The Lost Masterpiece

“A restraining order?!” Joe was now officially pissed off.  “I can’t see my kid?!  She already has the house and the business!  What the hell am I paying you for?!”  He hated lawyers, but knew they were a necessary evil.  Like raw sewage.  He would have slammed the phone down—hard to do with a cell phone.  He was tempted to smash it on the pavement.  He wound up, but never pitched.  His anger would remain unvented.

Things were decidedly not going in his favor and Joe Francis was used to getting his way.  Most big people are.  They’ve written the rules since the dawn of time.  He had to duck through most doorways and was stocky enough that his arms didn’t move front to back as much as drew big circles as he walked.  Big circles around little people.  His persona required as wide a birth.   A dark bar would be best, and he knew all of them.  He kept walking.  Up three streets and over two was Randy’s.  This wasn’t anything that alcohol couldn’t solve.

He walked in and had to stop cold.  It was completely black inside, like walking into a movie theater from a sunny lobby.  Youngsters now don’t hesitate to pull out their phones and blind everyone while they light their way.  Joe just waited for his eyes to adjust.  An old-fashioned habit.  The bar was surrounded above eye level by colored lights and glass shelves, holding cocktail glasses of every shape and size like some gin-soaked fish tank, the bartender swimming within.  He waded through the tables and settled into a spot at the deep end of the bar next to two girls on the trivia machine.  “Double whiskey.  Rocks.”

The bartender, Annie, frowned at him but put bottles in motion and delivered a bright pink concoction.

He looked at it.  “What the fuck is that?”

“Pink Passion.”

“I ordered a—”

“I know.  It’s on me.  Hard to stay angry drinking that.”

“What makes you think I’m angry?!”

She just looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Some sense of humor.”  Joe took a sip.  Grimaced.  “Just thing if you’re six and your unicorn dies.”  Another sip.

The trivia girls were struggling, and their questions drifted out.  “Who placed flowers on Valentino’s casket spelling her own name?”  They didn’t know.

Joe helped.  “Pola Negri.”

They turned and looked at him.  “Really?”

Nod.  They typed it in.  “That’s it!  Thanks!”

His phone buzzed.  Text from Emma.  Mom’s lawyer just left.  He gulped down the rest of the pink, frilly drink, pointed to the empty glass and nodded at Annie.

He texted back.  I heard!  Restraining order.  Angry face.

He just explained it to me.  I don’t care!  I’m still talking to you!

Joe took a breath.  He typed out, I don’t want to get you in trouble.  I also don’t need any more myself.  It’s probably better if you don’t call me until I get it worked out.  He didn’t want to send it, but knew it was best.

Send.

“Who created United Artists?”  After a moment of silence, the two looked at Joe.

“Pickford, Chaplin, Griffith, Fairbanks.”

They clicked on it.  “You’re good.”

He winked at them.

His phone buzzed again.  That could be months…or worse!  The drink arrived.  He drained it.

I know.  Sadface.  He only used emojis with her…mostly hearts and dogs.  I’ll contact you again as soon as I can.  Promise.  Heart.

He paused.  He added eleven more hearts then sent it.

He secretly hoped she would keep texting. 

She didn’t. 

He motioned to Annie.  “Again.”

The trivia girls stopped trying and just asked Joe directly, “Who died in Paris from accidentally drinking—”

“—her husband’s medication.  Olive Thomas.  1920.  Sad.  Pretty girl.  Would have been a big star.”

The sun was still out later when the Trivia Champ finally emerged.  He walked back to the neighborhood where he grew up.  Past his hold house.  Yesterday he could have purchased the whole block; today he couldn’t raise the cash to rent a room in it.  The corner store where he hung out with friends was long gone, but the old radio repair shop was still in business.  Charlie’s.

“Who the hell gets a radio fixed anymore?” he wondered aloud.  He looked in the front window.  They still had 1930’s radios on display.  Even had pictures of the old stars; Joe knew them all.  His grandfather would take him to the movies and after he’d tell him about all the actors and what big radio stars they used to be—Jack Benny, Milton Berle, Eve Arden, Burns and Allen, Abbot and Costello, Joel McCrae, Jack Webb, Bing Crosby.

Behind the radios was a neatly handwritten sign.  “Take the trip of a lifetime.  Escape the modern world.  Inquire inside.”

