Tesla & Malone - Lightning's Call - Book One Read online

  Lightning’s Call

  By Vincent J. LaRosa

  Copyright © 2015 Vincent J. LaRosa.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited. Nikola Tesla was a real dude, however, and I hope he would get a kick out of this story.

  ISBN: 978-0-9966813-0-8

  Interior Formatting by Tugboat Design

  Cover Art by Adam Baker

  Developmental Editing by Shen Hart

  Copy Editing by Angela DiOrio

  Visit me at www.vincelarosa.com

  For Angela D.

  Who gave me support and encouragement.

  Thank you for always being there.

  A special thanks to my beta readers:

  John H., Dan M., & Antonio G.

  Thanks, brothers!

  Present Day, Friday - June 6th, 1884.

  The force of the scream ripped him from nightmare plagued sleep. Abstract images and colors swirled into his kaleidoscopic view only to be torn away by an unseen hand. He thrashed the bedclothes, twisting the finely made sheets around his naked body. Awareness returned like a shot of old man Grant’s devil moonshine to the back of his throat - intense and jolting. He coughed, wiped an unsteady hand at his dripping forehead and shakily sat up.

  “Another nightmare, dear one?” A calm, soothing female voice spoke to him from the other side of the room. She inhaled, then slowly expelled a breath. “The same one, again?”

  Denis Malone heaved a sigh and massaged his temples. “Yea.” He grunted and coughed up mucous. “Same as last week.” His handkerchief was on the nightstand next to the money he paid her in tribute. He grabbed the cloth and spit.

  “Classy.” Amusement tinged the cool, husky female voice. Her dress rustled as she crossed her legs before settling in her chair with one toe tapping the air languidly.

  The voice in the corner belonged to Victoria. They were in her bedroom suite, a warm and comforting feminine haven away from the noise, dirt, and chaos of the city outside. A refuge for Denis. A quiet place to forget and feel good.

  She sat wrapped in an elegant robe, fur trimmed and open at the throat. The swell of her breasts strained against the thin fabric of their confinement. Rose tinted flesh peeked out from the V made by the robe and twin mounds swelled as she took a slow drag on her cigarette.

  Her pale green eyes were cool as she regarded him quietly. She held her toke, then let out another slow breath. “Your nightmares are increasing in frequency, my dear.” A thin stream of smoke escaped her gently flared nostrils. She tapped the cigarette out in the sea shell she used as an ashtray and stood up stretching. The robe fell open, her breasts finally winning the battle against confinement. Firm and full, they swayed with her movement.

  Unconcerned she walked over to the bedside.

  Denis had extricated himself from the clutches of the dream damp bed sheets and now sat hunched on the edge of the bed, head in hands.

  “I know. It’s every week now.” He looked over at her and shook his head. “Used to be only a coupla times a year.” He rubbed at the back of his neck and sat up. “And these damn headaches.” He ran a hand over a shaved head that throbbed with each pound of his heart. His spine tingled again. Just like when he was a kid, he suddenly recalled. He struggled to find a connection.

  Not again. Why now?

  Victoria made a sympathetic sound and put her arm across his shoulders, drawing him close to her. He leaned in, allowing himself to be comforted, and breathed in her heady perfume. Roses. He loved when she wore that one for him. He wished he could visit her more often.

  She rested her chin on his shoulder and nibbled his ear. “What can I do, love?” Her breath was hot on his skin.

  He laughed ruefully. “If it were only that easy.” He turned his head and looked into her eyes. “Being here and seeing you helps. The rest is for me to deal with.” He kissed her nose gently. “I’ll be okay, Vicky. The Malones are fighters.” He made a fist and chucked her under the chin lightly.

  She laughed and grabbed his hand. “Well, you are my favorite client, my Denis.”

  He looked at her archly, his eyebrow raised. “Oh yea?”

