They finished the job on Thanksgiving Day, three weeks ahead of schedule, and well under budget. With luck they’d be home and dry for Christmas.
The grand opening of the 1969 Main Street Mall was almost as wild as the original ’69, minus the bombings, of course. The heated press coverage had generated national interest. The building wasn’t just a commercial development anymore, it had become a genuine Happening.
Eager shoppers began gathering at the entrance a full four hours early. Many were decked out in period garb — headbands, beads, and bell-bottoms. With flowers in their hair.
There were protestors, too, but they weren’t wild-haired student radicals. Instead, they were throwbacks from Puck’s side of the culture war, army veterans and their blue-collar sympathizers, wearing faded camouflage jackets or combat boots. Some carried homemade signs that read BAN THE BOMBERS or MIAs, NEVER FORGET.
They’d been America’s mainstream once, her muscle and spine. Now they were relegated to the far side of the street, a ragged line of graying soldiers shambling along under the watchful eyes of the police. Totally irrelevant now. The librarian was right. The revolution was over, the insurgents had won the battle for hearts and minds, without firing a single shot.
Up in the old courtroom, which was now a stylish atrium ringed with smart shops, Sara Jacoby spoke at the ribbon-cutting ceremony for 1969 Main Street. She thanked the mayor and city council for their support, and the firm of Shea and Paquette for a job well done. Danny made a brief speech, too, but as he wrapped up his remarks, Puck ducked out of the room. Afraid he might be called on next.
He rode the new escalator down to the street, marveling at the festive crowds in period costumes, savoring the sweet aroma of déja vu that hung in the air, thick as incense.
Suddenly, he felt a chill. An icy premonition. A reflex left over from Korea kicked in. He knew someone’s eyes were on him. He felt it strongly as a physical touch.
Easing into the shadow of the doorway, he looked out over the crush of shoppers, carefully scanning each face. And spotted the Métis, watching him from across the street. Looking ordinary and unremarkable, in grungy work clothes and his unkempt mane of shaggy hair.
Roanhorse was standing near the line of protesting vets, but clearly didn’t belong with them. Even surrounded by that crowd, he seemed more alone than any man Puck had ever known.
His eyes were unreadable at that distance, but there was no mistaking that face anymore. Puck knew every essential line of it. He’d been seeing it every day for months on posters and in photos.
And the Métis recognized Puck as well. Because he slowly closed his crippled hand into a fist, then raised it in a long-forgotten salute. Power to the People. One lone fist held high above that crowd.
Only for a moment. Then it was gone. Or maybe Puck just lost sight of it. His eyes misted, blurring the scene. But he raised his own fist anyway, returning the salute, one warrior to another, across a milling sea of shoppers. And forty years.
He held his fist aloft for a long time, but there was no reply. And as he slowly lowered his arm, he realized Sara Jacoby had moved up beside him, eying him curiously.
“Who was that?” she asked, scanning the crowd.
“Nobody,” Puck said. “Not anymore.”
Password
by Michael Z. Lewin
A husband and wife detecting team is hardly a new idea, but as with all the genres he tackles, Michael Z. Lewin manages to put a new spin on the form. Here, as the case begins, we find the team very much at odds, with the wife, Mallory, refusing to work on the investigation. There’s history behind it; we don’t know what. EQMM’s staff was intrigued not only by the mystery but by the characters, and glad when Mr. Lewin told us he intends to write more about them, in both short stories and novels.
“You must tell him, Charlie,” Mallory said.
“Tell me what?” Bertie Banfield’s bulky body slumped. He was not a young man and the loss of posture made him look even older. “It isn’t about Laura, is it?” He squinted uncertainly. “How could you know something about Laura already?”
“It’s nothing about the case,” Charlie said. “And it’s nothing, really, Bertie. Nothing that need concern you.”
“Honestly.” Mallory turned to Banfield. “Bertie, you’re here about our doing some work, right?”
“It may be work to you two, but to me it’s my life, my peace of mind.” Banfield rocked slowly from one foot to the other.
“Then there really is something you should know,” Mallory said.
“Oh dear.”
“It’s just that we don’t do this anymore.”
Banfield’s wrinkles clustered together to make his face look like a prune — apart from the bushy eyebrows. He tried to fathom what Mallory was getting at. “You don’t do what, please, Mallory, my dear?”
“When she says we don’t do it...” Charlie began.
“We don’t run the agency anymore, Bertie,” Mallory said. “Not like we used to.”
“What do you mean not run the agency?” Banfield turned to Charlie. “What does she mean ‘like you used to’? You’re still investigators, aren’t you? Detectives? Charlie?” The big man seemed close to tears in his confusion.
“Of course,” Charlie said. “It’s just—”
“He is still an investigator,” Mallory said. “But we aren’t, not anymore.”
“Why the hell not?” Bertie Banfield’s career, success, and fortune had been built on finding the right people to do the jobs he couldn’t do himself. He paid them well and worked them hard and everybody thrived. But to be resisted, and by people he’d often hired in the past... It made no sense to him.
“Charlie and I are rearranging our lives,” Mallory said. “That means I will not be working for Hayden Investigative Services anymore. He should have told you right off.”
Banfield gave his head several small sharp shakes. “Rearranging lives? It sounds like so much airy-fairy blather to me. Perhaps I’ve missed something, but I’ve got a problem here. I’m upset, damnit, and I just don’t seem to be able to...” He paused, trying to find a phrase. “That...” He waved his hands. “Thinking about two things at the same time. Whatever it’s called. So I can’t sort out your problems when I’ve got mine to deal with. And my problem is that Laura didn’t come back last night — which she’s never done before without telling me. And the police — for whom I’ve paid more bloody taxes than I could count — the police refuse to look for her because it’s only been a night and she’s over twenty-one. By fifty bloody years... And I thought, I thought that I could count on you two to find her. Only now when I get myself out and over here, you go and say you’re rearranging something. What the hell is it? Your furniture? No, don’t tell me. I don’t understand and I don’t really care.” Bertie Banfield looked from Charlie to Mallory and back to Charlie. The old man was fighting back tears. “I just want you to find Laura for me.”
“Honestly, Mal,” Charlie said. “Is this what you want?”
“Multitasking,” Mallory said. She took Banfield’s elbow. “Multitasking is the word you were looking for a moment ago, Bertie.”