Then he headed to the one place he could be alone.  Where he was always happy.  Broadway Savings.  One of the oldest banks in New York.  Certainly not the biggest, and not the swankiest; they still had paneling décor!  If they’d had a ping-pong table in the lobby it would have been indistinguishable from any 70’s basement.  Despite all that, for him, it had one thing that all other banks lacked. 

Secrecy. 

He held no accounts there.  Just a safety deposit box.  Grandpa left him the key.  The place reminded him of all the happy days he spent with his grandfather: visiting all his WWII buddies in the five boroughs, going to Yankee stadium and always rooting for the visitors, Central Park, a veritable tour book of all things famous in the city.  His city. 

At the moment it seemed that all he had of value was his memories.  That all his happiness lay in his past.  That morning on the same visit to sign the divorce papers, the Ex got married to a top-tier divorce lawyer, and before Joe could even leave the courthouse, his house, his cars, his business were all gone.  He could get it back, but it would take months.

And he didn’t know how he was going to fight the sexual misconduct charges she fabricated against him.  She was trying to use that to drive a wedge between Joe and Emma.

The Ex had infiltrated and conquered every corner of his finances and work life.  Yet, despite all that, she didn’t know about Grandpa’s safety deposit box.

The privacy procedures hadn’t changed in all those years.  Before they’d go off on their adventures Grandpa would stop at “Broadway” and take out a little cash.  Joe felt good there.  Safe. 

When he was alone at the table with Grandpa’s box, he opened it.

Inside were only a few things.  Mostly sentimental:  Grandpa’s pocket watch; his war medals, discharge papers, and Army National Service Life Insurance Policy; a Lone Ranger comic book; a baseball almanac; and his M1911 sidearm. 

It also contained a 20-ounce gold bar!  Grandpa had Break only in case of emergency! stamped on it.  Joe ran his finger across the letters.  “Is this that emergency?”  There was no answer. 

He picked up the sidearm. 

He unloaded it.  Took it apart and reassembled it like Grandpa taught him. 

Click!  Everything functioned perfectly.  He reloaded it. 

He held the weapon in his hand.  It was heavy.  It had all weight of the journeys it had been on—England, France, Belgium, Germany.  The shells were decades old and likely still had Grandpa’s fingerprints on them. 

Regardless, they were still lethal.  He put the weapon to his temple.

If he died somewhere else, nobody would know about the deposit box.  If he died here, Emma might still get Grandpa’s things.  He was saving the gold bar to give to her as a wedding present. 

The pistol smelled of steel and gunpowder and was quickly becoming hard to hold in his sweaty hand. 

He put the weapon down.  Maybe he should write a note first.  Emma deserved that at least.  He had brought a pen and paper for a note. 

He just didn’t know what to write. 

He stared at the blank paper for an hour, never being able to even find the first word.  Finally, he locked up the box and put it back—a little lighter than when he took it out.

He left the bank and walked.  He didn’t know where, he just walked.

It was late afternoon and he found himself standing in front of Charlie’s again.  Looking at the photos in the window.  It was getting dark—the sun drops earlier in the city than elsewhere—leaving Joe a little more alone standing there.  The streetlights kicked on and a single shaft of light—a tiny spotlight—focused in on the handwritten sign.  Everything else in the window seemed dim in its fluorescent light.  The tiny sign was somehow a star in the tableau.  Joe read it again and again. 

Take the trip of a lifetime…

Escape the modern world…

Inquire inside…

He went in.

The bell above the door announced him.  There were old radios and TV’s on shelves along the walls.  An Aladdin’s Cave of antiques.  Wood cabinets.  Vacuum tubes.  Consoles.  Table-tops.  Beautiful!  Streamlined splendors.  Victrolas haunted the back wall below shelves of shellac records.  A low, warm, radio hum resonated all around and seemed to conduct right through him.  Joe was enchanted.  The aura of the place seemed to pull him back to a bygone era.  A time before his own.  A time which seemed to be in black and white and moving surrealistically fast, and even…quaintly.

“I’ve got what you need,” a creaky old voice nearly whispered from beyond and broke the spell.

Joe turned and saw a figure moving slowly behind the shelves finally emerge.  Sport coat.  Bowtie.  Cane.  Charlie on the nametag.

Joe looked him up and down—what little there was of him—and said, “What did you have in mind?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Then how do you know what I need?”

“That’s my job.”  Charlie smiled at him, walked around to his place behind the counter.  “I’m a salesman.”

“You Charlie?”

Nod.

