Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa?

by Andrez Bergen

  Just before eight o’clock, switching to a suit that was slate-grey and a burgundy-coloured tie with geometric designs on it, Jack went downstairs. While he stood between the doorways to Las Palmas Luggage Shop and A.G. Geiger Rare Books & De Luxe Editions, Stan stood on the kerb to hail him a taxi — a 1940s Chevrolet, all yellow aside from red fenders and a chequer-pattern strip along both sides. It had Green Top Cab Company signage.

  The cabbie at the wheel was sucking hard on a series of cigarettes that she flicked out the window when they became a stub.

  “Guessin’ you’d be a Bop,” the woman said while she looked straight ahead. Her driver’s card on the dashboard read Joy Barlow.

  “Why?” Jack asked, tired.

  “The pick-up address.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize, mister, job’s a job. I’m your girl, and a customer’s a customer — so long as he coughs up at the end of the ride.” The girl glanced back over the bench seat, with the brass numbers 132 sewn into her jaunty hat.

  The streets were busier than usual; mostly people in suits and skirts headed home from work, along with others more gaily dressed arriving for a night on the town. The bars and restaurants were fairly rammed. The overhead neon signage flickered on and off, creating a stop-start, glorious haze of pink, baby blue, purple and lime-green.

  The Equalizer went straight to the hospital and fished out of his wallet an extra five bucks for the broad-minded driver.

  “Thanks, mister!” the woman enthused.

  “Likewise. Have a good one.”

  At some stage while Jack was in Melbourne, Louise had been shuffled out of ICU and into a shared room on the second floor of the building. At that time of evening the interior lighting was subdued and the other ladies asleep. The only sounds came from a snorer, the beeps of a heart-rate monitor — and a respirator that huffed and puffed.

  Having pulled a curtain across to get a foothold of privacy, Jack flopped on a chair next to the patient. Someone had placed a vase of starflowers atop the small chest of drawers paired with the bed. The man stared at them for a few seconds, before taking up the girl’s right hand and gazing at her face behind the respirator tube.

  “Christ, I missed you,” Jack murmured. “I was away. Some place you would never want to go. Hope they’ve been looking after you here.”

  He leaned over the armrest to peck the girl’s cheek — cool to the touch — and, once settled back in his seat, Jack found himself smiling.

  “We’re going to try something tonight. Don’t know if the plan’ll work. It should work, but I think it’s better not to promise anything. If it does, you’ll be out of here, on your feet, alive, kicking and back to yourself. The way you should be — would be — if I hadn’t screwed up. Thing is, you won’t remember me. Maybe that’s a blessing. You can start afresh, find the partner you deserve, someone who doesn’t lie and keep secrets. A better person, you know?”

  Jack drew away, annoyed. He was rambling.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. My plan was to keep it simple, to remain enigmatic and all that, but instead here I am throwing out my stupid heart onto the sleeve of a jacket I didn’t pay for myself. Don’t listen to me. What I’m trying to say is this: whatever happens, Louise — live life, love life, and be happy. You deserve that. You hear me? Yes?”

  Right then, the curtain pulled aside and the Professor peered in, his hair and eyebrows more cockeyed than previously.

  “Oh, I do apologize. I’ll give you some privacy.”

  “Prof, it’s okay. Stay. I know Louise would want you to be here.”

  The old man didn’t move, but he didn’t leave either. “I would prefer not to intrude.”

  “You’re not, honestly. I’ve said what I needed to. Drag over that chair.”

  He did as requested and sat down on the other side of the cot. “You were missed over the past two days. I don’t care what the medicos say, Louise was aware of your absence.”

  “Nice of you.” Jack offered a slight inclination of his head. “Who’re these flowers from?”

  “My doing. Louise grew them in the small garden behind the shop.”

  “Hers?”

  “Yes. You don’t like the touch?”

  “Let’s just say I had a recent bad experience with flowers.”

  “Then you would prefer for me to remove the things?”

  “No, it’s fine. They’re hers, after all.”

  The Professor mused for a few seconds, apparently debating whether to ask his next question — and did so regardless.

  “Would you mind if I asked where you’ve been?”

