5

CHAPTER 2

St. Paul, Minnesota
Wednesday, August 12
1925

It wasn't San Francisco outside.

Or maybe he'd blundered onto a movie set.

He stood on the entry steps of a long, narrow, red brick building, one of many two and three story buildings lining the cobblestone street. Tall telephone poles festooned with cross arms and strung with thick black cable marched along the street as far as the eye could see. Opposite, he spotted a sign proclaiming the grounds 'Property of St. Paul Gas and Light Company'.

"Jesus H. Christ," Chance muttered. Minnesota? It had to be a movie set. From the handful of automobiles parked or chug-chugging down the street - Model T's? - the movie was set sometime in the 1920s. That explained the clothes. But it explained nothing else.

It certainly didn't explain the business cards bearing his name as provider of "private security and confidential inquiries" by agents who possessed "skills surpassing both Pinkerton and Burns." Pinkerton's and Burns had been absorbed by other huge security providers decades ago.

Mind spinning, Chance descended the steps and began following the sidewalk. Common sense told him this was no movie set. No camera crews could be seen, no cast standing around awaiting their cues. Piled up trash between buildings and horse droppings in the street produced an aroma light-years beyond any movie set's need for authenticity. He noticed the other men he encountered all wore suit coats and hats. A few annoyed glances cast his way convinced him he'd better put his on, too, despite the heat. Besides, it helped hide his shoulder holster.

It occurred to Chance that if it somehow was the Twenties, specifically 1927, he was in deeper shit than being caught in some kind of time-slip. The first known Christopher Chance died in Minneapolis - right across the river - in 1927. He didn't remember how the man died. Odds were against it being from old age. Someone might be waiting to run him down, or blast him with…with a Tommy gun! His fingers slipped inside his jacket to brush the shoulder-holstered Colt model 1911 Mrs. Clifford had said was his. It might not have the magazine capacity a Tommy gun possessed, but this baby's .45 caliber slugs had stopping power the Tommy could only dream about. In a fair fight, he could hold his own.

Reaching the not yet open for business Bucket of Blood Saloon, he stopped to gape. Advertising signs offered Coca-Cola - 5¢, Nesbitt's sodas, or "Near Beer". This was the Prohibition Era. Beer and hard liquor were banned by the Volstead Act. Bootleg booze was plentiful enough if you knew where to acquire it. Somewhere in San Francisco, Gramps, much like the boy who'd delivered the dresses to Nina Clifford's, was running errands to help support his widowed mother. Remembering Gramps, probaboy delivering bootleg booze.

None of this could be real. But it was. As real as the Model T's rolling by. As real as the mounted policeman giving him the eye as his horse sauntered along, tail swishing flies. As real as the issue of the St. Paul & Minneapolis Appeal he bought for a nickel at a corner news-stand. The issue dated Wednesday, August 12, 1925.

That's good to know, Chance thought. If I've somehow become the Christopher Chance who died - make that dies - in 1927, at least I have a couple of years to get used to the idea.

The address on the business cards meant nothing, but his feet seemed inclined to carry him away from Washington Street. Walking along, he began to experience flashes of memory. Guerrero rounding a corner. Kids playing in the street in the rain. Guerrero swerving, sideswiping…something. Stepping from the car. A sound like the crack of the world's largest bullwhip.

Then he awoke in someone else's body.

Good thing I read a lot, he told himself, or I'd think I've lost my mind, not just had it…transplanted.

He remembered an article about a girl who'd suffered a high fever, and when she recovered, was a different person. Called herself a different name - refused to answer to her 'own'; claimed to be a different age; insisted she had a husband and children in a nearby town. If he remembered correctly, the girl later on nearly drowned. When she was resuscitated, she was her original self, with no recollection of the Other who briefly occupied her body.

Chance wondered what became of the other entity.

Why was he here? Was it mere happenstance he'd appropriated Christopher-27's body? Why not Christopher who died in 1954 or Christopher who died in 1975? Why not John Dillinger? Why not Wyatt Earp?

He came to a street where large but rather run-down Victorian houses made up what must have once been a pleasant, affluent neighborhood. Now, most houses needed paint, some roofs had lost shingles, and all the yards looked neglected. Dandelions going to seed and ragweed in full bloom pushed up through dry, overgrown grass.

