LXXX
The cat hopped onto the table as you emptied your purse, prehistoric trinkets clattering across the wood like tiny bones announcing a plan that shouldn't exist.
The dancer sat slumped in the armchair, ice pressed to his head, blue eyes flicking between you and the cat like he wasn't sure which one of you was more insane.
I breathed out, then took a deep cleansing inhale.
"Come on, champ. Let's get you treated. Then we'll explain."
He nodded weakly, letting you guide him, letting the cat trot ahead and tap at the apartment door like he'd lived here yesterday.
Inside, you sat him down, wrapped ice, pressed it into his hand.
Then you said it.
"Look. I can tell you a story, or I can tell you a truth you're probably not going to believe."
The dancer blinked slowly. The cat's tail froze mid‑swish. I continued.
" We're going to help you out of your predicament."
The dancer's brows knit. "My… predicament?"
The cat snorted. "Your death, champ."
The dancer flinched. I leaned forward.
"We're going to set it up so it looks like you died. But you won't. We'll save your life."
The dancer stared at me like I'd just told him the moon was made of tap shoes.
The cat hopped down from the table, pacing. "Sweetheart, this is exactly the kind of timeline meddling the alien warned us about."
I turned to him. "Hey, hat-man. This is life and death. Not mine. His. And yours. You've got a chance to make things right. Do you want to take it?"
The cat froze. His ears lowered, whiskers drooped.
His voice came out small.
"You're asking me to rewrite the moment I died."
I nodded.
"We get him to the funhouse mirror maze. We get the Russo brothers there too. We make it look like he's gone. They stop hunting him. He gets out. You get out."
The dancer swallowed hard.
"You're talking about faking my death."
The cat muttered, "Better than the real one."
You reached into your purse, dumping everything onto the table. Miscellaneous things spilled out, stone carvings, beads made from ebony and ochre, a flint knife, a carved bone pendant, a polished fossilized tooth, a tiny figurine of a cat‑lion, a statuette of an overly round lady. It made me smile.
The dancer blinked. "What… what is all that?"
"Things I picked up on the way to the glacier," you said. "Traded for. Found. Some of it might be worth something. Maybe enough to pawn."
The cat hopped onto the table, sniffing the items.
"Some of this is prehistoric. Some of it is rare. Some of it is… sweetheart, where did you even get this? This is worth a fortune in the right hands."
I shrugged.
"Different world. Different rules."
The dancer stared at the objects, then at you, then at the cat.
"You're serious," he whispered. "You're really going to help me."
The cat looked at his living self. At the bruised young man, scared, golden suit wrinkled and something inside him cracked.
He sighed.
"Alright, golden boy," he said softly. "We're going to fix this. We're going to fix you."
The dancer's eyes filled with tears he tried to hide.
And the cat, his future self, placed one tiny paw on the dancer's knee.
"Let's change the ending."
We made our way to the local New York Museum of Natural History the next day.
Dr. Scott looked like the kind of man who had spent his entire life in quiet rooms full of bones and secret. He wore an academic tweed jacket, round spectacles, hair thinning in a way that suggested he'd never once cared about vanity. He taught natural history, or so his degree would attest. When we approached his office in the Natural History Museum, he was hunched over a tray of pottery shards, muttering to himself about stratigraphy.
He didn't even look up until the cat hopped onto his desk.
"Good heavens—!"
"Relax, professor," I said. "He's housebroken."
Dr. Scott froze, blinked twice, then decided, wisely, to ignore the cat until he caused trouble, or knocked over an artifact.
I emptied my purse onto the table. The effect was immediate.
The professor's eyes widened behind his spectacles, his breath caught.
He leaned forward like a man seeing treasure for the first time.
A few shiny stones tumbled out, river‑tumbled beads, smooth and glossy, gifted to me by the river tribe. Dr. Scott picked one up with tweezers, turning it under the lamp.
"These are… extraordinary," he murmured. "Natural river polish, but the mineral composition, this is not local. Not from anywhere near New York."
He weighed one in his palm. "Worth a few dollars each, at least. More if I can determine the source."
Then his gaze fell on the stone lion.
He froze. It was lifted gently by white gloved hands.