  “Melbourne.”

  “Ahh, the motherland.”

  “Once, maybe. Now — no.”

  “Are you planning on leaving us?”

  “I don’t know. There’re things I need to finish up here, before I pass judgement. Donald Wright, for one.”

  “We haven’t heard a peep from that man since you destroyed his places of abode.”

  “Still.”

  “And there’s Louise, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  “The doctors have asked us to make a decision — according to them, she is not going to recover. They can keep her alive indefinitely, via these mechanized contrivances, but recommend we switch off. Allow nature to take its course.”

  “I have a better idea.”

  The Professor looked over. “What, precisely?”

  “I’m going to channel a little bit of you, Wright and the Big O. I’m going to play God, just for one night. There won’t be any reruns.”

  #180

  Waiting up for the Reset was like trying to stay awake to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus — no matter how strong one’s willpower, you passed out right beforehand and woke in the morning with the presents already chucked together under the tree.

  Not that Jack’s parents had ever once invested in a shrubbery to encourage Yuletide season shenanigans, but he got the gist.

  In this case the city sparkled. Every scrap of evidence that there’d been a destructive Cape war harbourside had been erased, the shops and buildings down there raised from obliteration. The Equalizers banner was back downstairs in the lobby and the table the Brick had damaged — in a meeting a couple of weeks before that included the late Great White Hope — fixed itself.

  The hospitals and clinics emptied out, even if the mortuaries remained fully booked, and Tarpé Mills got her eyes back.

  All of which possibly accounted for why the Brick whistled a jaunty Christmas tune (it was ‘Jingle Bells’, and gave good chase to Matt Munro’s vocals in the song playing on the café sound system, Quincy Jones’s ‘On Days Like These’) when he bundled into the Neon Bullpen at eight-thirty the following morning. The elegant woman in the tutu, attached to his arm, was likely another reason.

  Southern Cross and Pretty Amazonia were already seated with Gypsie-Ann Stellar. The Equalizers had on their costumes — Jack without his mask — while the reporter wore a smart, tweed pants-suit number. All three were tucking into coffee and flapjacks.

  “What’cha celebratin’?” the Brick inquired, having cut the whistle as he approached their table.

  “Renewal,” PA said, adding maple syrup to her breakfast. “A bona fide second chance, or at least a good kick up the bum.”

  “Nice t’see you waited fer us.”

  The woman glanced over a dangling pancake on her fork. “Quit grouching, Casanova, and sit down. You eaten yet?”

  As she leaned in close to her partner, Midori laughed. “B woke a bunch of restaurant staff at six this morning, all in the name of demanding they cook him up something called the King Henry VIII Steak.”

  Jack chuckled between mouthfuls. “Oh, wow, I remember that — was too scared to try it, though.”

  “You kiddin’, bright eyes? I was ravenous!” Straight after kissing the girl’s forehead, the Brick joined in the bonhomie. “Still am — order me a wad o’ jacks, will ya?” The g
irl pulled up a chair, while the man positioned himself on a more secure bench-seat.

  Pretty Amazonia leaned back to inspect him as he did so. “You’re looking dapper, hon.”

  “Feelin’ mighty fine too. Blessin’s o’ the Reset, eh?”

  “One-time special, according to Jack.”

  “Once were enough fer me.”

  “I’ll say. He’s well and truly back on form,” Prima Ballerina agreed, eyes all over her chunky beau.

  “Prima was sayin’ the swearin’s out — again.”

  “Yep,” confirmed Jack.

  “Fer f’s sake. How ’bout boozin’?”

  “I think that’s still okay.”

  “Bonza fer small mercies.”

  “By the way, in case you’re curious, we’re waiting for Bob Kahn to join us,” spoke up Gypsie-Ann, while she applied to her dish a liberal blend of tomato sauce, black peppercorns, French Dijon mustard, salt and maple syrup.

  Studying the resultant concoction, Jack felt vaguely ill. “Are you going to eat that — or just play with your food?”

  “Don’t knock it till you try it, buster. Yum.”

  With a bass-driven chuckle, the Brick unwrapped a fat cigar and lit up. “So, what’s Dick Tracy want?”

