Time and Again Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Ebook

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Reach the Author

  Henry Wood

  Time and Again

  by

  Brian D. Meeks

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and story contained within, are created within the fertile imagination of the author. Any resemblance to persons, whether living or dead, or any events, are purely coincidental. Except for the cat, Buttons. The author had a cat very much like Buttons. Buttons was awesome.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means electronic, mechanical, printing, photocopying, recording, chiseling in stone, or otherwise, without the written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. For information regarding permission contact the publisher.

  Copyright© 2013 by Brian D. Meeks All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-9851046-3-4

  Chapter One

  The radio was on. Music floated in the background while Henry relaxed with a bit of light hand planing on a piece of walnut. The last couple of months had been perfect. He had taken a few easy cases which kept him in the black: two wives wanting to know if their husbands were cheating on them, and a couple who needed him to find their daughter.

  Henry had bad news for the one wife, and was pleased to inform the other that her man was simply taking dancing lessons – it was to be a surprise for their tenth anniversary. Both ladies cried at the news.

  The daughter had run off with a guy who didn't have much money, but looked like James Dean. She came home after realizing that life with her rebel would not have a happy ending.

  The song changed and Patty, Maxine, LaVerne, and their buddy, Bing Crosby, were asking the question, "Is you is or is you ain’t my baby?” and it made Henry stop planing the piece of walnut. He set his old Stanley No. 5 on its side. The Philco 90 was on a table next to the closet door, and he reached over and turned up the volume.

  It filled the woodworking shop with memories. Henry shuffled about in the sawdust, spinning around with a broom.

  He wondered what Luna was doing. He had seen her only once in the last couple of months. She had brought him cookies and they had eaten lunch and made promises to find the time to get together. He thought, I should give her a call.

  The song faded, and Henry set the broom back up against the wall. His feet were still shuffling. The Philco played a catchy tune for Jell-O, and then a voice talked about the weather in Brooklyn.

  Henry had gone back to working on the piece of walnut when the next song started - bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom. Henry stopped. He didn't move. Those first notes crashed into his head, and as the Chordettes asked "Mr. Sandman" to bring them a dream, Henry felt a wave of time pull him back into the past.

  The single had climbed up to #1 on the charts, and it seemed to be on the radio all the time. Henry didn't buy too many records, but he did have a record player. When the 45 showed up with a letter, he was caught off guard.

  He didn't remember much about that day. Arriving at his office that morning, Henry had found the single and a letter, which someone had slid under the door. Opening the envelope and seeing the sender’s name sent a chill down his spine. After reading it, he went home to his city apartment where he read it a hundred times more as the Chordettes sang.

  As a rule, Henry stayed in the city only one night per week. Most days he preferred to head home to his house in Brooklyn. The house was quiet. Almost nobody knew that he had this second place, and this was where he did his woodworking and his best thinking.

  The letter was from another time in his life. It hailed from the days before he was a detective, before he had closed himself off from all but a few of his closest friends. It was from a time when the world was at war, when there was a feeling of unity and purpose. It was from younger days. The handwriting was unmistakable, though he had only seen her scrawl once before. That letter, too, had been read a hundred times.

  Henry was not one for waxing nostalgic. In fact, he didn't talk about his past and rarely thought about anything but the present. For Henry, the best place to keep the past was out of sight and mind.

  His best friend, “Big” Mike, loved to talk about the good old days. His newspaper buddy, Francis, when homesick for Paris, would drink, eat, tell tales of his youth, and continue on and on until he passed out. The last story would be entirely in French.

  Henry didn't mind listening to others recount their glory days, but would change the subject when asked about his own. He had been this way since 1942.

  The song faded. Henry turned off the radio and went upstairs. He took his jacket from the hall tree, removed the gloves from the pocket, and slid them on to his hands. As he headed out the door, he grabbed his fedora and ran a hand across the brim as he put it on. Music was a powerful trigger, and Henry felt that being alone at home wasn't as good as being alone anywhere else. The sound of the engine starting felt soothing, but it only nipped at the edges of the pain. Perhaps the drive would make him feel better.

  Henry thought about suffering. This wasn't like having a cut or broken bone. It wasn't the sort of hurt which Mike had endured at the hands of Tommy “The Knife's” goons. It was, as a poet might say, bittersweet.

  He turned left, then right, and finally got out of the neighborhood. Henry didn't think about where he was headed, but instinct took him into the city. The traffic wasn't too bad at that time of night. The lights of Manhattan were familiar; the sound o
f the wheels on the bridge seemed to sing the blues. It was as if somebody had plugged Henry's senses into a light socket. Bam! Sight and sound all mixed with the strange feeling deep down in his gut.