Nearly every yard or porch bore signs proclaiming 'ROOMS' or 'ROOM AND BOARD', some by week, others by month. A few included 'Theater Folk Welcome'. Elsewhere, it would seem, they weren't. Farther along, several 'Mom and Pop' businesses occupied the ground floor of houses where the proprietors lived upstairs. He spotted signs for a tiny market offering meat, milk, eggs and sundries, a milliner's, tailoring and alterations, candy and cigars, another news stand.

Chance found himself opening a gate to a rambling, two-story structure where a brickwork path led to the front porch. Eight mailboxes flanked the front entrance. A business card matching those in his wallet was affixed to number six. The notation "upstairs" was hand-lettered in black ink.

As he opened the front door, a female voice greeted him. "Mr. Chance. You're yust in time. I'm collecting the rent and my books show you two months in arrears, by Yimminy."

Twin C Detective Service must not be doing too well.

"Not to worry, Mrs. Gustav," Chance said, patting his hip for the oversize wallet before remembering it rode in a front pocket. "I've all that and then some."

He heard the brogue Mrs. Clifford mentioned creeping into his voice. He wondered how he knew his landlady's name. The Christopher Chance whose body he'd appropriated must still be in there somewhere. And probably mad as hell.

… … … … …

At the door with the red and gold TWIN C DETECTIVE SERVICE sign - the C a huge Old English capital embellished with gilded highlights - Chance pulled a key ring from his pocket. He chose the largest key and tried it in the lock. Perfect fit.

He stepped cautiously into the room, ready to pull the automatic. Although he'd mastered walking in someone else's body, he felt awkward. Unbalanced. If someone were waiting for him….

Nobody was. He made a quick inspection just to make sure.

Christopher-27 had divided a fairly spacious room into a combination office and dormitory by placing a folding screen between public area and private. The public portion held a mis-matched desk and chair, visitor's chair, a couch, filing cabinets and a book case. His sleeping area held an army cot, wardrobe, and dresser. Shaving gear and the same pitcher and bowl combination you saw in cowboy flicks were arranged on a dry sink. The room possessed a single overhead electric light fixture, but the lamp resting on a nightstand beside the bed used kerosene.

He found a window that actually opened. He pushed it up to release some of the built-up heat. No air conditioning. No bathroom. Probably down the hall like at Mrs. Clifford's. Chance couldn't quite make himself peer under the cot to look for a chamber pot, but he'd bet one was there.

Christopher-27 kept his personal effects considerably neater than Chance did, but shared an equal fondness for books. The office bookcase held an almost even mix of technical manuals and fiction, novels by Fitzgerald, Conan Doyle, London. A framed, autographed photo on the wall of World War I ace pilot Eddie Rickenbacker reminded him that at this very moment Charles Lindbergh was probably flying his air-mail route for the U.S. Post Office and dreaming of flying nonstop New York to Paris. It made the hair on the back of his neck quiver.

He turned his attention to the desk. A manila folder lay on top, the name Macklin, Althea printed on the tab.

Since I'm occupying Christopher-27's body, the least I can do is look into the urgent problem Mrs. Clifford hired him to resolve, he thought. Althea's problem. Althea. The name made something inside him glow like a miniature sun, then in the next heartbeat shrivel with alarm.

As Chance reached for the folder, a wave of dizziness rushed over him. He staggered to the couch and collapsed onto it as the room spun in dizzying circles.

'Who are ye, blast it! What are ye? What're ye doin' in me head?'

The words were as clear as his own thoughts. The brogue thick enough to cut with a knife. The outrage unmistakable. How in hell do I answer him, Chance wondered.

'Forget your bloody answers, just get out!'

"I wish I knew how," Chance said. "Can you hear me? Understand me? Even when I don't speak out loud?"

'Of course I can hear and understand! You think I'm some kind of mope?'

"Then let me try to explain - "

'Save yer explainin' fer them as want to hear it, ya bloody parasite!'

… … … … …

"You gotta stop yelling," Chance said when Christopher, who had found his voice, showed no sign of winding down, "you're making our headache worse."

That brought the tirade up short. Preventing it from starting in again took all Chance's persuasive skills and some mental gymnastics he never knew he possessed. As best he could, understanding as little as he did, Chance filled Christopher in.

"If you'll give it some time, I think this will all sort itself out." He hoped he wouldn't have to half drown himself to accomplish it.

"There's one wee problem with givin' it some time," Christopher said. "Me client doesn't have any. Her husband plans to bump her off. He's put a price on her head."