The Third Circle

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 4

 

"Thank goodness the highway's still here," Claire said as they came to the intersection.

"You mean already here," smiled John.

They began walking down the road toward town. When they went to work every day, this road was always busy, a common commute route for the bedroom towns to the north, and a well-traveled approach to the National Forest and reservoir just over the mountain. Now it seemed deserted. It felt as it had felt when winter rainstorms had caused mud slides and the road had been closed.

But it felt different in other ways. The road was paved, but the paving was irregular, and lighter in color, and the road was narrower. The center line was faded. Unfamiliar trees grew where familiar trees had been.

They rounded the bend where they always got their first view of the town below. They stopped, staring in wonderment. It was as if there had been a natural but gentle disaster of some kind overnight. Open fields and sand dunes lay where whole sections of the town had been. The landscape was empty, quiet, and soft. The downtown had shrunk.

"My God," said Claire. "Look at that. We're really here."

John whistled in amazement. He reached for her hand. "You okay?"

"Yes," she said, looking at him. "You?"

"I think so."

"I like those pants. You never wear a suit. Great suspenders, too!"

"That's a nice dress. You look really good in blue."

"It's a creepy dress."

"We'll get something else. Come on."

They walked on. It was sweltering, hotter here than it had been coming down the trail.

They heard a car behind them and turned to watch a lumbering, black, 1930s Chrysler sedan approach. It slowed and stopped next to them. A middle-aged woman on the passenger side smiled kindly through the open window. The man at the wheel leaned over her. "Need a lift?" he asked.

Claire and John glanced at each other. "Sure," said John. "Thank you."

The woman in the car reached behind her and opened the back door for them, and they climbed in the back seat.

"It's so soft," Claire whispered.

"Our car broke down," said John, closing the door.

The man looked back at them, smiled and nodded.

"Oh, that's too bad," said the woman. "It's too warm a day to have to walk."

"My name's John. This is my wife Claire."

"Pleased to meet you," the man said, awkwardly extending his hand back to shake. "Name's Connor. Connor Peavey. My wife, Mildred."

"How do you do," said Claire.

As Mr. Peavey rounded the next bend in the road, Claire and John froze. There was the old man who owned their clothes standing on the roadside, fanning his face with his hat and watching them approach.

"Oh, look, Connor," said Mildred. "It's Carl Walker."

"This is not good," John whispered, as Connor pulled over and stopped. He leaned across his wife again. "Afternoon, Carl," he said through the window.

"Howdy, Connor, Mildred." Mr. Walker waved at them with his hat and then put it back on his head. "Dadburned truck won't start again."

"Bad day for that, it seems," Connor said. "Hop in, Carl."

Mildred opened her door and slid over, and Carl Walker climbed in beside her. He smelled like his cabin.

"Carl," said Connor. "That there's Claire and John in the back seat. Having car trouble themselves."

Carl half turned his head, nodded, and touched the brim of his hat. "Dadburned truck's busted good this time," he said. "Carburetor's no damn good. Valves are no damn good. Axle's near broke."

Claire and John shrank into the seat, trying to hide their clothes with their arms and hands.

"Brakes are shot," he continued. "It's about to throw a rod. Clutch is no damned good. Trying to get a load of scrap up to Peterson's. Said I'd have it there this afternoon. Times is hard, I'll tell you. We're heading right straight back into that goddamned depression, if you ask me. Pardon me Ma'am." He tipped his hat to Mildred.

"Oh, dear, me," Mildred said.

"Oh, it'll turn around again, I think," Connor said.

"Is that too breezy in the back seat with the windows rolled down?" Mildred asked Claire and John, turning around.

"We're fine," Claire whispered, smiling at her.

"Seems like everything's gone to hell anyway since Emily passed," Mr. Walker said.

Claire cringed in the blue cotton dress, feeling dishonoring of the late Mrs. Walker. She tried to sink deeper into the seat. She knew that any minute the old man would turn around and recognize it. What would he do? Start screaming at her, probably. Then call the police. They would find the ruby ring and arrest them and take away their time travel watches. They didn't have any identification. The police would try to verify some address for them, and they didn't have any. Less than an hour into their adventure, and it would already be over, and they would be stuck here.

