Alternating Current: A Tesla Novel

by Agostino, John

  Alternating Current

  John Agostino

  Alternating Current

  Copyright © 2013 by John Agostino

  Alternating Current

  Copyright © 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012 by John Agostino

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

  All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For my wife, Bonnie.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  Turbo had counted the 1652 sidewalk cracks between Public School 202 and his electronics repair shop in Brooklyn many times, but he never stepped on any of them. Not as a boy walking back and forth from school and his father’s shop, and not forty years later as he walked from his new flat to work in that same shop. He didn’t believe all the stuff about breaking his mother’s back, not even as a kid. Still, he wasn’t taking any chances, even though his mother had been dead for years. Once in stride, he wouldn’t even glance down at the sidewalk anymore. Instead, he marveled at all the traffic on New Lots Avenue. As he turned on Atkins Avenue, he prayed some of the vehicles would follow him, but they never did. He was just three short blocks from his shop, three depressing blocks.

  The shops on both sides of the street dwindled the farther he walked. The candy store he frequented on his way home from school had since been a 5-and-Dime, a Discount Clothing Store, a Package Store closed down for not having the proper license, and most recently a Dollar Store, until a few months ago. The plywood over the storefront windows had already faded, weathered and worn like the boards covering the other shops closed for a year or more. The farther he walked the more faded the plywood.

  The street out front of his shop hadn’t seen that much traffic in years. The delivery truck arrived about the same time as the King’s County pool vehicle. Both came from the opposite direction, off Linden Boulevard. Parking was not a problem. Turbo knew what the truck driver was unloading. He’d ordered it from an office supply catalogue three weeks ago and couldn’t wait to tear into the box. He also knew what the county man had in his briefcase, too. Although, for weeks he refused to believe it would come.

  The county man held the door while the delivery driver wheeled in Turbo’s latest scheme to increase business. Turbo called Cosmo out from the back room. “Hey, help me out here, will ya?”

  “Whatta you wantta now?” Cosmo Angelini was Turbo’s only employee and only friend. An Italian immigrant who first stepped onto American soil thirty years ago, he wandered into Turbo’s shop one day looking for a restroom and never left. He couldn’t speak English at the time and many would argue he still doesn’t even today.

  Turbo understood him most of the time. “Sign for the package while I help this gentleman.” Turbo called him a gentleman, but thought him far from one. A gentleman wouldn’t do what this man was about to do. At least Turbo didn’t think so.

  Cosmo scribbled on the driver’s electronic clipboard then struggled with the oblong box, its tape unyielding.

  “Are you William T-R-B-O-J-E-V-I-C?”

  “Terr-bo-jeh-vick---it’s pronounced Terr-bo-jeh-vick, but you can call me Turbo.” He wasn’t being polite. The nickname was easier than phonetically explaining his surname.

  “I’m with the King’s County Clerk’s Office. Turbo, you have been served. Sign here, please.”

  Turbo yanked the pen from the man, and just for a second, thought about stabbing him with it. That would certainly wipe the smirk off the man’s face. He signed the paper without reading it.

  Turbo didn’t raise his head until the tiny bell on the front door signaled the man had gone. When he looked up, he had to laugh. Cosmo was waist high in cardboard and Styrofoam, standing proud over the slain package, box cutter still in hand. “What are you waiting for?” Turbo asked. “General Hospital starts soon.”

  The box contained a neon “OPEN” sign which they hung in the window. Turbo doubted it would actually attract business to the shop, probably only moths and mosquitoes. Still, at least he was trying, even if his wife didn’t think so.

  The building, once a tailor’s shop, had a large storefront window with an antique RCA console television on display. The mahogany encased TV was a handsome piece of furniture. Although, you could never tell window-shopping in front of the store. The TV’s screen faced the inside of the shop. Turbo and Cosmo watched soap operas daily.

  The two had setup a small living room, mainly a sofa and recliner, in front of the display window. Ultra modern fifteen years ago, especially for a repair shop. They figured that if they had to spend all day at the shop, they might as well be comfortable. Turbo knew his father would not have approved.

  The Friday afternoon episode of General Hospital had just returned from commercials. Turbo sat in the recliner while Cosmo sprawled across the sofa. The furniture was shabby and outdated and the shop oozed clutter. Shelves lined the walls, piled high with old radios, televisions, and other electronic devices, most broken and forgotten. The chalky walls begged color and decoration. And the smell of sardines and provolone cheese wafted from Turbo’s half-eaten lunch in the backroom.

  On the back wall behind the counter hung an old portrait. A distinguished man from another era with regal eyes and a devilish smile, possibly a dignitary, but more likely a politician. Turbo and Cosmo didn’t talk about the man in the portrait; they haven’t for years. And God help the unsuspecting patron who asked about him.