“Sign says radio repair.”

“Well, I also repair things.”

Joe looked at the rows of radios.  “You pay the bills repairing these antiques?”

“I repair many things.”

Joe looked at him.  “Uh huh.”  Then walked along the shelves of radios, admiring their style.  “You some kind of travel agent?”

 “Travel agent?  No.”

“‘Escape the modern world’?  ‘Trip of a lifetime’?”

Charlie looked at his window display.  Nodded, making the connection.  “Oh, that.”  He looked at Joe.  Stared at him a moment, then said, “I just repair things.”

“Radios and TVs.”

Charlie shrugged.  “Things.”

“I don’t need any—‘things’ repaired.  I’m interested in the escape.”

Charlie considered him a little longer and finally said, “I don’t think that’s for you.”

Joe walked up to Charlie.  “Let me decide if it’s for me or not.”

Charlie took a breath.  He walked out from behind the counter and turned on one of the radios.  Fred Allen’s Town Hall Tonight slowly emerged as the vacuum tubes glowed to life.  Charlie polished the radio’s wood case.

“Is that Fred Allen?”

Though Charlie kept his eyes on his work, he smiled.  “How do you know that?”

Joe walked over and turned the volume down.  “There’s something you’re not telling me.  I want to know what.”  He made his hand into the shape of a gun and aimed it Charlie’s chest.  “And I’m used to getting my way.”

Charlie froze.  He looked down at Joe’s hand, leaned in and whispered, “Is that thing loaded?”

Joe smiled.  Lowered his hand. 

Charlie was silent.  He looked down at the floor, his eyes too reluctant to rise, then as though his own vacuum tubes were warming up, he finally said, “It’s costly.” 

“What’s costly?” 

“Repairing you.”

“Repairing me?”  Joe looked the old man over, assessing him.  Then he turned and walked to the window display and looked out at the world from inside the radios, then mumbled, “I ain’t broken.”

Charlie shrugged.  “Suit yourself.  But the trip comes at a great cost.”

“How much?”

“You mean dollars?”

Joe turned.  “No, bananas!  Of course, I mean dollars!”

“I’ll leave that up to you.”

“Then where’s the cost?”

Charlie said, “Once you leave,” then he ambled slowly over to Joe and stood in front of him, looked up and said, “you can never come back.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a time machine.” 

“A time machine?”  Joe’s hope drained.  “Hell, I thought you were serious.” 

“Oh, I am.” 

Joe had returned to his hopelessness, or hopelessness had returned to him; he wasn’t sure.  “Old man, I thought you had a real solution.” 

“It’s very real.”

“Very real?!  So, you magically send me back to where I want to go, and the only cost is that I can’t get back?”

Charlie nodded.

“And that’s how you’re going to fix me.”

Nod.

“I’ve got nothing to come back to!  My ex-wife has ruined everything!  My whole life.  I have no parents, no siblings, the only friends I thought I had were…just coworkers and clients.  My business is gone, my reputation ruined!”  His anger cooled suddenly.  His voice quieted.  “I can’t even see my daughter.” 

Charlie stopped him, “You have a daughter?  No, no, no, no.  In that case this is not for you.”

“The Ex has ruined that too.  Restraining order.  Innuendos.  Sexual abuse.  It’s very possible I may never see her again.” Joe got even quieter, “I think my kid’s even starting to believe the lies about me.” 

“You don’t know that.  Someday, things may work out for you and your little girl.  If you take this trip, she will absolutely never see you again.  Ever.  I won’t have that on my conscience.” 

Joe turned and looked at the old man.  “Your conscience seems fine now.”  His voice was calm, but his smile was angry.  “Let’s pretend your time machine actually works.  What’s happened to those you sent back?  Do you know?  What if they contracted cholera and died in a week?  What if they are accused of witchcraft?  What if you send them back and they materialize in front of a speeding train or herd of buffalo?  They can’t contact you.  You’d never know.  It’s my life.  My choice.  My risk.” 

The old man sighed.  “If I were to send you back, where would you go?” 

“To just before I married her!” 

“Then you’ll never have a daughter.”  He let that sink in a moment.  “No.  The rules are that I will only send you back to when you are assured of not being still alive when you are born.” 

Joe smiled.  Nodded.  He looked at the framed photo of Clara Bow on the counter.  “I know.”  He picked up the picture and handed it to Charlie.  “I know where and when I’d go back.” 

