Then Rudy pulls his hands away and gives both me and Tony a confused look. Then he spits on the ground, and something white, red, and silver skips up off the pavement.
I am pretty much guaranteed to have nightmares tonight.
“Excellent,” Tony Romano says, still grinning, clapping me on the shoulder. “A genius. Just like your father. Just wait for my cue.”
I nod, and we all follow Tony into the warehouse, me taking care to keep a fair distance from both Rudy and Mr. Jones. Zach comes up behind me, whispering.
“Bet that’s the first time you ever knocked somebody’s teeth out,” he says.
“It wasn’t my fist,” I say.
“Which makes it even more impressive.”
That’s the thought that I carry when I enter the warehouse full of even more men in trench coats and pinstriped suits—at least two dozen of them, all hovering around Mickey “Six Fingers” Maloney. And I realize that red-nosed Rudy is the least of my problems.
The warehouse looks like it has been abandoned for a decade at least. Half the lights are burned out, and the other half flicker sporadically. Stacks of empty crates line one wall. A few mousetraps are scattered along the floor, untriggered but baitless. A long wooden table sits in the center of the room, and only one man sits at it across from us, though he is surrounded by a couple dozen thugs standing at attention. I wonder if any of them have special powers like Zach and me, or if they are all just regular hired muscle, average joes with questionable consciences and a need to pay the bills. They make a point of hiding their guns but also make it obvious they’re packing—lots of right hands tucked inside coats.
Except for Mickey. His hands are on the table. He is dressed the same as Tony Romano, except all in white, like a photo negative. And in contrast to Tony’s girth, Mickey Maloney looks more like a scarecrow that has lost half of its stuffing. Gaunt cheeks, shallow eyes, long skinny neck with pulsing veins and all. The only thing they really have in common is the receding hairline. And the criminal empire.
“Mickey,” Tony says, in a voice filled with fake courtesy.
“Tony.” Mickey nods back, then cuts me a look. “Who’s the Chihuahua with the sparkly shoes?”
I look down at my feet. In the flickering halogens, they do kind of sparkle. Tony introduces me as his new accountant in training.
“A little young,” Mickey says. “How high can he count to?”
All Mickey’s goons laugh. None of Tony’s do. Rudy pulls out a seat for his boss, chin still streaked red. I wait stupidly for a moment before I realize I’m supposed to pull out my own chair and sit down next to him.
“Mickey, this is Michael. Michael, this is Mr. Maloney.”
I offer my hand for a shake, but the crime boss just gives me the finger.
I can’t help but stare at it. “I always thought . . . ,” I hear myself say.
“That I had six fingers on one hand?” Mickey finishes. “You’re not the first, kid. But my name’s not Eleven Fingers Maloney.” He continues to hold up the finger. “Lost the other four to a Rottweiler when I was fifteen. When they went back to look, they could only find the pointer, but I made ’em attach it in the middle. That way, everyone would know how I really felt. Go on. Shake it.” He thrusts the gnarled digit at me. I look at Tony, who nods. I bite my lip and look back at the finger just wagging at me, a giant taunting worm, laced with scars around the base. I grab hold, gingerly.
Mickey Six Fingers suddenly jerks back, hand shaking, like he’s having a seizure. I nearly fall out of my seat pulling away from him. I see all Tony’s men tense up, but Mickey’s men just snort and shake their heads as Mickey composes himself, smoothing out his hair.
“Gets ’em every time,” he says.
I catch my breath. Some joke. I wonder how many thirteen-year-olds have ever died of a heart attack. I pull myself back into my seat.
“So what’s so important that we had to meet on such short notice?” Mickey says, turning his attention to Tony and ignoring me altogether.
Tony Romano leans over the table, pushing it back with his gut. “You and I both know what’s so important. You’ve been in this town just as long as I have, Mickey. You know what it means, all of a sudden, having someone like him around.”
They are talking about the Comet, of course. At least somebody appreciates the gravity of the situation. Tony gets it. Understands how someone like that changes things, alters the rules of the game.
“He’s not our concern,” Mickey chides. “You know that.”
