Free Perpetual Motion by Jeff Fulmer

past with concrete film vaults, storage
facilities, and non-descript editing suites. Nearby was a generic
looking mini-studio that was mostly known for providing sound
stages for TV game shows in the 80s.
    From the street level entrance to a converted
costume warehouse in Hollywood, Cynical stepped into an elevator,
pulled the grating shut, and pressed the top button. Rising above
the ground level flat of his shut-in landlord, Mr. Webster, he
continued up, passing the second floor residents: a beautiful young
couple, Devin and Dylan. One was a model, the other an aspiring
actor. He wasn’t sure which was which.
    On the third floor, his abruptly ride stopped
and, opening the grated doors, he came face-to-face with an
intimidating metal door. Looking directly into an eye scanner built
into the side wall, he muffled a sigh of irritation and tried not
to blink. A moment later, he was given a green light as the metal
door unlatched itself, popping open half-an-inch.
    Once inside, he tapped in his personal code
onto a yellow blinking panel, turning off the internal motion
detectors. When activated, if anything bigger than a mouse moved in
the loft, spotlights and video cameras turned on. Even when
deactivated, wireless sensors in the door and windows were always
ready to sound alarms at the slightest disturbance.
    It was a ridiculously elaborate system thanks
to security specialists, Morty and Angelo Neuberg. The father and
son team were very good at what they did, and Cynical had thrown
them quite a bit of lucrative business through the years. As a
gesture of good will (and to test some state-of-the-art equipment),
they had outdone themselves when they had rigged up Cynical’s
humble abode.
    “It’s all backed up by a secondary power
supply,” Angelo had told Cynical. “You know, just in case.”
    “In case of what?” Cynical had asked. “The
Chinese army invades.”
    Since then, Cynical had cursed the Neubergs
on numerous occasions for their overzealous handiwork. However, he
had to admit, he slept well at night, provided the alarms weren’t
accidently tripped.
    The loft was about 2000 feet of mostly open,
unfinished space. Hardwood floors cried out to be refinished, walls
begged for a fresh coat of paint and even plaster in places. The
mismatched appliances weren’t speaking to each other. It was a true
bachelor’s pad; minimalistic to the max. It was also a
well-protected liar for a loner to hide away from the rest of the
world.
    In the kitchen area, he used his culinary
skills to make himself a peanut butter sandwich. Taking his gourmet
meal over to his large wooden desk, he pushed the red blinking
light on his answering machine, sadly noting that he’d been gone
for over a week and all he had to show for it were a couple of
potential business calls, all of which would have to wait.
    He turned on his computer and, while it
booted up, he leaned back in his chair and wondered what he’d
gotten himself into. Mancuso had been convincing, but the whole
story still sounded like folly. Whether the so-called perpetual
motion machine was real or not was immaterial, he reminded himself.
All he had to do was find its inventor.
    A smile crept across his craggy face as he
checked his email. There was a message from Mancuso with a PDF
document attached. One click brought up a surprisingly short,
one-page contract specifying one million dollars if he was able to
locate Michael Avery Dexter and provide his whereabouts to Alfred
Mancuso.
    His own audacity back at the jet made him
laugh out loud. Maybe being in all those casinos had rubbed off him
and he felt compelled to make a big bet. Still, there had been a
pragmatic reason for his decision. Being self-employed, he would
never have a pension or a 401(k), so, seeing his one shot at some
semblance of financial independence, he’d grasped at it.
    Normally, he did a cursory check of any new
employers to make sure they were good for the money. Of course, any
client who could afford