  The soap opera had them drooling with anticipation. They knew they’d be left hanging on until Monday, but they didn’t care. The suspense actually added to the weekend and gave them one more thing to argue about. As business declined over the years, Turbo and Cosmo became huge fans of General Hosp
ital dating back to when Luke and Laura dominated the storyline. Fully immersed in that afternoon’s show, they didn’t hear the tiny bell on the door ring. Someone had entered the shop.

  The man made a throat clearing noise, “Hey, I need some help here.”

  “Your turn.” Turbo motioned Cosmo toward the counter.

  “What? No way. I had the lady with the moustache the other day.” Cosmo remembered physical attributes easier than names.

  “Yeah, and I helped Frankie’s little brother, what’s his name?”

  “The skinny kid? He bought a nine-volt-battery, that doesn’t count.”

  “You’re crazy, why doesn’t that count?”

  The customer made another throat clearing noise.

  Cosmo cursed in Italian and gave the young man a deathly glare.

  Turbo relented. “Okay, I’ll go, but you get the next two.” Turbo leaned forward out of the recliner, which folded up like a Transformer retreating to its decoy. He stomped down a row of dilapidated televisions to get behind the counter. “Sorry about that. What do you need?”

  “Can you fix this shortwave? It just went dead.”

  “You came to the right place, kid. They haven’t built the radio I can’t fix.” The kid, as Turbo called him, appeared to be in his mid-twenties, although his blonde hair and rosy-red cheeks may have been deceiving.

  The young man smiled. “Great. Can you do it now?”

  “Sure I---gimme a few minutes, as soon as G. H. is over. Sonny’s going down today.”

  “No way they gonna catch Sonny.” Cosmo yelled from the sofa.

  “Okay, I’ll wait.”

  Turbo returned to the recliner, although he paused a long second in front of Cosmo.

  “Sit down or I’ll knock you down.”

  “You and what army?”

  Cosmo was still sprawled across the couch. They waited for the final round of commercials to finish before the Friday afternoon cliffhanger scene.

  “Cosmo, where are your manners? Let the kid sit down.” The customer stood at the counter. “Hey kid, come over here. Don’t be afraid, Cosmo won’t bite.”

  The young man sat, but didn’t relax. He clutched the shortwave radio to his chest. “Are you sure you can repair it? It’s important.”

  “Shhhh. It’s back on.”

  “He’ll fix it,” Cosmo whispered.

  The young man leaned back against the sofa.

  Ten minutes later, Turbo picked up a small device with exposed wires and circuitry all held together by black electrical tape. With a press of a button, the TV went off.

  “Wait!” Cosmo cried. “Damn it, you did that on purpose, you know I like to see who’s on Oprah.”

  “We have a customer.”

  Cosmo glared at Turbo, again cursing in Italian.

  “Okay kid. Let me take a look at that thing.”

  The young man handed him the radio. “Did you make that remote control?”

  “I sure did,” Turbo went behind the counter.

  “Awesome.”

  “Thanks. What’s your name, kid?”

  “Alex Gaye.”

  “Wow, I bet you got teased a lot in school.”

  “Pretty much, are you Turbo?”

  “Yeah, how’d you guess?”

  “The sign outside. Did your parents give you that name?”

  “No, nickname, short for Trbojevic.” He removed the last screw from the back panel and pulled off the cover. “Everything’s in place. Let me test the circuits.” He fumbled with the wires, circuit boards and vacuum tubes on the counter, unable to locate his tester.

  “Cosmo, have you seen my circuit tester?”

  Cosmo had snuck back over to the sofa and turned on Oprah. “Check your coat.”

  “I would, if I could find that, too.”

  “Check on the stool behind you, right where you left it.”

  Turbo tested the circuits. “How long have you had this radio?”

  “My whole life. My father used it to talk to his cousins in Canada when he was young.” Alex stared at the portrait behind the counter. “Why do you have a portrait of Nikola Tesla?”

  Turbo dropped the circuit tester into the radio, “you know him?”

  “Tesla, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Nikola Tesla, he’s my uncle.”

  Cosmo rushed over to the counter.

  “Hey Cosmo, Alex knows my Uncle Nikola,” Turbo smirked at his friend.

  “How many times do I have to tell you? He’s not your uncle, he’s your granduncle,” Cosmo smirked right back at Turbo.

  “Uncle---granduncle. What’s the big deal? “Alex, what do you know about him?”

  “He invented alternating current, changed the world. I read about it somewhere.”

  Turbo congratulated the lad then spoke of Tesla’s other inventions. “My uncle holds more than 300 patents. Invented the Tesla Coil and much of the technology we use today. Everything from remote controls to x-rays. And the light bulb, too."

