I: If There Be Petals in the Shadows of Yesterday

“We’ll head down there now and set up a new headquarters. You guys prolly want some time alone anyway, so you pack up this place, buy some fruit salad, and meet us in Miami.” 

The door slammed shut, and the sound of Dixie and Johnny thumping down the stairs to the street could be heard from the upstairs apartment. This was followed by the unmistakable sound of a vodka bottle being hurled at a passing car and their laughter fading into the distance. Chichay Milano looked around the shabbily decorated apartment that had been serving as Shazbot Industries headquarters and sighed. What had she gotten herself into? 
She looked over at Sweaty Mulligan, his head still wrapped in a soundproof foam helmet, and smiled. Whatever she had gotten herself into, it had been because of him, and she realized she didn’t regret it for a second. Chichay walked over to the small card table on the far side of the room littered with Dixie’s chocolate donuts and picked one up. She carefully inspected it to ensure Dixie hadn’t crammed anything weird in there, then took a bite. Not bad, but an actual lunch would be better. 
She picked up another donut and whipped it at Sweaty, hitting him in the chest. He jumped, knocking the donut to the floor, then snapped his head side to side, trying to see what was happening. He removed his foam helmet, blinking a few times as his eyes adjusted to the light. He focused on Chichay and gave her a lopsided grin as if he couldn’t believe she was there. 
“Hey.” 
“Hey.” 
“Where’d the chaos twins go?”
“They decided to move the headquarters to Florida and hightailed it out of here.” 
“Really? How long was I in my helmet?” 
“Only about as long as it took me to walk down to the corner and buy a newspaper,” Chichay replied, gesturing to the paper she’d left open on the couch next to Sweaty. 
“Yeah, that sounds about…” He trailed off, picking up the paper and reading the headline. “Look at that; we’re heroes! That explains why Dixie and Johnny left, then. Where’d they go? Miami?” 
“How’d you know?” 
“Eh, none of this is unusual for them.” 
“They told us to pack up-” Chichay began. 
“And meet them there,” Sweaty finished. “So, no hurry. What should we do today?” 
“Well, all I’ve had to eat today is donuts,” Chichay gestured to the donut that Sweaty had knocked on the floor. He excitedly leaned down, grabbed it, and took a bite. “So I thought maybe we could start by getting some lunch?” 
“Sounds great,” he said through a mouthful of chocolate, crumbs everywhere. “How ‘bout one of those places that overlook the river?” 
“Perfect.” 
“Ok, lemme put on a clean shirt,” Sweaty said. Chichay thought that even Sweaty’s clean shirts looked filthy, but she’d started to find that endearing, so she just nodded. He left the room and headed to one of the apartment’s bedrooms, where they’d been sleeping on a futon mattress on the floor for the past week. 
While Sweaty was changing, Chichay heard the mail being slipped through the mailslot of the street-level door and went down to get it. She climbed the stairs, idly flipping through the stack of circulars, credit card offers, and mail for the previous tenants, and found Sweaty standing in the living room, ready to go, wearing a clean, if stained, shirt. 
“Anything good?” He gestured to the mail. 
“Not really,” Chichay said, still perusing. “The usual junk. A ton of restaurant supply catalogs all addressed to Dixie,” she looked up questioningly at Sweaty, who just shrugged, “Oh, and something for you.” 
At the bottom of the stack was a small card addressed to Sweaty Mulligan. Chichay turned it over, but there was nothing else to indicate who it was from. She handed it over to him. 
“Looks like a birthday card,” she said. “When is your birthday, anyway?” 
“I don’t actually know,” he said, taking the card. “Weird, it looks like my own handwriting. Aw, crap.” 
“What?” 
He started to rip the envelope open. “I must’ve sent myself something. Like, from another time.” 
“You can do that?” 
“Yeah, I mean, I try not to unless it’s really important,” he pulled out what was, indeed, a birthday card and stared at the inside intently. From where Chichay stood, the front of the card appeared to wish the reader a happy eightieth birthday. 
“What’s it say?” 
“I’m not sure,” he said, handing it to her, “I mean, I don’t know what I’m telling myself to do.” 
Chichay took the card and read.

S-
Look in your usual spot. It’ll be forever.
-S

“It’s like you left yourself a clue,” Chichay said. 
“Yeah, but why?” 
“Who cares?” she replied, excited now. “Let’s figure it out!” Chichay grabbed her purse and car keys from the table by the door. “I assume it’s referring to a hiding place, right? What’s your usual spot?” 
“I have no idea,” Sweaty said. 
“But you’re the one who sent yourself this message. How do you not know your own usual spot?” 
“Well, because I don’t know what era I sent this from. I could be referring to any place where I’ve hidden stuff. Or a place I’m gonna hide stuff in the future, in which case, who knows.” He shook his head as if trying to untangle the timelines trapped inside. 
“I don’t think you’d leave a message for yourself referencing something that the you in this time period didn’t know about,” Chichay said logically. “This card is for right now you.” He gave her a blank look. “Where are you hiding stuff right now?” 
“Well, in this HQ, I’m sticking everything under that loose floorboard in our room.” They were both off in a flash down the hallway toward the bedroom. Chichay dragged the mattress a few feet to the side, and Sweaty got to work prying up the floor. When he had the board off, he reached his hand in and felt around. 
“So far, the only thing I’ve consciously put in here is my Jack Pennypacker passport and two hundred dollars,” He lifted his hand, holding only the passport. “And it looks like Dixie and Johnny already took the money.” 
“Ok, well, we haven’t been here that long. Where did you hide stuff in the Hoboken headquarters?” Chichay asked, helping him replace the board and move the mattress back on top. 
“Oh, there I had a safe that I kept buried in the backyard.” 
“Then I guess we’re going to Hoboken.”

