In Times Like These (29 page)

“Yeah.” I start walking.

“Great. Another way I could have died.” Francesca picks up her pack and follows me.

“Does it say what to do if you find yourself suddenly stranded in Boston? Because we’re kind of screwed,” Blake says.

“Hey, it could be a lot worse,
” I say. “We could have died or . . . wait a minute. I actually did see something about Boston in here.”

I flip to the back of the journal and turn back a few pages. “Here. Look.” I show the journal to Blake and Frances
ca. “On this list of people we think are time travelers, there’s one listed in Boston. Guy Friday. Green Dragon Tavern. Marshall Street, Boston. Fridays from August 1984-1988.”

“The guy’s address is a bar? And his name is Guy Friday?” Franc
esca says. “Well, how could that go wrong?”

“I
t’s something at least,” I say. “I mean, we can research our own jump points from here to the next one we’ve got left. The research is going to take some time though. Maybe this guy can help us. He’s in Quickly’s book.”

“What day is it today?” Francesca asks.

“Monday,” Blake says.

“So we need to find this bar and get there on Friday,” Francesca says. “Cab?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I reply. “Don’t think we’re likely to see one in this neighborhood though. We should probably find a payphone.”

We find our way out of the neighborhood in short order but my hands and toes are already numb by the time we reach a main road. When we finally locate a payphone
, we realize that all we have for cash is hundred dollar bills. Francesca talks a laundromat attendant into breaking her hundred and scores us some quarters. We shiver on the sidewalk waiting for the cab, and huddle happily into its warmth in the back seat when it arrives.

The ride to downtown Boston takes the better part of an hour. The cabby assures us
, that while he doesn’t know the exact bar we’re looking for, that most of the good pubs are in one area and easy to find. We have no real choice but to believe him.

“You
ever been to Boston before?” Francesca asks me as we get out of the cab.

“Yeah, but not in the eighties obviously.”

I scan the street of bars we arrive on. The buildings are mostly brick architecture layered over historic sites from the 1700s. The street is narrow and bricked as well, with little room for cars. The daytime pedestrians appear to be predominantly tourists.

“God, New England girls ev
en dress better in the eighties.” Francesca frowns. “I might need to go shopping.”

“Won’t do you any good
, unless you want to leave a nice pile of new clothes where we jump from, and show up at our next spot naked,” Blake says.

“I mean
, we aren’t going to complain if that’s what you really want.” I smile.

Francesca shoves me in the arm. “Darn it. I should have had
Dr. Quickly gravity zap me a pea coat.”

“I’ve got a nice brown jumpsuit in my pack you can wear,” I say.

“Ugh. Maybe this time traveler we’re meeting will have a girlfriend who has some cute clothes I can borrow.”

We find the Gr
een Dragon Tavern by asking a couple of pedestrians. The tavern has a wide exterior of small paned windows in the front with a doorway in the center. A hanging wooden sign advertises that it has been in business since 1773. As it is Monday afternoon, we find the bar area nearly deserted. The hulking bartender immediately detaches himself from his conversation with his two patrons at the far end of the bar as we walk in.

“You all want menus?” h
e asks as we take stools.

“Actually we have a question,” I say
.

The bartender lays out a few coasters in front of us.
“Whatcha got?”

“W
e’re looking for someone named Guy Friday,” I begin. “We were told we could find him here.”

“Oh. Yeah. I think I know
who you’re talking about. Young blonde guy? Kind of . . . different?”

“We aren’t really sure,” I say. “We haven’t met him before.”

“Well there’s a guy named Guy, and he only ever comes in here on Fridays, so I figure that’s how he picked up the name. I don’t know what his real last name is though.”

“Okay. D
o you know how we find him?”

“On Friday, yeah. He usually sits over there at that booth by the front, unless we’ve kicked him out. He can get a little mouthy with the girls sometimes. Mostly he’s all right though. Comes in with another big guy sometimes. Dark hair
, that one.”

“Are you going to be working Friday?” Francesca asks. Her eyes are admiring th
e bartender’s muscled arms and Celtic tattoos. She smiles at him.

“Actually
yeah, I think I am. I could probably point him out to you.”

“That would be great,” I say.

“Well I’m going to have a beer,” Francesca says. “Can I have a Guinness please?”

The bartender looks to Blake and me.

“I’m okay right now,” I say. Blake shakes his head also.

“So what, are we just going to sit here and drink till Friday?” Blake says.

“I’m okay with it,” Francesca replies, watching the bartender pour her beer. “That accent is so sexy.”

“I was assuming we were going to just skip to Friday,” I say.

Francesca frowns. “Just when I found somewhere I like. It’s warm in here . . . there’s good scenery . . .”

“We’re skipping,” Blake says.

“How about you guys blink ahead and I’ll stay and get to know the locals.” Francesca smiles.

“I really think we ought to stay together,” I say.

Francesca pouts. “Fine. But I’m going to drink this beer reeaaallly slow. And we’re definitely stopping somewhere for me to get something to wear. I’m certainly not coming back in here looking like this now.” She gestures to her triple T-shirt ensemble. She beams at the bartender as he sets her beer in front of her. Blake and I cave in and order beers too.

An hour later
, we reemerge into the fading afternoon light of wintertime Boston.

“We need an anchor,” I say, as we look around.

“We could shimmy up a light pole,” Blake suggests, gesturing to the stoplight at the intersection. “No one will be going up there.”

“I don’t shimmy,” Francesca says.

“Yeah, we could use a roof or a locked room or something,” I say, still scanning around.

