America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 20: Time Machine (4 page)

Chapter
4

“There are rumors on the database of the time machine being abused,” accused General Daly during our weekly meeting update. “Tell me you have not been violating anyone’s civil rights, or using the time machine for personal gain.”

“I have not intentionally violated anyone
’s civil rights.”

“Good.
Keep it that way. I’m calling because the Teamsters Union is about to go on a planet-wide transportation strike.”

“So
? The Legion has its own trucks and drivers.”

“Their core grievance is they want to know what happened to Jimmy Hoffa.
I promised Legion cooperation. You will send a drone back in time to find out. A union representative will contact you to observe the mission.”

“Don
’t you think the Legion has more pressing matters to attend to than centuries-old missing persons?”

“This project is having funding issues.
The Teamsters made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. Handle it.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * * * *

I put a drone in the air outside the Detroit restaurant where Jimmy Hoffa was last seen.
Teamsters Rep Carlos O’Neil accompanied me to the viewing room. Major Lopez brought buttered popcorn and Pepsi for the show.

“The Galactic Brotherhood of Teamsters really appreciates this gesture of goodwill,” assured O
’Neil. “Goodwill between the Teamsters and the Legion is a priority to me.”

“You muscled your way in, so cut the crap,” I replied, passing the popcorn.
“We are not friends.”

“Nevertheless, I owe you.
We’re both professionals. If ever you need a favor, just call on me, and the full resources of the Teamsters will be made available, along with a generous donation I’ve already made to the Joey R. Czerinski retirement fund.”

“Don
’t forget the Manny Lopez retirement fund, too,” added Major Lopez.

“Shut up,” I ordered, using the joystick to zoom in on a lone figure approaching Hoffa as the union boss left the restaurant.
Shit!
It was Lopez.

Camera reception interference was caused by two time machines operating in close proximity.
I immediately turned off the monitor, recalling the drone. All goodwill was lost.

“What have you done?” asked O
’Neil, jumping up to restore power to the monitor. “I want that killer identified, or else!”

“You threaten me?”

“That was not a threat. It was a promise. You’ll be swimming with the fishes!”

“You
’re under arrest.”

As O
’Neil was about to protest, Major Lopez hit him from behind with a chair. Legionnaires carried O’Neil to the dungeon to find Jesus. They deserved each other. The Legion will not be threatened.

* * * * *

“Really?” I asked, confronting Major Lopez. “You murdered Jimmy Hoffa?”

“I keep telling you that
’s not me,” bristled Major Lopez.

“Why would you do that?”

“My evil twin is trying to whack threats and undesirables,” explained Major Lopez uncomfortably. “Or, maybe I just went crazy.”

“You
’re trying to change our country’s direction,” I speculated. “I know you. Your twisted mind wants glory and power.”

“After all we
’ve been through together, you call me twisted? Try looking in the mirror.”

“All I know is
, we had a chance for some great press, and you blew it. General Daly is going to go ballistic. We need to kill your evil twin. Is that clear? Are you up to it?”

“Yes, sir, but that
bendaho
is not me. I’ll kill him myself.”

“Good.
Otherwise, you’re going to mess up history big time and get us busted for treason. Where do you think you’ll strike next? What enemy of America are you most likely to want to murder?”

“That
’s easy. Hitler.”

* * * * *

Major Lopez and I transported to pre-World War One Vienna, easily finding a young Adolf Hitler painting and selling watercolors in the town square. I enthusiastically complemented Hitler’s artwork, offering a big wad of cash to buy them all. Major Lopez stayed in the shadows, watching.

“You really admire my work?” asked Hitler, basking in my praise.
“Most do not appreciate the difficulty and attention to detail involved in painting a busy city scene.”

“Your paintings are by far the best on display,” I added, happily giving him a tip.
“If you will be so kind, can you please assist me carrying my purchases to my hostel so I can arrange delivery home at my convenience?”

“Most certainly,” agreed Hitler, helping me bundle
the paintings. “Where is home?”

“Poland,” I answered, caught off guard by his familiarity.
“Mostly Warsaw.”

“A fine country,”
said Hitler, grinning. “I hope to visit Poland someday. Some of my best friends are you Poles. I can tell you’re one of the good Poles.”

“I
’m sure you would enjoy Poland,” I said politely, securing the last of the paintings. “Poles love fine art, and sausage and beer!”

“Austrians love beer, too!
Let me buy you a beer with some of your money. It’s the least I can do to show my appreciation for buying so much of my artwork. I was broke and starving before you came along.”

* * * * *

At the hostel we amicably shared a pitcher of beer. Hitler was the life of the party, slapping me on the back and bragging to all about his art sales and future plans to attend the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna. I played along, waiting for an opportunity.

“Have you ever felt you are being watched, or followed?” I asked conversationally.
“Like someone is plotting against you?”

“All the time,” answered Hitler, turn
ing sullen. “Just yesterday, a swarthy gypsy followed me, intent on robbery. I chased him away with my knife.” Hitler displayed a dagger. Showing off his expertise in knife play, he almost cut himself.

“You
’re pretty good with that,” I said, lavishing more praise. “If you see that damn gypsy again, let me know. He might be after your paintings.”

“I certainly will.”

“Together, we’ll settle accounts,” I boasted, opening my coat to show off a pistol tucked in my belt. “I’m retiring for the night, but you wake me if that bastard gypsy comes back.”

