Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen

by Claude Lalumiere

  “I will do no such thing,” Anton said. “I found that young woman crying in the hall, with a bruise under her eye that she said you gave her.”

  I thought for a moment, then snickered. “Say— that’s right. I gave her a little love tap in the car on the way here. But I was just making a point. I told her to wear the fur stole tonight, the one I gave her— and she didn’t. Said it made her cry to think of the little animals all naked during the winter. So I made her cry. But it’s nothing a little face powder won’t cover over.”

  Anton glowered. “Well Mademoiselle Bouchard is gone. I gave her eighty dollars and, with luck, she’s halfway to the bus station and on her way back to Trois-Rivières.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was pulling my leg. I glanced at Bessy; she nodded slightly. “Josie has family in Québec,” she said, then shrunk back, like she was afraid I might hit her, too.

  “You gave money to my girl and sent her out of town?” I growled. I’m not sure what surprised me more: that this prima donna would hand eighty smackers to one of my girls or that he was so suicidal he’d brag about it to my face.

  “What’s more,” Anton continued, “I’m going to keep my eye on you from now on.”

  “You’re— what?” I bellowed, rising from my chair so fast that my single malt spilled all over the white tablecloth. Bessy yelped. The other girls at the table went white. A couple of my guys put their hands in their jackets, in case they needed to draw their heaters. The Book just blew casually at his trimmed fingertips like nothing was happening at all. “You threaten me — Tony ‘Spats’ DeMulder — in front of my people, at my table?”

  I’ll give the actor credit. He didn’t flinch. But I think his confidence came more from ignorance than anything. Like he’d acted this scene too many times to know the difference between real life and make-believe.

  It was almost funny when he started to peel off his expensive dinner jacket. “I should warn you, Mr. Spats, that I’ve played both d’Artagnan and Mercutio on stage to rave reviews. And I do my own stunts.”

  It took me a minute to realize that he thought I was going to fight him. If I hadn’t been so mad, I might have laughed. Instead, I sneered: “Boys, plug this—”

  “Not exactly a private club, is it, Spats?” said The Book quietly.

  Still red-faced with anger I looked around and realized almost every eye in the room was on us. No one was dancing. The band was still playing, of course— they were pros. But even the musicians were watching us over their bobbing instruments. I froze, beating back my anger. It had got me into trouble a time or two before. Then I straightened my tie with a little too much force and deliberately sat back down.

  Now it was Anton’s turn to look foolish, standing there with his jacket over his arm, looking ready to duke it out, but with no one stepping up. Finally, with a flap of his jacket like it was a bullfighter’s cape, he slipped it back on. “I trust I’ve made myself clear,” he said. Then he nodded politely at the dames. “Ladies.”

  As he turned away, I muttered under my breath: “Enjoy the rest of your evening, punk. Really— enjoy it while you can.”

  But now? Well, I really wish I’d left well enough alone.

  * * *

  Yessir, I was the detective on the Ken Anton case. What’s that? Oh, sure: for the record I’m Detective Constable Chet MacDougall. Been in plainclothes all of two years.

  The Anton case was kind of a big to-do— what with him being a celebrity and all. I even got quoted in the papers a couple of times. Me! My mom clipped those and put ‘em in a scrapbook.

  Anton was an actor. Did stage, but was probably most famous nationally as a radio actor, doing stuff on the CBC. Even did some work down in New York, I guess. Folks were naturally kind of interested in a rubbernecker sort of way— it’s not like there are too many big-name stars in Canada, are there? And to get himself murdered—

  Oops. Guess I shouldn’t say things like that, eh? I mean, officially, the case was ruled accidental— but we all knew better.

  See, Anton had had a bit of a dustup with this slimy wiseguy, name of Tony “Spats” DeMulder— right in front of a few hundred people in the Palais Royale, of all places. Not exactly low-profile. According to witnesses, Anton all but called Spats out— like Anton thought he was living out some swashbuckler story and he was Ronald Coleman or something. Well, Spats didn’t do anything then— but Anton ends up dead a couple of days later.

