by Tom Andry
"Well, I'll hold out for the production model." I started the car. "That reminds me, why don't you ever try to sell any of this stuff?"
Ted looked confused. Given the 'straight off the cover of a romance novel' face he was wearing, he looked dashingly confused. "Why?"
"Oh, I don't know," I replied. "Make money, better humanity, fame, fortune, all that stuff."
"I don't get it." Ted went back to examining the orb.
"Forget it." I adjusted the mirrors waiting for Ted to remember to lower the trapdoor. "Um, Ted?"
He looked up.
"A little help here?"
He nodded and checked a screen. "Bob, why don't you ever call me Tinkerer?" He was obviously satisfied with what he saw as he pressed a few buttons and the trapdoor came down with a hydraulic hiss. "Everyone else does."
I revved the engine, shifting into reverse, "That's not your name, Ted."
I backed out into the night. Sunrise was only a few hours away and I needed to get a bit of shuteye before my meeting with my client.
* * *
Chapter 3
I pulled myself from my bed, still fully clothed from the night before. It wasn't that it had been so long or stressful, I mean, anymore than usual, it was that I hadn’t had much downtime since my previous job. Mr. What's-his-name, fire dude, had initially showed up with a stack of cash and a "She just left, follow her" timeline. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and straightened my shirt. Entering the bathroom, I hit the switch and waited as the fluorescent light flickered to life.
I looked like hell; really, I do most of the time. Dark, close-cropped hair framing a square face with smallish eyes, making my nose look overly large. Thin lips and a slight cleft to my chin are the only features that set me apart from the rest of the thirty-something males in my peer group. My hair was messy in that 'did he just wake up or did he do that on purpose' sort of way, which was coming back in vogue. My white, collared, button-down dress shirt looked like I'd slept in it. I could either throw a jacket back over it or change it. I glanced back at my bed. In the indentation my body had left was my jacket. So much for that. I removed the shirt and grabbed my toothbrush.
I am not muscular - at least not compared to the supers I often work with - but I’m not unhealthy. The stereotype of the overweight PI isn't exactly untrue. Many of my competitors seem to live on a steady diet of coffee, doughnuts, and hot dogs. I just don’t have the time for it. Coffee makes me pee during stakeouts and I can't eat a hotdog or doughnut without getting it all over myself. I've taken to bringing trail mix and jerky on stakeouts. And honestly, you can only eat so much of that stuff.
I splashed some water on my face to complete my morning ablutions and turned to my closet for a fresh shirt. If I were a super, my costume would be a white shirt, black jacket, black slacks, black belt (with the Inertial Dampener built in, which was still plugged in), and patent leather shoes. Black, of course. No tie. That would just be too formal.
The jacket, slacks, and shoes were treated by Ted to be resistant to fire and cold, plus they keep me safe from electricity by funneling it to the ground through the shoes. Ted built an early version of his PPP into the clothes so that I can have them project a variety of styles. Doesn't remove wrinkles, however. He also gave me a long overcoat that is supposed to be projectile-proof and better insulated, and a hat that is supposed to be as protective as a motorcycle helmet. I rarely wear them. It's mostly too hot around here for overcoats and I don't like hats. Too cliché for my tastes.
I grabbed my jacket off the bed, exited my bedroom trying to shake the wrinkles out of it, passed through my kitchen, and entered my office through the hidden door in the waiting room.
My flat is a huge, open room above a string of businesses and restaurants in the heart of downtown. It's a bit loud during the day, but at night it becomes a ghost town, if you consider the occasional whore and drug addict ghosts. The space is situated so that my living areas are at the back with an office and waiting room in the front. Living where you work makes for a convenient commute, but it can drive you crazy if you don't have clearly delineated spaces. This is helped by a hidden door from the waiting room to the rest of the space creating the illusion that it is only an office for clients.
On my desk was a steaming cup of coffee. I smiled and threw my jacket over the back of my chair. Khan was in early today.
"You slept in today," a voice called out from behind a plant near the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street.
"Really?" I looked at my watch as he exited from behind the plant with a dusting cloth in his hand. "Seems early to me."
