Stealing Black Beauty

Time travel goes sideways...

Lyn Patterson aka Lisa Cooper

Here’s a story I started years ago on Royal Roads. I decided to finish it up for the Lunar Awards. Set in my fictional World of The Gravity Keyper. Enjoy.

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Stealing Black Beauty

I
Valdor Lon hop-skipped through time like a pebble bounding across the surface of water, just by playing a killer blues progression on his favorite guitar. Time travel made easy with a few strums on the black Gretsch Country Gentleman, once belonging to Jeff Bridges. Classic guitar theft from famous historical figures was Valdor’s hobby, and a new goal beckoned him to jump through the nine-by-nine-by-nine mathematical matrix of time, gravity, and vibration. Today, he would play his way one hundred eighty years into the past and steal “Black Beauty,” Jimmy Page’s prized 1960 Gibson Les Paul Custom. Then, with a musical skip back to his present, he would have his favorite luthier copy the classic guitar.

Once, Valdor boogied his way back to 1977 and lifted all of Johnny Ramone’s guitars from his storage unit, stuffing them into a rucksack of weightless potential space. The sack hid the entire collection while Valdor strolled back to his time jump portal unnoticed, looking like an unshaven, silver-haired 1970s street bum, in baggy cargo pants, a green windbreaker that matched his eyes, and a dirty Oakland A’s baseball cap. The guitars—two Mosrites, two Fenders, a Rickenbacker, and a Yamaha— adorned Valdor’s vault wall. He offered Johnny a fair price for the white 1973 Stratocaster, but Johnny refused to sell. Too bad. Now Valdor had them all.

Stealing a guitar from Page crossed a certain artistic line for Valdor. Page, a Time Warden, portal opener, and Gravity Master himself, deserved the nod of mutual guitar virtuoso respect. Jimmy would get an outstanding copy of his own guitar before he realized it was missing, and Valdor would add the original to his priceless collection.

Time portals couldn’t be jumped at will; their opening and closing corresponded to a specific nine-by-nine mathematical grid of beginnings and endings. Numbers mattered, and the matrix of time required coincidence. When the numbers aligned, the time portals had to be opened in three dimensions, that merged gravity with the right vibrations, tones, and pitches, amped up through the Gravity Key, a device made by Valdor’s alien father. The Key altered both time and its coupled phenomenon, gravity.

Valdor waited years for a day when the numbers aligned, and a time-gravity-math-music-intersection could send him back to 1970, the only year “Black Beauty” was on tour with the band and the easiest time to filch it. He dialed up the date and time on his Key. Small, crystalline, round, and bound to his left wrist by a worn leather strap, it looked like an old-fashioned watch face.

He strummed the guitar and amped the output through an armband computer that encircled his firm bicep and turned to the portal built into the wall of his vault. A simple arch paved with polished red granite, faced with solid rock, and topped with a capstone that was the portal control module, it had taken him on many journeys and then brought him back home safely. He smiled.

I go wherever. I go whenever.

That was Valdor’s personal motto.

What song should he play to open his transit back in time and space? A Zep tune seemed appropriate, and the opening bars of “The Ocean” rang from the Gretsch.

The stone wall beneath the arch disappeared, and bluish, blurry, wavy interference lines replaced the solid rock. Valdor stepped through the arch and felt the space-time distortion take hold of him, casting him downwards, throwing him backwards like a reverse rollercoaster ride of nauseating freefall into nothingness. Ten minutes later, he slammed into the hard ground outside the baggage handling area of Minneapolis Airport on the evening of April 12, 1970.

II
Valdor stood, rubbed his aching knees, then straightened his nondescript blue-gray uniform. Time jumping jarred the joints when no portal waited to receive the traveler, and sometimes even when there was a portal waiting. Valdor liked free jumping, but he made a mental note to get new knee pads to better cushion his entries. He stuffed the Gretsch into his bag of holding and pulled out a pair of DeWalt earmuffs to drown out the noise of plane engines revving for rollback. He folded the bag neatly, shoved it inside his pants pocket, then preset his Gravity Key with the coordinates of his lair for the return jump.

