The old people had died of starvation somehow with all that dough in cash or banks. I didn't give a hang if the time travel was responsible, or something else was. I wasn't going to be found dead in my hotel and have Lou Pape curse my corpse because I'd been borrowing from him when, since 1931, I'd had a little fortune put away. He'd call me a premature senile psychotic and he'd be right, from his point of view, not knowing the truth.
ather than make the deposit in October, 1938, I grabbed a battered old cab and told the driver to step on it. When I showed him the $10 bill that was in it for him, he squashed down the gas pedal. In 1938, $10 was real money.
We got a mile away from the bank and the driver looked at me in the rear-view mirror.
"How far you want to go, mister?"
My teeth were together so hard that I had to unclench them before I could answer, "As far away as we can get."
"Cops after you?"
"No, but somebody is. Don't be surprised at anything that happens, no matter what it is."
"You mean like getting shot at?" he asked worriedly, slowing down.