Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa?

by Andrez Bergen

  “Louise…?” He couldn’t tell. Neither tone nor line was clear.

  “Monarch Theatre — Pearl Street — oh, God, please hurry!”

  After that the connection went dead. Jack sat on the edge of the bed, wearing green-and-white checked pyjamas, mulling over what he’d awoken to while he quickly rubbed sleep from his eyes.

  He didn’t go collect the others. The Equalizer flew solo, taking a lonesome yellow cab downtown, paying, and climbing out of his suit in a back alley. Didn’t want to get the thing dirty, so he wrapped it in two vinyl bags and tucked the package carefully under a gap in the fence.

  Mask on, Jack guessed he was ready. Going it alone sounded stupid, but if Louise were involved he had no choice — something to do with the reckless things one gets up to in the name of love or infatuation or whatever it was they had between them.

  Next door to the Hotel Excelsior, the Monarch Theatre was a huge, glitzy hall that’d seen better days, but still looked a million bucks. There were art-deco details highlighted in silver against black tiles and a lighted diamond sitting atop a single tower.

  On the marquee out the front was a poster of a vampish girl in fishnets promoting some musical called Footlight Frenzy, but at three a.m. the place was closed to business.

  Down a narrow side street that ran alongside the theatre was parked a fancy silver, hard-top 1937 Saoutchik Hispano-Suiza H6C ‘Xenia’ Streamliner, looking more like an airplane than a car since it was commissioned by André Dubonnet — a World War I fighter pilot and heir to the Dubonnet aperitif and cognac business — with styling done by aerodynamics expert Jean Andreau.

  Near that, some fool had kindly left a side door unlocked.

  It was dark inside, but minor illumination here and there allowed Jack to see. He wandered into the central aisle of an auditorium likely to seat a thousand. After scanning the shadows, he then strolled slowly toward the stage. Like the phone call, none of this rang right at all. He’d just reached the orchestra pit when there was a loud clapping sound and two spotlights switched on somewhere far above — one highlighting him, the other the stage.

  There were three people on a podium, soaking up the illumination. One of them he recognized — Prima Ballerina.

  Beside her was a tall, Teutonic-looking male bodybuilder in a tight jumpsuit, with flaxen curls shaped in a Prince Valiant cut, a coiled whip at the right hip, and a large Nazi swastika on his chest.

  Rounding out this posse was a wiry guy wearing an olive-green, mid-twentieth-century communist army uniform, drab as dust. He had his cap down over his eyes and a tight brown belt around the waist — could’ve been Cuban or North Korean, for all Jack was able to tell.

  Behind them were a painted set and a few props that looked like they described a rural medieval hamlet in Bavaria.

  The Nazi clearly aspired to be ringleader. He stepped forward with a self-satisfied mien and poked a big handgun, something like a German Mauser, in Jack’s direction — using the flag on his costume as a bull’s-eye.

  “Make no sudden move. Stand as still as the wind.”

  The man said this with a cartoon-cut-out inflection that predictably made his Vs sound like Ws and Fs —‘move’ became ‘moof’ and ‘wind’ segued into ‘vind’. It was also inconsistent, like he forgot to persist with the charade.

  “The wind is still?” asked the Communist, with far better pronunciation, over the shoulder of his Kraut accomplice.

  The Mauser dipped a few inches. “Hush, General Ching.” Then the pistol bounced back up. “I am Baron von Gatz. No doubt you have heard tell of me. The estimable Southern Cross, I presume?”

  “Bingo. You’ll get extra gold stars from teacher for that quip.”

  “Another smartarse,” sighed von Gatz’s henchman.

  Jack noticed the Communist was hefting an assault rifle he’d never before had the pleasure of meeting. While taking a leaf out of the AK-47 design manual — there was a long, curving magazine beneath — this particular hardware was far from pretty.

  “A simple bullet in the head will end the shenanigans,” added the man toting the eyesore.

  “Donnerwetter! I said be quiet!” hissed von Gatz in a voice anyone could hear a mile off. His jaw muscles momentarily bulged, and then the Nazi took up a confident pose and even louder bluster. “Nein, General Ching. My way is far more complicated, time-consuming, und thereby…rewarding.”

