Of Time, Fraud and Thieves, a time travel fantasy, was published in the 2005 Winter edition of Verbicide.
Of Time, Fraud and Thieves
"There he is."
A small, freckle-faced man in a dark overcoat nudged his companion and tilted his head toward the far end of the railway platform. Grabbing his companion by the sleeve, he pulled him off the platform and into the long shadows behind a wooden rain barrel and a horse drawn buggy. The horse raised a droopy eyelid, glanced at the intruders and snorted in disgust. An autumn wind disturbed dry leaves on a hard-packed dirt road. They swirled around the small man’s white gym shoes before breezing past the wooden planks of a nineteenth century railway station.
"You sure, Nate?" asked the companion, a fat man with a pink face and jet-black hair. "Looks too young."
Nate pulled his companion deeper into the shadows as three gentlemen in top hats, great coats and high boots strolled past. In the distance, smoke from an oncoming train dotted the sky.
"Of course that’s him, Henry," said Nate. He reached into the pocket of his dusty jeans and withdrew a Velcro wallet. The horse whinnied as Nate unfastened the wallet and extracted a green bill. Using his thumb to cover the chin of the face on the fiver, he pushed it under Henry’s nose.
"See – without the beard."
Henry glanced at the bill, then peeked at the long-legged, hollow cheeked man at the end of the platform.
"That’s him all right," said Henry tapping a finger on the greenback. "In the flesh – and ripe for the pickin."
Wouldn’t our mothers be proud, thought Nate shaking his head. Traveling through time to rob old - no – young Abraham Lincoln.
The robbers watched as the train steamed toward the station. As it drew near, Lincoln moved to the middle of the platform, a carpetbag in his raw-boned hands.
"On my signal," whispered Nate.
Henry nodded and his jowls quivered.
The train rumbled into the station and screeched to a halt. Top hats, greatcoats, visiting dresses, and leather boots streamed onto the platform, filling it with sound and motion. Lincoln stepped back, placed his bag on the ground, and waited for the crowd to clear.
"Now," said Nate, his voice calm.
Henry adjusted the waistband of his jogging suit, then sauntered through the crowd. Nate stayed in the shadows of the station. As he neared Lincoln, Henry smiled. The famous face inclined toward him. Henry glanced down, purposely caught his foot on a cracked board, and slipped to knees and palms.
Lincoln stepped forward.
"Sir," said Lincoln, "may I be of assistance."
Reaching down, he grasped Henry by an elbow. As he struggled to help the large man to his feet, the crowd surged, separating him from his bag.
Now or never, thought Nate. His gym shoes flashed. Crouching, he scooped up the unguarded bag in one hand and scooted back through the crowd. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Lincoln still occupied tugging Henry to his feet. Worked perfectly, thought Nate. He jumped from the edge of the platform and disappeared into brush bordering the dirt road.
#
On the platform, Lincoln swatted dust from Henry’s clothes.
"Thank you. Mr. Pres… er sir," said Henry.
Lincoln nodded.
The crowd cleared and Henry waddled away. Lincoln eyed Henry’s clothes. He shook his head as Henry stepped off the platform and out of sight. Then he turned round and round, as he tried in vain to locate his belongings.
Once off the platform, Henry plastered himself against the side of the station and took a deep breath. He adjusted his waistband, took a step toward the brush and his rendezvous with Nate – and stopped so abruptly his jowls shook. The barrel of a shotgun touched his face, leaving two white circles on his pink cheek. A large man with a moustache and a badge spoke in a weary voice.
"Widow Crowe said she saw a couple of suspicious men hangin’ around. I reckon you’re one of them."
#
Nate pushed through the brush along the side of the road until the train station was out of sight and the sounds of commotion had faded. Then, sitting cross-legged beneath a large oak tree, the smell of leaves, grass and dust in his nose, he opened the carpetbag. With nimble fingers, he explored the contents. White broadcloth shirts and collars, black silk cravats, law books and letters. The books were inscribed with Lincoln’s name. The bag and clothes were worn, but in good condition. He poked into the recesses of the bag.
No wallet, no money, no valuables.