"You think anything before lunch is early," Khan smiled.
Khan is the product of very good breeding. His parents are two of the most powerful supers in the world. They had high hopes for their son (as evidenced by his name). Unfortunately, those haven't borne out yet. Khan has dark, thick, close-cut hair that he pulls forward in a style that I call "The Caesar." His dark eyebrows, pale blue eyes, and soul patch just below perfectly-formed lips have had more than one of my female (and a few male) customers swooning. When he smiles, you can't help but smile back. He is naturally muscular and a few inches over six feet. Basically, he is a coat of white paint and a fig leaf from a Michelangelo.
"Did you get what you needed last night?"
"Yeah, we're good," I responded. "Did you develop the photos?"
He nodded, "They're drying now."
"Great."
"That cop called again."
"Again? Man, that guy just won't take a hint."
Khan shrugged, "You might want to take it next time. Your calendar is pretty empty."
"I'll think about it."
"Plus, weren't you supposed to take his call when this last job came up?"
I shrugged, "That reminds me, how much time do we have before the client is due to come in?"
Khan let out a small laugh under his breath, "You forgot his name, didn't you?"
I scowled, "Maybe."
"You're going to kick yourself."
Khan waited until I turned away from my desk where I was clearing away papers so that I could get to my desktop calendar/blotter.
"What?" I demanded.
"Flamer." Khan's smile grew exponentially.
"You're kidding."
"Nope. I double checked it." Khan handed over a small stack of papers, "Chose it himself."
"Wow. Does he know..."
Khan's hands went up in mock surrender, "Hey, did you see the size of that guy? You tell him."
I shook my head in disbelief as I started shuffling through the data Khan had compiled, separating the pages from each end along the perforated lines. The logo at the top of the pages indicated they were all from The Bulwark's private database. As if anyone else had the records they did.
The Bulwark are supposed to be a group of the best supers in the world that have banded together to protect the planet. They supposedly have secret bases all over the world, but I knew they really live in a space station that orbits the planet. Having an ex who is a member makes me privy to certain little known facts. Having an ex who left behind her access terminal, whether by accident or not I don't know, makes getting information about clients and targets a heck of a lot easier.
I scanned the green and white striped pages, tossing bits of paper that hadn't separated cleanly onto my desk as I read: Flamer - real name, Shawn O'Malley. Typical "brick" - super strength Level 5, invulnerability Level 12. Strength enhanced by fire to near Level 8. Vulnerability to cold - confirmed. Possible vulnerability to electricity, water. Immolation may increase invulnerability and reduce vulnerabilities as well - unconfirmed. No transportation power in evidence. Level 3 citizen.
Geesh, he works as a bouncer at an Irish pub as his cover identity. What a tool. With the salary he gets from the Super State, he shouldn't have to work at all. Probably thinks he'll run across the next plot to take over the world in the bar. Level 3 citizen means he lives better than most tippys with
out having to do anything but show up when The Bulwark occasionally call. Makes sense that he has a partnership with Cindar; she complements him well. All she has to do is light him up and get out of his way.
"When did you say this guy was due in?" I called out. Just then, I heard a ring from the intercom.
Khan thumbed over his shoulder, "That should be him."
"Great," I scanned the documents one last time. "Close the door on your way out."
I grabbed my jacket off the back of my chair and shrugged it on. It was a wrinkly mess, but it couldn't be helped. Ted had treated the material so it'd straighten out eventually, but it would take some time. I slid the last of the paper fragments from the printout into the garbage but gave up on straightening my desk. I set the papers Khan had given me face down, grabbed my coffee, and took a gulp.
The phone buzzed. Khan's artificially amplified voice came through, "A Mr. Flamer here for you, Bob."
I pressed the intercom button, "Great, send him in." I half bent down as Flamer walked through the door. I then reversed direction as if I had been sitting the whole time. I stretched out my hand to shake my client's.
