I guarantee it, a prince, even.”
“I don’t need two white shirts. How about one and a sport shirt?”
“I have just what you want right here,” he said, hopping to another counter and holding up a blue-and-red checked shirt.”
“Okay. How much for the shirts?”
“Twenty-five cents each.”
“Twenty-five cents!”
“All right all right,” he said irritably, “fifteen cents.”
“Good. How much for everything?”
“Pants and jacket--five dollars, two shirts, thirty cents, and fifteen cents for the tie. Altogether, five dollars fifty cents.”
“You sure you figured that right?” Gary said, turning sideways to the old man and the light as he pulled a twenty dollar bill from his wallet.
The man slapped his sweaty forehead. “What am I thinking-- five dollars forty-five cents, of course, not fifty cents,” he said, squinting at the bill and folding it over the top of the neat wad he took from his pocket. From the bottom, he counted out fourteen singles, squeezing each one between thumb and forefinger before releasing them. “And fifty-five cents,” he said, taking the change from his opposite pocket and dropping it in Gary’s hand. Packing the clothes neatly in a brown shopping bag he took from beneath the shelf, he handed it over.
“Any time you’re in the market,” he said, following Gary and bowing him out the door, “any time you need something first-class, I’m here, best prices in town.” He called after him. “That suit I was telling you about, believe me, I raise my right hand to God, the honest truth, it would cost you, I swear it, at least twenty-five dollars anyplace else….”
* * * * *
A block down on the opposite side of the street, Gary spotted a Greyhound bus depot sign. So much walking was making him puff, and making his ribs ache. Passers-by looked askance and gave him wide berth as he crossed over and made his way along, shifting the packages from one hand to the other.
Once inside the station, he found the men’s room, where he went inside a stall, stripped off his dirty clothes and stuffed them in the bag, and put on the pants and white shirt. The fit wasn’t perfect, but not too bad, either. The outfit wasn’t exactly color-coordinated, but from what he’d seen others wearing, it was better than most.
Hung high up on the wall above the toilet was a wooden box, just like the one Michael Corleone found the gun stashed behind in the Godfather movie. He couldn’t resist giving the dangling chain a yank and gave a start with the explosion of the flush. Relieving himself, he flushed again, ready this time for the explosion, washed his hands and face at the sink and ran wet fingers through his hair. He didn’t think he looked too bad, all things considered. A few lumps and bruises spoiled the smooth terrain of his face, but being freshened up and with his new clothes, he thought he could get by.
Chapter 12
The walk was hard and seemed especially long, but he found the boarding house without any trouble, climbed the porch steps and knocked on the front door. A hefty, square-faced woman chewing a wad of gum, and looking closer to sixty than fifty years old, opened the door and stepped onto the porch. Her pendulous breasts hung loose behind a baggy house dress with a red-and-black flower pattern. Her lipstick matched her bright-red toenails protruding from her torn slippers. “This better not be no sales pitch,” she said frowning.
Unabashedly looking him up and down and side to side, she seemed to be more interested in studying him like a laboratory specimen than in listening to what he had to say.
“…and he said to tell you your favorite brother sent me.”
“My ass. Come on, don’t let the cold in,” she said, holding the door open and leading him down the hall. The room had a single bed over which the bedspread undulated; a dresser; an overstuffed, velvety armchair; a night stand with an ash tray on it; a card table and two folding chairs with Tanner’s Funeral Home stamped on the back; a sink; an ice box; a makeshift cardboard closet; and a window with limp white curtains over the shade. A skimpy throw rug covered a bare wooden floor.
“Toby wasn’t lying,” he said. “It is clean.”
“He’s a sweetheart all right, that kid brother of mine.”
“How much?” he asked.
“Five dollars a week? In advance.”
Posing it as a question told him she’d take less. “Five dollars!”
“I suppose I could take four,” she said, bitterness lacing her words.
He hesitated, looked toward the door and said, “I’ll take it for three.”
He could see her face flush behind a scowl as she turned her back on him and stepped outside the room. “Okay. Toilet, sink and bathtub’s down the side. Don’t hog it. And don’t leave no ring around the tub when you’re done.” Her mouth twisted with the words. “Others live here, too, you know.”
He dropped his packages on the chair and followed her out. “Could you possibly supply me with a couple of towels and soap?”
“Fifty cents for that.”
She tried to peek over his shoulder as he turned sideways and peeled off four singles. “Let’s make it a dollar, okay?”
She softened. “If you need anything more, just knock, first door there on the left. That’s my apartment.” She turned to face him directly. “Turn out the lights when you go out, and no parties, no guests past ten, and no ladies-- ever!”
She tried to squeeze a little more information out of him, but he edged himself back into his room and shut the door. Pressing his ear against the door, he listened to her footsteps falling heavily on the wooden floor until they stopped with the slam of a door.
He pulled the key out of the keyhole, recognized it as a skeleton key-- one that would probably open every door in the place-- stuck it back in the hole, turned it and left it in place, locked. Slipping out of his jacket, he eased himself down on the edge of the bed and bounced lightly a few times to get the feel of it. Then, running his hands at his sides over the lumpy mattress to brace himself, he slowly lowered himself with a long, drawn-out groan. His ribs ached, his mouth was dry and his eyes burned. He closed his eyes trying to let go, to relax, to forget for a while, but he couldn’t relax, couldn’t allow himself that luxury, not yet, not until he figured out what was going on and what he was going to do to get straight again.
Money. He needed money and all he had left in his wallet was a twenty, a ten, and a single-- thirty-one dollars, money he’d have to be exceptionally careful about spending. That, plus the fourteen good singles the old man gave him… and fifty-five cents… and sixty-five cents change from the diner, that’s… a dollar twenty more. So, fourteen dollars and a dollar twenty is fifteen dollars and twenty cents, minus the four he paid for the room… leaves a little over eleven dollars in good money to his name.
Thinking tired him out, but he couldn’t let up, not now, not yet. Assuming he hadn’t gone mad-- and he wasn’t quite sure he hadn’t-- he really had found a way to the past, to 1939, to a time long before he was born. All because of a newspaper ad that he’d answered on a crazy whim! For years he’d fantasized over going back in time, just as his grandfather and millions of others had, but actually doing it, having it become a reality, gave it a whole new coloration. Maybe if he had known it was coming, had anticipated it, he could have prepared for it, given some time to thinking of the problems he’d have to face and be ready for them. But this way, he might just as well have been dropped from an aircraft into an alien world. He couldn’t even contemplate the kind of pitfalls or the number of pitfalls that lay ahead. No doubt about it, the more he thought of it, the more certain