“Lincoln lived,” said Ryan with great satisfaction. “The South was rebuilt. Freedom, peace, education, and prosperity. Eventually there was no underclass. By popular acclaim the presidential title became hereditary, making the Lincolns our royal family. Eventually it became intermarried with the European, Eastern, and Asian royal families, and the world is what you see now: a stable population of about two billion, no war, no poverty, no unemployment, a world-wide realization of the American Dream.”
Roger frowned as he slowly shook his head. “I don’t get it,” said Roger. “I thought Lincoln went stark raving gibbers in ’69—”
“His wife was what drove him over the edge,” said Dalik. “Mary Todd Lincoln had been quite mad since the death of her son William in 1862. If she had remained alive, she probably would’ve driven the president mad, as well. Your killing the first lady has made the world what it is today. As I once told you, Roger. You’re not very good at this, but you are incredibly lucky.”
“What do you mean? Aren’t we going back? Set things right?”
“There’s nothing to set right. Reality is what it is, and it contains no provisions for time spanning. We only had time enough to get us inserted into the stream here before the timewave was eliminated altogether. We’re all in the stream now.”
With a great weariness, Roger again looked through the window wall at Washington. It would take time to get used to it all. The new time, the new reality. He was almost afraid to ask about Hollywood and Close Encounters. Before he could, however, Peter Ryan stood beside him and held out a pen and a pad of paper. “What’s that?”
“I just wanted to ask you for your autograph.”
“What?”
“You are Richard Dreyfuss, aren’t you? I’m certain of it. If I can get your autograph, I’ll be the only one in the world who has one.”
“Dreyfuss wasn’t born into this reality,” explained Isa Childs. “No Close Encounters; no Oscar; no What About Bob?”
“I’d like one anyway,” said Ryan. “For sentimental reasons.”
Roger glanced at the time warden, then let his gaze drift to Peter Ryan’s face. “If I am Richard Dreyfuss,” said Roger, “I don’t give autographs.”
Still Waters
Benjamin Waters sat at the far end of the counter in Izzy’s Deli on East 74th Street sipping his coffee. The pin-striped fellow to his left asked for the salt and Benjamin pushed it gently in the man’s direction.
“Thanks,” said the suit.
Benjamin didn’t answer. The man looked and smelled like a lawyer. Besides, Benjamin Waters was fully engaged in studying the perfectly pear shaped buttocks on the waitress behind the counter. She was new.
Suzie was usually behind the counter at noon. This one’s name was Nola. Benjamin felt his lips grow dry. He did not moisten them with his tongue, however. Too revealing. Instead he sipped his coffee and used Izzy’s decaf to provide the necessary humidity.
The way Nola moved. The way she moved beneath that sheer yellow uniform. It was obvious how she was making him do it. The way she jiggled forced Benjamin to lean over the counter, grab her hips with both hands, lift her high in the air above his head, and begin biting. Biting through the phony lace apron strings, biting through the yellow polyester, biting through the black knit panties he knew were beneath, biting deep into the creamy pillows of her buttocks, the feral cries coming from his throat, the hot blood drowning the cries, the warm wetness of it running down his chest onto the floor—
“Would you like me to freshen that up?”
The waitress, Nola, was standing before him, coffee pot in hand. Benjamin pulled his mind back from his cannibal feast and glanced up at her. Nola’s lips, touched with the color of ripe peaches, were parted in a smile that revealed a slight overbite.
Benjamin looked down at his cup as he felt the heat rise in his collar. “Please,” he answered.
The heat, he knew, was the last vestige of an alien feeling called embarrassment; a feeling that suspected that others might be able to see what he was thinking, and might catch him thinking it.
He knew no one could see what he was thinking. No one could tell, no one could react, accuse, or punish. He almost had the feeling entirely conquered. Once his victory was complete, he could experience his chosen realities at will, while continuing to travel within the one that contained Izzy’s Deli, East 74th Street, and the Merit Literary Agency where he held down a desk and attempted to sell literature to baboons who were only interested in purchasing “another.” Another Godfather, another Carrie, another Ninja damned turtle rapping Muppet heap of horseshit.
“You’re Benny Waters, aren’t you?”
“Benjamin.” He looked up at her. She was still smiling. “How do you know me?”
“Suzie. She told me all about you.” The outside ends of her eyebrows were turned wickedly up. Her eyes were greenish blue.
“She told you what about me?”
He felt light-headed; his skin tingled. Trapped. She’s got your number, Benjamin Waters. It’s all over for you. Your secrets are everyone else’s idle gossip. The cops are waiting outside the deli door.
Suzie had done some time in Benjamin’s fantasies, although he never before suspected that she suspected. Her suspicions could have only been in the general, he reminded himself. After all, the specifics had been rather lurid, involving at times several partners, and once a well endowed Clydesdale, straight off the beer wagon.
“Suzie said you’re a literary agent.”
“I work for one,” said Benjamin. “The Merit Agency, around the corner.”
Why did her eyes seem to speak a different language? She had knowing eyes. Sherlock Holmes had eyes like that. “It must be interesting work,” she began, but was interrupted by another customer who wanted coffee. As she left, Benjamin glanced down at his watch. It was approaching time for him to end his lunch break. He looked up and allowed his eyes a moment longer to continue their exploration of Nola’s buttocks.
Someone was watching him.
The cop sitting facing him from one of the tiny imitation wrought iron tables near the street window had a face like a shark: white, dead, and full of menace. The officer was looking at him, his thick lips curled into a sneer. “You have to do it with your eyes ‘cause you can’t get one in your hands,” said the patrolman’s look.
Smart said let it go. Whoever listened to smart?
“Why don’t you write a book about it, asshole?” Benjamin shouted across the deli at the cop. Everyone, eyes wide and mouths open, looked first at Benjamin, then at their immediate surroundings to determine who Benjamin had been addressing. The cop, his brow knotting into a storm, rose to his feet and cocked his head as he tucked his thumbs behind his gun belt.
“What did you say?”
“Don’t tell me you’re deaf as well as stupid, you butt ugly blue fuzzed flatfoot asshole you.” Benjamin closed his eyes, put back his head, and laughed at the officer.
“I said it,” he shouted, “I said it, and I’m glad I said it, I tell you! Glad! Glad!” He laughed again.
When he opened his eyes, he saw that the officer’s gun was out of its holster, aimed in his direction. The gun jumped, the concussion smacking every eardrum in the room, as it fired.
Benjamin quickly grabbed the lawyer, and using him as a shield, pushed his way toward the enraged cop. He felt the lawyer’s body twitch violently each time one of the officer’s slugs tore into it. When he was a step from the cop, he shoved the lawyer’s lifeless form into the officer and disarmed him.