In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition (15 page)

The big winner coming out of the whole affair was Tony Ramoso. Producers had watched events unfolding in real time and put together the “Young Puma,” series proposal. It had a green light almost immediately. They decided, in an effort to keep it relevant, to move it forward in time. He’d no longer be fighting the Axis. He’d go to Baghdad and battle the Al Qaeda branch of the month. He’d still have his Soviet ally–a woman this time named Glasnost. The idea of “openness” was best applied to her body-language, and her superpower, as nearly as I could determine, would be somehow remaining inside her skimpy costume.

The most horrible thing about it all was the most simple. I’d been there, but the more I watched, the more my memories filed themselves away in the boxes the media gave me. It seemed okay that Puma’s death, as noble as it was, had been secondary to the attempt to murder Ramoso. And that Redhawk’s day of honor had been ruined didn’t matter at all. Sure, the news mentioned that he’d recovered and captured a couple of China Dolls, but it was a complete side story and was abandoned once they had Puma’s tribute available.

I watched, fascinated and horrified, until Selene switched the Murdoch off at midnight. “No matter how long you watch, it’s not going to get any better.”

“Am I naïve, or were things always this way?”

She smiled. “You want me to tell you it’s only gotten bad since you’ve been gone?”

“I want that, but I won’t believe it.” I sighed. “I shouldn’t complain. I remember a time or two when a story got spun in my favor. Still, I thought it was different.”

“It
was
different.” Selene leaned back against my chest of drawers. “Time once was when ghost stories were told around campfires, or while children huddled in bed. Those were scary stories, sure, but also cautionary tales. Beware of strangers. Don’t go out alone. Let us know where you are. Obey your parents. We all thrilled to them even later in life because they let us be kids again, even if just for a moment.”

She tapped the Murdoch. “Now it
is
different. Here’s your storyteller. He’s full of ghost stories. They’re not meant to be cautionary tales, they’re just meant to scare the hell out of you. Why? Because fear
infantilizes
us. We stop being rational adults, capable of detecting truth from falsehood and making decisions. As children we become compliant, seeking safety and willing to follow an adult’s instructions.”

“That doesn’t explain the preoccupation with Ramoso.”

“Pure misdirection, the staple of sleight of hand. You should understand that better than most.” She shook her head. “I’ve watched a little. What’s the big fact that’s getting forgotten?”

“This was really a shot at Redhawk and the Hall?”

“Absolutely. Panda-moanium bitch-slapped everyone. He was strictly Bruiser class, maybe only Welterweight. Everyone in Cruiser and up will be looking to make a mark. Panda may be off to Death Valley, but he’ll be riding the top of the villain list for a couple weeks. That’s a major hit to other folks’ income.”

I frowned. “Same thing on the other side? Will Kid Coyote and Vixen scoring points hurt the income of other heroes?”

“The folks in their own class, certainly, and a few others. Once you’re a heavyweight, you have sponsors, so you’re a little insulated.” She glanced up for a second. “This might actually pull some sponsors down to Vicki and the others, which would not be a bad thing.”

“But we need to get back to your core point, Selene: why the ceremony? Panda could have done this anywhere. It embarrassed Redhawk and the Hall. It embarrassed those heroes who, it turns out, weren’t there. Who gains by that?”

“I don’t know.” Selene looked me straight in the eye. “But is
that
a question you want to pursue?”

I slumped back against the pillows. “There once was a time when you wouldn’t have asked that question. You would have known the answer.”

“Perhaps I do.” She nodded slowly. “Let me ask another question. Are you going to pursue that answer?”

I hesitated, then closed my eyes and shook my head. “No. I got the message Grant was sending me, that you wanted me to see. Like I said before, I’m retired. I promise.”

“Good.”

I opened my eyes and she was smiling happily. “Is it?”

“Absolutely.” She came over, leaned down, and kissed my brow. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow I’ve got a present for you. A whole new life.”

Chapter Fourteen

I did manage to sleep. The ass-end of an adrenaline rush can make that tough, but pain is just exhausting. Sleep came in fits and starts–like a whale coming up to breathe, I’d surface, roll over so I was less sore, and drop back off.

I had a couple of dreams, but they were just dreams. Images that made no particular sense. I could have spun a story around them, but it really wasn’t necessary. I’d made my peace with retirement, and nightmares reinforcing that decision were just overkill.

I got up around dawn, stretched and did some basic exercise. I wanted to keep my muscles warm and limber. I also wanted to establish a regime so I’d have some personal discipline. It wasn’t hard to imagine myself becoming addicted to the Murdoch, getting fat and molding a trench in some couch. I might not be fighting criminals, but I could fight myself on that score.

Victoria appeared at breakfast half asleep. The other half was sullen. She glared and grunted in my direction, but really didn’t seem that angry with me. She grabbed juice and a bagel before darting out the door.

She missed her mother by a gnat’s whisker. I figured that was no coincidence. Selene had downloaded some news into her uTiliPod and studied it in silence while her domestic, Oksana, brought her a soft-boiled egg, two triangles of toast and a big mug of black tea strong enough to etch steel. Selene looked beautiful and well rested, despite having had no more sleep than I did. She seemed happy, too, but I didn’t want to interrupt her morning ritual and discover I was wrong.

Looking up, she smiled at me and turned the uTiliPod off. “Are you ready for your new life?”

“I guess.” I laughed at myself. “I’m really looking forward to it, in fact.”

“Wait until you hear the offer.”

“Compared to life so far in Capcity, scraping gum off sidewalks would be a step up.” I stood and straightened my trousers. “Why are you doing this?”

She fixed me with a curious stare. “You’re the one who came to me looking for a friend, remember? I know how to be a friend. So, for old time’s sake.”

