Achilles and the Tortoise
Adjuster: Agent 9
Ref#: 339761Z
SSL#: I5U1D7
Type: Firsthand Audio Recording
Location: New York City, Manhattan
Designation: Level 3
Action: Document and Investigate Claim
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1. Relativity
With the blink of an eye, I find myself driving down the Manhattan bridge.
Much like waking from a bad dream, dissociation drapes over me. I'm forced to argue with my id about the tangibility of the steering wheel before me. Though the feeling quickly dissolves away as the New York summer sun bears down on the smoldering traffic-ridden asphalt, leaving behind only the anxiety of amnesia. Any attempt at mustering a memory of the events that led me here evokes mental flashes of searing light and a matching sting to the optic nerves. Luckily, trudging at molasses pace through the cacophony of rumbling engines, car horns, and distant sirens, otherwise referred to as "city living," gives me time to gather some of these scattered thoughts.
Groggily, I glance around my '59 Morgan for clues, spotting a milk crate full of books sitting on the seat next to me. That's when a fistful of memories flutters back like a soccer punch to the head. Currently on the table is a hit job on an independent Swedish scientist who's rumored to be in the final stages of construction on the world's very first time-machine. This sort of shtick doesn't usually fit into my modus operandi. Still, ever since the Russians used Sputnik to drop two atomic bombs on the coast of California three years ago, nothing appears par with standard anymore. Instead, the entire nation has been scrambling in a panic to find solutions to the resulting radiation crises while cushioning public relations to prevent world-wide nuclear fallout. Facts are that gas costs the same as copper, and my vote for Kennedy is going to mean shit now. So, my rambling point here is; the more hoopla spreads around, the crazier my jobs get, and this one is shaping up to be borderline fuckin' Looney Tunes.
From what I was let be aware of this "need to know" operation, the mark was paid for by a couple of anonymous buyers. According to a little birdy with a big mouth had a stark resemblance to government agents. Two men showed up out of the blue, dressed in expensive suits and packing military heat. They paid Don Mariconi a suitcase bursting at the seams with green for less than half a day worth of work. No names exchanged, no contact numbers given, and we were never able to dig up any dirt on our mysterious new friends. They left nothin' behind but an address and a few stacks of literature concerning time-travel. Literature which was taking up space on the passenger seat next to me. I was "highly advised" to read through it all. Though I perused it to as much extent as my high-school diploma allowed me to, I understand almost none of it, and what little did sink in sounds a lot like science-fiction.
The bulk of the information talks about Einstein and his relativity gibberish. It also provides several modernized formulas that prove the codgers' theories correct. As it turns out, space-time does, in fact, exist, and time-travel through exploiting it is very possible. From what I understand, the books discuss going forward in time by utilizing a feat called; "time-dilation," which can be attained under two extreme and particular conditions. The first by achieving constant motion at (or a physics-breaking over) the speed of light and the second through manipulating dense matter with an extremely high gravitational field, such as a black hole. Both scenarios were mathematically proven to 'bend' the space-time 'grid' enough to slow down the flow of time so that what we perceive to be minutes or hours would be months or years to a person that's not being exposed to the aforementioned stipulations.
Though, surprisingly enough, traveling into the future seems to be no astonishing feat. As the laws of physics say, 'all things in the universe move from orderly states to disorderly states.' Jumping forward in time is as simple as falling asleep and waking up the next day. The missing pieced puzzle comes in when someone wants to visit the past, after all, spilled milk theoretically can't un-spill. Thus, reversing the flow of the universe is the really tricky part. Besides a litany of half-baked ideas and unfounded amateur theories, the literature I was given for preparation said next-to-nothing on the subject of going backward in time. I digress, despite the overwhelming docket issued with the job, this is still as simple as putting a bullet in something, and you better believe I'm a damn good shot.
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2. Quantum Mechanics
High-profile hits like this always have multiple layers of security to throw the pigs off in case something goes haywire. A hitman doesn't track the mark, isn't allowed to supply his own gun, and doesn't get anything more than the name of the score and the location of a contact. That way, if the hitman gets pinched or a link in the chain happens to crack, they've only got one part of the cargo, so to speak.
As I make my way toward the contact's destination, my listless gaze leaps around, silently judging from behind the piling ash of a cigarette. This city has lost all of her natural charms. What was once prim and proper, cut-crisp with straight lines, and built on the unfloundering dreams of hard-working immigrants. Has now become ravaged and bed-wrangled, alleging to the dogs with whom she pomanders back alleys to the never-ending beat of shady businesses. Her ageless beauty now just a facade styled in the latest color of jaded rose. Let me tell ya' if Manhattan's tragic story taught me one thing it would be; "Always take your Bourbon neat that way there's more of it."
