With that, Holmes and I proceeded to follow Jasmine out of Sacco's office. She had some brutally honest words for us:
"Lemme make one thing clear: I hate both of ya. The only reason I'm takin' ya along with me is because I need all the help I can get. If either of ya screw up, I'm gonna kick your asses so hard, ya won't even be able to sit for ten years. Understand?"
"Jasmine, why must you express hatred for us?" asked Holmes. "Surely, a woman such as yourself cannot be that vengeful towards me, can you?"
"Just shut up and do what I tell ya…Sherlock."
Holmes nodded. "Yes, Jasmine."
In due time, we reached the foyer.
"Hey Jasmine, who are these funny-lookin' dudes?"
Another sergeant had accosted us, this one a tall Black man – slightly taller than Holmes, I might add – with short, afro-textured hair and a mustache.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Holmes. "The New York City Police Department actually allows negroes to join their ranks as well!?"
"Hey, who the hell you callin' a 'negro'!?" shouted the sergeant. "I'm a Black man, goddamn it!"
Just then, Jasmine grabbed Holmes by the neck and once again slammed him against the nearest wall.
"What the hell is wrong with ya, Sherlock!? First women and now Black people!? What's next, Puerto Ricans? Asians? Honestly, you are the most ignorant, bigoted son of a bitch I have EVER had the misfortune to work with! If you can't treat people with the respect they deserve, you're gonna go to the morgue with a goddamn tag on your toe, got it!?"
"Forgive me, Jasmine, I…"
"Oh, knock it off with the forgiveness! Go over and apologize to Sergeant Hedison RIGHT NOW!"
Jasmine flung Holmes in the direction of the one called "Sergeant Hedison", thereby causing my companion to lose his balance and fall upon the floor face-first. Once he'd gotten back on his feet, Holmes addressed Hedison thusly:
"I dearly apologize, Sergeant Hedison. In my timeline, things are different from this one. I pray you can forgive me."
"Hey man, I'll let it slide this time, but here's the thing: there was this thing called the 'Civil Rights Movement'. Black people have more freedom than we ever did in years before. Jim Crow is dead, man, ya dig?"
"I beg your pardon, Sergeant Hedison, but what am I supposed to be digging for?"
Hedison laughed. "OK, you two definitely ain't from around here!"
"No, we are not. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Sherlock Holmes, England's greatest consulting detective. This is my partner, Dr. John Watson."
Hedison smiled. "Nice to meet ya! I'm Sergeant Jim Hedison!"
Holmes motioned to shake hands with Hedison, and in doing so, Hedison gave Holmes a most unusual handshake wherein he grabbed Holmes' hand and held it perpendicular to his.
"This is a most unusual sort of handshake," said Holmes.
"It's called 'givin' dap'," said Hedison. "Brothas do it all the time."
"But we are of no familial relation."
Hedison laughed. "Look, Holmes, I'd love to stay and shoot the breeze, but I got some paperwork to fill out, and Jasmine over there is gettin' annoyed, so I'm-a let ya go. Stay cool, ya hear?"
Holmes nodded. "I scarcely comprehended that directive, but I shall endeavor to do so."
Hedison went to attend to his business, while Holmes and I continued to follow Jasmine, who made no attempts to conceal her annoyance:
"OK, you two are officially hurtin' my head. I have NEVER seen anyone as stupid as you two."
"First of all, I would suggest taking some headache medicine," said Holmes. "Second…"
"Look, stop talkin' and get in the goddamn car."
"Is that what those peculiar horseless carriages are called?" Holmes pointed to a large black car.
"I said, stop talkin'!"
Jasmine entered the car. At first, neither Holmes nor I were sure of how to enter, but in short order, we deduced that by pushing a button on the silver handles on each door, we could open them. We each elected to sit in the rear seat. However, Jasmine refused to drive, much to Holmes' confusion:
"Jasmine, why are we remaining motionless?"
"Are you two gonna buckle your seatbelts or what?"
"And for what reason would we need to do so?"
"Hey, if you two wanna fly through the windshield and die when we crash, that's your problem, not mine."
"And how do we buckle our seatbelts?"
In an angry haste, Jasmine opened her door, exited the car and opened Holmes' door.
"See this tab?" Jasmine grabbed a silver object attached to the seatbelt. "Take it and put it in the goddamn buckle next to ya."
"Oh, you mean like this?"
