The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare (7 page)

I remembered the blood I tasted in my mouth and ran my tongue over my teeth. There it was again, that salty tang. I found the source – a slice inside my lower lip. I wouldn't be able to leave that alone for a while.

As beaten up as I felt, I was glad to be alive. Especially when I saw a pair of paramedics pushing a stretcher out of Sloan's Bakery – a large body draped in a white sheet.

Another crowd had gathered, all looking on but giving the scene a wide berth. Eyes were wide. Whispers swirled behind cupped hands. A handful of policemen stepped in and out of the bakery, some asking questions, some canvassing the scene, and one standing off to the side, smoking a cigarette. He didn't wear a cap like the others. His hair was jet black and combed to the side, and he had a scar on his lip that made him look like he was mid-snarl.

My eyes lingered on him for a moment too long. He must have felt my gaze because his eyes snapped to mine. He took one last puff of smoke, flicked his cigarette over his shoulder, then started toward us.

Blue gripped my wrist. “We gotta move.”

I didn't resist this time. We hurried down the sidewalk, turning left down a side street after the newspaper stand. Newspaper Boy scowled at me as we passed. Another turn down a street on our right and Blue broke into a run.

I couldn't bear the thought of running while I was so sluggish and bruised, but to my surprise, running wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be. I kept pace with Blue, even though I could tell he was sprinting at full tilt. He still had hold of my wrist, but he didn't need to pull me along. Perhaps it was adrenaline – fear that the snarl-lipped cop would catch up with us – but it didn't feel like it. It felt like something different.

It felt like running was something I did every day. And not the track and field type running, but real run-for-your-life running. I'd never run this fast or this hard in my life. Mostly because I could barely make it around the track at school without keeling over from an asthma attack. But in this body, my lungs were clear. My leg muscles were rock solid. They burned to go faster, to run harder, regardless of how battered I felt.

I felt Blue tug at my wrist, guiding me off the sidewalk and down a dusty path behind a row of tiny brick houses. When we were halfway down, he slowed to a stop, and we both bent over, our chests stretched full. We gulped and gasped until the blood in our ears stopped pounding, and we could once again hear ourselves think.

I stared down the path, my hands on my knees. “Do you think he followed us?”

“No.” Blue spat on the ground. “He doesn't have to. He knows where I live.”

“So why did we run?”

Blue continued on down the path, his boots scuffing at the dirt and gravel. I followed.

“Because I needed to get away. I need to think.”

“About what?”

“About what all this means. About what he's going to tell the Cafferellis.” Blue looked shaken. His calm exterior had given way to panting breath and darting eyes.

“So, back there,” I said, pausing to gulp a breath, “when we almost got shot and blasted to bits, that didn't unnerve you one bit. But now that that cop saw you, you're white as a ghost?” I rested a hand on his forearm. He stopped walking and looked at me, but his eyes wouldn't focus. They were hazy with worry. “Tell me what you're up against here.”

“What we're up against.”

I nodded, letting him know I was on his side. Then his eyes found mine, and they suddenly snapped into focus.

“What did you mean when you said the Cafferellis wouldn't lay a finger on you?”

I dropped my hand from his arm. “What?”

“Are you working for them? Are you in the Family?”

“What? No. I've never heard of the Cafferellis before today.”

“Then why did you say it?”

How could I explain that I would've said whatever I could to get rid of him? That I thought this whole thing would be over, that he'd disappear, if he'd just let me walk out into the street?

“I don't know.” I took a step back, scrambling for something to say. At a complete loss, I tried the only thing I could think of. “I'm sorry. I don't even remember saying it.” I touched my head lightly as I spoke, using my most convincing where-am-I? look.

Blue lifted an eyebrow.

“I can't really remember much of anything,” I said. “Honest.”

Thankfully, he bought it. His suspicion lifted, and he sighed. He pushed his gloved hands into his coat pockets. “Well, you did hit your head pretty hard back there. Bound to be a bit screwy for a while after something like that.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I gave a half-hearted smile.

