Marvel Novel Series 06 - Iron Man - And Call My Killer ... Modok!

by William Rotsler

  The stranger looked down at Stark, and his heavy brows knitted in concern. “Hey! Yer turnin’ pale as milk! Somethin’s ailin’ ya . . . and it ain’t just from the crack-up!”

  “I told you . . .” His voice faded and unconsciousness almost overcame him. Everything seemed fogged at the edges. “Don’t . . . uhhh . . .” The pain increased. “Don’t ask quest . . . questions . . . Carry me to . . . to your car!”

  Without another word the burly rescuer swept Stark into his arms and without even a grunt lifted him up and carried him toward the parking lot. Stark was only dimly aware of the people moving past, staring, eagereyed at the burning wreckage and the international playboy that had caused it.

  “Wassa matter with him, huh?” someone asked, tugging at the stranger’s arm. “Drunk, huh? Stoned, maybe?”

  One glare from the man’s dark eyes sent the questioner backing off. The strong man continued on, shouldering his way through the crowd, shouting at those in his way.

  “Get outta the way there! Hurt man coming through! Move yer butts! Watch it, coming through!”

  Stark was put into the front seat of a shabby convertible and they wasted no time. The car screeched out of the parking lot, past a waving policeman and an angry parking-lot attendant.

  They tore into the traffic, horn blazing, and traffic parted for them. The big man at the wheel shot Stark a look. “Maybe I ain’t no Louis Pasteur . . . but ya don’t look like yer gonna make it, fella. Maybe we oughta call a Kildare!”

  Stark lifted a weak hand in protest. “No! I . . . I can doctor . . . myself. Just get . . . get me to that room.”

  Grumbling that he didn’t want no joker checking out in his car and about having to fill out all those forms, the rescuing stranger thought maybe a fast trip to the nearest hospital would be best. But Stark insisted, in a weakening voice, that a private room was all he wanted or needed.

  The big man driving deftly through the traffic grunted. “Well, what the hell—every guy should be able to check out the way he wants.”

  Stark was gasping for air now. I’ve got to hold out, he thought. Hold out long enough to cross that threshold . . . otherwise it’s not only Tony Stark’s checkout, but Iron Man’s as well.

  They came to a noisy halt in front of the Holiday Inn, one that catered to the racers and their crews—and groupies—that patronized the nearby racetrack. Stark was helped from the car and when the stranger demanded his wallet, Stark did not protest. They went through the glass doors and up to the desk, being eyed the whole time by a disapproving clerk.

  The big stranger slapped the wallet down and opened it up with one hand, holding Stark with the other arm. “What’s wrong with him?” the clerk asked.

  “None o’ your biz, fella, just give us a room.”

  “Single or double? We only have one suite left and—”

  With a growl the big man reached across the desk and grabbed the clerk’s shirt and jacket, wadding them up in one massive hand and yanking him halfway across the desk. “Gimme the key to the nearest room, whether anyone’s in it or not!”

  “Yuh-yuh-yessir!” The clerk reached back with a trembling hand and took a key from a box. The key danced nervously in his hand and he handed it over. Stark’s rescuer simply dropped the clerk and by the time he got to his feet and brushed back his hair there was no one in sight.

  Stark’s wallet lay on the desk. There was a lot of money in it. American Express . . . the gold card . . . Mastercharge, Visa, Carte Blanche, Diners . . . Well, at least he isn’t a deadbeat, the clerk thought. But when he gets back I’m going to give him a piece of my mind! There are procedures for incoming guests. They are there for a reason; you can’t just flaunt them. Rules are rules. They keep us from being animals.

  “No . . . must be . . . must be alone . . .”

  Stark’s rescuer shrugged and went out, pulling the door shut behind him. Stark was already moving toward the lamp. He had a hard time ripping open his flame suit. He simply ripped the buttons off the ordinary shirt under it, revealing the golden chest plate beneath. He reached down and unfastened the charging cord from its snug fitting and fell to his knees.

  Stark almost blacked out. He had to make it to the wall socket . . . which was behind the bed table. The lamp, bolted to the table, did not topple as Stark jerked the furniture aside. The room went dark as Stark pulled out the plug. He had to feel for the socket in the dark. His hands were weak and trembling, the pain in his chest becoming almost overpowering.