He turned it repeatedly, using a loop to look at all sides.
Dr. Scott ran his thumb across the carved mane.
"This… this is remarkable craftsmanship."
His voice dropped to a reverent whisper.
"Prehistoric? Possibly Paleolithic? The detail, look at the incised lines. This is not a modern reproduction."
The cat smirked.
"Very old. Very rare. Very valuable."
Dr. Scott ignored him and reached for the tiny Venus statue. He inhaled sharply, eyes wide and glossy with excitement.
"Oh my. The proportions… the stylization… this resembles Gravettian figurines, but the stone type is wrong. And the polish, this is hand‑rubbed, not sanded."
He looked up at you, eyes shining.
"I would very much like to carbon date these. And, if you're willing, I would like to acquire them for the museum's collection."
The dancer, sitting in the corner with his ice pack, blinked at the objects like they were alien artifacts.
"Lady… where did you get all that?"
I shrugged. "Long story."
The cat hopped onto the table, tapping the lion with one paw.
"Short version: they're worth enough to get you out of trouble."
Dr. Scott cleared his throat.
"I can't promise a fortune," he said, "but these pieces, especially the lion and the Venus, would fetch a significant sum. Enough to… well… solve a few problems."
The dancer exhaled shakily. "Enough to pay off the Russo brothers?"
The cat's tail flicked.
"Enough to fake your death, and a little left for a getaway," I stated.
Dr. Scott blinked. "Your… what?"
I smiled gently. "Another long story."
The professor looked between me, the dancer, and the cat, who was now inspecting a fossilized tooth like a jeweler, and decided he didn't want the long story.
He wanted the artifacts.
"I'll draw up the paperwork," he said quickly. "And arrange payment."
The dancer sagged in relief. The cat hopped down, brushing against my legs.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, "we're halfway there."The check sat on the museum table like a tiny miracle. A small piece of paper, crisp, official, and stamped with the museum's seal. In 1928, it was the kind of money only gangsters, Broadway stars, or very lucky gamblers ever saw. A small fortune. Enough to change a life.
The dancer stared at it, mouth slightly open, ice pack forgotten in his lap.
"Three… thousand dollars?" he whispered.
"My darling… that's… that's like fifty grand in your day." The cat sputtered.
The cat hopped onto the table beside the check, his tail curling smugly.
"Sweetheart. Prehistoric trinkets fetch mammoth money. Haha." The hat-man chuckled.
The dancer swallowed hard, eyes shining with something fragile real hope.
I folded the check carefully, slipping it into the dancer's trembling hands.
"This is enough," you said softly. "Enough to pay back the Russo brothers. Enough to get out from under Slim. Enough to start over."
He stared at the paper like it was a lifeline.
"Lady… I could move. I could get a new manager. I could… I could leave the track. I could leave the whole damn boardwalk. I could go to Europe. They'd love me in Europe."
His voice cracked.
The cat looked up at him, expression softer than you'd ever seen.
"You could live, champ."
The dancer blinked rapidly, trying not to cry.
"Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah… I could live."
I leaned forward, hands on my knees.
"Here's what we do. You give the Russos a thousand dollars. They'll take it. They'll leave you alone. They'll think you're square."
The dancer nodded slowly.
"And the other two thousand?" he asked.
"That's your nest egg," I said. "Your new life. Your escape fund."
The cat flicked his tail. "And the funhouse mirror maze is where we stage the rest."
The dancer looked between you two, confused. "The… rest?"
The cat hopped down, pacing. "We're going to make it look like you died.
Not for the Russos, just for Slim. He's the one who drags you deeper. He's the one who gets you killed."
The dancer's breath hitched. "And if Slim thinks I'm dead…"
"He stops using you," you said. "Stops sending you on errands. Stops pulling you into mob business."
The cat nodded. "And you walk away clean."
The dancer pressed the check to his chest, eyes closing.
"I… I don't know what to say."
The cat sat beside him, tiny paw resting on his knee.
"Say you're ready to change the ending."
He opened his eyes. "I'm ready."
I stood, the cat hopping to my shoulder, rubbing the side of his head against my ear.
The dancer looked at both of us, fearful, hopeful, alive.