“You gotta tell us what you’re thinking, Gunny,” I said.
Gunny glanced back at the body. People were starting to gather and stare.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have our own war pretty soon,” Gunny said. “Right here in our backyard. It may not be as big as the one brewing over in Europe, but it’s going to be ugly just the same.”
I heard a police siren scream in the distance. It was a far-off, sorrowful wail that was headed our way.
The show was definitely on.??? I’m going to end this journal here, Mark and Courtney. I wish I had my ring so I could send these pages to you. Hopefully, it’ll turn up soon. But until it does, I’ll keep these pages safe and keep writing. I’m beginning to get the hang of this typewriter.
I hope this journal finds you well, and that your lives are much simpler than mine.
It’s March 11. It’s my birthday. Do I still turn fifteen, even though it’s 1937?
END OF JOURNAL
EARTH
I’m getting ready to launch to another territory.
It’s been nearly two months since I finished my last journal, and I can’t tell you how worried I am. I don’t want to leave here. At least not now.
But I think we found the turning point.
Gunny was right. I think that if we can change the outcome of this one event, there’s a really good chance we can stop World War II. Is that incredible or what? The idea of saving the lives of millions of people is almost too good to be true. Gunny was right. The turning point isn’t as big as a war between tribes like on Denduron, or the poisoning of an entire territory, like on Cloral. It’s actually one single event. One big, stupid, spectacular event.
But it’s going to be hard to stop it from happening. Dangerous, too. Big surprise, right?
Since I wrote you guys last, we have crossed paths with some truly foul characters. It’s getting hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys. If we have any hope of stopping this event, we’ve got to go up against these guys again, and I can’t guarantee we’ll win. That’s why I’m fluming to another territory. We need some information and there’s no way we can get it here. But I’m nervous about leaving because I don’t want to miss anything. I’m typing this to you guys on the night of May 5. Tomorrow is the day everything is going to hit the fan. That much we know for sure. We absolutely, positively have to be back in time and leaving now means we’ll be cutting it really close. I’m counting on the fact that the flumes always send us Travelers where we need to be, whenwe need to be there. It wouldn’t be cool to get back late.
But I think it’s a risk worth taking because, like I said before, we need all the help we can get.
The last time I wrote to you it was my birthday, March 11. Spader and I have been here for almost two months. So much has happened since I last wrote that I hope I can remember it all.
When Mr. Nasty Gangster took that header off the Manhattan Tower Hotel, it was truly disturbing. Seeing a man fall to his death is about as horrible and gruesome as it gets. But as bad as that was, it also left us with a mystery. How did he fall? Whydid he fall? He had been chasing us around on the sixth floor. I couldn’t imagine he took a wrong turn and suddenly said, “Oops, this door leads to…air! Let’s go!” No way.
I also couldn’t imagine that he jumped deliberately. Not that I know anything about suicide, but this guy was busy doing other things, like trying to murder Spader and me. Why would he suddenly stop in the middle of the chase and say, “I can’t believe I lost those guys. I’m such a lousy gangster, I think I’ll just end it all.” That didn’t make sense either.
The only possible explanation was that he was murdered.
That leads to the bigger question. Who did it? It wasn’t his partner, Mr. Nervous Gangster. Spader and I saw him leaving the hotel only a few seconds after Mr. Nasty took the dive. That meant somebody else was guilty. There was somebody else in the hotel who was part of all this, and I could make a pretty good guess as to who it might be.
Yeah, you guessed it too. Saint Dane.
He had to be here somewhere, looking like somebody else. Still, why would Saint Dane murder a guy who was trying to murder us? I guess the bottom line was, we had a ton of questions and not a whole lot of answers. There was only one person who could shed any light on this, and that was Gunny. It was time for him to tell us what he knew about these gangsters.
After Mr. Nasty took the fall, Gunny told Spader and me to go back up to our room. He had to talk to the police and let them know what he saw. Of course he didn’t want Spader or me talking to them. They might ask tough questions like: “And where do you live, sonny boy?” or “Give us the name of your parents so we can call them.” That would have been tricky. So Spader and I went quietly back up to our room and waited for Gunny.
Once we hit the room though, we weren’t quiet anymore. Spader was all worked up.
“He’s here. I can smell him,” he said while pacing.
“Who?”
“Saint Dane. He’s in this building.”
“We don’t know that.”
“C’mon, mate!” Spader exclaimed. “You know he’s got to have his slimy hands in this. He sent those gunmen to the flume to kill Press, then he sent ‘em after us. How else would those wogglies know we were here?”
“Then how come one of ‘em is dead?”
“I’m still working on that; give me some time.”
Spader’s hatred for Saint Dane was starting to bubble up again. That was bad. We had to keep our eyes on the ball, and that meant not letting our emotions take over.
“Spader,” I said cautiously. “You know you’ve gotta be cool about this, right?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he assured me. “Cool as a cooger fish, that’s me. Don’t worry, Pendragon. I made you a promise. I won’t go back on you.”
“I believe you,” I said. I really, reallyhoped I was right.
That’s when the door opened and Gunny walked in. I thought he looked a little older than he had earlier. He was the kind of guy who wanted everything to be just so. Having gangsters plunge to a gruesome death from his hotel wasn’t part of his perfect picture.
“I’ve seen a lot of things happen at this hotel,” he said with a shaky voice. “But this beats ‘em all.”
“Be patient,” I cautioned him. “We’re just getting started.”
Spader said, “What’s all this talk about a natty-do around here?”
“A what?” asked Gunny, once again confused by an expression of Spader’s.
“You said there was going to be a war here at the hotel,” I jumped in. “What’s up with that?”
Gunny sat down in one of the easy chairs and let out a tired breath. Spader and I sat across from him on the same couch Spader had toppled over on the gangsters.
“You ever hear of a thing called Prohibition?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Isn’t that when the government outlawed booze?”
“Exactly,” said Gunny. “No wine, no beer, no whiskey, no nothin’. From 1920 until they gave up on it in 1933. It was all against the law, unless you knew where to go. Most people knew where to go.”
“Speakeasies, right?” I asked.
“Speak easy?” asked Spader. “I’m losing you two.”
D. J. MacHale
The Never War
“A lot of people got rich during Prohibition,” Gunny continued. “Some did it making booze-they called it bootlegging. Others sold it in secret clubs called speakeasies; still others shipped it here, there, and everywhere right under the noses of the police. It was all very illegal. It made a lot of gangsters rich and put a lot of others behind bars. Put a lot of them six feet under dirt, too.”
“What’s that got to do with us?” I asked.
“There was a gang,” Gunny continued. “Operated on the Upper East Side here. They had it all covered- bootlegging, shipping, even ran a couple of speakeasies. Made a lot of money for the two bosses. One of ‘em was a gentleman named Maximilian Rose.”