  “For whom?”

  “For myself, of course.”

  “Ingrate,” the other man sneered.

  “Buffoon.”

  Jack fought off a yawn. His watch said three-thirty — what did they expect? “Whenever you boys are ready.”

  “Liberty-loving schwein,” said Baron von Gatz, apparently having returned his attention to the Equalizer since Jack couldn’t picture General Ching being a liberty-loving anything, “your ultimate fate is assured!”

  “Mm-hmm. Don’t bet on it, Fritz.”

  “Bah! Your false bravado cannot impress us now. We are here to take revenge for Black Owl — you know you put him in a wheel-chair? Und there ist the unfinished matter of Iffy Bizness and Sinistro…cold-blooded murder.”

  “In case you haven’t heard, we’ve also been losing people like flies.”

  “Pfaw! You Equalizers crossed the line. Let this be our answer to the scoffers und der doubters — to those who think the League of Unmitigated Rotters has lost its resolve!”

  The Nazi threw back his head and laughed heavenward, and then he took time out to unravel a banner of that poorly rendered, three-legged black turkey logo of theirs.

  “Wherever the deadly spectre of heroism looms, the spirit of villainous men—” Prima Ballerina coughed discreetly behind him “—oh, und of fräuleins too, together proud and united, will drive it from our streets.”

  Von Gatz started waving the flag, like he was stuck on the tail-end of a Third Reich propaganda reel.

  “You sure like to waffle,” Jack decided.

  “That pathetic barb counts for nothing, bumbling fool! This moment belongs to Baron von Gatz! Now all that remains is to determine the manner in which you will die.”

  “Where’s Bulkhead? He and I are old mates.”

  “That dolt refused to come — said he wanted no invitation to a lynching party.”

  “The man has manners.” Looking over at Prima Ballerina, Jack nodded. “Can’t say the same for you.”

  “I’m just along for the ride,” the girl murmured, without any particular conviction.

  “Shut up!” shouted von Gatz.

  “For crap’s sake, get it over with — use the gun,” his Communist teammate urged.

  “Never! A bullet is far too quick und easy for the likes of him.”

  “Then I will use mine.”

  “That thing? It’s hideous. The verdammt Norinco Type 86S was a commercial failure precisely because it’s so ugly.” Von Gatz glanced at Jack. “Made in China,” the man said, by way of explanation. He even winked.

  “I am sick to death of your cultural stereotyping!” General Ching stepped up to his colleague and held him by the scruff of his costume’s swastika. “Don’t you know the pistol you’re flaunting is Chinese? That’s no Mauser — it’s a Shanxi .45.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “Shanxis are noticeably bigger than their Mauser 7.63mm brethren, with the ten-round magazine extending beneath the trigger guard. See? If you don’t believe me, pig — it will be inscribed with ‘Type 17’ in Chinese on the left-hand side of the gun. Take a look.”

  Baron von Gatz did just that and he blanched. “Scheisse.” Then he karate-chopped General Ching’s assault rifle. It clattered on the floor and snapped in two.

  “Look what you did to my gun — you broke it!”

  “Well, I think it’s safe to say that’s now kaput. Mass-produced trash breaks so easily, don’t you think?”

  “Then I’ll take that mass-produced pistol!”

  The two men comically tussled on stage as the Nazi tried to ke
ep his mock-Mauser out of the Communist’s fingers.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Prima Ballerina sighed, pushing forward. “Gomene, Southern Cross — I’m sorry you have to put up with such idiocy. Let me take care of this.”

  Jack knew he had to act, and do so post-haste — having previously copped a dose of the woman’s spellbinding body language, he was not sure he wouldn’t again cave in.

  So, as he leapt across the space, the Equalizer fired off a controlled plasma blast at Prima Ballerina’s feet — preferring not to break her legs, but sufficient to knock the girl off the raised platform.

  Jack’d counted on the Nazi and his ideologically opposite sparring partner being too preoccupied to take pot-shots at short notice, and was proved right — by the time he ducked beneath an apron, the two men were still struggling and their ring-in Mauser was pointed at the roof, fully loaded.