  He was found in his bathtub with a script scattered on the floor. He liked to rehearse his lines in the tub— maybe the echo reminded him of a stage. So there he was, naked as the day, pages on the floor— and a radio that cost more than I make in a month bobbing in the water next to him. Apparently that was something else he liked to do in the bath— listen to the radio. He even had a little wooden table custom-made just for it.

  How do I know what he liked to do in the bath? We interviewed some of his lady friends. Let’s just say Mr. Anton didn’t always bathe alone, if you get my meaning— lucky stiff. Uh, I guess that’s a poor choice of words, considering.

  Anyway, the radio in the water told us what had happened even before the coroner did. Anton had been electrocuted to death.

  An accident— right? I mean, we had Spats in for a few conversations, but that’s what we had to conclude in the end. I mean, that’s what my superiors told me to conclude. Given the notoriety, they just wanted the case wrapped up. Between you and me, I’m not convinced a few of them weren’t above taking a payoff from Spats. Toronto may not be a sin city like Montréal— but Toronto-the-Good ain’t as “good” as we like to claim, neither.

  But let me ask you: how did the radio get in the bathwater? I mean, the little table was lower than the top of the tub and a couple of feet away.

  Yeah, makes you think.

  * * *

  I want you to know that I’m only telling this to get it out there that I’m an innocent girl in all this— ‘kay? I don’t know nothing about— I mean, I do not know anything about any criminal activities on the part of Mr. DeMulder and his colleagues. I’m just a nice girl who ended up with the wrong friends. My agent wants me to make that perfectly clear, eh?

  Yeah, my agent. He figures my story might make a good movie. The Lady and the Mobster or something. You can’t see me over the phone, but people tell me I’m the spitting image of Ella Raines.

  So anyways, my name is Elizabeth Schevchenko— Bessy. I moved to Hogtown from Saskatchewan about a year and a half ago, eh? I was sort of a girlfriend of Spats— I mean, Mr. DeMulder. But, really, I was more The Book’s girl. No, that makes it sound all wrong. Like I was a tramp.

  Let’s start again.

  I used to step out sometimes with a guy called The Book— he was called that on account of how smart he was. No— I never knew his real name. Funny that, eh? Anyway, The Book, he was kind of Spats’s — I mean, Mr. DeMulder’s — right hand. He did things for him— sometimes nasty things.

  All I know about the actor fellow is that he and Spats — I mean, Mr. DeMulder — had a fight over a girl named Josie, eh? I was there when it happened. Then a couple of nights later The Book dropped by my apartment and his sleeves were wet. I said to him, I said: “Why’re your sleeves wet, Bookie?” (I was the only one who ever called him Bookie).

  He laughed in that way he did— like he had seen someone laugh in a movie once and was trying it on for size. He laughed and said he had been helping a guy with his bath.

  I didn’t understand what he meant. I figured it was gangland lingo for something— uh, I mean, the way people in his profession talked, eh? But then the next day I read how that actor — that Ken Anton — how he was found dead in his bathtub. But that’s all I know— cross my heart and hope to die.

  Uh, I shouldn’t have said that. Not given what happened— later.

  * * *

  Sure, me don’t-a mind talking about it— not now. All-a the bad men, they gone away, so I’m a-happy to talk.

  I run a little grocery store n
ear whatcha call Cabbagetown. I work-a hard for me and my family. But these thugs, they demand money. Say if I don’t pay, bad-a things happen. Maybe my store burn down. So what am I to do, huh? I pay up, that’s-a what. This goes on for months.

  But then there was-a thing happen— an odd-a thing.

  Some of the boys come around my shop one night, for the payoff. It was about eight— I remember because I was-a listening to my favorite radio show as I close up. I always listen when I close up. And these-a punks come in. I don’t-a know their names, but one of them was that creepy fellow, the one-a with the glasses who always dress like he’s-a going out on the fancy date.

  The Book? Yeah, yeah I think that’s-a what the others called him sometimes.

  So this Book, he and the others come to my shop. They want-a their money. But as I getting it for them, suddenly they hear a siren— like the police. They get all scaredy-like. One of them pulls a gun, like he thinks I ratted on them. Then a voice starts shouting at them, telling them the gig she’s-a up and the place is surrounded.