Despite my distaste for this place, cruising these old nostalgic streets evokes a lingering sensation of déjà-vu that trails behind me at every turn. I can't help but notice how past familiar faces are gone, swapped out with a younger generation virial enough for the unforgiving daily bustle of New York. The few old faces left now look tattered and frangible, draggled by decades of sweat, blood, and tears. God, this city is a fickle bitch.
I slow down to catch a red light at the corner of Oakland and 15th Avenue. There during our heyday, some thirty-odd years ago, my partner Vinny and I would peddle anything from cartons of cigarettes to freshly knicked jewelry so hot it'd put summer in Texas to fuckin' shame. We were kings of the block, and back in those days, we could sell anything to anyone for any kinda price we'd come up with. You needed a car? There was one just for you up the block, we'd even throw in fresh plates. You needed a drink? No worries, we had ways around the prohibition. You needed a quick divorce? We could make you a widower by tomorrow morning. Even after kicking our dues up the ladder, we were still left with more money than you could spend. We were on top of the world, no one could touch us, not fuzz, not no one.
Further down the road is a dark narrow alleyway that held more memories. There between the peepshow and the gun range, I shot down with shaky hands my very first mark, Bernie Valentino. I remember it like yesterday, the fuckin' goomba was selling family distillery secrets to who at that time were our warring rivals; the Dominico brothers. As my official initiation to the family, Don Mariconi's eldest son Donny gave me the order whack the prick on opposing territory as a message to the Dominico's and any other inspired jag-off that thought they could fuck us for a quick buck. I did him in right there in that alleyway during the Majors yearly Peace Parade, it was fuckin' poetry. That same day I out-ran two cops, a squad car, and the channel 6 news-copter. Then nearly drank myself into comatose afterward. It was a god damn miracle I wasn't caught. Just thinking about it now makes my old bones ache.
Next up in my drive is Harlem and 3rd Avenue. There I spot the boarded-up shell that was once a diner called; "Lorenz's." I can't help but recall its manager, Lorenz Dedonaldo. That man was one fat, loud, cynical bastard of a Sicilian who'd always refuse to pay protection on account of him and the Don attending the same grade-school as kids. But since a vig is a vig, and at that time the commission ruled that a beating was out of the question, Vinny and I convinced Lorenz's son Eddie to help us discretely move a few kilos of Bolivian-marching-powder under the guise of a unique "off-the-menu" item. The operation trailed along smoothly for months until we started laundering the drug profits back through the diner, and the IRS began poking around. Long story short, the old cranky big mouth had to be put down, and the restaurant burned for the insurance.
Eddie was never the same after that. The man couldn't even bring himself to open another business, so instead, he ironically found a job as the head-cook at their corner competition, "Sunny Side Up." Which coincidentally happens to be the location of my contact.
The diner's your typical Sunday-morning breakfast nook. It's about quarter to noon, so lucky for me, the lunch rush had just kicked up, and all the people shuffling through made my chances at going unnoticed pretty good. I enter and furtively take a seat in the corner of the front counter, burring my face in the menu. A short stubby man sitting two seats away from me stares me down with an expression of utter puzzlement sprawled all over his face. I contemplate saying something but quickly remember not wanting to draw attention. Yet alas, despite my best efforts to behave, when I raise my head from the menu, there stands my old pal, head-cook Eddie behind the muzzle of a double-barrel shotgun.
"Hey there, Eddie." Is all I'm able to muster. For a second, he says nothing, and I take the silence as a bad sign. "I'm just here for a bite to eat." I go on.
"I told you before, we don't serve your kind here. Get out." I'm sure he meant to add 'while you still can.'
Never argue with a man holding a gun, especially when you left yours holstered in the glove compartment of your car. I get up from my seat and put a twenty-dollar bill under the saltshaker. "I'm sorry for any trouble I may have caused." and as I turn to leave, I'm stopped by an oddly unplaceable but familiar voice.
"Hey! Sir! You... um forgot your paper." The stocky, balding man two seats over awkwardly blurts out without making any specific eye-contact.
"Thanks." I grab it and walk away.
It takes ol' Eddie a moment, maybe he's lost some of his edge over the years, but he sees right through the rues and starts waving his gun around again, yelling at the other fellow to leave. Though by that time, I'm already halfway out the door, and there's never any point to look back in these situations.
