Once I’m done, Synergy, watched by Vanguard, keeps me back for the inevitable motherly moment. I can only sigh tersely under my breath. I know co-operation will save me a truckload more aggravation later on.
“You know, you haven’t been returning our calls.”
“Well, if they were your calls, things might’ve been different,” I say.
“Don’t be coy, Zephyr.”
“I’m not tryin’ to be.”
“Or smug. I don’t do smug.”
“Well, I’m only interested in what you do do, so tell me more?”
“Zephyr, if you were half as smooth as you thought you were, I’d be twice as stupid as I know I’m not. You follow? Just tell me what you thought you were playing at, not returning our calls?”
I blink through that one and the threat of seizure slowly passes.
“Why are you calling me?”
“We thought you might be interested in the crime scene,” Vanguard calls out like some weird uncle at a kids’ football game, not really invited, but determined to take part.
He follows it up by actually walking into conversation range. In his multi-layered armor, he looks like an upright black lobster that somehow learned how to walk.
“Your dead insect guy,” Vanguard continues. “We tried to call you from his apartment.”
“And that’s because . . . it was the scene of a crime?” I ask.
“You bet,” Vanguard nods. He runs a gauntlet over his wispy blonde hair. “We just haven’t worked out the crime yet.”
“And you thought I could help . . . how?”
Synergy shrugs. She makes it look good enough it should be available in stores. A fall of light brown curls only highlight her darker face. Yeah, I’m kinda smitten.
“Just say we were interested in Zephyr’s unique perspective, John,” Synergy tells him.
“Yeah, something like that,” Vanguard agrees.
“OK, so tell me about it. Or did I miss the boat?”
“Your Creeping Death had an interest in the occult. Tattoos, pentagrams, silver daggers, the whole thing,” Synergy says. “There were cocoons all over the place. We figure the guy may have been an experimenter . . . turned out he was more successful than he knew.”
“Successful?”
“We don’t know anything else yet. Miss Black is looking into the mystical side for us,” Synergy says.
“Miss Black?”
“Sure,” Vanguard grins. “Haven’t you heard? Little Annie’s gone legit. She’s one of us now.”
“Don’t taunt Zephyr about it, John,” Synergy smiles. “He had his chance years ago, I hear. You turned it down, right?”
“I’ve got nothing against registration,” I shrug. “I didn’t freak out or go rogue when the Act came through in ’97. I always said it wouldn’t be enforceable. Still, I didn’t feel too comfortable signing my life away to Uncle Sam just for a regular paycheck.” I shrug. “Maybe that was my mistake. I didn’t figure I’d still be hero-ing this many years down the line.”
My comments cue Synergy to slip me another card. I lose interest once I realize there’s no personal notes written ‘pon it in an excited hand.
“Give us a call if you change your mind. The government could always use your experience,” she says.
“And then we might be able to stop cleaning up your messes,” her partner adds.
“Hey, you got one of ‘em,” I say and gesture, almost rudely. “Fuse or whatever his name is.”
“Yeah,” Synergy agrees and flips open her notebook. “Electrical controller, some power over machines, a known counter-insurgency nightmare. I imagine that’s how they got in without the company’s fast response squad bringing them down on the front lawn.”
“They didn’t look so hot to me,” I remark.
“The guards? Yeah. Must follow up and check their gear is licensed.”
“That’s your Fuse-boy’s work too,” Vanguard says. “Paramedics reckon they were pretty badly electrocuted.”
He holds up a big mitt unnecessarily.
“Don’t worry, Zeph. No one’s even suggesting it was you. Even you ain’t that incompetent.”
“Hey Vanguard, when I want shit from you, I’ll squeeze your head, OK?” I snap back at him in record time. “Now put your fucking helmet on.”
Synergy restrains her partner with the merest touch and they depart towards the helicarrier. I walk across the lawn, aching neck and jaw in hand, not quite ready to fly, the night air cool and fresh and surprising, coming across Truman from the bay. There are others still around in the night, though, and once I’m airborne I pass several of them, unguessed at figures, possibly even allies, caroming about in the night.
