Carritos the Assassin_A Temporal Story

  Carritos, the Assassin

  A Temporal Story

  Clay Boutwell

  www.ClayBoutwell.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Clay Boutwell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Visit the author's website at http://www.ClayBoutwell.com

  * * *

  Special thanks to Stephen Gosden for his extremely helpful advice on the manuscript. He blogs at http://bit.ly/day-by-day-in-Japan

  Contents

  Free Audiobook Offer

  1. The Poor Slob

  2. A Strange Life

  3. The Kid and the Old Man

  4. The One Labor

  5. The Bum

  6. The Stick

  7. The Slave

  The Temporal Series

  Also by Clay Boutwell

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  1

  The Poor Slob

  1985

  * * *

  Jackson found it hard to believe that human beings could be this weak. He looked down at the man struggling to breathe and resisted a chuckle. “The view is indeed breathtaking,” he said, careful to maintain a straight face. “I can just make out a few ants down there noticing your antics.”

  His victim was kicking his adrenalized legs outside the window of a ten-story building.

  “Get it? Ants—antics?”

  The weak man answered with mindless grunts while keeping his white-knuckled hands death-gripped to Jackson's forearms. The arms were connected to the hands that held the dangling man’s expensive-looking shirt collar. The collar was the only thing that kept the man from falling.

  “No? Well, now. I see you are all business,” Jackson said, affecting a mock-serious frown. “Do you have the information I asked for?”

  The man was beside himself, unable to speak. The grunting had become whimpering sobs. But then the shirt gripped by Jackson ripped and that opened a floodgate of screaming and pleas for mercy.

  “Really? Now you decide to talk?”

  Jackson wouldn’t kill the poor slob, of course; it just wasn’t who he was. Every single one of the thousands of his victims over the better part of a century had been left with their lives—every single one. Perhaps their pocketbook was a touch lighter, but Jackson never took a single life. Never.

  He couldn’t resist. The hand that held the collar jerked slightly causing a second rip which increased the intensity of the screaming.

  Jackson smiled. Seeing terror in his victim’s eyes and then the utter disbelief of his mercy, that pleased him no end. It was almost as if he was his victim’s savior. They usually even thanked him once words returned. Made him feel the hero.

  Time to become the hero. Jackson jerked his hands up, flinging the man roughly, but safely inside. Normally, shock would still be strong enough to keep the man on the ground coughing, throwing up, or screaming like a little sissy; those were the normal types.

  This one—just a touch—abnormal.

  Jackson sighed as he watched the man actually trying to escape. He counted to three, allowing the man to get close to his freedom, close to the door—close, but not quite there.

  Then, Jackson did what he had done a thousand times when stealing, bribing, or just enjoying a good scare. He sucked in as much air as his lungs could hold and caught the moment.

  Freeze!

  And everything did.

  Jackson whistled a shanty while walking to the door, occasionally twirling on his heels as the song dictated. Tiny dust particles floated motionless in the air and sparkled. The equally motionless shafts of light gave the illusion of movement as his perspective changed. The man’s frozen hand reached vainly for the door knob still two feet away.

  Positioning himself between the man’s hand and the door, Jackson looked past his victim and thought about his strange life.

  2

  A Strange Life

  Next week, he’d turn ninety-nine! Yeah, ninety-nine years old.

  He was nineteen when the 1906 San Francisco earthquake both destroyed and recreated his life. He had miraculously survived, but his family had all perished. Well, all of his family but one. His little sister was away on a week-long school trip that fateful Wednesday morning.

  Finding her was his first priority after the disaster. He had nothing else. No other family, friends, or even possessions. Everything had been taken by the devastating earthquake or the fires and tsunami that followed.

  There was poor ole Charlie… One friend did survive the worst of it only to step on a downed wire the next day. This friend was killed instantly and the young Jackson had witnessed it. It was that moment he realized he had to protect the one thing he had left in life: his sister.

  He watched her grow up. He watched her get married and have three children. And then, he watched her die peacefully in her bed at sixty-three. All during that time, the mirror showed a man who hadn’t aged a day.

  At first he stayed in an apartment not five minutes from his sister’s house. But as Jackson and his sister realized he wasn’t aging, especially after he told her about his…particular abilities, they decided it would be best to keep all this a secret. After all, what mad scientist wouldn’t lick his chops at the thought of experimenting on such a man?

  Jackson made up some excuse about a job offering in New York and left. Eventually, after countless questions about their uncle, his sister told her husband and children that Jackson had died in an automobile accident.

  Even so, he often met up with his sister.

