A law office was not where Tommy had intended to spend his day, but at just past 9:00 that morning a call had come in from the offices of "Dewey, Cheatum, and Howe," as he was fond of calling his New York attorneys. He needed to come into the office, immediately. There were papers that needed to be signed.

DC&H, located in Gramercy Park just off 16th, was one of a series of midsized law firms that, through a series of trusts and corporations, managed most of his assets. The scheme put Tommy in a position where he could appear to be an employee of Skeleton Bones Ice Creamery while, in fact, being the owner of that company and various other assets. Most of those additional assets were in the form of five buildings spread throughout Manhattan, six including the small apartment building in which he and Rhonda lived.

On paper, it was quite a spot of money. In reality, though, the investments generated revenue sufficient to cover the maintenance and expenses of the properties, with a few bucks left over every year. It was an amount that, had he so chosen, he and Rhonda could've lived modestly on the income alone, especially given that they resided in their apartment rent-free.

His occupation selling ice cream was a nice dollop of spare cash, but mostly it was its own reward.

Beyond that, he did have stashes of gold, precious gems, and other valuables squirreled away here and there, like a crazy old man, for emergencies. Some of those tiny nest eggs were secreted as far afield as Istanbul, Johannesburg, and Calcutta. He hadn't inventoried those reserves in years and would just as soon not touch them, absent some real emergency.

Time had taught him caution, if not always prudence.

It'd become apparent from his visit to the law offices—it was his first in nearly 10 years—that, had Tommy paid more attention to his correspondence, the trip would have been unnecessary. Okay, read your mail, dumb ass, was his self-admonishment as he left the DC&H offices at just past noon. It was an enormous pain in the neck, but business acumen was not his strong suit.

In any event, the lawyers helped in some small way to keep government scrutiny to a minimum. There was much about modern society worthy of praise, and he marveled at the scope and breadth of human advances. But the degree to which government invasiveness, including the dreaded photo ID, had exploded in the preceding century boggled his mind.

It had become increasingly difficult just to be let alone. Hence, the lawyers, the trusts, and the corporations.

Those thoughts soon abandoned him.

It was early June, and the weather had taken a pleasant turn after the previous day's rain. The early afternoon showed the city at its most photogenic. The Flatiron Building was one of his favorites, so instead of taking the bus or a cab home, Tommy decided to walk part of the way, with a stroll past the Garden.

The long walk was soothing, and he could almost taste the city.

He hadn't fully recovered from the shock of his emotional display at breakfast three weeks earlier. It had been ages since he'd been so thoroughly overcome by such tender sentiments. Rhonda's response had warmed his heart, and as he turned to make his way uptown, he found himself deep in thought. The long talks he'd had with her, and his conversation the day before with Camille Thomas, had left him feeling sentimental, which wasn't his ordinary way. The past was a fata morgana upon which Tommy seldom dwelt. He loved to look and to lean forward, but today he walked while pondering people, places, and events from years long gone.

***

His girl had been curious about everything, especially the apparent uniqueness of his condition. Time and again their conversation returned to his great age. As near as he could discern, he was the only creature on Earth so afflicted. He'd met Gifted with great strength, incredible durability, and other abilities that simply beggared belief. He'd pirated many of those Gifts, out of caution and a desire to survive. The many centuries of his early life, where nothing stood between him and death but his wits and the strength of his all-too-human body, were still a vivid memory.

He'd even met a few of the Gifted who'd lived unusually long lives, though none he'd ever encountered had lingered much longer than two centuries, and all of those had aged gradually throughout their time on earth. Perhaps there were others like Tommy, but war, disease, and human frailty had taken their toll?

As it might have done with me?

He let that thought go.

When pressed, Tommy admitted to Rhonda only knowing of one such person who still might be among the living. The remarkable story of Ulysses Morse, a Kentucky soldier of fortune, enthralled her. He laughed now thinking of her reaction.

"As near as I can gather," he told her, "Ulysses fought in the American Civil War as a young man, but on which side I'm not sure. I rather think he changed sides as the war progressed. He was quite a rogue, a first-rate scoundrel. After the war, he went West and raped and pillaged his way across five territories. He had an unusual set of Gifts. He was incredibly strong and tough. I heard stories of him taking cannon balls at near point-blank range during the war. He could also run at improbable speeds, and his jumping ability ... well, I didn't come across him until much later. Most of what I heard about him seemed true, though."

"Wait, is this the story of some old plantation-owning bigot?" she asked indignantly. The topics of race, ethnicity, and slavery came up time and again in their talks. It left a tear in Rhonda's eye when Tommy had confessed to having owned slaves in his life. She threw herself in his arms and cried desperately when he'd recounted to her the many times that he himself had been cast into bondage.

"Babe," Tommy replied, "Ulysses Morse was so much worse than all that."

She gave him a skeptical look.

"Trust me," he said. "Even the West wasn't wild enough for Ulysses. Around 1880, the man went to Africa ... to Egypt first, I think, and then on to The Sudan, where he fought for some Turkish potentate. Next, he ended up in the Belgian Congo, where he tried to set himself up as a god in some obscure corner of the colony. As I heard the story, years later, he ended up turning his little slice of Africa into a cross between a seraglio and a charnel house."