Flamer, or Shawn O'Malley, was huge in every sense of the word. He towered over my five foot, ten inches by at least a foot, maybe more. He was probably three feet wide at the shoulders and practically exploded with muscles. Flaming red hair cut in a flat-top and spiked up topped his head. He wore a red mini beard that came down from his sideburns, traced his jawline to the sides of his chin, then cut up and connected with his mustache with a small soul patch under his bottom lip (I'm sure there's a name for that style of facial hair, I'm just not sure what it is). Disconcertingly pale red eyes that matched nearly perfectly the freckles that covered his face and upper body scanned me as he shook my hand gruffly. He wore an eye mask tied behind his head, some uncomfortable-to-look-at spandex pants and large work boots. Oh, and the spandex and work boots were pink.
"Mr. Moore," his voice sounded of years of drinking and smoking, "what did you find out?"
"Go ahead and take a seat, Mr. O'Malley," I replied, motioning to a chair in front of my desk as I returned to my seat.
The guest chair was heavily reinforced for some of my heavyweight clients and was bolted to the floor for some of my hot-headed ones when I got tired of replacing windows and chairs. When I looked up, Shawn was rooted to the spot, his eyes wide and face flushed.
"Oh, please, Shawn, you must have heard of me or you wouldn't have come."
"How did you..." Flamer stammered. The muscles in his neck and shoulders started to ripple. His pecs and lats convulsed as he clenched his fists unconsciously.
I never understood why supers insisted on being half-dressed all the time. Aside from just looking like a dork, their body language gave away way too much if they weren't careful. In the thirty year history of supers, you can count the "careful" ones on one hand.
"Calm down, Mr. O'Malley, I have no intention of ever revealing your identity to anyone. Ever." I picked up a piece of paper off my desk and pretended to look at it, "I just like to know who I'm working for."
Slowly the tension drained from the super.
Silently, I exhaled. With the "brick" types, you never knew what to expect. Those guys (and sometimes girls) loved to lose their tempers. Now that he realized that I knew who he was, we could continue.
"You had a question you wanted answered," I began. "But first, there's the issue of my payment."
Shawn leaned forward, "You followed her?"
I nodded.
"You saw what she was doing?"
I nodded again.
"Tell me!" he practically shouted.
"Please, Mr. O'Malley," I leaned back in my chair, "let's dispense with the formalities first."
He grimaced and reached behind him.
What I thought was a belt was, in actuality, a fanny-pack. I coughed into my hand, covering my smile.
"There," he practically threw the other half of the money at me. "Now tell me, is she cheating on me?"
"In a word, Mr. O'Malley, no." I gathered up the money and pressed the comm button on the phone. "Khan, bring in the pictures, please."
Flamer looked shocked, "What do you mean, no?"
"Well, I can't say for sure, but you asked me to follow her for a night and see what she was doing."
Khan entered with the pictures and handed them to me. In return, I handed him the money. On his way out, he noticed Flamer's fanny-pack and practically ran out the last two steps.
"I can tell you, she most definitely isn't out sidekicking with someone else."
"What? Well..." he stammered. "What the hell is she doing?"
I smiled and waited a few moments locking my eyes with his, "Having sex."
It looked like I had slapped him. I couldn't help but smile. He looked away, processing what I'd just told him.
"Wa... wa... with who?"
"Now, Mr. O'Malley, that wasn't part of our agreement."
He started to stand, face and chest flushed with emotion.
"Now, don't argue, Mr. O'Malley. You were convinced that whatever she was doing last night was what she'd been sneaking off to do for the last few weeks. You wanted to know what she was doing and I told you."
"But she could still be sidekicking with someone else!"
"If you'd like me to continue following her, I'd be happy to discuss with you a new contract."
"But I paid you a fortune!"
"Let's be reasonable, Mr. O'Malley, you paid me a small fortune. You had to because you wanted me to drop everything I was doing and run after her." I stood as well, "You see, what you super-types fail to understand is that out here, in the real world, you don't go off half-cocked. I did that for you because you offered me enough compensation to make it worth my while. What I got for it was a car that may have to be completely scrapped, the ire of a super much more powerful than you, and I almost lost my life. Now, if you feel you've been unfairly treated, I suggest you take it up with The Bulwark. Perhaps they'll come to your aid."
