“Gee. Ta.”
“Hey, I am the Brick. Got a reputation t’uphold — terror, an’ all.”
“So, why’re you telling me this? Is there a point, or do you get kicks out of offending your teammates?”
“Bit’a both?”
“That’s sad.”
“Well, now.” The Brick rubbed his blocky chin. “There is another element — the game’s taken on a brand-spankin’-new dimension. What d’we really know about any o’ these people?”
“Who?”
“The Capes, kid.”
“Got’cha.”
“An’ the answer? Nothin’. Sweet FA. They’re just sham window dressin’, avatars. Question now being — who, among all of ’em, is killin’ the great Capes of Heropa?”
“What’s to say it’s a Cape doing these executions?”
“Well, fer starters — there’s no one else here. Boom-boom.”
“You sure about that?”
The Brick looked at Jack. “Why? You got other ideas?”
“Disgruntled civilian.”
“A Blando?”
“Yeah.”
The Equalizer chuckled. “Oh my, and one flauntin’ an axe t’grind!”
“Seriously. You and the other Capes insist that the regular people here — the Blandos — are part of the woodwork, that they don’t think for themselves, but how do you account for someone like Stan, downstairs at Equalizers HQ?”
“The Doormat? He’s off-colour. Diff’rent.”
“More like us.”
“No way.”
“But you’re saying there are degrees of Blandoism — some being more fluff than others.”
“Ain’t gave it much thought. Is Blandoism even a word?”
“Is now.”
“Point.”
“Brick, how many of these people have died in battles between the Capes?”
“Again, dunno.”
“You given some thought to the notion that our killer might be one of them, exacting comeuppance for years of indiscriminate killing?”
The Brick squeezed out a contralto chuckle. “Yeah, right.”
“Haven’t you noticed anything? What was used to kill the Big O? A gun. Somebody sabotaged the Aerialist’s jetpack and Double-R was electrocuted — after having his throat cut. The GWH was crucified. The weapons of choice for Sinistro and Iffy Bizness? Explosives. No special powers necessary. No costumes.”
“But this’s nit-witted, you talkin’ up some kind’a Blando conspiracy theory. What, you sayin’ there’s some kind’a vendetta goin’ on here, Dirty Harry style? — A Blando fifth column?”
“I’m not making any assumptions. Just throwing round alternatives.”
“Careful — you might poke out an eye. Geddit through yer head, junior — these are not real people. They’re inconsequential electronic blips in a computer.”
“What if one of those inconsequential blips just got angry?”
“Nah, impossible. Blandos have no will o’ their own, no identity, no surprises. We’d be wastin’ our precious time lookin’ for spooks in this lot.”
“You know what they call us? Bops. That’s not a term of endearment. It’s a slap.”
“Yeah, but words is words. Actions’re…diff’rent.”
Right then, Jack and the Brick noticed a small pair of shoes before them.
Their combined scrutiny followed up two skinny legs, past a pair of shorts and a half tucked-in shirt, to a redheaded boy’s face, maybe ten, with a dirt-smudge on one cheek and a yacht tucked under his arm.
“Beat it, kid. Yer blockin’ my view.”
“Excuse me, but you’re Mister Brick, right?”
The Equalizer’s response sounded uncharacteristically anaemic. “Er…No.”
The kid thrust out the boat and a marker.
“Don’t care what anyone says — you’re all right. Can I have your autograph, right here on the bow?”
#136
Jack went directly from the park to Louise’s apartment block.
He realized it was too early in the day for the girl to be home, but reasoned that the antique shop downstairs might be open, enabling a chat with her father-in-law.
When he pushed open the door and a bell attached above announced the arrival of a customer, Jack back-patted himself for a guess proven correct.
The store was rammed full of old furniture — secretaires, shelves, clocks and paintings — along with piles of books and magazines, and chaotically organized bric-à-brac that included a moose’s head next to a hanging kimono, boxes of 78-rpm records, a suit of tarnished armour that had a woodcutter’s axe leaned up against the right leg, several ancient willow cricket bats, and a statuette of a black bird of prey.