  Then the twin metal prongs sank into the socket. Stark could feel it at once. It was weak, but it was there, growing every second.

  Electrical current. It’s like adrenalin stimulating my heart back to normal, he thought. Stark lay between the beds, uncomfortable but grateful. The electricity flowed into the chest plate’s electronics, giving them the muscle to keep him alive.

  After several moments, Stark knew he was going to live. It was, to put it simply, a good feeling. “So I’ve cheated the undertaker again,” he muttered aloud. Thanks to a grouchy stranger with more guts than brains. Stark made a vow to reward his nameless rescuer handsomely.

  Then he lay there, soaking up the liberating electricity until every last battery was fully charged.

  The big man in the sports jacket was pacing back and forth by the swimming pool when Stark came out. Stark saw him stop dead and just stare. Not much of an expression. Then the big man was walking toward the recently wrecked driver.

  “Explain sumpin’ to me, Stark. Ya crawled into that room like ya were out for the count.” He gestured at Stark almost contemptuously. “Now you walk out alive and as strong as Sonny Liston. How come?”

  Stark smiled at the bigger man’s outthrust jaw and demanding pose. “It’s a mystery, chum.” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder. “Come on into the lobby, there’s a bar there where we can talk.”

  Suspiciously, the big man eyed Stark as he walked—slight limp, bruises, some minor cuts. About like a four-round prelim with some lefty that had twenty pounds on him. But he didn’t say anything.

  They settled into a booth and Stark reached for his wallet. He looked embarrassed. “Oh . . . I thought I had my . . .”

  “Wait a minute,” the man said and he departed quickly. In a couple of minutes he was back and tossed Stark’s billfold on the table. “I signed yer name to the charge ticket. It’s inside. Count yer money.”

  But Stark just reached in and pulled out a check. “Name?” he said with a quizzical look at the man still standing in the aisle.

  “Harry Hogan,” he replied, his face like stone. “Down at Stillman’s Gym they nicknamed me ‘Happy.’ Mostly ’cause no one’s ever caught me with a smile.” He said the last part with a faint echo of pride.

  Stark took out a pen and started writing on the check. Hogan looked at what he was doing without expression. He took out a cigarette and lit it as Stark asked, “How come you gave up your ring career?”

  “Because I was too successful,” Hogan said. “At losin’, that is! After I got a guy against the ropes I never had the heart to finish him off. So I gave it up.”

  Stark said nothing; he merely handed the check to Hogan. The ex-pug’s eyes grew wide. “Hey! A check for fifty thousand clams!” Then he glared past the check at Stark. “Is that all ya figger yer life is worth, Stark?”

  Tony smiled. “Well, if you’re dissatisfied I’ll double the amount! After all, I wouldn’t be here if not for you.”

  Hogan grunted, looking at the check. “Me . . . I’m always dissatisfied.” He tore the check in half, then in half again. He dropped the pieces in the ashtray as he sat down. “Forget about putting a price on yourself, hotshot . . . and don’t start that ‘eternally grateful’ bit. I didn’t save ya for no fee. It was . . . just reflex action.”

  Stark spread his hands. “But surely you can use some money?”

  “Mister,” Hogan said, fixing Stark with a stare from below his shaggy, scarred eyebrows. “What I can use is a nice steady job with
three week’s vacation with pay, a good pension plan, an’ all kinds of fringe benefits.”

  Stark stared at the glum Hogan as he thought: if I’m liable to black out suddenly, as I almost did today, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to hire a combination chauffeur and bodyguard—someone who has already proven his courage in handling difficult situations.

  “Er . . . I could use a chauffeur, Happy. If you want it, the job’s yours.”

  There was no change of expression on Happy’s dour countenance. “Now yer talkin’,” he said, lighting a fresh cigarette from the stub of the old one. “A nice, quiet, safe job—no broken noses, no knockout punches.” He looked at Stark with a dead-serious expression. “What kind of car do you have? I don’t like jalopies.”

  Tony Stark smiled. “Well, I have, among others, a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud, a Caddy Eldorado, and a two-seater Jaguar convertible. They manage to get me where I’m going.”

