In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition (16 page)

“Thank you.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “How can I repay you?”

“Haven’t you been listening? You make a
profit
.” She laughed politely. “Next stop is my lawyer. We’re partners, sixty/forty until the initial investment is paid back, fifty-one/forty-nine after that.”

“You don’t have to do this. I already told Victoria I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“I guess not.”

“Look, it’s important to me that my daughter gets to know you. I don’t know if she will ever like you or will hate you forever, but either one of those is better than her
not knowing
. Frankly, it’s done a lot to screw up the few relationships she’s had, since no guy can live up to the hero she made you out to be, and every guy is a heartbeat from running off like you did.”

“Yeah, I see that. And I’ll do what I can to clear that up.” I watched her carefully. “What’s the other part?”

She pressed her lips together tightly for a moment, then spoke in a low voice. “Twenty years ago things changed radically for both of us. I’ve made peace with my past because I had Vicki to anchor me. You never had an anchor. You said Milos Castigan was going to be that anchor. I’ve been where you are now, so I know you need an anchor. Friends do things like this for friends.”

I nodded solemnly. “Thank you. Is making a profit the only ground rule?”

“Nope. I need you to
be good
.”

I smiled. “Don’t do anything you wouldn’t do?”

Selene shook her head. “Less.”

“Less?”

“Yeah. You turn the other cheek. If they hit that one, you offer all your other cheeks. You can’t throw the first punch. You can’t intervene in robberies.”

“But…”

“No, dammit. In your head and heart you know this isn’t a game you can play.” She sighed. “It’s a lesson I learned. Do you know how long it took me to stop carrying one of my Fox-fangs with me?”

“I bet you still do.”

She blushed, then frowned the color back out of her face. “Sure, in the bottom of my purse. It’s good for opening packages. But I used to have them in trios, forearm sheathes and garters. So many times I saw things and I wanted to act, but I didn’t. I had a little girl at home counting on me to return.”

My head came up. “So you’re telling me that if you saw a woman being raped…”

“No, you’re not going to go there, because it’s not about a helpless girl. It’s about a three hundred-fifty pound man flailing and drowning, and you’re a ninety-eight pound swimmer watching him go under. You
can’t
save him. He’ll take you down if you try. You have to sit back and wait for the lifeguard. If you don’t, you’ll die.”

That was one of those times when I wanted to argue, but I had nothing. We both knew it. My time to be a hero had passed. Somehow I’d survived it. It was time to be grateful and move on to the next phase of life.

I nodded. “You’re right.”

“I’m always right. Remember that.” She tossed me another key. “There’s an apartment one floor up. It’s yours. No furnishing, though the fridge is stocked. I’ll have your clothes sent over.”

The key felt cold in my hand. “Thanks.”

Selene closed and caressed my cheek. “I know this will be a big transition. You’ve had a lot coming down on you in the last three weeks. Some welcome home, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“But, Milos, remember that you
do
have a home.”

I put a smile on my face. “Thanks, boss.”

“Not boss, partner.” She kissed my cheek, then walked away. “I’m off to the lawyer. Call me if you need anything. You’re opening in a month.”

I told myself that shock was why I let her walk out of there. Maybe it was, in part, but there was more. I felt it lurking in my chest like congealed shadow, but it didn’t explode until the elevator returned and I rode it up to the apartment.

I stepped into darkness broken only by the jaundiced flash of an ad on the Murdoch.
Desolation
. Even the promise of food in the refrigerator couldn’t dispel the sense of death that pervaded the apartment. Musty and dusty, with water-stained wall paper that been installed about the time Puma returned from the war, it felt as if the apartment had been in limbo forever.

Just like my life.

Bam, twenty years gone, and now what waited for me? Death? Puma’s ruined chest flashed through my mind. He’d not quailed nor hesitated. He’d been there, defending people.

Defending me.

And that’s when the darkness crashed in.

Fear. I
had
hesitated. I
had
despaired. I’d been trapped and helpless. I’d waited to die. I’d given up and that meant I really
was
dead. The fear of dying had taken away the last vestige of who I’d been.

No, not who I’d been, who I imagined I was again.

I sank to my knees and began weeping. Though I didn’t want to be alone, I was glad Selene wasn’t there.

These tears, they
were
for me.

Chapter Fifteen

There are two ways of dealing with the sorts of feelings I had welling up inside. One is to find a good therapist, engage in a series of dialogues and undergo rigorous self-examination. Through honest self-assessment I could uncover trigger-points that were the wellspring of adversity. I could deal with those problems, confront people, resolve my issues with them and, after a couple years, emerge whole.

Or I could ignore the feelings entirely and just throw myself into my work.

I went with option B.

In the old days “work” meant finding a hapless boob or three committing some crime–I always made sure it was at least a felony except for that one graffiti artist. I’d round them up and beat the crap out of them–the cathartic effect of a good beating can’t be underestimated. I might have had problems, but I was still king of part of the jungle, and that made my day much better.

My promise to Selene cut off
that
avenue of self-help. I could still throw myself into my work however, and did. This was my new life, and Milos Castigan had a lot to learn about everything from the collectors’ market to basic retailing. It called for tons of analysis, which is great because while the thinking side of the brain is roaring along, emotions get buried deep.

I approached the collecting market as if it were a racket. There were other vectors I could have taken, sure, but I was going with my strength. If all you have is a hammer, every problem conveniently looks like a nail. Besides, collecting
was
a racket. Lots of money got made on items with dubious provenance, and the possibility of fraud loomed large.