“Maybe not,” Tony says. “But he upsets the balance. This town’s crowded as it is. There are only so many opportunities, Mickey. I don’t know about you, but I’m not interested in losing my share.”
“Neither am I,” Mickey says. “Which is why I’m having a difficult time understanding why I’m sitting here across from you.” Behind him, one of Mickey’s men sniggers, but a look from his boss shuts him up.
Tony Romano puts both meaty hands on the table, clasped as if in prayer. “Mickey. This new guy . . . he’s not like us. You’ve seen what he’s capable of. He’s not a businessman. He won’t listen to reason. I’ve seen his kind before. He hasn’t done much yet, but believe me, he is just getting started. He has plans. Guys like him, they always have a plan.”
“I have plans,” Mickey fires back, taking offense.
“Not like him you don’t,” Tony retorts. “Besides,” he adds, “he’s attracting unwanted attention.”
“You mean . . .” Mickey whistles and looks up at the ceiling. I look up with him. I don’t know what I expect to see. Peeling paint and rusted pipes. Tony nods solemnly.
And then it dawns on me. The Comet is the unwanted attention. So then who’s the first guy they were talking about?
“This is New Liberty, Tony,” Mickey says. “We’ve seen it all before. They come. They go. We hold fast. Stay out of the way. We stick around. You remember what it was like ten years ago. . . .”
“I remember,” Tony says. “And that’s exactly why I think we need to reassess our business strategy. It has taken us both a very long time to get where we are. I’m not going to just sit back and let some freak come in and take it all away. I’m not suggesting we start a war. I’m just saying, pool our resources and protect what’s ours.”
Tony Romano snaps his fingers, and Rudy produces a stack of papers from behind me. I notice most of the bleeding has stopped. Tony reaches inside his suit and pulls out a pair of glasses too small for his face, precariously perching them on his beak.
“This is an outline suggesting a temporary merger of our two enterprises. We combine everything. Business opportunities. Contacts. Muscle. Your associates become my associates. My cops become your cops, and so on. Most of it is split right down the middle, though, as you can see from the blanket statement in the first paragraph, profits from any dual business ventures are split sixty-forty.”
Tony pushes the paper across the splintered table. Mickey Six Fingers pulls out his own pair of reading glasses—two wise old professors sitting across from each other—and takes the paper, tracing his one finger down the page. He nods thoughtfully, removes his glasses, folds them neatly and sets them down. Then he takes a long snort and spits, a quivering snot wad that slaps against the paper with a thwack. I taste bile in my mouth. Tony smiles politely.
“You think I’m an idiot?” Mickey says. “Is that what you think, Tony? That you would bring me out here, with your little punk band and your dorky-looking kid with no decent shoes, and throw this piece of garbage in my face? Is that it?”
I nervously scan the line of trench coats. I get the feeling if somebody so much as coughs, all those hands will spring from their hiding places, filling the air with lead. I’m about ready to dive under the table. But Tony just shrugs and turns to me and, in a voice calm and composed, says, “Michael, please explain to Mr. Maloney that this deal is in his best interest and that he should take it now before it is too late.” Tony prods me with one raised
eyebrow.
This is my moment. My contribution to the family. I flash back to the talent show: standing there in front of everyone, the cards slipping out of my sweaty hands, fanning and fluttering out all over the stage like butterflies, me on hands and knees, trying to collect them. I look at Six Fingers. He’s not Rudy the obedient henchman. He’s not the tired shoe salesman at the mall. He’s not even Sister Beatrice. He just loogied all over the deal Tony offered him. I’m pretty sure he’s made up his mind.
I remember what Dad told me. To keep it in the realm of possibility. It doesn’t have to be something they want to do, but they can’t be adamantly opposed to the idea either. For a second, I wish I had that little neural-enhancing spaghetti strainer or whatever it was Dad was building. Then I remember it didn’t work. I was on my own. Tony coughs impatiently.
Mickey Maloney looks back and forth from me to Tony through buggy scarecrow eyes.
