The Sting of the Silver Manticore

by P. J. Lozito

  Seconds later, a wasp-waisted, impeccably dressed dapper man with a pencil-thin mustache appeared. His suit jacket bore no collar, no lapel and no pockets. He clutched a cane with a Malacca handle.

  “Doctor Richard Wylie, Junior?” tried Allred.

  “No. No, I’m Charles Nicholas Charalambides,” he smiled. “So that lop-eared mistake of nature got you here in one piece?”

  “Despite his alleged driving, here I am,” Allred confirmed, hands thrown wide.

  “Well, if he spots the Weinermobile, pray. Doc thought it best if the first one of us to meet you is a fellow San Franciscan,” he drawled.

  “Surely Mr. Levnitz isn’t from there? He sounded as New York as a Bronx cheer.”

  “I meant myself. We keep that lamebrain around for running errands, like fetching my laundry.”

  Ah, thought Allred, that Charles Charalmbides; the fashion plate. He was indeed known to have the most impressive laundry anywhere as befitting one of the country’s ten best-dressed men. But Allred couldn’t see that suit Mr. Charalambides wore today catching on.

  “Not according to what Mr. Levnitz told this errand,” countered Allred.

  “Oh, what did that baboon manage to stammer out?”

  “That Wylie uses you as a decoy when he has dangerous work to do.”

  “He did, eh?” Charalambides tightened the grip on his cane. Eyes darted to the entrance, in anticipation.

  “But mostly he talked sports,” Allred reported.

  “Oh, yes, Levvy’s proud he used to goalie for the Brooklyn Americans hockey team-- sans facial protection,” smirked Charalambides.

  “Well, pleased to meet you, Mr. Charalambides,” said Allred amiably, sticking out his hand. The cane was switched, so Charalambides could return the greeting.

  “I can tell from the way you say my name that you’re a gentleman; despite that, make it ‘Chuck.’ The rest of these boon companions of mine can’t quite pronounce Greek properly. They’ve taken to calling me…that.” He waved the cane as if he was trying to ward off his hated appellation.

  “Why don’t they just call you ‘Charlie’?” inquired Allred. He guessed this man to be five ten, weighting in at one hundred-fifty five. Chuck had hair and eyes of jet black.

  “If you must know, Levvy framed me for stealing chuck steaks back in our Army days,” he admitted.

  “Let me guess; you’re a filet mignon man.”

  “How did you know? Needless to say, Levvy prefers his meat raw. Do come in, Doc is looking forward to meeting you.”

  He took Allred‘s arm like they were old friends.

  “Well, there’s not that much meat of any kind to be had these days. Say, can anyone just walk in and meet a famous guy like Doc Wylie?” protested Allred. “I could be carrying a blaster.”

  Chuck smiled, “I assured myself that you weren’t when I grasped your arm. Very impressive collection of illegal B&E tools concealed in your belt buckle, by the way,” Chuck breathed sotto voce to Allred. He tapped the buckle with his cane handle.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Showed up on the scophone. The boys in blue take a dim view of that stuff. I suppose it‘s a violation of your rights but Doc has to protect himself, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” agreed Allred. So, they kept me distracted while they check me out? Slick.

  “I got you now. You put yourself through Harvard working as a Pinkerton op, didn’t you? They say you’re better than Bill Fallon,” stated Allred. “One of the best lawyers they ever turned out, in fact.”

  “Sir, you flatter me,” cooed Chuck.

  “Weren’t you all set to marry an heiress?”

  “Ah, that and fifteen cents will get you a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. She’s a dizzy dame. Thought I should have a wife, a kid and a dog. I already have a dog. That’s plenty for me, brother.”

  “But I thought you had a pet monkey…,” sputtered Allred.

  “And Levvy has a pet pig?” finished Chuck. “No pigs for Levvy-- being Jewish,” he smiled. “The Jews have my condolences. No, you see, Levvy merely eats like a pig. He has a cat. He brings her around here, she plays havoc with Astor.”

  “I take it ‘Astor’ is your dog?”

  Chuck nodded, “My wire-haired fox terrier. Anyway I’d rather adventure with Doc and these knuckleheads. Get to hang around with Doc’s sister, Trixie, that way. A real raggle. Sure, Levvy takes her dancing to Tony Vincenzo’s Neapolitans, but I bring her to some real culture.”