  “Mmm,” Happy Hogan said, blowing out a noxious cloud. “I had a hunch ya weren’t exactly starvin’.” He tapped out some ashes. “Well, those crates are okay for a start, I guess, except for the Caddy. They’re boats—handle like a pregnant hippo. I’ll getcha something right.”

  “I’m glad you’re satisfied, Happy,” Stark said as he took a blank check out of his wallet again. “Now I’ll write you a check for ten grand, so you can get a few odds and ends to prepare for the job.”

  Happy made a rumbling noise, but he didn’t tear up this check. Stark remembered that a few days later, in Manhattan, Happy was all decked out in a dark chauffeur’s uniform, stretched tightly across his broad shoulders. They were proceeding slowly through Fifth Avenue traffic, with Hogan making deprecating remarks on the efficiency of the big Cadillac.

  “How do I reach yer plant?” Hogan asked. “All I know is that it’s in Flushing, New York.”

  “That’s my main research center, Happy. I have other plants and R and D labs all over the world—one on each continent, actually.”

  “That’s real impressive, boss, but it still don’t tell me where to head for now!”

  “Proceed south on Grand Central Parkway. I’ll tell you which exit to turn off at.”

  Happy nodded and Stark settled back, opening a briefcase. Not, however, his special attaché case, which was lying on the floor by his feet. This one contained business papers, and he busied himself with them, looking up now and again to give Happy directions.

  At the plant, Happy noticed the heavy security system. Walking through the outer halls of the Administration Building, Tony took the time to introduce Happy to some of the security men.

  One of the guards remembered Happy as a fighter and grinned. “If Hogan drives like I once seen him fight—you better be sure you use your seat belt, boss!”

  Hogan took a step toward the guard and gathered up the front of his uniform in a meaty fist, while balling up the other. “Who asked you, big mouth? You I could flatten with my pinky!”

  “Easy, Happy,” Stark said, coming between them and breaking Happy’s grip. “Your ring days are over . . . until after I introduce you to Pepper Potts, my secretary.” Happy gave him a suspicious look as the guard straightened his uniform and tried to look innocent. “You can fight all you want to with her! I do—regularly.”

  Tony Stark strode on down the corridor, and Happy followed, after a glare in the direction of the guard. Happy caught up to his employer as they entered the outer office of Stark’s private office suite. Happy saw a huge painting on the wall and opened his eyes in surprise.

  “Hey! Ain’t that Iron Man?”

  “Yes,” Stark replied. “He . . . uh . . . happens to be a good friend of mine. Always dropping in when he’s in the neighborhood.” This was Stark’s standard reference to the Golden Avenger. Some people thought Stark was name dropping, but Tony knew that he must play up his “friendship” with Iron Man to explain the frequent appearances the crusader made. It alibied Iron Man’s sometimes too-coincidental appearances whenever Stark had to switch identities for some emergency.

  There were times when Stark wished he could simply “come out of the closet” on this matter and let the world know. But he also knew the television and media people would never let him alone. There were also Iron Man groupies, publicity seekers, and other assorted crazies that would make Tony Stark’s life unbearable if it were known that he was Iron Man. So the secret had to remain just that.

  Happy took a good look at the portrait. “Well, there’s one guy could have been heavyweight champ easy! He could beat Dempsey, Louis, Marciano, Liston, and me, all together, with one mitt strapped behind his back!”

  Stark smiled as he took Happy’s arm to steer him into the next office. “I don’t think the Boxing Commission would approve the weight difference, Happy. Without power that suit of his is too heavy to move.”

  Happy nodded reluctantly, eyeing the picture with admiration. He went with Stark into the office where the ex-pugilist saw a freckle-faced, rather mousy-looking woman with her red hair up in a librarian’s bun.

  “Pepper, meet Harry ‘Happy’ Hogan. From now on he’ll be my private chauffeur.”

  Pepper looked at Happy in something like horror. “Oh, no! With eligible bachelors as scarce around here as dinosaurs, you hire a battle-scarred ex-pug! It couldn’t be a Rock Hudson. No, he has to look like Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi rolled into one.”

