CHAPTER I: Making Bank
“My name is Norman Cooke. You need to remember that. It will be easy to forget. Okay?”
I was strolling down the sidewalk; Sal off to my left. He was wearing that tie he likes so much with the constellations printed on it. I think it’s tacky, but it’s a conversation starter so I can’t really argue his judgement. Besides, he keeps it tight. Full Windsor, perfectly symmetrical. At least he wasn’t wearing that god-awful yellow suit. I’ll never understand it. I don’t care how many people call him Sunshine, it’s just not his color. The cut is fine, very slimming. I myself prefer some room to breathe. It’s not about being old fashioned. Most people have the impression that I am, which makes sense based on my appearance, but it’s merely a persona. Honestly I do think we as human beings had it right the first time; living off the land, no technology, enjoying the natural processions of infinity. But, that’s not the way things remained, and technology was created by things that were created by nature so what am I gonna do? Bitch about it? No. (If my rhetoric surprises you, I suggest you prepare yourself) See, I find no reason to limit yourself to a single way of being. Different states offer different potentialities.
Where was I?
Oh, the sidewalk. On a broader spectrum the financial district of Los Angeles. The sun was just about ready to dip into the photographic honey pot, yet still bright enough to blast the pupils. We’d cut it pretty close to closing time at the bank, which was intentional. Where we parked on the other hand, was not intentional. The struggle for parking downtown is ongoing in 2027. I don’t mind it though. We looked dynamite. Call me vain, but I like looking good when I’m in Los Angeles. Someone called me a walking billboard once. To most people that would’ve been an insult, but they forget that billboards are meant to grab your attention, so in reality I’m coming out on top. I have a tendency to get sidetracked, I’m sorry. Back to the story.
We were silent as the dead, minus the footsteps. It was our unspoken tradition to enjoy such a silence after an operation of any kind. It could be broken only after returning to The Rainbow. There’s something very exciting about those moments, specifically when you’re in this time-altering business. Whenever you successfully pull off a mission with someone and you’re walking away from it, you know that the other person is breathing deep, waiting for the change to be felt. To add to the peculiarity of it all, reality doesn’t shift until you’re back in the building. I don’t know how they worked that out, and frankly I don’t care. It’s best not to ask questions like that. Hell, I don’t even ask why we’re doing what we’re doing. But that’s just me. When someone comes up and asks if you'd like to travel through time at will, you jump at the chance. At least I did.
By the time we got to the car the sun had ignited the clouds. Burnt red space; scattered pink; clouds violet around the seams and a tangerine holding down the beat. Too many buildings to see it fully. The air in the cab was still hot. Black leather. It was a nice car, some might say. Standard issue for the American business man who wants to go unnoticed.
I sat in the back seat. Always do. Sal tells people he’s a chauffeur because I’ve never had a driver’s license, but the reason I sit in the back has nothing to do with that. For one I like the tinted windows. Usually they’re darker. Two, there’s something about rearview mirrors that I can’t get over. They’re like a tiny little reality in and of themselves.
The engine started up. A warm sound to it. It took a few moments for a space on the road to open up, so there was nothing to distract me from thinking. I had a ring in my left breast pocket that was making its weight known. I reached in and held it out. I almost dropped it when Sal pulled away. Looking at it then I couldn’t figure out why we had to steal it from the safety deposit box, or replace it with a fake. It was a very basic silver band. Don’t worry, we did nothing wrong technically. The original ring—the one in my hand—belonged to Z at one time. It was stolen from him, so we took it back. The fake ring we put into the box was an exact replica, so it really doesn’t matter. And when I say exact, I mean it. It was genuine silver, and it had the same markings pressed into it. Ireland’s original written language, that's the official description. It’s important that you know these rings are both of the same value financially. The immaterial value however, was the point. Z wanted it back. Needed it back. You haven’t accepted this yet outside of fantasy movies, but anything that has ever belonged to you is a fractal of you, one could say. Conscious or not, any attachment you have to your belongings becomes part of the light that makes those objects physically real. This light can be used to do some pretty fantastical things. If you have the technology, which we do. So I was sitting there trying to figure out what Z wanted with this ring, when Sal broke our tradition.