  “Oh?”

  “Last night I took our little Giselle to see the storied canary Helen Humes warble at Small’s Paradise,” he declared, thumb proudly jabbed at himself.

  Allred doubted any such raggle would spend much time around here. Trixie Wylie probably looked like his old elevator operator back in San Francisco, who was no chorine. What kind of zoo was Wylie running anyway? Whatever it was, Allred didn’t need to hear their dating habits. To engage in gossip is to cast aside excellence, said Confucius.

  “So, how did the pet pig bit get started?” Allred asked this more to make conversation. He wasn’t that interested.

  “Ha, my revenge for the chuck steak incident; I snuck it into an early draft of one of the magazine yarns under the pretext of checking for legal fine points. They’ve had to stick with it ever since,” boasted Chuck.

  “Oh, Mr. Levnitz mentioned all his friends call him ‘Levvy,’” reported Allred. “Is it all right for me to be so familiar?”

  “Yes, and he told the truth for once. Both of his friends do call him that. You know, I should like to sponsor a smart fellow like you for membership in the Cobalt Club,” the lawyer fawned.

  “That’d be fine,” said Allred.

  “You know, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if we have friends in common back in San Francisco,” Chuck continued.

  “Do you know an elevator operator there named ‘Alvadean’?”

  “No, but I haven’t been there in years, of course. Ah, here we are. Right this way, Allred. Cheers,” Chuck gave a smart salute with his cane.

  He had neglected to say who or what was ‘right through here,’ noted Allred. Oh, well, I’ve already been through a scophone. He walked on and found himself in a small office. On a desk there, Allred noted Mayr’s Systemetics and the Origin of Species off to one side, as well as something titled Non-Euclidean Geometry and Patents for Hitler.

  Looking beyond the desk, Allred saw a tanned, slightly larger than average-sized man with short brown hair. Shirtless, he was going through a series of intensive exercises that was exhausting even just to watch. Rapid pushups beyond the desk alternately obscured and revealed him.

  Even from the doorway, Allred could see the man had an unusually high forehead, straight nose and a square chin. His face was expressionless. An inch, perhaps two, shy of six feet and maybe one hundred-eighty pounds, the man had a physique of corded muscle. But this was no bronze giant.

  Maybe I’m supposed to run the gantlet, meeting each of Wylie’s men first before the headliner comes out. Come to think of it, that makes sense, pondered Allred. Wylie having a magazine devoted to his adventures was pure show biz.

  This guy is put together like Harold Zinkin or some movie version of Okhugh of the Jungle, Allred thought. But wasn’t it said that there was a real Okhugh and the ape-man was Wylie’s cousin? Probably more P.R., he decided. Apes couldn’t possibly raise a human. But Allred changed his mind as he recalled Levvy’s driving.

  “Have a seat. I am almost done,” the shirtless man called in a voice like thunder under control. Finishing up, he pulled a thickly ribbed white, long underwear-type shirt over his head.

  “Take your time, buddy. You must be Longjohns,” observed Allred. “Or Henny Henrick. I guess that health nut Wylie has you all exercising, eh?”

  Finding a guest chair by the side of the desk, Allred plopped into it. He pointed to an apple there, “…keeps the doctor away.”

  “Actually, I am a physician; Dr. Richard Henry Wylie,
Jr., to be precise. Excuse me for still doing my Nick Valentine workout, but I must devote two hours a day to it and you’re a bit early.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Allred, face now as red as the apple.

  Wylie consulted an impressive looking watch-compass set at his wrist. Tendons bunched like corded piano wire on the back of his hand. “You made good time getting here,” he said, coming over to shake hands. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Allred. I suppose you expected someone bigger.”

  “Quite frankly, yes,” said Allred, returning the handshake, as he arose. “I should think you’d be taller.”

  “I’m not the ‘super man’ the pulp series advertises me to be. So, you’ve read at least one of my adventures,” Wylie smiled. “I authorize them but I suspect Levvy--that fellow who met you at Grand Central-- is behind the exaggerations, taking liberties with our official case files,” he said.

  “To make you seem like a work of fiction?” tried Allred. He didn’t think Levvy could scratch out his own name, let alone cobble together notes for a magazine story, even for the functionally illiterate pulp reader.