Charlie listened.

“1915.  Hollywood.”

“I see.”  He smiled at The It Girl’s face, placed his hand affectionately on her cheek, walked back and gently returned it to its place.  “Well, you will have to get ‘where’, I can only send you to ‘when’.” 

Reality was taking over Joe’s thinking again.  He approached Charlie and stood across the counter.  “You can’t be serious.  You can’t really do this.”  Then a note of hope crept into his voice.  “Can you?”

Charlie nodded.

“When can I go?”

“This is a bad idea for you.” 

“You said yourself that I need repairs.” 

Charlie smiled.  “That’s why you came in.”  He thought a moment and finally said, “If you are sure, you can go right now.”

“How much?”

“Oh, I don’t take payment now.”  He reached below the counter and pulled out a thick contract.  “You’ll pay me when you go back.”

Joe shot him a look.  “How?”

“If you believe I’ve done my job, I’ll let you decide how much it’s worth.  Then you will put that money into my account at Broadway Savings.”

“Broadway?” 

Nod.

Joe felt Grandpa’s key in his pocket.  Smiled.  Still couldn’t believe it.  “I decide how much?”

Nod.

“What’s keeping me from just not paying you?”

“Nothing.  Though, no one has not paid me yet.”

Joe looked at the baseball almanac still somehow in his hand.  He flipped through the pages and pages of dates and scores and Grandpa’s notes.  “What can I take with me?”

“Whatever you hold in your hands.”

Joe retrieved the safety deposit box key.  Took a deep breath.  Looked at the old man.  “Let’s go.”

Charlie smiled.  “Maybe you should settle your affairs here first.”

“Like a suicide note?”

“Never thought of it that way.”

Joe bowed his head and nodded.  He put down the almanac and called Emma.

She picked up and immediately asked, “Did you get things worked out?”  There was no excitement nor frustration in her voice, she was very matter of fact.

“Not yet.  I will,” he said softly.  “I’m going on a long trip, Honey.” He looked at Charlie.  “I think.”  Hearing her voice caused his doubts to grow.  “I won’t be back for a long time.”

“A long time?  When?”

“Not sure yet.  I don’t know…Maybe I won’t go.”

Suddenly he heard muffled yelling.  Then a new voice came on.

“Listen, asshole, you read the restraining order.  Don’t call her again or the next time it will be from jail!”

His jaw tightened.  His teeth clenched.  He struggled to maintain civility.  “I promise I won’t call.  I won’t make any trouble.  But you have to get them to drop the misconduct charges.  You’ll ruin me, Marti.  Even Emma won’t talk to me.”

“That’s the plan.”

“But you know it’s not true!  Please!”

There was no response.

“Marti?  Martha?”

The only noise for several minutes was the hum of the radios…a faint chant of electric monks from long ago.

Finally, Joe cleared his throat.  “Where do I sign?”

“Are you—”

A little firmer.  “Where do I sign?”

Charlie pointed to the line.

Joe signed.  “Let’s go.”

Reluctantly, Charlie escorted him to a big console radio in the back of the showroom.  It was ornate—gold etching, wood inlays, carved scrolling at every seam and corner.  The warm glow from the dial was the very golden light of a summer sunset. 

“How’s it work?”

Charlie said, “Tune the dial to the year you wish to visit.”

Joe turned the knob until the indicator pointed to 1915, then tuned it back two clicks to 1913.  Then he waited. 

Charlie just looked at him.

“What next?”  No answer.  “Come on, Charlie.  What next?”                                              

Still no answer.  Joe looked at the radio.  There was only the tuning dial, the power switch, the volume knob…and the “Select” button.  He put his finger on it.  “This is it, isn’t it?”  He looked at Charlie.  “Isn’t it?”

Charlie gave him the smallest, tiniest nod. 

Joe held the baseball almanac in his left hand and clenched the key in his right.  He looked at Charlie, smiled…and pushed. 

Al Jolson began singing “You Made Me Love You” and faded into the noise of horse carts, streetcars, and Model T’s. 

The repair shop had melted away and Joe found himself on a street corner, the smell of manure and regular gas exhaust filled the filthy air.  He looked around.  Charlie and the radios were gone.  The clothes, the streets, the buildings…everything was right out of the history books.  “That is one freaky old man,” he thought.  “Hypnosis?  Drugs?  An overindulged imagination?”  I mean, who wouldn’t think that?!  He just kept thinking it was not possible.  “More likely some kind of virtual reality room.”  The old man said it was a time machine, and as far as Joe could see it certainly looked like old New York.  Though, in full color it was hard to rectify in his mind.  The smells and sounds were certainly not the New York he knew so well. 

