He wasn’t sure when he realized one of the creatures, lime-green in colour, had placed itself on his shoulder. He gazed at it for a long time — the oddball beauty of its bulbous shape, the tiny black eyes, the see-through wings.
He’d never seen a cicada before. There weren’t any left in Melbourne. So much for Gypsie-Ann’s theory that creepy-crawlies didn’t inhabit Heropa.
The insect climbed along his upper arm, and then took to the treetops. Watching it fly, Jack got to his feet with the crutch, dusted off his backside, and began to walk some more. The sound of sirens drowned out the cicadas.
A few blocks further along was a ring of six police cars —1940s-style black numbers that the Brick would be better able to describe — with ‘HEROPA CITY POLICE’ painted on the doors and overlarge lights on their roofs flashing.
Officers were standing behind, revolvers drawn. The object of their attention appeared to be a bar with a raucous neon image of a woman in a suspender belt, stockings, and very little else.
“Come out! With your hands in the air!” demanded a police sergeant via a loudhailer, and then he signalled to two of his number. After some hesitation, they proceeded across the sidewalk into the building.
Well, why not?
Jack needed to clear his head — perhaps do a Brick and damage others. He didn’t have his Southern Cross rags, wasn’t sure where they’d got to with the bullet holes in the leg. Being a Cape seemed to take a lot of unnecessary effort and Jack pined for the Flash’s costume ring.
Then he changed his mind. Who needed a costume?
With his crutch under his arm, Jack ambled over to the ruckus, heading straight for the authority figure with the beaten-up loudhailer.
“What’s the problem, officer?”
“Sergeant,” the man bridled, pointing out the stripes on his sleeve at the same time that he gave Jack the once-over. “Donnegan, of the 31st. Nothin’ we can’t handle. Beat it, cripple.”
The flatfoot had just full-stopped this fitting riposte when his two subordinates exited the building via a plate-glass window, sailed over the heads of their mates, and ended up on the road behind the squad cars.
The sarge looked at the unconscious, muttering men, rolled his eyes, and folded. “Meet Officers Freddie Wertham and Carey Kefauver. Usually they have more to say.”
“I’ll bet.”
“It’s Crosshairs again, drunk and disorderly — by all reports he’s injured six patrons in there. Now add two fine police officers to the list. These Capes are outta control.”
“Good Cape or bad?”
“Does it matter, bud?”
“Nope — you’re right. Let’s see what I can do to help.”
“You’re kidding me. What, you and that crutch? Swell.”
Jack actually grinned, something he would have thought impossible only a day before. “Forgot my costume. I’m Southern Cross.”
“The hell you are.” Then the sergeant thawed, a glint of recognition on his face. “I’ll be — it is you, isn’t it? Seen your mug before. You did good yesterday, helping all those bystanders in the Cape War.”
“Just doing our job — like you.”
The police sergeant smiled widely. “You’re all right.”
“Guess I have my minor moments. Can you and the boys hold your fire? Unless this Crosshairs bastardo trounces me, of course.”
“You okay?” The cop glanced at the crutch.
“Luckily my power comes out of my arm, not my leg.”
“Then we’re right behind you.
“Counting on it.”
“Southern Cross, right?”
“Got it.”
“I’ll remember this. Thanks.”
Jack left the police sergeant’s company and hopped closer to the bar with its gaping, broken window. Difficult to see inside, and he had no idea what to expect. This left the Equalizer wondering when he’d learn to brush up on a Cape’s powers before trying to take him or her down.
“Hey, Crosshairs!” he called. “Drinks on the house out here. Short-time offer only.”
There was much commotion inside the building, and then a shadowy figure pushed through the door out into the police spotlights, where he became crystal-clear.
This individual was at least ten feet tall — despite bowlegs — with a barrel chest and brawny arms dangling down to the knees. His entire body was covered with downy fur that reminded Jack of a chinchilla, but round the neck was a coarser lion’s mane. ‘Crosshairs’. Ahh.
The simian-feline-rodentia staggered a couple of steps, banged back against the doorframe, and laughed in slurred fashion.
“Well, well, if it ain’t Mister Southern Cross, the Red Skull know-it-all,” he chortled. “You brought along your snazzy pink purse to shout me some rounds?”