The Teamster

By Quoleena Sbrocca

In the 20th century, Jimmy Hoffa was a man obsessed with power.

The mob wanted him dead, and on July 30, 1975, they hired his friend to do it. But Hoffa was never murdered that night...and the mob didn’t know about time travel.

Every four and five years, invisible doorways open and close. Any living being caught within the magnetic, gravitational field awakens incoherently to a future world. On July 31, 1975, it happened to Jimmy Hoffa, and he awoke in the summer of 2010.

Before he could ever learn the truth of what happened that night, he was imprisoned in a facility, guarded by a team of agents. Would he ever escape to see his kids, grown and years older than he? Or would he forever remain at the will of another, stripped of all sense of a word that he once knew so well?

EXCERPT

The moment he awoke, he knew he was in for a new kind of hell. He was in a new room, and he was being punished. Gone were the elaborate ceiling fixture, the handsome armoire, the lustrous wooden floor, and artistically painted walls. They hadn’t locked him in one of the stark and sterile labs. This wasn’t even a room. It was a prison cell.

He sat on a cot in the middle of a concrete floor. The brick walls were painted a shabby grey. It was far from the stylish, though exhausting tone in his room. The color of these walls could siphon hope. One glance behind him told him the professor meant to do just that. Bolted into the brick were two lengths of thick chain, each about two feet long. Attached to each was a steel cuff, just large enough to fit a grown man’s wrist.

Two metal doors adorned the cell. One of them had a tiny window that did nothing to invite the extrinsic, ambient light. He noticed a light switch mounted next to it. The source was a light bulb that was screwed into a plastic fixture on a crack-lined ceiling. It was painted the same bleak tone as the walls.

“Son-of-a-bitch thinks he can hold Hoffa prisoner?” Jimmy bolted towards the door, though he already knew what he would discover. It was locked. He stood on his toes to peer into the hall. It was just as grim as the cell.

He pounded on the door, his heated breath steaming the glass with each violent exhale. “Hey! Doc! Bustin’ my balls for what? I did what anyone would. No one teaches Hoffa a lesson. I’ll teach you. You hear that, Doc? Professor!”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quoleena Sbrocca
• Release date: Jul 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311973146

Quoleena Sbrocca

Quoleena Sbrocca (pronounced Kwo-LEE-nuh Suh-BROH-kuh) is a Denver native, lover of photography, and dreams of one day owning a horse. Though she is afraid of heights, if she were an animal, she would be an eagle.She has written two time travel/alternate history novels featuring Harriet Tubman and Jimmy Hoffa. Her Young Adult series, The Rayne Trilogy, is a B.R.A.G. Medallion honoree. Luminescence (The Rayne Trilogy #1) and SLIP both earned a Readers’ Favorite 5-star review.Quoleena has loved creative writing since she was a child. In 3rd grade, she won a scholastic award for her illustrated short story, “Little Girl Lost.” She wrote poetry and short stories during her guitar-playing college days in San Diego, all of which she keeps buried in a box of memories.Her favorite books to read tend to be in the days of horse-drawn carriages and noble courts. And she absolutely loves books set in worlds void of technology and unlike our own, with swords and magic and mystical creatures.

Book preview

For my boys

Angelo, Nico, & Phoenix

Time travel is as natural a phenomenon as the ocean tides, the changing of seasons, and the perpetual motion of the Earth. There is no need for time travel machines, devices, or any intervention from humankind to make it exist. It happens as elementally as the death of a star, as purely as the impetuous winds. – The Teamster

Contents

Title Page/Copyright

Dedication & Epigraph

I  The Pickup: July 30, 1975 

II  Doubles 

III Bunkmates: August 12, 2010 

IV  The Lake House 

V  Metamorphosis

VI  The Visitor: October 10, 2010

VII  Psychosoma: Summer 2011 

VIII  Rock & Roll and Nuggets 

IX  The Rally 

X  Deterred 

XI  The Commissioned: 2014

XII  The Color of Emeralds 

XIII  AWOL 

XIV  The Benefactor

XV  The Return of Jimmy Hoffa: Spring 2016

THE CROSSING HOUR

UNIVERSE OF TIME TRAVEL

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

AUTHOR LINKS

I

The Pickup: July 30, 1975

A maroon Mercury carried three men towards their destination, on a sweltering day in the suburbs of Detroit. The rear passenger, Frank, shifted in his seat to stretch his long legs. He eased a brawny hand into the pocket of his suit coat, his fingers fiddling with a small, cylindrical object. The warmth of a concealed pistol nuzzled his waist, primed for his latest job. He was a hit man, and he was good at it. He had tried to prevent the job from happening, up until the moment he’d received the call that morning. But accepting wasn’t a matter of choice. No one ever said no to the mob unless he was Jimmy Hoffa, and today the mob wanted Hoffa dead.

