EIGHT

Despite his considerable heft, James’s possessed body moved with the speed and lightness of a man half his weight. His meaty hand grasped Dean’s neck as he slid him off his feet and up against the wall of the vault. Dean’s feet strained for the solid floor, his toes dangling inches above the cement.

James looked at Dean with a discerning eye, as though he had just discovered a brand-new species of insect. He rolled Dean’s head from side to side as Dean gasped for breath.

“Listen buddy,” Dean managed to choke out. “I know you’re super glad to get into a new meatsuit—though frankly you could have picked someone in better shape. How ’bout you leave the poor shmuck alone?”

James brought Dean’s face close to his own and sniffed him.

“Whoa, guy, I’m not into the kinky stuff,” Dean squawked, noticing the wild look in the man’s eyes. “This is a little too Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom for me. How about you let me go?”

With a swoop of his arm, James threw Dean clear out of the vault. He sailed over the ramshackle table outside and hit the concrete wall, head first. He slumped to the ground, consciousness fading quickly. The last thing Dean heard before blackness took him was a howling, ferocious bark.

When Dean woke up, the asshole desk clerk was looming above him. Dean turned his head with difficulty. He noticed the vault was closed and James McMannon was nowhere to be seen.

Dean lifted his arm to the desk clerk. “Can I get a little help?”

“You’re fired. Return your uniform and get out.”

Dean managed to lift himself up on one elbow.

“You mean I don’t get to keep this cute little hat?”

The desk clerk sneered, turned, and walked away.

Dean felt the goose egg on the back of his skull. So much for working from the inside.

As he got to his feet, Dean had to brace himself against the wall. He stumbled a little—he hadn’t been unconscious quite long enough for all that vodka to metabolize.

After returning his bellhop monkey suit, Dean stumbled out onto the dark sidewalk. The sun had set, but when? How long had he been out? His watch had stopped when he came to in 1954, and he hadn’t managed to get it going again. He looked both ways, trying to figure out which direction the apartment was. Then he heard the quick clip of shoes on the sidewalk. Two NYPD officers were quickly approaching him, and that couldn’t be good news. Dean spun on his heels and tried to cross the street, but the officers quickly grasped both his arms.

“Had a little too much to drink did you, guy?”

Dean looked at them, a tad bleary-eyed.

“Not at all officers. I just woke up. Had the most wonderful night with Marilyn Monroe. She’s a hell cat.”

“We should let DiMaggio have a bat at your face for that one,” said one of the officers, as the other hailed a paddy wagon.

When it arrived, they shoved Dean roughly into the back of the vehicle and sped away.

By the time Sam got to the police station, Dean had been sitting in a cell for a couple of hours. The station chief led Sam down into the holding cells beneath the old building, where he discovered his brother sitting contently on a clean bunk drinking coffee and playing poker with his cell mate, a guy in a rumpled suit who looked like his three-martini lunch had got out of hand. Dean jumped up when he saw Sam.

“You have ten bucks on you?”

“Dean, I can’t use any of my money. It’s useless.”

“Exactly, so give me a ten,” Dean whispered, indicating the guy behind him.

Sam dug in his pockets and pulled out a bill. Dean took it and threw it down on the ground between the cots.

“I’ll see your five and I’ll raise you five,” Dean said. He then sat back against the wall.

“Too rich for my blood,” the guy said.

“Guess the pot is mine then.” Dean pulled a pile of change and bills toward him. “Thanks for a good game.”

The guard unlocked the door.

“Thanks Joe, keep up the good work.” Dean smiled at Sam as he held up his winnings in 1954 dollar bills.

The boys made their way out of the station.

“Nice going with staying under the radar, Dean.”

“I didn’t have a choice. I was this close to nabbing the scroll. And news flash! McTubby the guard wasn’t any regular guard. He was possessed by a demon, and now he’s on the loose. And it really doesn’t help that you lost Ruby’s knife.”

They stepped out onto the street.

“Wait, what do you mean he was possessed?”

“You know, black eyes, super-human strength, the whole shebang, right here in 1954.”

“What did he want?”

“To eat my liver? How should I know?”

“Well, did he say anything?”

Dean paused, trying to remember. “He didn’t so much talk, as... bark.”

“What, like a dog?” Sam asked, amused. When Dean’s facial expression remained stony, he realized it wasn’t a joke. “Wait, really? Like, a demon guard dog?”

