by Nick Svolos
I regained consciousness as Herculene jumped from the roof with me in her arms. She sped down the streets in several hundred-foot leaps as she carried me to an emergency room a few miles away. Even though she was trying to be as gentle as possible, each landing sent a fresh jolt of pain through my injured arm and I drifted in and out of consciousness several times. It was agony, but I did my best to keep my mouth shut and suffer through it in silence. I wanted to ask her what happened. I wanted to ask her if the good guys won. It’s my job to ask questions—and I had a lot of them—but I didn’t want her to slow down to answer them.
I just wanted it to be over.
II
The staff at the ER set my arm, put it in a cast, treated my exposed skin for what amounted to a serious sunburn and told me that my ears should return to normal in a few days. They were all but overwhelmed by casualties from the refinery, and they didn’t have enough beds, so they couldn’t keep me for any of that “observation” nonsense. Instead, they gave me some pain medication, told me to go see my doctor in the morning, and turned me loose about two in the morning.
That suited me just fine. I just wanted to get to my car, get home and sleep. Besides, I still had a story to write. As I made my way through the crowded lobby, I spotted Herculene standing outside the building. She was six-foot-two, clad in a short white toga, smudged and torn from the battle, that stopped just above the knees, showing off a pair of long, lovely legs. Her outfit was trimmed with a traditional blue, squared-off wave pattern reminiscent of the Aegean coast. She was assisting an ambulance crew wheeling a badly burned man on a stretcher. The man was mercifully unconscious and wore the remains of a refinery security uniform. She spotted me, smiled and said something I couldn’t make out.
I shook my head and pointed at my ear with my good hand. She repeated herself, this time more loudly, “Feeling better?”
It struck me as odd that she was here at the hospital instead of the refinery. Surely there was more rescue work to be done there where her strength could be put to better use. “Much,” I lied, “Thanks for getting me here.” My voice sounded funny in my head, like I was under water.
“Glad to help. Do you need a ride?”
My stomach did a slow back-flip. “Uh, I don’t know if I could handle any more jumping.”
She giggled. “No worries. The team sent a car.” She pointed with her chin towards a Lincoln Town Car discreetly parked across the lot from the ER entrance. It was black and sleek and undoubtedly air conditioned.
That triggered a mild suspicion. The Angels wanted something. It seemed like I had little choice but to accept since I was more than a little curious as to what it might be. “Uh, sure. Can you drop me at my car?”
She laughed. “Like hell. You really think you’re in any shape to drive?”
I chuckled and shook my head. That simple action left me a little woozy. The painkillers were kicking in.
“Come on, let’s get you home.”
As we walked to the car, she asked, “So, you’re that writer for the Beacon, right? The one that writes about us supers and stuff?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Reuben Conway.” I held out my right hand.
“Nice to meet you, Reuben,” shaking my hand. She had a surprisingly gentle grip. “I’ve read some of your stuff. Your piece on The Vengeance Squad was pretty amazing. Gave us the political cover to take those creeps down.”
“Thanks,” I replied, “It’s nice to know somebody still reads the papers.”
“Well, it’s a good habit to hang on to. I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
I climbed into the comfortable, air conditioned back seat of the Lincoln next to Herculene, gave my address to the driver and settled back into the leather seats to enjoy the ride. After a while, I felt her eyes on me and I turned to meet her gaze. She had brown, wide-set eyes, almost black in the dim light of the car. One of them had been bruised in the fight, but the bruise was already fading and would probably be gone in a few hours. Her nose was straight, slightly upturned at the end and beneath that was a kind mouth with full, red lips, slightly smiling. She had the sort of looks, even without hair, that could have landed her a lucrative career in modeling. Instead, she chose to become a superhero.
My reporter’s instincts told me there was something going on behind those eyes. I’d been trying to get an interview with her since she joined The Angels last year. The Angels’ PR flacks were doing their usual job of protecting the team from the press, and so far I’d failed. This seemed like too good of an opportunity to pass up. I decided to see how far she’d let me go. “So how are you doing?”
