Time Trapped by Richard Ungar Page A

gutter stuff I’ve heard a million times. But a few of them are colorful ones I’ve never heard before, and they’re drawing me in despite myself.
    I look over my shoulder and am surprised to see that the owner of the voice is a stick of a boy. Hey, isn’t that the kid I saw on the deck when I first landed?
    The two trying to hold on to him are dressed in white crew uniforms.
    For a moment, my brain has trouble processing the scene. Have these crew members been hired by Uncle to bring kids to him?
    But then one of them says, “Bite me again, girlie, and that’s all you’re having for breakfast, lunch and supper tomorrow.”
    Well, that’s interesting. The troublemaker is a girl. Or Mr. Bitten thinks he’s dealing with a girl.
    I follow at a safe distance. They drag her, protesting, to the central stairway. I’m not the only gawker. Five or six cruisers wander over from the casino to see what all the fuss is about. One of the bolder ones asks, “What did she do?”
    â€œShip’s business,” is all the white shirt on the left says, which of course isn’t an answer at all.
    â€œGet your filthy hands off me, bootlicker!” the girl spits out.
    One of the casino crowd, a man with bluish hair and an impressive pinkie ring, takes a half step forward, which looks to me to be more like a stumble than a challenge, but the closest white shirt isn’t taking any chances. He glares at the man and says, “I wouldn’t interfere, sir. She’s a thief. Been stealing from the passengers.”
    â€œLiar!” the girl screams, and then proceeds to rake his forearm with her nails. Ouch.
    The white shirt grabs the hand that did the damage and twists it until she squeals in pain.
    â€œYour daddy’s gonna whip you when he finds out what you’ve been up to,” he says to her through clenched teeth.
    â€œWrong again, Jack,” she says. “The only thing my
policeman
daddy’s gonna do is whip your sorry butt so bad that you won’t be able to sit on the throne for a week.”
    Like I said, colorful.
    I glance at my fingernail. Thirteen minutes left to complete the snatch.
    Hmmm.
    They lead her down a long corridor, and I follow at a safe distance. Where are they taking her? To a jail cell? On a luxury ship? Why should I be surprised? Of course they have a jail cell. How else to deal with people who have had too many rum punches?
    The small contingent stops at a door about midway down the hall. The beefier white shirt unlocks the door, and they shove her roughly inside. Before they shut the door, the one who got scratched lays in a kick for good measure.
    I wait until the men are out of sight, then walk up to the door and place my ear to the wood.
    Nothing.
    The lock would be a cinch to pick if I had a skeleton key or even a piece of wire. But the only thing I have on me is a slightly bent piece of Juicy Fruit gum that I scored from a candy machine outside the Loch Linnhe Lounge. Not that I’m all that concerned, though. I’ve got a much easier way to get in.
    I walk away and then, a minute later, do another pass-by. This time when I put my ear to the door, I hear breathing. Mentally, I place her at five feet away from the door. That leaves me with a good-sized landing strip. I tap away on my wrist. Delicate now. A tiny leap forward in space with minimal time displacement.
    Bingo. Here I am. And there she is. Staring at me from across the room. I can really only see her right eye, on account of her messy hair covering the left. But I can tell from the high blinking rate that my entrance has made an impression.
    Still, she doesn’t say anything.
    â€œNice place you have here,” I say, going for pleasant.
    â€œPiss off.”
    â€œAll right. Have a nice day.” I touch my wrist, land just outside the door and immediately put my ear to it.
    Scuffling sounds and then, “Wait. Come back.”
    I sigh, count to