He browsed the bigger hardback and paperback tomes, along with the vintage magazines, always curious.
There was a worrisome mathematics book titled A Treatise on the Binomial Theorem, along with the November 1887 issue of Beeton’s Christmas Annual, containing a novel by Arthur Conan Doyle (A Study in Scarlet). One copy of Life Magazine, dated July 12th, 1963, had actor Steve McQueen and his wife Neile on a motorbike together on the front cover.
Sadly, there were no American comicbooks, only British ones from the 1930s —Tiny Tots and The Beano — along with three from the early ’70s (Cor!!) and a single copy of an Australian-published version of The Phantom, dated 1948, with a flimsy, matt-paper cover.
“Jack!” The Professor, emerging from a backroom, came over and shook the Equalizer’s hand with a lot more energy that he expected. “My apologies for the mess.”
“No need. This is a pretty nifty shop.”
“A pigsty, that’s what it is — but the customers like that. Plus I’m too busy to pay attention to the cleaning. Come into the office. Far more spacious there.”
Jack followed the Professor to a backroom in which Vera Lynn crooned ‘We’ll Meet Again’ from a teak wooden radio. He shifted some cartons and gestured for his visitor to take a seat on a divan.
The Professor sat down across from him. The man was so small he looked like a diabolically aged child.
“I’m so happy you came to visit. I have a question for you.”
“Go on,” Jack said, waving aside some of the dust in the air.
“You may find it foolish.”
“I doubt that.”
“You’re a good man.”
“Not really. Anyway, what was the question?”
“Oh, a silly one, I assure you: Who is your preferred superhero?”
Jack shot a look at the older man. “What, here?”
“No, no, of course not. In comics, my boy. I’m a Phantom aficionado myself — the hereditary crime fighter from deepest, darkest Africa. ‘Ghost Who Walks, Man Who Cannot Die’, and all that wonderful brouhaha.”
“I noticed you had a copy in the shop.”
“That issue out there is a double. I have another copy, in better nick, beneath my bed. You should see how many I store there! Alas, Louise does not approve.”
“Because of what happened to her husband? — Your son.”
“Ahh, she told you.” The Professor shook his head. “No, more because she sees it as both a childish pursuit and a fire-trap. All that paper.” The man laughed. “Anyway, I do believe it’s your turn to speak.”
“About what? Are we still discussing favourite superheroes?”
“Yes, please. May I hazard a guess?”
“Go ahead,” Jack laughed.
“I would wager you prefer your Spider-Man or Batman.”
“Nice try — both of them have their moments, but I’d go with Captain America.”
“You like the pretty stars and stripes?”
Still laughing, Jack shrugged. “Well, yeah, I do dig the costume.”
“Oh, come now, you strike me as a gentleman with better taste. Those showy red boots and gauntlets? The little wings on the head? The chainmail? Really.”
The Professor reached over and manhandled Jack’s suit j
acket.
“This is far nicer. What is it — Frederick Scholte?”
“Phineas Horton. He’s our local tailor, whiz with a needle.”
“Wool-blend?”
“Mm-hmm. With cashmere.”
“I must meet this Mister Horton. I am in dire need of a new wardrobe. Anyhow, I detract. You were talking about the good Captain.”
“And his kitsch costume.”
“I recall something along those lines.”
“Well, honestly? I think the costume is beside the point.”
“Go on.”
“The Captain America they reinvented in the 1960s swayed me with his personality, not his wardrobe. A man out of place, out of his time, looking to fit in — a humble guy, once weak but now blessed with great strength, who wants to do the right thing but is coming to grips with guilt related to the death of his partner. The world has changed and he doesn’t understand it — reflecting the crisis of confidence in the U.S. at the time. Even though Cap may be old-fashioned, he’s a symbol of hope — for everybody — and maintains that despite all the evil tossed his way.”