  As time passed, he began calling his sister “Mother” while in public to allow them to frequently meet. They would meet away from her home and especially away from her kids, who were oblivious of their uncle after he had moved out. After all, how would she explain an ageless uncle? An uncle who looked younger than they?

  Still, he kept a vigil over all his relatives. He saw them, but he didn’t allow them to see him.

  Not needing sleep to speak of, he had often sat upon a nearby roof watching for burglars—something he knew a little about.

  As the kids walked to school, he would make sure no one bullied them. As they played in the park, he watched. He’d never show his face, but when he felt like a big kid was being a jerk to one of his nephews or nieces—later grand-nephews and grand-nieces—he sucked in a great gulp of air, froze the scene, and then proceeded to give the bully a wedgie. That usually took care of the situation.

  Even today, he kept a protective eye over his extended family as much as possible. They of co
urse didn’t know he existed; they didn’t know of the guardian angel that watched over them. With his strange and wonderful powers, he spent a great amount of time watching over his relatives.

  It wasn’t just his sister’s family. Jackson also didn’t exist according to the government. He had died in the earthquake or at least wasn’t among the known survivors who registered with the government after the fact. Thousands of people perished that day and over eighty percent of San Francisco was destroyed. That he survived was never investigated. Why would it be?

  He had lived off the grid so long, he no longer owned any article that could possibly link him to his old life. No driver’s license, no bank statement—nothing.

  There was more. As far as he knew, he was the only one in the world with these powers. Like Superman, he was stronger than anyone else. Like the Flash, he was faster than anyone else. That is, he could freeze those around him and unfreeze them once he had moved. To those around him, he seemed fast. To him, he had simply spanned the distance walking normally.

  He wasn’t sure how far the “freezing” affected his surroundings. Did he stop the world from spinning? The universe? He didn’t know.

  He had once done a freezing on top of the Empire State Building while looking through the binoculars on the 86th floor. It was a clear day and everywhere he looked, nothing moved for miles. The city that never sleeps was frozen.

  Like ice in sunlight, however, the freezing didn’t last forever. Of course, he didn’t know that the first time.

  During his first freeze, he was certain he would be forever cursed to walk among the frozen. Panic set in as he moved from person to person, shaking, yelling, and vainly doing anything he could to wake them.

  After a half an hour of absolute stillness all around him, he was certain that he was the last sentient being on the planet.

  With his mouth agape, he stared into their locked and empty eyes. They were still as death, but caught in a moment of life.

  He remembered the scene precisely. A baby was reaching for his mother. The frozen mother was talking to a man on the street. The man was looking down at the baby, still as a statue, his frozen smile broad.

  It was in that moment while Jackson was examining the man’s smile, that the smile suddenly changed to a frown and the baby cried.

  Jackson was so startled, he fell to the ground, letting out a scream as his derrière hit the dirt. It had been as terrifying to him as mourners witnessing a corpse rising up from a casket.

  He had looked up and screamed again. Everything was once more in motion. Everything was…normal.

  This time, it was everyone else who looked at Jackson strangely. He picked himself up and ran away. He ran until he could run no more.

  But that had been in 1906. He’d long since adjusted to his powers.

  He wasn’t just fast, either.

  While in the middle of a freeze, he found he could even lift a car! Unfrozen, he was much stronger than before the earthquake, but much more so when utilizing his freezing power.

  So here he was. An almost hundred-year-old man staring down a poor frozen slob who was momentarily about to be terrified beyond reason, beyond explanation.

  It’s a living, he thought with a smile.

  If he was just a bit more careful with his money, he could retire for a few decades at a time, but having a wad of cash just cried out for him to spend it.

  Really, that was just an excuse.

  It wasn’t the money so much as it was the sport. For had it been only about the money, he could pickpocket the frozen or rip open a bank vault during a freeze. But there was no sport in that. He was, after all, a gentleman; a bit smart-alecky, but a gentleman nonetheless.

  * * *

  Back in the present, Jackson wondered how he had gone off on such a rabbit trail. The victim, frozen as a statue, looked to be about as old as his sister’s youngest grandson. His slightly balding head—just like her grandson’s—probably had been the root cause for the reverie.

  He let old memories slip away and exhaled completely. The man thawed and in doing so, he unknowingly rammed into Jackson before falling backward while screaming like a madman. He frantically crawled back to the corner near the window, a spider fleeing from a broom.

  “Marcus!” the man cowering in the corner shouted and then panted almost to the point of hyperventilation.

