Alternating Current: A Tesla Novel (5 page)

Maria opened the
door, but she didn’t say hello. “Angie, Nic, your father’s here.”

Angie came down
the stairs at once. Her long auburn hair, like her mother’s, flowing behind
her. “Hi Daddy.” She hugged her father.

“Hey Angel, I’ve
missed you so much.” Turbo had forgotten how much she resembled her mother.

“I’ve missed you,
too.” She stepped back from her father and glared at her mother. “Can you
believe your wife? Moving to Florida. Can I come live with you?”

“I don’t know,
Sweetie, I’m having a hard enough time taking care of myself these days.” The
expression on his face screamed for “help.”

“Angie, we’ve
already talked about this. You’re going to Florida. Now go upstairs and get
your brother.”

“I need you to
teach me how to use the washer and dryer before I leave.”

“Okay, Daddy.” She
ran upstairs.

“What’s he doing
up there?”

Maria shrugged her
shoulders and turned away.

Turbo called up to
his son. “Nikola, don’t you want to come down and see your old man?”

“Don’t call him
that. You know he doesn’t like it.”

Angie ran back
downstairs. “He won’t come down.”

“That’s okay,
Angel. I’ll see him later. So tell me, what have you been up to young lady,
besides growing about six inches since the last time---

Angie burst into
tears, “Oh, Daddy.” She cried all the way back upstairs.

Turbo glanced at
Maria, perplexed. “What did I say?”

“That’s the
problem, William. You don’t know what you said. If you'd been around these past
few weeks you would know that your daughter, the tallest girl at school, likes
a boy that is much shorter than her.”

“How the hell am I
supposed to know that? And don’t call me William.”

“You’re her
father, William, you’re supposed to know.”

Turbo grunted at
his wife and started toward the stairs.

“Wait a minute.”
Maria screamed and ran up the stairway ahead of him. She closed their bedroom
door.

“You got someone
in there?” Turbo’s face turned red. “Maria, you better tell me. You got someone
in my bedroom?”

“It’s not your
bedroom anymore.” Maria grinned as she blocked the door.

“Step away.” Her
smile only infuriated him more. “Step away from the door.”

“William, remember
the kids are home.” She stepped aside.

Turbo rushed into
the room. Nothing had changed, except for a few boxes over in one corner. He
rushed to the closet, searched under the bed, went into the bathroom and even
peered behind the shower curtain. When he came back out of the bathroom, Maria
began laughing uncontrollably.

Turbo laughed as
well. Loud enough that Nic and Angie came out to check on them. “What’s so
funny?” Angie’s eyes were bloodshot from crying.

“Mommy, why are
you laughing?”

“Oh, I told your
father a funny joke.”

“Yeah, real
funny.” Turbo chuckled.

“Kids, go
downstairs and check on dinner. I want to talk to your father for a minute. Set
the table, too. Okay?”

“Should I set a
plate for Daddy?”

“No, that’s okay,
sweetheart. I’m getting good at using the microwave.”

“Yes, set a plate
for your father. We’ll be down soon.”

When the kids left
the room, Maria grinned. “You should’ve seen your face.”

“Very funny.”

“After all these
years you think I would have another man in our bed, and with the children
home?”

“No, it’s not you that
I’m worried about, it’s that new chick. The one that calls me William.”

Maria smiled. “We
need to talk, but it can wait till after dinner. Change your clothes. I’ll wash
those while we eat.” Maria went downstairs to finish dinner.

Turbo sat on the
bed and then jumped up. Maria would kill him for sitting on the comforter with
his work clothes still on.

Turbo couldn’t
have picked a better night to visit. Maria had cooked one of his favorite
meals, corned beef and cabbage with potatoes and carrots, not glazed carrots.
And he smelled apple pie in the oven. Coincidence?

Turbo sat in Nic’s
usual seat, forgoing his seat at the head of the table.

“Hey, what are you
doing? That’s my seat.”

“No, you’re the
man-of-the-house now. Sit at the head of the table.”

Nic stood there
awaiting direction. “It’s okay, sit down and say the blessing please.”

Florida dominated
the conversation throughout dinner. “Mom, what about my sled and my ice
skates?” Nic asked.

“We’ll keep them,
dear. You’ll come back to visit.”

“I’m not visiting
him.”

“Nic Trbojevic,
that wasn’t nice. Apologize to your father---

“No, you don’t
have to apologize, Nic, and you don’t have to visit, either. Though, I’m sure
Cosmo will miss you.” Turbo hung his head.