Holmes proceeded to buckle his seatbelt flawlessly, and I followed his example.
"OK, so you two buckled your seatbelts," said Jasmine. "Now, if ya wanna unbuckle 'em, press the button on the buckle. Don't unbuckle 'em while I'm drivin', OK?"
"Very well."
Jasmine then inserted what I could only presume was a key into a column in front of her that had a wheel attached to it. She then turned the key, and with an electrical whirring noise, the car was activated. She proceeded to manipulate a lever on the same column where the key was inserted, and the car moved in reverse, away from the spot it was parked. Using the wheel attached to the column, she then steered the car before coming to a complete stop and manipulating the lever again, thereby allowing the car to move forwards. It was all a very fascinating process to me, so fascinating that I could scarcely help but inquire about it:
"Excuse me, Jasmine, but how does this 'car' move without the aid of a horse?"
"It has an engine that's powered by gasoline. If ya wanna ask any more stupid questions, lemme answer 'em: this car is a 1973 Buick Centurion. It's got a 455 cubic-inch V8 engine with a three-speed automatic transmission and police package, meanin' reinforced chassis, heavy-duty alternator, heavy-duty tires, heavy-duty shocks, heavy-duty everything. Ya start it by puttin' the key in the ignition and turnin' it until the engine fires up. This wheel right here steers the car, and that lever on the steerin' column shifts the car into gear. Like I said, it has an automatic transmission, so it shifts gears by itself. Ya can't see 'em, but the brake pedal is on the left, which stops the car, and the gas is on the right, which makes the car go faster. Hit the knob next to the window to lock the door. Lock all the doors when ya get outta the car, but don't lock the keys inside. This light on the dashboard goes on the roof if you're makin' an emergency run. It also has an electronic siren with 'yelp' and 'hi-lo' functions, in addition to a police radio for contactin' Central as well as other units. Any other stupid questions?"
"This is not stupid, but I must inquire as to where we're going," said Holmes.
"You'll see."
In the meantime, Holmes and I marvelled at the sights around us. As pedestrians, we had to be more concerned with navigating the streets safely, but as passengers in Jasmine's car, we could appreciate the sights more freely, and they were quite fascinating to us. More than a few buildings had signs in their windows that glowed with different colors, and more than a few buildings also had lights that flashed in sequential patterns. Eventually, Jasmine stopped the car at a place called "HERMAN'S ANTIQUES".
"And what are we doing here?" asked Holmes.
"You'll see," replied Jasmine.
Holmes, Jasmine and I exited the car.
"All right, can I see your money?" asked Jasmine.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Holmes. "Surely, you do not intend to rob us! We've already suffered one robbery attempt in this city!"
Jasmine let out an angry huff. "For god's sake, I'm not gonna rob either one of ya! I just wanna see the money!"
"Very well, then. Watson, let's show her our money."
I did as Holmes instructed and showed Jasmine my money.
"The hell kinda funny money is this?" said Jasmine. "You can't buy shit with this! Go in that store!"
Holmes and I followed Jasmine into the antiques store, which had a veritable selection of articles that looked contemporary to us, but which, to Jasmine and other New Yorkers in 1973, would indeed be antiques. There were even articles that I didn't recognize, such as a wooden box with what appeared to be a glass viewing receptacle and two knobs on it with various numbers arranged similarly to a telephone dial. I did not hesitate to inquire to Jasmine about this:
"Jasmine, what is this unusual appliance?"
"That's called a 'TV set'. Now quit screwin' around, we got work to do."
As per Jasmine's command, Holmes and I followed her to the counter, which was staffed by a short, elderly, balding man who appeared to be quite the antique himself.
"How can I help ya?" asked the proprietor.
"My two friends here wanted to sell their antique money," replied Jasmine.
Jasmine handed our money to the proprietor, who scrutinized it, and in doing so, let out an astonished gasp:
"Where the hell did they get this? I got no doubt it's real, but it's in such good condition that it don't look like it's more than a few years old!"
"My good sir, we merely had it on our persons for the entirety of our time possessing it," said Holmes.
"Still, ya did a great job keepin' it in this shape! Tell ya what: since I'm feelin' generous, I'll give each of ya $10,000 for all of it."
Jasmine gave Holmes and I the same sort of look that one might give to another as if one had confessed to being royalty.