The skyline was different.  The very sky itself was different--expansive and blue!  He looked up at the street signs.  They were not the same as he was used to.  Almost the style of an historic neighborhood--Fifth and Fortieth.  He walked over to the nearby newsstand and saw the date on the New York Times—Tuesday, April 15, 1913.  Nineteen thirteen!  “If this is some kind of virtual reality, he’s certainly got the details down.”

He looked down Fifth Avenue.  He was suddenly speechless.  He crossed the street, avoiding the road apples.  Looked again.  He could not see the Empire State Building.  It was only six streets up, so he took a walk up to test this reality.  Virtual or not.

As he got closer, he began to feel like he felt when he saw the TV coverage of the 9/11 attack.  The helicopters circled and he said out loud to his co-workers, “Where is the South Tower?  I can’t see it from the smoke.”  It was moments later that the reality hit him.

It’s haunted him ever since.  With the empty sky at 33rd and 5th, that specter had risen anew. 

You could blindfold him and place him on any street corner in the city, and he could almost tell you where he was based on the sounds.  Sure, there were street signs, but without the architectural landmarks, he was feeling a little lost. 

When he finally reached 34th he found only the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. 

There was no skyscraper.

No Empire State Building.

The Pink Paradises had faded and now he wanted out.

He tried closing his eyes and concentrating.  He called out, “Charlie!  Charlie!  Ok, I’ve had enough.  I want out now!”

But there was no answer.

It was indeed 1913.

For an instant he wondered if he could stop the World Trade Center attack from happening.  Could he live that long?  Could he warn someone?  Then the other tragedies of his life began to appear before him.  He considered how to save JFK.  Martin!  Bobby!  Stop Pearl Harbor.  Prevent the Holocaust!  History’s suffering began to rain down upon him. 

“What the hell did I do?” he whispered to himself.  The dizziness and nausea hit him like a horse in the street. 

He quickly found an empty bench and sat, closing his eyes struggling to hide from his new reality.  His mind replaying history’s dark newsreel.  A pantomime of death and cruelty.  There was no escape.  He could not look away.

And he wept. 

He wept for all the suffering he knew would happen in the coming years. 

He wept for his powerlessness.  

He wept for the loss of Emma. 

He knew too much. 

The hangover of unintended consequences. 

We rarely consider all the realities of nostalgia.  We fawn over a ‘simpler time’, but never consider that there is no air conditioning.  No antibiotics.  No seatbelts.  Polio.  Influenza.  Tuberculosis.  Glass windshields.  Filthy streets.  No product recalls.  When would the dangers cease?  A simple papercut could lead to infection.  Sepsis.  Death.  How did we all survive?

The truth is we didn’t. 

We don’t.

Nobody does. 

Suddenly, Death seemed to be everywhere he looked.  Life seemed hopeless.  The question he kept returning to was, “Why wait?”.  He felt for Grandpa’s sidearm, hoping he absentmindedly put it in his pocket.

He hadn’t.

Not knowing the future is what we occupy our whole lives trying to figure out: guessing at, preparing for, playing the percentages, doing what we can.

And waiting. 

But knowing the future?  Life as a rerun?  What the fuck?  There was simply no way out. 

“The old man warned you,” he whispered to himself. 

The sun silently set.  He remained seated on the bench.  Moved yet unmoving.  People were everywhere.  On the go.  Riding.  Driving.  Walking.  Doing.  He could sit no more.   He got up and walked the streets of 1913 New York. 

He found comfort only in the familiarity of the Brooklyn Bridge; it was something he knew well.  He imagined the whole place was a time lapse movie…a special effect—the whole town changing and morphing toward the future.  But the bridge was always steady.  Constant.  Familiar and unchanging.  An old friend.  He walked toward Brooklyn and stopped in the middle and stood at the edge like so many before and looked out. 

Without his grandfather’s gun, he had one hundred and thirty-five feet of choices.  To jump or not jump?

Flip a coin. 

He didn’t have one. 

If he had, he’d have tossed it in the East River and made a wish.  He stood, wanting to just become part of the Bridge.  Stood and listened.  He heard the evening bridge traffic.  Boats on the river.  His own breathing.  He heard someone whisper “Emma” over and over.