—It’s an amazing thing, silver. Have I ever told you where it comes from?
Silence on my part.
—It comes from the stars. More specifically collapsed stars, or colliding neutron stars, resulting in a kilonova that leads to a specific process of nuclear fusion. Some say the silver found on earth is the remnants of such events. I don’t say that myself, but I do think its a beautiful possibility to consider don’t you? You hold in your hands the dust of dying stars which has traveled eons of time to be brought out of the depths of the earth and placed around your finger.
Needless to say, at that moment I put the ring back in my pocket so he'd stop talking. Then I did this thing that I often do. Instead of speaking words on my own accord, I mimed the motion of opening a book, closed my eyes, and pretended to read from the invisible pages.
But where shall wisdom be found?
And where is the place of understanding?
Man does not know its worth,
and it is not found in the land of the living.
I knew for a fact that Sal recognized the excerpt. He’s the one that told it to me. I loved it so much I memorized it. He on the other hand, had apparently changed his mind about it. He looked at me coldly in the mirror and switched on the stereo.
—Time is passing too rapidly.
I knew what that meant. So did The WaV listening to our thoughts. Décollage by Les Balayeurs du Désert was about to start flowing through the speakers. I set my invisible book to the side, and accepted the moment. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the song thoroughly. It’s just that Sal doesn’t know it means something completely different to him than it does to me. In his defense, I brought it to his attention in the first place, but I never explained why. The sensation I get from the playing of that particular song stems from a moment of awakening I experienced in Peru many years prior.
I was standing at the top of Cerro San Cristobal, examining the pollution over Lima with the shadow of the cross stretching down the mountain. I saw the decrepit homes—shacks really—piled on the slope. Perforated metal and broken boards were hashed together to hold hundreds of men, women, and children. Laundry strung out. Washed with muddy water. The young played soccer in the trash. All of the blessings I had ever wasted were rattling through my brain at full force. I saw the city centre in the same view; bright and shining, slick with perfect glass; but the hypocrisy of the divided world was extended as far as me. I'd spent the last two years pretending to be a licensed videographer for the Peruvian government. I was heaven set on covertly exposing a trafficking ring run by the head of the national police force that dealt in newborns. The problem was, I funded my little side project with their own money. I knew that in a matter of minutes I would be taken captive, and the only thing I had to look forward to was being thrown into a cell that didn't officially exist. These poor folks below had no idea of the curses brought upon them from those above. I heard the thick and thin slide of tires on a distant dirt road. Engines blaring, hot exhaust. I closed my eyes—counted one, two, three—and let go of all I could survey.
Suddenly the noises stopped.
I turned to look behind me, expecting to see a half circle of guns and dirty white vehicles. Instead I saw a man in a midnight blue suit. He was flickering. Literally, his figure was disappearing and reappearing faster than I could blink. Great, I thought. I’ve already been shot dead. The devil looks different than I expected. Here we go into the bottom of it all.
But no.
He solidified and approached with a smile. He said nothing at first; only lit a cigarette; then with one hand held out...
—Wicked beware.
Certainly I had lost my mind if indeed I hadn’t died.
—This is only the beginning. We’ll be working together from now on. And off too actually.
I was absolutely speechless.
—Here, listen to this.
He handed me a small gemstone, black opal by the looks of it. As soon as it was in my hand, I could hear music. It was distant, but it was there. You can guess the song. We stood there in the shadow of the cross. I began to feel—I'm not sure—I understood something at that exact moment, but I don’t know what it was. It felt as if the place we were in had been moved to a different corner of the universe, and I was somehow infinitely safe. Does that make sense? I’ve been chasing it ever since. And everything that happened next, led to everything that’s happening now.
Me and Sal, driving back to The Rainbow. The ring in my pocket. The opal on my lapel. And it’s time for a drink at the bar.
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