Frank pulled his hand from his pocket to wipe a sweaty brow. He stared into the rearview mirror to attract his cohort’s attention. When the driver’s eyes met his, Frank gave a wink and said, Almost there.

Behind the wheel was a thirty-something male of short stature with limp, brown hair. His name was Charles, but everyone called him Chuckie. His button-down shirt and slacks clung to a sweat-saturated, obese body. He glanced in the rearview mirror then at the man sitting next to him. With a wavering voice and rapid beating of lashes that advertised his anxiety, he asked, Ya think Jimmy’s still at the restaurant?

Yeah, he’s there, all right. He ain’t gonna be happy he was kept waitin’ though, Frank answered.

Or that the situation has changed, Tommy, the front passenger, added. He flaunted a curt half-smile, drumming a hand on the windowsill to a pompous, internal beat. Tommy was a male of average height and slim build. His head was covered with a curly mass of dark-brown hair that boasted his Sicilian heritage. His thick, angular brows gave a constant sinister air to his eyes, while his full lips juxtaposed with a false allure.

Better let me do the talking, Tommy, Frank warned. "Jimmy’s already gonna be ticked off no one showed up. Not to mention you’re sittin’ up there."

Ey, why’re ya bustin’ my balls, Irish? Whaddya want from me, eh? You told me to sit up here. You said he would be less apprehensive back there next to you.

Just don’t say nothin’ to ’im unless he speaks to you first, all right, Tommy?

Yeah, yeah. I got it. Relax, Tommy said with a flippant wave of the hand.

Now, we ain’t got much time before we’re at the restaurant, so let’s review. Chuckie, after you drop me and Jimmy at the house, beat it and hop out around the corner. Then get your ass back there and help. Hitmobile’s already in the driveway, keys in the ignition. As for me, I clip Jimmy first thing, then the brothers arrive and clean while me and Chuckie bag ’im and bring ’im to you, Tommy. Make sure you’re ready for us at the funeral parlor. It won’t take us too long to get there.

"What do I look like, eh? Just make sure you don’t have no change of heart. I don’t have to tell you what, if you do. Same goes for you, Chuckie."

I just wanna get this over with is all, Chuckie said, forcing a confident air.

The luxury Mercury circled the lot of the Machus Red Fox, a suburban Detroit restaurant whose dishes were as rich as its clientele. Normally bustling with business, today it was closed for a private meeting that was never going to happen.

The car slowed to a stop in front of a man of late-middle age, whose personality and hunger for power quadrupled what he offered in stature. He wore a dark-blue, short-sleeve sports shirt, blue pants, and a pair of expensive, black Gucci loafers. His face twitched in irritation, and his eyes flared with caution.

There’s Jimmy, and he don’t look none too pleased, Chuckie said.

Frank leaned across the back seat to greet his friend. Heyya, Jimmy. Sorry about the change of plans. Meetin’ spot’s been moved. They sent us to take ya there.

"Moved? What the fuck, Frank? Hoffa’s been standing out here in this goddamned heat for fifteen minutes! No one keeps Hoffa waiting." Jimmy’s new habit was to refer to himself by the surname that had once wielded absolute authority. But that power was slipping, and today he meant to take it back.

It was last-minute, Jimmy, Frank said, his eyes weighted with apology.

Jimmy inspected the three passengers. He peered at the driver for signs of betrayal. His eyes then shifted to Tommy, a man he mistrusted and loathed. He could almost sense the late-afternoon heat cooling the mobster’s boiling intentions. He then sought reassurance in the posture of his friend in the rear seat. When Frank offered a reassuring wink and fleeting nod, Jimmy relented and climbed in, relieved to be free from the afternoon sun.

Well, somebody better get talking. Where the fuck are we going?

To a meetin’ house just a few minutes from here, Jimmy, Frank answered. Just me and you’ll be goin’ in.

You know Hoffa don’t like games, Frank, he hissed.

I know, Jimmy. It’s disrespectful what they done. Keepin’ you waitin’ and all.

Jimmy grunted in response. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the moisture from his face. As he stuffed it in his pocket, he found himself glaring at the back of Tommy’s head. I see you’ve made yourself comfortable in my seat. How’s the view up there?

You bustin’ my balls now, too, Jimmy? Frank, tell ’im it was all your idea.

Don’t bother, Frank. I don’t give a shit. Let’s just get on with it. I told Jo I’d be home by four.

The vehicle soon slowed on a quiet suburban street and stopped in front of a two-story, brick house with maroon siding and yellow trim.

