“Fowler.”
“That’s singular—they said they’d send either Jacobs or Jones.” He was looking at me closely. “Where’d you come by that suit? Is that what you wear in Cleveland?”
“Wait a second,” I said. “Who sent somebody from Cleveland?”
“Why, the Leader. You’re in their employ, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m ...” I tried to arrange my thoughts. “I’m with the Chronicle, on leave—”
“Cleveland Chronicle?” he said skeptically.
“No, the San Francisco Chronicle.”
His jaw dropped. “San Francisco?”
“Right.”
“You came all this way to cover us?”
“Cover you?” I stared at him. “Who are you?”
He looked startled.
“Look, I missed my train. Next thing I knew you were yelling at me to climb aboard this relic and saying you’d explain. So let’s hear it.”
He shook his head. “There’s been some mistake, Mr. Fowler,” he said. “I’m sorry. May I have the ticket back?”
“As soon as I have an explanation.”
He pursed his lips tightly and extended his hand. “Please return it.”
“Listen, I’ve had one hell of a day.” I waved at the compartment. “This is all pretty weird, to put it mildly.”
He kept his hand extended.
“Talk,” I told him.
“You’ve been drinking,” he said abruptly. “I smell it on your breath.”
“Millar,” I said, taking a step forward, patience gone. “Fill me in—like you said!”
“I’m bringing Mr. Champion in here.” He edged back nervously. “He’ll know how to deal with you.”
The door clicked behind him. I slumped onto one of the chairs and rested my feet on another, too exhausted to worry. The train’s jiggling and clacking heightened my overwhelming sense of dislocation. Staring numbly at a tobacco-spattered wall, all I knew for sure was that I was moving. And that I needed desperately to sleep.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ANDY!”
It was shouted by male voices from a distant part of the car. My eyes snapped open. Moments later I heard a single tenor voice.
“Oh, once I was happy but now I’m forlorn,
Like an old coat that is tatter’d and torn,
Left in this wide world to fret and to mourn,
Betray’d by a girl in her teens.
The girl that I love she is handsome,
I tried all I could her to please,
But I could not court her so well
As that man on the flying trapeze.”
And the chorus of voices boomed:
“Oh, he flew through the air with the greatest of ease,
This charming young man on the flying trapeze, . . .”
More verses followed. And more. I drifted off again, only to be awakened by pronounced New York accents just outside the compartment.
“I mean it, Acey, no more.”
“Ain’t every day you’re twenty-three, Andy. Let’s celebrate it!”
There was a belch, then laughter.
“We’ve celebrated plenty. You know the rules. Harry’ll bounce us if we’re caught out. Tell him, Sweaze.”
“Let’s chew on it some in the smoker,” said a third voice.
I sat up, feeling no better for having dozed. Seeing the first man who entered didn’t help matters. Like Millar and the couple at the station, he was dressed for the wrong century.
“Well, how’s this!” He stopped short as he saw me. “We got a visitor.”
The other two crowded in. They were all well-built, compact men—none topped five nine—with deeply tanned faces. The one who had spoken looked to be in his late twenties, older than the others by a good five years. His hair was glossy black and he sported bushy muttonchop whiskers. The others were smooth shaven and wore high stand-up collars; they looked like they’d stepped from a barbershop quartet poster. They scrutinized me with considerable interest.
“Care if we sit?” Muttonchops asked politely, his dark eyes spaniel soft. There was a hint of the dandy about him, with his striped cravat knotted carefully and a flower peeping from his buttonhole.
I sighed and waved at the chairs, wanting to sleep.
“May we know your name?” asked Muttonchops.
“Sam Fowler.”
He nodded in a friendly way, spaniel eyes roving over me. “I’m Asa Brainard.” He gestured toward the taller and chunkier of the smoothfaced men. “This gent’s Charlie Sweasy.”
Though bantam-sized, Sweasy looked like he was constructed of solid slabs, enlarged deltoids swelling his coat, muscular thighs stretching the fabric of his pants. Meatball, I thought. He reminded me of undersized guys I’d known in college who’d pumped themselves up with steroids and lifting. Even Sweasy’s bulgy face seemed to strain against the skin. Just now it regarded me with a beady stare. I felt myself disliking him.
“Who fixed yer noggin?” he demanded, thrusting his chin out, head cocked roosterlike. The flat, East Coast tones held a hint of Irish brogue. A gap between his teeth added a sibilant hiss. A cocky little shit, no doubt about it.
“Did it myself,” I said shortly, meeting his stare.
“That so?” He studied me. “I’d say it rendered you homely enough to tree a wolf.” He laughed, a series of nasal snorts.
Maybe what he wanted, I thought, was a solid boot in the ass.
“Our lad of the hour,” Muttonchops/Brainard went on—his whiskers moved as he spoke, little shag rugs rising and falling—raising his voice over Sweasy’s snorts and nodding toward the smallest of the three, who grinned at me, looking for all the world like Huck Finn’s understudy; his face was splashed with freckles, his hair was carrot red, his eyes green as glass. “Andy Leonard, who’s toasting his birthday and his good fortune in collecting no broken fingers today. We’re taking a little nip of the rosy. Maybe you’d like to—”
“Acey, there’s a curfew!” Andy Leonard broke in.
I studied him curiously, intrigued by some quality about him. His surface boyishness was instantly engaging—a cinch for Most Popular in his graduation class. But something deeper spoke to me from the wide-set green eyes, the forthright gaze,
