by Nick Svolos
I figured they had to be a present from Lewis. Dawson knew better than to pull a stunt like this. Whoever sent them, they had to know I’d made them. Still, they dutifully fell in behind me as I pulled out of the station and headed north on Rosecrans. The fact was, they still had the advantage. There was too much traffic for me to lose them with some clever move, and even if I did, there were only so many pre-war burgundy Ford Super Deluxes driving around. It wouldn’t be hard for them to pick me up again.
Letting them follow me to my destination wasn’t an option, though, so I had to lose these guys or give up and go home. I opted for the former.
I pulled into a supermarket and got lucky, finding a spot near the entrance. Grabbing a couple of reusable shopping bags out of the back, I stuffed my gym bag into one. I snagged a cart on my way into the store and started shopping, making my way to the dairy section at the back. Checking to make sure I was unobserved, I parked the half-full cart off to the side and slipped into the men’s room. Fortunately, it was empty.
I shrugged out of my clothes, sticking them in the gym bag before pulling out my skinsuit. In the movies, they usually show the heroes wearing their get-ups under their clothes, but I guess screenwriters never tried doing that during a Los Angeles summer. If you ask me, it’s a good way to give yourself heatstroke.
I pulled the mask over my head, cursing at the pain as the fabric hung itself up on my five-o’clock shadow, tucked everything into the gym bag, and slipped out to find a way out of this place.
Before I found it, I ran into a clerk whose eyes went wide at the preposterous sight I presented. “¡Dios mío!”
I grinned. “Facil, amigo. ¿Dónde está la puerta trasera?”
He pointed a trembling finger across a little storage area. I trotted to the back door with a quick “Gracias” over my shoulder. And then I was off into the early evening sky, the dark blue of my costume making a perfect camouflage.
A couple of blocks away, I found a deserted rooftop and set down. After changing back into my street clothes, I stashed everything under an exhaust vent and dropped back down to the street. Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I strolled back to Rosecrans, caught a bus, and was back on my way.
Mickey Sanchez shot me a suspicious gaze from behind the bar as I walked into the King of Spades. I walked over to the tip jar and dropped in a couple of tickets for an upcoming Dodgers game, my cover charge for doing business in this particular den of iniquity. Mickey set me up with my usual order—an ice-cold Coors. I took a long draw while scanning the room in the dingy full-length mirror behind him.
The joint was crowded with rough-looking men, and a few rougher-looking women, all looking for work. They hid it behind their characteristic swagger and bravado, but you could see it in their eyes and shielded glances my way. They were hungry.
Surprising as it may sound, there were rules to the supervillain business. If you had powers, the last thing you wanted to do was get into a situation where you had to use them on a normal. That got a bounty put on your head, and it would be “game over” after that. The bounty hunters didn’t need you alive to collect their fee. So, when a professional supervillain wanted to pull a job, he hired some of these guys to come along and do the heavy lifting, crowd control, and the like. These people were henchmen. The cost-effective day laborers of evil.
Only, as I gazed over the crowd, I could see that nobody was hiring. They had the look of people facing the unhappy prospect of planning their own heists, or God forbid, finding honest work.
I played the waiting game for a bit, ordering another beer. Most of these crooks knew me and my going rate for information. I figured anyone with a story worth two hundred bucks would find me soon enough.
I figured right. A muscular hand slapped me on the shoulder, followed by its equally muscular owner taking the stool next to me.
“Hey, Conway, what’s shakin’?”
I looked at the man through the mirror. Bill Wall was aptly named. He was solidly built and tough to push around. Good with his fists and even better with a shotgun, he was the kind of guy you sent in first to scare the hell out of everybody. Then you put him on the door while you cleared out the vault. Nobody got past him. A real pro.
“Nothin’ but the San Andreas, man,” I replied, slipping into my hack reporter persona. “Goddamn Angels got this place shut down like a bad diner.”
