Out of Time 01 - Out of Time

long work day was over. But there in the quiet of the club, the chores almost finished, when it was just the four of them, she felt a sense of belonging. The stillness of a place usually so bursting with life was all the more remarkable and cherished. A few nights a week, she, Simon, Charlie and Dix would linger at the club, share a drink and the consolation of shared experience. For the most part, she and Simon were no more than a willing audience for Charlie. He’d regale them with stories of the night when he was a boy and saw the last of the great bare knuckle fights. Gentleman Jim Corbett had beaten his idol, John L. Sullivan, in the brawl to end all brawls. He told them where he was when he heard President McKinley had been assassinated. And blushed when he recounted his ill-fated, one-time only, theatrical debut in Jilly Stein’s Traveling Burlesque Show.
    Of all the things she was leaving behind, she was going to miss Charlie the most. When she finally told him they were leaving, he hadn’t protested, hadn’t asked them where they were going. They warned him that King might try something and to be careful, but Charlie just heaved a big sigh, nodded and asked if they needed any traveling money.
    Elizabeth felt a lump form in her throat. Last night she and Simon had nearly wrecked the place. Their salaries over the next two weeks wouldn’t pay for the damage they’d caused, and here Charlie was offering them more.
    “No, please,” she said, and reached out to stop him from digging into his pockets.
    “If you’re worried about payin’ me back, you can send it when ya get settled,” he offered.
    “No, you’ve given us too much already,” she said and looked over to Dix, who was busying herself with the last of the night’s chores. “Both of you.”
    Dixie looked up from the pile of dishes and forced a weak smile to her face.
    The big barkeep pulled a ragged handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “Wasn’t nothin’,” he said, trying to hide his sniffles. “You just drop Ol’ Charlie a line now and then, all right?”
    Elizabeth’s heart dropped. In four days, if everything went as planned, she’d be home in the future and Charlie Blue would be long since passed. “Sure,” she said, hesitating, before stepping forward and pulling him into a hug.
    He returned it fiercely before pulling away and nodding firmly. “You take care, ya hear?” he said and then stuck out his meaty hand to Simon. “You watch over her.”
    Simon solemnly shook it. “I will, and thank you.”
    Charlie snuffled again and cleared his throat. “Aw, nuts,” he grumbled and turned to rearrange some perfectly well arranged bottles. “I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
    “Charlie,” Elizabeth said, casting a quick glance at Simon. “You don’t have any money in the stock market by any chance, do ya?”
    Simon hissed her name in warning under his breath, but she couldn’t let Charlie loose everything after all he’d done for them.
    “Naw,” he said. “S’all tied up in the club. Why?”
    Thank God. “Just curious.”
    “We should be going,” Simon said pointedly.
    “See you tomorrow,” Elizabeth said, as Simon hurried her to the door.
    Once they were outside Simon glared down at her. “Really, Elizabeth. What would you have done if he’d said yes?”
    “I know, but I couldn’t leave thinking I could have helped him. This is Charlie we’re talking about. It’s not like I took an ad out in the Times.”
    Simon didn’t seem moved. “It was wrong,” she continued. “Very wrong. I’m a bad Elizabeth. Forgive me?”
    He sighed and shook his head. “You are incorrigible.” It had been a big risk. There was no telling the ripple effect of one simple change in the timeline. She’d been rash in trying to help Charlie, but she didn’t regret it.
    Simon put his arm around her. “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
    The understanding look in his eyes said more than words could. They walked down the street in thoughtful silence, neither noticing the two-toned sedan as it pulled into the alley behind Charlie Blue’s.

Chapter Twenty Six
    F ather Cavanaugh stared up at the placid, marble face of the statue of Saint Patrick. He’d always found the countenance soothing and had taken solace from it many times over the years. He would sit in the closest pew and gently run the heavy wood under his palm. It reminded him of the smooth beads of his rosary. He’d rubbed the same spot so often that