She shrugged, “Oh, I’m fine. These bruises will heal up in no time.” She waved her hand dismissively.
“That’s not what I meant.”
She sagged a little, “Phoenix Fire.”
“Yeah.”
“I guess it’s gonna take a while to sink in. I mean, we were never particularly close, but losing a teammate like that...well, it’s rough, you know?” Her expression brightened, but it was forced. “But she did a lot of good back there. Dying in battle, saving God knows how many people, that isn’t the worst way to go.”
She was putting up a brave front, but I wasn’t buying the act. These costumed vigilante types always liked to keep things “in character.” Time to dig a little. “That’s a good answer for the paper. But it’s not the truth, is it?”
Her eyes flared, her hands clenched into fists and for a moment I thought I might have pushed too hard. You had to be careful when interviewing people who could twist your head off like a bottle cap. I worried that I might have been off my game, what with the fatigue and pain meds clouding my judgement.
Her eyes locked on the back of the seat in front of her. The driver was very lucky that she didn’t have some sort of heat vision. She took a deep breath, “I’m pissed. I mean, that wasn’t an accident, it was an ambush!” The tempo of her speech picked up. “I mean, what the hell are those people thinking? Blowing up a refinery? Killing all those people? Just to get a cheap shot in on us? There’s gonna be some payback. And Fire? What the hell? I’ve seen her stop a volcano from erupting!” She turned to me, her eyes almost desperate, “Did you see what happened to her?”
The memory of the night’s events flooded back into me, the anger, the feeling of being so helpless, the sense of loss as I gazed down on Phoenix Fires mutilated corpse. I broke away from her gaze and looked down. “No, I didn’t. She was too bright to look at. Just, one minute she was there, and then…” I stopped. I didn’t want to say the words.
“Yeah. I was too busy with that robot bitch. Dammit, I should have just ripped her arms out. Then maybe I’d have seen it coming. Done something to help.” She took another breath and forced some of the tension out of her body. She looked back at me. “Sorry. I’m always a little keyed up after a fight.”
“Considering what went down tonight, I’d say you’re doing pretty well.”
She shrugged. “Training. People like us, we can’t just, you know, cut loose. The wrong people get hurt.” She sighed. “Listen, can we not talk about this right now? I know you’re just doing what reporters do, but not now, OK?”
I felt a little bad for pressing her so soon after the fight. I told myself I was just doing my job, but there was something about her, a vulnerability that ran counter to her public persona, that made me feel a little guilty. “Sure,” I said. Changing the subject, I grinned, “So how ‘bout those Dodgers?”
She let out a hearty chuckle and gently gave my shoulder a friendly mock-punch. My arm protested vigorously, but I did my best to hide it. It’s a Y chromosome thing.
She grinned. “I’m more of a Lakers fan.”
***
We rode in silence for a few minutes. I was comfortable with the quiet, just looking out the window as the Lincoln cruised through the almost non-existent traffic of the 405 North. The meds kept the pain in my arm to a dull throb, and I pondered the night’s events and wondered why a
member of the most powerful superteam on the west coast was giving a humble reporter a ride home.
Apparently the silence wasn’t as comfortable for her. She asked, “So, what was the deal with VS, anyway? I never understood why all those politicians went so far to provide cover for a protection racket. Care to give me the inside scoop?”
The question felt a little out of place, but I didn’t mind a chance to get my mind off what went down at the refinery. I figured she was looking for a diversion from the disaster as well. Besides, it’s not hard to get a reporter talking about a story, even a sad one like Vengeance Squad’s downfall.
I leaned back in the soft leather seat and started talking. “Well, they started out as heroes back in the 80’s.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. Basically, they were a group of kids from the barrio who’d had enough of the gang violence in their neighborhood and a couple of ‘em had just enough power to do something about it. No costumes, no money, no training to speak of, just an honest desire to make things better. This turned out to be a big deal. The gangs were pretty much running East L.A. back then and suddenly, there were some local people who could stand up to them. They made a real difference. With the gangs losing control over the area, businesses and investment money started pouring back in. Parks were reclaimed and fixed up, grocery stores opened in the area, that kind of thing.”