“Okay.” My guts flip-flopped a little, but settled fast. Friend was good.

We took the elevator down to the basement and got into her limo. She put the partition up and the driver took us out into the world. The limo’s soundproofing and darkened windows insulated us from the cacophony of life outside.

“I run a very successful art business. The gallery is only part of it. I do authentication, arrange for restoration and do consulting on preservation, conservation and security. I have satellite offices in Paris, Moscow and Cairo. I am very well respected in the field. I’m in high demand.”

“I can imagine.”

“And you know I know art.”

She smiled at me, and I mirrored that smile. I’d known of Scarlet Fox well before we’d ever met. She’d been a legendary art thief who had crossed paths with Nighthaunt on numerous occasions. Tabloids even suggested they were an item for a while. Sensual, trim and tall, with long auburn tresses and even longer legs, she’d always topped lists of the sexiest villains. Just like every other young man of that time, I’d lusted after her, but she operated at a level way above mine. I never expected to meet her.

I’d been tracking the exploits of a gang of art thieves calling themselves The Doodlebugs. They’d hit a variety of public and private museums and were working their way east. They used to leave glyphs on the gallery walls which were a code pointing at their next caper. In between doing tax returns, I’d worked on the code and had cracked it. So when the Capital City Museum of Art brought an impressionist exhibit in, I staked it out and waited for the Doodlebugs.

My patience had been rewarded. A shadowy figure moved through the night and entered the museum through a skylight. I followed, figuring she’d open the museum for the rest of the gang. I actually thought I was being pretty quiet, but she turned, flicked her whip out, and bound my ankles together. I went down with a crash and Scarlet Fox loomed over me, right there in the main gallery.

I seem to recall she made an offhand remark about ‘a Nighthaunt wannabe,’ which stung a lot, but before we could move to the part of the evening where I’d escape, we’d duel and one of us would be put out of the fight, the lights came on. The Doodlebugs had arrived and really weren’t in a mood to have someone else poaching their loot.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Scarlet Fox was a great friend. The Doodlebugs’ only advantage was in numbers, but that just meant we had more targets. Red and I were in sync immediately, taking out the toughest together, and working down. As battles go, it was short, sharp and nasty.

Toward the end, one of the Doodlebugs slid a small explosive device across the floor toward Scarlet Fox. It looked like a hockey puck, except that it was glowing gold around a blinking red core. She leaped away from it, but it exploded while she was in the air. It knocked her across the room, but I managed to catch her with an arm around the waist and spin. I set her down as if we were stars in the Metropolitan Ballet.

We finished the Doodlebugs off, then faced each other, ready to conclude our business. We circled, wary, curious, intrigued. I was scared. She was a living legend. And she was hotter than I had ever imagined.

Then she stopped. “It would be rather unseemly to end with hostilities what has been an otherwise diverting evening, don’t you think?”

“Sure, but I can’t let you walk out of here with any of the paintings.”

She smiled. “You don’t have to. A client inquired about the Manet. He wanted to know if it or the one in his collection was a forgery.”

“And?”

“This one is.” Her smile broadened. “As is the one he owns.”

I stared at her. “Um, couldn’t you just have bought a ticket to the exhibit and learned what you needed to know?”

“And what would be the fun in that?” She winked. “Wrap up your prizes and deliver them to the police. Perhaps I’ll see you again some time.”

And then she went out the way she’d come in. I’d hoped we’d meet again. In fact, I watched the museum to guarantee it. But she didn’t come back. Months later we met, and under very different circumstances.

I nodded as the limo stopped for a light. “You know art, no doubt about it.”

“One of the things you may not realize is that there is a sub-genre of art that has an avid following. It began late last century with serial killer art. The works of John Wayne Gacy sold for ridiculous sums despite being little better than paint-by-number pictures. Some of Hitler’s work sold as well, and many death row inmates were encouraged to indulge their artistic sides by ghoulishly greedy art brokers.

“Today’s equivalent is super-art.” She picked an invisible piece of lint from the hem of her black, cashmere skirt. “I’ve done better with hero art than villains, but that market segment is growing. It’s cyclical. While I deal with super-art, it’s privately and not on display in the gallery. Again, much of it is of dubious quality and only valued for the signature.”

She held a hand up. “We’re here.”

The limo descended a ramp and brought us to an elevator. Selene and I got in and she handed me a key on a chain. “You’ll need this. Third floor.”

The elevator rose quietly and opened into a stock room filled with empty shelves. She led me through it and out to the front of the shop. Light and dark patches on the walls suggested lots of pictures had hung there for a long time, but it had been cleared to the bare walls. Save for some track lighting, nothing remained.

I looked at her. “You can’t want me to run a gallery. I know nothing about art.”

“That has not escaped me.” She opened her arms and turned about. “The same people who collect super-art also collect hero memorabilia. I’ve stayed away from the trade because I don’t know how to authenticate the stuff, nor can I repair or restore it. Milos Castigan, on the other hand, comes highly recommended in that regard. He once planned to open a clock repair shop near here. He can still do some of that if he wants. This is his shop.”

“What are you saying?”

She smiled. “This is your new life. You’ve got a budget of thirty grand for fixtures and remodeling. I’ve got fifty grand in stock in storage and you have another fifty for purchasing new things. Rule of thumb, you sell for a minimum of twice of what you buy for.”

I shook my head. “But I don’t know anything about memorabilia.”

“You can learn. Big advantage: the hottest market segment is from your time. The stuff’s rare and there are lots of knock-offs.”

I half-closed my eyes and surveyed the gallery. Proper fixtures, good lightning, enough space to try some things out. And the room in the back to tinker. I looked at her, my eyes fully open. “What’s in this for you?”

“’Thank you,’ sounds nicer.”