  Jackson quieted down and looked at the man with serious eyes. This was, after all, business. Yes, it was also sport and sporting with style, but ultimately, business.

  “His name is Marcus Townsend. His address is there in the portfolio on the table. A business card. ‘RJ Accountants’ is the name on the card. But his name is Marcus.”

  Jackson smiled again. “Okay.” He put his hand to his chin, affecting a most thoughtful pose. Now why would that kid want an old man’s name. Why not just ask the old man himself?

  “Okay?” wheezed the man.

  Jackson turned to the man abruptly. “Yeah,” he said, slightly irritated. “Okay.”

  While the man blinked, Jackson froze him again, rummaged through the portfolio and moved to the man’s position while holding up the business card, RJ Accountants.

  Jackson knelt down, his eyes an inch away from the frozen man. “I wonder what the man will do next,” he said. Sticking out his tongue, he put on the most childish face he could manage and exhaled.

  The newly unfrozen man screamed and slammed the back of his head into the wall trying to get away from his captor’s eyes.

  “Ah, scream.” Jackson smiled wider. “That’s what he would do. Now, my good man. I’ll pass this information on to my employer. I just want you to know, should it prove unreliable, I’ll find you no matter how far you run.”

  He watched the man eagerly nod and then Jackson sucked in a huge gulp of air.

  Jackson kept the freezing intact while whistling Sloop John B by the Beach Boys all the way down the stairs. Exiting the lobby, he was careful to open the door slowly. Once or twice before, he had ripped a door from its hinges during a freeze. Not too helpful when trying to be all ninja-like.

  Once outside, he ducked into an empty alley, exhaled and melted into the bustling crowd.

  3

  The Kid and the Old Man

  Immediately after meeting the informant, he was to report to his employer in the southwest corner of Central Park near the Umpire Rock. He’d head generally in that direction, but first…a beer.

  Jackson liked to keep people waiting. It was the only piece of wisdom his drunk father ever gave him.

  To the neighbors and polite society, his father, the celebrated dental surgeon, was every bit as respectable as his profession dictated. But at home, he would reach for the bottle on the way to the whipping cane.

  Still, the old man knew how to work people.

  Jackson had inherited that skill and then over the decades, he had mastered it. “Even fifteen minutes make people anxious or angry. Anxious or angry people make mistakes,” his father would say. Thanks for the pearls, Pop.

  The result often did lead to mistakes or hasty decisions by his employers—it made receiving tips doubtful, but marvelous entertainment it was. He was, after all, dealing with mere mortals and mere mortals who were involved with bad dealings.

  Besides he had no trouble finding new employers.

  Of course, he didn’t need an employer. He could go freelance and he often did when his belly grumbled, but he enjoyed working for someone if for no other reason than to add one extra degree of separation between himself and the crime he would commit. After all, the Nuremberg criminals had all claimed they were just obeying commands. So could he. They made that excuse to cover murder and he was no murderer. By comparison, his actions were nothing. He was obeying commands that just happened to involve stealing.

  This time around, his employer was a twenty-year-old brat and the brat could wait long enough for him to enjoy a cold one.

  Curious, though. The kid clearly is money. From his suit to his manneris
ms, he must be rolling in it and raised rolling in it. I wonder why an old-money kid would be involved in this sort of thing?

  Putting aside thoughts of his employer, he slid into the Red Baron and ordered a pint of pumpkin ale. It was in season and near his birthday. Pumpkin pie was what his dear mother always made him on his birthday. A childhood favorite. Yes, this nearly hundred-year-old man still pined for his mommy. I still have mommy issues, he thought. At least I don’t… Oh, that’s right. I do that too.

  The dark atmosphere at the bar was particularly nice for enjoying a bit of quiet time undisturbed. There were practically no other customers and the bartender minded his own business. Just the way I like it.

  Jackson swiveled into a well-cushioned stool and eagerly looked forward to that first sip as the bartender slammed it down in front of him. Mother would have appreciated modern conveniences. Pumpkin beer certainly. He lifted the beer to his lips only to put it back down untasted.

  He saw—or rather felt—the presence of a man seated on the stool next to him. From the corner of his eyes, he knew the presence was staring directly at him. Jackson turned and was surprised to see his employer, the kid. He nearly fell off his stool in surprise. Pull yourself together. The kid’s just a human.

  “You were to go directly to our agreed meeting site.”

  Probably followed me to make sure I’m honest. The brat.

  “Bah,” Jackson said and turned forward to steal a sip from his frothy beer. “I’m on the way there. Just stopping for a rest after a hard day’s work.”