I park a couple blocks up to catch a breath and settle my heart. The newspaper supplied by the stranger is over a week old. Yet sure enough, inside, I find a heavily circled ad' of "La Mademoiselle and the Pistons" with the name; 'Mindy' written in bold red and underlined. "Mindy..." the letters slip my lips, and the name rings solemnly throughout the car. Jeez, I haven't heard that name in a while... it's syllables sound like a distant long-forgotten lullaby, and suddenly I have her long legs, red lips, and golden locks curling around in my head. If love had a name, it'd be Mindy, and for the right price, she'd sell any type of love you were looking for and even make you believe it.
Tranced-out in a wistful wanderlust, I snap back from day-dreaming just in time to find myself walking through the front doors of the 'Pistons' bordello. Being escorted upstairs to the "premium suite" like a sailor beckoned by a siren for a long-overdue tête-à-tête with fate. When the large ebony doors swing opened to reveal a Victorian-styled bedroom equipped with crystal chandeliers, artwork, and gourmet food, I'm most dumbstruck by the radiant goddess fixing her lips by the mirror.
They say dames like her are a dime a dozen in this city...
Hell, if that were true; here's a dime, show me a dozen. It's kinda funny, even though I've never been the type for torrid love affairs, Mindy always knew the right way to warm up a cold rainy night. When I was young and stupid, I would spend all the time and money possible on her. We'd go out every day and paint the town red before hitting the sheets for a night of passion still unmatched to this day. I remember how I would lay my head on her chest and letting her stroke my hair, I'd promise to whisk her away from this life of paid degradation. As if I was some White-Knight in shining armor galloping her to "happily ever after.
Unfortunately, as the story goes, wise-guys are married to their work, and the mob doesn't give a hundred flyin' fuckin' dimes about some half-ginzo rookie and his interest in the heart with a 'five-dollar-Friday' street hussy. Orders are orders, and when they came, I left. Despite both of us knowing on some level that it was a kismet end to a star-crossed relationship, the gesture always remained as a fond memory for me. Yet Mindy and I were no more than mere acquaintances now. The type who could see through each other like cellophane, but acquaintances non-the-less. Though I never minded her piercing blue eyes analyzing my every word and action, today they weren't analytical but instead on fire, and gleaming in their crooks was the unmistakable glint of unadulterated rage.
"What the hell are you doin' back here?" she barks before I have a chance to greet her.
"Oh, come on, Mindy. Is that any way to treat an old friend?" I attempt to rebuttal.
She shakes her head as if unable to answer a pending question, "Don't play mind games with me, Johnny, what do you want?" she spits the words like acid, then knocks back a glass of whiskey, staining it with her lipstick.
For a second, I say nothing, but I don't have time to choose my words. "Jesus Christ, why is everyone in such a bad mood today?"
"Who is everyone?" she inquires with a bitter curiosity.
"I saw Eddie today at the Sunny Side Up, that dago nearly blew my fucking head all over a diner full of customers... Him and his damn twelve-gauge."
"Are you surprised? You did ruin his life." Her response is instantaneous and cold.
"Ruin's not the best word." I try to find the right words, "I have no control over what Mariconi wants." yet they don't end up sounding right.
"Yes sir, no sir, three bags full of shit, sir!" She chuckles, rolling her eyes." Same old story, over and over."
"At least Eddie got away with his life," I add in self-defense, though the statement holds no conviction.
"If I had a dollar for every time I've had this argument with your type, I wouldn't be in this line of work. Now, what the hell do you want, you're biting into an appointment I've got."
I desperately try to think of something meaningful, "I was told that you'd have an address and supplies for me." but nothing such seems comes to mind.
She exhales an annoyed grunt, "There's a spare note on the davenport, and you can pick out another gun from the stash in the closet."
'Spare'? 'Another'? I try to place the context but fail to do so. Instead of further fueling this fire with more questions, I collect the digits, pick out a .45 Beretta, and leave without so much as a goodbye. The walk back to the car feels like a mile of shame, and I wallow in a pit of yearning despair each step of the way. No matter how much time I could spend prepping, the conversation between old lovers will never go better then it just did.
On the bright side, my spare silencer fits the Beretta snug as a bug.
Traffic is merciful, and the mark isn't far, so luckily, the drive is short. I park a block away from the targets quaint two-story townhouse located on the edge Greenville in Jersey City. My continually growing feeling of déjà vu now starts to seem menacing, as it transcends anything I've ever felt before. Strangely, as I'm screwing the silencer onto my piece, I'm inexplicably compelled to grab the nearest book, flip to a random page, and read the first thing that catches my eye. Fittingly enough the line I pick is from "Quantum Threads of Existence," and it goes as follows;
"The Quantum Mechanics of the Universe have mathematically shown that nature always chooses the solution that provides self-consistency."