“Tell me ‘bout it,” he grumbled. “Keeps going like this much longer, and I’ll have to sell my condo and leave town.” He ordered one of Mickey’s high-octane drinks and knocked it back like it was water.
“Sorry ta hear that. Sweatin’ this month’s rent myself. Gotta find a story and quick.”
“Wish I could help you with that. You workin’ any leads?”
“Just some bullshit. The cops are keepin’ it quiet, but somebody’s ripped off a bunch of warehouses. Burned ‘em down to cover their tracks. Could be just a normal crew, but a guy on the arson squad thinks it might be a firebug.”
Bill looked surprised. “No shit?” He gave the matter some thought. “A guy like that would need a truck for the haul. That means a driver and a forklift. Probably an alarm man, too.”
“That’s what I was thinkin’. Was hoping I could find him before the cops do. Get an interview, at least. Only, from the looks of this place, I’m thinking it’s a dead end.”
“Damn. Well, let me ask around a bit. Your rate still the same?”
“Two hundred, as long as it leads to a something I can print.”
He shrugged. “It ain’t like I got any other prospects. Somebody’ll talk to me. They always do.”
Like I said, a real pro.
Of course, nobody talked right away, and so it went like that for a couple of hours. Me playing the unscrupulous newshound, hungry for a story, getting my feelers out. Eventually I found myself playing eight-ball with a second-story man and a cleaner. Neither of them could play worth a damn, and it was all I could do to avoid cleaning them out since they kept insisting on increasing the bets. I half-suspected they were hustling me, but the big bet never came.
“I heard you’re the guy that went up against Hammerblow,” Ricky, the cleaner, observed as I broke a fresh rack. The nine and the four went in on the break.
Something in his tone told me the question wasn’t casual. “Yeah, we played a game after the refinery job.” I played it off and lined up my next shot. “Solids.” I sank the two with a little backspin to line up on the one, which I deliberately blew to keep the game going. Enrique, the second-story guy, went to work on the stripes, sinking the fourteen and ten in rapid succession.
Ricky continued. “Naw, I meant after. You know, when he made that play for you after the funeral.”
I shrugged. “Just a misunderstanding. Had it all worked out, but then The Angels fucked everything up.”
“Still, that must’ve been scary as hell.”
“Not gonna lie—there’s a reason I wear dark pants.”
Ricky laughed. “I’ll bet.”
Eventually, my game with Enrique ended, and I picked up my winnings. Between the two of them, I must have been up at least four hundred bucks, and neither of them seemed to mind. For guys looking for paying work, they seemed pretty liquid. I wondered what game they were really playing.
“Well, that’s it for me,” the burglar said. “Think I’ll go have a smoke.”
“Sounds good,” Ricky said. He produced a cigar case and grinned my way. “Got some Cubans, Conway. You game?”
There it was. The next step in this little charade. The smart move would be to beg off, but I was here for information. If nothing else, I wanted to know who put them up to this.
“Cubanos? Sure. Tell ya what, let me get a round of scotches to go with ‘em. My treat. Meet ya outside.”
Ricky saw his clever plan falling apart before his eyes. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, man. Not necessary.”
I was already in motion. “I insist. Be right out.”
I got the drink
s from the bar and threaded my way through the crowd to the back door. Mickey had a little smoking area out back, with a few sun-weathered chairs and tables. Normally, on a night like this, there’d have been quite a few people out here—henchmen didn’t put a lot of stock in the Surgeon General’s warnings—but at the moment it was just me and my soon-to-be assailants. The looks on their faces were priceless. They didn’t think I’d show. Eight months ago, they’d have been right.
This was going to be fun.
I set the drinks down on the table and took a seat while Ricky passed out the cigars. We each went through our preferred ritual of lighting, enjoying several long pulls from the outstanding Montecristos punctuated with tastes of aged Glenlivet, all while gazing up at the starless, hazy sky. We chatted about the Dodgers, cars and women for a while before Ricky got up to use the bathroom. Enrique edged his seat ever so slightly back from the table.
Here it comes. I set my cigar in the ashtray.