Rhonda sat in rapt attention, eyes wide in disbelief, as Tommy recounted the subsequent iniquities of the man who, by that time, merely went by the mononym "Ulysses"—the Boer War, Boxer Rebellion, South America, Afghanistan, and points in between. At one time or another, the rogue had fought for the colonial powers, and at other times for the rebels.

"It depended on how much money could be made fighting, supplying arms, or robbing the people. I first encountered him in 1902, in London ... I was English then," he said in reply to her quizzical look. "If stories about him were to be believed, he had to have been in his 60s by then. Yet he still had the bloom of youth about him."

"So, you met this asshole?" she asked.

"He was pointed out to me. Unless he shares your immunity to my Gift, I doubt he would recognize me now. I saw him several more times over the years and always seemed a stranger to him."

"So, what happened to him? I hope it was fiery and painful."

"I'm not sure. I heard little more about him until the 1920s—that was when he was in Afghanistan trying to make himself king. Later, in the 30s and 40s, he served with British intelligence against the Germans. I figured he would've chosen the other side. In any event, the Cold War world of the 1950s and 60s was like meat and potatoes to him. He fought in brushfire wars, staged coups in the Third World, smuggled arms to whoever had money, and did just about every dirty deal imaginable. By that time, a lot of what he did was in the newspapers, though they gave his birthdate as some time in the 1920s."

"Oh, I should Google him," she said, jumping up to run to the computer. A few minutes searching found some odds and ends about Ulysses but nothing recent. "Okay, how do you know he isn't still alive? He might be like you and just hasn't lived long enough to tell?"

"I don't know. He might still be alive. The last time I saw him was in Cambodia in 1968. He was just beginning to show his age then. He would've been, I dunno, well north of 100 by that time, but he could've passed for a fit and athletic man in his 40s. The last I heard of him was the late 1970s, when he was working as head of intelligence for some Mideast sheikhdom."

It was clear Rhonda found the idea of that rogue fascinating, as much as she so clearly loathed him, and their conversation soon switched to the various other people he knew with Gifts who might still be alive, few of whom Tommy had seen in recent decades.

***

Such deep reverie seldom wrapped itself so thoroughly around him. He barely looked at the Flatiron Building as he passed it, walking and thinking with his head down and his hands deep in his blue jean pockets. His step carried him along many blocks, automatically, until he nearly was back to his haunts in Murray Hill.

Out of the blue, a voice from the past spoke to him, as if it just leapt from his own mind.

"I hear tell," the thick, gravelly bass-baritone said aloud, "that if you got enough money in this-here city, you can hire a pretty little boy to do most anything. How's about you and me go back to my hotel room and prove that out for certain?"

Tommy paused and looked to his left. Politely, he replied, "I'm not sure what you mean by 'anything,' sir. But I have to warn you, my rates are really very steep."

The man standing before him was about five-foot-ten or eleven, with thick arms, heavy shoulders, and a narrow waist. Tommy happened to know the fellow he was looking at was in his mid-60s but easily could've passed for a vigorous man in his late 40s. His short afro and close-cropped goatee were lightly streaked with grey. And his strong face had a rugged, weathered look.

The two walked toward one another with smiles and soon embraced, kissing one another's cheeks, as two long-lost brothers might. Even in the city, the exchange drew the looks and gapes of passersby.

"Sam Motherfucking Babington," Tommy said quietly, after finally stepping back.

"You know I seldom use my middle name," the older-looking man replied, smiling broadly.

"What the hell are you doing in New York? Better, how the hell did you get out of Chicago?"

"Well, they do let the angels out of Paradise from time-to-time. Besides, can't a man come see an old friend? Even if that old friend lives way the hell out here on the edge of the world?"

Tommy looked at his companion, wondering how Sam had found him on a random street in a city the size of New York. Then he thought better of it. Sam was a man of rare skills. Finding people was one of them. And Tommy knew Sam had come for a reason.

"It's a good thing you found me, then," said Tommy. "You'll need a guide out here in the wilderness. A delicate young flower like you won't stay a virgin long without guidance and protection."

Sam couldn't repress a laugh. The chuckles and laughs that sprang from the old man when his mood was up might have ushered forth from a pirate captain or from a devil straight out of Hollywood central casting. And Sam's mood was high. As he laughed, his eyes came together to wicked effect.

The two men began moving in the direction that Tommy originally travelled. It'd been years since the two had seen one another. Along with jokes, jibes, and insults, as they walked, the pair began peppering one another with questions about events in their lives. There were some topics away from which they steered. Each knew the other well; important things would wait until later.

Sam knew about Rhonda, but the two had never met.

On that thought, Tommy pulled out his phone, called his girl, and asked her to meet them at Pomeroy's, a small English-themed pub near their flat. Sam was among the best. The idea of two of Tommy's favorite people meeting pleased him to no end.

Also, he knew Sam was hungry—people like Sam and Tommy were always hungry—and they would both need their strength for the evening ahead.