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Page 41.
Chapter 33.
 Louis needed a car. He made a quick call to Turk, who arrived within the hour in a boxy white station wagon. He grinned in his savage, disheveled manner as he pulled up.
Louis ran around to the driver's side. "I need the car, boy, fast." He started to pull the door open.
"Hey, man," Turk growled, face clouding over. His brow furrowed.
"Fast," Louis reported.
"Man, I brought the car, I get to go along for the fun."
Louis lifted his coat exposing the Luger. "Get out."
"Shit." Quickly, the boy complied. He looked lanky and goofy in his antisocial uniform of leather and tattoos.
"I'll call you," Louis said and roared off, leaving Turk standing in the middle of the street, arms akimbo.
It was getting dark as Louis approached Maxxon's place. His last hope. Maxxon must agree to publish! Maxxon had indicated that he liked the book. There was hope!
Astonished, Louis drove slowly by. Was it possible? The car sitting in Maxxon's driveway was the same one that Albert's Jewish granddaughter had driven up in the other night.
Louis speeded up, immediately concerned that someone might be watching him. He drove to the end of the cul-de-sac, turned, and got out of there as quickly as he could. By the time he had turned the corner from Maxxon's street, the diabolical conspiracy had become apparent: They were all in this together, out to get him. If there was a link between Myra and Maxxon, then Maxxon must be with the authorities of this corrupt and ruthless place. I have just nearly driven into a trap, Louis thought. He looked nervously about for signs of pursuit but there were none.
Then he slowed and pulled over to think. He held his head in his hands. What choice did he have left? He must get back to 1936; it would be a miracle if Anna lasted another full day. Very well, he thought, I will show you. I will make something of this for you. He did a U-turn on the road and drove back, but parked near the corner instead of turning back onto Maxxon's street. That will give me some room to escape if things go wrong, he thought.
As he thought about it, his desperate plan began to assume a crystalline logic. The hell with Maxxon. He had one big trump card to play.
There was a public telephone attached to a pole. Its blue and white glassy hood glowed softly in the growing dusk. Louis found two of the nearly worthless modern-day dimes in his pocket and dialed his brother's unlisted home number, which he had obtained upon arrival in the future.
"Yes?" answered the familiar, though aged voice.
"It's me."
"Oh God. Louis, where are you?"
"I need to talk seriously with you."
"Go back to your time. Don't you know-- I have loved you even though you have been dead all these years? I never believed you would really pull it off. Now that I am old, I'm happy to hear your voice. It sounds like I remember it, in my head, young and cocky and domineering."
"Stop it, Albert, there's no time for philosophy."
Albert countered: "You never had time for any philosophy but your own. But this is not your little brother you are talking to. I'm a world-wise old fool in his eighties. Please believe me. Go back and try to live your life! Do you understand what happened to you?"
Louis knew that he had died somehow upon return. "Albert. There is no time. Stay by the phone. I will call you soon. And do not call the police or anyone, hear me?"
"I won't," Albert promised. "I'll wait right here."
"Good." Louis hung up. It was starting to drizzle again. He pulled his hat brim down, pinched his collar together, and walked around the corner toward Maxxon's house.
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