***

Chichay and Sweaty pulled up in front of the building that formerly housed Shazbot Industries headquarters in Hoboken, New Jersey. They had vacated the space a month earlier when a drug that Sweaty was concocting in the basement exploded, blowing a massive hole in the front of the building. In the intervening month, it seemed like the landlord was taking the opportunity to rebuild from scratch, and they now faced the skeleton of the building, all frames and support but no walls or floors. 
More problematic, though, was that the property was now surrounded by a gigantic chain link fence topped with razor wire. 
“I think we’re going to have to wait until it gets dark,” Chichay said. “But maybe we should take a spin around the block and see if we can get in more easily from the back?” 
“Nah, I’m just gonna cut the fence right in the front corner.” 
“Bold, Mulligan,” she said. He shrugged. 
“You ever have the roast beef and mutz from Fiore’s?” he asked. Chichay shook her head. “You’re in for a treat. Head up the street and turn left at the next light.” 
After what Chichay could only describe as a top-ten sandwich experience, followed by a baker’s dozen cannoli, the sun was setting, and she and Sweaty made their way back to the construction site. They parked a block away. 
“Want me to come with you?” Chichay asked. 
“Definitely,” he replied. “If anyone shows up, I need you to take ‘em out.” 
“Take ‘em out how? I’m not on the job,” Chichay protested. 
“No, just do that, you know, hand thing you do. Where they pass out.” 
“Oh, ok.” 
They got out of the car and crossed the street quickly. At the fence, Chichay stood with her back to Sweaty, her eyes sweeping the darkened street, looking for any moving shadows in the yellow streetlights. After a few clicks, Sweaty had cut a hole in the fence big enough for them to slide through, and a moment later, they slipped down the alley between the ruins of the old HQ, and the building next door. 
Reaching the row home’s small backyard, they saw it was littered with debris and construction equipment, some of which were quite large and heavy. 
“It’s not under any of that stuff, is it?” Chichay mused, looking around. “A lot of it is probably too heavy to move.” 
“If I recall correctly, I started at the spigot at the back of the house, and I counted ten paces straight ahead, then thirteen to the right.” He turned and looked at the shell of the house. The foundation was still there, but the spigot was gone. 
“Spigot’s gone,” Chichay said. 
“Yeah, so we’re gonna have to approximate.” He walked over to the house. “I feel like the door was about here, and the spigot was to the left of that by about five feet.” Sweaty inspected the foundation closely. “This part looks like maybe there was some water damage, so let’s try this.” He turned and was about to start counting his steps when Chichay stopped him. 
“Did you do regular steps? Or just like, one foot in front of the other?” 
“I did regular steps, I think,” Sweaty replied. “Anyway, I guess we’ll find out.” He paced ten steps across the yard, then turned right and paced thirteen more. To their relief, he ended at a bare patch of ground. 
“Did you bring a shovel?” Chichay asked. 
“Uh…” 
“We have bolt cutters, but not a shovel?” 
“Can you look around? They’re doing construction here; there’s gotta be something to dig with.” With a sigh, Chichay went off to pillage the construction site. 
She returned a short while later with a snow shovel and a pick axe. 
“Here, this is the best I could do,” she said, handing the axe to Sweaty. “They must take all the good stuff with them at night. Probably on account of people like us…” Sweaty didn’t respond. He took a step back and heaved the pick axe into the ground. 
After a good deal of hacking at the ground and scraping the loosened dirt away with the snow shovel, Sweaty finally pulled a battered metal safe from the ground, holding it triumphantly over his head. When he set it down, Chichay crouched and looked at it. 
“You have a key for this?” she asked, dreading the answer. 
“Nah, I never lock it,” Sweaty replied. She looked at him in surprise. 
“So you keep this thing buried in the yard, but you don’t lock it?” 
“Think about, Chich,” he said, lifting the lid. “If someone’s gonna go to the trouble of finding it and digging it up, they must want it pretty bad. It being locked wouldn’t stop them.” With that, he pulled the heavy lid back until the inside of the safe was visible. It contained only an envelope. 
“I guess I wasn’t really keeping anything in there, anyway,” Sweaty said, taking the envelope out. It wasn’t sealed, so he lifted the flap. 
The envelope contained two tickets. Sweaty studied them in the dim light coming from the streetlights. 
“What is it?” Chichay asked, peering over his shoulder. He handed them to her. 
“It’s passes for a tour of Independence Hall in Philadelphia,” he said. “Two of them.” 
“For tomorrow,” Chichay added, looking up at him quizzically. “What does this mean?” 
“Means we gotta be in Philly by noon tomorrow.” 

