I wasn’t in Florida anymore. That’s the exciting part about time travel. Seeing new sights.
I’d landed on a stool. Same height and distance relative to my shot glass but the bar was long and polished.
This wasn’t a post-apocalyptic dive in the Grand Central District. Judging from the skyline view out the windows past the bar, I was in New York City. Top floor of somewhere hip and expensive.
The metal shot glass was still at my fingertips. My anchor in time. Only it was in a new location so I was too.
Fun with time travel.
I surveyed the room and noted roughly thirty people. I took off my sunglasses. No one seemed surprised by my abrupt arrival. The bartender was here. Same one from the dive in St. Pete. His wasn’t a look of recognition. But how could it be? This was yesterday and he was meeting me for the first time.
He walked over and eyed me. “Welcome to the Last Night Club. What’s your drink order?”
“Hook me up with a sipping tequila,” I said. He poured me a double-shot of Mariachi over an ice cube and garnished it with a lime, same way as he’d do tomorrow. He slid it to me.
“Thanks.” I passed him another ten. Expenses were starting to add up.
I swiveled on my bar stool and took in the scene.
Tables. A few booths. Servers in black aprons cruised the room handing out cocktails.
There. Back wall. Watching me. The source of my unease.
He was handsome. Actual movie star handsome. His face was a pristine black with perfectly shaped eyebrows and a strong, clean shaven jaw. He completed his debonair look with a ten-thousand-dollar suit, manicured nails, and a stare that didn’t waver. The women at his table were gorgeous. Could have been models. But I didn’t take my eyes off the man in the suit.
From the outside, there was no visible sign that he was the center of the gravity of this room. Patrons bantered and meandered about. Conversations hadn’t so much as paused at my arrival. But his eyes had found me instantly. I slid off the bar stool and walked toward him. One doesn’t veer away from a singularity.
Partway to the table I was blocked by a value-sized Incredible Hulk. All the muscles at half the height.
“It’s all right, Leo. Let him through. I don’t think Mr. Travers is here to harm me.”
Mini Hulk obeyed.
This guy knew my name. Not shy about letting me know it.
He was wearing a signet ring on his left hand emblazoned with the symbol of a pegasus.
“What’s your business here, Mr. Travers?”
“You know my name but I don’t know yours.”
“And here I thought you were a detective.” He cocked an eyebrow.
“When manners fail.”
“Far be it from me to deprive you of your curiosity.”
A test.
I scanned the table, his clothing, the mirror behind him, then brought my attention back to his face. The women to either side of him eyed me cautiously.
“You’re Roman Amadeus.”
He broke a smile, displaying impossibly white teeth. “So you are a detective. Care to divulge what gave me away?”
“There is an edge of a chronometer peeking out of the cuff of your sleeve. A limited edition Manembo chronometer that wasn’t sold to you. By your ring, you attended the Academy of Temporal Sciences and were a member of the Immortal Realm fraternity so we’ve narrowed you down from being just a rich time traveler to being a rich, well-educated, well-connected, time traveler. But since Manembo would never have sold you that chronometer, you are either a thief or you associate with them. Add that we’re in Lower Manhattan, and you’re the owner of this club, the family crest over the bar makes you an Amadeus. Most of the senior members of the family are stuck in Rookwood prison or an alternate timeline for the foreseeable eternity and the only remaining cousins with brains enough to graduate the academy were all women. Except one. Roman Amadeus.”
Roman nodded. “I’d like to think that a few of my male family members could have persisted through the Academy, but you’re probably right. Their talents lie in other areas. How do you know the personal politics of Abraham Manembo?”
“Family friend.”
“Ah. I should have guessed. Ladies, why don’t you give us the table so Mr. Travers can sit down.” The women beside him scooted out of the booth as fast as their miniskirts and the norms of modesty would allow.
I eased into the booth and mini Hulk squeezed himself into the other side. He caught Roman staring at him.
“What?”
“I assure you I’m quite safe, Leo. Why don’t you see if Mr. Travers could use another drink.”
“Oh. All right.” He got back up. “You want a steak? Steak’s good here.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“You should try the rib eye. Maybe the fillet.”
“Leo, Mr. Travers was raised at the far end of the next century. He’d probably only accept plant-based options.”
“Plant what now?” Leo scrunched his face then looked at me. “Oh like vegetarianism? Shit. Wouldn’t catch me going there then. Too hard. How you live like that?”
“The key to most “isms” is not being a dick about it,” I said. “The rest is practice.”
Leo still didn’t move. “Where you get your protein?”
I sighed. “Where do you get your flavonoids?”
His brow wrinkled. “Huh?”
“Leo.” Amadeus’ voice had an edge this time. “Get lost.”
Leo rolled his shoulders but nodded. “Right. Sure thing, boss.”
When he was gone, Amadeus sighed. “My apologies about that. Leo is a local. We’re working on his social skills.”
“You seem to know a lot about me. I explained my trick. What’s yours?”
Amadeus shrugged. “It’s my business to know these things.”
“What business is that?”
“Time management.”
I leaned back in my seat. “We all have that job.”
“I’m better at it than most.”
Roman Amadeus seemed at ease so I decided to play things straight.