An emotion skittered across his face. He raised a fist to the sky and shouted incoherently.
Wings beating madly, a family of blackbirds fled a nearby tree.
Nate shouted again. This time, his word was clear.
"Jackpot!"
A smile filled his face. Reaching into his overcoat pocket, he withdrew a silver box the size of a cigarette case, and flipped it open. A series of dials and a row of translucent buttons filled the interior of the box. Two of the buttons blinked. Nate withdrew a silver pellet from his pocket and wrapped a fist around it. The heat from his hand activated it, a scent of oranges filled the air – and a third button on the box began to blink. Nate dropped the pellet into the bag and pressed the newly blinking button. A metallic murmur emanated from the box. The bag began to shimmer. The color of its cloth wavered, streamed, faded. There was a "POP" and the bag, with all its contents, vanished.
Nate pressed a second blinking button.
A mile away, the marshal gaped as Henry, activated pellet in pocket, shimmered, streamed, faded and with a "POP," disappeared.
Nate pressed the third blinking button.
#
Ten p.m., three nights later, Nate sat at a fifteen-inch monitor at the back of a small cluttered shop. At the front of the shop, a tattered sign taped to a cracked display window read:
N & H Collectibles – Prices So Low – It’s a Steal
Dust-encrusted display cases encircled the room. Inside the cases, porcelain figurines, yellowed books, chipped plastic toys and other relics loitered, waiting to stir old memories or long forgotten emotions – for a price. A ragged index card in front of each object named the price. Most of the cards had red diagonal lines running across them - with notes stating, "No Reasonable Offers Refused."
A cash register, and a computer with scanner and printer comprised the "office" at the rear of the shop. Two gold-framed pictures hung on the wall behind the computer. One showed Nate carrying a small boy on his shoulders, surrounded by three, freckle-faced boys in baseball uniforms. The other was of Henry playing bingo with a chubby grey-haired woman. The mother–son resemblance was uncanny.
Nate’s fingers danced rapidly across a grimy keyboard, typing information into an on-line form. Next to the computer was a small wooden table crammed with plastic trays. Books, shirts, pens, pipes and small personal items spilled from each tray. Labels on the trays read:
Lincoln, Hemingway, Ruth, Bogart, Monroe
Henry’s ample bottom rested on the edge of the wooden table, causing it to bow dangerously downward. He held an old book in his hand and peered over Nate’s shoulder.
"Okay," said Nate. "That’s the description. I’ll upload the scan and the Lincoln stuff is listed."
"Not bad, an hour for Abe’s items," said Henry. "eBay sure makes this easy."
The lines around Nate’s eyes deepened. "They should," he answered. "They about put us under. Hard for a small business like us to compete with an on-line auction house."
Henry laughed, deep and hearty. "Unless, that small business finds rare items at no cost."
Nate removed the silver box from his pocket and caressed it. "Life sure changed when we found this baby in that old scientist’s estate sale."
"Not fast enough for me," said Henry.
Nate looked Henry in the eyes. "Listen," he said. "Our families are counting on us. We have to be smart - stick with small stuff we can unload on eBay. Don’t call attention to ourselves. Getting rich slowly is still getting rich. Besides – remember the first time we used it? Bit off a little too much - trying to get those Crown Jewels."
Henry grimaced and slowly rubbed his neck. "You’re right," he said.
"Of course, I am. Can’t get into any trouble if we take it slow and easy."
Reverently, Nate placed the silver box next to his computer.
"Okay," he said, "Let’s list the Hemingway stuff."
#
An e-mail arrived three days later.
From: Ehoughnagle@antiques.com
To: N&H Collectibles
Subject: Your eBay items
You sir, are a fraud!
I am the owner of Dame Edna’s, one of the oldest and most reputable antique houses in the Midwest. I am also an eBay Power Seller – and to your eternal shame, a Lincoln memorabilia expert. Yesterday, I was perusing eBay - I find it an important tool for keeping up with and outdoing the competition – when I discovered your listings.
Carpetbag, books, letters?
Antiques? Looking as new as the day they were made?
I think not.
