Infinite Loop

Chapter 3 - Memories

Grinning at the old-fashioned term, he suddenly considered the possibility the woman was a prostitute. It would probably explain why a woman was lying in bed with him. Movies of the era were strict about sex outside of marriage, something to do with a commission, if he recalled correctly. Given the money he carried, Warren decided his alter ego, this Baker guy, must be a playboy with little ambition beyond a life of leisure.

So, cliché and typical thinking of the old black and white movies.

"Well, if I'm dying again, might as well have some fun this time," Warren whispered. He didn't recognize his voice. But it didn't come as a surprise. He hadn't heard his voice from the first life for what seemed to be eons. But there was no concept of time to him now. In the end, it did not matter, he guessed.

He unconsciously ran his fingers across his chest where the bullets had entered the night before. As normal, no trace of the damage revealed itself.

"New body and a new future," he grumbled, "just the terrible memories to ward off some sleep."

Warren went over to the dark wooden cabinet, quietly pulling the front hinged desktop open. He carefully read through the few letters, while glancing over occasionally at his sleeping guest. Again, he felt strange, like he was reading stolen mail. The envelopes contained a letter from Mrs. Florence Baker of Boston. After torturing himself by trying to read the fine cursive letters, he decided the mother of Warren Baker was not pleased with her son. In short, the letter told him she was tired of his antics, and he could stay in Cuba if he decided to. To paraphrase, he could maintain his association with the lower classes of society.

"A homecoming with his mother would be a delicate affair," he quietly smirked.

Another letter he carried was a formal introduction from a museum director named Morris, head of the Russian collection. Addressed to Count Casa Bayona, director of the Palacio del Centro Asturiano, the formal letterhead told him he dealt with influential people.

Well, that's a potential problem.

If his character needed any actual knowledge of art or history, Warren's charade about such subjects wouldn't last long. He spent his college days drinking with the frat boys and attempting to avoid any classes that demanded significant effort.

While Warren mulled over the information in the letters, he also found his passenger ticket with the SS Andes stamped on it. It told him the ship was going to Boston from Havana. Also, in the small pile of paper, there was a telegram confirming his prior reservation at the Hotel Nacional de Cuba. He sat on the chair next to the wooden secretary, trying to align the pieces of the puzzle.

Not much to go on.

He would have to venture outside his stateroom to get some information about the ship, its passengers, and, hopefully, why he was onboard. Information was his lifeblood now. Warren knew from bitter experience he needed details quickly to stay alive longer. But first, he needed to know about the blonde in his bed.

"I guess I get dressed and start the day," he said to himself lightly.

The passing thought of waking the girl for some morning fun crossed his mind, but he decided against the urge. He needed to keep his concentration on sorting his world. For that matter, he was not sure what the woman might be expecting. Assuming his first thought about the woman was correct; Warren pulled two twenties from his wallet, laying them on the desk edge. He could never be sure what things were worth in this make-believe world, so he always overpaid. Warren assumed she would take the money and leave, or, at least, he hoped so. He had enough on his plate before he could get caught up with a woman needing his attention. Besides, she might get killed with him.