Okay, Jimmy. We’re here, Chuckie announced.

Jimmy flung the car door open and stepped onto the curb. He thrust his hands on his hips as he surveyed the house, searching for signs of anyone inside it. He waited for Frank to join him on the sidewalk before stomping up the concrete path.

They’re expectin’ us, so just go right in, Jimmy.

Frank held out a hand to usher his friend in front of him. Jimmy acknowledged the gesture and climbed the porch stairs, mentally rehearsing his speech of rebuke. He reached out to grab the doorknob, and as he pushed it open, he felt a quick pricking sensation on the back of his neck. He lifted a hand to swat the offending insect, but his arm fell limply to his side before reaching its target.

He stumbled forward, his legs collapsing beneath him. He sank to his knees, his body becoming numb. He summoned the strength to blink as his eyes flooded with liquid dread. A deafening blast echoed in the halls, sending a fiery sensation of pierced flesh in his right shoulder. As his body slumped to the ground, his eyelids closed of their own will, and the pain in his shoulder subsided as quickly as it began. He could neither feel his body nor the floor that he knew was beneath him. He could only sense the pounding of his heart and the smell of dank and dust that invaded his nose. He willed his lips to part, but the attempt was futile. He no longer felt pain. He no longer felt anything. All he could do was think, smell, and hear. Thinking was pointless, and smelling made him nauseous. So he relied on his only useful sense. He listened.

A lumbering, shuffling footfall echoed in the room then ceased. His inert body coveted a flinch at the unmistakable sound of two rounds being fired through a silencer. Then came the rustling of plastic, the clasping of metal, and the rushed, whispering voice of a man he thought was a friend.

Don’t worry, Jimmy. Sorry about this, but you won’t feel a thing. Not now, at least.

Frank’s voice silenced as two separate pairs of footsteps grew louder on the creaky, wooden floor. A mocking, familiar voice said, Nice work, Frank. Ouch. And here I thought you two was friends.

Just drop the bag, Frank’s voice growled.

A swish and a scuff on the floor were replaced by another voice that said, Here. Knock yourself out.

Jimmy festered in rage as he listened to the exchange. He easily identified the new voices. They belonged to two mob brothers named Sal and Gabe.

More words echoed in the distance as footsteps carried the brothers’ voices down a hall. Oh, and if ya happen to spot the shells in the chunks of skull there, pick ’em up, would ya?

Don’t tell me how’da clean, ya fuck.

Ey, relax, Frank. Sal didn’t mean no disrespect. We’ll be in the back gettin’ dolled up. Ey, and why ain’t Chuckie here yet?

You let me worry about him.

Well, just hurry it up, would ya?

When the bustle subsided, Frank’s voice whispered, We’re almost outta here, Jimmy.

He detected a distant plodding that gradually increased in volume and then the sound of hurried, hefty footsteps.

Took ya long enough, Chuckie. You just had to run around the block.

"Sorry, Frank. Oh, holy—so much blood and flesh and—"

Try to get a hold of yourself, ya big pansy ass. Help me bag ’im.

A strange sensation flooded Jimmy’s inner ear, and he realized that he was being rolled. Hurried footsteps echoed in the hall and then Chuckie’s panicked voice. Oh god, Frank! Jimmy ain’t gonna like that.

The dead don’t get a say, Chuckie, Frank yelled then whispered, I’m gonna pound you in your fuckin’ face if you don’t shut the fuck up.

Sorry! The brothers are here?

Yeah, Einstein. They’re in the back.

When a long, steady zipping sound resulted in muffled breaths and shuffling of feet, Jimmy knew he was inside a body bag.

How’re we gonna do this, Frank? How’re we gonna pull this off?

You can start by shuttin’ the fuck up and grabbin’ an end.

What about the brothers?

"Now, Chuckie, for fuck sake."

Holy Mother of God. I’m sorry for this, Jimmy. Forgive me.

You can seek absolution later. Bend your ass over and grab his legs.

From the grunts and sensation of swaying, Jimmy knew he’d been hoisted off the ground.

Frank, can you go first? Frank?

"You’re a real piece of work, Chuckie. I gotta carry the heavy end and walk my ass backwards? Just get movin’. We ain’t got all day."

More grunts and wheezes of complaint blended with the scuffling of feet on floorboards, until Jimmy heard Sal’s sneering voice. Here. Allow me the pleasure of getting the door for yous gentlemen.

You’re a real prince, Sal, Frank growled.

You’re lookin’ sharp as a pig in a pile of shit, Chuckie. Glad to see you finally made it here, Gabe jeered.

