of the apartment and never let her back in. Maybe I can even make it back to the Eighth Wonder in time to have that drink with Dylan. I can easily convince him that the so-called Dylan song on my foreign record is a product of amphetamine craziness—everybody in the Village knows how out of control Sally is with the stuff.
As I ram the key into my apartment door, I hear something I don’t want to hear, something I can’t be hearing. But when open up . . .
“Mr. Tambourine Man” is playing on the hi-fi.
I charge into the second bedroom, the music room. The door is open and Sally is dancing around the floor. She’s startled to see me and goes into her little girl speedster act.
“Hiya, Troy, I found the key and I couldn’t resist because I like really wanted to hear these weird records of yours and I love ’em, I really do, but I’ve never heard of these Byrds cats although one of them’s named Crosby and he looks kinda like a singer I caught at a club last year only his hair was shorter then, and I never heard this ‘Tambourine’ song before, but it’s definitely Dylan, although he’s never sung it that I know of so I’ll have to ask him about it. And I noticed something even weirder, I mean really weird, because I spotted some of these copyright dates on the records—you know, that little circle with the littler letter c inside them?—and like, man, some of them are in the future, man, isn’t that wild? I mean, like there’s circle-C 1965 on this one and a circle-C 1970 on that one over there, and it’s like someone had a time machine and went into the future and brought ’em back or something. I mean, is this wild or what?”
Fury like I’ve never known blasts through me. It steals my voice. I want to throttle her. If she were in reach I’d do it, but lucky for her she’s bouncing around the room. I stay put. I clench my fists at my sides and let my mind race over my options.
How do I get out of this? Sally had one look at a couple of my albums last night and then spent all day blabbing to the whole goddamn Village about them and how rare and unique they are. And after tonight I know exactly what she’ll be talking about tomorrow: Dylan songs that haven’t been written yet, groups that don’t exist yet, and, worst of all, albums with copyright dates in the future!
Ripples . . . I was worried about ripples in the time stream giving me away. Sally’s mouth is going to cause waves. Tsunamis!
The whole scenario plays out inside my head: Talk spreads, Dylan gets more curious, Columbia Records gets worried about possible bootlegs, lawyers get involved, an article appears in the Voice, and then the inevitable—a reclamation squad knocks on my door in the middle of the night, I’m tranqued, brought back to my own time, and then it’s bye-bye musical career. Bye-bye Troy Jonson.
Sally’s got to go.
The cold-bloodedness of the thought shocks me. But it’s Sally or me. That’s what it comes down to. Sally or me. What else can I do?
I choose me.
“Are you mad?” she says.
I shake my head. “A little annoyed, maybe, but I guess it’s okay.” I smile. “It’s hard to say no to you.”
She jumps into my arms and gives me a hug. My hands slide up to her throat, encircle it, then slip away. Can’t do it.
“Hey, like what are you doing back, man? Aren’t you playing?”
“I got . . . distracted.”
“Well, Troy, honey, if you’re flat, you’ve come to the right place. I know how to fix that.”
In that instant, I know how I’ll do it. No blood, no pain, no mess.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I could use a little boost.”
Her eyes light. “Groovy! I had my gear all set up in the bathroom but I couldn’t find a vein. Let’s go.”
“But I want you to have some, too. It’s no fun being up alone.”
“Hey, I’m flyin’ already. I popped a bunch of black beauties before you came.”
“Yeah, but you’re coming down. I can tell.”
“You think so?” Her brow wrinkles with concern, then she smiles. “Okay. A little more’ll be cool—especially if it’s a direct hit.”