It was ten o'clock and the lights in Searchlight's tiny bowling alley had gone dim. The only staff member left behind was Whistler, entrusted with closing up shop. He was in a back room, probably locking cash in a safe; She didn't really know. Hannah was too busy fulfilling a childhood dream.
Using the polished, wooden lane as a slip-n-slide for her socked feet.
New and improved control over her solid form allowed her this childish joy. It also supplied a heapin' helpin' of pain when she lost her balance. "Whoa-- shiiit!" Thunk. "Oww... my ass." Hannah rubbed her posterior and waited for the sensation to subside. She wondered if she could bruise.
One, two, three, four, five... "Ugh."
Why anyone would pay for their shoe rental in pennies was a mystery. They were intrinsically evil. 'Give a penny, get a penny' wasn't for anyone's benefit. And the mix of more nickel than actual copper meant it held residual energies. Get enough of them together and they could disrupt electronics. Batch 'em up in a plastic thingee beside a cash register, and no one's cash out was safe. It could bring down governments.
Evil.
Six, seven, eight, whoa shiiit!
Whistler ran out of the back office after the thunk and couldn't help but laugh as he spied the spirtely Hannah rubbing her backside. Served her right. He'd just waxed the alleys. If she'd asked, he would've recommended waiting another hour. The Agent learned the hard way the first time he tried it. "Hurts like a sunovabitch, doesn't it pixie?"
"Uuuughhh." She flopped like a fish, limbs akimbo. "All these months, I've been pursuing the feel-goods. Now I remember why I avoided pain." Hannah propped herself up on her elbows. "Still, I'm proud of myself. Doing pretty well with the old body, if you ask me. Now if I could just convince them to give me my mortality back..." Her face was a comical mixture of hopeful and smirking. It was highly unlikely.
"How's tricks?" she asked her hatted friend.
"They let ya get this far. Don't push 'em, or they'll make you forget sex, or somethin' important." Whistler remembered the time his brain was swiss-cheese for interfering during the Scourge at Beowawe. Not the most pleasant time.
"Been goin' through the days best I can," he admitted, rubbing his hands on his black pants. The feeling of coin wouldn't go away soon enough. "Which mainly consists of sprayin' bowling shoes and letting Gerald beat me at Connect Four." The Agent crossed behind the makeshift lunch-counter-slash-bar and grabbed himself a beer from the fridge. He raised it to Hannah as a silent question.
"None for me. I'm working." Hannah got up and dusted off her behind. She was thankful she hadn't worn a dress or Whistler would've gotten an eyeful of her underwear. She climbed up on the counter and swung her legs around to the employee side. There they swayed, in little circles.
"Ah, official capacity," he responded, and popped the aluminum bottlecap off with his thumbs. "Tell me, Miss Hannah Flynn." He took a swig of the Bud Light. Whistler preferred the domestic over imported. He wasn't a snob; it was easier to blend in that way. Getting noticed got you in trouble.
The beer got caught in his throat as a question formed in his mind. The possibility of an answer -- good or bad -- made it momentarily hard to swallow. "Is your official capacity in keepin' with a favor asked?"
"Sure is," Hannah said. She picked up a cup of pens, kept by the register, and sorted through the various items. The cup also seemed to be a catch-all for stuff people pulled out of their pockets. Loose change. Rubber bands. A paperclip. Lint. "Hannah Jean Flynn keeps her promises. I snooped on your family." She poked a rubber band with the ball point pen. It left a blue spot. "So now I'm reporting back. That is, if you still wanna know. You heard what I said about pursuing the feel-goods instead of pain, right? I wasn't just blowing smoke."
This time he swallowed hard. Whistler wasn't the best with details, he sometimes got things completely cocked up or mixed around. But he always learned from it. This year he filed his taxes on time. He took a second sip of his beer. "We're on a level playin' field, Hannah Jean," he responded. Somehow saying both her birth and middle name made her feel more... solid. "We both know you gotta endure the pain to realize how good the things we cherish are. So give it to me straight."
Hannah sighed and blew upward, so her bangs rustled. "If you're sure..." She knew him well enough to realize Whistler wasn't gonna back down. Regrets would eat him alive, one way or the other. But at least he wouldn't be wondering anymore what happened to his long-lost kid.
She set the cup aside. "Margaret Alice Melone, aka Meg, is sixty-five years old, twice divorced, with one kid. She lives in Butte, Montana, which is actually pronounced wayyy different than you spell it. She runs a small catering business called Meg's Amazing Edibles. On the side, she reads palms. Totally not making that up."