And over.

Sprawling before him was the city.  And really, it was the same city he had conquered once before.  He’d be hard pressed to find a street or avenue that wasn’t right where it should be.  Only now, bathed in gaslight. 

One hundred and thirty-five feet below was the river.  Busy, cold and dirty.  Same as always.

Light and dark.  Up and down.  Life and death. 

In his heart, he’d already flipped the coin, but it never came down and he couldn’t wait for it anyway.  Waiting for things was never his style.  He would take his chances some other way.  He may know the big things the future would bring, but his life—his own every day—was still a mystery.  Still out there to be won.  Whatever he did, he just couldn’t do it here.  Too many memories.  Memories of the past and memories of the future.

He returned to Manhattan and wandered until dawn.  Scripting out a new life.

The next day he pawned his watch and asked around to find a place to make a bet.  With his almanac, he already knew who was going to win the game.  He did this several times with several bookies, never winning enough to raise suspicion.  No point in getting the mob after him.

He bought a train ticket west, boarded the Century Limited, and watched the city get smaller in the distance then disappear altogether. 

Stopping for several days in Chicago, he found more bookies and carefully but quickly amassed significant “working money”.  Then back on the train before the Black Hand could close on him.

Two days later he stepped off his Southern Pacific train at the Arcade Depot.  The smell of burning coal and soot seemed to be all over him and his now money-heavy suitcase.  He brushed it off and headed to the first law office he could find.   

A block from the station he entered the offices of Solomon Atkins, Attorney at Law on Central Ave.  A counter, four desks, no receptionist, no phone.  A bookshelf containing only two aged and tattered law casebooks.  Empty shelves, empty office.  Aside from the clock, silence.

Atkins, reading the California Eagle, silently looked over the top of the newspaper at Joe.

Joe put down his case, wiped his brow with his handkerchief.  “You Atkins?”

Still behind the paper.  Unmoving.  “Yes, sir.” 

“I need your help.”

“Are you lost?”

“I’m inter—how’s that?”

Solomon folded up the paper, tossed it on his desk, put his feet up, and asked again, “I said, ‘Are you lost?’.”

Joe stared a moment.  He pocketed his handkerchief.   “I need some legal work done.”

“I reckon you’re in the wrong place.”

Joe looked Solomon up and down.  “Sign out front says Attorney at Law.”

Solomon stood.  Impeccably dressed.  He buttoned his suitcoat.  Stepped up to the front counter.  Took a deep breath and said, “I think you’ll find who you need a few streets over,” motioning out the door.

Joe looked around the empty office.  “I don’t think I need to go a few streets over.  From where I stand, I see a law office big enough for three lawyers and a secretary.  Instead, I see you and a lot of empty desks.”  He pointed to the portrait of Abe Lincoln on the wall.  “You and Abe too busy?”

Solomon smiled.  “No, sir.  I’m just not looking for trouble.”

In an instant, the past suddenly caught up to Joe and slapped his face.  Wake up, Stupid.  Although they had just been opened, he closed his eyes and bowed his head.  Understanding can be a heavy vibe. 

Solomon was a black man.

In 1913.

In America.

He opened his eyes and looked right at Solomon.  “You a good lawyer?”

“Top of my class.”

“I give a shit what your grades were.  Do you win?”

“Haven’t lost yet.”

Joe smiled at him.  He could have asked what happened to his partners and even his secretary.  He could have asked the obvious question about how many cases Solomon had actually won, but let it slide; he admired his confidence.  “I don’t want a lawyer from a few streets over.  I’m tired and I’ve come too far.”

Solomon could smell the long train journey on him.  “New York?”

The memories tried to come to life, but Joe willed himself to forget the past, or at least to sequester it, wrestling the dark corners of memory, trying to force them to stay dark.  “Farther.”  He picked up his case and put it on the counter.  “Well, Mr. Haven’t Lost Yet, I’m going to keep you in business.  I pay cash.  I need real estate.  Contracts.  Local insight.  But I need a fighter.  I need courage.”

Solomon sized him up.  “Sorry” would have ended the conversation right there and it was on the tip of his tongue, but he held back.   “What kind of business you in?”

“Movies.”

Solomon’s eyes widened.  “Movies!”  There simply was nothing hotter in southern California since the gold rush.  There was indeed money to be made, but he was not interested in an amateur.  “What do you know about movies?”