Meanwhile…

“I really wish Chichay hadn’t told us that shit about the Governor,” the shifty and eccentric Johnny Go said as he piloted the battered Caprice Classic down the interstate, a vodka bottle wedged between his legs. He steered with his knees, holding a greasy drumstick in one hand while his other hand dangled lazily out the open window. Beside him, his beautiful and psychotic sidekick Dixie Doublestacks, sat, her back to the dashboard and her knees drawn up to her chest. She took small but continuous sips from her own vodka bottle. 
“I know. Is this what we’ve become now? Heroes?” she spat. 
“Buncha fucking do-gooders?” 
“Disgusting!” Dixie drained the rest of the vodka and hurled the bottle out the window. The car behind her swerved to avoid it, causing a pileup that took local authorities the next four hours to clear. 
“Will you hand me another bottle?” Dixie asked. Johnny put the drumstick in his mouth and felt along the sea, but couldn’t find anything. Taking his eyes off the road, he craned his neck to look into the backseat. Nothing there. He faced forward just in time to right the car from its trajectory, which would have seen them crash straight through the center barrier and into oncoming traffic. 
“I think we’re out.” 
“Shit. Pull over,” Dixie commanded, but Johnny had already turned the wheel hard to the right, careening across four lanes and heading down the next exit ramp, clipping the guard rail on the way. At the bottom of the ramp, he flew through the toll booth without stopping and then floored it onto a surface street. 
As if by instinct, Johnny guided the car to a rundown liquor store. A nearby water tower indicated that they were in a town on the outskirts of Baltimore. They skidded to a stop, bumping the car into the side of the building, denting the cinderblock wall, and rattling the inventory inside. 
Dixie and Johnny jumped from the car and rushed into the store, exiting a short while later with a rusty shopping cart stacked high with beer and liquor of all varieties. They got to work loading it into the car’s trunk, selecting two cases for the front seat and then rewarded themselves with a bottle of Old English each. Johnny slammed the trunk closed, and he and Dixie climbed up, relaxing in the late morning sun. 
“I just can’t shake this feeling that something’s not right,” Dixie complained. “Like I’m just a little bit out of sync.” 
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Johnny replied. “It’s like watching a movie that’s been dubbed.”
“Exactly!” They were quiet for a while, staring across the parking lot. The liquor store sat opposite a middle school. Dixie and Johnny watched as a group of sixth graders participated in a gym class exercise that seemed very awkward. “When was the last time this happened to us?” 
“Not sure,” Johnny replied, taking a long pull from the bottle. “Is this how we felt after we saw Danny Aiello in The Miracle Worker?’ 
“Oh my god! It is!” Dixie looked from Johnny to the middle school, then back to Johnny. “Sometimes it’s like the world is meant for us, you know?” 
“Tell me about it,” Johnny said as they slid off the car and raced for the front doors. A moment later, they were skidding across the parking lot, leaving a trail of gravel spraying in their wake. Without looking, Johnny gunned the car across the road, making a hard left until they rode alongside the fence bordering the middle school’s sports field. The ground was muddy and the Caprice was leaving a deep gash, mud splattering along the side of the car. They came to a stop and watched. 
The kids were playing some kind of game with a ball that only a handful were good at. The rest stood around, looking humiliated. Dixie and Johnny zeroed in on one kid, standing as far away from the action as possible. He was chubby and covered in mud, as if he’d been pushed down on the ground. His left shoe was untied. 
“That’s him,” Johnny whispered. A whistle blew from somewhere on the field, and the kids all sprinted toward the school building. Their kid stayed put for a second. Just as he was about to lumber after his classmates, Johnny threw the car in park and the two jumped out, racing through a gap in the fence. 
“Get him!” Dixie shouted as she and Johnny reached the kid, grabbing him by the arms and dragging him toward the car. The kid didn’t struggle, but he did look over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming to rescue him. The field was deserted. 

***

Chichay and Sweaty cruised down I-95, the skyline of Philadelphia sparkling in the distance. Sweaty was driving, and Chichay sat in the passenger seat, dressed all in black, the white soles of her Chucks the only break in the palate. 
"Hey so with your, uh, abilities…" she started slowly. 
"Yeah?" 
"How does it work? Is there only one of you? Or are there multiple Sweatys running around?" 
"I'm pretty sure there's only one of me." 
"So then how come you don't remember leaving this for yourself?" 
"Uh, probably a future me traveled back and did it. So present me doesn't remember it because it hasn't happened yet." 
Chichay looked confused. “That doesn’t…” 
“What?” 
“Never mind.”  
Sweaty spent what Chichay considered an absurd amount of time driving around looking for parking. She would have just paid for a parking garage. In fact, she offered, but Sweaty was undeterred. They were early for the tour, he reasoned. No hurry. 
When they finally found a parking spot, it was eight blocks away from Independence Hall, and they had to rush to make it in time. They ran along the crowded sidewalk, holding hands. 
At Independence Hall, they quickly found their tour group waiting for them and ready to depart. The only other people on the tour were an elderly German couple. 
“Do you know what we’re looking for?” Chichay whispered to Sweaty. He looked around the vestibule where they waited and shrugged. 
“Hopefully I’ll know it when I see it.” 
“What if it’s back in these roped-off areas?” 
“We might have to hide out until they close today, then.” 
“Told you we should have just parked in a garage,” Chichay smirked. 
Their tour began. Chichay had never been and found it fascinating. She ended up being the tour group member who asked a lot of questions, which was fine because no one would suspect that they had ulterior motives. Sweaty, having time traveled to this point in history on a few previous occasions, found much of the tour content to be factually inaccurate. He chalked it up to how boring the actual event was. And smelly. Anyway, he was enjoying Chichay’s enthusiasm. 
When the tour entered the Assembly Room, both Chichay and Sweaty gasped. Chichay because of the sheer magnitude of what had taken place in that room so many years ago. Sweaty because he’d caught sight of General Washington’s Rising Sun Armchair and knew, somehow, that it held the next clue. 
As the tour ended and everyone stepped outside, Sweaty hung back. Silently he caught Chichay’s eye and nodded, indicating that she should stay outside and distract the tour guide. With a smile, she stepped forward, placed her hand on the guide’s arm, and began to pepper him with a barrage of questions. The man was flattered and answered them all patiently. He didn’t notice that Chichay had subtly guided him away from the building. 
With the diversion in place, Sweaty slipped back inside. The room was deserted. He could hear another tour arriving in the outer chamber and knew he had only moments to check the chair. With the wiry grace of a terrier, Sweaty jumped the wooden railing that partitioned the Assembly Room, preserving the artifacts of democracy on one side while leaving an area for tourists and school children to congregate on the other. He raced across the historic wooden floors and dived head-first under the table where, many years before, George Washington had presided. 
Crawling on all fours, Sweaty slid to the far side of the table. He rolled over onto his back and wriggled the rest of the way under the chair like a mechanic performing an inspection. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the mini flashlight he carried for occasions such as these, clicked it on, and pointed it to the underside of the chair.