"Well, I know one thing," said Mildred. "It's too warm a day to have to walk."

They rode in silence. Halfway down the mountain, it suddenly seemed that Mr. Peavey had taken a wrong turn, but then Claire and John realized that they were on the old road. The new one, which would gouge its way through the fingers of the foothills, wasn't there yet.

Where the freeway on-ramp would one day be at the bottom of the mountain, there was only a gas station and an intersection, and Connor turned left on the town's main street, now only a two-lane country road. Claire and John were struck by the absence of traffic where a six-lane freeway would later appear.

"Drop me up here at Wiley's," said Carl Walker. Connor pulled up in front of a roadhouse. "Appreciate the lift," Walker said, getting out and touching his hat, barely looking back at Claire and John. He closed the car door behind him and limped toward the roadhouse.

"Good-bye," Mildred called after him, and Connor pulled back on the road.

Claire and John settled back in a wave of relief. John wiped perspiration from his brow with the sleeve of Mr. Walker's shirt, and Claire picked nervously at the blue cotton.

"Poor old grouch," said Connor.

"He's still a'grieving," said Mildred. "Poor soul."

"Where can we drop you folks," asked Connor.

"Oh, anywhere downtown will be fine," said John, "so long as it's not out of your way."

"Not a'tall," said Connor.

They were in light traffic now, and Claire and John's eyes were like children's, staring out the window at all that was new, all that was different, all that was the same. Things were cleaner, lighter, slower, with smoother edges. Claire loved the cars and the clothes people were wearing. John was entranced by the houses and stores. The street signs were all different, but the names were the same. "This is fine right here," John said as they approached the now quaint old Greyhound depot on Santa Clara Street. Sailors and soldiers milled in front.

"We really appreciate the ride," said Claire.

"You folks take care of yourselves," said Mildred, as Connor pulled over.

"Nice meeting you," said Connor.

"Same here," John replied, hopping out and holding the door for Claire.

The moment they were alone, Claire said, "I have to get out of this dress!"

"There used to be a pawn shop next to the bus depot."

"You mean will be,'" Claire teased.

"There it is," John said, pointing. "Three balls and all."

"I hope they don't ask for i.d."

They walked into the pawnshop and became instantly entranced with the priceless wares on the shelves and in the display cases. "We need to figure out how to buy all this stuff and get it home," Claire whispered.

They wandered past the displays, mesmerized, to a cage at the far end of the shop where an enormous man stood scrutinizing them. John took the ruby ring out of his pocket and laid it on the counter in front of the cage. "Need to borrow some money on this ring," he said.

The man slid a jeweler's glass over his eye and examined the ring. "Forty-five dollars," he said.

"Forty-five!" said Claire. "You've got to be kidding!"

"Okay, fifty. That's my top. Take it or leave it."

"We'll take it," said John. The man turned to get a pawn ticket. "It doesn't matter," John whispered to Claire. "It's just a stake. We'll have the ring back in a couple of days anyway."

"Sign here," said the pawnbroker, passing a ticket through the cage.

John signed his real name, John Redmond, wondering as he did if that was a good idea. They took the five ten-dollar bills the man gave them and left the shop.

Around the corner on Main Street was a quality clothing store. Claire found a nice pair of slacks on sale, a blouse, a pair of beige flats, and a pair of bobby socks. John bought khaki slacks, a shirt, a pair of loafers, and socks. They each bought undergarments, and left the store with thirty-five dollars and some change left over.

Two blocks down the street was the Sportsman Bar and Grill, a city landmark. Claire and John had decided from the newspapers they had read at the library that the easiest way to begin their investment adventure would be horse race gambling, but neither of them had any experience with that. The Sportsman Bar and Grill seemed a good place to start. The bartender was pleasant, and directed them to a shoe cobbler named Angelo, who had a shop near the post office.

They easily found the shop. Angelo was short and wiry, with a leathery face and twinkling eyes. He was putting shoes in a large cloth sack when they came into his shop.