Once we had left the antiques store, Jasmine could scarcely help but comment on our acquisition of the money:
"OK, either you two have all the luck in the world, or you're usin' some evil magic that I don't know about."
"Well, I should scarcely think it's luck considering that we evaded a robbery attempt tonight, and the only being who is capable of using magic is the one who brought us to this time and place," said Holmes.
"Didn't I tell ya to shut up, Sherlock?"
"Apologies, my dear Jasmine."
"And cut it out with that 'my dear' crap. I'm not your girlfriend."
"Perhaps not, but you are nevertheless the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon."
"Do ya want me to slam ya against a wall again? 'Cause I swear to god, that's what's gonna happen if ya keep pissin' me off."
"Then I shall endeavor not to piss you off."
"Good."
Our next destination was a shop called "JOE'S PAWN", evidently a pawn shop. This also had its fair share of strange artifacts, albeit generally more contemporary than what we had laid eyes upon at the antiques store. The proprietor of this establishment was a real Goliath of a man, if Goliath had had one too many meat pies or whatever savory delicacies Americans in the 1970s would eat. Aside from short, wavy, neatly-kept brown hair, he appeared not to have shaved in a few days.
"Hey Joe," said Jasmine.
The large man turned to face Jasmine. "What's up, Jasmine?"
"I got a couple of detective friends from outta town. Bring out the hardware."
"You got it."
Joe brought out a couple of cloth bundles from behind the counter and opened them up to reveal a selection of pistols. There were plenty of revolvers among them, but also pistols of a strange type that I had never seen before, lacking in the revolving cylinders typical of revolvers. Holmes was the first to inspect the guns, settling upon a blued revolver with what appeared to be ivory grips.
"What can you tell me about this one?" asked Holmes.
"That one's a Smith & Wesson Model 19. Double action, holds six rounds of .357 Magnum ammo."
"What do you mean, 'double action'?"
"It means ya don't gotta cock the hammer every time ya wanna pull the trigger. You can still cock the hammer for single-action mode if ya wanna; it makes the trigger pull easier. Anyways, that gun's somethin' special."
"And pray, what is so special about this revolver?"
"This one's what we call a 'Smython', a Smith & Wesson with a Colt Python barrel. Not only is it more accurate than your typical Smith & Wesson, but the Smith & Wesson action is easier to modify than the Colt action, which makes it great for competition shootin'. Looks like this one's got a four-inch barrel."
"And where did the prior owner obtain ivory grips?"
"Nah, those are just plastic. The ASPCA had a huge fit over people killin' elephants just for the ivory, so you ain't gonna find real ivory grips no more."
"Regardless, I am suitably intrigued by this one."
"I dunno, I prefer my .44, but the .357 will put some pretty big holes in people, too," said Jasmine.
Joe turned to me next. "What about you, buddy?"
"Hmmm…"
I pored over the remaining firearms carefully before choosing one of the strange ones without a cylinder. This one appeared to have a spartan Parkerized finish.
"What can you tell me about this one?" I asked.
"That's a Colt 1911, standard issue for the US Military. Not as hard-hittin' as a .357, but still pretty nasty. Plus, each magazine holds seven rounds of .45 ACP ammo, so it gives ya that extra edge over wheelguns."
"Not to mention they're more difficult to maintain," said Jasmine.
"How does one even operate this pistol?" I asked.
"What, never seen a semi-auto before? Simple: take this magazine, insert it into the grip like so…" Joe inserted the magazine into the handgrip. "…pull this slide back to cock it…" Joe pulled a rectangular object on top of the pistol back, and it sprang forward once he let it go. "…and Bob's your uncle. Be sure ya squeeze the safety on the back of the grip when ya pull the trigger, too."
Curious, I took the 1911, aimed it away from other people and pulled the trigger, only for the slide to lock back with a loud "clack".
"Oh dear, I think I've broken it," I said.
"Nah, that's normal for a semi-auto. The slide locks back once the magazine is empty. Just put in a full magazine, pull the slide back and the gun is reloaded. Oh, and turn this safety lever on if you're not shootin'." Joe pointed to a small lever on the left side of the gun underneath the slide, just forward of the hammer spur.
"How fascinating. We shall take these. Have you any ammunition for these?"
"Sure."
Joe produced a few boxes of .357 Magnum and .45 ACP ammunition for Holmes and I, plus extra magazines for my 1911 and a set of unusual cylindrical devices that I presumed went with Holmes' Model 19. Surely enough, he picked one up and inquired about it:
"What, pray tell, is this?"
