Chapter 17

Ming Na Liu

February 17, 1947

Ming Na waved a fan in front of her face as she pushed her way through the crowd of people. She'd read on a history blog that Vegas was a quiet city before WWII and that it couldn't handle the sudden influx of people flocking to the glitz just beginning to show. There were scores of unfinished buildings and people living on the streets. She'd walked over five already just outside their small apartment near the edge of the desert. The Asian population was almost non-existent. Being a white girl was unnatural and icky. She wanted to go back to her own skin as soon as possible. At least she was no longer startled when she looked in the mirror. She wondered how Bobby felt, a man in a woman's body.

Wiping her forehead, she stared up at the new hotel being renovated. Bugsy Siegel's Flamingo. It had been completed a few months before, but the grand reopening was coming soon. Another pink-themed hotel. She was tired of the colour, but if they were here, then maybe Slazney was here as well. Bobby had been evasive on that topic.

If nothing else, maybe she could meet Bugsy Siegel. The reporter in her was itching to ask him some questions. Find out some of his secrets. The idea was the only thing keeping her sane. It was a little over a month until his death, and a picture with the gangster would be a cool trophy. Maybe an interview, not that she could ever publish it except as an op-ed.

"What are you doing?" Bobby asked, pushing her along, ignoring the whistles from the construction workers. "This isn't the best place to stop. Besides, we need to find a computer and the Z4 doesn't exist here."

"What's that?" Ming asked. She strained her neck. Even the air smelled a little better, with less car exhaust. A part of her just couldn't accept that any of this was real and kept looking for the cameras.

Bobby grimaced. "It's one of the first electronic computers in the world with the computing capability to get us home, but it's only in Europe. As it is, finding one here, if it is here, will be difficult. We need another kind of computer help."

"What do you mean? Where are we going?" Ming asked.

She pointed east. "That way. While I was getting rid of Steven, I overheard some people talking about an underground Blues bar. To get there, though, is difficult for two white-bread women."

Ming ignored what he said about Steven. She didn't want to think about Bobby killing someone. Steven had killed the bodies they were in -that was still disturbing- but killing him seemed excessive. She had fought with Bobby over what to do and won. Bobby took him out into the desert and said she let him go. Ming chose to believe that Bobby didn't kill him there, but it was going to be difficult for Steven to survive.

She raised an eyebrow. "Blues? Why do we need the Blues? I thought you needed a computer," Ming smiled and grabbed her pen and notebook from her bag.

Bobby rolled her eyes. In the two days they had been in 1947, Ming had gotten used to thinking of the punk rocker window washer as a she. The body Bobby wore was still young and beautiful, even if she had been Jessica's mother.

"Yes, I need a computer to do the calculations, but without a copy of the code to work with, I'd be writing it from scratch, which would take years. What I have can be checked by the computers of the era, women. However, the heart of the code is the music. It's the power that drives the magic in my code. Others who live closer to the music can access the magic without the extras. For me, without Motley Crue to connect my soul to nature, the code is just numbers on a screen. Blues will hopefully work; it underpins all of their work."

Ming stopped walking. A few people pushed past her, grumbling at the young woman standing in the middle of the street.

Bobby guided her over to the side of the street, away from the press of people. "What are you doing?" she hissed.

"Magic? You're kidding, right? Magic isn't real," Ming said in a panic. Science was the guiding force of life. With the right application of logic, anything was possible. "Time travel is science fiction. There is no such thing as magic," She mouthed, closing her eyes.

"I'm not kidding," Bobby said, bringing her face closer to Ming's. "How do you think we got here? With just a computer code? Don't be silly," he scoffed. "Even if I paid the cost with my life, there's only so much even it can do. Magic is everywhere. I just hacked it. For the real practitioner, they know how to draw it out of the air, or the water, or the blood, for the right sacrifice. I found my secret way by accident years ago, and it ruined me." He paused. "You remember Ivan's humming?"

Ming nodded.

"That's how he can access his power. He discovered it by accident years ago. By humming, he can use his connection to nature to enhance his power. He had a great time using it to hoist Vlad and me around when we were children. It was like having our own Superman and Big Brother all in one. Gregory found him when Ivan was about thirteen and trained him to be his bodyguard." Bobby frowned. "I still remember when they took him away. Ivan promised he'd be fine. When he returned six years later, I didn't recognize him, and Ivan had cut out his own tongue. Before he left, it was the last time I saw him smile." He shook his head and continued. "Science and magic get along very well. They're both a love letter to nature, if you know how to weld them together," Bobby whispered.

