picture show, Pierce’s hunger pangs took hold of him again.

  He wandered about, not knowing where to go. He ended up on Gansevoort Street in the Meatpacking District, where he rested by a building, shivering. A dreaded weight of loneliness and helplessness pressed down upon him. Not even when that lunatic, Volker Jäger, had held him captive and tried to break his spirit had Pierce felt so vulnerable. No one he knew—no friends, family, or foe—was alive here. He’d been left stranded in a foreign world with no money for food or shelter.

  He didn’t imagine he’d live through the oncoming night.

  Four

  The Memories of You

  “You took him where?” Freya asked Njáll inside her cottage by the sea.

  “To the next century. New York City. He ought to stay well-hidden so long as he keeps a low profile.”

  “That boy doesn’t know how to keep a low profile,” Freya grunted. She blamed herself for that one. An unfortunate side effect of her attempt to curse Pierce when he was a newborn. “I hate having to ask you to hide him. I thank you.”

  Freya was being genuinely sincere. She was and had always been grateful for the Trickster’s help, for if it weren’t for him, she’d never have gotten this far in her scheme. Once her daughter, Vela, and Pierce’s son, merged and become a djinn, Freya would be their master. She would then ask for only a single wish—that they turn her into a djinn, as well. And after accomplishing her goal, Freya planned to crown Njáll king of many worlds.

  “It was surprisingly amusing,” Njáll admitted. “Our descendant is a mouthy, uncouth little cuss, but I rather enjoy this venture.”

  His attitude brightened her mood, causing her to smile widely. However, her grin faded when the Trickster stumbled back as though he was about to fall over. She dove in and caught him.

  “Are you well?”

  “I will be,” he said, gripping her arms to steady himself.

  His touch caused flashes of memories from a time long past. A young, beautiful nymph lying naked upon a sun-bleached rock. The handsome stranger with feminine features who had crossed through her realm and offered her a demon in exchange for bedding down with him. The intense moment made Freya move away from Njáll, her breath heavy and rapid, and her skin damp with sweat. She could feel the Trickster’s hands all over her body, the pleasure of intercours
e between her legs. He was very gifted, and the nymph had enjoyed him greatly.

  The feeling soon faded into nothing.

  “Are you all right?” Njáll asked.

  “I saw us,” she explained. “When I was a nymph.”

  “Did you?” he said, straightening up. “I remember when we met. I think about it fondly.”

  Gathering her thoughts, she said, “You once told me there was a reason for you and me to be together.”

  “As I recall, milady.”

  “At first, I did not fully understand, but I felt it, as well.”

  As she spoke, she heard her original voice, the voice of Temenitis. Even the god gazed upon her differently. He wasn’t seeing the girl he’d mentored and helped acclimate into becoming an enchantress. He saw the nymph who’d born his son.

  “Don’t you see, Njáll?” she said. “You were right. Together, in that other life of mine, we made a child who was part of an ancient chain reaction that eventually brought about Joaquin and Pierce—and now Vela and Pierce’s son. And through them, a djinn! For centuries, the bloodlines of these powerful creatures have been steadily merging.”

  Njáll turned away, nodding with lips pressed together.

  “And it also means I will succeed,” Freya said with triumph.

  The Trickster looked over at her. He seemed uncertain about something, but her excitement kept her from inquiring.

  “I have no lingering doubt anymore,” she continued. “I’ll bring a djinn into this world.”

  The remembrance of her past self must have completely faded from her like clouds overshadowing the radiant sun, for the shine in the Trickster’s green eyes had evanesced.

  “Perhaps you might,” he said diplomatically.

  Freya was dead certain of it. The signs were all there. It was meant to be.

  “I must rest,” he said. “Do you need anything before I go?”

  The way he looked after her made her wish she could love him, but her heart never could open that door to let such an emotion for him in.