It was a near impossible thing to stun a man as long-lived (and as jaded) as Whistler. Too many apocalypti (apocalypses? apocali? did anyone ever come up with a plural? would anyone in their right mind want to?), all manner of 'been there-done that-got the t-shirt waaaay over-priced at that guy who said he was cutting his own throat for the deal', and worst of all... a New York hot dog. Try chewing on that and not believing in hell.
The words spurt forth like a gas nozzle offering premium unleaded at less than a dollar a gallon. "Holy Christ. I'm a grandfather."
Hannah scrunched up her nose. "Uh huh, and you know what's even worse? Not only does he run around in a weird hat, dressed like a beatnik... He's twenty-five, which... if I do my math right...makes him about the same age as..." She hit the vocal brakes. "Well, you know, some of our friends."
"How is that worse?" Whistler scoffed. "Shows the boy has taste is all!" Then it hit him full in the face. "Tell me he's not in Vegas."
She scratched the nape of her neck. "Well no... Detroit."
A tingle ran up the man's spine. He made a mental note to ask Rhiannon if she had any sisters. He knew she didn't, but for some strange reason it seemed like the right thing to ask. He fell against the ancient cash register, and it clanged open with a ding one imagined hearing as the proverbial lightbulb went off over a cartoon character's head. "Anyone toss a slushie at his head recently?"
"Don't worry, he never knocked boots with your ex. Fate's not that cruel." She beamed. Really, Hannah had been waiting her whole existence to use 'knock boots' in a sentence. She crossed her ankles. "But I hear he's got a thing for tough chicks."
Whistler finished the last of the beer. A cigarette would've gone great right now but the boss was cracking down on people smoking indoors. Plus, his blonde friend was a non-smoker and he was feeling downright generous despite her not needing to actually breathe. "You are too pleased with yourself, Miss Hannah Jean." The Agent cracked a smile. "You wear it well."
She continued to smile, but it relaxed a bit. "Listen, you know they're okay now. So you don't need to go ordering a sheet cake, just to get a look at Meg. True, Aaron could probaby use a little help, learning how to win at cards without cheating, but it doesn't have to be you that teaches him." Hannah gnawed her lip. "I don't want you to get your feelings hurt."
Aaron Melone. He had a name. Huh. 'A. Whistler'. Coincidence? Yes. Had to be.
"I know," was the best he could muster. Hannah had connnections now, just as Whistler did. She knew the possible consequences. "I know they're okay, that despite the shit I dealt her by pullin' a disappearin' act so many years ago, it didn't fuck up her life completely." He drummed fingers on the open register before finally closing the till.
He held Hannah's gaze. "If you thought you'd screwed up so badly by leaving Oliver without so much as a word, found him again sixty years on, could you be content knowing second hand that he was still alive?"
"That's different," she said, shrugging gently. "If Alice was around, I'd say sure, go back and apologize. Let her take a geriatric swing. But she's not." Hannah felt like the worst person ever, telling him that, but it was the truth. "These people never knew you. Meg was just a baby when you left." The blonde Agent pulled her legs up on the counter and sat indian-style. "I'm not saying don't go. I'm saying you don't have to go. But I won't blame you if you do."
That information he hadn't even considered asking, and the realization hit Whistler like a ton of bricks. He was so wrapped up in the daughter left behind, he hadn't even considered the woman he loved then -- or professed to -- and what his disappearing act had done to her. If they gave an award for jackass of the year, the hatted man was the clear frontrunner.
"Oh hell. Alice." Alcohol would numb the pain, but he deserved to be hurt by the news. "When? How?"
She fiddled with her shoelaces. "1976. Heart attack."
"Oh Jesus." For the first time in decades, Whistler didn't use the Lord's name in vain.
Hannah's shoulders slumped. "It was the diner food." Silence fell while she considered how to cheer him up. "Don't worry. Meg's got a strong ticker. It's crazy how much she inherited from you. Unless you think it's not just genetics. Maybe it's all a big wheel that keeps on turnin'."
She hopped off the counter and gave Whistler a friendly pat. She figured he'd want to be alone. "Keep hope alive. I gotta jet."
"I owe you, Pixie," he called out as Hannah started her walk. "Not just for this. The talk too. Next time we'll have pie and lemonade, sound good? Just two friends." Whistler pulled out his Lucky Sevens and lit up. He'd make it an early night. And begin the drive out of state first thing in the morning.