“Mr. Maloney,” I start to say, knowing I’m already doomed, that my heart’s not in it. I wonder what Tony will do when this doesn’t work. Wonder if he will take it out on Dad somehow. Wonder how I got here in the first place. Not here, sitting at this table stuck between two crime bosses, necessarily, but here at this place in my life, where all of a sudden it matters what I do.
“I think . . . ,” I say.
I stop, cock my head to the side. “I think . . .”
I can feel Rudy hovering over me, big beefy hands formed into sledgehammers. I can hear Tony’s heavy breathing. I can hear the steady tap of Mickey’s middle finger on the table. It seems to have an echo, coming from the rafters above me. Tap tap tap. Like footsteps.
I look up. Tony looks up. We all look up.
Just in time to see the ceiling come crashing down.
Not the whole ceiling, but enough to end the negotiation. The chunk of plaster, wood, and shingles comes crashing down in the middle of the table, smashing it in two. Everyone is up on his feet, looking at the new hole in the ceiling, a dozen guns immediately drawn, expecting to see an army of FBI agents or a platoon of SWAT officers rappelling down.
But these aren’t the cops. Most of the cops don’t know about this place, and those who do are paid handsomely to pretend that they don’t. The cops don’t mess with Mickey or Tony too much—just enough to keep up appearances. Besides, if they did come, they would have to come in force. The figure standing on the roof, leaning over the new hole he’s made—he’s alone. That’s how most superheroes work.
Tony shakes his head. “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” he says. Then he gives a signal, and suddenly the room is filled with the drumroll of gunfire. Both the Romanos and the Maloneys swing their weapons toward the ceiling and start belching smoke. I duck behind my chair and watch as the Comet swoops down amid the hail of bullets and dispatches two henchmen with a swift spinning kick, sending them flying into their mates, then turns in time to bend the barrel of a machine gun sideways, causing it to explode. My ears split with ringing, and then the whole room is suddenly a loud, chaotic blur. Tony’s and Mickey’s men circle around the Comet, a seething vortex of bullets and punches and kicks. A perfect storm of thirty against one. And I am rooted in place, unsure which way to go.
“Gah!”
I feel my collar tighten and something prickle the back of my neck and turn to see a body covered in barbs—Zach the human cactus, pulling me backward toward the door. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him fully spiked, all quills from head to toe. He looks positively medieval, and I realize there’s no way he will ever wear those pants again.
“Time to go,” he says.
It’s hard to hear him over the gunfire and grunts, but I follow out of instinct. Henchmen fly past me, propelled by the Comet’s gauntleted fists. The superhero weaves his way through the crowd, walking like a deranged killer in a teenage slasher flick, deflecting bullets, delivering rib-cracking kicks, tossing Tony’s burly men over his shoulder like mashed soda cans. Mickey Six Fingers and his men have already given up and retreated to the back door. Zach and I are tripping over each other to get to the front, everyone scattering, trying to save his own hide. The Comet becomes a sapphire blur, leaping off the walls and bowling over Romano’s men before they even see him coming. I’ve never seen anything like him. It’s terrifying, but I can’t help but watch.
“Look out!”
Zach points and shoves me out of the way as Indiana’ Jones rumbles past, heading toward the Comet, getting larger and rounder as he goes, puffing himself up somehow like a beach ball, until he is six feet around, practically rolling, head over heels. Everyone else scrambles as the human boulder rolls past, picking up speed. I look to see the Comet crouch low, delivering a single punch. I remember what happened at the police station. Remember what he did to the garbage truck. One punch, and Indiana Jones goes flying through the air, smashing through the cinder-block wall on the other side of the warehouse, leaving a hole big enough to drive our Honda through.
The Comet turns and advances on Zach and me as we’re still picking ourselves up off the ground. I look into his eyes, ready to plead for my life. I’ve never had to use my powers on a superhero before. I don’t like my chances. His eyes are cold and calculating. All menace.
“Where is he?” the Comet barks. His voice is deep and resonant, an intimidating snarl. His square jaw juts from his mask.
I look around for any sign of Tony, but he’s obviously already escaped.