“What do you want to know?  Distribution?  Crews?  Shooting schedules and shot lists?  Budgets?  Story conflict?  Film editing?  Or telling a great script from crap?”

Solomon stood silent.

“I’ll tell you about what I know someday.”

Still silent.

“Look, whatever battles you fight for me,” Joe assured him, “I’ll stand behind you.”

Solomon stared at Joe.  Cash doesn’t buy courage, but it can find trouble for cheap, he thought.  He didn’t want to, but his hand reached out almost on its own; he shook his head in disbelief.  “Call me Sol.”

Joe smiled.  Shook Sol’s hand.  “Joe.”

“Ok, Joe.  Where do you want to start?”

“Real estate.  I need a house and a location for a studio.”

“For your house, there’s some choice spots for white folks in the Ocean View Tract.  I’ll take you later.  As for studios…been some talk about Jacob Stern’s ranch.  He’s not selling—good money in lemons—but he’s got some land to spare.  Only about a dozen other production companies in town.”    

“You know lots,” Joe smiled.  “Sol, this looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

That afternoon, they climbed the Hollywood hills and turned to look at the valley spreading out before them.  A faint citrus scent rolled in with the light of a thousand straight sunny days.  If he wanted the opposite of the crush of New York, it was here—wide open spaces, greenery, hills, and a crystal blue sky.  Quiet and heat.  He turned to Sol, smiled, and said, “This is what the ground floor looks like.” 

For three days they tried together to secure buildings or even a location to build a studio without success.  On the fourth day Joe went to scout studio locations in Hollywood.  Sol stayed in the office and prepared contracts. 

That afternoon Joe came back smiling.  “Got a house!  Well, some land at least.  I’m going to be a Beverly Hillbilly!”

“How’s that?”

“Never mind.  I also bought a car.”

“Good.  I didn’t go to law school to be your chauffeur.”

“Any luck with the contracts?”

Sol met Joe at the counter with a stack of forms.  “Every kind.  Actor.  Writer.  Director.  Editor.  Production Manager?  You know, you could save a lot of money by cutting down on your crew.  Nobody else has all these jobs on a movie.”

Joe smiled.  “That’s only because Bison Ranch is still Bison Ranch.”  Sol didn’t get the reference.  “They will soon.”  He reached into his bag and pulled out a small collection of papers—notes and drawings and numbers.

“What’s this?”

“A studio location…I think.  A few acres in Culver City.”

Sol had never heard of it.   “Culver City?”

“Yeah, Culver—um.  Down by La Ballona Creek.”

“The old Army camp?”

“Yeah.  Movie people are like lepers—nobody wants us!  But your intel on Haverhill was spot on—the farm, the man, everything.  Haverhill said yes.  Here’s my notes.  Why don’t you draw up a contract and we can drive it over manana?”

Sol looked over the details.

Joe looked at the contracts.  He needed simple answers to a handful of questions.  He looked around the office and mumbled to himself, “How the hell can a producer live without a goddamn phone?”  He looked over at Sol.  “So, tell me again why you don’t have a telephone?”

“The systems in town don’t interconnect.  Besides, we have telegraphs and messenger boys.”

“Telegraphs and messenger boys.”  Joe just shook his head.  “At this rate I’ll be dead before we roll a single frame.”

The next day they climbed into Joe’s new Pierce-Arrow and drove out to the studio location.  They drove several miles past farm after farm and finally approached a modest house set back from the road.  Joe looked over the fields.  “Looks like wheat.”

“Barley.”

Joe looked at Sol.  “Barley?”

Sol nodded.  “If it comes up, tell him three things.”

“Tell Haverhill?”

“Yeah.  One, his soil isn’t dry enough.  He’s got water about eight inches down in that dead patch by our barn.  Two, he’s got gophers.  And three we can build an owl box to attract an owl that’ll chase those gophers off.”

Joe smiled at Sol.  “Really?”

Sol nodded.

George Haverhill came out of the barn to greet them.  A man of many pounds and few words.  He wiped off his hands with his handkerchief, then wiped his brow. 

“Mr. Haverhill, as promised, I have returned with my lawyer Mr. Atkins,” Sol and George shook hands, “and a contract,” Joe said as Sol produced the papers from his case.

George nodded.  “Things have changed.”

Joe and Sol exchanged a look.  “How so?” Joe asked.  Sol put the contract back in his case.  Joe motioned for it.  Sol gave him a look but produced it and handed it to Joe.