  Two of the guys, they act-a like they want to shoot it out. But The Book, he says no— that’s worse. Just give up and let the lawyers work it out. So they walk outside into the street, arms up, saying don’t-a shoot us Mr. Police Officer, we give up.

  Only— there’s-a no one there.

  I watched from the window and there was-a no cop and no cop-a cars. These tough guys are standing in the street, arms over their heads, looking like chumps, and no-a cop. People on the street start-a laughing at them— including other folk from who they normally take-a the money. The Book, he looks around, trying to figure out who-a pulled the prank. Then he and his guys they-a get in their car and drive away. And they forgot all about the money I was supposed to give them.

  What’s-a that? The actor? Sure, I remember reading about how that nice Mr. Anton died— so sad. He was-a fine actor. I learned the English listening to him on the radio. He could-a gone down to the States and become a big movie star, but he wanted to stay-a here in Canada.

  Say— now you say it, I remember. That thing in my store, with the cops that weren’t-a there— that was only a few days after he died.

  * * *

  They call me a “Lady Reporter”— which pisses me off. ‘Scuse my French. But that’s my point. I cuss like a French-Canadian sailor. I can write as well as any of the men. I smoke like a chimney. And I can drink most of them under the table. But I’m still the “lady.” I’ve busted my hump at this paper for fifteen years. I’ve written the advice column for sappy housewives when the only advice they really need is: “Leave the bum.” I’ve covered fashion shows— and I’m bloody color-blind!

  If there’s any good that came out of the last war it’s that a lot of men went overseas and gals like me got a chance to sit in the big boy chairs. Like the crime beat.

  Brother, the stories I could tell you.

  But the really interesting stories are the ones I can’t tell— the ones I know are out there but I just haven’t yet managed to pin down enough to go to press.

  Like what? Well, you know how there are all these masked mystery men these days— here, and down in the States, and overseas. They’re supposed to be mysterious, enigmas— but most of them have names, have costumes, they leave calling cards and don’t mind being photographed if it makes ‘em look good. So much for mysterious.

  But there’s this one guy— brother, he’s so mysterious he’s like a Chinese puzzle box buried at the bottom of Oak Island. He’s so mysterious I bet only Ambrose Small has his phone number— if you get the gag.

  He’s so mysterious most people don’t know he exists.

  Even those who come in contact with him— well, they more have to infer his existence. That’s how mysterious he is.

  I call him… The Rumor.

  I call him that on account of the fact that you only get hints and whispers about him. That and the only real evidence I’ve pinned down is his voice. Or, at least— a voice.

  The first instance I heard about was from a cop I know who told me about an anonymous tip they got about a jewel robbery. Nothing strange about that. They dispatched a prowl car, they nabbed the crooks. Everyone’s happy. Except when the detective who got the tip checked with the switchboard— no one there could remember putting the call through.

  Then there was that kidnapping. You know the one— that little Van Hooren boy, heir to the candy-bar empire or whatever it was. He gets kidnapped, parents are frantic, cops are on high alert. Then, out of nowhere, the kidnapper, a guy named Alfie O’Leery — so dim he could be a character in Li’l Abner — he shows up at the parents’ house, the little boy in tow. When the cops swarm all over him he’s totally shocked. Says he was told to bring the boy there, that his boss told him the ransom was paid and he was supposed return the boy. Said his boss was that mobster, “Spats” DeMulder. I bet a lot of cops did a jig hearing that, thinking they finally had DeMulder dead to rights. Except O’Leery’s story didn’t hold up. Because just at the time O’Leery was supposedly talking to DeMulder, DeMulder was downtown with his lawyer for the third or fourth time being grilled by cops and half the Crown Attorney’s office about some actor’s death.

  Oh, everyone is pretty sure O’Leery was telling the truth about DeMulder ordering the kidnapping in the first place— but the order to let the boy go? O’Leery admitted he hadn’t actually seen DeMulder’s face that day. He said DeMulder talked to him through the intercom at his apartment— or at least someone who sounded like DeMulder had.