"We don't know anything about horse racing," John said, "but we know there's a race at Santa Anita this afternoon. We would like to place a bet."

Angelo told them they had been lucky to catch him, because he was just getting ready to lock up and make his delivery rounds of shoe stores and hotels. "What kind of bet do you want to make?" he asked.

"What exactly is the 'daily double?'" Claire asked politely.

"Well," said Angelo, "if you pick both winners in any two consecutive races, you win thirty to one."

"See, John," she said coyly. "I thought that's what it was."

John put thirty-five dollars on the counter. "We want Sophie in the first," he said, "and Night Prince in the second."

"You realize that's a real long shot," said Angelo. He pulled a racing form out of his jacket pocket. "I'm recommending Short Sighted in the fourth. It's a good bet. I been watching her."

"Sophie in the first and Night Prince in the second, please," smiled Claire. "Thirty-five dollars."

"Well, if you want to throw away your money, what's it to me?" Angelo asked. He filled out the racing form and handed it to John. "Put your name there."

"How soon can we get our money?" asked Claire.

"What money? That bet's a loser. I told you, Short Sighted in the fourth."

"But if they win, when can we get the money?" asked John.

"I'll pick up the results at Western Union at around 4:30. Back here at 5:00. I close at 5:30."

"Appreciate it," said John as Angelo pocketed the money.

"Now we're broke again," John said once they were outside.

"You've got some change. Let's go get a cup of coffee. Look," she pointed across the street. "Mary's Cafe is still here."

"Already here," John smiled. "Must be Mary's grandmother."

Bing Crosby was singing "Sioux City Sue" from a radio behind the counter when they walked in. They sat in a booth and ordered coffee and shared a thirty-five cent grilled cheese sandwich. John asked the waitress for a note pad. He wanted to write everything down that Claire had memorized from the old microfilm newspapers in the library the night before they left in case she forgot the details.

When they finished, John put the list in his pocket. He got a newspaper someone had left on the counter and handed Claire a section. They marveled at the ads, and the prices of things.

"We could rent a luxury house at the beach for eighty dollars a month," Claire said. "Or buy one for ten thousand."

Claire read aloud to John a short item in the second section about Ernest Hemingway's wife, who had been hospitalized following emergency surgery in Casper, Wyoming. Claire complained that the article didn't bother to mention Mrs. Hemingway by name, referring to her only as "the wife of the author Ernest Hemingway." The Hemingways, the paper said, had been on their way to a vacation in Ketchum, Idaho, just outside of Sun Valley. John knew Ketchum. He had been born - in fact would, in two and a half months, be born - in Coeur d'Alene, a little less than three hundred miles north of Ketchum. The thought made him melancholy, made him want to go and visit his parents, particularly his father, who had died when John was five years old.

Claire's parents hadn't met yet. She would be born six years later in St. Paul, Minnesota.

"Do you have any desire to visit your folks?" John asked.

She thought about it. "I'd love to see my dad one more time. I don't even know how we would do that. I don't think I would like talking to him as a stranger. And I couldn't tell him who I was. It would freak him out."

"Hmm. I'd like to get a look at my dad, too. Maybe from across the street or something. It would be hard though. I'd want to go up to him and say, 'Hey ...'" He paused.

"'Hey' what? What would you say?"

"I was going to say, 'Hey, why did you have to go and die on me?' Not a very bright question."

She reached over and took his hands. "I think that's a very bright question. Just one he wouldn't be able to answer very well." She smiled.

At ten minutes before five they saw Angelo with his bag over his shoulder unlock the door of his shop across the street. Several people were milling around the door waiting for him. Claire and John paid their restaurant tab and jaywalked across the street. They waited in line at Angelo's counter as other people collected bets. When it was their turn, John put his racing form receipt on the counter. Angelo looked at them and shook his head. "Sophie in the first, Night Prince in the second. I wanna know where you got that tip," he said as he counted out just over a thousand dollars.

"Just a lucky guess," said John.