“Came here tonight on the tail of two guys who used a portable time gate in late 2018.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and displayed a photo taken from my sunglasses cam. “They were lurking around a client’s house. I assume they’re yours.”
Roman took a glance at the phone.
“You want to meet them?” He lifted a hand and gestured to the barman. The bartender put down a bottle and hurried over.
“Yes, sir?”
“Quinn, I’d like you to get a hold of Tommy Garcia and Magic Max. Send them an invite, will you? Five minutes.”
“I’ll make it happen.”
Amadeus turned to me. “There you go. Happy to assist with whatever you need, Greyson. Do you mind if I call you Greyson?”
I had to give him credit. He was two steps ahead of me. Now if I asked why these thugs were showing up to see him, he’d say it was to meet me. A tidy causal loop.
“You have an interest in Foster Phillips.”
I caught a hint of change in his expression. It passed in an instant.
He sipped his drink and set it back down. “Do you know what the most valuable commodity in the world is, Greyson? It’s time. So many people in this world chase all the wrong things.”
“Still runs out,” I said. “No one can buy more.”
“That’s where I’ll politely disagree. But I think it’s a shame to see a man wasting his time.”
Implying me, no doubt. But I didn’t get a chance to reply.
Two men arrived at the bar, appearing out of thin air. There was no fanfare. No noise. One moment the stools were empty, the next they weren’t.
The two men surveyed the room with an air of curiosity. Must not be regulars. They located Amadeus’ table and slid off their stools. The squinty one eyed me quizzically as he walked up. Neck Folds looked even bigger out of the SUV. I’d underestimated his height.
“Gentlemen. So glad you could join us. This is Mr. Greyson Travers, a private investigator. He has some questions for you. Greyson, meet Tommy ‘The Tank’ Garcia and Magic Max.”
“You two have a show in Vegas?” I asked.
“That’s your question?” Squinty was apparently Max. Couldn’t imagine anyone labelling him Tank. And it was hard to think of his friend as anything else now that I’d seen all of him. Max had a diamond stud in his right ear I hadn’t noticed before.
“What were you doing outside the Phillips’ house tonight?” It was technically thirty-four years from now but he knew what I meant.
“Looking for a dog. Named Barkley.” His eyes were flint.
So he did recognize me. I hadn’t expected a real answer. “I’d bet you lost something more expensive than a dog.”
Max flinched and glanced to Amadeus before clenching his jaw. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
It was Roman’s turn to narrow his eyes. With the fire behind his stare, I was surprised Magic Max didn’t spontaneously combust.
Hit.
If this was Battleship, something on their side was smoking. Only time would tell if I’d struck the carrier or the PT boat.
Roman motioned with a casual wave of his wrist. Tommy and Max got the message and faded back to the bar, their looks to me all shivs and switchblades.
Roman fiddled with the pegasus ring on his finger. “You have a reputation in this community, Travers. Your family has a reputation. We have that in common. We come from significance.”
I sipped my tequila. Waited.
“Significance in this world comes with respect. Your family, my family. We have our own rules. So when I tell you a thing, I know you’ll think of them, you’ll think of that respect.”
“I can hardly stand the suspense.”
Roman cocked an eyebrow. “You’re smart, Greyson. And if you stay smart, you’ll leave this thing alone.”
“Foster Phillips is dead.”
“A tragedy.” Roman shrugged. “It happens.”
“It was murder.”
“The police ruled suicide. Suicide is . . . simpler.”
“For you?”
“For everyone. Leave this to me. I absolve you of it. No longer your problem.” He wiped his hands on his napkin. Dabbed at his mouth.
“And if I make it my problem?”
“I’d say that means something. About respect.” He clenched the napkin in his fist. His knuckles were bloodless.
I got up. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll be going.”
Amadeus affixed a polite smile back to his face and signaled the bartender again. “I’ll have Quinn arrange you an exit.”
“No thanks. I can find my own way out.”
“It’s been a pleasure, Greyson. I do hope you’ll drop in again.” Amadeus didn’t get up.
Tommy the Tank and Magic Max glared at me from the bar. Tommy was flexing.
Guy needed another hobby.
The elevator was at the back of the restaurant.
Could I have trusted Amadeus’ man to find me a jump location back to tomorrow? Probably. But I wasn’t going to risk it.
The ground floor lobby let out onto Stone Street in the financial district.
It was a cold night. Chilled the blood. I could see my breath.
There was history here, a dark cobblestone avenue dating back centuries stuck right in the hub of modern commerce. Modern for ’84 anyway. The gutter smelled like motor oil and mothballs. I walked toward the Goldman Sachs building, pulled earbuds from my pocket, and popped one into my ear so I could communicate with Waldo.
The first earbud was barely in when Waldo spoke. “Someone is tailing you.”
That’s when I noticed I had a tail.
Half a block back. Trench coat. Slouchy but he couldn’t hide his size. Could have been a linebacker.
Should have figured.
“Thanks, buddy.”
“Would you like me to call for assistance?”
“I’m offended by the suggestion.” I pocketed the earbuds again.
The good thing about Stone Street in the eighties was that it already resembled a dark alley.
I found a dead-end walkway and ducked down it. Looked like as good a place as any to get jumped. Never let it be said that Greyson Travers didn’t do things right. A detective had to have some kind of standards.
When my tail came around the corner, I punched him in the throat.