“You drank enough whisky to kill an Irish poet and passed out. Chuck brought you down here and made sure you didn’t drown in your own vomit. I tried to talk him out of it.”
Mickey took a few more sips of the coffee, feeling it lubricate his mind. “Sorry. I didn’t make too much of a mess, did I?”
Penny shook her head. “No, just a few towels that need to be washed. I trust you know how to work a washing machine?”
Mickey nodded, regretting the motion as soon as it started. He was sure he felt his brain dislodge from his skull.
“You’re a grown man, Mickey. And I’m not your mother. I’m not going to tell you what to do. But, I have no problem telling you what you can and can’t do in my house. And you can’t get sloppy drunk. Lord knows, I’m no teetotaler. I’ll happily share a glass of wine with you. But, if you ever pull a stunt like this again, you’re not coming back. Got it?”
“Ha,” Mickey said, finally noticing the “Me, Sarcastic? Never” emblazoned on the mug in his hand.
It took him a second to register what happened after that. There was a pain in his shoulder and he lurched backwards. Then scorching liquid attacked his face. Finally, he was looking at the ceiling. Had she punched him?
“Why? Wait? What? Oh! No, I didn’t…I mean I wasn’t…I didn’t mean—“
A towel thwacked into his face, cutting off his feeble excuse for an explanation. He grabbed it and blotted at the coffee that covered him from forehead to chin. When he thought he had the mess under control, he sat up and started over.
“I wasn’t laughing at you. It was the mug.” He pointed to it lying on the carpet to illustrate his point. Penny’s posture softened a bit. He was pretty sure she accepted the explanation, at least enough that she wasn’t going to hit him again. “I get it. Won’t happen again. Last night was rougher than I thought it would be.”
Penny headed toward the stairs. “Get cleaned up. I’ll wait upstairs. We need to talk.”
Mickey nodded, realizing that once again he had proven incapable of learning from past mistakes.
“Chuck was really shaken up last night.” Penny had both hands wrapped around an oversized Yoda mug. “What happened during your chat?”
Mickey blew on his fresh cup of coffee, wishing it had something stiffer in it. “It’s a little fuzzy. I know I wanted to talk to him about going out for a real-world test of his skills. Pretty sure we talked about that, but the specifics are gone.”
Penny stared into her mug. “He trusts you. And, for him, that means something. He usually thinks he’s the smartest guy in the room, and he doesn’t put too much faith in other peoples’ opinions. Hell, he loves and respects me, and he still ignores half of what I say. But he listens to you. For once in his life, he has no idea what he’s doing, and he believes you can help him.” She looked up at him, her blue eyes cold and hard. “I look at you and see someone that can barely help themselves. You seem to be a good man Mickey. But you’ve got a lot of demons. And you’re not dealing with them. That’s your business. But if you let your issues get in the way of helping my husband, it becomes my business. I take care of my business, Mickey. So, can you put your shit aside and help him, or should we part as friends, right now?”
Mickey wrapped his hands around his mug, his eyes staring deep into the dark liquid. Sure, he had issues. Didn’t everyone though? And his were deeper than most. Not everyone lives with the guilt of both putting his wife in danger and failing to save her. That’s enough to break even the strongest of men. Yet he managed to keep going, to be a good father. Sure, finding out Max was dead was another blow, but working with Chuck was helping him deal with that. He had it under control.
He sighed. “We seem to agree.”
Penny cocked an eye at him. “We do? I wasn’t expecting you to give in so easily.”
“Oh, I’m not giving in. I’m just agreeing that my issues are none of your business.” He raised his head to look her in the eye. “Neither is how I deal with those issues.”
Penny sat down her mug and stood up, her face void of emotion. “Then I think we’re done here. I’m late for work. As bartenders say, ‘you don’t gotta go home, but you can’t stay here.’”
“There’s just no gratitude anymore, knowhatimean? I mean, you put your whole life on hold to help someone, and what do you get? Thrown out of their house. For what? Having one too many drinks? No gratitude.” Mickey looked to the bartender for acknowledgement, getting the understanding nod he was looking for. He raised his empty rocks glass. “Hit me.”