"We got another one for tomorrow," said Claire. "We want to bet eight hundred dollars on Silver Bell in the first, and Passing Chance in the second."

"Eight hundred dollars. Ouch." Angelo rubbed his chin. "Well, you ain't gonna be that lucky twice in a row, that's for sure." He filled out another racing form shaking his head.

They gave Angelo eight hundred dollars, signed the form, and then walked back toward the Greyhound depot where they had seen a taxicab stand. At a drug store along the way, they picked up a few toilet articles and some magazines, and then took a cab to the beach.

"You know," Claire whispered in the back seat, "I've been thinking."

"What?" asked John, browsing through a Time magazine.

She pointed across the street. "We could just, say, buy that vacant lot over there, where Macy's is going to be some day, and if we could somehow get the property managed we could go back home in fifty years to a small fortune. Without much effort, we could come back to a really big fortune."

"We could, you're right. There are some problems, but maybe we could solve them."

"I mean, we were talking about a few million, for us. But it's really astronomical what we could do. We could really, like we said at first, help the world. Set up foundations. Health care, drug treatment, help the homeless."

"Inner city development, research on cancer, AIDS, on and on."

"So many millions are wasted. Will be wasted on just ... you know, stuff."

"So, you're saying that this could be a really big deal."

She took his hand. "It already is," she smiled.

They checked into an elegant ocean resort hotel that would burn down in 1953. They had dinner in their room on the balcony and watched the sun go down over the ocean. There was a radio in the room, and they turned it on for a while after dinner and listened to the Ed Sullivan Show, and then to a drama called "Crime Photographer." At ten o'clock, Fulton Lewis Junior came on with the news, which was mostly about problems in Eastern Europe, and disagreements in the Truman administration concerning what to do about them.

They turned the radio off and made love on satin sheets and slept naked with the windows open to the sound of the surf.

Claire dreamt of Emily Walker.

 

Chapter 5

Claire and John awoke, as they usually did, within minutes of each other. The morning was overcast, and there was a light drizzle of rain. They walked out on the balcony of their hotel room and stared in silence out to sea. It was a strange rain, not only because it never in their experience rained this time of year on this part of the coast, but also because the rain seemed to lay a peculiar shadowy cast over the ocean. Though daylight, there seemed somehow to be no sun behind or above the clouds. The ocean itself was flat and calm, and the beach and boulevard were completely deserted. Claire shivered, even though the morning was warm, and took John's hand. She felt alone, even with him beside her. He felt alone, too, and put his arm around her.

"I wonder ... where we are," she whispered blankly.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"The ocean looks so strange. I've never seen it like this."

"Maybe ... with pollution and global warming and all ... maybe the weather is just different now."

"Could be," she said. "It's like a dream or something."

"Maybe it is. Will you still marry me?" he suddenly asked.

She cuddled next to him. "Still and again," she smiled, taking him in her arms.

When they turned again to face the sea, the clouds had lightened somewhat, and the drizzle had ceased. It was now only overcast and hazy. Way down the beach, a lone beachcomber they had not noticed before stooped to pick up something.

They showered together, dressed, and went down to the plush resort terrace restaurant for breakfast. John bought a newspaper. Four thousand people had been killed, and another eleven thousand injured in a five-day riot between Moslems and Hindus in Calcutta. Women in England were very excited because the Wartime rationing on clothing was due to end momentarily, and they would be able to buy dresses again.

When they finished eating, they decided to ride city busses all day to soak in all the changes. They got off here and there, walking down streets, smiling at people, staring in windows, investigating stores. "God, what I would give for my camera," Claire mused. They ate wonderful cheeseburgers in the Greyhound diner, and paid twenty cents each to see a matinee called To Each His Own, in which Olivia De Havilland plays a mother who gives up her baby. The second feature was Weekend at the Waldorf, with Ginger Rogers, Lana Turner, and Walter Pidgeon.

"Let's go to New York, and stay at the Waldorf," Claire said while they were walking to Angelo's after the movie.

"I want to ride on the train," said John. "A sleeper. We can go to New York in a sleeper car and stay at the Waldorf."