“Fire escape.
” Blake points to the side of one of the neighboring buildings. “The odds of that being in use when we arrive are pretty slim.”

“I like it,” I say.

“How do we get up there?” Francesca asks.

We cross the street to the side alley of what appears to be an apartment building
, and crowd under the fire escape.

“I bet you could reach it if I boost you up,” I say to Francesca.

Blake eyes the passersby. “We should probably get set up first, in case someone says anything.”

“
Good idea.” I set my pack down and concentrate on my chronometer. “We could do four days and get here around the same time Friday, or we could do a time and date specific jump.”

“Let’s just do four days,” Blake says. “We can get here this time Friday.”

“I still need time to shop,” Francesca says.

“You
should have a couple of hours.”

Once we have
our settings dialed into our chronometers, we compare with each other to double check. “We have enough power for this?” Blake asks. “That last one was a long one.”

“Yeah, hopefully,” I say. “We should definitely charge them up after this one though.”

Blake takes the packs from Francesca and me, and turns to keep an eye on the pedestrians. “You look clear.”

I intertwine my fingers and cup my hands atop my knee to give Francesca somewhere to step. She grabs my shoulders and places her right foot in my hands.

“Please don’t drop me.”

“I got you.”

“Go for it,” Blake says.

I boost Francesca up and then wrap my arms around her knees to lift her higher. She latches her hands onto the bottom rung of the fire escape and I slowly lower her down, dragging the fire escape ladder with her. Blake grabs it when it gets low enough and I set her back down. I check the area
, but no one is paying attention. Blake hands me one of the packs and we clamber up. Francesca leads the way up the ladder, and once she’s on the first platform, I gesture for her to keep going.

“Let’s go up a cou
ple and get out of people’s eyeline.”

Nobody ever looks up.

Blake eases the ladder up behind us and it clanks back into place. He joins us on the third floor landing. Francesca peeks into the window of the apartment we’re adjacent to.

“Looks like no one’s home.”

The wind feels stronger three floors up. “Let’s make this quick. My toes are getting numb,” I say.

Flip-flops were a poor choice.

I squat down and grab one of the vertical rails of the fire escape, hoping to make myself less obvious to passersby. Francesca copies me. Blake stays standing but extends his chronometer hand and touches the tips of his fingers to the railing. “On three again. One, two, three!”

Pin in.

Blake recoils from the railing in pain. The buildings and streets around us have been blanketed in white.

“Agghh,” Blake moans, holding his hand and staring at his fingertips.
I look to where his hand had been and see the half-inch of snow that has managed to linger along the top of the railing. There are two indents where Blake’s fingers were.

Shit. He got fused with the ice crystals
.

I grab Blake’s wrist and dial his chronometer for him. “You gotta jump again! Here!” I drag his arm back toward the railing and touch his hand to the vertical rails. “Just a couple of seconds.” Blake’s eyes are full of pain as he looks in mine. I step away. He pushes the pin and disappears. The finest mist lingers momentarily where his fingertips were. I look d
own at the diamond-shaped holes in the metal floor of the landing that prevented snow from settling on it.
Thank God for that.

Three seconds later
, Blake is back. He’s still gripping his wrist as he pulls away from the railing.

“God
, that hurt,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Is it better?” I ask.

“Yeah. A little.” He examines his fingertips.

“I’m so sorry
, dude. I never even thought about snow.”

He hisses through his teeth a little as his touches his finger
tips together. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

Francesca has
her hands over her mouth. “Are you okay?” she says, staring at his hand.

“Yeah.
” Blake shakes his hand. “I think I’ll be all right. Let’s just get down from here.”

The temperature is even
more bitter than the day we left. I rub my arms as we descend the fire escape. The streets are busier despite the cold. The Friday afternoon pedestrians are bundled in colorful scarves and hats. I’m happy I chose to wear pants, but standing shivering in my flip-flops and short-sleeved shirt, I’m eager to get indoors.

“I think Francesca is right about the shopping,” I say. “Let’s find a clothing store, quick.”

We draw innumerable stares from store patrons and tourists as we make our way south on Union Street. A cab pulls up to the stop at the next block and I’m elated to see it vacant. Blake flags the driver with his good hand and Francesca opens the back door for him. Blake slides across the seat and I sandwich Francesca in the middle.

“Where to?” t
he cabby says, eying our unusual outfits.

“We could use a department store,” Francesca replies. I slam the door shut and shiver.

“Well there’s Filene’s.” The cabby scratches his salt-and-pepper whiskers. “That’s a nice one. Got about everything.”

“Sounds perfect.” I unbuckle my pack and pull the last
T-shirt out of it. It’s too cramped to attempt to put it on, so I simply drape it over my bare arms and hold the pack close to my chest for warmth.

“You having some clothing difficu
lties?” the cabby asks.

“Stupid airline lost our luggage,” Francesca says.

I nod.
That’s a pretty good one
.

“I had that happen to me and the wife once. They had a big snowstorm in Cleveland on our way out to California for a nephew’s wedding. Boy, they had things all screwed up. I thought my wife was going to murder that baggage agent.” He chuckles to himself. “Not that I’m saying your situation is funny.”

“No. It’s okay,” I say.

It’s a very short drive to the Filene’s. We probably could have walked it if it wasn’t so cold.

“Wow this place is huge,” Francesca says, leaning her head back to look out the rear window at the ornate multistory stone building. The cabby deposits us on the sidewalk in front of the main entrance, and Francesca pays him.