  That was when the shooting really started.

  The rat-a-tat-tat came from a rich patron’s box with velvet curtains, to the front and above the level of the stage, about two hundred metres away.

  Jack saw the first muzzle-flash in the corner of his eye and ducked — since he was completely exposed in his position — but nothing ended up hitting him.

  The Nazi and the Communist, on the other hand, were not so fortunate.

  For at least thirty seconds, they danced a romantic jig together up on the podium, held aloft by the impact of several hundred rounds. Once the firing ceased, they leaned against one another and slowly slid down to the boards. There was a red wash over everything in proximity, with Prima Ballerina nowhere to be seen.

  Jack was barely able to breathe.

  He peered over his shoulder at the distant theatre box, wondering when it would be his turn. He blinked several times, quickly, holding back tears he knew were ready to run riot. Why didn’t the person shoot? Why drag it out in such a way? At least for von Gatz and Ching it’d been quick.

  This was how he spent the next fifteen minutes — waiting to die. Only after that quarter of an hour did he cotton on that death was not here and the killer had gone.

  Police entered the theatre, about a dozen of them — pistols drawn, a couple of Tommy guns ready, torches out. They found Jack huddled beneath the stage. His legs were cramping and he shook.

  “You all right?”

  This was a plainclothes asking, one of two who’d positioned themselves next to where Jack slouched in a fold-down theatre chair far from the mayhem. What made this particular plainclothes stand out was the black leather patch covering his left eye.

  The Equalizer tried not to stare as the man handed over a paper cup of lukewarm coffee poured from a Thermos he had in his coat pocket. Aside from the patch, this was a mostly dark-haired cop with salt-and-pepper to either side, pushing fifty, ruggedly handsome and bearing a slightly lopsided nose, broken at some stage in the distant past. He had on a long, mustard-yellow trench coat and olive-green pants, and surprisingly the combination worked.

  His partner, a beefier individual with a pot-belly, sandy-coloured hair and a moustache, same age as Eyepatch, hovered a few feet away in a clothing combo that failed.

  “You all right, mate?” the first officer repeated.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Just shaken up.”

  The Equalizer dragged off his mask. Sure, it was against regs — but after all he’d that evening experienced, Jack didn’t care about any of it. He huddled there with the cup between both hands.

  “Scared shitless, actually. Thought I was a dead man.”

  “Part and parcel of the territory,” the cop said, “but you never, ever appreciate it. Funny, that.”

  He threw out a hand and Jack reached over to shake it.

  “Lieutenant Robert Kahn. Call me Bob.”

  “Jack.”

  “Say, aren’t you people supposed to keep your names a secret?”

  “Something along those lines.”

  Kahn chuckled. “You want a splash of whiskey with that there coffee?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Behind him Kahn’s partner whistled. “He’s fine, he says.”

  “Shut up, Irv. Jack, you’ll have to excuse Detective Forbush’s manners.” Kahn then pointed over to the distant stage. “So. What happened here?”

  “Looks like it was a set-up,” Jack mused, bewildered still. “Meant to be a trap for me, but instead the tables got turned.”

  “By you?”

  “No.” He looked into the cop’s single eye. “Someone else. With a whole lot of spare ammo.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Another Cape — goes by the name of Prima Ballerina.”

  Kahn scribbled in a small, dog-eared notebook. “Prima Ballerina. Where is she? I, uh, presume we’re talking up a sheila?”

  “With most o’ these Bops it don’t seem to matter,” Detective Forbush said. “Fuckin’ freaks.”

  “Irv — give us a moment.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” The other man wandered away with hands in pockets. Kahn watched him go, and then turned back to the Equalizer.

  “Guy has a serious problem with Capes,” Jack said.

  “Unprofessional, yeah, but a good cop. So, tell me — what happened to this Prima Ballerina? Dame, right?”

  “Yep. And I don’t know. After the shooting started, she skedaddled.”

  “Smart lady.” The cop raised an eyebrow and stopped writing. “Too smart?”

