“I knew it,” she said, possibly more to herself. “I knew Wright had feculence hitching a ride beneath his coattails.”
Like Jack, who’d donned a suit in the cab, the reporter had changed outfits. She was wearing a grey and black tweed wool herringbone double-breasted jacket — Basil Rathbone playing up Sherlock Holmes, with a feminine flourish.
“The Brick’s okay?” she asked, at the same time as she fetched a bag from under a pile of folders.
“I don’t know. Hoping so.”
“Shit. Well. My lovely boss is here.” The woman looked heavenward. “In his offices.” A moment later, Gypsie-Ann checked inside her satchel and Jack noted the presence there of a small, silver Walther 9mm pistol.
“Think you’ll need that?” he asked.
“Even Sherlock carried a firearm — and I don’t intend on getting caught unawares a second time. Now,” Gypsie-Ann muttered under her breath, “where on earth did I put my deerstalker?” Her roving eyes caught Jack’s. “Only joking, by the way.”
“I kind of figured that.”
They proceeded along the corridor to take up the single elevator. While ascending, Gypsie-Ann put a hand to the wall of the contraption and stroked the surface.
“Did you notice the walls are inlaid with twelve varieties of local hardwood? Extravagant stuff. This building cost $2.3 million to build —$1.1 million over the original budget. That’s so bloody Wright.”
The publisher’s secretary Joanie, in the reception area, intercepted the two and she made a brief telephone call. As they waited, Gypsie-Ann pillaged a nearby umbrella-stand —“Shhh,” she whispered, “I need a new one!” — and requisitioned a chocolate-brown parasol that matched her hair.
Almost straight after, a tall man with short black hair and a boxer’s complexion came out to meet and greet.
“Hello, I’m Art Cazeneuve, Mister Wright’s personal assistant.” The man shook Jack’s hand, but ignored his companion. “He’ll be ready to see you shortly. Would you mind waiting?”
“El Presidente always makes me wait,” Gypsie-Ann grouched. “Nothing new there.”
Cazeneuve stared her way. “Should give you time, Miss Stellar, to put that umbrella back where you found it.” Then he marched off.
They sat on the padded divans and Jack instinctively crossed his legs — causing him to double-up in pain.
“You still hurting from the explosion?” the reporter asked, concerned.
“A different memento. I’ll be okay. You still want that umbrella?”
“Nah, I’ve decided it’s tainted.”
Five minutes later they were shown into the offices proper.
Donald Wright, dressed in a tan naval military jacket and pants, walked across the plush rug with a debonair grin. His monkey, Miami Beach, was AWOL. “What a surprise,” the man announced.
“Nice outfit, chief,” Gypsie-Ann said. “Very Gary Cooper.”
“Why, thank you, baby.” Wright stopped before Jack. “I have to say, I do also like the suit. Snazzy — three-piece navy wool Benham & Co double-breaster, if I’m not mistaken. Far better than the splashy superhero costume. The white cotton shirt and navy silk tie are a lovely touch. You would be Southern All Stars.”
“Southern Cross.”
“Ahh yes, of course — apologies, and all that. I recognize you from your picture in our paper.”
Jack cursed himself. So much for incognito.
“Why don’t you cats take a seat? Or separate ones, if you’re shy.”
His two visitors remained standing while the publisher circumnavigated the desk, walked behind it, and pushed back into his throne.
“You did a wonderful job protecting those people during the Cape hostilities. So, what can I do for you, SC-baby? Have you given any consideration to my proposal?”
“You could start by telling me why the hell you’re killing all the Capes of Heropa.”
“Oh ho, and here I was thinking they were doing that to themselves!” the man chuckled.
“Along with giving comfort to gung-ho security types from the real world.”
Wright looked at Jack, head cocked. “Am I?”
“I have it on good authority that, yes, you bloody well are.”
“This ‘good authority’ wouldn’t happen to be a recently-deceased individual with a predilection for the wearing of garish red headwear?”
Ah.
“Personally, I’d ensure I had decent source material before I went about accusing persons of foul play — one thing we learn in the newspaper biz, isn’t that right, Gypsie-Ann?”