JIM WUZ HERe

“Ah,” Sweaty mused to himself. He slid out from under the table, sprinted across the floor, took the partition in a single leap, and slipped out the exit door just as the next tour group entered. 
Once outside, he took a moment to compose himself, made eye contact with Chichay, and headed toward Fifth Street. Chichay thanked the tour guide profusely, tipped him twenty dollars, and took her leave. She met Sweaty at the corner. 
“Well?” she asked. 
“I got it.” 
“What was it?” 
“I’d carved it into the bottom of Washington’s Rising Sun chair. I mean, I assume I did at some point.” 
“What did you carve? And how did you know it was under that chair?” 
“I carved “Jim was here,” and I knew it was that chair because it’s Washington’s chair, and the Hoboken HQ was backed up to Washington Street.” 
“Wow, ok,” Chichay said. “Who’s Jim?” 
“I have no idea,” Sweaty admitted. “But it reminded me that I love Jim’s Steaks, even if it’s a little touristy. Wanna go get a cheesesteak? There’s a Jim’s at 4th and South.” 
Linking arms yet again, they set off, strolling down the brick sidewalks of Old City toward a part of town that only people from out of town visited, which was ok with them. Chichay hadn’t even grown up in the United States, and Sweaty didn’t consider himself to be from anywhere in particular. They got in line at Jim’s, ordered two cheesesteaks with fried onions, and stood side by side at the counter, devouring them. When they finished, they stepped back into the street, pausing to watch a trio of college-aged girls tottering down the sidewalk on too-tall platform shoes. 
“What do we do now?” Chichay asked. 
“I don’t know,” Sweaty said, “But let’s not be on South Street anymore.” Chichay nodded in agreement, and they stepped into the crosswalk to get to the other side of Fourth Street. In the middle of the intersection, Sweaty stopped and looked down. 
“Oh shit,” he said. “That’s it!” 
“What’s it?” 
“This Toynbee Tile,” Sweaty said, pointing to the small placard embedded in the asphalt. The words were warped and blurred, but it contained a message. Sweaty knelt to get a closer look. “Super hell…” He squinted, reading out loud but more to himself. “Hell beyond hell… More than one hell.” A car horn blared, then roared around them, coming dangerously close to clipping Sweaty’s foot. 
Chichay reached down and pulled him to his feet. “Let’s get out of the intersection, and then you can tell me what you’re talking about.” 
They stood on the far side of the street, and Sweaty pointed back to the tile. 
“I think I wanted myself to find that Toynbee Tile,” he told Chichay. 
“Ok, first of all, what the hell is a Toy… what did you call it?” 
“Toynbee Tile,” Sweaty replied, “They’re… look, I’ll explain them later. For now, let’s focus on the message in that particular one.” 
“Which is?” 
“Well, it’s the usual message that’s on all the Toynbee Tiles, but this one also has a bunch of stuff about Hell. So I think the clue here is Hell.” 
“Ok, so something about hell...” 
“Yeah...” They stood there, puzzling. Sweaty wore such a look of concentration on his face that Chichay was afraid he would pop out of their timeline. She reached for his hand. 
“Let’s brainstorm. What do we know about hell?” 
“That’s it’s a place ruled over by the Devil Himself.” 
“Uh, sure,” Chichay said. “It’s in a lot of literature and pop culture.” 
“Yeah!” he said excitedly, “War is Hell, To Hell and Back.” 
“Bat out of Hell.” 
“Hellstrom.” 
“Hell is other people,” Chichay said. They both laughed. 
“What else?” Sweaty asked. 
“Uh, Hell Week? Hell...o?” Neither of these got a reaction. “Drag Me to Hell?” Sweaty gasped and grabbed her arm. 
“That’s it!” 
“Drag Me to Hell?” 
“The drag show at Bob and Barbara’s!” He took off down the street, pulling Chichay along behind him. 
“Sweaty, I’m really struggling to comprehend the logic of Future You.” 