Even though I don't understand a word of it, the statement loops in my head like a broken record. I find myself muttering it under my breath as I tuck the pistol behind my belt and start casually walking up the street.
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3. Paradoxes
The block leading up to the marks house seems to stretch infinitely. Rather than focusing on the task at hand, my mind wanders at the peculiarity of the scene. Just like enigmatically recollecting a painting you've glimpsed for a second during the busy bustle of your day, the fifty yards towards my destination is thickly layered with dead skin. Yet, I seem to be the one on trial. The déjà vu now becomes tangible and even lightly prickles at the back of my neck as I no longer feel in charge of my actions. Instead my consciousness is more like an actor programmed to recite lines on stage. I move into predetermined positions as if someone else was pulling the strings. Only after what seems like an eternity do I finally reach the house and begin reconnaissance.
It's eerily quiet, and the air seems thick with tangible anticipation, much like the deaden stillness of the eye of a hurricane. The docket said this man would be escorted by up to four armed bodyguards, oddly I'm not spotting a single one. Regardless, I shuffle down the sidewalk toward the alley from which I hop a wooden fence and drop into the mark's backyard. There keeping behind the bushes, I further survey the house.
Huh... void of life once again.
The entire thing is starting to smell sour. Yet against better judgment, I plod onward, dashing across the yard and slipping under the deck's crawlspace. Then as I sneak around the blackness, straining to spot someone through the spaces between the floorboards, my foot suddenly collides with something that causes me to stumble. When I look down and squint the darkness away, I spot two of the bodyguards, each sporting a pair of bullets to the chest and a matching daisy to the head.
Then panic hits me like a bucket of cold water... Someone must be moving in on my mark! I instinctively bolt toward the house with my gun drawn and up. No need to take it silent anymore. Finding the backdoor lock broken, I burst inside and scan the room. The scene which is laid out in front of me is the closest thing to a bloodbath before the idiom starts becoming literal. Walls, ceilings, and floors covered in more red then a Mario Bava flick, along with three more corpses lying around where they last dropped dead sporting the same professional signature as the ones outside.
Any desecration I may have built up until that point has long since dissipated as I find myself sprinting up the stairs in the supposed direction of the laboratory. The intel said he built the damn thing on the top floor and when I finally reach a pair of giant leaden doors, I hear distressed voices arguing from inside;
"No, no. Please! For the love of God, don't kill me." Weeps a thick accent, which I place as my mark.
"Shut the hell up." Growls back a familiar voice.
I breach the room, and when the mysterious second hitman turns around, his sudden motion causes me to reflexively put two in his chest. Even though he drops his gun and collapses to the ground, something immediately feels wrong. Noticing that he's wearing a suit identical to mine, I walk up to the dying man and kick him over for the coup de grâce. That's when the mistake hits me like a semi-truck.
For there before me, I lay dying.
"You fool, have you any idea what you've done?!" Mocks the mark as he configures something on the machine's terminal while I'm frozen with disbelief. "Now, you'll never be able to catch up to me."
Then with the press of a button, there's a brilliant, blinding flash, and he vanishes. Before I have time to register the events which just unfolded before me, my mirror-self coughs out his final breath. Just as he passes away, my entire body begins slowly fading like a drawing being etched out with an eraser one shade at a time. Tantric at the thought of non-existence, I frantically dash towards what I can only assume is the time machine. The gargantuan metal box had twice the buttons and levers than any cockpit on an airplane, and they were all blinking in a technicolor mind-fuck. Luckily enough, the controls seemed already set for two and a half hours in the past. So, I step in the center phone-booth-like compartment and slam the red button in front of me in a desperate hail-mary. The beast starts to whir and tremble at its own voracity. Suddenly a blinding light envelope everything, a jolt of electricity pulses through-out my body and...
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With the blink of an eye, I find myself driving down the Manhattan bridge.
Much like waking from a bad dream, dissociation drapes over me. I'm forced to argue with my id about the tangibility of the steering wheel before me. Though the feeling quickly dissolves away as the New York summer sun bears down on the smoldering traffic-ridden asphalt, leaving behind only the anxiety of amnesia. Any attempt at mustering a memory of the events that led me here evokes mental flashes of searing light and a matching sting to the optic nerves. Luckily, trudging at molasses pace through the cacophony of rumbling engines, car horns, and distant sirens, otherwise referred to as "city living," gives me time to gather some of these scattered thoughts.
