This is the thought that had been nagging me: 3928. I have recently input those same numbers myself in that very order.
Which city? Kane had said. Los Angeles! What do you think?
“What is it?” Iffy asks me.
I run it all through my mind one more time before saying, “I know where he’s headed.”
CHAPTER TEN
Three-nine-two-eight. These are the last four digits for the locator number of Kane’s house in Echo Park.
Sure, some of the digits that come before the final set could be different, meaning his destination was someplace else entirely, but I think it highly unlikely. He’d expected us to materialize in Los Angeles. The coincidence that he’d want to arrive somewhere else in the city with the same last four numbers is too much to believe.
“He’s going home,” I say and explain how I know this.
“Why would he do that?” Iffy asks.
“No idea. But we need to get to LA. How far away are we?”
“I’m not sure. A couple hundred miles, at least.”
That’s a problem. After we deduct the cost of our meal and a tip, we’ll be left with only a dollar. I know prices are considerably lower in this time period, but I can’t imagine that’s enough to get both of us all the way to Los Angeles.
I start pulling everything out of my satchel and setting the contents on the seat between us. Med-kit, my notebook, a ballpoint pen that I’m not sure has even been invented yet, RJ’s makeshift charger, my useless cell phone, Kane’s knife.
“What are you doing?” Iffy asks.
Though the bag now appears empty, I run my fingers along the bottom. There’s a lip under which I used to hide whatever time-appropriate money I was given by the institute when I went on missions. Since my last mission for them had been to eighteenth-century America, I had been given several Spanish dollars, the common tender of the time. I used some in those first weeks after I found myself in a changed 2015, but surely there were still a few left. My finger touches nothing until it’s almost at the end of the space. I pull out what I find. Not a few coins, as I’d hoped. Just one.
“Denny? What are—”
Iffy cuts herself off and quickly slides the knife behind her back.
“Two country farm specials,” Winnie says as she approaches our table carrying plates in each hand. She sets one in front of Iffy and then the other in front of me. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Everything looks great,” I say, “but I have a question.”
“Shoot,” Winnie says.
“You wouldn’t happen to know the best way to get to Los Angeles, would you?”
“Straight south on the highway. Can’t miss it. Big city. Lots of people. If you reach the ocean, you’ve gone too far.”
“I mean, is there a bus or something like that we can catch here?”
Her brow furrows. “No car?”
“It, um, broke down. But we need to get back to the city today.”
“Today? Well, I believe the bus comes through between twelve thirty and one. You should check with Marsha over at the Dow Motel. She’s got the schedule. Won’t get you into LA until later tonight, though. A lot of stops between here and there.”
“Do you happen to know how much a ticket costs?”
Another furrowed brow. “Please tell me you have enough to pay for your food.”
“Of course.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the two dollars Mr. Graves gave us.
Winnie relaxes. “I don’t know how much the bus is these days, but if that’s all you have, I don’t think it’s going to be enough.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Holler out if you need anything,” she tells us and then heads off to help a customer who’s just arrived.
“Are you trying to get us arrested?” Iffy asks as she pulls the knife from behind her and shoves it in the bag.
“You heard her. We need money. I’m trying to find something we can sell.”
Iffy looks at the things I’ve piled on the seat. With a frown, she shoves her hands into her pants pockets and pulls out some change, several bills, her ID, her phone, and her key chain.
She has twenty-seven dollars, but every bill bears a maker’s date that’s at least sixty-plus years in the future and is useless here. After she tucks them back in her pocket, she hands me the coins.
“Check those. We might get lucky.”
She starts doing something with her keys while I quickly go through the change. The earliest date is on a penny from 1978.
When I tell her this, she says, “Hold onto them. I’m not sure what the vending machine situation is here, but if we run across some, those should fit.”
As I put the coins in my pocket, I see that Iffy has detached the trinket that’s been connected to her key chain since I met her. It’s a character from a Japanese cartoon — Mikasa from Attack on Titan Iffy told me when I asked once. It’s also not called a cartoon, but an anime, I believe. The figurine is about an inch high and is wearing a brown jacket and white pants crisscrossed with what I assume are supposed to be leather belts. It’s actually quite detailed.
Iffy shoves everything I’ve removed from the satchel back inside the bag, then says, “Move over to the other side.”
“What?”
“Just do it.”
As I slip out from the table, Iffy follows right behind me, taking the satchel with her.
Before I can sit again, she says, “Give me the two bucks.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Like you said, we need money.”
I have no idea what her plan is, but I give her the dollar bills and then watch her walk over to the counter. The dining area is starting to fill up, and Iffy has to wait a minute before Winnie can get to her.
I then watch Iffy hand one of the dollars to the woman. A few moments of conversation is followed by Iffy placing the Mikasa figurine on the counter. The waitress picks it up, clearly fascinated. After the two exchange a few more words, Iffy reaches into my satchel, pulls something else out, and sets it down. Unfortunately, she’s positioned so that I can’t see what it is.
Winnie glances at the item but leaves it on the counter and calls back into the kitchen. The cook comes out a few seconds later. He’s a man about the same age as our waitress, though clearly has sampled more of the restaurant’s dishes. He picks up the item to examine it closer, and I now see that it’s Kane’s knife. The man opens it and inspects both sides, then he carefully touches the sharp edge. With a shrug, he says something to Iffy, puts the knife down, and returns to the kitchen.
Winnie, on the other hand, holds on to the Mikasa and gives back the dollar Iffy had paid her for our breakfast and adds a second bill from the register.
When Iffy returns to the table, she looks disappointed. “We’re up a dollar, and breakfast is free. I was really hoping to sell the knife. The waitress said there’s a store down the street that might buy it.”
I’m not so keen to get rid of our only weapon, however.
We leave the diner after the town has woken up, and in less than an hour, we have held on to the knife but sold the Spanish dollar for more than enough to cover two tickets on the 12:40 bus to Los Angeles.
Winnie wasn’t joking about how long the ride south would take. Traffic in 1952 seems to travel slower than it does in 2015. It also doesn’t help that the highway is only two lanes and in need of repair. And then, of course, there are all the promised stops we make on the way.
Both Iffy and I try to sleep as much as we can. She is considerably more successful at it than me. I’m not only plagued by my six-foot height, but also by my stitched-up leg. For the most part, the constant throbbing is bearable, but it’s when the bus bounces over a pothole or a crack in the road that the pain shooting out from the wound temporarily blinds me.