  Then there was the story of the nightwatchman. He had finished his rounds and was just settling down to listen to the hockey game on the radio. When — boom! — he heard someone screaming bloody murder. He raced outside in time to stop a mugger from sticking a knife in some gal. Only problem? The gal had fainted and when she woke up she swore she hadn’t uttered a sound.

  Weird, eh?

  It’s like there’s a vigilante out there. But instead of beating punks up, or swinging down in a cape and tights, he tricks people into giving themselves up, or manipulates other people into stopping the crimes. I don’t know. Maybe he’s only 4’8” and has a club foot or something but has got this amazing voice. It’s like he’s a super-mimic and a super-ventriloquist all in one.

  It’s like, not so much that there’s a new vigilante in town, so much as there’s simply a hint of one— a Rumor.

  * * *

  As Mr. DeMulder’s attorney I will neither confirm nor deny any criminal activity or concede my client’s connection to anything of an illegal nature. However, I will acknowledge that Mr. DeMulder had been under increasing stress in the weeks leading up to the incident in question. His varied business enterprises — upon which I will not elaborate — had suffered a number of strange setbacks.

  Associates of his had found themselves being arrested in the course of certain activities— of which Mr. DeMulder maintains he had no prior knowledge and disavows any connection. Apparently anonymous tips to the police were responsible. This meant that Mr. DeMulder was finding himself somewhat starved for reliable manpower in his various day-to-day enterprises.

  Other incidents just seemed like sophomoric pranks bordering on harassment.

  An entire liquor order for a bar in which he had an interest never arrived. And a bar without liquor doesn’t keep many customers. When the supplier was contacted, it was explained that a man presenting himself as a representative of the bar had phoned to cancel the order earlier in the day.

  Employees of Mr. DeMulder would fail to make arranged rendezvous, or would arrive at incorrect times— all supposedly because of calls rescheduling those meetings, allegedly from Mr. DeMulder or other acquaintances whose voices the tardy employees insisted they recognized.

  Aside from the stress and frustration of this pattern of puerile persecution, the impact on Mr. DeMulder’s finances was not inconsiderable, what with ordered supplies not arriving, employees being redirected from where they were needed— and, of course,
employees being incarcerated by the authorities.

  It is fair to say Mr. DeMulder was being pushed to the breaking point.

  * * *

  Please understand that I am rather restricted by doctor-patient confidentiality— even if I am technically employed by the province. But I hardly need explain that to you. However— well, I suppose it won’t make much difference in a few minutes, will it?

  I had six sessions with Anthony DeMulder, three prior to his trial and three after his conviction for homicide. I found Mr. DeMulder to be a reasonably articulate man, particularly considering his education and occupation. But he also seemed to be suffering from paranoia and what I might designate shell shock, or at least battle fatigue— if he had been a soldier. But, of course, he wasn’t a soldier. But he had experienced a great deal of stress leading up to the incident. Apparently he had endured weeks of orchestrated harassment that affected his business, his life, and ultimately his relationships. I’m not telling you anything that isn’t part of the public record or wasn’t brought up in court.

  Mr. DeMulder had come to believe that someone was deliberately trying to destroy him, to bring down his business empire. All right, yes — why mince words? — his criminal empire. Anonymous tips to the police. Misleading messages. One of his warehouses even developed a reputation for being haunted, prone to what were described as “Banshee wails” in the night, and he was unable to get anyone to staff it. He became convinced this was all the work of some unknown adversary. Sheer paranoia, of course, but in his mind it became a floating fact just waiting to hitch itself to a foundation— any foundation.

  And it found that foundation when Mr. DeMulder’s paranoia settled on one Joey Markinson, a man more commonly known to his friends and associates as The Book.

  This was particularly ironic since, according to all prior accounts, The Book was Mr. DeMulder’s most trusted employee. Unfortunately, that just made him a prime suspect in Mr. DeMulder’s mind as whoever was undermining his enterprises would’ve needed a great deal of insider knowledge. The Book also had a reputation both for cold-blooded ruthlessness and high intelligence— both characteristics that dovetailed with Mr. DeMulder’s notion of a canny traitor in his organization.