“Then you come do it. Don’t foist another trainee on me. Most of them can’t count past ten without taking their shoes off.”
“Don’t worry, this kid is good. He reminds me of you actually, if you weren’t a huge asshole every single second of every single day.”
“I sleep sometimes.”
Allyn laughs. “You’re probably an asshole when you sleep. You probably dream of kicking people and taking candy from babies.”
I consider disagreeing but it’s not like he’ll believe me. Or that he’s wrong?
“Tell the kid to meet me in the Tick Tock. I need about six gallons of coffee. I’ll send you the check.”
Before he can respond I pull the earpiece out and stick it back into Ruby. I give one last look around the lobby, my stomach twisted into a tight knot, because I know this is going to get far, far worse before it gets even a tiny bit less worse.
And now I have to go upstairs to get my coffee fix. I whisper a little prayer, that Mbaye isn’t in yet, but then realize, what’s the use? That son of a bitch is always in.
I reach into my pocket, pull out a cherry lollipop, and stick it in my mouth. Savor the sweetness—there won’t be a lot of free moments to savor anything in the next two days—and head upstairs.
* * *
—
The Tick Tock is mostly empty. Just a few folks scattered throughout the grid of tables, swiping through tablets, sipping on coffee while they pick at ornate breakfast plates. Mbaye is sitting on the other side of the bar with an espresso cup and a half-eaten croissant. His hand is on his chin, like he’s lost in thought, and the way his muscular frame strains against the white chef’s apron, he reminds me of that statue. What was it called? The Thinking Guy?
Not long ago, I would have called Mbaye a friend.
I don’t remember much about those days.
As I approach he jumps to his feet and smiles. “Good morning, January! How are you today?”
“Fine,” I tell him. “Coffee.”
A mug appears on the countertop as I pull out a stool, and by the time I’m settled he’s pouring steaming black liquid from a stainless-steel carafe.
“Leave the bottle, am I right?” he asks, giving me a wink.
“Yup,” I tell him, making sure to sharpen the word as it passes my lips.
His smile falters, but he pushes it back onto his face. “What can I make you for breakfast? I have some specials I could tell you about, but it’s slow so I’m happy to whip up just about anything you’d like.” He points a finger at me. “You like blueberries, right? I just got a fresh batch. Beautiful. I could put out some blueberry pancakes, with a fresh bowl on the side.”
Mbaye is a world-renowned French-trained chef. His pancakes ruin all other pancakes. And Tamworth’s sandwich definitely got my stomach’s motor running…
“Not hungry,” I tell him.
He nods, starts to say something, but stops and turns away. As he’s walking toward the kitchen I ask him, “Could I have another mug, please? I’m meeting someone.”
He nods, his mouth a flat, frustrated line, and he rummages under the bar, coming out with another ceramic mug, which he places down next to mine, like it might shatter. He fills it, then puts the carafe down. He lingers in the space and I pick up my coffee. It’s still too hot to drink but I sip it anyway, singeing my lips, putting my focus into it entirely, so that he will take the hint and go away.
After a moment, he does.
I sit in silence for a bit, then hear a clack-clack-clack sound. It makes me think of a roller coaster going up the tracks. I don’t need to look around to see what’s causing it; the little electric shock that leaps across my brain tells me it’s a slip. Briefly, I wonder what it is, but ultimately can’t be bothered. I’ll find out soon.
I’m halfway through my cup and reaching for the carafe to warm it up when I hear, “January Cole?”
The white kid weaving through the tables looks more like an eager-for-applause musician than he does a federal agent representing the Time Enforcement Agency. Medium height, medium build, his blue polo shirt neat and tucked in, the stodginess of it offset by intricate tattoos down both forearms. Lots of flowers, some fish. All very colorful. He’s wearing thick-framed glasses and his dark hair has that swept-back style that looks effortless, but probably takes all morning. He extends a hand. “Nik Moreau.”
“Nik,” I tell him, returning a firm, brief handshake. “Coffee?”
“Thanks.” He picks up the mug and presses it to his mouth, testing the temperature, not even bothering with the basket of sugar and creamers to his right, which I take as a sign of good character.
“Danbridge warn you about me?” I ask.
He takes a long sip before responding. “He said you were prickly.”
“He did not use that word.” The next few moments are going to be make-or-break. I’m feeling generous so I give him a hint. “Honesty counts. What word did he use?”
Nik laughs, a little burst of air through his nose. “He said you’re one of the best agents he ever worked with, and I was lucky to be paired with you. He also said you were a huge bitch.”
I slap him on the shoulder. He’s not anticipating it so he jerks forward. “If anything, he’s understating.” I turn a little in my seat and wave my arm around the empty restaurant, like a bored magician. “Welcome to the Paradox Hotel. Been here before?”
“Nope,” Nik says. “First time.”
“We’ll get the lay of the land in a second. First, do you know why you’re here?”
Nik nods. “Danbridge briefed me. The summit.”
The summit. More like a goddamn fire sale.
Turns out, time travel is expensive. And this whole place—the hotel, the Einstein Intercentury Timeport, all the land that comes with it—is costing the government more than it’s earning. Even with richy-rich assholes ponying up hundreds of thousands of dollars to see the first-ever public showing of Hamlet or visit the Library of Alexandria, it’s not turning a profit. So the feds invited a bunch of trillionaires to make their pitches for taking it private.
“But it was going to be next week, right?” he asks. “Why did they move it?”
“A bunch of groups were planning a demonstration,” I tell him. “Saying the timeport shouldn’t go private. And I’m sure nobody involved with this thing wants to drive through crowds of people holding signs and yelling at them. It’s now a variable I don’t need to worry about, but it was also the thing giving me the least stress, to be honest.”
“You’re not bothered by a bunch of hippie lunatics trying to push through the doors?”
That’s an interesting choice of words, and makes me wonder about his politics. The last thing I want to deal with is some thin-blue-line bullshit. “Those ‘hippie lunatics’ have every right to protest such a boneheaded move. It’s insane that we’re going to hand the keys over to someone whose only goal with this place is to turn a profit.”