“You’re a real
jerk, Nikola.” Angie antagonized her brother.

“Don’t call me
that, Angelina.”

“Nikola. Nikola.
Nikola.”

Splat
. A
wad of cabbage hit Angie in the face.

“That does it. Go
to your room, now.” Maria escorted him to the stairs. “Angie, please finish
your dinner.”

Turbo excused
himself and went upstairs to talk to his son. “Nic, open the door, please.”

“Go away.”

“Son, open the
door.”

Nic opened the
door. “What?”

“That’s what I
want to know. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Nic, you’re
fourteen---

“Fifteen.”

“Okay, fifteen,
it’s time to grow up. You can be mad at me all you want, but I’m still your
father.”

“Oh, I thought you
were Tesla’s nephew.”

Turbo’s face
turned red. He left the room before he said something he’d regret. Deep down,
he knew Nic was right. He had been Tesla’s nephew more than he’d been Nic’s
father, lately more than ever. Dejected, he went back downstairs and sat down
at the head of the table.

Maria had already
placed a plate of hot apple pie at Nic's seat. “Angie, pass your father’s pie
down here.”

“No, Angel, don’t.
I don’t deserve to sit here.” He returned to his previous seat. Turbo had
thought about that apple pie many times over the past few weeks. Somehow,
tonight he had lost his appetite.

“Angie, get your
father some coffee. I’ll be right back.” Maria went upstairs.

Before Turbo
finished his coffee, Maria had returned with Nic.

“I’m sorry,
Daddy.” Nic hugged his father.

“It’s okay, Nic.
Eat your dinner.”

Turbo returned to
his flat with clean clothes and half an apple pie. The microwave oven got the
night off. The emotional evening compelled Turbo’s mind to race even more than
usual. He had learned a few things about himself that night. Things he didn’t
know and things he didn’t want to know. Lessons taught by the unlikeliest
teacher, his fifteen-year-old son. With all the commotion, he still hadn’t
learned how to operate the washer and dryer. He had one week to either save his
marriage or learn how.

Phillip showered,
splashed cologne all over his body, and brushed his teeth, twice. All before
his grandmother left for work.

“Have a good trip,
Sweetie. Don’t get into any trouble.”

He kissed his
grandmother on the cheek, unaware it would be the last time he’d see her alive.

***

The trip to
Washington D.C. took three hours. Phillip had planned to charm the pants off
his boss, but all Carrie wanted to talk about was ex-C.I.A. agents and nuclear
bombs.

“Deuterium is an
isotope of hydrogen, right?”

“Yeah, so what.”

“Maybe it’s a
hydrogen bomb.”

“Could be?”
Phillip was tired of all the conjecture. He’d already done enough on his own.
Still, he didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm. After all, she took the day off
to drive him to D.C. “I just hope Rudy can help us.”

They reached the
District of Columbia just after noon. Carrie drove to a small apartment complex
and parked in the spot reserved for unit C-5. She retrieved the extra key from under
the doormat and rushed inside. Unsure if he should follow, Phillip entered the
apartment and stood in the foyer. A minute or two later, he heard the toilet
flush. Carrie soon returned, her jeans zipped, but left unbuttoned. “Don't just
stand there? Come in.”

“Where’s the
bathroom?

“Oh, sorry.” She
pointed to the guest bathroom.

“Thanks.”

She talked to him
through the door. “As soon as you freshen up we’ll get some lunch. Buddy said
the club doesn’t open till five.”

“He knows a lot
about that club.” Phillip washed his hands.

“Yeah, don’t even
go there.”

After lunch, they
toured the Smithsonian. Phillip expected to be bored. He wasn’t. He also thought
he would have met Buddy by then, but he had eluded them thus far.

Phillip enjoyed
the exhibits. In particular, the American History Museum and the National
Museum of African American History. He also enjoyed the National Portrait
Gallery. Although, during it all, his thoughts were on a nearby Gentlemen’s
Club.

The Palace was
located just down Connecticut Avenue, about a mile from the Smithsonian. They
could take their pick of parking spaces.

“Are you sure
they’re open?” Phillip asked.

“I think so.”

Phillip pulled on
the oversized wooden door with a lion’s head carved in its center. The darkened
entranceway led to a counter illuminated by black light. Phillip expected to
pay to enter, however the cover charge didn’t start until later. They walked
from black light into starlight. The club’s ceiling sparkled with tiny fiber
optic lights.