Dusk and a heavy fog shrouded the tarmac in grey haze, perfect weather conditions to mask his arrival out of nowhere. Darting for the cover of a steel pylon that supported the terminal, Valdor caught his breath and waited for the tram that would carry the band’s luggage and musical equipment to their chartered plane.

“Stop slacking, man,” a husky voice behind him groused. “The personal luggage is aboard the charter. We’ve got to load all the instruments now. Tram’s coming.”

Valdor turned to see a baggage handler beckon him over.

How perfect. His grey uniform and fluorescent vest blended in with the other workers. And he was being asked to load the band’s instruments and equipment.

“Right,” Valdor agreed. He followed the handler to the terminal’s belt loader and waited for the boxes, cases of amps, guitars, drum kit, speakers, microphones, mixers, and other ancillary concert equipment to roll down the ramp.

“You new?” the handler inquired. “Ain’t seen you before.”

“I usually work in Rochester,” Valdor lied, referring to the airport that served as the hub for the Mayo Clinic. “Corporate sent me up here to fill in for somebody who hurt their back.”

“Right.”

Nothing better than a plausible lie.

There was a thud and a clang, and the ramp began to roll, sending down a torrent of boxes and cases stenciled with the iconic Led Zeppelin logo.

A train of hitched-together airport baggage trolleys rolled up, and Valdor and the handler stacked the equipment beneath its black rubber flaps onto the carts.

Then he spotted it: a Gibson hard-shell case. Narrow-profiled black leather, rectangular, and about 43 inches long, embossed with a Led Zeppelin logo and the baggage tags of Jimmy Page. Valdor pulled the case from the ramp, set it on the asphalt of the tarmac, and loaded more boxes, cases, and instruments onto the tram and cart. He waited, watchful and deliberate, until the other handler turned away to load one of the other carts. He pulled the bag of holding from his pocket and stuffed the case containing Black Beauty inside. Then he folded the bag, put it back inside his pocket, and continued loading gear.

When the load was done, he asked another handler for a cigarette and slunk off toward the pylon for a smoke. His plan was to have the guitar copied, then jump back to this spot, take out the guitar and case, and get them on the plane at the last minute. He stepped behind the pylon, pulled out his Gretsch, played a few notes, and free-jumped home.

The window for time jumping was tight, but his luthier got the job done quickly using advanced holographic imaging. Black Beauty looked good on his wall, nestled between Clapton’s Blackie and King’s Lucille. With the priceless Gibson secure, he took a moment to admire the flawless copy.

The mahogany body, finished in a sleek black gloss, was trimmed with gold-leaf fancy binding on the top, back, neck, and headstock. The gold-plated Grover Rotomatic tuners were slightly worn, but gold-plated covers on the humbucking pickups delivered a rich tone. There were a few nicks from everyday use, but overall, Page had a very pristine instrument. The ebony fretboard with square pearl inlays and gold hardware and trim completed the Tuxedo look that Les Paul requested for this custom edition. It was perfect, designed to fool even the experts at Gibson.

Valdor put the copy back into the original’s case, stuffed the case back into his bag, and adjusted his Gravity Key for Minneapolis Airport, April 12, 1970, to arrive just two minutes after his departure. Not wanting to lug his heavy Gretsch out for the trip, he left it in the bag of holding, opened a glass case, and picked up Jean-Pierre Rampal’s legendary golden flute from its maple flute stand.

He stood in front of his portal and played the opening bars of Claude Debussy’s ‘Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune’. The portal opened, securing the nine-by-nine-by-nine time-space matrix by locking into the desired date, time, and location. He fell through the time stream, enduring the disorienting effects of free fall and time distortion, to land back at the Minneapolis Airport, just moments after he left. He tucked the precious flute inside his jacket, pulled out his bag, and took out the case now containing a perfect copy of Black Beauty. The dust settled around him, and he stood, brushing himself off. Stepping from behind the pylon, he walked casually toward the baggage handling train. He’d leave the case there, and someone would realize it belonged on Led Zeppelin’s chartered flight.