***

Sweaty and Chichay entered the storefront-sized bar and pulled up stools. Sweaty ordered a Citywide Special. Chichay asked for a glass of water with a lot of ice. Being an assassin, she never drank. They sipped their drinks for a moment; then Sweaty motioned for the bartender. 
“Hey man, is she here?” He cocked his head over his shoulder, indicating the side room where performances took place. 
“The Queen?” the bartender asked. Sweaty nodded. “Yeah, she’s downstairs. I’m heading down there in a few to grab another keg, so I’ll let her know you’re here.” 
“Does he know you?” Chichay asked as the bartender walked off. 
“I guess so,” replied Sweaty. “I mean, I’ve definitely been here before, but I didn’t think I was a regular.” 
“And this place has a drag show?” Chichay asked, looking around. It seemed an unlikely location. It was dark, with wood paneling, drop ceilings, a worn bartop, and rickety barstools. It was decorated only with advertisements for beer. It looked more like a basement hangout than a place that would host any live entertainment at all. 
“Oh yeah, best one in the city,” Sweaty replied. Then, “I wonder what I was doing here,” he mused. They saw the bartender head down the basement steps on the other side of the bar. They turned back to the bar, and Sweaty drained the rest of his drink. They waited. 
“Weeeeell, get a load-a this burned batch of biscuits!” a voice behind them drawled. Chichay and Sweaty spun around on their stools. An absolutely stunning woman stood before them. She looked gorgeous even in her casual, pre-show clothes. Chichay, who considered herself pretty stylish, immediately felt insecure. However, looking around, she knew that she and Sweaty looked far more like the average patron than the glamorous woman standing before her. “My favorite lil’ rugged gentleman! I’ve been expecting you! I almost didn’t recognize you without your pompadour.” 
Chichay shot Sweaty a look. Pompadour? 
“Uh, well, it’s good to be back,” Sweaty muttered. But the Queen had noticed Chichay and broke into a huge smile, teeth perfect and gleaming white, not a trace of her bright red lipstick anywhere on them. 
“Ooooh,” she said, reaching out and taking Chichay’s hand. “Is this her?” 
“Ye… yes?” Sweaty stammered. 
“Chichay Milano,” Chichay introduced herself, shaking the Queen’s hand. “It’s wonderful to meet you finally. I’ve heard so much about you.” 
“Nothin’ too good, I hope,” the Queen replied with a wink. She turned back to Sweaty, who looked utterly bewildered. “I guess you’re here for your item, then? It’s a lil’ early for my show.” He nodded. “I’ll run down the green room and grab it for you. Sit tight.” 
She sauntered off, her heels clicking on the floor, slinking seductively, knowing that all eyes were on her. Always. Chichay punched Sweaty in the arm to get his attention. 
“A pompadour?!” she exclaimed with a barely suppressed giggle. “You have to be kidding me!” 
“Look, I don’t know what was going on the last time I was through here. Coulda been anything.” 
“I gotta say, I’m kinda dying to meet Future Sweaty. Seems like a hoot.” Chichay reached back for her water glass and took a sip. 
The Queen reappeared a moment later, carrying a large leather briefcase. It didn’t seem heavy, and she swung it easily by her side as she walked. Sweaty looked at it curiously as she handed it to him, taking it as if it was the first time he’d ever seen it, which, in fact, it was. 
“Thanks,” he said. 
“I’m always happy to help; you know that,” The Queen replied, “Especially after all you’ve done for me.” Sweaty just nodded. He had no idea what she was talking about. He turned the briefcase over, inspecting it. It was the kind with the three-number combination lock on it. 
“Hey, I didn’t, uh, tell you the combination for this, did I?” he asked. The Queen laughed, head tossed back, hands on her stomach. 
“Honey, you tryin’ to test me? See if I stole whatever was in there?” 
“No, honest, I just…” 
“I’m kidding, sweetie.” 
“Oh. Yeah.” Sweaty looked up at her. “But I didn’t tell you the combination?” 
“Why, you don’t remember?” 
“No, not really,” he said. 
“Happens to him sometimes,” Chichay added quickly, giving The Queen a look. The Queen nodded knowingly. 
“Well, if you had, I’d have kept that just as safe as I did your case.” 
“Thanks for that, really,” Sweaty said, standing up. He stuck out his hand, and The Queen took it, giving him a dainty shake before turning to Chichay and wrapping her in a warm embrace. The smell of Cristal enveloped Chichay, but not in a bad way. 
“Take good care of my boy, ok hon?” she whispered in Chichay’s ear. 
“With everything I’ve got,” Chichay whispered back. They pulled apart, and Chichay and Sweaty headed toward the bar’s door. 
“Don’t be a stranger, ok?” she called out after them. “Every Thursday at ten.” 

***

A short while later, Chichay and Sweaty sat on a bench in Rittenhouse Square, staring at the briefcase in Sweaty’s lap. 
“Anything?” Chichay asked. Sweaty had been trying for the past half hour to think of what the combination could possibly be. He’d tried a handful, and none had worked. 
“Nothing.” 
“Couldn’t we just smash it open?” Chichay suggested. 
“I don’t think we should. I might have booby-trapped it.” 
“Yeah, that does seem like something you’d do. Whose briefcase is that, anyway?” 
“No idea. If I had to guess, I’d say it belongs to some gangster.” 
“Why do you think that?” 
“I mean, look at it. Total gangster shit.” 
Chichay shrugged. “Why don’t you try six six six.” 
“Huh?” Sweaty looked at her. 
“Well, it’s the number for hell or whatever. And our last two clues were hell related. It’s worth a try.” Sweaty took a deep breath and spun the first two dials until they reached six. He started to spin the third, then stopped. 
“Speaking of booby traps, Maybe you should walk over there a ways while I try this,” he said, pointing to the far side of the park. “You know, just in case.” 
“Do you think…?” But Sweaty’s look convinced her that he did, so she got up and crossed the park, standing out of what she assumed would be the blast zone, but where she could still see him. She watched as he spun the last dial, slowly clicking open the latches and lifting the briefcase lid. He turned and looked at Chichay, waving her over. 

***

Dixie and Johnny had the kid stuffed into the back seat of the Caprice among the many liquor boxes. He looked out the window but didn’t say anything and didn’t make a move for the door. The radio played A Blossom Fell. Dixie turned and looked at the kid in the backseat, winding herself up to threaten him. 
“Now listen, kid,” she began, then paused, reaching over to turn the radio down. Johnny put out a hand to stop her. 
“Hey, don’t touch that. Nat King Cole.” 