“Half dog, half man? Sort of a man-dog. More dog than man. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. The most important thing right now is staying out of its way long enough to get the scroll. Getting back to 2010 alive would be a nice perk.”

By the time the Winchester brothers made it back to their small apartment, it was almost three in the morning. They spent half an hour comparing notes and going over the events of the last twenty-four hours. Sam told Dean everything he had learned at the library and from Walter, minus the information about Abaddon.

Given all they had discovered, the boys were now faced with a couple of problems. Though they knew when the transaction was going to take place, they didn’t know who the actual buyer of the scrolls would be. They knew that a banker had been involved in the sale, but it would take some legwork to find out who that was. Even if they did find him, it would be much easier to take the scrolls before the actual transaction, rather than trying to grab them at the Waldorf Astoria, especially now that Dean had lost his job. They also had no weapons, and no idea how to contact Don once they actually had the War Scroll.

The one mercy granted them that night came from an unexpected source. Their next-door neighbors had been going at it with some vigor the whole night, to the point that the wall was shaking. At the height of the banging, a Murphy wall bed sprang loose from the wall where it had been hidden from view.

“The good news,” Sam said, “is that the thief didn’t find it either.” He then claimed the bed and was asleep in minutes.

Dean lay on the worn couch. Feels like I haven’t slept in years. His thoughts drifted to the leggy brunette in the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria. In 2010, it wasn’t unusual to see a woman traveling by herself; in 1954 it was another story. He wondered who she was and where she had come from. There was something about how she carried herself. He was drawn to her confident walk and the way she had looked right at him—almost into him. Dean thought that after hunting down the demon-possessed guard, he might hang around and try to run into her again. He fell asleep trying to craft an opening line that would be suitable for the era.

In the morning, Sam and Dean sat on the steps of the New York Public Library sipping cups of coffee. Dean couldn’t believe coffee was just five cents, and a whole pizza was seventy-five cents. It was like living in food paradise.

They discussed what their next move was. They decided that Sam would send a telegram to the address on the Wall Street Journal classified ad, saying that he was interested in buying the scrolls.

Dean wanted to go back to the Waldorf and find James— it couldn’t be a coincidence that demon was hanging around the site of the upcoming auction. But before returning to the hotel, he headed to a secondhand store determined to buy a suit, after which he planned to get a close shave. If he was going back to the Waldorf as a civilian, he didn’t want to look out of place.

* * *

Sam found a Western Union and sent a telegram to the party selling the scrolls.

INTERESTED IN BIBLICAL SCROLLS SEEN IN CLSFD AD IN WSJ STOP HAVE FUNDS STOP SERIOUS BUYER STOP PLEASE RESPOND QUICKLY STOP SINGER

In fact, they didn’t have any funds, but Sam was going to cross that bridge when he came to it. He thought the little hat tip to Bobby was appropriate, and he wished more than ever that Bobby was there to help them.

Sam told the clerk where he could be reached, and said he would stop back in an hour to see if there was a response. He then made his way to Gimbels.

Browsing the men’s section, Sam found a wool suit for twenty-eight dollars. He had the money—Dean’s tips and his poker game in the holding cell had netted them about a hundred bucks—and Sam decided the suit was worth it. He wore it out of the store, his regular 2010 clothes stuffed into the Gimbels bag.

Sam noticed a barber shop right outside the department store. Only “a little off the top”, turned out to be about four inches. Sam stared at himself in the shop’s mirror. Now that is different, he thought. The barber smoothed his hair back with a little Murray’s Pomade and he was ready to go.

When he stopped back at the Western Union, a telegram was waiting for him.

SINGER STOP WILL CONSIDER GENEROUS OFFER STOP MEET AT 21 CLUB AT 11 AM STOP ASK FOR FELDMAN

Sam looked up and saw a clock on the outside wall of a nearby a bank; it was 10:30 a.m. He asked a passerby for directions, and then started north up Sixth Avenue; he would get there right on time.

At the 21 Club, Sam admired the lawn jockeys mounted on the porch roof of the street level restaurant below. He had never been here before. Whenever the brothers had been in New York, it had always been on a hunt. They had never really got to enjoy the culture of the city.