Go high enough and I know a glimpse of dawn wouldn’t be far away. Instead, I turn for home and sleep, just another night with my bed left empty for me. Beth is under blankets in the lounge, snoring lightly, one of the old syndicated Captain Atom movies in grainy re-run on the flatscreen TV. I hesitate to rescue the remote from beneath my wife’s pillow, so I fire a quick spark at the TV and head for the dark, first light not far away.
*
SLEEP DOESN’T LAST long. Elisabeth and Tess are off to see a family counsellor. Apparently I was advised of this several days ago. I can only make a pained face as I explain about my appointment with my agent, the charade based on me, the failed writer, for Tessa’s benefit. My little girl adopts her understanding angel face. Beth is less receptive, face like a weather map and a cold front on the way. Not even I could turn that storm around. It’s raining outside and she uses her scarf the way Shi’ite guerrillas have been known, disappearing into the lift with a paper shopping bag, a pair of $300 work shoes to be returned to the store.
I go into the den and review the day ahead as I brush my teeth and browse the news and gossip pages online. Sal Doro calls as I’m spitting up spearmint and straight away I know he means business.
“I hope you’ve got something for me, Zephyr.”
“The bank’s running a bit low. I could do with a top-up,” I tell him.
“I think this one’s for free,” Sal replies. “I want to be distracted from this tale I’ve heard about the hottest green-haired heroine on the block and her quote unquote night of pleasure with her favorite man of mystery.”
“Jesus, Sal,” I reply aghast. “That’s fucking blackmail.”
“You’ve got something better for me though, right?”
Over the palpitations I nod, starting to outline last night’s encounter only to have him cut me off.
“Let’s meet. I need some new file photos.”
“Ph-ph-photos are fucking extra, you creep.”
“I’ll bring a few twenties. See you at eleven?”
I direct him a little closer to noon and hang up, frustrated, also more than a little guilty at my infidelity as well as failing to give Cusp the follow-up call I’d promised. Of course, wondering how a hack like Sal Doro could’ve got word of the news, it’s easy for me to ladle suspicion on everyone’s favorite green-haired hottie as well.
Halfway to Hallory O’Hagan’s office, a bureaucrat from White Nine calls to remind me about my rescheduled afternoon appointment with Stephen Zahn. As if someone as seemingly forgetful as I could be offended at such a simple reminder, I snap the phone closed haughtily and yell, “That’s why I need a personal assistant” to the ether as I plough my way through it.
My interview with a vampiress awaits.
Her office is in a sun-shielded high-rise on the Jersey border, now just a vast terrain of silver-skinned architecture bifurcated by freeways and subway lines. The light-sensitive glass sheathing Hallory’s building, like all the others, goes sepia in the approach to the sun’s zenith. I try to make like a regular visitor and land on the sidewalk out the front of the squat edifice and make my way inside through the well-known route of entrance-foyer-elevator-reception.
The Puerto Rican girl behind the counter smiles through a row of braces as I prowl the area like
a cat in heat, conspicuous in my leathers between block-mounted art photos showing the company’s other clients. Although the presentation is good, they’re mostly mid-range. Seeing fledgling stand-up Keanu Reeves on the books is almost enough to walk me out of there, except for the delectable Miss O’Hagan coming straight through the wide, you’ve-finally-made-it double door entrance to her private demesne.
“Hey,” the redhead remarks in a faux conversational tone I find immediately appealing. “It’s great to finally get to meet you, Zephyr. I’ve lived on the east coast eight years and can you believe I haven’t met any color the whole time?”
My grin falters. “Color?”
“Ha, sorry,” she says, pausing to straighten the lapel of her off-white power suit. “Just an industry term for you guys. You’re not alone in seeking representation and I just want to say straight out to you that we’re really super-pumped about establishing our new working relationship. We actioned a really unique list of key priorities this morning over group breakfast and everyone’s super-keen to get this right.”