Ming looked around. Nobody was listening to them, but Bobby wasn't taking any chances.

"I guess so," Ming mused. She took a deep breath, let it out and jotted a few notes down on her notepad. She'd found it in Jessica's room after the first night. She looked up at her mother, Catherine. Steven had been very forthcoming when Bobby had started breaking fingers. Ming stared at the whiteness of her hand. "Are you sure they'll be all right when we leave?" Ming asked.

"I don't know," Bobby said. "As I told you before, you healed quickly, while I took too long. Your body's soul is probably still nearby and should hang around for a few more days. Mine's most likely gone." Bobby started Ming forward again. "We'll deal with that when the time comes."

"What's this about women being computers?" asked Ming, but Bobby ignored the question, mumbling something about reading some history books. Ming grunted and followed.

They continued east. Bobby stopped a few construction workers and asked them for directions to the speakeasy. A few waved her off. One threatened to call the police. Ming had forgotten how bad women had it in the past. Just asking for directions to the local black music bar was dangerous, especially for two white women. Most of the people couldn't believe they wanted to go there. Back in the present, she'd experienced some trouble because her parents were Chinese, and Dean had his own troubles based on his family, but not the open hostilities she was experiencing here.

She became a reporter to expose the secrets of the world. To expose what she couldn't explain. She didn't believe in the power of intuition, like Dean, although she could respect it. But magic was something beyond her.

Bobby

February 17^th^, 1947

Bobby stood outside a small building on a side street. Music blasted out from the closed door. He couldn't make out the words, but the beat called to him. It wasn't punk, but it pushed the butterflies down. Despite the situation and Ming's insistence on using that pronoun, he refused to think of himself as' she'. It was getting harder, though, and Ming didn't help. Every time he stared in the mirror, the older, beautiful woman with the blond hair who stared back took a piece of him, making it harder to come back. He said her soul was gone, but maybe a part of it remained. Every time Bobby looked at Ming in Jessica's body, what he could only describe as a motherly instinct coursed through him. It was unnerving.

The sun had set, taking the heat from the day, and settling the dust. It had invaded his nose and rubbed his throat raw. After taking Steven out to the desert, it had gotten worse. The reporter thought he'd killed the boy, but random murder wasn't something he was comfortable doing anymore, even with the block removed.

That didn't mean he left him whole.

"Is this the place?" Ming asked.

"Yes." Bobby swallowed. "Two white women, in sundresses, going into an Underground Blues bar won't end well." He turned to Ming. "You can go back to the house and wait this out if you want."

"No! I came this far. I'm going to see it through."

Bobby nodded and led her down the stairs. They pounded on the door, a slot opened, and the eyes behind it narrowed. "What's some Honky bitches doing down here?" The man said as he spat to the side, scorn radiating from him.

"We came here for the music," Bobby said, swaying to the beat. It was calling to him; invading his bones.

"Some mayonnaise monkeys are here? Are they looking for an Oreo?" Another voice had replaced the first, opened the door and scoffed.

This man was taller than Ivan, but not as wide. Skinny, but with muscles straining his shirt.

"This isn't a safe place for your kind, woman." He pointed his finger up the stairs. "Leave."

Ming placed her hand on his arm. Bobby covered her hand with his and faced off against the man. "Is that Kansas Joe McCoy I hear in there?" he said, pulling some money out of his purse. "I have the cover charge, now let us in before he finishes the song. I've come a long way to hear him." He put his hands on his hips and stared. The stronger you were with men like these, the quicker they respected you.

The doorman stared at the two women and smiled. "I like 'em feisty. It makes the lovin' that much" -- he licked his lips -- "better." He took the money and stepped out of the way.

"Thank you," Bobby said and pushed Ming into the bar.

"What the hell was that?" Ming whispered. "Are you trying to get us killed?"

"Speak up! It's louder than a chainsaw through a skull in here. I had to show him we meant business. Besides, it was fun. I like letting loose once in a while."

Ming tried not to gag.

They stepped into a dark room covered with a thin haze of smoke. The corners were shrouded in darkness, and most of the tables were filled with people nursing drinks while smoke drifted to the rafters. They all swayed to the beat while listening to a black man sitting on the stage playing the guitar. The lighting in the room hid most of the people in the audience. Perfect if there was a raid.