The market operated on three levels: street speculators, enthusiasts and connoisseurs. Street speculators were the hustlers and formed an interesting network. One guy had a compact car and a police scanner. He’d show up at the fight’s location, snap pictures, then print them out on the computer rig in his trunk. He’d get a few pictures signed, scrounge around for any scrap that was identifiable, photograph it
in situ
, bag it, tag it and then offer it online or move it to a dealer.

A lot of stuff showed up in pawn shops–most of it being fake, but I found and bought several small pieces that I figured were authentic. That included one of the shock batons that Kid Coyote used and two of the four-pointed Spookstars that Nighthaunt used to toss around.

The online trade was brisk, but mostly low grade stuff. You’d see a flood of it come in from overseas if a hero ever made an appearance there. Prices remained low, but fluctuated wildly. I wondered why until I figured out that some automatic bidding programs had their bidding structure tied to a hero’s current rating. A hero makes a splash, the speculators snag the stuff then immediately flip it. That latter strategy was especially true with collections that were then cherry-picked for a valuable item that would pay for the whole lot.

All this made me realize I needed to learn about the ratings system, bidding and all that, but I really wanted to put that off. First, I really didn’t like the system. Second, and more to the point, while timing the market could make a lot of money, timing it would not be easy. As a dealer my job was to lock in profit and minimize loss. Speculating was the antithesis of that.

I did visit a number of other dealer showrooms. They varied from the kitsch of a carnival sideshow to the somber tones of an exclusive club where you got issued a smoking jacket when you walked in the door. The nicer the digs, the higher the prices–though the carnival did have some extremely high-end items which, it turned out, were part of the owner’s collection. He had a railroad tie which Graviton had tied into a knot, which was available at the low, low price of 20K.

The connoisseurs could afford such items, but seldom went shopping themselves. They had agents who scouted things out. The connoisseurs also tended to specialize. They collected C4, for example, or pre-Cold War, preferring depth as opposed to breadth in their collections. Costumes, if authenticated, brought very high prices. Equipment went next, depending on how often it had been used and how common it was. Spookstars and Cat’s-claws didn’t fetch that much, whereas the white uniform Nighthaunt wore during the Big Blizzard had been auctioned for a million and a half.

That, clearly, was the market to shoot for. Selene already had a way into it, but the contacts were only part of the puzzle. High-end collectors went for prestige as much as the item. They needed a reason to buy from Milos Castigan. Certainly the collectors would talk amongst themselves, and I would do well if they began to vie for the pleasure of having “a Castigan” in their collection.

Which meant Milos Castigan had to be quirky, difficult, a genius, with wares no one else could get, and no desire to part with a single one. That wasn’t the original personality I had for Castigan, but Milos was going to be moving in a whole different orbit than before. The “affect” would be great.

On the other hand, I
did
need cash flow. Enthusiasts on the lower levels of collecting needed a way to get in on the game. The shop would have to be schizophrenic. Customers would have to feel welcome to a point, then want to get further. Milos would have to tell all sorts of folks “when you are serious, then you come see me.” People want what they can’t have, and will pay dearly to get it.

And they will pay yet more if there is an air of exclusivity to it all.

My business plan broke down simply. I would start by selling things in the online market, offering fair market prices and bidding fiercely for items I could flip. I made a rule, however, that I would set a limit and never go above it. If I won, great, if not, that was okay, too. What was important was creating a persona of someone who knew the true price of things, and who would not get caught up in the frenzy of an auction.

The things I offered would come with a Castigan certificate of authenticity. The item would be graded from 0-9 on two scales: Condition and Provenance. An item rated a 99 was in mint condition and came complete with a backstory and chain of evidence that left its authenticity unquestioned. Moreover, Milos would offer a grading service for other people’s items. In fact, a Castigan rating would double or triple an item’s price.

That last bit of my plan became true for a simple reason: I posted it on Castigan.cc.com. If it appeared there, it had to be true–everything on the Interwebz is, after all. I jacked the asking price for rated items by at least 50% over the median price for similar items, creating the illusion that the certification was valuable. And by refusing to authenticate some items, I made it imperative to collectors to find something I
would
rank.

In terms of plans for the shop, I divided the space into three parts, as if it was a tobacconists’ store. The main section would have glass case fixtures with the items well lit. Each item would come with a uTiliPod-friendly infrared emitter which would download the item’s image and provenance. I wouldn’t display
 
too many things–to promote the illusion of scarcity. I’d rotate them frequently to make it look like the stuff was moving fast.

The second section would be the security vault. I’d put everything behind a stainless steel security wall with thick glass windows. Through them a customer could make out framed uniforms hanging on the wall, as well as one of Redhawk’s early motorcycles. A bunch of helmets lined a shelf, and other one-of-a-kind things–including battle debris and a few paintings–would be crafted into tasteful displays. They’d all be priced appropriately, and infinitely more rare than the Spookstars and signed photos in the main room.

Many enthusiasts would want to be admitted to the third area: the back room. Castigan–no one would call him Milos more than once–seldom permitted this. “When you are serious, you talk to Castigan.”

I kept the back room for stock, tinkering and repairing things, though I did to plan adding an intimate reception area. That’s where I would spend most of my time working and researching. When people buzzed for admittance, I’d roll dice to determine how long I’d take to buzz them in. The more impatient, the longer they cooled their heels. I couldn’t wait to see how many would look straight at the security camera and remonstrate about what would happen if I didn’t let them in.