  “He has the autopsy report.”

  “Whose?”

  The reporter rolled her eyes. “Whose do you think?”

  “The dead geezers at the Patriot.”

  “Spot on. My blood runs in your veins yet.”

  “Sure the fella’ll remember to bring the thing — or come at all? I seems to remember a Reset happenin’ last night.”

  This time Gypsie-Ann produced a mysterious smile. “Kahn won’t forget. He’s a special case.”

  His attention having wandered to the clasped hands shared between Prima Ballerina and her boyfriend, Jack felt — what? Jealousy? Natch that. Sadness. Happy for his teammate, to be sure, but a general sense of the lonely prevailed.

  “Whatever the verdict,” he decided, “we have each other, a pretty hefty little consortium. But I understand if you bail out and go back to Melbourne, now you can.”

  “And why would we do that?” Pretty Amazonia had grabbed the Brick’s cigar to take a drag, glare challenging — which gave Gypsie-Ann ample opportunity to lean forward and insert her two cents.

  “Nothing wrong with running away, dearie, your tail between your legs.”

  “Fat chance, Lois.”

  “Well, then.” Jack placed his right hand, palm-side down, on the linoleum surface of the table, between drops of syrup. “We’re a team in this?”

  “Shit-a-brick. D’we have’ta indulge in the Three Musketeers shtick?”

  “I agree,” complained PA. “It’s so bloody passé.”

  “Four. Four Musketeers.” Midori stuck her free hand atop Jack’s.

  “Let’s make it a round five,” Gypsie-Ann said. “I don’t pack a firearm, but I have an umbrella, miracle blood, and you people need some brains.”

  “Oh, great.” PA rolled her eyes. “Now I have competition. I liked being the only girl.”

  “Stop whining and give me your hands.”

  “No, I’m not doing it. I’m in, but you can stick the musketeers thing up your arse.”

  The Brick blew several smoke-rings toward the ceiling. “Speaking of which, can we change the name o’ the group, an’ ditch that dumb logo?”

  “Priorities, Mister B.”

  “C’mon, dollface — we can at least put it to the vote.”

  “Let it go, you big oaf. We can do this, right, Jack?”

  PA playing deferential surprised her less experienced partner. “Don’t quote me, but I think we can.” Jack looked at Gypsie-Ann, followed by Midori, and then the Brick and Pretty Amazonia. “With the smallest amount of help from you lot.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  The Brick twisted over the table. “Okay if I get drunk now?”

  #181

  An hour later, Captain Robert Kahn still hadn’t shown.

  Getting stuck into his twelfth beer, the Brick was increasingly rowdy, Prima Ballerina remained unable to tear gaze from her paramour nor scrub the silly grin from her face, and Pretty Amazonia and Gypsie-Ann were quarrelling up a storm that’d put the standard cat-and-dog shindig to shame.

  Jack kept glancing at a Swiss chalet-style cuckoo clock affixed to the wall, something the Brick noticed in spite of any bleary vision.

  “Got somewhere yer gotta be, kid?”

  The man initially shook his head —“No,” he said — but straight after leaned back against the cushioned wall, mouth pressed into a beleaguered straight line. “Maybe. Am I that obvious?”

  “As obvious as yours truly skinny-dippin’ without me trunks.”

  Having overheard the hesitation, Pretty Amazonia took a welcome break from sisterly altercation. “Let me guess — Louise.”

  Jack nodded. “The bank will be open by now. I’m not sure she works there anymore, and I’m not going to interfere. Just want to make sure she’s all right.”

  “Haven’t you put yourself through the wringer enough yet?” muttered Gypsie-Ann.

  “Oh, shush,” PA responded. “You could always pay our rent early. That would make the bank happy — fresh start, and all that. The recipe for success you mentioned.”

  “G’on,” the big ceramic man beside Jack urged. “We’ll hold down ye olde fort while yer off stalkin’ — well, actually, you gals can. Prima an’ me are goin’ t’take our mornin’ constitutional. Soak up a bit o’ life.”

  PA looked put out. “You don’t think we need some living?”