  His car found its way to the apartment. He climbed up the stairs, noticing that it was quieter than usual. The key in the lock seemed to echo in the silent hallway. Henry set the keys on the kitchen counter and went to the bookshelf. He removed the book she had given him, and let the two letters fall from its pages. He set the letters and book on the kitchen table and turned on his record player. The 45 of the Chordettes was still waiting, and he set the needle down carefully.

  Henry pulled out a bottle of vodka and placed two glasses across from one another. He poured a shot in each. Sitting down, he closed his eyes and picked up the first letter with his left hand, downed the shot, and opened his eyes to read again.

  Chapter Two

  Henry thought about the first time he saw her.

  In 1942, Henry spent his days recovering from his less than heroic return from the war. At least, that’s how he viewed it. The medals in his dresser drawer didn't change Henry's recollection of the events. Truth was sometimes a little murky. Each night he tried to erase the memory of his third night abroad. Each morning around 8 a.m., he would drag himself to the diner for breakfast before passing out for the day.

  Her hair was long, straight, and dirty. She walked into the diner with a couple of other women who worked at the factory. He couldn't recall having seen a woman so filthy from head to toe who also glowed like a flawless diamond. They ordered breakfast, talked quietly, and seemed exhausted.

  Was it the three extra cups of coffee that kept him from sleeping that day? He didn't think so.

  That night, Henry had stayed home, skipped the bottle, and gone to sleep early. The next day, he shaved, put on his best suit, and picked up a Wall Street Journal before he went to the diner. Becky, the waitress who worried about Henry most mornings, was taken aback when she saw him. Henry played it cool and told her he was getting on with his life. He ate breakfast for two hours that morning.

  She didn't come in.

  Three weeks later, Henry had gotten into a routine, found a job with a local P.I., and had mostly forgotten about the woman with the long hair. He was eating some toast when she sat down next to him at the counter.

  Henry gave her a nod and she smiled. She was wearing a dress, had her hair all done up, and the grease had been replaced with makeup. She ordered a cup of coffee. When she had stirred in the cream for about five minutes, Henry asked if she was alright.

  She had a voice that was deeper than he imagined...but not too deep. Her words had a bit of warmth to them. Her fiancé was going to ship out in a week, and she was taking the train to D.C. to see him one last time before he left. She said that the train didn't leave for four hours, but she was so excited that she just had to get ready and wait.

  He remembered how she talked about her beloved. He had envied the young man waiting for her in D.C. because, if for no other reason, her dark brown eyes were so in love.

  Now, Henry took another shot of vodka. He could imagine her with the chiseled cheek bones, button nose, and those piercing eyes, sitting across the table. It hurt to think about her.

  Henry stood up from the table and walked around the room. Her face was firmly fixed in his mind. She wasn't the love of his life…that painful wound belonged to another memory. She was something, though. Henry took a hit from the bottle and stood looking out of the window. The cars rolled past. A woman chased her bonnet making an attempted getaway. A police officer was giving directions to an elderly couple. Henry noticed a man lighting up a cigarette with a cabbie on the corner, but as he turned away from the window, there she was again, in his mind, walking around his soul and bumping into all of the bottled up emotions he had hidden away. If she wasn't careful, she might knock one over and let those feelings spill out. That wouldn't do at all.

  He was more tired than drunk. Back in the day, Henry really knew how to crawl into a bottle, but it seemed that those days might have passed, too. He didn't go to bed, though; he lay down on the couch and put his arm across his eyes. He tried to shut out the dim light from the street and the burning light of her face in his mind's eye. He wondered if she realized the pain she had inflicted when sending him the record.

  She was the kindest person he knew. It seemed unlikely that she envisioned him spending months being torn to shreds emotionally when he failed to find her. It just wasn't her way.

  His mind retrieved a happier moment. It was the day they spent looking at early works of art by Henri Matisse. Henry didn't care much for art, until he saw it through her eyes. She talked with ease about Matisse's first paintings. Henry didn't understand much of what she was saying, but he never dismissed art again. In fact, there were many times, over the years, when he found himself drawn into a museum for comfort. The quiet appealed to him. Eventually he started to enjoy the paintings, too.