She giggled and hugged him.

At fifteen before five, they were the first in line outside of Angelo's. The show repair man eyed them respectfully as he unlocked the door. "Well, first time you've bet on the horses, you say?"

"Yeah, beginner's luck, I guess," said Claire.

"I can't get that much cash until morning," Angelo said, walking behind the counter. "I'll have to give you an IOU. I'll have the money by eleven o'clock. And then you're finished. No more bets in here."

"Oh, just one more daily double?" Claire pleaded. "Tomorrow's race?"

"No way," said Angelo. "No way!"

"Okay," said Claire, "suppose we do this. Take twenty thousand out of what you're getting tomorrow, and spread it out on three daily doubles: the first and second, the fourth and fifth, and the seventh and eighth. Give us ten to one instead of thirty to one. Winner take all."

"Three daily doubles, ten to one, eh?" Angelo scratched his forehead. "What would your pics be?"

"Let me see a list of who's running," said Claire.

John's heart sank for a moment. Claire had an incredible memory, but he was afraid she had forgotten the horses she had memorized. Angelo put a schedule on the table, and Claire ran her fingers down the list, appearing to pick six horses at random.

"Hmm," said Angelo. "I'll have to lay some of that off. I can't cover that much. Lemme' make a phone call." He went into the back room of the shop, and returned a couple of minutes later. "Okay," he said, pulling out a racing form. "This one you can't win. You know what I think?" he said, filling out the form. "I think you guys are nuts."

Claire laughed and signed the form. "Can you give us the other four thousand now?" she asked.

Angelo grumbled and counted it out.

"In case we happen to win tomorrow," said Claire, "you can just have the cash ready the next morning -- Thursday. We won't be in tomorrow afternoon because we're getting married."

"Congratulations. Get out of here."

When they were outside, John asked "What do you mean we're getting married tomorrow?"

"I want to get married again," she kissed him. "I miss my ring."

"Here?"

"Yeah. Here. Now. In this time."

"Okay," he laughed, kissing her. "Wait. No one will marry us. We don't have any identification, birth certificates. We can't get a license."

"Well," said Claire, "let's just marry ourselves. After we get the truck we looked at, we can drive up to the bluff. We can do our ceremony there."

He kissed her again. "Great idea," he said. "What do you want to do tonight?"

"Just cruise. Absorb images."

They walked to the taxi stand at the Greyhound and paid a driver $50 to just drive around. He dropped them at their hotel at dark. They had room service dinner and listened to the radio, falling asleep to Guy Lombardo.

In the morning, they took a cab to the pawnshop. Claire browsed while John reclaimed the ruby ring. Around the corner, they found a jeweler. He had their sizes in two matching plain gold bands nearly identical to the ones that had not traveled with them to 1946, and they waited while the jeweler made the same engravings inside the bands, which were their first names, and three interlocking circles.

Then they walked back to the Greyhound and got a taxi to a Ford dealership they had seen from the city bus the day before. On the lot in front was a brand new green Ford pickup truck. The salesman told them that this truck was the first one delivered to this area since production had resumed after the War. The sticker price was $995.

"How about a test drive?" the salesman offered.

"No, that's okay," said John. "We'll just take it."

The salesman tried not to appear shocked, especially when John started counting out the cash. He ushered them inside to an office and wrote out a receipt. "You been overseas?" he asked, handing it to John.

"No, not yet," said John.

"Hm," said the salesman. "Take that receipt to the Department of Motor Vehicles and show it to them to get it registered."

"Thanks," said John.

They walked out in the lot to the truck, and the salesman handed John the keys. "It's got plenty of gas," he said.

"Thanks," said Claire.

"Thank you," the salesman said.

"Want to drive, Honey?" John asked.

"Sure," she said.

The salesman held the driver's door for her, and John got in the passenger's side.

