Out of Time 01 - Out of Time

night.”
    “Right.”
    Simon stepped back and gestured down the alley. His face was again an impassive mask. The prospect of adventure didn’t seem quite as appealing as it had a few minutes ago. At least she wasn’t alone. Much. She let out a deep breath and started out of the alley. Together they rounded the corner and stepped into the past and perhaps into their future.

Chapter Four
    C alvin Coolidge said the business of America was business. And nowhere was it more evident than the streets of Manhattan in 1929. From the red-hot vendors and shoe-shine stands to the upscale Stork Club and New York Stock Exchange—money was in constant flow and so were the people.
    Elizabeth could feel the energy of a city at the height of its power and purpose. People walked with a fast pace suited to the jazz rhythms of the nightclubs. Traffic surged along the streets in tempo with the city’s heartbeat. Raucous, dizzying and intoxicating—New York was a party spiraling toward the inevitable calling of the cops.
    The people were well-dressed by modern standards. The only ones casually attired were workmen in their coveralls. She felt as if she’d shown up for a wedding in a potato sack. Or worse. There was sharp disapproval in the eyes of people they passed and something she didn’t want to define in a few of the men. She tugged self-consciously at the hem of her T-shirt.
    “I wish everyone would stop staring,” she whispered to Simon.
    Simon arched a brow and said off-handedly, “I’m sure your T-shirt has nothing to do with it.”
    “What? It’s brand new, mostly. What’s wrong with it?”
    “Nothing a little more of it wouldn’t cure,” he said and looked down at her uncomfortably. “It is rather on the small side, isn’t it?”
    Elizabeth stopped walking and tugged at her shirt again. Getting fashion tips from a man who thought a Windsor instead of a four-in-hand knot was accessorizing was really too much. “This is a perfectly good shirt.”
    “In another time, perhaps,” Simon said, lowering his voice. “But here it’s a little revealing.”
    She looked down at her shirt. It was small, but everything was covered. All the important stuff anyway. She looked up in time to see Simon avert his eyes.
    He cleared his throat and struggled to find his words. The skin of his neck reddened. Was he actually blushing? He cleared his throat again. “Your... chest is... displayed.”
    Elizabeth looked at the clothes the other women on the street were wearing and finally understood. A part of her hadn’t quite accepted that she wasn’t just the observer here, but also the observed. She was really here. A wolf whistle from a passing truck put the exclamation point on it. She was a bright, perceptive person, but had a huge blind spot when it came to men. She never noticed them noticing her, and the realization always made her uncomfortable. Very self-conscious now, she hunched her shoulders and crossed her arms over her chest.
    Simon sighed heavily and pulled his sweater over his head, leaving him wearing only a crisp white oxford shirt. He held the sweater out to her, but his eyes wouldn’t meet hers. “Put this on.”
    It was ridiculously large for her. The sleeves fell well past her hands and the hem rested barely above her knees. But it was a good fit in other ways, better ways. It smelled like Simon—clean with a hint of aftershave. The weight of the soft fabric was comforting, like the pressure of a hand on the small of her back. She let herself snuggle into it and then noticed Simon looking at her with a strange, far off look in his eyes. Whatever he’d been thinking, he pushed it away quickly and found a fascinating spot of gum on the sidewalk.
    Elizabeth pushed the long sleeves up to her elbows. “We should be...”
    Simon put his hands in his pockets and nodded. Slowly they fell into step together again and joined the busy flow of pedestrians.
    They started in mid-town and after a few inquiries headed south toward the lower class sections where pawn shops would most likely be found. Before too long, the neighborhood changed. The streets were a little dirtier, and the people a little harder. The Lower East Side was a haven for immigrants and the working class, all of them trying to find their piece of the American dream.
    “There we go,” Elizabeth said and pointed to a sign “Arbogast J. Smith - Pawnbroker”.
    As they stepped inside, she was struck by how every pawnshop was like the next—a