Bobby noticed the soft beat of the song and compared it to the Led Zeppelin remake from the 70s. Plant's lyrics and Bonham's drumming breathed new life into the music, but listening to the original without the scratches was breathtaking. Everything else faded away, and he couldn't take his eyes off the man.

"Is that really Kansas Joe McCoy?" Bobby asked the man by the door.

"Yep!" he said, moving along to the music. "He snuck down for a couple of days and wanted to get some sessions in." He turned to Bobby, and his eyes went wide. "What are a couple of Honkys doing in here?"

"The same thing as the other ones, I'd bet," Bobby said, pointing to the white couples sitting at a few tables. "Enjoying the music."

He led Ming to an empty table near the back of the crowded bar and sat. A waiter brought him two beers. He took a sip and closed his eyes. The guitar beat flowed into him, washing away the stress from the last few days. The flight from his home and the fucked-up virus in the window, all faded. He recognized the lyrics and finger work of a master. This wasn't a chance. He needed to get a message to the man. Respect nature, and it will nudge open a door.

"What are you doing?" Ming asked, breaking the spell. Good music was its own magic, even if there was nothing behind it. Bobby peeked at her and opened his eyes, sighing. The reporter was a tough woman, but this was something outside her range of experiences. Judging from her reaction to his mention of magic earlier, she was a nonbeliever.

"As I said, a computer alone won't get us out of here," he said, taking another sip. "We need someone to play the right kind of music that'll power my code. I could do It but I need to input the right numbers at the right time while holding the correct beat. I can play, but I'm not that good. Back home, the computer battery can be a substitute if you have the right code plugged in; here, we'll need someone to help us. Someone who knows what it means to make magic. Just be glad this isn't Russia. Finding the right music there in the sixties was a nightmare."

Kansas Joe finished his set and went to the bar to get a drink. Bobby took a swig of his beer and stood up. He went over to the bar and sat down beside the man. Kansas Joe looked Bobby up and down and scrunched his nose. "What's a white woman doing here, all alone?"

This was the dangerous part. The last time he'd met a magic practitioner, in 1960's Berlin, the man had tried to kill him, sticking a baba-yaga on him. Musicians were easier to talk to, though. Something about the music connected their souls to the natural force powering the world.

"I need your help, Mr. McCoy," Bobby said, placing his hand near the singers. "I'm in a spot of trouble."

He smiled and shook his head. "Sorry, lady, I'm not the right person to help you." He picked up his drink and left the barstool. "Find some other stud for that."

"Not that kind of trouble," he said, following after McCoy. Bobby reached into his purse and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "Please look at this and tell me if you can help." He gave it to Kansas Joe. The man took the paper but didn't look at it and put it in his pocket. He smiled and continued back to the stage.

"What was that paper?" Ming asked, sliding up next to Bobby.

"Before coming here, I wrote some computations and musical scores down. He should recognize the significance." Bobby drank the last of his beer. "Come on. It's time to go."

"Don't we need him?"

"Our numbers' on the paper. He'll contact us if he wants to help. You can't force it." Bobby glanced around the bar. The other patrons were not looking at them, but in an, I saw everything you were doing, kind of way. There was no hiding who they were here, and no way a man like Kansas Joe would help them so publicly.

"Hello, ladies," said a white man in a dark suit and a hat. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"No thanks," Bobby said. "We're just leaving.

"But you just got here. Please, I insist."

Ming tugged at Bobby's arm and whispered into his ear. "That's Bugsy Siegel. I recognize him from the pictures."

"You know me? Excellent. Saves time." He smiled and leaned into the bar. He was wearing a pinstriped suit and set his hat on the counter. Kansas Joe started playing, "Why Don't You Do Right," and Bugsy nodded along with the music. "I was listening to some good music and wondered what these two beautiful women were doing here. They seemed so out of place."

Bobby swayed along with the music and smiled up at Bugsy. "I came for the music as well, but it's past my daughter's bedtime." He gestured to Ming. "We have a busy day tomorrow and can't stay." He moved away from the bar and nodded to Bugsy. "Thank you for the offer, Mr. Siegel, but we'll have to decline. Come on, Jessica."

"Slazney said you'd be stubborn," Bugsy said. "And that I shouldn't take no for an answer." He sipped his drink.

Bobby and Ming stopped and turned back to the gangster. He gave them a knowing smile and gestured to his table, where three other men and a woman were sitting.

Bobby started swearing in Russian.