It had been awhile since Claire had driven a stick shift, and so they lurched around a bit as they drove back downtown. She drove very carefully, since she didn't have a driver's license and didn't want to get pulled over. They stopped at the nicest department store on Main Street and bought more clothes, several outfits each, both dressy and casual. They bought regular wrist watches, the best Elgins in the store for $55 each. Up the street, they bought luggage, including a briefcase to carry money in, and a purse for Claire. They commented on how many young children there seemed to be out and about.

Then they stopped at the Union Pacific Railway station, near their hotel, and bought two coach tickets for noon the next day, Thursday, to Los Angeles, and two first class roomette tickets from there to New York. On impulse, John bought the tickets under another name. He had used the name of Cameron when they checked into the hotel, bet on the horses, and bought the truck. He bought the train tickets under the name of Palmer.

They went back to the hotel and packed their new clothes, and then dressed for their wedding. Claire wore a pale cream-color silk dress and beige dress sandals, and John wore a white silk suit and summer oxfords. They drove the green truck north on Main Street, stopping at a delicatessen to get some things for picnic sandwiches. They found a bakery and bought two slices of white frosted cake. Then they drove thirty miles north on the coast highway to the bluff where they would write their wedding ceremony fifty years later.

The bluff seemed not to have changed. Claire collected a small bouquet of lavender, blue, and orange wild flowers that were still in bloom along the trail. There was a wind that made the highest branches of the towering eucalyptus trees bump together. It sounded like rams knocking their horns. They found their same special spot in the grass overlooking the ocean. They lay down their food, took the rings, and walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down at the timeless surf, rushing in and out among familiar, enduring rocks. A warm gentle breeze caressed them, and the sea seemed to reach up to them, affirming them, whispering "yes" to the union of their love, in the same way that it would fifty years later. Gulls landed on rocks and watched them. Claire leaned close to John and, in a soft whisper, quoted from memory the last line of John Keat's Ode to Solitude:

They turned to face one another. John took her hands in his and smiled. "My beautiful, wonderful Claire," he said softly. "I am grateful for all of the things in my life that have brought me here to be able to stand with you, to be present with you in this blessed relationship, to love you clearly and deeply and fully, in every part of my being."

"John," she said, "I live in thankfulness for your presence in my life, for the gift of our precious love, and for all of the things in my life that have prepared me to stand with you, to experience and express the depth of love that I feel for you, in every part of my being."

John slipped her ring on her finger. "I am so honored to take you to be my wife. I vow to you that I will hold and cherish and honor and love you in the happy times, the difficult times, for all of the days that are before us."

She placed his ring on his finger. "I am honored to take you to be my husband. I promise to you that I will stay with you, hold and cherish and honor and love you in the happy times, the difficult times, for all of the days that are before us."

John held her face gently in his hands and kissed her. She tossed the bouquet over the ocean and put her arms around him and received his kiss.

They spent the afternoon lying on the grass in the warm and balmy sunshine, making love, giggling, sharing their picnic, and feeding one another morsels of their wedding cake. They were still there, basking in their love, when the sun melted into the warm summer sea.

Chapter 6

At nine thirty that evening, Claire parked the green truck at the Greyhound depot. She and John sat quietly for a moment, and then embraced. "I don't want you to go," Claire said.

"I'll be right behind you," John said, laughing.

"Don't laugh. Sometimes I get … frightened when we're not together. Like I might lose you if you aren't right there beside me."

"You won't lose me, Sweetheart." He kissed her. "Okay? I promise."

"Okay," she said, giving him a long kiss in return.

John got out of the truck and got a cab, following the green truck up the mountain pass, turning on the dirt road that would one day lead to their home.
When the truck passed the first bend in the road, Claire pulled it over and stopped. John told the cab driver to wait and joined Claire in the truck. They drove around the next bend, and Claire turned the headlights off, driving in the moonlight to the Walker cabin. A light shown from inside. She turned off the ignition and coasted gently in behind the old Model A.

They got out and closed the doors as quietly as they could. Neatly folded on the seat of the truck they left Mr. and Mrs. Walker's clothes they had borrowed from the cabin, freshly dry cleaned. On top of these were the truck's ignition keys and sales receipt, and an envelope. Inside the envelope was the ruby ring and an unsigned note that Claire had written. It read:

 

They fell asleep in one another's arms, listening to the surf.