I saw her head nod out of the corner of my eye. “Sounds like a decent set up, what went wrong?”
I shrugged and instantly regretted it. “They grew up. The original members weren’t kids anymore, they were all in their twenties and started wanting the same things we all want. A few wanted to get out of the Life, start families, get an education, those kinds of things. Others had day jobs to focus on. Not all of ‘em were supers, either. Vigilantism takes its toll, especially on normals. But, the community still needed them. If they closed up shop, the gangs would come right back in. So, the business leaders and the politicians got together and started funding VS. Nothing big, not at first, but eventually the team’s members were all drawing a decent paycheck. They even had a dental plan. Some still dropped out—it’s not a good gig if you have family, after all. But, they recruited replacements from the community, up-and-coming kids with talent and the potential to pull their weight. Only, these kids weren’t around for the old days, they started out on the payroll, right from the start.”
“Ooh, that’s bad. Ultiman’s pretty adamant that we don’t accept pay for what we do. Says it leads to corruption. That’s what happened to VS?”
“Not right away, but yeah. The bottom dropped out in ‘92.”
She thought about it for a moment, “Ah, the riots.”
I smiled, “Not bad for a transplant. Yeah, the city went nuts after the Rodney King verdict. Businesses got burned down and they didn’t get rebuilt. Now, in ‘92, El Mariachi was running the team, and the only other original member was Baron Guapo. The funding for VS evaporated. No more paychecks, let alone a dental plan. A lot of the team just left. Some retired, others went solo, a couple turned bad. Mariachi and Guapo were doing their best to hold the team together, but it was really hard and by ‘96, they were just a quartet. The gangs were moving back in, winning by sheer numbers. VS was fighting a losing battle. They started asking the remaining businesses for help, offering to make sure the gangs at least stayed away from their businesses if they could help the team stay afloat. VS still tried to protect everyone, even those that didn’t pay, but they had manpower issues. Two supers with two normals providing support can only do so much. They needed to recruit more people and weren’t too picky about who they got.”
Herculene leaned in, enjoying the narrative. “Some bad apples start slipping through?” she asked.
“Not so much as that they couldn’t recruit enough locals to fill their demand. I mean, there’s only so many supers in any given population. Like, what, one or two out of a million? That’s a pretty shallow talent pool. It’s amazing they had enough people in the area to start VS in the first place. They started recruiting from outside the area, people with no real connection to the community. Remember, up until now, everyone was a local kid. You tend to behave better when your abuelita lives in the neighborhood. It wasn’t a great situation, but they were still heroes, the community loved them, the politicians and cops overlooked the few missteps they made, and at least for the time they had a good thing going.”
“I sense another hammer getting ready to drop.”
“You’re senses are pretty good. In 2005, a Vengeance Squad member, Lobo Negro, killed a seventeen-year-old gang member by the name of Enrique Hernandez. Lobo fried the kid in broad daylight in the middle of Whittier Boulevard. Lobo said it was self defense, that the kid pulled a gun on him. The cops never found the weapon. Lobo was from up in the valley, and some anti-law enforcement/anti-supers agitators started organizing marches, mostly with people from outside the community, and turned Hernandez into a martyr. Things kind of got out of hand from a PR perspective and the Grand Jury indicted Lobo on a murder charge.”
Herculene’s eyes widened in surprise, “Not manslaughter?”
“Nope, straight up second-degree murder. The DA believed Lobo’s version of the story, but the Feds removed him, took over the case and handled the prosecution. Most people on the inside of the situation knew it was bullshit, but politics got involved and the Grand Jury handed down an indictment.