"That's called a 'speedloader'," replied Joe. "Ya turn this knob clockwise, put six rounds in it, and then turn it counterclockwise to lock 'em in. Then, when ya wanna reload, ya put your six rounds in the cylinder, turn the knob clockwise again and it loads all six rounds. It's quicker than loadin' 'em all by hand. Now hurry up and by this stuff; I gotta close soon."
Once Holmes and I bought our new guns, him, Jasmine and I drove off.
"Where to now, Jasmine?" asked Holmes.
"It's gettin' late. I would show ya a few more places, but stores are closin' up by now and I'm gettin' tired. Since ya don't have an apartment or nothin', I'm gettin you two a hotel room. Considerin' ya made off like bandits, I know exactly where I'm takin' ya…"
Jasmine took us to an establishment known as the Plaza Hotel, located on Fifth Avenue. Designed in a French Renaissance-inspired chateau style, with a green copper-trimmed mansard roof, it was a behemoth of a building that dwarfed any hotel we'd ever seen before. Once she stopped at the front door, we unbuckled our seatbelts.
"All right, see you two losers tomorrow," said Jasmine. "Try to get up by 8:00, OK?"
"As you wish, my dear Jasmine," said Holmes.
Jasmine slapped Holmes across the cheek. "I said, knock it off with the 'my dear' crap!"
"Good night to you too, Jasmine."
Once we'd exited the car, we took our bags containing our cash, pistols and ammunition and entered the hotel via the Fifth Avenue Lobby, which was luxuriously decorated, with a mosaic tile floor, several bas-reliefs, panelled pilasters and a beamed ceiling with a large crystalline chandelier. Also in this lobby was a U-shaped mezzanine running above the northern, eastern and southern walls. After basking in the lobby's sights for a moment, we headed for the front desk. The concierge was a thin, clean-shaven young man with short, neatly-combed brown hair.
"Can I help you two?" asked the concierge.
"We'd like a room," replied Holmes.
"For how many nights?"
"Just until we can obtain more permanent lodging."
The concierge handed us a key. "Enjoy your stay."
We headed up to Room 222, and it too was luxuriously furnished, with its own personal chandelier, a reddish-orange carpet, and a king-size bed, among other amenities. Upon entering, we placed our bags in the closet.
"Today has been a long and arduous day, Watson," said Holmes. "Why don't we bathe and then retire for the night?"
"A most excellent idea, Holmes. I shall allow you to bathe first."
"Very well."
Holmes removed his trademark coat and cap, and then entered the bathroom. As he was bathing, I reflected on the events that had recently transpired: in the span of mere hours, my faithful companion and I had been magically transported to a locale and era that was eminently foreign to us, had been accosted by a series of uncouth characters, arrested by the New York City Police Department for the mere act of attempting to investigate a crime, subsequently released thanks to my companion's gift of deduction, twice gotten into trouble for outmoded ways of thinking, obtained a large sum of American money and used a portion of it to purchase contemporary firearms. I still was not entirely sure of Jasmine, however. Her foul attitude seemed most unbecoming not only of a lady, but of a detective as well. Moreover, I could scarcely determine why Holmes was so infatuated with her. In all the time I had known him, he had always dispensed with romantic relations with the fairer sex in favor of more intellectual pursuits. The only deduction I could draw from this was that – aside from her voluptuous beauty – he somehow perceived an intellectual challenge in her, which was what attracted him to her. Eventually, Holmes had finished bathing, clad only in a towel:
"You may bathe now, Watson."
As per Holmes' command, I proceeded to the bathroom and shed my clothes before entering the combined bathtub/shower. I then took a bath. As I bathed in the warm water, I could feel all my uneasiness and anxieties washing away. Given what I'd undergone today, I was in dire need of this. The shampoo and soap provided by the hotel staff had a most pleasant smell to it, too. Once I'd finished bathing, I only dressed up in my underwear after drying myself. Upon re-entering the main portion of the room, I discovered Holmes dressed in his usual outfit, lounging in a chair in one corner of the room. I could tell that he was engaged in another one of his sessions of deep thought, no doubt pertaining to our current situation. Not wanting to disturb him, I climbed into one of the beds and let sleep overtake me.
Criticism is gold. Negativity and nitpicking are pyrite.