Not one of your Lincoln items has ever been catalogued. I checked with all my prominent contacts – not one of them has heard of you - or your so-called antiques.
If you do not immediately end your listings, I will report you to eBay – and to the federal authorities.
Edna Houghnagle
President
Society of Midwest Antique Dealers
Nate pushed away from the computer screen. He ran his fingers through his hair. Henry peered over Nate’s shoulder, his scalp reddening as his eyes scanned the screen.
"Frauds?" said Henry, his voice rising an octave. "We’re not frauds." He raised an eyebrow, "Thieves, maybe…."
Nate pursed his lips. He swiveled in his chair. When he spoke, his words were slow and low.
"What we are is in trouble," he said. "I met old biddy Houghnagle a few years ago. When her voice shrieks, the antique community listens. If she says we’re selling fakes – we‘re finished. Damn, just when we’re starting to clean up. We’ve got to do something – and quick."
"Do something? Like what? Bring Lincoln back to say it’s his stuff – and we stole it?"
Nate’s eyes widened. His lips slowly curved upward. He slipped his hand over the silver time box and raised it to eye level.
"No," he said. "Lincoln doesn’t need to come here – but ol’ lady Houghnagle does… and here’s how we make that happen."
Nate put his hand on the mouse and clicked the Reply button.
#
Two mornings later, dawn filtered into N&H Collectibles. At the back of the shop, Henry, dressed in jeans and cardigan sweater, pecked at the keyboard. "Whoa," he shouted. "Nate, check out what we’re getting for the Hemingway stuff."
Cell phone next to his ear, Nate leaned over and looked at the eBay auction results. His voice crinkled into the phone.
"Hey sweetie," he said. "Remember those Nike’s the boys have been begging us for. I’m buying them tonight."
He paused to listen.
"No, don’t worry about bills, business is picking up. I really want to get something for the kids that doesn’t come from the Salvation Army."
Outside, a silver tipped cane rapped on the door to the shop.
Nate covered the receiver with his hand and shouted, "Not open yet, come back at nine."
The rapping grew harder, rattling the doorframe and threatening to shatter the thin, aged panes of glass.
"Okay, okay," yelled Nate. "Sweetie," he said into the phone, "got a customer – call you later." Nate shuffled to the front door and tugged it open.
"Can’t this wait until …" he started to say.
A tall, white haired woman stormed into the store. She had a long, thin nose, wire framed glasses and hair pulled so severely into a bun the skin at her temples stretched to the point of being transparent. She wore a starched, high-necked, white button shirt, a floor length, pleated black skirt and a perfectly pressed, dark wool jacket.
"No, Mr. Renfrow," she said with irritation – and a hint of money - in her voice. "This cannot wait." With her left hand, she pounded the tip of her cane on the worn and dusty wooden floor of the shop; with her right hand, she waved a piece of paper under Nate’s nose.
Nate plucked the sheet from her hand, glanced at it, then showed his teeth.
"My response. I give good e-mail, don’t you think, Mrs. Houghnagle? And please, call me Nate."
She snatched the e-mail back. "Of all the impertinence! Suggesting you’re the real Lincoln expert. Saying my knowledge is limited and second hand. Who do you think you are?"
"Someone who knows better," he answered, shrugging his shoulders. "And, I can prove it."
While she glared, Nate scooted to the back of the store, retrieved the silver box, and slipped on his overcoat.
"What are you doing?" Henry whispered. "I thought you were going to show her the Lincoln stuff."
"I am – in person."
"What? You can’t take her back and forth through time," said Henry.
"Why not?" answered Nate. "And who said anything about ‘forth?’"
Henry blinked rapidly. "But, that would be…I dunno, murder?"
"More like kidnapping – but if we can’t convince her, it may be the only way. C’mon – you’re coming too."
With Henry in tow, Nate approached Mrs. Houghnagle.
"Well?" she said, hand extended. "Where’s your proof?"
Nate smiled. Silently, he flipped opened the silver box, then extracted three pellets from his pocket. He tossed one to Henry and pressed one into Mrs. Houghnagle’s palm.
"Here it is," he said.
