My beeper went off in the middle of my Nova Scotia vacation. I hate when that happens. It was a Prof. Erik Cone from Stevens Institute in Hoboken, head of the physics department. He desperately needed my assistance.
"I charge $250 a day, plus expenses," I told him.
"I know," he said. "We had you thoroughly checked out."
Le me introduce myself. Ike Sosa, Quark Hunter, licensed and ready to travel. Except now I was exhausted from a tricky case in Antwerp involving thousands of rogue subatomic particles escaping from a government stronghold.
I sighed.
"I’ll be there in the morning," I said.
I’d never been to Hoboken, but after a brisk walk around town, I could see where missing quarks could be a problem. Too many quaint tiny cubbyholes in which to hide, blend in with electrons, eventually disappear forever.
I met the professor in his office off Hudson. He looked more like a world class skuller, standing over six feet with broad shoulders and powerful arms. His demeanor suggested anything but confidence. Closer to panic.
"Let me see it," he said. I pulled out my Quark Detector, a small box out of which I yanked a vacuum cleaner-type hose, pointing it directly at him. He flinched.
"Don’t worry; it’s off," I said. "It works using magnetic fields and light detectors. I could spend half the day explaining, but you want your quarks back."
He stared at the thing and rolled his eyes. "You’ve got to be kidding."
I threw him against his desk.
"My father invented this equipment. Are you implying my dad was incompetent?"
He backed off. My dad was my hero, this hemisphere’s first quark hunter, ridiculed for years.
"How’d these babies disappear?"
"We think it was an inside job," Cone said. "Layoffs, disgruntled lab assistants. The school is conducting its own investigation. We just need you to return what’s ours."
He gave me a list. I sucked in my breath. "We we’re looking at over 50,000 bottom and top quarks," I said, "10,000 w bosons, another 5,000 z bosons and an indeterminate number of neutrinos. What about muons?"
"We could care less about muons. We want our quarks back."
"Give me a clue, a guy, someone who might know something."
"Hmm. Frankie Sanders, known as a heavy hitter in the quark black market. He usually hangs out at this address. We think he knows something."
"One more thing," I said. "What are you building out there?"
"New athletic complex."
I nodded, not sure whether to believe him. An hour later I stood outside Benny Tudino’s on Washington Street looking for a short, wiry man with a penchant for bomber jackets. I didn’t wait long.
"Sanders. Hey, don’t walk away. We got business."
"Who’s we?"
I flashed my badge. He backed off.
"I don’t know nuthin’ about no quarks."
I forced $50 on him. He grinned.
"That’ll get you two slices at Benny’s."
I whipped another 20 into his palm.
"That’ll get you a diet soda."
I smacked him. "One more smart remark gets you loosened molars. Spill it."
He grimaced and gave me an uptown address. "I hear there’s a group of quark sympathizers up there."
"You’d better have heard right or I’ll be back."
I hoofed it up to the address, which turned out to be the Hoboken Historical Museum, stuck between a CVS and a Kings Supermarket. I grabbed a pamphlet from a stand outside and read: "Hoboken — Father of Foam" – Lecture by E. Adler Furman. Not many people are aware that this country’s first foam rubber factory was opened in 1921 by businessman Cyrus Pupkin right on Monroe Street." I stopped reading. I had no time for history lessons.
I kicked open the door even though it was unlocked. Gets attention. Flashing my badge, I ordered everyone to remain perfectly calm and to stay in their seats. Only a dozen apt pupils comprised the audience. A bespectacled woman in her 40s approached me.
"Sir, you can’t just barge in here…."
"Sure I can. We can wrap this up fast, lady. Where are the quarks?"
A frowning man with a clipboard charged up.
"I’m Joe, and what quarks might you be referring to?"
"Don’t stall me, Aqualung. You and Bambi here better give me what I want now, or I close this place down." Then, I added, "I have jurisdiction. What’s in that room?"
"Storage."
"My instincts say otherwise."
"Please," the woman begged, grabbing my leg. I dragged her across the floor.
"It’s not as if they had a choice," she pleaded. "It’s not like they could be protons."
I kicked open that door and flashed my detector. Needless to say it was a gold mine of subatomic particles, fleeing in all directions. It took me almost an hour to vacuum them up. On my way out, the clipboard guy grabbed my arm.
"Did you ask about the construction? What’d they say – parking lot?"
"Athletic complex."
He released a half-sob, half-guffaw.
"Do you know what they’re really up to?"
He put his face close to mine.
"A giant particle accelerator, that’s what they’re building. Not even the students know."
I shrugged.
"Not my concern."
"Animal!" the woman shouted as I flagged a cab.
Back at Stevens, feeling strangely betrayed, I confronted Prof. Cone. "It’s out of your expertise…"
"Don’t hand me that crap, Cone. Let me ask you something. If someone designed a machine capable or hurling 1,000 physicists directly at each other so they explode and create 10,000 botanists, how fast would you get your academic butt out of here?"
"You going soft, Sosa? What’s a lousy quark or neutrino to you? It pays your salary, bud."
He was right. I handed him my card.
"Send the check to this P.O. Box. And upgrade your %$*@&*!! security. I got bigger jobs waiting."
If his door weren’t already open I would’ve kicked it, too.
Outside, I lit a Camel and stared out at the Hudson. This is what I do, and I do it damn good. Another job, another check. It’s my life and I don’t regret a moment. If I didn’t, someone else would.
I walked down Hudson piling up reasons and rationale. My beeper went off, I threw down the cig and whipped out my cellular.
A breakout in Finland. I’m on the next plane. – Joe Del Priore