  Stark looked in surprise from one to the other. Both were having extreme reactions. Pepper was acting indignant, as though Stark should have consulted her . . . and Happy was looking thunderstruck. Thinking he’d better leave them alone to work out their differences, Stark continued on into his office. “Get Happy a security pass, will you, Pepper? Give him top priority, access to every plant.”

  “What about the standard security clearance check?” she asked.

  Stark grinned over his shoulder. “He already passed. Just do it, huh?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  Both Pepper and Happy watched until the door closed behind Stark’s back, then Happy picked up the conversation as if nothing had been said after Pepper’s first comment. “Don’t pay any attention to my kisser, doll! Beneath this rough exterior beats a heart fulla love at first sight.” Happy moved closer, chauffeur’s hat in hand, a rather sappy expression on his rough-hewn face. “Ya know, you’re my type!”

  Pepper glared at him as she moved stiffly to the ranks of filing cabinets. “Insults will get you nowhere, Mister Hogan.”

  Happy looked even more shaken. “Are ya brushin’ me off? Me, Happy Hogan, who has finally found the dame of his dreams?”

  Pepper yanked open the cabinet, then stopped to glare back at Hogan. She took in his muscular body, the cauliflower ears, the heavy, battered features. “My dear Mister Hogan,” she said in icy tones. “Your dream would only be my nightmare! In short, you wouldn’t be my type, even if you were my type!”

  Happy’s expression turned to truculent glumness. “Okay, I get the picture.” He aimed a thumb at Stark’s door. “It’s him, Stark, who makes yer ticker go thump, thump, right?”

  Pepper had her back to Happy. She shut the filing cabinet with a loud click. Her expression changed, softened and grew dreamy. She wasn’t even totally aware she was speaking aloud. “Right. Only he doesn’t know I’m alive, but someday he will . . .” She thought about his long string of beautiful women and how she was just the opposite, plain but sincere, honest, and helpful—just the right counterpoint for his wild ways. “. . . And then he’ll give up his actresses and debutantes . . . and I’ll become Mrs. Anthony Stark.”

  Then she was aware she had spoken aloud and blushed as she hurried back to her desk, where she sat stiffly.

  “How d’ya like that?” Hogan grumbled, looming over her as she rolled paper into her typewriter. “I flip over a doll and what happens? I get a love triangle on my hands!”

  “The only triangle in this situation is your head, Mister Hogan! Which comes to a nice, sharp point! Now, excuse me, I have work to do!” H
er fingers started drumming out a tattoo on the machine. Hogan stood helplessly by for a moment, then went over to collapse into a visitor’s chair.

  Anthony Stark closed his office door completely. He sighed. Nothing was ever smooth—nothing. He heard Pepper give Happy the instructions for the security department, and then nothing more. Just the abrupt machine-gun sound of a typewriter.

  Stark was brought back from his memories as the monorail car arrived at its destination. Tony sighed mentally as he got out. That had been a long time before. Hogan had discovered Stark’s secret and was now one of the very few people privileged to know his Iron Man identity. Pepper had gotten a face lift, but more importantly, had stopped thinking of herself as Plain Jane or Miss Efficiency. Now she only thought of herself as Pepper, the woman . . . and Pepper Potts Hogan, the wife of Happy.

  A lot of H2O has been transported under the vehicular crossing structure since then, Stark thought. They had shared many dangers—and many triumphs. They had all changed. Pepper was still the superlative right-hand person, but she had fallen into a habit—almost a compulsion—to get Tony settled in with a “good wife.”

  Jasper Sitwell strode along with Tony as he went through the factory. “The GR-2 is ahead of schedule, but the vacuum-dust process is giving Quint some trouble on the Jupiter-Nine project. They can get a good pattern laid down in the vacuum chamber, and the—” Jasper’s voice droned on, explaining about the method by which high-quality printed circuits were constructed on small “chips,” each with a complex of electronics that made Iron Man’s original suit look like a Tinker Toy set.

  They paused in their tour and were waiting for an elevator when Happy brought something up. “Look, boss, do ya think they know, ya know, know?”

  Stark knew what his friend meant. Did AIM really know he was Iron Man, or did it have nothing to do with that part of his life? “It’s hard to say. My gut feeling is that they were after Tony Stark . . . But for what reason, I don’t know.”