  “It does help in our work if no one thinks we really exist,” Wylie rolled an electrogastrograph out of the way.

  “I know what you mean,” said Allred. “It turns out there was a Silver Manticore before me I wasn’t aware of.”

  “You must mean this,” Wylie said with a rare smile as he brought forth a copy of the old magazine called The Silver Manticore that had been buried under photo stats.

  It wasn’t part two of his story, Allred noted disappointedly. However, he was beginning to like the idea of tall tales that would make one seem unbeatable.

  Wylie smiled again, “I’m looking forward to working with you, Mr. Allred,” he said, taking his place behind the desk. “When my men and I are out of the city, I’m sure your people will keep an eye on things.”

  Up close, Allred saw Wylie had light brown eyes, flecked with gold that seemed weirdly hypnotic. His grip of iron had been unbelievable. Supposedly, he was as strong as Rudy Sablo. Allred recalled Corrigan’s rumored claim that Wylie was also faster than Gundar Hagg, but it was unofficial. Exercising, Wylie had hardly broken a sweat. Allred decided his sister must be one of those ox-like lady kettle bell weightlifters he had seen in Russia. She and Levvy would make quite a pair jitterbugging.

  “Your cousin has made a splash here. He’s the biggest thing since the Social Security Act. In the last few weeks, he’s broken up a Bund group in Newark, cracked heads in the Bloody Angle and spoiled things rotten for the KKK up in Yorkville. Hardly ever draws his side arms,” ticked off Wylie on fine surgeon’s fingers.

  Allred wondered aloud, “The same Bund group that sued the Ledger?”

  “That, Brent—if I may call you ‘Brent’—is something I don’t know.”

  “I’d be insulted if you keep calling me ‘Mr. Allred.’ That’s my father.”

  “Fine, Brent. Please call me ‘Doc.’ Perhaps you’ll tell me how you came to posses that mask?” Wylie queried.

  “Well, my cousin, when he was still Bob Wynn, got it from his adopted father, the governor of California. He raised Bob as his own when the kid’s real father went missing. His dad--my uncle--wore it as a vigilante in the Old West: the Silver Manticore. Faithful Indian companion named Gordo and all that jazz. They brought justice to lawless places like Shinbone, as you know from that dime novel.”

  Wylie took in every word silently as he now drew on a clean white dress shirt from a nearby locker.

  “Gov. Wynn was murdered by a criminal who styled himself ‘Dr. Lucifer.’ Real name: Emilio Luciferro, late of the Camorra. Bob tracked him down as the Silver Manticore. Some reporters from the Examiner, my old paper, were involved. He wrapped the case up but my father convinced him to continue his crime fighting.”

  “Come,” Wylie interrupted, buttoning cuffs with bronze links. God only knew what miniaturized secret tools they held. “We’ll talk as I walk you through your new home away from home. You will have full run of this place when my men and I are away.”

  Allred was guided through a veritable airplane hanger. The concrete floor sloped toward the river. They passed Wylie’s Boeing 307 Stratoliner, a submarine some 100 yards long whose rudders, fins and props encased in steel baskets. This was Albatross, as the name on the coning tower appeared. The coning tower itself existed hardly at all and from stern to bow, ran steel, sled-like runners. There was also a yacht, various trucks, a ’37 Cord 812 Supercharged Phaeton, a few late model Crosleys, Hupmobiles, a Cascade delivery van and a scattering of Liberty Cabs. Allred even saw the craft that Barnes fellow had converted to an autogiro now with a three vane prop parallel to the ground. Or auto gyro, since “autogiro” was a trademarked name, thought Allred. There I go being an editor again.

  “’Norpen Lumber Company’ may be stenciled on her, but that dirigible,” Wylie pointed, “Is the Amberjack.”

  “So that it looks like you’re getting deliveries,” surmised Allred, “When she docks.”

  “Right,” Wylie noticed a stubby winged craft now caught Allred’s eye. “Juan de la Cierva wouldn’t recognize his own invention. This is now a ‘true giro,’ thanks to the pioneering work of Bill Barnes.”

  “So, he’s one of your gang, too?”

  “No, he doesn’t run with us, but I consult him on everything related to aviation. I hadn’t been able to get my hands on an autogiro. Frankly, I wish I had met Barnes years ago.”