* * * * *

Hitler knocked on my door after midnight. “That gypsy is out there. I saw him lurking in the fog!”

I peeked out my window.
Nothing. “Let’s hunt ourselves a gypsy.”

Downstairs, I let Hitler go first while I kept pace on the sidewalk down the block.
Hitler nervously clutched his knife as he tried to make out figures in the dark. General Lopez stepped out from an alley.

“
Aye, bendaho!
Bring a knife to a gunfight?”

Hitler jumped back.
I double tapped two shots over his shoulder, hitting Lopez square in the chest. Protected by a vest, Lopez fell back, then got to his feet and fled down the alley. Major Lopez appeared from across the street, firing into the shadows, but his evil twin was gone.

“Two gypsies!” exclaimed Hitler, cringing against a wall.
“You all conspire against me?”

“What the
hell,” I answered with a shrug, shooting Hitler in the face. “Changing history be damned.”

“Preserving history is way overrated,” agreed Major Lopez.
“That punk Hitler wanted to conquer the world. What was he thinking? Stupid
bendaho
!”

* * * * *

I made my own souvenir video of killing Hitler, but General Lopez sent me his copy, too. I was looking at it on my communications pad when he called on the phone, somehow using time-travel technology to communicate. Obviously he had my number. “Nice job whacking Hitler,” taunted General Lopez. “But you’re gonna pay slow and painful for shooting me, Czerinski. You can be a real
bendaho
sometimes.”

“Sorry about that,” I replied contritely.
“Can’t we all get along?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Stop messing with time and history, and I won’t kill you with a similar head shot.”

“You
’re fighting forces bigger than all of us,” warned General Lopez. “We can squash you like a bug anytime. Tell Major Lopez that goes for him too.”

“You wouldn’t dare kill your time twin – then you’d cease to exist in the future.”

“You don’t know anything about time-travel paradoxes, Czerinski.”

“Maybe not. Go ahead, kill your own future and see if I care.”

“When I kill Stalin,” General Lopez said, changing the subject, “you had better not be anywhere near.”

“Knock yourself out. I don’t care much about Stalin, but how about you and I make a deal? I’ll back off, and you make some sweet financial investments on my behalf.”

“It’s always about the money, isn’t it, Czerinski?”

“No
t always. Keep messing with me, and I’ll kill you for free.”

“Your threats will roll off my knife blade, you greedy bastard.”

“Money can’t buy happiness,” I reasoned. “But it can buy a lot of toys and companionship. Money is as good as cash. Do we have a deal?”

“Agreed.”

Chapter 5

Investigative reporter Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight arrived to interview me about reports I had arrested Jesus and a Teamsters rep. I’m not sure which was the bigger news. A growing number of pilgrims gathered outside Legion Headquarters, and the Galactic Brotherhood of Teamsters was pissed. Apparently people did not believe the Legion explanation that the Jesus abduction was a hoax, or that Teamsters Rep O’Neil committed racketeering. Also, rumors abounded about the Legion trying to change history, in violation of Time Travel Treaty. I’ve always hated Coen and his rumor-mongering.

“Colonel Czerinski, there are reports you are holding two men incognito in the dungeon under Legion Headquarters, Teamsters Rep Carlos O
’Neil, and the person seen in the now infamous Jesus abduction tape,” accused Coen, playing to the crowd. “In light of your nefarious record for abusing prisoners, I demand to interview both men immediately.”

“The Jesus abduction was indeed a hoax,” I replied.
“The O’Neil matter is under investigation. I hope to resolve both soon.”

“So you admit there are two in your custody?”

“Both matters are under investigation.”

“Do you have knowledge of illegal time travel?
Although Jesus looked like a fake, those Roman soldiers looked very authentic. The stark brutality was striking.”

“I can assure the entire matter was staged.
Database pranksters commit these kinds of hoaxes all the time.”

“But what about a statement by the local Arthropodan commander that you did indeed abduct someone claiming to be Jesus H. Christ?
What reason do the spiders have to lie?”

“Alien abductions go back to the dawn of time,” I scoffed.
“Talk about the UFO calling the flying saucer silver. The Legion does not abduct humans, and we certainly did not abduct Jesus. Frankly, these wacko conspiracy theories are just too far-out to be believed.”

“Then let us talk to Jesus!” shouted a pilgrim from the crowd.
“What are you hiding?”

“Yeah!” shouted another as the crowd pressed in.
“We want Jesus! We want Jesus!”

Several shots rang out.
Air horns sounded from Teamsters in their trucks. Nervous legionnaires pushed back, but the crowd was getting more unruly.

“Fine!” I relented nervously.
“You can talk to Jesus. You can all talk to Jesus!”

* * * * *

Jesus was brought upstairs wearing an orange jumpsuit and sporting a haircut. He waived at the crowd. Many were disappointed Jesus did not have long blond hair or blue eyes. Jesus was a good-looking man but looked like an Arab, complete with dark sun-weathered skin, brown eyes, and short black hair. How could this be Jesus?

“Are you the Christ?” asked Coen, getting right to the point.
“Why should we believe you are Jesus, and not a mere mortal man?”

“I am a mere mortal man,” answered Jesus.
“I don’t ask you to believe otherwise.”