The bartender stopped wiping the glass in his hand and shook his head. “How’s about I call you a cab instead?”
“How ‘bout you do your job?” Mickey said, slurring the words. “If you don’t want my business I’ll find someone who does.” He pulled out his wallet, fumbled through its contents, and slammed a pile of bills on the bar. “Keep the change. Use it to take a mixology class.”
He was out the door before the man could respond, accelerating once he hit the street. There was a bar on Maple with a blonde bartender that made a killer Old Fashioned. He could be there in just a few—CRACK!
He wondered how that tree got in the middle of the road, then slipped out of consciousness.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Mickey? Mickey? I’m not going anywhere until you open this door.” Chuck banged on the door again. He’d been yelling and banging for long enough that, in spite of their “mind your own damn business” attitude, he was attracting attention from Bushwood Acres residents. “C’mon, Mick. Let me in. The natives are getting restless.”
“Go away.” Mickey’s voice carried through the trailer’s walls without any issue, but the words were still hard to make out.
Chuck’s temper was starting to get the better of him. Three days had gone by with no contact from Mickey. No returned calls or texts. He was irritated at the missed training time, and worried about the man who had become his friend. But mostly he was pissed that Mickey had bailed on him, and he didn’t even know why.
Giving into frustration, Chuck grabbed the door knob and twisted. He knew it was locked, having attempted to open it several times already. This time was different. Earlier the knob had turned a fraction of an inch before the lock caught and stopped it. This time he felt the lock catch, but after a moment it gave way, and the knob turned all the way. These trailers must come with shitty locks, he thought.
“I’m coming in.” Chuck didn’t want to spook Mickey and get punched, or worse. He pushed, but the door didn’t budge. Stupid deadbolt, he thought. Frustrated, he slammed his fist into the door. The loud crack startled him for a moment, so it took him a few seconds to realize that the door was open wide, and Mickey was standing in front of him, his left arm in a neon green cast. And he looked pissed.
“If you tried that on any of the neighbors you’d have a hole the size of a dinner plate in your chest, cape or no cape. Here you’re just going to get a broken jaw.”
The next thing Chuck knew, Mickey’s right fist was resting on his jaw. He hadn’t seen it coming, and didn’t have a chance to dodge or try to deflect the blow. But instead of knocking him flat on his ass, it landed without so much as tickling a hair on his chinny chin chin.
“God dammit.” Mickey pulled his fist back and shook his head. “Fucking absorbers. Can’t even take out any frustration on them. You may as well come in.” He backed into the room, stepped on an empty beer bottle, and sent more bottles scattering as he crashed to the floor.
Chuck looked around before entering. As he’d expected, every flat surface was littered with empty bottles. From what could see, Mickey was on a bender that would make Keith Richards say “Damn mate, you might want to ease up a bit.”
“You ok, Mick? Or have you fallen and you can’t get up?”
Mickey rubbed the back of his head with his good hand. “You owe me a door.”
Chuck cleared a path through the bottles and made his way to Mickey. Reaching down, he extended his hand. �
�Here, get up, then we can talk about doors.”
The older man accepted his hand and used it to sit up, exposing broken glass and a growing puddle of blood. “Jesus, Mickey. You’re bleeding.”
“Don’t change the subject. I sat up so we could talk about the door.”
Chuck ran to the kitchen, dodging broken glass and bottles, and grabbed a towel. Arguing with Mickey in this state would be useless. Better to just take action. “Take your shirt off.”
Mickey didn’t bother to turn around. “I’m flattered, Chuck, but I’m not quite that drunk. Maybe if you take me out for a nice din—“
His snappy comeback was cut short by his shirt being forced over his head. Dealing with two kids had made Chuck an expert at removing clothes from stubborn people. He examined the blood and broken glass on Mickey’s upper back, picked out as many shards as he could, and applied pressure with the towel. “What’s with the cast?”