  “Stop fussing,” cut in her sister. “Run along, children. We’ll fill you in.”

  “Will we now?”

  #182

  Once more, Southern Cross was lodged in a queue.

  He gazed at the architecture holding up the domed ceiling dozens of metres above, watched the fans spin, ventured a peek ahead. First a young woman haggled about her account balance, and then an old lady took a month of Sundays to retrieve a bankbook from her bag. The man in front of him, in a greengrocer’s get-up, was much faster and peeled away in silence.

  Which placed Jack at the front of the line, left hand touching the counter, staring at a girl behind the grille as she looked back. Same outcome as last time. The Equalizer lost everything in mind — all he perceived were a pair of big green eyes, still the most precious articles in any world.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  It took a second or two to remember she’d asked this before.

  What was his answer, that first time? “Um. I want to make a deposit.”

  The emerald eyes did a quick wash over, no recognition there. After he pushed closer the Gladstone he’d fetched from Equalizers HQ, it was opened to check, and Jack took time out to examine the woman’s downturned face.

  “Could I have your passbook?”

  “Here you go.” On cue, he slid the document across, this time ensuring no physical contact. Anyway, his face burned, so he looked down to her hands — superb, as he knew only too well — while she sorted through the bills. Jack blinked rapidly. He didn’t know where to focus. The clothes again?

  She was dressed in that fitted navy blue box-cut jacket, the one with grape-rose coloured buttons boasting rhinestone accents.

  The mother-of-pearl badge was there too, with her name.

  “Oh, Mister Winkle,” she was saying to the elderly coot at the next stall. “I have a deposit here for $5,000. Would you mind confirming the amount?”

  “Certainly, Miss Starkwell.”

  The Gladstone again exchanged hands.

  “We won’t be long, sir,” Miss Starkwell assured her customer with a charming smile.

  Henry Holland, all annular nose and decorative moustache, sauntered up to the woman’s side. The facial wiring was sadly amiss. He placed one hand on the girl’s shoulder, the resurrected smirk verging on patronizing, and those fingers on the navy blue material held Jack’s att
ention as before.

  “Everything dandy here, Louise?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The girl refused to look up at him, clearly bothered. Henry’s stare passed over Jack and the other customers, like they did not exist. Jack wasn’t wrong the first time — this rogue was more intent on pawing his subordinate, and the fingers on the shoulder had started their cloying massage.

  “Henry,” Jack remarked in a loud voice.

  Distracted from his reverie, Mister Holland looked straight over at the Equalizer. “Yes, sir?”

  “Don’t push your girl too far — she may bust your chin. Just a friendly warning.”

  The manager stepped back, face ashen and that fragile jaw of his gaping. Meanwhile, Miss Starkwell put a hand over her mouth to smother a laugh. With an awkward twirl, far from suave, Holland retreated to his dimly lit cubbyhole.

  That done, Jack relaxed. “You okay?” he asked the teller.

  “I am, now. Thank you.”

  “Anytime.”

  Mister Winkle had apparently finished his counting. “All done, Miss Starkwell,” the ancient cadaver croaked, as he laboured under the Gladstone’s weight and placed it upon her desk. “And, I must add, sir, well said.”

  —Which was precisely when the wall, the same one as last time, caved in amidst the cacophonous racket of an explosion.

  Horrified customers, intermingled with equally alarmed bank staff, dispersed screaming and shouting while bricks, mortar, and a billowing veil of dust settled. This time, rather than a three-metre beast standing by the gaping hole, there was instead an underwhelming, middle-aged 5’ 8” individual, dolled-up in a gaudy, ill-fitting, blue, red and yellow costume.

  More memorable was the pistol planted in his right mitt, the silver Colt M1911 automatic Jack had seen in action at the offices of Donald Wright.

  “Hello, baby.”

  “You.” As Jack backed away — even so ensuring he remained between the newcomer and the tellers behind him — he champed at his lower lip, attempting to nut out a course of action post haste.

  “Me. Why surprised? Thought I’d drop by for Devonshire tea.” Wright veritably purred while placing the gun in the left hand, and then straightened his mask over the moustache. “So, Southern Cross. We meet again.”