“Anyways, Mariachi had enough money saved up to hire a lawyer, and Lobo Negro turned himself in. The trial was a joke. I know, I was there. I had just started working for the Beacon the year before and they let me cover the trial. The lawyer that El Mariachi hired was completely out of his league. One of those guys that advertise on busses. So, at the end of the trial, the jury came back with their verdict and found him guilty. Baron Guapo just got up and walked out of the courtroom. As he left, he looked at El Mariachi and said, ‘That’s it, esse, I’m done. Vaya con Dios.’ A week later, he hired a crew and started robbing banks.”
“My God,” Herculene moaned.
“Yeah. Meanwhile, VS was tearing itself apart. Half the team wanted to bust Lobo Negro out of jail right then and there, daring anyone to do anything about it. The other half, led by Mariachi, had cooler heads and were willing to wait for the appeal to play out, but appeals cost money, and the team was now pretty much out of cash. They proposed making the rounds in the community, trying to get some help paying for a lawyer that doesn’t suck. Words were exchanged, a couple of punches were thrown, and by the end of the day, VS was down to three members.”
“Oh, God, what a nightmare.”
“Tell me ‘bout it. So, to make an already long story short, a few big name attorneys from the East Coast decided to take the case pro-bono. Lobo Negro got acquitted in 2011 and came back to VS, but the damage was done. The agitators were out in the streets again protesting the acquittal and started another riot. Mariachi kept his team out of it. He knew they’d only make things worse if they went out there and started busting heads. Unfortunately, even though it was probably the right call, a lot of the businesses they were getting paid to protect got looted. VS lost its last revenue stream. Mariachi ended up changing the team to a protection racket to keep them together. Instead of ‘Pay us and we’ll protect you,’ it became, ‘Pay us or else.’”
Herculene shook her head, “Wait, I thought the community loved these guys. Why did they riot?”
“They didn’t. The agitators rented a mob. Bussed in people from all over town and paid them with a meal and twenty bucks. It happens more often than you’d think. The community loved VS. Still does. The cops, the DA, the politicians, all of ‘em love those guys. None of them wanted to believe the protection racket thing, even after the truth got out. Hell, I still can’t show my face in that part of town. Persona non grata.”
“Oh, Lord, now I feel terrible for helping to take them down. How about you, do you regret doing the story?” she asked.
I was a little surprised at the concern in her voice. “No. It’s a tragic story. It broke my heart when I learned the truth, but I wouldn’t change a word. I don’t editorialize. We have op-ed writers for that. I just report the truth as best as I can. They turned bad and had to be stopped. You shouldn’t feel bad about that. Someone had to do it.”
She sighed, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Still, it’s sad.”
“Yeah, I know.”
We rode the rest of the way to Santa Monica in silence. Occasionally, we saw fire engines, paramedics and ambulances on the southbound side of the freeway, making their way down from the northern cities to join the ongoing efforts at the refinery. On our side of the 405, there was almost no traffic and we made the trip with the kind of speed Los Angelinos normally can only dream of.
***
The Lincoln glided up to my building at about 2:30 AM. My apartment was in a converted motel in a part of Santa Monica that hadn’t been torn down and gentrified yet. It was cheap, had parking, and it was a short walk to the Beacon’s offices. It suited me. I knew it would eventually go the way of so much of the west side and I and my fellow tenants would be forced to find housing elsewhere, but for now, it was home.
Now that we were here, I was curious as to what Herculene would do. It was a safe bet she wasn’t taking time out from her busy schedule just to hear my story about VS. Time to force the issue.
I looked to the driver and Herculene, and said, “I appreciate the ride. Thank you both.” I pulled the door handle and made to get out of the car.
“Say, you mind if I come up?” Herculene hurriedly asked. I gave her my, “Reuben is a little surprised” look. It wasn’t hard. Pretty superheroes don’t just ask to visit my apartment all that often. She quickly added, “Look, Ultiman wants to talk to you about something and he asked me to keep an eye on you until he gets back. I can hang out down here if you prefer.”