Mickey raised his arm, showing off the cast. “Oh, this ol’ thing? Funny story, actually. Got bored jerking off with my right hand, so I tried the left, and well, I guess I’m just not that coordinated. Nurse at the ER was impressed though. Said I must have some serious stamina to hold out long enough to break my arm. Got her number around here somewhere. Not much to look at, but I could probably get used to the lazy eye. And hey, it’s not like I can be choosy, right? Not exactly a catch myself at this point. Might be nice to have someone around to tidy the place up a bit.”
Chuck was content to let the Mickey ramble as long as he wanted, since it kept his attention away from the first aid he was receiving. The cuts were deep, and the bleeding was persistent. There was a good chance Mickey was headed back to the ER to get stitches.
“Aw, Mick, what makes you say you’re not a catch? Just because you’ve got no job, no manners, and you live in a trailer that reeks of bad scotch, BO, and piss doesn’t mean there’s a perfect ten out there waiting for you.”
“Plus, the only other adult I have regular contact with is a needy, self-indulgent prick. I don’t exactly bring great friends to a relationship.”
Chuck pressed the towel harder against Mickey’s wound.
“Ow! Easy there, Florence Nightingale!”
“Sit still, you big baby. Now, you want to tell me what really happened to your arm?”
Mickey shook his head. “Nope. I want you to get me a nice, cold beer.”
Chuck snorted. “Miss having your on-demand cooler around? Why haven’t you answered my calls?”
“That sounds like a great story to tell over a beer.”
Mickey glowered at the glass Chuck sat in front of him. “Water? I said I was thirsty, not dirty.”
“Alcohol thins the blood. And it was a pain in the ass to get you to stop bleeding.” Chuck sat down on the other side of the kitchen table. “Now, talk. Start with the cast.”
“What? I told you—“
“Enough bullshit, Mickey. The truth.”
Mickey picked up the glass and took the smallest possible sip. He replaced the glass on the table and stared at it for a moment. Raising his eyes to meet Chuck’s, he said, “You want answers? You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth.” He slammed his fist down into the table, punctuating his sentence and rattling the glass.
Chuck stood. “Screw it. I’m done. Sleep it off. Or drink yourself blind. Either way, you have my number.” He picked his way past the blood and bottles on the way to the front door. “And get your damn door fixed.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“I mean, if I suddenly learned how to cook, I wouldn’t have to become a chef, right? I could just be a great cook at home.” Chuck took another bite of lasagna.
“You don’t have to convince me. I only wanted you to pursue it because it seemed to make you happy. And so you didn’t blow yourself up. I think you’ve got the second part covered, so if you want to stop, I’m on board.”
They ate in silence for several minutes. Neither of them was used to dinner alone, with no screaming, spitting, or flying food. The kids were at their grandparents, and Chuck and Penny had a big night planned. Chuck’s famous homemade lasagna, a couple of drinks while watching the latest kids animated movie, and maybe a little friskiness if they could stay awake. Nothing glamorous, but a solid anniversary celebration.
“It’s not that I’m scared, you know.” Chuck had finished his dinner, and was sipping the last of his wine while Penny ate.
She smiled. “I didn’t say anything about you being scared.”
“You were thinking it. But that’s not it.”
Penny fixed him with her famous “are we really playing this game” stare.
“Ok, that’s part of it. But it’s not all of it. This whole thing with Mickey is a big chunk too.”
Penny set down her fork. “What do you mean?”
“The fact that he bugged out. Went on a bender. Again. Why? Because you asked him to get his shit together? He’s a mess.”
“And you don’t want to train with someone like that?”
Chuck shook his head. “Not quite. I don’t want to be someone like that. I know exactly two people who have decided to become heroes. One ended up homeless and drunk, and basically committed suicide by giving up his powers. The other retired early, and is still an angry drunk. Not exactly how I want to end up.”
“You realize that just because the only two examples you have turned out badly, that doesn’t mean you would, right?”