Sam entered the dark restaurant. Red leather booths ringed the room and every inch of it was strung, hung or hugged with a toy of some sort. A maître-d’ ushered Sam to a table where a young man in a dark-brown suit was already sitting, Sam was sure he couldn’t be a day over twenty-five. He wondered how this kid could possibly be in the business of selling ancient biblical texts.

“Mr. Feldman?” Sam asked.

“No, I’m his attaché, Mr. Benjamin Shochat.” The man stood up and shook Sam’s outstretched hand. “I speak on Mr. Feldman’s behalf. You’re Mr. Singer, I presume?” The man had a lilting accent that sounded Middle Eastern.

“Yes. Good to meet you,” Sam replied. He sat down and motioned for the waiter to bring him a glass of water. “I’m interested in the scrolls and I’d like to bid on them, but I want to see them first.” Sam had clocked that the man was empty handed when he walked up to the table. If he could convince Shochat to take him to the Waldorf and show him the scrolls, he was in business.

Mr. Shochat studied Sam’s face. “You are working for someone, yes?”

“I’m not at liberty to say just yet,” Sam improvised smoothly. “But if I was speaking on behalf of someone else, it would be a very serious buyer with a large amount of capital. This person would like me to examine the merchandise first, however.”

“Not possible,” the young man responded with a snort. “They are being kept in a vault, under heavy security.”

“At the Waldorf Astoria,” Sam said with a smile, metaphorically laying his cards on the table.

“How do you know that?” Shochat was clearly ruffled and trying not to show it.

“I know things. I’d like to see the scrolls.”

“How do I know you have sufficient funds?”

Sam stood up. “I think I’ve already proven how serious I am Mr. Shochat. Kindly have Mr. Feldman contact me if he wants to do business.”

Shochat was looking increasingly nervous. It was clear he was in over his head, and was afraid that if he didn’t act carefully, he was going to let a big fish go.

“Okay, wait,” he said hastily. “Please sit.” He drank a little from his water glass. “Mr. Feldman has another interested party, and they’ve made an initial offer of 100,000 US dollars. Are you willing to go higher?”

Sam realized that since he didn’t actually have any money at all, he could say anything he liked. He sat back down at the table.

“If the scrolls are genuine, twice that price would be a bargain,” he said blithely.

Shochat leaned back in his chair, clearly impressed. Then Sam remembered that in an era of twenty-eight-dollar suits and seventy-five-cent large pizzas, 200,000 dollars was an enormous amount of money. He waited while Shochat thought it over. I just need an invite to the auction, that’s all. He and Dean could do the rest themselves.

“I’ll get back to you,” Shochat said at last and stood up. “I’ll speak with Mr. Feldman. I can’t negotiate for him.”

“Fine,” Sam said standing up as well.

The young man set a derby on his head, tipped it in Sam’s direction, and left.

Dean stretched comfortably in the large leather barber’s chair. He was impressed by the incredibly close shave he’d been given. Why did men ever give these up? he wondered.

He had bought a secondhand dark-colored suit, a white shirt, and a black derby. Dean had never been a hat guy, per se, but he liked the feel of the derby. He wondered if he could conceal a weapon of some kind in it.

Out on the street, close shaven and besuited, he felt completely incognito. Now he could slip around the hotel unnoticed, giving him another chance at the scrolls.

A few minutes later, Dean stepped into the opulent lobby of the Waldorf Astoria. No alarms went off. Disguise is working, I guess, he mused. Using a key set he had neglected to return the day before, he accessed the back stairwell. Slipping quietly into the sub-basement, he immediately realized his plan wouldn’t work.

Apparently, someone had taken his intrusion yesterday very seriously—there were now three guards waiting outside the vault, and all of them were armed. Before they noticed him, Dean slipped through a half-open door to his left.

He found himself inside a dank supply closet, containing a single metal chair with a man slumped in it, his back to Dean. Cautiously, Dean moved toward him.

It’s James the security guard, he realized. Fast asleep—Wait, do demons sleep? Since he wasn’t carrying any weapons, he decided to let the sleeping dog lie. Then he caught sight of the burlap sack in the corner and remembered a handy factoid: During the nasty New York winters, janitors used salt to melt ice on the sidewalks in front of important buildings like the Waldorf Astoria. And it looked like the hotel’s salt supply was stored in this very cupboard.

Dean ripped open the corner of a bag and emptied half of it. He’d need to move fast if this was going to work. He hefted the sack in his arms.