  Art wasn't the only mark she had left on his life. She had taught him to dream. When they would meet, usually at the diner, the conversation would often be about what was to come. She talked about the family she would raise with her fiancé when he returned from saving the world. What Henry found most endearing is that the dream constantly changed. The names of the children were never the same. The houses moved from the city to the country and all around the world. Even her plans for the big wedding were a work in progress.

  She did have one constant, and that was the dress. Henry loved hearing her describe it. She knew every detail and would blush when realizing that she was going on about it, again. Henry always told her to continue, which she gladly did.

  She was simple and complex, light and dark, day and night, and more than anything, she was unlike anyone he had ever met, before or since.

  Her memory brought Henry such pain mixed with joy…he couldn't bring himself to utter her name. He thought about saying it, just once, but held his tongue.

  Just as he was fading off to sleep, he cursed his radio, for it, really, was the one that poured the salt into his wound.

  If Henry had not had the radio on, he would have remained at home. He might have still been in his shop when the flash of light and loud pop came from his closet. He would have noticed the new “present” left for him in the strange closet.

  He may have been able to stop what was about to happen.

  Chapter Three

  While Henry slept, his old mentor was celebrating just ten blocks away.

  Michael Thomas Moore, named for the poet, gave Henry his start in the private detective business. Now he was nearing the end of his days of stakeouts, crappy food, and sleeping in his car with the Leica camera on the seat next to him.

  Everyone called him “Mickey.” He taught Henry to pick a lock, trail a suspect, and always have friends on the force. Mickey would say things like, “The clients always lie,” or “If the retainer is too generous, the job is too dangerous,” and “Never forget your notebook... and write down everything.”

  Mickey had shown Henry the art of observation. They had spent hour upon hour just watching people. If they weren't on a case, Mickey was teaching him to see his surroundings. At any moment, Mickey would ask, "What color hat was the woman we just passed wearing?" If Henry didn't know, it would cost him lunch. Henry didn't make a lot of money back then, so he had to learn fast, or Mickey would eat up his entire paycheck.

  The Dublin Rogue had darts, a pool table, peanuts and pretzels on the bar, half a dozen booths, and a perpetually sticky floor. A hangout for the local beat cops, this had become a favorite of Mickey's twenty years before. There were few people who could remember a day when he wasn't perched in his favorite spot. The bar had opened shortly after Prohibition ended, and not long after Mickey had become a fixture.

  “The next round is on me!” Mickey said, as he raised his drink.

  Everyone in the bar cheered. The waitress and bartender, though surprised, started handing out the beers. T
hree of New York's men in blue from the ninth precinct were giving Mickey a hard time about his largess. "I must really be plastered, did I hear that correctly? Mickey is finally buying a round!"

  “I’m celebrating,

  Mr. Thompson…er, sorry, Officer Thompson. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it isn't a train,” Mickey shot back triumphantly. He had known Bobby Thompson since he was a young boy trying to sneak into the bar. Mickey never got used to the idea of him being a full-fledged peace officer.

  The short, round officer called Carl added, “You come in ta some dough, Mickey?”

  The tall, thin sergeant, who everyone called Slim, said, “What's the story, Mic? You finally going to sail off into the sunset?”

  Mickey had been telling everyone about his dream of buying a boat for years. He planned on sailing to Florida, opening a bar, spending his days on the beach, and his nights serving and drinking Mai Tais. Those who frequented the bar knew his dream by heart. They could describe the pool table in the corner, name the specials on Tuesday, and picture his vision as if it were a photo hanging on the wall.

  He had developed a reputation for being a bit of a tightwad, which was true. Mickey had been living like a bum, which suited him, for thirty years. He saved every penny and knew exactly how much he needed.

  Mickey took a long pull of his beer. “As you know, I have been looking forward to the day when I can sail off into the sunset and leave you rascals behind. This morning, I took my last job. Two weeks, three tops, and I will be done with this racket! By June first, I should be ready to head south.”

  “Cheers to Mickey!”

  The waitress gave Mickey a kiss on the cheek, handed him another beer, and said, “Congrats, old man.”

  Mickey asked her to sail away with him and then smacked her on the bottom.

  “Can you even get your mainsail up?” she said with a wink. Those within earshot howled with laughter.

  Everyone stopped over to pat Mickey on the back, ask him to describe his boat - just one more time - or just to thank him for the beer. After an hour or so, Mickey grabbed his hat and stepped out into the night to start his last job. The sky had opened up and a cold rain was pounding the pavement. Mickey yelled good-bye, held the day's newspaper over his head, and jogged to his car. The bar crowd gave him a cheer as he left.