“Think about it, Irving!” Wu said. There was an edge to his voice, like when he thinks I am being stupid on purpose. In fact I am never stupid on purpose. That would be stupid. “You know how a low pressure area sucks air from other areas? It’s the same with Time. The system is trying to stabilize itself. Which is why I can’t get the proper EMS figures for Hurricane Relief, or Ido Ido. for that matter. Which is why I asked you to delay your wedding in the first place.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. I was so excited about my upcoming Honeymoon that I had totally forgotten the wedding. “So let’s plug it. What do you want me to do?”
“Go to La Guardia and wait for my call,” he said.
“La Guardia?!? Aunt Minnie is expecting us for supper.”
“I thought she was Lifthatvanian. They can’t cook!”
“They can so!” I said, more out of loyalty than conviction. “Besides, we’re sending out for pizza. And besides—” I dropped my voice. “—tonight’s the night Candy and I officially have our Honeymoon.”
Honeymoon is one of those words you can’t say without miming a kiss. Candy must have been reading my lips through the Dean & DeLuca’s window, because she blushed; beautifully, I might add.
But Wu must not have heard me, because he was saying, “As soon as you get to La Guardia…” as his voice faded away. We were losing our connection.
Meanwhile, the guy whose phone it was was looking at his watch. It was a Movado. I recognized it from the New Yorker ads. I kept my subscription even after moving to Huntsville. I gave him his phone back and Candy and I headed for the subway station.
How could Wu expect me to hang out at La Guardia waiting for his call on the night of my Honeymoon? Perhaps if the Queens-bound train had come first, I might have taken it, but I don’t think so. And it didn’t. Taking Candy by the hand, I put us on the Brooklyn bound F. It wasn’t quite rush hour, which meant we got a seat as soon as we reached Delancey Street. Did I mention that the train came right away?
Even though (or perhaps because) I am a born and bred New Yorker, I get a little nervous when the train stops in the tunnel under the East River. This one started and stopped, started and stopped.
Then stopped.
The lights went out.
They came back on.
“There is a grumbasheivous willin brashabrashengobrak our signal,” said the loudspeaker. “Please wooshagranny the delay.”
“What did she say?” asked Candy. “Is something wrong?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
Turns out we were in the conductor’s car. The lights flickered but stayed on, and she stepped out of her tiny compartment, holding a phone. “Ashabroshabikus Irving?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Frezzhogristis quick,” she said, handing me the phone.
“Hello?” I ventured. I knew who it was, of course.
“Irv, I need you in baggage claim,” said Wu.
“In what?”
“I’m closing in on the Connective Time leak. I think it’s a phone somewhere on the Baggage Claim and Ground Transportation level. I need you to go down there and see which payphone is off the hook, so we can… what’s that noise?”
“That’s the train starting up again,” I said.
“Train? I thought you were at the airport.”
“I tried to tell you, Wu,” I said. “We promised Aunt Minnie we would come home for dinner. Plus tonight’s my Honeymoon. Plus, you’re not looking for a pay phone.”
“How do you know?”
“The 5.211. Now I remember what it was. It was a battery for a cell phone. It was rolling and I stopped it with my foot.”
“Of course!” said Wu. “What a fool I am! And you, Irv, are a genius! Don’t make a move until I…”
But we were losing our signal.
“Make if sharanka bresh?” asked the conductor, a little testily. She took her phone and stepped back into her tiny compartment and closed the door.
5.
Every bad pizza is bad in its own way, but good pizza is all alike. Bruno’s on the corner of Ditmas and MacDonald, under the el, is my favorite, and Aunt Minnie’s too. A fresh pie was being popped into the oven as Candy and I walked in the door, and Bruno, Jr., assured us it was ours.
We were headed for home, box in hand, when a battered Buick gypsy cab pulled up at the curb. I waved it off, shaking my head, figuring the driver thought we’d flagged him down. But that wasn’t it.
The driver powered down his window and I heard Wu’s voice over the static on the two-way radio: “Irv, you can head for Brooklyn after all. I found it. Irv, you there?”
The driver was saying something in Egyptian and trying to hand me a little mike. I gave Candy the pizza to hold, and took it.
“Press the little button,” said Wu.
I pressed the little button. “Found what?”
“The leak. The 5.211 was the clue,” said Wu. “I should have recognized it immediately as a special two-year cadmium silicone battery for a low-frequency, high-intensity, short-circuit, long-distance cellular phone. Once you tipped me off, I located the phone hidden underneath the old Eastern/Braniff/Pan Am/Piedmont/People baggage carousel.”
“I know,” I said, pressing the little button. “I saw it there. So now I guess you want me to go to La Guardia and hang it up?”
“Not so fast, Irv! The phone is just the conduit, the timeline through which the Connective Time is being drained. What we need to find is the number the phone is calling—the source of the leak, the actual hole in Time, the twist. It could be some bizarre natural singularity, like a chronological whirlpool or tornado; or even worse, some incredibly advanced, diabolical machine, designed to twist a hole in space-time and pinch off a piece of our Universe. The open phone connection will lead us to it, whatever it is, and guess what?”
“What?”
“The number it’s calling is in Brooklyn, and guess what?”
“What?”
“It’s the phone number of Dr. Radio Dgjerm!”
He pronounced it rah-dio. I said, “Help me out.”
“The world-famous Lifthatvanian resort developer, Irving!” said Wu, impatiently. “Winner of the Nobel Prize for Real Estate in 1982! Remember?”
“Oh, him. Sort of,” I lied.
“Which was later revoked when he was indicted for trying to create an illegal Universe, but that’s another story. And guess what?”
“What?”
“He lives somewhere on Ditmas, near your aunt, as a matter of fact. We’re still trying to pinpoint the exact address.”
“What a coincidence,” I said. “We’re on Ditmas right now. We just picked up a pizza.”
“With what?”
“Mushrooms and peppers on one side, for Aunt Minnie. Olives and sausage on the other, for Candy. I pick at both, since I like mushrooms and sausage.”
“What a coincidence,” said Wu. “I like it with olives and peppers.” He sighed. “I would kill for a hot pizza. Ever spend six weeks in a tree-house?”
“Ever spend six months in a space station?” asked a strangely accented voice.
“Butt out, Dmitri,” Wu said (rather rudely, I thought). “Aren’t you supposed to be looking for that address?”
“I spent three nights in a treehouse once,” I said. “Me and Studs. Of course, we had a TV.”
“A TV in a treehouse?”
“Just black and white. It was an old six-inch Dumont from my Uncle Mort’s basement.”
“A six-inch Dumont!” said Wu. “Of course! What a fool I am! Irv, did it have…”
But we were losing our signal. Literally. The driver of the gypsy cab was leaning out of his window, shouting in Egyptian and reaching for the phone.
“Probably has a fare to pick up,” I explained to Candy as he snatched the little mike out of my hand and drove off, burning rubber. “Let’s get this pizza to Aunt Minnie before it gets cold. Otherwise she’ll cook. And she can’t.”