  “Good question.”

  “Even better if you could answer.”

  Kahn thought for a while, eyeballing the middle distance with his good peeper, and then he looked like he remembered something.

  “By the way — we’re long overdue returning Sir Omphalos’ effects to the Equalizers. Can I pass them on to you now?”

  “What, you carry them round?”

  “Not much to carry, sadly.” He produced a small, sealed plastic bag and handed it over. “Just this.”

  Inside was a piece of notepaper folded several times to be about two centimetres by two centimetres — the perfect size to fit in the hidden pocket of a costume like Jack’s. As he unfolded, the cop continued talking.

  “The Words and Pictures Museum of Fine Sequential Art requisitioned his costume — didn’t think you people would object. They see it as a state treasure.”

  The note itself was simple.

  THERE ARE 6

  “Six,” Jack mused. “Yep. Half a dozen,” Kahn chimed in. “Of what? — People? Eggs? Geese a-laying?”

  #139

  After half an hour’s more waffling, note-taking and cross-refer-encing, Jack went directly to Louise’s apartment — couldn’t care less if it was five in the morning. He had to be sure she was okay.

  The Professor answered the door and didn’t look like his visitor had woken him.

  “Jack. Either you’re an early-riser, or you have important business with our girl,” he breezed, as he showed the man in without further ado.

  Jack apologized repeatedly, until the older man cut him off.

  “Nonsense, there’s no need to say that. I was up anyway, pottering with my Vita-Rays — and, I say, you missed all the excitement!”

  “I did?” Frankly, Jack was feeling like he’d had sufficient excitement to last him into his sunset years.

  “Oh, very much so.”

  The elderly man swept up a pipe and began packing it as they stood in the middle of the room. He peered at Jack with a rascally grin.

  “Yesterday, Louise clocked her employer — laid the man out on the showroom floor, so to speak — and she then handed in her resignation to leave that financial doss house! She finishes up at the end of this week and I, for one, could not be happier. Last night, Mister Winkle dropped by to pass on his respects and hearty congratulations. He told me that our girl broke Henry Holland’s jaw. Not much chin there to fracture, to be sure, but bravo, what?”

  It was possible Jack appeared stressed, flustered, or both, and the Prof silenced his patter. He led t
he younger man to a settee and urged him to sit.

  “Stay here, my boy. I will go to get Louise.”

  The Professor hadn’t yet lit his pipe but puffed away on it as he left the room.

  Minutes later, his daughter-in-law appeared in the loungeroom. Alone. The girl’s hair was in disarray and she was wrapped only in an oversized men’s tuxedo shirt that must’ve belonged to her husband, but she looked prettier than ever. There was concern and apprehension all over her face. She came before the man and took his hands.

  “What is it, Jack? What’s happened? Are you all right?”

  Jack stood and hugged the girl to him. “Thank crap, you’re okay.”

  “Course I am, aside from morningitis,” she whispered in his ear. “What’s going on?”

  “I — I had a nightmare,” he said. “Sorry for barging in like this, I just needed to be sure you were safe.”

  “I think I’ll always be safe — now.”

  Her arms tightened, and there was no mistaking the relief ricocheting about inside Jack’s head. He returned the strength and found himself smiling.

  “From what I hear,” he mused into her shoulder, “you can handle yourself pretty damned well, regardless.”

  Louise leaned back a fraction and pretended not to look pleased. “The Prof mentioned yesterday.”

  “He did.”

  “I’ve been dying to slap Henry Holland for days.”

  “Did you really deck him?”

  “Exaggerations. It was nothing more than a light tap.”

  “That so? I pray I never give you cause to ‘tap’ me.”

  “Impossible.”

  #140

  Louise lightly snored beside him. The girl was lying on her front without the white shirt, arms thrown over the pillow, face turned his way. She looked angelic.

  Jack parked himself on one elbow to gaze. God, he loved her, even as it dawned upon him that this wouldn’t — couldn’t — last. One day soon, they’d fix the Reset and everything’d go back to square one.

  “Louise,” he said. “Louise, are you awake?”

  Silence, aside from the sound of sleep.