From behind me, an arm whipped across my throat to be joined by its mate from behind, catching me in a headlock. Ricky hauled me to my feet, my chair crashing off to the side while Enrique leaped up and stepped forward.
“Jezebel sends her regards,” he said as he landed a punch in my gut. I doubled over and let loose a grunt of pain that I didn’t really feel. Good. Jezebel had a vindictive streak. She’d want me to suffer. They’d spend some time working me over before finishing me off. I needed the time to figure out how to resolve this without using any powers.
I let myself drop to my knees, acting, I hoped convincingly, like I’d had the wind knocked out of me. A kick to my ribs gave me a chance to pad my performance, and I rolled onto my back with a grunt.
Enrique raised a booted foot to stomp my face, but I rolled out of the way and then back quickly enough to catch it with my forearm once it struck the ground. I let my momentum carry me through his leg, knocking him to the ground. His family jewels were exposed, and I gave them a gentle tap, which to him must have felt like a sledgehammer. That gave me a chance to regain my feet and get my back against the wall as Ricky moved in, ready to deliver a haymaker. Enrique’s howl split the din of hard-drinking henchmen in the bar.
Ricky’s fist shot toward my face, and I jerked my head to the side. The fist crashed into the cinder block wall behind me, its owner leaping back with a yelp. Enrique found his way to his unsteady feet and glared at me with murder in his eyes. He pulled a gun out of his waistband and leveled it at me.
Damn. I was hoping she’d paid for knives. I kicked a nearby chair in his direction and sent my body to the left.
That was enough to make the burglar’s first shot go wide, smacking into the wall where I’d been an instant before.
He didn't get a second shot.
A two-hundred-forty-pound blur shot out of nowhere, blindsiding Enrique and laying him out in a crash of cheap plastic furniture. The gun flew from his hand, skittered across the concrete patio, bounced off a chair leg, and came to a halt near my feet. I picked it up and gave Ricky a good view of the business end.
Reggie Burns emerged from the pile of broken furniture and a groaning Enrique. He smiled my way. “How ya doin’, Conway?”
“Great, now,” I said with a relieved smile. “Appreciate the help.”
“No problem. You know my rates.”
I nodded. “We’ll settle up once we’re done here.”
The former NFL linebacker grinned. “So, what do you wanna do with ‘em?”
“I suppose that’s Mickey’s call. He’s the only law around here.”
“Damned straight I am,” said a voice from behind me. Mickey stepped into view. “You two are banned.” He pointed at Ricky and his partner. “Nobody pulls a stunt like this in my place. I’ll take five hundred for the broken furniture.”
Ricky looked like he was going to protest, but something in Mickey’s eyes told him how bad an idea that would be. Instead he carefully pulled out his wallet and produced the bills, his eyes never leaving the pistol in my hand.
The underworld tavern owner counted the bills. “You satisfied, Mr. Conway?”
I nodded. It wasn’t like Mickey was going to call the cops. “Maybe disarm them and give me a head start getting out of here? Oh, and I’ll need four hundred for Reggie’s services.” I was curious how much Jezebel paid these guys and I didn’t mind cleaning them out.
Mickey held out his hand. “You heard the man. You’re gettin’ off cheap.” The thugs pooled their remaining money and handed it over while Reggie relieved them of anything more lethal than a car key. “Alright, Conway, beat it. I’ll keep these guys here until closing time.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I thanked him, and told him to put their first round on my tab as a magnanimous gesture. It never hurts to show there’s no hard feelings. As I started for the street, I stopped and plucked my cigar from the ashtray. I didn’t get to burn a Cuban all that often, and it seemed a shame to let it go to waste. Reggie fell into step beside me. I guess he figured he was still on the clock. He’s a thug, a criminal, and I’m pretty sure he got tossed out of the NFL for roughing up his girlfriend, but he earns his pay.
“What the hell you thinkin’, man?” he asked as we emerged onto the street.
“Thought they might have a story for me.”