Much to their surprise,
the club stirred with patrons. You would have never known it judging from the sparse
parking lot. Phillip figured either people came straight from their offices
nearby, within walking distance, or they chose not to use the visible parking
facility of such an establishment.

The main stage
shone bright with colored spotlights. Phillip noticed a tiny butterfly tattoo
on the current performer's left buttock. “I see why Buddy likes this place.”

“Very funny. Try
to find lover-boy.”

“What does he look
like?”

“I don't know.
Like a C.I.A. agent, I guess.”

“And what does a
C.I.A. agent---

Phillip realized
he’d asked a dumb question. “Don’t answer that. I’ll ask the bartender.”

He ordered two
Cokes and asked the bartender if he knew someone named “Rudy.”

“Sure, everybody
knows Rudy, he’s a regular. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

“Thanks, I’ll be
over there with that blonde; could you let me know when he arrives?” Phillip
gave the bartender a ten-dollar-bill for the cokes. “Keep the change.”

“Change? What
change? It’s twelve dollars for the Cokes.” The bartender held out his hand.

“Oh, sorry.”
Phillip handed the bartender another ten. Embarrassed, he turned away without
the drinks.

“Sir, your Cokes.”

“Thanks.” He
picked up the drinks and turned to leave.

“Sir.”

Phillip
hesitated. “What now?”

“That’s Rudy over
there, in the baseball cap.”

Rudy wore baggy
jeans, an “Abercrombie and Fitch” tee shirt, and a white “Atlanta Braves”
baseball cap. He paraded through the club talking on his iPhone and slapped
hands with a few of the other players there. He paused right in front of Carrie
and then told the person on the phone he would “hit them back later,” Phillip
arrived with the Cokes at the same time.

Rudy didn’t notice
Phillip; he stared at Carrie. “Hey beautiful, when do you dance?”

“Fuck off,
asshole.” Carrie turned to Phillip and took her drink. “Did you find out about
Rudy?”

“Sure did.”

“Well, where is
he?”

Phillip hesitated.
“You just told him to fuck off.”

Rudy zigzagged
through the tables and chairs and headed for the stage, all the while on his
iPhone again. Carrie rushed to catch up with him before he reached the stage.

“Rudy, hey Rudy.”

Flattered that
Carrie had chased after him, he tapped the iPhone off again. Then all at once,
the excitement on his face turned to caution and concern. “Hold on there,
Heather Locklear, how'd you know my name?”

“I’m Carrie.
Buddy’s girlfriend, he told me I could find you here.”

“Buddy?”

“Yeah, Buddy. He
works at the Smithsonian.”

“Oh, Carrie from
Brooklyn. Yeah, Buddy told me all about you. Barnes and Noble, right?”

Carrie cleared a
path for Rudy to join them at their table. “Rudy, meet Phillip.”

“Hey Phil-bro,
what’s up?” They shook hands.

With the introductions
behind them, Phillip asked if they could go somewhere private to talk.

Rudy escorted them
to a Champagne room. “If this is about the Kennedy assassination, I don’t know
anything.”

“What?”

“Everybody thinks
that just because I was in the C.I.A. I know who killed J.F.K.”

“Oh.” Carrie
sighed. “You should ask Phillip about his theory someday.”

Phillip smirked.
“Forget about J.F.K. I want to know about Tesla.”

“The band?”

“No, the
scientist.” Phillip told Rudy about the man his grandfather befriended at The
New Yorker, and about the notes in the potato chip canisters. He even showed
him the concept for the Hydrogen Bomb.

Rudy scanned the
pages and laughed. “That’s not a bomb.”

“It’s not,”
Phillip and Carrie spoke together.

“No. It’s water of
some sort, but I don’t know what.”

“Electrostatic
Deuterium Oxide was devised by Tesla,” Phillip said.

“Let me check
something.” Rudy took the iPhone from its holster.

“Are you texting
someone?” Carrie asked.

“No. I’m accessing
the C.I.A. mainframe.”

“On your iPhone?”
Phillip asked.

“Yeah. There’s an
app for that.”

“You’re kidding,
right?” Phillip no longer doubted his C.I.A. credentials.

“No, a guy I know
developed a game application that sells at the app store, but I can access
features that the public can’t.”

“Awesome.” Carrie
strained to see the screen. “So, what are you looking for?”

“I queried
‘Tesla,’ but all I got was some guy named William Trbojevic, according to the
file he’s a descendant of Tesla, a grandnephew. He’s a real whacko, too.”