“Please don’t kill me,” I beg.
I’m not supposed to make requests. It doesn’t work if I beg. But with this freak of nature looming over me, it’s all I can do. I can’t bring myself to give this man orders.
“Tell me where I can find him!” The Comet’s fingers curl, and I’m pretty certain that I’m done for. Michael Marion Magdalene Morn-Edson. Born in a White Castle. Died in a warehouse. Never even got to first base. I make a list of all the people I blame for my premature death. It’s not long, but it’s pretty diverse. Nuns. Superheroes. Mafia heads. Fast-food employees. The Comet takes another step toward me, and I figure this is as good a time as any to remember my prayers.
Suddenly I feel a sharp stabbing in my arm as Zach grabs hold of me again, dragging me to my feet.
“Come on!” he shouts as two more of Tony’s henchmen try to tackle the Comet from behind, buying us a precious second to get to the door.
I turn and follow Zach outside—the Comet still slugging off trench-coated men behind me—to where one SUV is already pulling away, carrying its lone passenger; I can see the silhouette of Tony Romano riding in the back. What’s left of Tony’s men pile into the other cars. Blades McCoy is riding shotgun on the one we came in. Mario Andretti is gunning the engine.
“Mike, come on. Hurry up!” Zach shouts, already climbing in. From the warehouse behind me, I hear one last gunshot, then a grunt. I leap toward the car as something small and black flies through the air just past my nose, lodging in the hood of the SUV. It looks a little like a small Frisbee, like the kind you might get in a Happy Meal, except it has a row of spikes and a pulsing orange light attached to it.
I am familiar with little pulsing lights. I’ve seen enough of my father’s inventions to know what they mean. I drop to the ground and cover my head as the front of the SUV explodes. There is a mushroom of smoke, and I watch Zach and the others fall out the doors or drag themselves through the busted windows of the now-flaming vehicle. Mario scrambles to his feet and starts to run when a black wire or cord of some kind shoots out of the shadows and wraps around his feet, tripping him up. He lands facefirst on the gravel and screams something in a language that I can only assume is Italian. Another thin black wire wraps around Blades, dropping the kid to his knees, a knife falling from each hand. He groans, clearly hurt, and I just hope I was wrong about the underwear.
I don’t wait around to see where all these things are coming from. I take off in the other direction, away from Zach and the burning SUV, away from the smoking warehouse, heading for the
cornfield behind, with no other thought than to run. Legs pumping, I realize I’m the only person wearing the right kind of shoes. There is shouting. The peel of tires. I look back just in time to see something black whistling through the air.
There is a sharp pain in my knee and my legs cinch together beneath me, like pipe cleaners twisting around, causing me to fall forward. I break the fall with my hands, though it still knocks the wind out of me when I hit, causing the already black sky to grow even blacker for a moment.
I look down to find my legs wrapped tight in black cable, thin, but strong as deep-sea fishing line, at least what I imagine it must be like. I’ve never actually been fishing. Or seen the ocean. I struggle to kick myself free, but I’m still flat on the ground when I hear the voice coming from the shadows.
“Where do you think you are going?”
It’s not exactly the Comet’s voice, though it has that same gruffness, a gravelly husk that is hard to place. I look up to see someone about my size, maybe a little taller, emerge from the shadows. Dressed in a black jumpsuit with thin gold stripes along the seams, wearing a black mask that covers everything but the mouth—a pair of thin white lips set into a sneer. He’s got a pair of high-tech goggles with red lenses, all bug-eyed and scary. Though I can barely see him in the dark, I’m sure he can see me perfectly. He has a black leather bag slung across his body. One hand is tucked inside, no doubt reaching for another weapon—a gun, maybe, or one of those exploding disk things that he used on the SUV.
“Please let me go,” I say, realizing that here, in the dark, with him wearing those goggles, there is no way I can convince this guy of anything, no matter how badly I want to. I manage to prop myself on my elbows and try to get a better look, but his outfit has a way of blending in with the background, creating little more than an outline. I have no idea who this new guy is, but I’m pretty sure I know who he came with.
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