Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(129)
Which placed Jack at the front of the line, left hand touching the counter, staring at a girl behind the grille as she looked back. Same outcome as last time. The Equalizer lost everything in mind — all he perceived were a pair of big green eyes, still the most precious articles in any world.
“May I help you, sir?”
It took a second or two to remember she’d asked this before.
What was his answer, that first time? “Um. I want to make a deposit.”
The emerald eyes did a quick wash over, no recognition there. After he pushed closer the Gladstone he’d fetched from Equalizers HQ, it was opened to check, and Jack took time out to examine the woman’s downturned face.
“Could I have your passbook?”
“Here you go.” On cue, he slid the document across, this time ensuring no physical contact. Anyway, his face burned, so he looked down to her hands — superb, as he knew only too well — while she sorted through the bills. Jack blinked rapidly. He didn’t know where to focus. The clothes again?
She was dressed in that fitted navy blue box-cut jacket, the one with grape-rose coloured buttons boasting rhinestone accents.
The mother-of-pearl badge was there too, with her name.
“Oh, Mister Winkle,” she was saying to the elderly coot at the next stall. “I have a deposit here for $5,000. Would you mind confirming the amount?”
“Certainly, Miss Starkwell.”
The Gladstone again exchanged hands.
“We won’t be long, sir,” Miss Starkwell assured her customer with a charming smile.
Henry Holland, all annular nose and decorative moustache, sauntered up to the woman’s side. The facial wiring was sadly amiss. He placed one hand on the girl’s shoulder, the resurrected smirk verging on patronizing, and those fingers on the navy blue material held Jack’s attention as before.
“Everything dandy here, Louise?”
“Yes, sir.”
The girl refused to look up at him, clearly bothered. Henry’s stare passed over Jack and the other customers, like they did not exist. Jack wasn’t wrong the first time — this rogue was more intent on pawing his subordinate, and the fingers on the shoulder had started their cloying massage.
“Henry,” Jack remarked in a loud voice.
Distracted from his reverie, Mister Holland looked straight over at the Equalizer. “Yes, sir?”
“Don’t push your girl too far — she may bust your chin. Just a friendly warning.”
The manager stepped back, face ashen and that fragile jaw of his gaping. Meanwhile, Miss Starkwell put a hand over her mouth to smother a laugh. With an awkward twirl, far from suave, Holland retreated to his dimly lit cubbyhole.
That done, Jack relaxed. “You okay?” he asked the teller.
“I am, now. Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
Mister Winkle had apparently finished his counting. “All done, Miss Starkwell,” the ancient cadaver croaked, as he laboured under the Gladstone’s weight and placed it upon her desk. “And, I must add, sir, well said.”
—Which was precisely when the wall, the same one as last time, caved in amidst the cacophonous racket of an explosion.
Horrified customers, intermingled with equally alarmed bank staff, dispersed screaming and shouting while bricks, mortar, and a billowing veil of dust settled. This time, rather than a three-metre beast standing by the gaping hole, there was instead an underwhelming, middle-aged 5’ 8” individual, dolled-up in a gaudy, ill-fitting, blue, red and yellow costume.
More memorable was the pistol planted in his right mitt, the silver Colt M1911 automatic Jack had seen in action at the offices of Donald Wright.
“Hello, baby.”
“You.” As Jack backed away — even so ensuring he remained between the newcomer and the tellers behind him — he champed at his lower lip, attempting to nut out a course of action post haste.
“Me. Why surprised? Thought I’d drop by for Devonshire tea.” Wright veritably purred while placing the gun in the left hand, and then straightened his mask over the moustache. “So, Southern Cross. We meet again.”
In spite of better judgement, Jack couldn’t resist a wry grin. “Sheesh. I have to say — you really need a new scriptwriter. Who pens such archaic lines?”
“That’s right, laugh it up. A fitting epitaph: ‘The cat indulged in cheap comeback tomfoolery, right before Major Patriot placed a slug in his skull.’ Which I’m going to do, by the way.”
“And yet, you felt the need to wax pompous before hand.”
“Not at all.”
“Well, there’s a surprise.”
“Indeed. The only long-winded diatribe you’ll get from me is a brace of bullets.”