“Why’s that?”
Phillip asked.

“He has a vendetta
against Con-Ed.”

“The power
company?”

“Yeah, listen to
this. He believes Con-Ed owes Tesla for the alternating current system he
created, and as Tesla’s closest living relative, they owe him as well. He also
wants them to change the name of the company. He pays his power bill every
month with a check payable to “Con-Tesla.”

“I can’t believe
that’s all the C.I.A has on Tesla; I found more than that on Google.” Phillip
stared at the girl table dancing across from them.

“There’s more.”

“What do you mean,
there’s more?” Carrie asked.

“Because there’s
so little, that tells me there’s much more classified information.” Rudy waved
at Phillip to divert his attention back to their conversation. “There are ten
levels of classification. Hell, there’s probably more unclassified stuff about
you on the mainframe than there is about Tesla. That’s why I know there’s more.”

“Can you check my
grandfather, Frederick Washington? He knew Tesla.”

"Sure."
Rudy typed in the info. “Frederick Washington, born September 23, 1919 died
February 2, 1943, Bellman at The New Yorker Hotel, killed in a car
accident---oh, shit!” Rudy turned off the iPhone.

“What’s wrong?”
Carrie asked.

“The file pinged.”

“Pinged?”

“Yes, someone
programmed your grandfather’s file to send a signal back to the agency whenever
someone accessed it.”

“What does that mean?”
Phillip was on the edge of his seat.

“There’s something
fishy here. Was your grandfather an agent?”

“No, he was a bellman.”
Phillip thought back to the conversation with his grandmother a few nights ago.
The O.S.S. questioned his grandfather for two days. What did they want? They
already had Tesla’s notebooks. They must have wanted something else. Something
worth killing for.

“Those files are
only accessible by government agents, well, government agents and me, they
wouldn’t have programmed the ping unless it involved someone on the inside.”

“Are they gonna
trace it back to your iPhone?” Carrie asked.

“Maybe, but that’s
okay. This iPhone is registered to Tom Cruise.”

“Can you give me
that Jehovovick's address?” Phillip asked.

“What address?”

“Tesla’s nephew.”

“I’ll try.” Rudy
turned on the iPhone and typed away. “No, they blocked me, do either of you
have an iPhone?”

“No, I have a
Blackberry.” Carrie pulled her phone from her purse.

“What about you,
Phil-bro?”

“Sorry, I have a
Droid.”

“Well, if you can find
me an iPhone, I'll get you the address.”

Phillip left the
champagne room and went to find anyone talking on an iPhone. He walked up to
the bar. “Bartender, hey, bartender.”

“Two more Cokes?”

“No, thanks. I
need an iPhone.”

“What do I look
like, AT&T?”

“No, but do you
know anyone who has one?”

“Yeah, I have one,
why?”

“Rudy needs to
borrow it, just for a minute.”

“Rudy has one. I’m
busy here, get lost.” The bartender turned to wait on other customers.

Phillip returned
to the champagne room. “The bartender has an iPhone, but he’s busy.”

Carrie jumped up.
“I’ll get it.”

Five minutes
later, she returned with the iPhone and a frozen Margarita. “Buddy said if you
run up his bill you’re paying for it.”

“Buddy’s here?”
Phillip looked around.

“No, the
bartender’s named Buddy, too.”

Phillip threw up
his hands. “Please get me that address.”

Rudy downloaded
two games from iTunes. “You owe Buddy the bartender ten bucks.”

“Heck, that won't
even buy two Cokes in this club.”

Rudy laughed.
“Grab a cocktail napkin and write this down. William T-r-b-o-j-e-v-i-c, 616
Montauk Avenue, Brooklyn, New York. Goes by the nickname “Turbo,” owns a small
electronics repair shop. That’s it.”

“That’s it?”
Phillip wanted more.

“I’ll have one of
my buddies---

Phillip grunted
with disgust. “More Buddies?”

Rudy apologized.
“I’ll have one of my friends at the agency check into Tesla. Maybe he can get
me in the back door.”

Phillip asked Rudy
for his number.

“I never give out
my number. It changes too often. It’s gonna change again tomorrow, I think I’ll
be Brad Pitt this time.”

Carrie wrote down
her phone number on a cocktail napkin and handed it to Rudy. “Please call us if
you find anything.”

As they left the
champagne room, Rudy promised he’d be in touch. “Oh, by the way, if a guy named
Alex Gaye contacts you, we never met. Do you understand me? We never met!”