“Defending the little man. A simple but worthy pursuit. Never once led astray?”
“How do you mean?”
“By the prejudices of the era, or the people publishing the comic?”
“Sure. You’ve got to sift through this stuff and place it in context. The Soviets and geriatric Nazis get a bad rap, but overall Cap was a decent human being, and Jack Kirby drew him so damned well — even if the character, along with the suit, was too patriotically American.”
“Hence the name. Interesting.”
The Professor commenced filling a corncob pipe from a tin marked Capstan Navy Cut. It sat precariously on his lap.
“Now that we have superheroes out of the way — what is it to be human, Jack?”
Well, this was an offbeat tangent. Why not?
“The way I understand it, Homo sapiens developed in Africa, broke away from there to take over the world, dominated everything — then, finally, depopulated most of the place.”
“The sad Homo sapien genome story in a prize nutshell, to be sure, and let me add we still share ninety-nine percent of our DNA with chimpanzees.” The man poked about his pipe with a matchstick — tamping, Jack guessed. “No, I’m thinking on a more philosophical level — what is it, exactly, that defines us as human?”
“Haven’t thought much about that before now.”
“Go on, then.”
“I don’t know. Breathing?”
“All animals breathe.”
“Good dress-sense.”
“Debatable.”
“Thinking, then.”
“What’s to say some of our animal friends don’t have the capacity for cognition?” The Professor dropped his match on the table, fished out a pigskin-and-nickel lighter, and lit up. He burned his hand in the process and stuck a finger in his mouth. “Ouch.”
“All right.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “The ability to learn from something and avoid doing it again.”
“Well said. I liked the droll flourish. One lesson that always escapes me.” The Professor held up his pipe in mock salute. “A condition reflex. Something animals are also capable of — remember Ivan Pavlov’s dogs.”
“Whose dogs?”
“Oh, it matters not — I prevaricate.”
“I think you also expect better responses.”
“Or barks? No, no. Let’s continue, shall we?”
Do we have to? Jack thought.
“Shall I steer us via the psychological characteristics that all people are supposed to have in common? The ‘human condition’ that tells one the sum total of experience existing as a human being? Do we look at the nature of humanity, which is the act of tending for kin and befriending others? Self-awareness as the litmus test of humanity? Indeed. The qualities of introspection and the ability to reconcile oneself from the whole — in terms of knowledge, attitude, good and bad taste. ‘I think, therefore I exist’, and all those other throwaway philosophical nuggets?”
The man puffed at his pipe and exhaled towards the ceiling, waiting.
“I have no idea,” Jack finally admitted.
“Well, think about it. Humans search for purpose and thrive on new stimuli, correct?”
“I guess.”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “You’ll have to do better than that, Jack.”
“Okay — yeah, they do.”
“Then humanity is all about a sense of curiosity, sapience, an ongoing search for the meaning of life, and obviously an anxiety about death. Living life demonstrates to us what it’s like to live, and thereby shows clearly the nature of being human.”
The Equalizer stared at the Professor for a while, soaking up the commentary, feeling bamboozled — thank Christ, Louise stepped in and broke the highbrowed moment.
“Hello, you two. Who’s up for coffee?”
Jack jumped to his feet. “Actually, I was hoping you might be up for dinner.”
“That’d be lovely. What about you, Prof?”
“By all means, children. The night is young — for the young. I need to close up shop, and then joyfully potter through mundane accounting. Go and have fun.”
Taking Louise by the arm, fetching his hat, and walking her out of the store, Jack finally relaxed.
“Know any decent places round here? I’m lost.”
“Sure. There’s always Jim Hammond’s over there.” Louise pointed across the road at a place painted on the outside various shades of red and orange, mimicking fire. “Cheap, really sweet people, and they do a great barbecue.”
“Do we need to B.Y.O. fire-extinguisher?”
Louise nudged him. “Oh, you!”
