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Gun For Hire
by
Brett-James said gently, “Hardly for one hundred and seventy years, Mr. Prantera.”
Reston-Farrell said, “I am afraid we are confusing you. Briefly, we have transported you, I suppose one might say, from your own era to ours.”
Joe Prantera had never been exposed to the concept of time travel. He had simply never associated with anyone who had ever even remotely considered such an idea. Now he said, “You mean, like, I been asleep all that time?”
“Not exactly,” Brett-James said, frowning.
Reston-Farrell said, “Suffice to say, you are now one hundred and seventy-three years after the last memory you have.”
Joe Prantera’s mind suddenly reverted to those last memories and his eyes narrowed dangerously. He felt suddenly at bay. He said, “Maybe you guys better let me in on what’s this all about.”
Reston-Farrell said, “Mr. Prantera, we have brought you from your era to perform a task for us.”
Joe stared at him, and then at the other. He couldn’t believe he was getting through to them. Or, at least, that they were to him.
Finally he said, “If I get this, you want me to do a job for you.”
“That is correct.”
Joe said, “You guys know the kind of jobs I do?”
“That is correct.”
“Like hell you do. You think I’m stupid? I never even seen you before.” Joe Prantera came abruptly to his feet. “I’m gettin’ outta here.”
For the second time, Reston-Farrell said, “Where would you go, Mr. Prantera?”
Joe glared at him. Then sat down again, as abruptly as he’d arisen.
* * * * *
“Let’s start all over again. I got this straight, you brought me, some screwy way, all the way … here. O.K., I’ll buy that. I seen what it looks like out that window–” The real comprehension was seeping through to him even as he talked. “Everybody I know, Jessie, Tony, the Kid, Big Louis, everybody, they’re dead. Even Big Louis.”
“Yes,” Brett-James said, his voice soft. “They are all dead, Mr. Prantera. Their children are all dead, and their grandchildren.”
The two men of the future said nothing more for long minutes while Joe Prantera’s mind whirled its confusion.
Finally he said, “What’s this bit about you wanting me to give it to some guy.”
“That is why we brought you here, Mr. Prantera. You were … you are, a professional assassin.”
“Hey, wait a minute, now.”
Reston-Farrell went on, ignoring the interruption. “There is small point in denying your calling. Pray remember that at the point when we … transported you, you were about to dispose of a contemporary named Alphonso Annunziata-Rossi. A citizen, I might say, whose demise would probably have caused small dismay to society.”
They had him pegged all right. Joe said, “But why me? Why don’t you get some heavy from now? Somebody knows the ropes these days.”
Brett-James said, “Mr. Prantera, there are no professional assassins in this age, nor have there been for over a century and a half.”
“Well, then do it yourself.” Joe Prantera’s irritation over this whole complicated mess was growing. And already he was beginning to long for the things he knew–for Jessie and Tony and the others, for his favorite bar, for the lasagne down at Papa Giovanni’s. Right now he could have welcomed a calling down at the hands of Big Louis.
Reston-Farrell had come to his feet and walked to one of the large room’s windows. He looked out, as though unseeing. Then, his back turned, he said, “We have tried, but it is simply not in us, Mr. Prantera.”
“You mean you’re yella?”
“No, if by that you mean afraid. It is simply not within us to take the life of a fellow creature–not to speak of a fellow man.”
Joe snapped: “Everything you guys say sounds crazy. Let’s start all over again.”
Brett-James said, “Let me do it, Lawrence.” He turned his eyes to Joe. “Mr. Prantera, in your own era, did you ever consider the future?”