After a room service breakfast, they packed, ready to check out, and walked to Angelo's shop for their money. All three daily doubles had come in. They arrived just before eleven o'clock, and could see Angelo alone inside behind the counter.

"Hey, Angelo," said John as they walked into the shop. Angelo glanced up at them somberly. He seemed distant. Once they were inside, a man in a dark suit stepped behind them and bolted the door and pulled the blinds, and two other men came out of the door in the back of the shop. They also wore dark suits. One held a revolver.

"These the ones?" the man with the gun asked Angelo, walking up to John and grabbing the racing form stub from his fingers.

"They're the ones," said Angelo, slouching his head and looking away.

"What ... what did we do," asked Claire.

"That's what we're going to find out," said the man with the gun. "Come on." He gestured toward the door at the back of the shop, and the man behind them pushed them. The third man led them through the door.

"Who are you?" John managed. He could feel the tremble in his voice.

"Sit down," said the man with the gun.

The back room was almost as large as the room in front. It smelled of leather and shoe polish. Along one entire wall was a cobbler's bench, and on the opposite wall were shelves of shoes. Claire and John were both searched roughly, a search that produced no identification, which seemed to be what the men were looking for. They were pushed into two straight chairs in the center of the room. The three men surrounded them, and Angelo watched meekly from the doorway.

"Okay," said the armed man. "Who are you?"

"I'm John. This is my wife, Claire."

"It says John Cameron on the racing form you filled out. That your name? Cameron?"

"Yes," said John.

"You live here?"

"No," said John. "We're tourists."

Claire was squirming. She was thinking about their time watches. They had kept them with them until today, but they were odd looking and attracted attention, and since they didn't plan to use them, they had left them back at the hotel. One was in the briefcase in the hotel safe, along with the few dollars they had left. The other was under the mattress of the bed.

"Where you from?"

"Flint, Michigan." said John. He had never been in Flint, Michigan. He was surprised at how easy it was to lie.

"How come you don't have no identification?" asked another of the men.

"Uh, my wife never thinks to carry any, and I just bought a new wallet and forgot to put my i.d. in it."

"Is it in your old wallet, Honey?" asked Claire. "In the safe at the hotel? You know, with your watch?" If only they could figure out how to get to the watches, she thought.

"He's got his watch on," the man with the gun said to Claire.

"Yeah," said John. "What's this about, anyway?"

"We just want to know who tipped you on these races you bet on in here," said the third man. He was the one who had closed the door behind them. It was the first time he had spoken, and his voice was very gentle and friendly.

"Nobody tipped us," said John. "We're just ... very lucky people."

"What does it matter to you, anyway?" asked Claire. "You don't look like police. What's this about?"

The man with the gun poked it in Claire's face. "It's about that nobody is that lucky, that's what it's about," he said.

"So, who are you?" asked John again. "The Luck Police?"

The second man chuckled, but stopped instantly when the man with the gun gave him a menacing glance.

"Well," said the third man, "let's just say that we have a special interest in who wins and who doesn't at the race track."

Claire figured it out. "Those races are fixed," she said. "You're the guys who fix them. You think we're on to you or something."

The third man came around behind her and put his hands gently on her shoulders. "We need to know who you're connected with, where you got the information."

"Leave her alone," John said menacingly. The tremble in his voice was gone.

The man with the gun walked over to John and slapped him so hard with the back of his hand that John fell off the chair and on to the floor. Then the man kicked him in the side. "We'll do what we want with her," he said.

"Stop it!" Claire screamed. She tried to stand up, but the man behind her pushed her back down into the chair. His fingers slipped to her throat, and he squeezed.

"Better tell us who you're connected with," he said gently.

John shook his head to clear it, caught his breath, and sat up gingerly. Since he couldn't think of anything else to say, he tried the truth: "We're from the future," he said. "We read about how those races were going to come out in the newspaper."

