windows of the station wondering what in hell he was doing.
Amber had.
As the operator came out the station door intent on removing Wells from the tram, Amber stopped him with her police ID.
âWeâre part of the investigation.â
âOh.â
âStart the tram.â
âOkay.â
Amber swung onto the last car, perched on a seat and watched an alert and eager Wells through the glass windows. The tram clicked twice, then glided silently downhill as if on air, and she clutched the seat bars, jittery with excitement, enthralled with this
gentleman
who had stepped out of a time machine, of all impossible things. She was going to go wherever he was going, and was strangely liberated. If nothing else, she felt alive and schoolgirl-happy again, that hard edge from police work packed away with her field kit. Lieutenant Hollandâs strategy meeting was the farthest thing from her mind.
They approached the Lower Station. Amberâs face hurt from smiling, but she couldnât stop even if she wanted to. This was her first ride on the Getty tram, and she would always remember it as her portal to the universe. This ride was taking her away from the mundane, the ugly and mean of her everyday life. This ride was lifting her into a world of impossible possibilities. For her, the first time on the Getty tram was pure magic.
10:32 A.M. , Sunday, June 20, 2010
Uncomfortable in an overstuffed chair, the woman ate the first of two scones between sips of tea, unaware of lingering masculine stares, not yet realizing that one man had taken a table nearby so he could undress her with his eyes while pretending to read a newspaper. She was famished, and if Teresa Cruzâs money hadnât bought her the scones, she would have eaten the little security guardâs kidney.
The woman was at a place called Starbucks, two blocks away from a highway that serviced streams of motor cars resembling miniature trains without track or sensibility. She loved the wide, flat road of the red-and-blue 405 signs, the concrete slicing through that old whore Mother Nature. In fact, she had rested in one of its underpasses until the sun came up and, if need be, would go back again tonight.
Two cyclists came in, the door stirring the air, and the woman caught a whiff from her own body. It wasnât that nasty, harsh odor she recalled from when she was a man on the hunt for whores. Rather, it was a sweet musk, that same perfume her sister gave off before theyâd go hand-in-hand behind the caretakerâs house.
Yes, but I am not PennyâI must find a bath or a shower.
She finished her scone and dabbed at her mouth, put off by the papernapkin.
Whatever happened to linen?
She sighed stoically and sipped teaâa passable Earl Greyâthen leaned back in the chair, annoyed by Teresaâs shirt stretching taut, annoyed by her own breasts. She must find respectable attireâsomething Jack would deem suitableâsomething masculine, except the way these men of 2010 dressed was questionable at best. Their trousers stopped at the calves, a perversion of knickers. They all wore pullover shirts with inane quotations, billed caps and sandals that flopped. True, she had loved the disco shirts and bell-bottoms in 1979, but they were flamboyant and elegant compared with these outfits. She assumed the wires hanging from the ears of these men had something to do with the small, strangely bright screens on their tables. Portable television, perhaps? If not, then it must be the small devices they were talking into, obviously the telephones of the day. She felt a pair of eyes and frowned.
Why does that man keep staring at me? Has he figured out that I am a misincarnation from out of time or does he want to take me behind this coffee store and have at me?
She gave the man a murderous scowl, not realizing that her expression came off as an innocent yet sensual pout.
She bit into the second scone, but her hunger had deserted her.
Amber had.
As the operator came out the station door intent on removing Wells from the tram, Amber stopped him with her police ID.
âWeâre part of the investigation.â
âOh.â
âStart the tram.â
âOkay.â
Amber swung onto the last car, perched on a seat and watched an alert and eager Wells through the glass windows. The tram clicked twice, then glided silently downhill as if on air, and she clutched the seat bars, jittery with excitement, enthralled with this
gentleman
who had stepped out of a time machine, of all impossible things. She was going to go wherever he was going, and was strangely liberated. If nothing else, she felt alive and schoolgirl-happy again, that hard edge from police work packed away with her field kit. Lieutenant Hollandâs strategy meeting was the farthest thing from her mind.
They approached the Lower Station. Amberâs face hurt from smiling, but she couldnât stop even if she wanted to. This was her first ride on the Getty tram, and she would always remember it as her portal to the universe. This ride was taking her away from the mundane, the ugly and mean of her everyday life. This ride was lifting her into a world of impossible possibilities. For her, the first time on the Getty tram was pure magic.
10:32 A.M. , Sunday, June 20, 2010
Uncomfortable in an overstuffed chair, the woman ate the first of two scones between sips of tea, unaware of lingering masculine stares, not yet realizing that one man had taken a table nearby so he could undress her with his eyes while pretending to read a newspaper. She was famished, and if Teresa Cruzâs money hadnât bought her the scones, she would have eaten the little security guardâs kidney.
The woman was at a place called Starbucks, two blocks away from a highway that serviced streams of motor cars resembling miniature trains without track or sensibility. She loved the wide, flat road of the red-and-blue 405 signs, the concrete slicing through that old whore Mother Nature. In fact, she had rested in one of its underpasses until the sun came up and, if need be, would go back again tonight.
Two cyclists came in, the door stirring the air, and the woman caught a whiff from her own body. It wasnât that nasty, harsh odor she recalled from when she was a man on the hunt for whores. Rather, it was a sweet musk, that same perfume her sister gave off before theyâd go hand-in-hand behind the caretakerâs house.
Yes, but I am not PennyâI must find a bath or a shower.
She finished her scone and dabbed at her mouth, put off by the papernapkin.
Whatever happened to linen?
She sighed stoically and sipped teaâa passable Earl Greyâthen leaned back in the chair, annoyed by Teresaâs shirt stretching taut, annoyed by her own breasts. She must find respectable attireâsomething Jack would deem suitableâsomething masculine, except the way these men of 2010 dressed was questionable at best. Their trousers stopped at the calves, a perversion of knickers. They all wore pullover shirts with inane quotations, billed caps and sandals that flopped. True, she had loved the disco shirts and bell-bottoms in 1979, but they were flamboyant and elegant compared with these outfits. She assumed the wires hanging from the ears of these men had something to do with the small, strangely bright screens on their tables. Portable television, perhaps? If not, then it must be the small devices they were talking into, obviously the telephones of the day. She felt a pair of eyes and frowned.
Why does that man keep staring at me? Has he figured out that I am a misincarnation from out of time or does he want to take me behind this coffee store and have at me?
She gave the man a murderous scowl, not realizing that her expression came off as an innocent yet sensual pout.
She bit into the second scone, but her hunger had deserted her.
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