  “Yea.” She squeezed his hand, kissed his cheek and stood up, hands on hips. “Let’s get you dressed. Don’t you have to be in work soon?” She looked pointedly at the clock on the mantel above the fireplace.

  He groaned and stood up as well, slapping her on the backside as he searched for his discarded clothes. “Right, as usual.” He smiled as he noticed his suit folded neatly over the armchair by the fireplace. “You’re the best, Vicky.”

  Vicky snorted and busied herself at her dressing table. She sat with her head to one side and pulled a pearl handled comb through her thick red mane of hair.

  Denis dressed slowly, thinking of the day ahead of him. He suddenly recalled his promise of lunch with John Hawthorne, his friend from The New York Times. He tucked his white shirt into his trousers and snapped his suspenders into place. He winced at the pain in his shoulders.

  “Will I see you again later this week, dear one?” Vicky looked at him in the mirror. She ran the comb down the length of her hair and out, then delicately pulled the stray hairs from the teeth of the comb. She flicked hair onto the floor and resumed. “I do believe I am free this Thursday.”

  Denis sat on the edge of the armchair pulling on his boots. He looked up. “Maybe. I want to but this week’s going to be hell, I’m thinking.”

  He thought that something felt off within him. No. That wasn’t right. If he was honest he would say that what he was feeling came from outside himself. A tension, a dread, was in the air that he’d never felt before. The aftershocks of his own unsettled dreams, or something more? He shook his head like a dog shaking water from its fur.

  Lately, he felt heavy under this weight of living. He suppressed a sigh, brow steepled slightly, and settled his jaw.

  Push it down, as always.

  Vicky had stopped her combing and was watching him from the mirror with concern pooling in her eyes. She turned around, her hands twisting around the delicate handle. “Denis, dear, are you sure you’re well? You seem - distant - more so than usual. Last night was lovely, but I could sense something not quite right with you.”

  Denis shrugged into his jacket and pocketed his billfold and pocket watch. He eyed Vicky for a moment. What could he say to that? He sighed. “I’ll be fine, my dear. It’s those nightmares, they’re draining me that’s all, making me tired.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Like I said, we Malones—”

  “Are fighters.” Vicky finished his sentence and sighed. “I know, I know.” She shook her head and rose from her seat. “Be careful out there, dear one.”

  Denis grabbed her in a rough embrace, lifting her and twirling her around. “One of these days, I’m gonna marry you, Victoria!”

  Her smile was radiant and tinged with regret. A look of pain passed her face so swiftly as to hardly register. Her eyes tightened yet she laughed and grabbed his mouth in one hand and pinched. “Don’t make promises you cannot keep Denis Malone!” She said fiercely, pinning him with smoldering green eyes.

  “I mean it,” he struggled to say through puckered lips. He pulled his head back, grinning. “I mean it!” He squeezed her hand and then brought it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles lightly. “Enjoy your own day too, my Vic
ky.” He gave her one last squeeze and turned away.

  Victoria stood straight and silent for some time watching the door, feeling the weight of his presence still in the room. She smiled sadly and turned back to start her day.

  She hoped he would be okay.

  Flickering candlelight struggled against the dark, slinking shadows of the damp basement stone floor in the crumbling corner brownstone on Manhattan Island.

  Somewhere water dripped. The air was thick and moist. Shadows danced around the black robed figure kneeling silent on the floor before a crude stone altar, its slick surface reflecting back the feeble light as candle wax dripped slowly down the two pillar candles placed on either end of the basalt stone. A small figurine, carved from some blackish green stone, sat between them. On the floor in front of the altar was a small brass bowl, the red liquid inside glowed slightly, the surface rippling faintly as if disturbed from within.

  A low hiss escaped the emptiness within the hood.

  He is here. I sense his presence on the island. Not far.

  Slowly, the figure raised its arms up high in supplication to the sky. A low guttural chanting issued forth, sharp and urgent as it pushed against the moist air, thrusting back the curtain of aether.