“What the St. Mary are you doin’?” James asked, suddenly awake and wiping saliva from the side of his mouth.

Dean hesitated, the bag of salt raised above the guard’s head. Making a quick decision, he lowered the bag to his side.

Neither man spoke for several seconds, then Dean cleared his throat.

“Getting salt,” he said.

James rubbed his eyes, which were a normal greeny-blue color.

No sign of demonic possession. Nevertheless, Dean knew that the demon could still be inside James, biding its time.

“Do you remember me?” Dean asked.

James leaned forward in the chair, running his hands through his short hair.

“No, buddy. Why would I?”

Looks like he has the world’s worst hangover, Dean thought. Oddly, he felt some sympathy for the man.

“It’s nothing. Thought maybe you went to my church,” he said.

James looked up at Dean, his face blotched and red.

“Take your salt and leave me alone,” he said, without a hint of recognition on his face.

He really doesn’t recognize me, Dean thought. Maybe Cujo’s moved on? He did as he was told, hefting the bag of salt and starting toward the door. He considered ‘accidentally’ dropping the sack into James’s lap as he walked past, but he controlled the impulse. There were three guards outside the door, each one capable of putting a bullet in Dean if they realized he was back at the Waldorf.

Slipping back into the stairwell, Dean dumped the sack of salt and considered the situation. If James was still possessed, it was one of the strangest demons Dean had ever encountered. The hosts usually retained the memories of the demon, and vice-versa. Maybe it’s not a demon at all. Maybe it’s something else—that could explain the barking.

Back in the lobby, Dean crossed to one of the bars. He ordered a Seven and Seven and sank into a deep red-velvet club chair.

“May I join you?”

Dean looked up. The girl from the day before stood in front of him. She was dressed in a slim burgundy suit, with a skirt that stopped just below her knees. Not waiting for an answer, she sat down opposite him.

“So, one day you’re a bellhop, the next you’re at the bar as a guest. That’s peculiar,” she said, looking him over. Her eyes seemed to tick off each article of clothing Dean was wearing, as well as taking note of his features.

He leaned forward. “It’s also peculiar that you noticed,” he said.

The girl smiled, but didn’t blush.

“How could I forget? It’s not often a man offers to buy me a drink within thirty seconds of meeting me.”

“Give it a little time. When the sixties hit, girls like you will be—” Dean stopped himself. Why ruin the swinging sixties for her? “Anyway, I apologize for being so forward. It’s not like me at all.”

“You’re already lying to me? That’s not a great sign.”

“Okay, it is exactly like me,” Dean said, leaning back in his chair.

“It’s okay, it’s refreshing. It means you’re not that complicated.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

The girl laughed. “Sort of.”

Dean lied again. “I didn’t catch your name yesterday.”

“Julia. Julia Wilder.”

She held out her petite gloved hand and Dean shook it politely, grinning at the strange formality of the gesture.

For half a second, he almost told her his real name. “I’m Malcolm. Malcolm Young,” he said instead. “Nice to meet you.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Malcolm. How are you a bellhop one day and a guest the next?”

“Big promotion,” Dean said carelessly.

She beckoned over the bartender.

“Scotch, please. One ice cube,” she instructed.

Dean raised a brow. That was a stiff drink for such a small woman. As though she could read his thoughts, Julia leaned forward.

“My father and I have lived all over the world. I’m very adept at drinking liquor. It’s unusual for a woman, I know.”

Dean smiled. “I was actually going to say impressive.”

“So Malcolm Young, tell me about yourself.”

“Not much to tell, really. I’m in New York on business with my brother.”

“What kind of business are you in? Besides carting bags, that is.”

Dean adjusted his secondhand suit jacket.

“Family business. Extermination. I was in the bellhop outfit so I could explore the hotel without alerting the guests.”

“Are you saying there are bugs in the Waldorf Astoria?”

“You didn’t hear it from me.” Dean raised his glass. “To being bug free.”

Julia Wilder clinked his glass, then, with a lady-like swig, emptied hers. She stood up and smoothed her skirt.

“Very nice meeting you, Mr. Young. Again.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I have an appointment. Are you going to be in the city much longer?”

“We’re waiting for a bid, then we go home,” Dean said. It wasn’t a total lie.

“Perhaps I’ll see you again.” She smiled and then walked across the lobby to the guest elevators.

Dean watched her and sighed. Why do all the cool girls live in the past?