“Okay. Yum. I’m up for that.”
“C’mon, then.”
They entered a small restaurant with darker, smoke-grey walls covered in charcoal sketches of propeller planes and sailing ships.
“Miss Louise,” said a handsome older man with curly hair who looked vaguely Italian. He was wearing a white t-shirt with black pants and wore an orange Atlas apron over the top. “Always a pleasure to have you.” The man smiled broadly.
“Sorry we haven’t been in for a while — you know how life goes,” Louise answered in pleasant if breezy fashion. “Jack, this is Mister Burgos, the owner of the restaurant.”
“Karl,” Burgos said, while he proceeded to crush Jack’s fingers with a grip of steel.
The rest of the staff also knew Louise, and a waitress showed them to a scenic table over by the front window.
“Thanks, Tara. Could I trouble you for an ashtray?”
“No worries, Louise.”
“A glass of Bollinger too. Jack?”
“Coffee would be great.”
The waitress nodded. “Today’s special is the barbecued lamb — it’s a real humdinger. I’ll scoot back with the drinks.”
Louise took out her packet of cigarettes and lit up while Jack examined the menu.
“It was such a surprise to see you when I got home. In a good way.”
Louise had a smile that took up most of her face. Jack’d never seen an expression so infectiously uplifting — except, perhaps, the last time they’d met.
“Likewise,” he said simply.
“So. Here we are. Tonight, can we do something different?
“Sure.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
After a few seconds’ hesitation — during which time he realized he couldn’t wrangle out of this one — Jack almost mentioned his adoration for comicbooks, but then remembered the Professor’s warning.
“Not much to say, really.”
The girl sat back and exhaled a puff of smoke. Her smile was dead in the water. “Oh, I don’t believe it.”
“I love books.”
“Yes, we have established that.”
Jack looked away. He didn’t know what to reveal — and then something came to him. “Okay. My parents died when I was young
.”
Louise instantly leaned forward to place a hand over his fingers. “Really? Oh, no. I’m so sorry. God. Mine too.”
“It’s okay.”
They ordered a dinner of barbecued lamb and actually said little more of note. Occasionally, Jack felt Louise’s emerald eyes on him, but he focused on the meal gracing the table.
His partner ordered two more glasses of champagne and talked for a while with Karl, the owner, who leaned in too close — and had Jack fidgeting uncomfortably.
Other than that, he kept thinking about his mother and father, about how quick he’d been to say they were dead. Maybe it was true. Probably they were — and yet he had no idea. He felt like he’d betrayed them.
After dinner, Jack played it honourable. He deposited the girl on her doorstep, pecked a cheek, told her what a swell evening he’d had.
Then he virtually ran away.
#137
Next day, Jack got Gypsie-Ann on the line at the Patriot.
“Any news on the Blando lead?” he asked, following thankfully abridged unnecessary pleasantries.
“I thought you volunteered for the leg-work?”
“Got a few other angles I have to pursue.”
“Fat lot of good that does me.”
Jack adjusted the receiver in the crook of his neck. “Look, maybe we should drop it.”
“You really know how to grab my interest, Jack. Why drop it now?”
“No reason.”
“This Sekrine character is no longer important?”
“I don’t know.”
He hung up and stared at the wall. Was he doing the wrong thing? The Professor seemed to know so much. Why couldn’t he ask the old man directly?
More than that, Jack felt he already owed Louise twice an apology and was intruding in a domain none of his business.
#138
An interminable ringing woke him, its source the ancient black Western Electric Model 202 telephone on his bedside table. Jack’d never heard a peep from the bugger, but apparently an almighty clanging at five minutes past two in the morning was its specialized party trick. He juggled with the overlarge handset, as he rose to a halfway decent upright position in the dark.
“Hello?”
There was sobbing on the other end — a girl? — and then he heard a soft voice pleading to somebody, a scream, and two shouted words: “No! No!”
Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa? Page 18