  The red liquid began to bubble and froth, as small wisps of steam curled upward. The figure leaned forward slightly, its chanting increased in volume and reverberated around the small stone basement. The sound turned back onto itself with a strange harmonic cadence that seemed almost musical.

  The chant, echoing around the room, took on an urgent commanding tone that split the air. Dust from the ceiling sifted down like misting rain as the foundation of the house vibrated with energy.

  Loose papers fluttered as if alive. Candle light burned out in a sudden flash of blue fire and was extinguished. Something had arrived - from beyond, from outside.

  The warm, full breeze, still carrying with it the sharpness of the ocean, tugged at the bottom of Niko’s canvas long-coat, sending the tails snapping against his calves. Like the eager wind, he felt alive with raw energy and was eager to get moving.

  He was standing on the ready level of the steamer, the S.S. City of Richmond, as it chugged its way into the vast expanse of the harbor. Ahead, the Hudson River heaved and rolled heavily as she emptied herself into the bay. Gulls cried their lonely call and swooped in low over the choppy waters. On their port side, the steamer chugged past Bedloe’s Island, and the newly financed Statue of Liberty pedestal. Niko had read that the grand statue herself, a gift to the people of America from France, had arrived in parts. Once complete, a marvel indeed.

  He smiled to himself and lowered a worn-down cloth rucksack consisting of a change of clothes, a few toiletries, his papers, and a few coins. Everything he owned in this world, on his back.

  Well, not everything.

  His smile widened as he shifted his other shoulder and adjusted the leather strap of the long, carrying case. He patted the pine-wood affectionately.

  One of his first inventions.

  His other two were hidden within the leather snap cases nestled on his belt. Niko pushed his dark goggles further back onto his head and leaned against the railing. He grasped the rust pitted iron with his large, calloused hands and gazed out across the water to the rising buildings that made up the island of Manhattan. The wind ruffled his black hair and he squinted, taking in those tall buildings outlined against the sky. What grand designs of humanity there existed in this new world.

  Finally, he had arrived.

  A momentary cloud of despair hovered over his thoughts. The bright sunlight felt sinister and the clear sky a deception.

  He feared his new equipment would be put to use very soon

  The ship’s starboard horn blasted and shattered the air, upsetting the gulls and announcing its final approach to the harbor master. Niko watched as crew members scurried about the forward deck, under the stern eye of the ship’s quartermaster, each attending to his duty.

  The steamer rocked in the waves washing back from the dock. He took a breath and felt the bump of the side cushions absorbing the force as the ship made its berth. Somewhere a whistle blew a trilling low to high note. Not far from where he stood, a crew member released the catch on the gate to the gangway.

  Niko checked over his gear one final time, adjusting a strap here and a cinch there, and squared his tense shoulders. Around him other passengers made their own last minute preparations as they all queued to disembark.

  With a scrape and rattle of chains, the gangplank was made fast as it was run down to the worn pilings of the boardwalk by a pair of surly looking dock workers dressed in faded, oil stained dockers and ratty shirts. The plank fell into place off balance causing one to let out a yelp and curse. His buddy barked a derisive laugh and lifted the unruly plank, shifting it back into place. He waved up at Niko impatiently.

  Smiling tolerantly, he nervously adjusted the dark goggles on his forehead and with one hand grasping the shaky railing, stepped out onto the gangway and began to descend.

  Just a few more feet and I will be on American soil! His stomach was flip flopping and his palms began to sweat. He resisted the urge to count the riveted seams in the plank and kept his eyes straight ahead. His smile turned downward a bit as he thought how some things from childhood never change.

  Niko finished the last few feet and stepped onto the worn and splintered dock of Castle Clinton. He paused a moment to smile at the two workers. He hoisted his shoulder strap and held out his hand enthusiastically.

  “Hello—” he started to greet them.