Mrs. Houghnagle glared at the object in her hand. She wrapped her fist around it and shook it under Nate’s nose.
"Have you gone mad," said Mrs. Houghnagle. The pellet grew warm. She paused, opened her palm, sniffed.
"Oranges?" she said.
Nate set a dial on the time box and pressed three translucent blinking buttons.
#
The air shimmered. Colored dots appeared, thickened, merged. Pink and ivory splotches formed, swirled, blended. The colors darkened, shapes with texture appeared. Hair, bodies, clothes.
Nate, Henry, and Mrs. Houghnagle.
Mrs. Houghnagle’s knees buckled. Nate wrapped an arm around her to keep her from falling. Henry removed his sweater, placed it in the shade of a gnarled oak tree, and assisted her to the ground.
"Happened to me too, the first time I traveled through time," said Nate. "The dizziness will fade in a minute or two."
She fanned herself. "You expect me to believe we’ve traveled through time?" she said.
"I don’t expect you to believe anything I tell you," said Nate. "But, I do expect you’ll believe your senses."
She took a deep breath. The air smelled clean. A cool, autumn day. Yellow, orange and rust colored leaves flitted across a weather beaten dirt road. A horse and wagon rolled past, followed by men on horseback. In the distance was a town. All the buildings were frame and painted white, yellow and shades of brown - none taller than two stories, many surrounded by white picket fences. Railroad tracks touched the edge of the town.
Mrs. Houghnagle blinked, focused her vision, "No cars, no lights, no electric lines, and the clothes on the people…" she said – with wonder in her voice. "Late 1840’s?"
"Right close," said Nate. "You know your history."
The sides of her mouth tipped upwards. "That’s one reason I’m successful."
She scanned the countryside again, shook her head. "But how?" she asked. "Why?"
Nate showed her the silver box. "This box, these blinking lights and…," he retrieved the pellet still clasped in her hand, "these activated time capsules are the ‘How.’ The ‘Why" is to prove our Lincoln items are authentic - and we’re not frauds."
Nate slipped the box and pellet into the inner pocket of his coat.
"For safekeeping," he said. "Now, let’s meet the man who owned the carpetbag – Honest Abe." And, he thought, I’d hate to do it, but if you don’t believe us, the population of the Land of Lincoln will increase by one.
Nate helped her to her feet and they started toward the train station. A cart carrying a mahogany table and cupboard rattled past and forced them off the road. Mrs. Houghnagle craned her neck to watch the cart as it navigated a bend.
"Do you know what that furniture’s worth?" she said.
Nate smiled at her. "Like one big antique store," he said.
They continued down the dirt road. As they neared the train station, Henry grasped Nate’s arm. "Something’s wrong," he said. "Where’s the train?"
Nate moved close to Henry, whispered in his ear.
"I adjusted the coordinates to get us here earlier than last time. That way, she sees Lincoln and his bag – but she doesn’t see how we get it."
Henry looked at the sky. He frowned, but said nothing.
At the train station, the horse with the droopy eyelids skittered in the bright sunshine. They walked past and stepped onto the platform.
It was empty.
Nate turned round and round.
"I don’t get it," he said. "Where’s Lincoln?"
Henry looked at the sky again and pointed to the sun.
"Nate, buddy," he said. I didn’t want to tell you - but I think you turned the dial the wrong way. It’s later in the morning than the last time we were here. I think the train – and Lincoln - are gone."
Nate’s body and clothes seemed to wilt.
Mrs. Houghnagle turned and wagged her cane at him.
"You mean," she said, her voice rising, "you brought me back in time to show me - nothing. Or, maybe there was nothing to see? Frauds!"
"Listen…" began Nate. Then his eyes widened and he raised his hands above his head. Henry did the same.
A weary voice spoke from behind Mrs. Houghnagle.
"These thieves bothering you ma’am?"
The marshal, shotgun held high.
"Been looking for the big one for an hour. Got away once. Won’t happen again. Can’t prove it yet, but I know in my bones that these two stole a bag from a most important man."
Lips tight, face hard, Mrs. Houghnagle said, "Stole a bag, you say?"