***

The inside of the water tower was cool and dark, the only light coming from the open hatch in the side. Dixie and Johnny stood on the metal walkway that partially surrounded the space, a few feet above the water line. At the far end was a ladder that descended into the water tank. 
The kid stood in front of them. He looked from them to the water beneath his feet, to the open hatch, and back to Dixie and Johnny. He said nothing. 
“Listen, kid, we’re in a funk,” Johnny began. 
“We’re down, you know?” Dixie said. 
“And, like, itchy.” 
“Not in a gross way, though,” Dixie added. 
“Yeah,” Johnny said, “It’s nothing serious.” 
“No, it’s totally happened before.” 
“Right, and there’s only one way to get out of it.” 
“So just bear with us, ok?” Dixie smiled and took a step toward the kid. He didn’t flinch, even when she lifted the pearl-handled fireplace poke,r she’d been carrying and gave him a soft jab in the stomach. 
Dixie smiled. Then she poked him again. Johnny stepped up, reaching into the inside pocket of his battered suit jacket and removing a novelty back scratcher. The end was shaped like a monkey’s paw and looked a little too realistic for comfort. He gave the kid a quick poke in the knee and laughed. Next, Dixie poked him in the foot, and Johnny went for the shoulder. They both laughed. Their pace quickened, and although they never poked the kid hard, their apparent glee was deeply unsettling. But the kid stood there and took it, with almost no reaction, save for the time Johnny got the monkey’s paw in his nose. 
An hour later, Dixie and Johnny had mostly stopped poking the kid but were now belting out show tunes as loudly as possible. Their voices ricocheted off the tower’s metal, causing a din that made the kid want to cover his ears. He didn’t, mostly because he was still too stunned to move. And while they danced around him, they didn’t seem to be performing for anyone other than themselves. Johnny Go pounded out a furious beat that didn’t look anything like tap dancing but made a hell of a racket on the metal walkway. 
Then, as if their routine had been rehearsed, Dixie and Johnny stopped and took up a position in front of the kid. The noise from moments earlier reverberated through the metal of the tower, growing softer until finally, the tower was silent, their ears ringing in the stillness. Dixie and Johnny took up imaginary guitars and began to play, making most of the guitar sounds with their mouths while also singing. 
“Love…” Johnny began. 
“Love is strange…” Dixie added. 
“Lot of people…” 
“Take it for a game…” 
As the song picked up, Dixie dropped her imaginary guitar and began a drunken, seductive dance, circling the kid and occasionally giving him light slaps on the back of the head. Johnny stayed where he was, strumming his air guitar with more and more ferocity. Suddenly he stopped. 
“Sylvia?” Johnny asked. 
“Yes Mickey,” Dixie replied. She walked to the side of the tower and started to go through a bag of junk they’d brought in with them. 
“How do you call your Loverboy?” Johnny sang. 
“Come here, Loverboy,” Dixie growled in return, walking back to the kid and uncoiling a length of rope. 
“And if he doesn’t answer?” Johnny sang. 
“Oh Loverboy,” Dixie began to wrap the rope around the kid’s waist, then tied the other end to the metal ladder leading into the water tank. 
“And if he still doesn’t answer?” 
“Baby, oh baby,” Dixie sang, stepping back from the kid. She grabbed a bottle of vodka and took a long swallow, then she and Johnny began chanting in unison. 

Baby, oh baby
My sweet baby, you're the one
Baby, oh baby
My sweet baby, you're the one

They collapsed on the metal walkway, panting. Johnny reached for a vodka bottle and drained half of it in one gulp. Dixie looked up at the kid. 
“Ok, get in the water,” she ordered. The kid gave her a look of disbelief. 
“Kid, we don’t make the rules here,” Johnny Go said, flicking the cap from the vodka bottle at him. “You’re required to do forty minutes of tethered swimming, and that’s just how it is.” 
“The sooner you get in there, the sooner it’ll be over,” Dixie said, getting to her feet and approaching the kid. She shoved him back toward the ladder, and he reluctantly stepped out of his shoes and began to climb down into the water. As his bare feet touched the water, he drew a breath in sharply. 
“Start moving and it won’t seem so cold,” Johnny called over to the kid. He finished the vodka bottle and tossed it into the water, narrowly missing the kid’s head. 
The kid eased into the water and started an awkward doggy paddle. Dixie grabbed another bottle, laid down on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, and looked over the edge of the walkway. Johnny joined her. 
“How ‘bout a story while the kid swims?” Johnny suggested as if they were camping or something. 
“Great idea,” Dixie replied. “Listen up, son! Lemme tell you about this guy Danforth and his mustache.” 
“It’s moist,” Johnny added. 
“Yep, and erotic.” With that, Dixie launched into a truly grotesque and perverted tale about a guy named Danforth and his erotic mustache. The kid was distracted to the point that he almost drowned on a few occasions, and Dixie paused her storytelling to reel him in by his rope tether. When that lewd tale ended, Dixie launched into a second tale, this time about a woman pretending to be a gorilla in order to seduce a researcher. 
“I’ll never get tired of that one,” Johnny said, rolling over onto his back, the empty vodka bottle slipping from his hand and landing in the water tank with a quiet splash. Dixie addressed the kid. 
“Time to go!” 