“Really?”
“Hell yeah,” Hallory says.
She gestures, so I flop on one of the burgundy couches in my best imitation male model slump. Miss O’Hagan sits perkily in the chair opposite, somehow not even managing to make an impression, giving me the sense of her firm ass hovering just microns above the fabric of the cushion. Neat trick. Something Sky Blue could manage, I figure.
We shoot the shit for a while. The agency has been approached by several lesser-grade identities seeking representation for their services. I have to clarify, trying to outline in bumbling terms that I’m after an agency that can meet not only PR needs, but provide contacts as a lifeline between me and the public. That I am also “super-keen,” as she would put it, to maximize the opportunities for future revenue stemming from my incidental occupation as the city’s foremost costumed adventurer is something, I stress casually, that also needs further investigation.
“So in other words you want us to help you establish some kind of dynamic connectivity between yourself and the people of the city that you know and love, while providing you with the chance to continue doing what you do best, to the mutual advantage of Atlantic City as well as yourself and your loved ones.”
“And someone to take messages,” I add.
“Sounds great, Zephyr. We would be totally thrilled to look into the possibilities,” Hallory replies. “We already brainstormed a few options I wondered if you’d considered?”
“Uh, such as?”
“Lifestyle endorsement opportunities, synergetic branding, cross-marketing possibilities including a build-up campaign, maybe something big? You ran a team once, didn’t you?”
“The Sentinels, yeah.”
“Didn’t I hear you were getting back?”
“Well that’s, really, just a rumor. . . .”
She clucks her tongue and says, “And what about a comic?”
My eyes do the crackling thing and I stick out a hand.
“No way.”
“Really? I thought that sort of thing –”
“Look, sorry, but no way. I’ve only just gotten over that whole thing with Grant Morrison. . . .”
She tilts her head like a particularly pretty android. “Explain?”
I try, but it’s not pretty, and just as soon as I’m in too deep, wandering off on some tangent about the cherry-picking of conventional narrative, I try to back out of the explanation as gracefully as I can manage moments after I’ve begun, which isn’t very well. It all ends with Miss O’Hagan staring at me like I’ve laid a turd on her carpet and declared myself a My Little Pony.
“Jesus. . . .” I clutch my head.
I’m ruining this, as was foretold in ancient times.
“Look, none of that’s any problem,” she says eventually. “We’ll be able to chart numerous advantageous possibilities for making the Zephyr brand consumer-friendly and more high octane.”
“More high octane?”
I give her the eyebrow, but she barely glimmers. Eyes on the money.
“OK,” I relent. “I’d better go. I’ve got an appointment with an old enemy.”
*
ON THE ROOFTOP once more, I’m relieved to see Sal’s already waiting, picking at a pastrami on rye sitting on the brown paper bag it came in while the newshound smokes profusely from one of the grotesque cigarillos he often favors. He waves the ashen wand in my direction as I sit on the low brick riser with the gravity of a much bigger man.
“Get to it,” the reporter says. “I’m in a hurry.”
It’s hard not to bridle at Sal’s tone. The hook-nosed old hack coughs up a few lumps and spits them over the edge of the roof, a forecast of rain for one unlucky pedestrian. His dead brown eyes return to me and he dusts off his hands, impatience etched in every nicotine-stained line of his face.
This is a man who has been dealing one-on-one with costumed loonies since before even I suited up for the first time. Whatever allure they once held was gone. I know he sometimes wonders how he fell into this line of work, trailing egocentric freaks and one-trick wonderboys all over the coast when he went through grad school on the fumes of the inspiration from Watergate. I know this because of Sal’s book in which I rate no less than sixteen mentions, most of them favorable. The old hack wouldn’t have it any other way. To him I’m as obnoxious as the rest, but I have my uses. I’m not a hero when I’m here on the roof. I’m an informant. That even I know this is true puts a dampener on my day whenever we have to do this dance. So while I might be tempted to send a few volts through anyone else who spoke to me in a voice so short, on a whole other level, I sometimes wonder why I don’t do something drastic to end his ongoing schadenfreude.