“Come on. Let's get you cleaned up.”

We walked past brick house after brick house, each with their own tiny backyard and shade trees. Wet clothes hung heavy on clotheslines, taking longer to dry in the cool fall air. Leaves shuffled and scraped against each other, and one fell to the ground every now and then as we passed, too weak to hang on.

Everything seemed gray – the sky, the buildings, the leaves, the grass – everything except Blue's red nose and cheeks. I wondered why he didn't wear a cap. His dark hair was trimmed so neatly around his ears, his eyes so chilled and blue. Wasn't he cold?

He veered off the road and into one of the backyards, and I followed after him. He stopped at a clothesline in the back and unpinned a damp rag.

“Is this your house?” I asked.

“Nah.” He reached out and dabbed at a scrape on my cheek. “It's Mrs Dudek's. But she won't mind if I borrow this. I'll let her know what happened when I see her at church.”

Since I didn't have a mirror, I lifted my chin and let him clean my wounds, trying not to wince. I watched cold, gray clouds slide across the sky as he wiped the blood from my skin. My eyebrows. My lips.

I'd never had a stranger be this kind to me before. This caring. Standing this close and intimate. I felt awkward, but he seemed in his element helping me. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for him.

My gaze fell from the sky to his face, and his eyes met mine for a split second. Again, my stomach dipped. I recognized him. Knew him from somewhere. Especially those blue-green eyes. Had I seen his picture in a history book? Was his face archived somewhere in my subconscious, like Dr Farrow had explained?

“I'm sorry I'm so jumpy and accusing,” he said with an apologetic half-smile. He dragged the cool cloth across my neck, then dabbed at a scrape along my jaw. “It's my brother, Frank. He's got me so suspicious. He's been mixed up with the wrong guys since we were kids. For a while he was in good with the Cafferellis, then he started rubbing elbows with their rivals, the Fifth Street Gang. He'd lost a lot of money gambling, so he did a side job for them. The Cafferellis found out, and he's been their target ever since. Of course, Fifth Street took him in with open arms. Claimed they'd protect him if he joined their gang. Anything to hack off the Cafferellis. Seemed to only get Frank in more trouble. Now he owes more money than ever.”

He took my wrists and turned them palm up, then dabbed the blood from my hands where I'd scraped them on the sidewalk.

“How much money does he owe?” I winced at the sting of the cloth.

He shook his head in that life's a bitch sort of way. “More than we can afford, that's for sure. I've been working two jobs. So has Ma. Just to pay his debts. And what does Frank do? He hides away with the Fifth Street boys, drinking, gambling, losing more money he doesn't have, leaving Ma and me stuck with the bill.”

I frowned down at my clean, pink hands. “That's awful.”

He stepped behind me and pulled the ribbon from my hair, letting it fall around my shoulders. “Yep. And now, thanks to Frank, you're tangled up in this mess too. He doesn't care who he leaves hurting in his wake. He never did.”

But Blue did care. He cared enough to take the time to wipe the blood from a stranger's face and hands. There weren't too many people like him back in the real world. Maybe that was proof enough that he was a figment of my imagination.

He parted my hair carefully around the knot at the back of my head and dabbed it with the cloth. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to make a sound. I bit my lip. I played with the cut inside my mouth.

“It's not as bad as I thought,” Blue said, stuffing the rag in his coat pocket. “You don't need stitches.” He pulled a comb from his trouser pocket and combed the blood and glass and brick from my hair. He was overly gentle, like he'd never combed a girl's hair before. Despite the pain from my tender scalp, I couldn't help but smile to myself at the sweetness of it all.

Blue was as nice as they came.

When he was done, he tied my hair back into a loose tail with the ribbon, then turned me around and surveyed his work. “Much better. A few aspirin and you'll be right as rain.” He tucked his comb back into his pocket with a smile.

“Thanks,” I said, returning the smile. “So now what?”