***

“I think the envelope full of diamonds is significant,” Chichay said to Sweaty as they sat on the park bench. After Sweaty had opened the briefcase and they’d inspected the contents, Chichay had run over to a nearby coffee shop and picked up drinks, which they now sipped casually, thinking. “But a car key?” 
“I know. Why would I leave myself a car key? And why did I have a Renault?” 
“It seemed like it was a while ago since you gave The Queen the briefcase, right?” Chichay mused. “So if you’d left a car just sitting somewhere all that time, it probably got towed by now. Maybe we should check the impound lots?” Sweaty set his coffee down, turned to Chichay, and took her face in both hands. He planted a long kiss on her mouth. 
“You beautiful genius muse,” he declared. “This is why I love you.” At that, he blushed, the deepest shade of red, like the sun reflected off Mars, seen through a telescope. Chichay smiled, no slouch when it came to blushing herself, matched his color, then leaned in for another kiss. 
“Love you back,” she said. “Now, where do they take cars when they tow them here?” 

***

A short while later, Chichay and Sweaty walked quickly through the Philadelphia Parking Authority Impound Lot #6. The woman in the office, her voice like gravel in a washing machine, had remembered the Renault. After all, it wasn’t often that they got them French ones on the lot. She explained how much it would cost to get the car out, which Chichay paid despite Sweaty’s protests, then gave them vague directions. 
They found the car easily. It was bright yellow with an ample amount of rust. The driver’s side door was black. Chichay and Sweaty climbed in and began their search. Chichay checked the glove box, finding only a handful of hot sauce packets. Sweaty felt underneath the seats, coming up with a few shotgun shells, a hand grenade, and a C3PO action figure. 
Chichay climbed into the back seat while Sweaty checked the trunk, but a few moments later, both were back in the front seats, staring out the windshield at a mangy junkyard dog furiously humping a discarded tire. The lot sat beside the interstate, the elevated road high above them. Sweaty stared at a billboard. 
“You know, at one point, Philadelphia ran a bunch of billboards that said, ‘Philadelphia isn’t as bad as Philadelphians say it is’,” he said absently. “I think about that all the time.” 
“What made you think of that?” Chichay asked. 
“That billboard up there,” Sweaty said, gesturing to the top right corner of the windshield. Chichay leaned over toward him. 
“Oh, I didn’t even see it. My side is blocked with all this writing.” Chichay’s side of the windshield was covered with writing in white grease pencil. This was how the impound lot tracked the cars. Chichay and Sweaty both stared at the writing as if seeing it for the first time; then they jumped out of the car to read it from the outside. 
“It’s a lot of numbers,” Chichay said. “But it kinda looks like...” 
“Coordinates!” 

***

The little yellow Renault tore up the interstate, shaking and barely keeping up with traffic. Chichay had tried to insist that they go back to get Sweaty’s car, but he was in too much of a hurry. That car was stolen anyway, he told her. 
The coordinates had pointed them to a wealthy enclave to the Northwest of the city. Then, as they drove there, Chichay identified an actual house number at the bottom of the grease pencil numbers. Finally, they blasted down the quiet, tree-lined street, their car looking hideously out of place among the mansions, manicured lawns, and gleaming German luxury vehicles. Sweaty skidded to a stop in front of a Tudor-style palace and cut the engine. 
“Want me to go with you?” Chichay asked as Sweaty got out of the car. 
“Nah, but keep that little gun of yours trained on the door while I’m there. Just in case.” Chichay nodded and reached into her small purse, pulling out the tiny but powerful pistol. 
Fortunately, everything went according to plan, and Chichay watched as a man, reeking of old money, answered the door, looked at Sweaty in surprise, then disappeared inside the house. He returned a moment later, handed Sweaty a small black item, took the envelope, and slammed the door closed. Sweaty returned to the car and gave the item to Chichay. It was a statue of a falcon. 
“So,” Chichay said, turning it over in her hands. Before she could say anything else, Sweaty had gently taken the falcon back from her and, grasping it by the base, smashed it viciously against the steering wheel. Chichay shrieked in surprise. 
“Shit, Sweaty! Why did you do that? You just traded an envelope full of diamonds for it; isn’t it valuable?” 
“Nah,” he said, feeling around inside the hollow of the statue’s remains. “It’s probably fake anyway.” He grasped something and eventually worked it out, holding it up for Chichay to see. 
“A safe deposit box key?” 

***

Dixie sat in the corner of the fast food restaurant, facing the kid, who looked around anxiously, his hands in his lap. At the counter, Johnny ordered just about everything on the menu, most of it deep-fried fish. 
“Y’ever been here before?” Dixie asked. She sipped a beer that she’d brought in with her. The kid said nothing, so she continued, “Me and Johnny love this joint. Been coming here for years.” 
Johnny arrived at the table with a tray of food. It took him three more trips to the counter to get everything he’d ordered. Then he sat down, and he and Dixie dug in. The kid stared. 
“Eat, you little shit,” Johnny said through a mouthful of fried shrimp. “You worked hard this morning.” The kid timidly reached for a breaded and fried piece of catfish and ate it quietly. When he was finished, he ate another. Then another. Then some fries. And wings. Soon, despite the absurd amount of food they had ordered, they were down to scraps and bones. Dixie sat back and belched. 
“Ready?” Johnny asked. Dixie nodded, and they got up from the table, dragging the kid with them. 
Back in the car, Johnny drove along, humming to himself. Dixie picked absently at her nails with a pearl-handled pocket knife. In the back seat, the kid looked uncomfortable. 
“Better get gas,” Johnny said. He turned across two lanes without signaling and rolled into a gas station. “If anyone needs to use the can, do it now, cause we’re not stopping again.” 
The kid stepped out of the car and looked frantically from Dixie and Johnny to the gas station building. Dixie sighed. 
“I’m not going with you,” she said. The kid sprinted off, heading to the grey door in the side of the building marked restroom. But a moment later, the kid returned, shaking his head and looking around frantically. Curious, Dixie and Johnny walked over. Johnny poked his head into the bathroom. 
“Heh, no terlet!” he called out to Dixie. 
“No way,” Dixie exclaimed, looking over Johnny’s shoulder. Sure enough, the restroom contained a sink but no toilet. There was nothing but a spot of bare concrete and cracked, filthy tile where the toilet used to be, as if someone had come in and simply wrenched it out. “Man, the world really is meant for us!” She turned to the kid and pulled him over, shoving him through the door. He looked at her uncomprehendingly. 
“Get to work, kid,” Johnny said, closing the door. “The sink’s a little high for you, but you’ll figure it out.” 
“Don’t come out until you’ve desecrated that sink,” Dixie called. They crouched by the door, giggling and periodically giving one another high fives. When he emerged twenty minutes later, shame-faced and nauseous looking, they howled with laughter as they ran back to the car. 