  “I thought Thomas Edison invented the light bulb.”

  “He did,” Cosmo was quick to affirm.

  “Yes, but my uncle invented fluorescent lights, softer and easier on the eye. I bet Edison’s rolling over in his grave right about now. The government is planning to ban incandescent light bulbs. Oh, and my uncle invented the radio, too.”

  That did it. Cosmo knocked over a box of tubes, a few shattered making an awful racket and a huge mess.

  “Didn’t Marconi invent the radio?”

  “See, even the kid knows who really invented the radio.” Cosmo stood proud of his compatriot.

  “Alex, don’t pay any attention to him. In 1943 The Supreme Court of the United States declared Nikola Tesla was the true inventor of the radio.” Turbo got back to the shortwave. “Why’s this shortwave so important?”

  “I just need it.”

  “Are you talking to a girl? Does she live in another state?”

  “No, not a girl, can you get it to work or not?”

  “I told you, they haven’t built a radio I can’t fix.” He reached into a bin and pulled out a part. “Bad transistor,” Turbo plugged in a soldering iron. “Just take a minute to heat up. So who are you’re talking to on this thing? You’re not doing anything illegal, are you?”

  “No, Sir.”

  Turbo soldered the transistor. “Good as new.”

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Don’t worry about it, kid. My treat.”

  “Thanks, Sir.”

  “You’re welcome. Hey, since you don’t want to tell me who you’re talking to, at least let me know how far you’ve reached.”

  “No, I’d better not.”

  “C’mon,” Turbo had pleading look on his face, “we’re old friends here. We’ve watched soap operas together.”

  “Well, I’m not sure, but I think I reached Mars.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Almost everyone in Phillip Washington’s family was dead. Everyone but his grandmother and his Aunt Edna. And Phillip, of course. Tragedy crept into his life when he was a toddler and remained, it happened all around him. His mother died when he was three and he never met his father. Phillip’s grandmother raised him and she did a damn good job under the circumstances.

  Mavis Washington and tragedy were on a first name basis. Her husband died on February 2, 1943 when a hit-and-run driver ran him down in front of The New Yorker Hotel. Frederick Washington worked at the hotel. Phillip had tried many times over the years, but his grandmother wouldn’t tell him what happened. She never talked about her husband and hardly ever told stories about his mother. She did everything in her power to shield him from more tragedy. He’d turned seventeen before he learned his mother died from an overdose. And his grandmother only told him then so he wouldn’t contemplate using drugs.

  Mavis was a strong woman who had no problem talking to Phillip about education and his future. She made sure he didn’t fall in with the wrong group of friends and encouraged him to read a lot, and
take his education serious. Phillip had never witnessed the drive-by-shootings, the drug deals, and the crazy crack whores that were a normal part of life for many children in the city.

  Thank God he wasn’t a gang-banger. He went to church most Sundays and was brought-up to respect other people and treat them the way he wanted to be treated. At nineteen, he was a fine upstanding young man. And he had only his grandmother to thank.

  Phillip loved his job at the Barnes and Noble bookstore. He loved to read, and the “smokin’ hot” manager didn’t hurt any, either.

  Carrie Lockwood, actually the assistant manager, used her looks to her advantage. Still, he wasn’t shy about sucking up to the boss either. Phillip flirted with the blonde supervisor often and Carrie flirted back, mostly to entice Phillip to work late. A few winks and a sigh went a long way. Phillip would put books away all night if she’d let him.

  “Hey, can you work the mid-shift tomorrow?” Her eyes went aflutter.

  Phillip hesitated. He couldn’t work, but he didn’t want to disappoint her. “Oh, I would, but I promised to help my Grandma clean the attic. It hasn’t been cleaned since my Grandpa died.”

  “No problem,” Carrie sighed as she spoke. Not a flirty sigh, more a disappointed one. “I’ll ask Lilly. Would you at least stay tonight and put these books away?”

  The Friday night rush had left a huge pile of books on the cart. Still, he didn’t have plans, probably go hang out at his friend Rick’s house and play Madden Football on the Xbox. Another half-hour wouldn’t kill him, and the extra money would come in handy.

  “What books do you like to read?” Carrie helped push the cart.

  Phillip didn’t think she cared about what he read, probably just making small talk. “Oh, I like Erotica,” he fibbed, expecting her to blush. She didn’t.

  “Well, okay, have you read Nymph?”

  “Uh---no---not yet, been meaning to.” Had she called his bluff? Does she read such books? “What’s it about?”

  She picked up the top book from the cart. “The inside-cover boasts an edgy tale about the Los Angeles dreamscape that is Shangri-la.”

  Phillip stumbled, but regained his balance. “Sounds good,” he fibbed again.

  Carrie smiled. “No, I'm serious, what kind of books do you read?”