He shrugged. “Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn’t. Look at the risk versus reward. Let’s say everything goes perfectly. What do I get out of it? Some adventure? The satisfaction of helping people? That’s great and all. But if you stack it against the risk of getting killed—or worse, you guys getting hurt—plus the possibility of ending up as a broken old man, it doesn’t seem like a hard choice.”
Penny stood and grabbed the plates. “I’m not trying to talk you out of it. Really. But don’t underestimate what you’d get out of helping people. You’re a good man, Chuck. You take care of people. It’s why I married you. Now, let’s get the dishes done and get some cocktails. We’ve got a date with a talking hedgehog.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Taurus glanced at the clipboard. “Getaway paths secured?”
Though she tried to pay more attention in the face-to-face meetings than on the video conferences, Andromeda still felt her mind wander. She struggled to understand why someone as technically inclined as Taurus resorted to using paper for his mission checklists. The only plausible explanation she had come up with was that they were easy to burn when the mission was over.
Taurus looked up from the clipboard. “Andromeda? Are you still with us?”
She nodded. “Done. Three paths identified. Depending on the exact time of extraction, there might be a school bus stopped at one of them. It’s easy to see coming, so we’ll be able to adjust.”
“Good. Surveillance along getaway paths identified?”
“Check. Path one only goes through one speed trap. Nothing that’s always recording. Path two has a traffic camera at a stoplight. The last one has two red light cameras and goes by a bank ATM. That’s our last resort.”
“If we need to use two or three, I’ll take care of the cameras. But let’s make sure we miss that school bus.”
She knew Taurus had been faking traffic footage since he was a teenager, and he’d hacked into ATMs to turn off the camera before. Still, best to avoid the situation. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.
Taurus looked at his clipboard again. “Vehicles?”
“Yeah boss,” Orion said. “Three identical vans. They’re getting painted now. ‘Ralph’s Pest Control’, just like you asked. They’ll be ready day after tomorrow.”
Taurus scribbled a note on his sheet. “That’s cutting it a little close, but it’ll work. Make sure the timeframe doesn’t slip. Defensive measures?”
Andromeda held up her hands, ticking items off on her fingers. “Three fire suits. Three p
airs of rubber-soled boots. Three pairs of rubberized gloves. Three pairs of night vision goggles. A dozen smoke grenades. Three flash grenades. Three shape charges. Four dozen caltrops. Three bear traps. One five-gallon drum of KY Jelly. And one Mr Zappy.”
Orion winked. “The KY isn’t for the job though, right Annie? And what the hell is Mr Zappy?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “The KY is to help you get your melon of a head out of your ass. And you’ll have to wait and see what Mr Zappy is.”
Taurus checked boxes off his list. “Sounds good. Weapons?”
“Covered. I’ve got enough guns to take down a Mexican drug lord’s compound, no problemo.” Orion laughed at his joke, then frowned when nobody else did.
Taurus sighed. “Hopefully having them means we won’t need them. Containment?”
“Masks and plenty of zip ties.” Andromeda paused for a moment. “And I loaded up a tablet with some cartoons.”
“Good thinking. It’ll make things quieter.” Taurus checked another box, and added new items to the list. “While we’re at it, pick up some snacks. Goldfish maybe. Gummy bears. That sort of thing. Maybe some juice boxes. And milk.”
“Roger that. Anything else on the list?”
Taurus scanned the list. “That’s it. Looks like we’re set for Thursday, with a full dress rehearsal on Wednesday.”
Orion shot Andromeda a thumbs-up. “Can’t wait to see your dress, Annie.”
She shook her head. “I just hope it doesn’t match yours.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chuck pulled into the driveway and wondered why Penny wasn’t home yet. He figured she got caught chatting with one of the daycare moms. They were probably planning a play date, or comparing birthday party invites. She’d probably be home any minute. In the meantime, he might get to poop without Riley trying to beat down the door. The thought propelled him through the door at record speed.
A Dad in a Cape (Mr Wonder Book 1) Page 15