1986

Rosa Lee sat next to the stranger in the hotel lounge because all the other seats at the bar were taken.  She caught the bartender's eye and held up a finger; within moments an ice-cold Corona was placed before her, bottle-sweat running down the sides.  She carefully removed the lime before taking a mouthful.

The stranger next to her was smoking.  That's all she knew so far; had not expended the attention for a closer look.  The smoke didn't particularly bother her, far from it.  In fact it made her wistful for the habit she'd given up years ago.

"Rosa Lee, isn't it?"

She opened her eyes with a start.  Nobody here knew her real name, not even the bartender.  She turned to regard the stranger, who gazed back with a gentle smile.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

He was middle-aged… no, young, but with a receding hair line.  No, that wasn't right either.  His tanned face was smooth, not even stubble.  Teeth white and even.  Eyes: a dark indigo blue, a color she'd never seen before.  She realized she had no idea how old he was.

"No, we've never met, Miss Rosa Lee.  Apologies for the misconception."

His speech was formal, cultured, with a hint of southern twang.  She paid attention to American accents, found them fascinating, and his was… just as mysterious as his ageless appearance.  

"That's fine, but mister… I don't know you at all."  She took another swig of Corona, pretended to watch the TV.  That new lawyer show, LA Law, was on and she had no idea who did what on the show but feigned interest anyway.

"Miss Rosa Lee, may I have a moment of your time?"

Alarms went off in her head but she remained perfectly still.  Was he law enforcement?  INS?  Six months ago she'd come to Miami from a small Carribean nation.  Six months ago on a 30 day visa, long expired.  Dammit, she knew she should've been more proactive, moved around more… at least left the city.  She suppressed the urge to flee, settled her thoughts, and turned to the enigmatic stranger.

"Are you a cop?"  She'd heard police couldn't lie about that.

He chuckled, a low melodious sound.

"No, I am not law enforcement.  You might say I am… a private contractor for the government.  An aspect of which you have not encountered before."

He said 'aspect' oddly, accenting the first syllable and with a long-A sound.  Just where did he learn English?  She shook her head, tried to think her way out of the trap.  If that's what it was.

"NSA?  CIA?"

"No, none of those."  He blew out a jet of smoke, stubbed out his Marlboro, lit another one.  All a mechanical process, as if he intended to smoke the whole pack in one go.  "As I told you, it's an aspect you have never encountered."

Aspect again.  What an odd use of the word.  She drank more Corona to buy time while she thought.  Well, what the hell?  He said he wasn't a cop, and if he was lying it was obviously too late to run.  She had nothing more to lose.  Rosa Lee turned back to the man, facing him on her stool.  He turned towards her as well, hands on his knees, cigarette held between two middle fingers, European style, that same gentle smile on his lips, dark blue eyes unblinking.

"I suppose you've got identification?"

"I do, but I doubt it'd make an impression.  I'll show you my badge later if you wish…"

Badge?

"…but for now, may I have your permission to speak with you?  It shall take but a few minutes, and then afterwards you will be free to go.  I promise."

He was attractive, in a very mundane way.  Almost like if all the male TV show actors from the past decade were mixed together in a blender… attractive, but not memorable.  Plastic surgery?

"I find it amusing to smoke again."  He held his cigarette up, examined it, grinning broadly.  "Is that strange?  In but a few years it'll be entirely illegal, but for now I enjoy this disgusting habit."

"Tree-hugging fascists," she shook her head.  "Always thinking about people's health."

He cocked an eye at her, shook his head.  "No, not that.  It's inevitable, non-smoking policies.  They made good civic sense."

Sarcasm didn't make a dent in him... probably not a native English speaker at all.  A cold chill blew through her: was he Russian?  A Soviet spy, here in Miami… to recruit her?  He'd said 'government contractor' but never specified which government.  That had to be it!  And her, on thin ice already, talking to a fucking spy!  The CIA was probably recording this conversation right now with telephoto lenses and shit.  She checked that her bag was within range and turned slightly more towards the door.  She'd grab her bag, jump up—

He placed a hand on her knee.  It was shockingly pale against her dark brown skin.  White as paper, cool, dry.  

"No, don't leave yet.  We have business--"

That was it.  She twisted sideways, landed on her feet and made her way quickly to the door.  Cursed that she'd worn flip-flops.  She'd stiffed the bartender but she could always come back later… if there was a later.  For now she needed to be out of there, now.

With one fluid motion she pushed through double doors to the overbearing heat and humidity of a Miami night.  The hotel valet stand was unoccupied, a new Ferrari Testarossa parked in one of the display spots - where they showcased the really expensive cars.  She paused, inhaled a lungful of moist air, pivoted to leave the hotel proper—

And he was there, smiling.  Standing to block her way.  Not even out of breath.

Rosa Lee craned her neck to see through the windows into the bar, but both their spots were empty.  It really was him.  Her scalp prickled in fear.

"Miss Rosa Lee, please… one moment?  All I ask is one moment."

He held his hands out in supplication.  Despite her apprehension, he really did look harmless.  And he'd kept his distance.  And dammit, she was short on options…

"Talk fast," she assumed her best steely glare.

He chuckled at that, shook his head.  "Of course.  But not here.  Please?  We need a less… public location."  He held out a key fob to the Testarossa, which blinked its lights and bleeped as it unlocked.

Her own alarms went off again with new resolve.  No way she was going anyplace with this guy, especially in his car.  She opened her mouth to tell him where and how he could go fuck himself when--

The car changed.  Tracers of light chased along its sides, its flanks, the hood.  Its surface rippled.  Before her eyes the obnoxious bright red Ferrari bulged and bulked into a new shape: stainless steel, black metal, long, low-slung windows.  

Back to the Future?  

Her mind siezed at the sight.  It even had twin black venty-things pointed out the back like boxy tailfins, an afterthought bolted on by crazy old Doc Brown.

That car.  That stupid time-travelling DeLorean… here, now, where moments before the Ferrari stood.  Dreamlike, she drifted closer for a look.  It sure appeared to be the car from the movie.

Rosa Lee looked to the stranger, mouth agape.  He shrugged.

"It's a meme you're comfortable with.  Conveys a whole body of concepts and information in one neat package.  Time travel, to be precise."

"Is that… real?  It's really a time-travelling DeLorean?"

"Well, it's real enough.  But not authentic.  The DeLorean DMC-12 is considered an unobtainable artifact where I come from.  That's memory metal.  I chose the shape because it amuses me."

She stood silently, watching the car.  Leaned in a bit to see if she could spot a flux-capacitor.  Yup, there it was, fluxing.

"I don't even know what to call you," she said.

"Ivan, for now.  My full name has a lot of syllables."

"Ivan, gimme a cigarette."

Silently, he lit one for her, watched curiously as she drew the smoke deep into her lungs, exhaled.  Finally: "What do you want to talk about?"

He brushed past her, lifted the passenger door open with a hiss, flux-capacitor crackling.

"Your future."