Flamer sat back down with a plop. Finally taller than him (though only barely) I watched as he seemed to deflate. He knew The Bulwark would never side with him, not when I had a signed contract. Plus, with the work I'd done for half of them, they'd need an ironclad case before ever moving against me.
"No, that's okay," O'Malley squeaked, "you're right, I was just caught a bit off guard."
I sat back down, "I understand, Shawn. I get this all the time."
"I bet you do," he muttered, quietly.
"So, do you want me to keep following her?"
It was pointless since Samantha had already confirmed Cindar wasn't sidekicking for her, but I wasn't about to turn down additional money. Plus, she could be sidekicking with someone else. I doubted it, but maybe.
"Well," he thought for a moment, "hey, don't I get to see the pictures?"
Honestly, by this point I would have bet that he'd forget to ask. I had already shuffled the raciest picture that didn't include a clear shot of Whisper's face to the top of the pile. I handed it over.
Shawn's eyes got wide. "But... but... that's a..."
"Yes, Mr. O'Malley," I smiled watching the emotions run across his face, "a girl. She was having sex. With a girl."
He shifted in his chair. After a moment, he opened his mouth.
"And no, you can't keep the picture," I replied before he could ask.
He carefully lowered the picture and set it on my desk. He stood slowly and I averted my eyes.
I really don't understand why they insist on wearing spandex.
He turned and walked out of my office without saying a word. From the ajar door, I heard O'Malley say, "Bob Moore? What kind of name is that for a PI?"
Khan's voice, "He gets that a lot." A moment later and Khan was back in my office occupying the chair recently vacated by the pink spandex-wearing super. "Oh. My. God." Khan could barely contain himself, "Did you see him? He’d better get that under control or they'll pick
him up for indecent exposure.”
I shrugged. "What did you do with the money?"
"Oh, I chucked it in the safe," he replied. "We're scheduled for a pickup this afternoon." He stretched, "I could run it down there for you if you're worried..." He left the suggestion hanging. He was fishing for my bank.
I never let him, or anyone else for that matter, drop off my money. It is always picked up, never by the same person. Khan is probably the fastest super on the planet. His file says that his maximum speed could exceed Mach 30 if he didn't have to worry about the havoc the turbulence would cause. That's once around the planet in an hour. The problem, much to his parents' dismay, is that he collapses into a near coma for six hours after thirty seconds at high speed. He's young, only twenty-five, so there is some hope that he'll grow out of it, though not much. Most powers start manifesting in puberty and are fully realized before twenty. Powers may mature and grow a bit after that (especially if you practice), but it doesn't seem like Khan is going to outgrow this side effect.
"Naw," I replied, "thanks for the offer though. Plus you just got here. Can't have you sleeping on the job."
"I'm just saying..." he stood to leave. "Anything else? Your schedule is clear for the day."
"Yeah, gonna need some work done on the car."
His eyebrow raised.
"That Cindar has a temper, though I doubt it'll have to be scrapped. Make sure you get an estimate and keep enough on hand for the repairs."
He nodded.
I called out as he shut the door, "Hey, we get the paper? I want to do the crossword."
"I'll check... gramps."
"Shut up."
* * *
Chapter 4
I rarely get called by the police, so when that cop first called a few weeks back I blew him off. I wasn't alone in this; the police rarely call anyone unless they are asking for money for their latest community improvement project. The police don't really do much policing any more, just reporting. There was a time, when I was a kid, when the police actually investigated crimes and such. Since supers started showing up on the scene, the police have shifted into more of a community building/support role. They are still important in that they are given direct access to the SB - Super Band - radio. With it, they can report crimes directly to their local supers and generally they send someone out. You can always tell police officers by not only their uniforms, but their watches. The Bulwark have created the watch/communicators for specific police use. Each device is tied directly with the user and can't be used by anyone else. Even if they could take them off without help, they probably wouldn't. They consider them more of a badge than their police ID. It gets them into clubs, bumped to the front of waiting lists, and discounts.