***

Johnny piloted the Caprice down the wide boulevard in the heart of inner-city Baltimore. The light at Eutaw Street turned red, and he pulled to the sidewalk. He and Dixie got out, followed by the kid. Johnny stood on the side of the car with the driver’s side door open. Dixie stood on the sidewalk with the kid. 
“Thanks, kid,” Dixie told him. “We needed that.” 
“Yep, really hit the spot,” said Johnny, giving him a little wave, then climbing back into the car. Dixie climbed back in as well. 
“See ya,” she said before closing the door. The light turned green, and Johnny floored it. 

***

Chichay and Sweaty stood in the small booth that the bank provided for customers who needed to open their safe deposit boxes. A small metal box stood before them. 
“Ready?” Sweaty asked. Chichay nodded, and he slowly lifted the lid. 
The box was empty except for a small plastic, credit card-sized item sitting at the bottom and a plastic zip-top bag taped to the underside of the lid. Sweaty could see that the bag contained a diamond solitaire ring set in white gold. That bastard, he thought of himself. He left this ring here, knowing Chichay would be with me when I opened it. They had only been together for a few weeks; no way was he telling her that his future self had already bought an engagement ring. 
Sweaty reached into the box, picking up the gift card, and lowering the lid enough so that Chichay couldn’t see the ring. He flipped the card over a few times, feigning disbelief. Then he handed it to Chichay. 
“A gift card for Imo’s Pizza?” she asked, confused. As she stared intently at the card, he reached under the lid, quickly palming the ring, and slid it into his pocket. “In St. Louis?” 
“Yeah,” Sweaty said.
  “Why would you leave yourself this?” 
“I don’t know. In case I’m ever hungry, broke, and in St. Louis?” 
“Have you ever had that pizza?” 
“No, why?” 
“I’m pretty sure you’d rather go hungry.” 
“It can’t be that bad.” 
“Trust me.” 
When they left the bank, they strolled hand in hand down the street. Business people rushed by on all sides. 
“S,o do you think that gift card is another clue?” Chichay asked. 
“I guess it could be,” Sweaty said, “But nothing’s coming to mind. Wanna head home? If we think of something it could be, we can always go out tomorrow and look. I’d probably be up for a drive to St. Louis.” 
“Sure.” They headed toward the garage where they had parked the car, Sweaty having finally consented to pay for parking. “Sweaty?” 
“Yeah?”
“Even if that whole thing was one big wild goose chase, it’s still the most fun I’ve had in ages.” 
“Me too.”

***

“Man, I’m feeling good,” Johnny declared as they cruised through a wealthy area of Virginia. Dixie had her feet up on the dashboard and nodded in agreement. 
“Only problem is that we’re running outta scratch,” she said. 
“Yeah, we’re gonna have to do something about that,” Johnny agreed. Up ahead, they noticed a turnoff for a subdivision. “What’s this? Foxworth Acres,” Johnny said, slowing the car. 
“That just screams money,” Dixie said, sitting up. “Pull in.” 
They cruised through the neighborhood, passing one mansion after another until they spied one that looked deserted. The lawn was slightly overgrown compared to its neighbors, and there were no cars in the circular drive. 
Johnny brought the car to a stop directly in front of the door, and the two made no attempt to hide the fact that they were breaking in. Dixie took her pearl-handled machete out of the trunk and used it to smash the doorknob off, then she and Johnny waltzed in like they owned the place. 
They spent the next two hours pillaging the house of anything even remotely valuable, making several trips to the car. When they were almost done searching the upstairs bedrooms, Johnny noticed a door at the end of the hallway. 
“Dix, I’m gonna check the attic,” he called, then slid the deadbolt back. The door creaked as he opened it. Inside were rough wooden steps leading up. Johnny climbed them slowly and when he reached the top, looked in something almost like interest at a group of four kids, pale and sickly, clinging to one another in the center of a room made up to look like a bedroom, but not nearly as lavish as the rest of the house. Johnny stared. 
“Anything good?” Dixie’s voice drifted up the steps, her platform Mary Janes clunking as she climbed. 
“Just a bunch of creepy, incestuous, malnourished kids,” he said as Dixie appeared in the room behind him. She took in the scene. 
“Please help; we’ve been locked in this attic for years,” one of the children said, a pleading look in his eyes. 
“Do you have any money?” Dixie asked. 
“No, we’re just children.”  
Neither replied. Instead, horrified, they backed out of the attic and barricaded the door. 
Moments late,r the shifty and eccentric Johnny Go and his beautiful and psychotic sidekick Dixie Doublestacks strapped the large crystal chandelier from the mansion’s dining room to the roof of their car and pulled quickly out of the driveway. Behind them, the mansion burned.