“A pack of you movie folks been scrounging for places to set up shop.  Two different young men here late yesterday making offers.”

“I see.”  Joe looked at the contract.  “Mr. Haverhill,” he paused for dramatic effect.  Sol thought it was pretty dramatic.  “We had an agreement.  We shook on it.”  Joe wiped his brow with his hankie like Haverhill had done.  “Where I come from a man’s word is his honor.  His oath.  I’m sure you feel the same way.  Now, I’ll wager these other fellas are offering a good rate for your land.  But we had a deal.”

“Ain’t backing out, I just want—”

“—you just want to talk price again.”

“That’s right.”

“May I call you George?”

Nod.

“George, I want you to consider this.  There’s a lot of shady characters out there who make promises they won’t keep.  Their word is not like yours and mine.  You can see and hear movie rats all over this town, can’t you?”

Nod.

“They aren’t going away.  Some of them are going to bring in high falutin’ lawyers and try to swindle you off your property and give you pennies for your troubles,” he put his arm around George’s shoulder and pointed to all his green fields, “All your hard work?  Washed away.  Your land gone.  Your family’s home.  Your children’s birthright.  I didn’t have you sign anything yesterday because we had a deal.  George and Joe agreed, didn’t we?” 

Nod. 

“Now, I’m offering you cash—no payment plan, no horse trading,” he looked out over the fields again, “and with no intent to ever kick you out.”  He handed George the contract.  “I have it in writing.  We will not interfere with your farm in any way.  This is your livelihood.  I give you my personal guarantee it will remain so.”

George looked at the contract.  “I’ll think about it.”

Joe felt his agreement slipping away.  He tried a longshot.  “George, you see that brown patch of your barley?  That represents the deals others will give you.  It doesn’t look so bad at first, but soon all your barley will be brown.”

George shook his head.  “No disease.  Not yet sure why it’s struggling.”

Joe looked at Sol.  Sol nodded almost imperceptibly.  Joe said, “Soil’s too moist.  Barley likes it dry.”

George looked at Joe.  Assessed him.  “Yes, it does.  That field is very dry Mr. Francis.”

“I’ll wager you get a shovel and dig in about a foot.  You’ll hit water.”

Sol added, “Some drainpipes’ll take off the excess in those lowlands.”

George squinted at the withering patch.  “Hmm.  A foot, huh?” 

Sol nodded, held up his hands to show the depth.  “Plus or minus.”

“Mind if we take a look at the site we discussed?”  Joe asked.

George walked them over to the old shed on the south patch.  “Watch for gopher holes.  Digging up all over this south patch.  Won’t lose much crop by renting you this dead patch.  Just don’t want gophers moving to my other fields.” 

Joe glanced at Sol then replied, “You need owls.”  Joe surveyed the area.  “We’ll let that part yonder go wild where we don’t use it.”  Joe pointed out back of the shed.  “I’ll have my crew put in some big ol’ owl nesting boxes up on a pole for you.  Gophers won’t trouble you no more.”

George smiled.  “Owls, huh?”

Joe nodded.

They drove away with the signed contract as George went out to dig into his barley field.  Eight inches in he struck mud.  “I’ll be damned.”  He smiled and waved as Joe and Sol drove away in the distance.

Joe looked at Sol.  Amazed.  “You a farmer?”

 “Parents were sharecroppers.”  Sol looked over the fields.  “Never had nothin’.”

A laugh escaped Joe as he drove, “You’ve got all the intel, don’t you?” 

“What’s intel?”

“Intelligence.  You know things.  People.  Business.  Law.  Farming.  Gophers!”

“Why’d you push him so hard to sign?  Why not just give him a few days?”

“If we left without his signature, we were never going to get it.  Ever.  I’ve been reading people my whole life.  What George spelled was ‘I am O-U-T’.  We had to strike right then.” 

“What’s the rush?”

“You heard him—there’s movie folks crawling all over.”

Sol nodded.  “What’s first on the docket?”

“Get that shed outfitted as a production office,” he turned to Sol, “With phones!  If only to keep the two of us in contact with each other!”

Sol laughed.

“Then start securing creatives, production, and talent.  I’m going to put Tommy Ince’s methods to work before he does.”

…

To read more about the time-travel journey of Joe Francis and Sol Atkins, keep your eyes out for the novella, The Lost Masterpiece. It will be available soon on Amazon.