  “Really goes up and down now, huh?”

  “Yes, and don’t worry. You’ll get to fly it.”

  “I hear Igor Sikorsky had a wingless version,” noted Allred.

  “You don’t know the half of it. Kid named Hiller has done some outstanding work on something called a ‘coaxial heli-copter.’ ”

  “Do tell.”

  “I can’t. The details are top secret.”

  “Well, it’ll be a long time before a beauty like the autogiro is obsolete.”

  “You mean how it gets into the air at a low speed and all?” asked Wylie. “I agree.”

  Allred could now see why this place needed soundproofing. Doc Wylie’s secret headquarters wouldn’t be secure very long without it.

  “Speaking of top secret, a war is coming to our doorstep and I don’t mean the one going on Over There,” stated Wylie, tightening various screws now with a spanner.

  “Don’t I know it. A few years ago, the newspaper business began to bore me,” admitted Allred. “I was just waiting for the right thing to happen. Then Hanoi Tsin happened.”

  “The idle millionaire turns to fighting crime?” prompted Wylie.

  “Even Levvy wouldn’t let the house authors of my pulp series wouldn’t use that one.”

  “You’re a millionaire yourself, though,” reminded Allred.

  “But I was trained from birth for this work,” pointed out Wylie. “An ordinary man like yourself could get killed.”

  “I’m not without skills to fall back on,” maintained Allred. “I’ve had great success employing my old espionage tricks to confront crime in my city.”

  “The perfect way to repent for past sins, eh? Well, it kept you from becoming one of the Lost Generation,” Wylie knotted a brown tie now, spanner gone.

  Allred took a breath before continuing, “I saw slick crooks using the law to escape justice, almost every day. Reported in my own paper,” remembering a copy of his new acquisition the Sentry that was open on Wylie’s desk. There had also been clippings from various out of town papers cast about, as if having been studied, Allred recalled.

  “The law does have its limits,” admitted Wylie.

  “Somebody has to stand up for the little guy,” agreed Allred. “I’m just the one.”

  Wylie’s expression made it clear that he thought only someone with his training could do that. “A tall order,” he stated.

  “I had to take matters into my own hands after Bob got unmasked. Childish, I guess,” shrugged Allred.

  “S
o, you’re just an overgrown kid, getting into trouble?” Wylie mused with a grin.

  “Far from it. One of my war missions found me stranded in Tibet. Gave me the chance to study ancient arts like yi chuan, sinanju, yoga and, most importantly, gung fu,” said Allred. “Perhaps you don’t know of it?”

  “I have had a bit of training in the Chinese fighting arts, Brent; Year of the Horse and all that.”

  “It’s sort of like karate,” clarified Allred.

  “Yes, that tutor of mine you alluded to before picked up baritsu while visiting The Roof of the World, i.e., Tibet and gave me pointers on it.”

  Oh, boy, thought Allred, he says “i.e.” in conversation.

  “Another friend, Ram Singh, taught me to use the kava.” Wylie leaned forward to conspiratorially whisper, “It’s all in the wrist.”

  “Ram Singh. He’s from India?”

  “Yes, and an expert in thugee, the art of strangulation,” Wylie pointed out, “used to avoid spilling blood when sacrificing to Kali.”

  “That is, until the British outlawed the practice among the Phansigars,” countered Allred, “In 1820.”

  Wylie nodded. “Ram, of course, didn’t sacrifice to the goddess. However, he contends that yi chuan, ‘mind boxing,’ ” here Wylie’s fingers formed imaginary quotation marks, “as it’s also known, strengthens circulation and the immune system. We must spar sometime.”

  “Sounds good, Doc,” said Allred. Now he knew to expect a lecture from Wylie when he asked a simple question. And he makes quote marks with his fingers. Allred wondered what he had gotten into.

  “I hope you’re not a xenophobe?”

  “On the contrary, I love everything about the East,” assured Allred.

  “Then you’ll hit it off with Ram. So, how do you manage to finance this operation and recruit your help?” probed Wylie.

  “Well, Speed Martin had been with me since my G-9 days. He cultivated an interest in cameras so I gave him a job as a photographer. He, Miss Louise Scott and her father, Professor Scott, were all involved with Bob in the Dr. Lucifer incident.”