“Well, well, a time-jumping thief, out to steal Jimmy’s guitar?” A female voice called out.

Valdor turned around and found a Beretta 92 Compact pointed at his face. He froze. The hands that held it were elegant, with long fingers and well-polished beige and blue ombre nails. Her hair fell about her shoulders in elegant chestnut curls to frame high cheekbones, cinnamon skin, and large gold eyes. That she knew he was a time jumper was concerning. That she seemed familiar but he couldn’t place her was unnerving.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“I’m just a Gravity Keyper and Time Warden like you,” she replied. “I followed the noise. You kicked up some large time ripples coming here. People know there’s a hunt for something valuable when there’s a time wake like that pulsing through the materium.”

“Why don’t you put that gun down and let’s talk about this.”

She laughed but kept the gun pointed at him, its add-on laser sight pinned to the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry, handsome. I’m being well paid by someone who wants that guitar a lot more than you do. Now drop the case, step back ten paces, turn around, and count to twenty.”

“Cool, babe,” Valdor replied. “It’s yours.” Valdor laughed on the inside. This dumb chick of a time jumper was about to hijack a fake Gibson. He dropped the case, turned as instructed, stepped off ten paces, but didn’t count.

“You’re good, I must admit. How long have you been waiting for me?” Valdor asked.

“I saw you grab it earlier. Why did you come back? Guilty conscience?”

“Something like that.” Valdor shrugged.

“What a loser.”

“Sure, no violence though. We’re on the same team, okay? Thick as thieves, you’re just better than me.”

“I’m no thief. I’m with the band. I sing backup and roadie too.”

Ah, now that explained a lot. One of Jimmy’s many groupies.

“Oh, of course, I thought I recognized you,” Valdor said. “I saw you on stage during the show.”

“Yep, you did! Now run, old man. Get the fuck out of here.”

“I’m gone,” Valdor replied. He took off running, headed for the closest concrete and steel pylon and darted behind it to catch his breath. He peeked around the pillar, but his robber was gone. Hilarity mixed with breathlessness and terror. He slid to the asphalt of the tarmac, collapsing in panting, hysterical laughter.

He sat until the laughter faded, fear abated, and composure returned. The screech of jet engines prepping for rollback assaulted his ears, and the stench of jet fuel assaulted his nose.

Valdor stood and searched his pocket for the golden flute. He reset his Gravity Key for his hideout’s portal and put the flute to his mouth. The opening notes of ‘Faun’ were drowned out by the noise of the tarmac. Then, like a song, everything faded to black…

III
Valdor awoke, groggy, naked, and with a searing pain in his left butt cheek.

He rubbed his fingers across ravaged skin, swollen, crusty, and oozing fluids. The ache raced down his leg, turning his foot numb.

“Shit,” he muttered. “What happened?” He felt drugged and befuddled.

He limped to the bathroom, turned his back to the full-length wall mirror, and stared at his reddened rump. The pasty flesh of his left butt cheek bore the brand of ZOSO.

What the fuck?

He limped from the lavatory, through the bedroom to the dwelling’s great room, and froze.

It was truly empty, bare of both his furniture and his entire guitar collection.

Gone were all of Johnny Ramone’s guitars, Brian May’s Red Special, John Lee Hooker’s cherry red Gibson ES-335, Jimi Hendrix’s Wolf- a white left handed Stratocaster, Billy Gibbons’ Pearly Gates a 1959 Gibson Les Paul, and Eddie Van Halen’s Frankenstrat.

Gone was Eric Clapton’s Blackie, a guitar for which Valdor had actually paid money, nearly twenty million in old American dollars.

And gone was Valdor’s beloved Lucille, B.B. King’s Lucille. The first guitar Valdor had ever heisted and copied, returning to King the near-perfect clone.

All the guitars were gone. The frying pans were gone, the matches, his cigarettes, and all of his food. Next to the gas stove lay a ZOSO branding iron and a note that read:

“Valdor, you shitkicker. I knew it was you. ‘Big guy, white hair, smoking cigarettes.’ It took years to find this place, but I got her back, plus interest. How does your ass feel now? Love, Jimmy.”

The end.