“Well, you got one now.”
I spat some loose tobacco. “Not the sort I was hopin’ for.”
“True dat. Where’d ya park?”
“Didn’t. Had to shake a tail on the way over here. Took the bus.”
“Look at you.” He laughed. “Livin’ the thug life.”
“It looks better on you, bro.”
“You know it. Come on, I’m on the clock ‘till I get you to your car. I’ll give you a ride.”
***
It took a bit of effort to get going the next morning. I didn’t bounce back from an evening of drinking quite as well as I used to. Ultiman’s powers helped, of course, but only so much. In truth, it was the prospect of an uncomfortable meeting with my boss that had more to do with my lethargy than the late night or the booze. Still, I forced myself out on the street for my morning run. I wasn’t going to be a superhuman forever, making it important to keep the good habits going. I had more than enough bad ones to compete with them.
I made it to the Beacon in time for the morning story assignment meeting and hung back at the end to see if Harry had time to meet with me. Unfortunately, he did. He told me to shut the door. Never a good sign.
“So, get anything good from the LAPD?” he led off.
“Maybe. They’re investigating a string of burglary/arsons, thinking there's a flameslinger involved. Spent last night trying to get a lead. Nothing yet, but I’ve got feelers out.”
“Good. Keep at it. What else you working on?”
“Not much. It’s been pretty quiet out there. I’ve been hounding Ultiman for an interview.”
“Is he really gonna retire?”
“Yeah. He hasn’t made it official yet, but I’m pretty sure he’s out of here as soon as he recruits the team back to full strength.”
“When will that be?”
“I don’t know.” I thought about it a bit and sighed. “I think he might be dragging his feet.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I see. Puts us in something of a bind, don’t ya think?”
“Yeah.”
“This can’t go on forever, kid.”
“It was never supposed to. I figured I’d be doing this for a couple of months. Three, tops.”
“That much is obvious from the insipid moniker you went with. You know, I’ve never had a problem with my reporters moonlighting, as long as it doesn’t affect their work. It’s affecting yours.”
My failure to get the prison follow-up done came to mind. “I know, Harry. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t help me, kid, unless I can print it.”
“I appreciate that. I guess I just don’t know what to do about it.”
“The
answer’s simple. Light a fire under his ass, like the one I’m about to light under yours. You’re one of my best reporters, and I need you back on the job. I’m giving you two weeks.”
I nodded. “Right. Fair enough.”
“Glad you agree.” He dropped his hard-ass exterior, just enough to let me see a rare glimpse of humanity. “Look, kid, I think I get what you’re going through. You feel like you got a responsibility. Use your abilities to thwart evil and all that. I respect that.” He leaned forward to drive his point home. “But you got another responsibility. You write the truth. People need that. It’s time you got back to it.”
“No argument there.”
“Alright. I got one more question, and then you can get to work. You don’t have to answer this one, but you probably should.”
Odd, but in my line of work, odd was good. Odd was man bites dog, and I needed that. “Fire away.”
“Why’d you turn down the Times?”
I laughed a little. “They wanted me to do a column.”
“What’s wrong with that? Would have been more than we pay you.”
“In the Lifestyle section.”
His bird’s nest eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”
“Yep. They asked me in for a meeting. I didn’t even know it was a job interview. Thought they just wanted to bounce some ideas around. Get some advice on covering supers. Turns out they’re only interested in who’s dating who and crap like that. A couple of days later, they hit me with an offer out of the blue. And, yeah, it was more money. But I’m not interested in a gossip gig. I need to work for an outfit that gets it. ‘Nuff said?”
“Yeah. All the more reason to get back to it. Now, get out there and find me a decent story or you’ll be begging them for that gossip gig.”
***
Two weeks. Now that the timer was counting down, it suddenly felt very real. Almost comforting. The finish line was in sight. I didn’t relish breaking the news to the team, but Harry was right. This situation had to end. The truth was, I wasn’t much more than a bandage for their recruiting problems. It was time to rip it off.