"Cute," said the man with the gun, and he kicked John hard in the ribs. John doubled up in pain. Claire choked for breath as strong fingers tightened around her throat. John looked up and saw her pain through his own. He glanced up at the man with the gun, who had turned his attention to Claire for the moment. In a flash of red, John summoned all the strength he had and dove for the man's ankles. The armed man fell over backwards, and the gun went off. At that same instant, Claire put her hands between her legs and clenched her fists. She extended her thumbs and, with all her might, flung her arms back over her head toward her captors face, thrusting herself straight up at the same time. She was hoping for an eye. She felt soft flesh tear under her thumbnails. The hands left her throat as the man howled a curse. She fell backwards against him, losing her balance, and ended up on the floor, bruising her hip on the chair and knocking it over as she fell.

John was on his feet. The second man was moving toward him. There was a wooden shoe stretcher with an iron handle on the cobbler's bench, and John grabbed it. Holding it by the handle, he swung it as hard as he could. The man tried to block the blow, and the stretcher glanced off his forearm and hit him high up on the cheekbone with a disturbing cracking sound. The man fell with an odd moan.

The man John had tackled to the floor raised his gun toward John. John hit him in the head with the shoe stretcher. The gun dropped out of the man's hand, and Claire dove for it, grabbed it, and rolled over. The man she had scratched, blood streaming down his face, was cursing, moving toward her, reaching under his suit coat. She fired past him, and he stopped.

"Nobody move!" she screamed. "I'll kill you all!"

John stared at her, startled. Angelo stood shaking in the doorway.

"Better get our money, Angelo," John said as Claire got to her feet, waving the revolver at the man who was still conscious. "And call us a cab."

Angelo whimpered and went into the front of the shop.

"This is a mistake, Sweetheart," the man with blood on his face said to Claire.

"Yes, it is," John told the man, still waving the shoe stretcher. "We got lucky. That's all. We don't know anything about you or race fixing or anything else, and don't want to know besides."

"Tie them up," said Claire. "There's some shoe lace there on a spool behind you."

John put the shoe stretcher down and pulled several feet of leather display lace from a large spindle attached to the bench. "On the floor," he said to the man who was still standing.

"Now!" Claire shouted at him, brandishing the gun and pulling the hammer back.

The man dropped to his knees. Angelo came in from the front with a gray canvas sack and handed it to Claire, keeping his eyes on the gun she held. John securely tied the wrists and ankles of each of the men. Then he and Claire walked through the door to the shop, with Angelo following, still shaking.

"Those guys won't hurt you, will they?" asked Claire.

"No, they won't mess with me," said Angelo. "They sure gonna mess with you, though, when they get you."

A taxi pulled up in front. Claire put the revolver in her purse and looked into the gray bag at wrappers of one hundred dollar bills. She took four of the bundles and tossed them on the counter. "This is for your trouble," she said as she unbolted the door.

"Who do you like in today's race?" Angelo said as they were on their way out the door.

"Brandy Eyes in the fourth," said Claire. "King Jones in the fifth. Take care."

They left the shop and climbed in the cab. It was the same driver who had given them the tour on Tuesday evening. "Hi!" he said congenially. "Where to?"

"Our hotel," said John. "Fast. Then the train depot. On second thought, will you take us to LA?" He realized the men would probably check the depot.

"Uh, well, yeah, but it would be expensive."

"Well, let's do it," said John. He dropped a hundred dollar bill on the front seat. "We've got to check out of the hotel first. Make it as quick as you can, okay?"

"You got it," the driver said. He picked up his radio microphone as he pulled away. They heard a siren approach.

"Someone heard the shots," John whispered.

"Do you mind holding off on that radio for a bit?" Claire asked the driver.

"Well, I gotta tell 'em something."

"Tell them you can't find your fare," said John. "Tell them you're going out of service for lunch."

"Seven-one," the driver said into the mike.

"Seven-one," a radio voice responded.

"Nobody here. I'm stepping out for awhile."

"Roger, seven-one."

The cab driver parked in the hotel loading zone and then helped John get their luggage while Claire paid the hotel bill. Ten minutes later they were on Highway 1, heading south to Los Angeles.

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