  The crew member looked at him as if he had two heads. He eyed Niko’s garb - long coat, equipment belt, pine box slung over his shoulder, and shock of hair sticking up through the straps of the goggles. He shook his head disgustedly. “Keep it moving, boyo - right over there, ya gotta see the immigration officer!” With a grimy finger, he pointed over to the gated exit nestled in next to a large warehouse structure. His accented English put him as Irishman - an immigrant himself.

  His fellow worker rubbed at his shirt and snickered. “Gettin’ all kinds, comin’ in ‘ere, lately.” He grumbled, waving the others down.

  Niko gave them both a lopsided grin, but they had already turned away. He laughed and shrugged helplessly. Following the man’s instructions, he hefted his belongings and walked carefully over to the gate where a smartly dressed official stood with his hands behind his back. He appeared bored. A bushy black beard obscured his lower face. Niko smiled broadly in greeting, noting the man’s holstered weapon and stony countenance.

  The man pushed his cap back and eyed the approach of the outlandishly dressed immigrant, holding up a hand as Niko came within a few feet of him.

  “Hold fast there, lad.” He nodded at the ship behind them. “Just arrived, have ya?” He lowered his hand, palm up. “You’ve your papers, I’m assuming?”

  Niko kept his broad smile, his eyes bright, and nodded. “Indeed, sir.” He gave a slight bow, spreading his hands out. “I am very happy to be here in your wonderful city.” He straightened and dug into the side pocket of his duster for his leather wallet. “I have my papers in order and a letter of—”

  “Your papers will do.” The man interrupted. “And your name?”

  Niko nodded again and drew forth his wallet.

  “My name is Tesla, Nikola Tesla.” His pine box swung around against his hip and he fumbled to right it. “One moment,” he mumbled.

  The official regarded the box for a moment then took a step back, placing one hand on his firearm holster, he pointed a finger at the odd looking box with his free hand. “Hold a moment, there lad. What’s in that pine box?”

  Niko paused. He gazed momentarily at the tense officer then looked around him. A small crowd of curious dock workers had begun to mill about, eyeing the exchange.

  The officer, reading suspicion into Niko’s hesitation, drew himself up and unsnapped his holster. “Gonna have to ask you to open that up, lad.” He
gestured to the planks at their feet. “Just set that down here and we’ll have a look see, eh?”

  Niko doubted this man would be able to understand, or even remotely grasp, an explanation of the contents of the box, but he kept the smile on his face and flipped his coat tails back with a slight flourish. As he knelt, he swung the box around and down onto the dock planking with a gentle motion. He bit his lip, then released the first clasp. “In here, my dear officer, is years of dedicated patience and hard work.” He released the second clasp, looking up into the curious eyes of the officer as he did so. “This,” he said firmly, “is a veritable labor of love.” He ran his hand over the lid fondly before lifting it high. He shifted back on his heels and held out a hand.

  The officer leaned in, tugging at his beard and frowning. “What in God’s good name is that thing?”

  Denis walked slowly through the early morning crowds on the congested streets, his hands in his pockets and limping a bit as he favored his left leg. He called it his weather forecasting leg. A childhood broken bone had left him with a sensitivity that was exacerbated by changes in weather.

  Today it was extra sensitive, a deep bone ache that left him wincing with each step. He looked up and frowned. Not a cloud in the sky.

  He limped around the shoeshine boys on 57th and stepped out onto the boulevard. Breathing in deeply, he tasted the cool air, heavy with the smell of coal, the earthy aroma of horse manure, and fresh garbage. He looked around, bemused and slightly distracted, only half aware of where he was going. He was having trouble shaking off the feelings that blossomed with the dawning of the day. The dreams from last night were still fresh and resonating. The edges of his vision blurred momentarily and he stopped to rub his eyes.

  “Watch it!” a voice yelled down at him. The sound of horse shoes clapping the cobblestone swelled in his ears. He was jolted back to reality and stopped dead halfway across the boulevard. A wagon driver was glaring down at him from the pilot seat as he leaned back on the reins.