“Now I've got to get home. I've got some cash saved. It might be enough to pay off Hansen.”

“Hansen?”

“The cop.”

“You have to bribe him?”

“Yep. Once the Cafferellis hear I was at Sloan's, I'm dead meat. They'll think Fifth Street planted me there as a lookout. See?”

I shook my head. “Not really.”

“Doesn't matter. I just need to get you home. You don't need to be dragged into this any further.” He looked at me expectantly. “So? Where are we headed?”

I'd been so wrapped up in Blue's life – Sloan's, the Cafferellis, Fifth Street – that I hadn't realized he'd expect me to have a life of my own. I ran through several fake stories in my head, but I wasn't sure any sounded plausible. All I really wanted was to get back to the bakery. So I played dumb again.

“I don't remember.”

This time he looked genuinely concerned. “Do you remember anything at all?”

“Some things. My name. I know I'm here visiting... my aunt.” Good Lord, I was bad at lying. “But I can't remember where she lives. Maybe if we go back to the bakery, it'll help me remember.”

“Can't go back. At least, not while the cops are still there.” He looked apologetic, but firm.

“Then what should I do?”

“You'll stick with me. We'll lay low for the rest of the day. Then I'll take you back tonight after the coast is clear.”

I wanted to object, to take my chances and head back myself. But then again, what exactly did I have to hurry back home for? We seemed to be out of danger for the moment, and the idea of spending the rest of the day in Twenties Chicago was too appealing to pass up. Even if it was just a dream, it was one I didn't need to wake from just yet. The black would pull me out eventually, wouldn't it? And it would be like no time had passed at all, just like all the other visions.

We wound through the quiet neighborhood, keeping to the deserted pathways behind the homes. I had no idea which direction we were headed, but I was content to fall in stride beside Blue and listen to the cadence and velvet tone of his voice as he told me about his town. It was a Polish neighborhood – his father, Benedykt, came over from Poland and settled there when he was a teenager. That's where he met Blue's mom, Helena, and raised Blue and Frank until a few years ago, when he died from the Spanish Influenza. I told Blue I was sorry, that I couldn't imagine losing a parent. He frowned and shrugged and said he was just happy his father never saw the kind of a man Frank had become. Then he cleared his throat and moved on to a different subject.

Even though Blue was American born with a slight Chicago accent, he could speak Polish fluently. He spoke a bit to me, but I couldn't decipher any of it, even if I tried. And when I attempted to pronounce a few of the words myself, I just ended up laughing. They sounded so strange on my tongue. Even Blue's real name, which I found out was Micolaj Piasecki, was hard to get right. He told me Micolaj was just the Polish form of Nicholas, and with a wink and a smile he said I could call him Nick.

Nick.

So now he had a name. But I still preferred the nickname I'd given him. I'd have to warm up to Nick.

His family was Catholic, and he showed me the cathedral where they attended mass. It was a beautiful building, the kind I'd only seen in movies or history books. There was a gothic look to it, stalwart and strong, like nothing could sway the faith held inside. He told me we'd come back for a look inside later, after we stopped by his house for some aspirin for my head.

I was actually excited to see Blue's house. (I mean Nick's house. Nick's. That would take some getting used to.) I wanted to see what it was like in a normal Twenties home. And I couldn't wait to meet his mom, whom he talked about like she was his hero. I wanted to see where he grew up, where he went to school, and I wanted to meet Old Man Nowicki, who ran the deli where he worked as a delivery boy.

But I didn't make it that far.

We came to another busy street, just like the one near the bakery. Blue said his apartment was only three blocks away. The buildings were taller in this part of the neighborhood, some squat, some so narrow they looked like they might topple over. Every shop had an awning, and they stretched down the street as far as the eye could see, one of every color. Old Fords and Oldsmobiles puttered past while other cars sat parked this way and that along the sidewalk. (I guessed there weren't many parking laws back then.) Women ushered their children along, pulling them from the front window of a candy store. A group of boys ran past, a dog at their heels along for the fun.