"From our very own and admired Mr. Abraham Lincoln," answered the marshal. "If these boys got his books and clothes, they’re in a heap of trouble."
One side of Mrs. Houghnagle’s mouth ticked upward. Her face softened.
"Marshal," she said. "I believe these thieves have a silver case belonging to me. Would you be so kind as to check the small one’s pockets."
The marshal turned the shotgun on Nate.
Mrs. Houghnagle’s right eyelid fluttered downward.
Nate furrowed his brow. Had she just winked? Well, he thought, no choice but to play it out.
"Lady’s right, marshal," said Nate. "If you’ll allow me...?" he nodded toward his inner pocket.
"Slow and easy," said the marshal.
Carefully, Nate withdrew the silver case – and the time pellet - and handed them to Mrs. Houghnagle.
"That’s it," she said. She flipped the case open and three lights blinked at her.
"Hey," said the marshal. "What’s…?"
Without hesitating, she pressed the buttons.
#
Eyes cast downward, Nate sat at the computer in the back of the store. Henry sat on the small wooden table, face red, hands folded in his lap.
"Thieves," said Mrs. Houghnagle.
Nate’s teeth left impressions in his lower lip.
"No wonder those Lincoln items were never catalogued. No wonder they look brand new," she said. "You took them from the past so they never became part of his estate, never aged. You’re nothing but common thieves."
She pounded the tip of her cane on the floor of the shop.
Nate hung his head. Henry’s jowls quivered.
For several seconds, she stared in silence. Then, a smile spread across her face.
"But," she said, "you’re also magnificent antique hunters."
Nate looked up.
"The Lincoln items," she said, "are unique. Priceless. With articles like that, no auction house in the world could compete with us."
"Us?" said Nate, sitting straighter. He glanced at Henry, whose jowls stopped quivering.
She extended her hand. "Partners," she said, "if you’re willing. Another reason I’m successful is I know opportunity. This is the big one - and here’s what I propose…."
#
Six months later, Nate sat in front of a digital, flat panel monitor in a newly constructed office in the back of the shop. In the front, black and silver script stenciled onto a gleaming display window proclaimed:
NH&E Limited - Purveyors of Rare Antiquities
Mahogany display cases encircled the room. Inside the cases, perfectly aged nineteen century writing instruments, fine leather books, and well-preserved timepieces beckoned the interested, the rich, and the sophisticated. On top of each case, photograph books of exquisitely designed period furniture invited collectors to, "Make an Appointment for a Private Showing."
Nate’s cell phone was at his ear.
"Just checking the internet, Sweetie" he said. "Found a place you and the kids’ll love. Horseback riding on the beach, luaus - and hammocks. The cost? Don’t worry about it."
A silver tipped cane rapped at the front door.
"Gotta go sweetie," said Nate, "business calls."
Nate padded across luxurious carpet and tugged the door open. He pursed his lips and moved aside. A bonnet, day dress, reticule, and parasol stepped in, followed by a top hat, frockcoat, and satchel.
Mrs. Houghnagle and Henry
Henry reached into his coat pocket, extracted a map and spread it on a counter. Mrs. Houghnagle placed a finger on it.
"Found another," she said. "Bigger and better than the first."
"Still exist today?" asked Nate, peering at the map.
Mrs. Houghnagle nodded, "And, in great condition for a building over a hundred and fifty years old."
Nate slowly shook his head. "You think big, Edna," he said. "We never would’ve thought of buying buildings in the past, stuffing them with goods and furniture – and then just letting everything age."
"Like an easy-bake oven for antiques," said Henry. "Buy it in the past and shove it in; take it out in the future, aged to perfection."
Nate took Mrs. Houghnagle’s hands in his. "Thank you," he said. Slowly, he looked around the shop. "For everything."
"You’ve got the tools," she said, "and, I’ve got the knowledge. This partnership will pass the test of time."
Henry patted his satchel. "And, I’ve got the stuff to barter. It’s certainly easier to deal than steal. Let’s go"
Nate slipped his arms into a great coat. With a steady hand, he flipped open the silver box and pressed the blinking lights.