Through the thudding of feet on stairs, Jimmy listened as Sal continued the taunt. "What’re ya sayin’, eh? Ya mean, two pigs in a pile of shit. A regular tough guy, that Chuckie."

Mocking laughter harmonized with Chuckie’s whining words. Go slow, Frank, so I don’t drop his legs.

Quit bein’ a pain in my ass. You only got one more step.

Ugh. Frank. I gotta take a rest.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Chuckie. You’re damn near useless, you know that?

I ain’t never carried a body before.

Quit your gripin’. We’re almost there. Ya think you can move your ass five more feet?

A hoarse whimper was the only response amidst the soft plodding of feet on terrain.

Now, do ya think you can support his weight for a few seconds, so I can get the gate and the trunk?

Let me get my grip first.

Put all of that meat of yours to good use. Plant your ass against that wall and hold ’im with your arms.

Ugh. He’s heavy.

Now, don’t move.

Metal clinked on metal. Wood squeaked and grated over a hard surface. The unmistakable creak of an opening car trunk accompanied Frank’s irritated voice. We gotta pick ’im up high enough so we can get ’im in. Think you can handle that, Chuckie?

Neighbors ain’t gonna see us, right?

Nobody’s home, and the trunk’s blockin’ the street from view. Why do ya think I backed way the hell up here? Now, shut up and lift.

"Wait, Frank. If we put ’im in on this end, how’re we gonna get that out later?"

"For fuck sake, Chuckie. Just lift."

Sensations of swaying were followed by a bang and muffled voices.

"Where do ya think you’re going? You can’t squeeze through, Chuckie. You ain’t gonna fit. Go around the back and meet me out front. And run."

Why can’t you just pull the car up some?

’Cause someone’s gotta latch the gate. Now get movin’.

Jimmy studied the sounds that followed, his mind a seesaw of confusion and fury. As a car door opened and closed and the motor rumbled in his ears, he missed the sensation of muscles that should have been clenched in panic. Soon after, another opening and closing of a car door sounded with the rapid panting of the man he knew was Chuckie.

That’s the most exercise you’ve had since you was a kid, I bet.

Yeah, guess so.

Good shit! Did ya eat a dead rat or somethin’? Roll down your window.

The scraping of metal on concrete jarred him from the conversation. He anticipated the sensation of tingling teeth from the grating noise, but it churned in his brain instead, reigniting his temper. When his mouth refused to unleash any words of rage, he knew he had no choice but to surrender to the neutral power of listening.

And no matter what, Chuckie, deny till you die. You never saw Jimmy today.

I know, Frank…But they’re the Feds. If they come sniffin’ around—

You’ll bend over and let ’em take a nice, long whiff. Just you stick to the story, no matter what. Feds can’t prove a thing as long as you keep your yap shut. Remember, both our asses are on the line from both ends.

You think the brothers were convinced?

We ain’t been iced, have we?

No. Guess it worked. Uh…So Frank…Jimmy ain’t gonna be happy we stashed ’im in the trunk with —Ow!

’Scuse my fist. There was a mosquito on your nose. A big, juicy motherfucker. You were about to say somethin’?

Uh…Never mind.

Good. Now, we’re almost there. Next block.

Leave it to them to get a hold of a funeral parlor that’s so close. Right, Frank?

It ain’t their first time.

The conversation ended, the engine was silenced, and two car doors slammed shut. The crunching of gravel ceased at the sound of the trunk opening. A halting swish of fabric on fabric wafted above him through Frank’s grunts and Chuckie’s groans.

Now keep your yap shut when we’re in there, or I’ll sock you in the throat.

Ugh. He’s heavier, Frank.

Hey! You hear what I said?

Yeah, Frank. You do all the talkin’. Tommy scares me, anyhow—Hold on Frank. I’m losin’ my grip.

The trunk door closed, and when the sounds of physical struggle faded, Jimmy was left in silence and his bodily prison. Shrouded in darkness from eyes that would not open, he needed answers but was powerless to demand them. Why did Frank shoot him three times? How was he still alive when the brothers were convinced he was dead? Were Frank and Chuckie plotting against the mob? Before he could learn the answers, he would have to survive the ordeal. Zipped in a bag, alone and locked in a trunk, he had no choice but to wait.

II

Doubles

He knew he was lying on a long, fabric-covered seat. As the moving vehicle announced each bump and dip in the road, the base of his skull and right shoulder burned with a dizzying pain. He wanted his eyes to open, and when they obeyed, he shrieked and bolted upright. The car swerved, sending him crashing into the back of the driver’s seat. But he didn’t care. He was still alive, and he could feel.

Whoa there, Jimmy! Don’t want Chuckie here to crash, he heard Frank say.

He