And then Sal reminds me. The crisp bills rustle as he produces his pocket Sony and glances up to check the position of the sun and the play of shadows.
“You’ve got time for this, though?” I ask.
I rotate my pointer finger unhelpfully. I’d like to stick it up the old prick’s ass, regardless of the connotations, and watch that impassive Gallic demeanor dance on a few hundred ergs. But it ain’t gonna happen.
“Sure, sure. Hurry up.”
I grit my teeth and the flash goes off a few times. Sal only has to gesture and I change angles.
“Hover for me, baby.”
I grunt under-breath and slowly rise from the roof. Sal judges unconsciously the angles like a true expert, clicks off a few more digital stills, and then his interest collapses. I have to remind myself I once wanted to be a journalist – and still kid myself I could be a writer. Writing what I know, that old chestnut, might not be such a good idea with my current mindset.
“The well’s kinda drying up, Zeph. What’ve you got?”
I shrug. “The insect plague guy?”
“Go on.”
“He’s dead.”
“No shit.” Sal eyes me for a long second and produces another tiny cigar. “Still, you’re not holding your hand up for that are you?”
“I don’t think covering up infidelity with a murder charge would be clever, even for me,” I reply.
“So you really are fucking that sweet thing? Man.”
Sal hangs his head like most ordinary guys would, though he throws extra pathos into it somehow.
“I’m not admitting to shit. Likewise with the Insect King, or whatever you guys were calling him. ‘Sources close to Parahuman Affairs told the Post the suspect would not be the subject of further investigation because it was believed he perished during the final moments of the confrontation’.”
“You’re not close to the FBI,” Sal responds.
“You put it to them and I guarantee you it’s on the money.”
“Hmmm, OK. What else?”
“The Feebs have evidence of occult activity at the dead guy’s brownstone. Again,” I say, raising my hands before the interrogation can get underway, “you’ll have to put it to them.”
“Fucking he
ll, Zephyr.”
“Angry I can’t do all your work for you?”
Sal holds up his hands, envisaging a headline: “Zephyr gets green head.”
I sigh and look away and a pigeon lands on the ledge nearby, gets a sense he’s interrupted something private and flies off in a flutter. Sal snaps his fingers again.
“OK. What else?”
“Else?” I try and bring my voice back to a normal level. “Christ, Sal.”
“I’m guessing you’re a married man, Zephyr. Always have.”
“Not for much longer,” I can’t resist muttering. “OK, how about Stiletto and Darkstorm?”
“What about ‘em?”
“They’re onto each other.”
“Proof?”
“Sources?”
“Come on, Zeph,” Sal says. “We’re not E! We need to substantiate this information. If it pays out, then we all win.”
He hands over the twenties for the new photos.
“Fuck it,” I sigh. “Just quote me. An inadvertent slip. Zephyr was congratulating them on their help during the whole insect thing and said they made a lovely couple.”
“I didn’t see them at the crime scene?” Sal says.
“Oh, they were there. Fetching the drinks. Couldn’t do without ‘em.”
“OK.”
“Now tell me who snitched about Cusp?”
Sal snickers as he packs away his notepad.
“Gee, Zeph, you know I couldn’t reveal my sources. . . .”
“Sal, I need to know.”
We make eye contact like real human beings and the old goat falls for it. I sigh in relief as he peers over the edge of the bricks like the Press Council might be listening in.
“It’s not the girl. I didn’t know about Stiletto and Dark-wad. I guess they must’ve got together after you left Paragon that night, right?”
“Paragon?”
Sal coughs. “What about him?”
I stifle the reply and Sal gives a sick grin, real child porn material, and somewhere close by a siren starts up amid honking horns.
Business concluded like a back-alley blowjob, I start scoping the skyline for avenues of escape when Doro clears his throat and hands me a mini-DVD in its case.
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