Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(2)

“So — what is this place?”

“Everything has a starting point and your starting point is here.”

“Cryptic.”

“Actually, also very simple. Look around. Go on, then.”

As if to encourage his charge, the old man performed a creaky, horizontal bobbin routine right there on the footpath, turning several times, so Jack hung on to his coattails.

This city was immense.

It stretched in every direction he could see, making him feel like a flea in a ridiculous blue suit of his own choosing.

The monumental skyline sweated neoclassical touches, its architecture early twentieth-century art deco colliding with Soviet formalism — offering tall, sharp-edged towers, soaring arches, looming statuary. Jack felt most of the places looked like enormous wedding cakes with kitsch columns and over-decorative façades.

One sculpture, a statue of some suited bigwig punching his fist heavenward, was in the vicinity size-wise of King Kong.

“Overboard,” Jack muttered.

“Fear not. All this has happened before, and it will all happen again — but this time it happens in Heropa. It starts happening on a busy street in Grand Midtown. That corner skyscraper over there, the one that takes up all four corners of a city block, is the home of the Equalizers, and I suggest that you choose this particular building because there are people there who believe in you.”

“Sure.” Whatever, crossed Jack’s mind.

The skyscraper the old man pointed out was dozens of storeys high. It ascended into a bullet-shaped peak a thousand feet up, with a glossy white exterior finish and mirror windows that caught distorted reflections of the neighbours.

“Come on then. I’ll take you over. I am, you know, the building’s doorman. Your first port of call,” he chuckled.

“Handy. One thing, though — other people don’t appear to see me.”

“Give it time. The transition takes an hour or so. The Capes will have no problem.”

Canvas awnings billowing in its doorways, a shiny, green, wood-panelled W-Class tram clattered past before they crossed a thoroughfare on which 1930s and ’40s Packards, Buicks, Morris Minors, even a two-tone tan and chocolate-brown Summit Tourer from the 1920s, moved slowly.

These vintage jalopies honked one another while a traffic cop in jodhpurs, knee-high riding boots and white gloves, standing with rod-straight posture at the next intersection, used his whistle and energetic arm movements to control the flow.

After passing the crossroads they proceeded through a grassy square lined with elms and decorated by the occasional fountain and miniature pagoda, leading the two men to the tall, rocket-like building in question.

Stan grabbed a brass lightning bolt handle in order to push open a glass door that bordered on monstrous, and stood aside allowing entry.

“Welcome to Timely Tower.”

“That’s appropriate,” Jack said as he brushed past.

“You get the inference?”

“I think so. Timely was the publishing company that predated Marvel Comics, right? From around World War II — they call it the golden age of comicbooks.”

“I must say I’m impressed.”

“Why so?”

“Many of our residents wouldn’t have an inkling.”

“Not that big a deal.”

Stan scrutinized the other man as he closed the door with a quiet swish. “Sir, it’s never wise to doubt any knowledge.”

“Fair enough. Call me Jack, by the way.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Again with that debonair smile.

White marble paved the foyer inside, while shiny white walls were indented with chrome fixtures. Suspended above a bank of four separate metal concertina elevator doors sat a woven square banner several metres in size, showing a circle pierced by a simplistic lightning bolt that cut diagonally down from the top left corner to the bottom right.

Whoever designed the thing had been sparing with the colours, since it was cast only in black, white and grey.



“The symbol of the Equalizers,” announced Stan, “designed by the great Israel Schnapps.”

“Nifty — but shouldn’t it then have an ‘E’ in the logo? That lightning bolt looks like an ’N’ and,” here Jack cocked his head to the right, “there’s a ‘Z’. Something Zorro would conjure up if he had a set of tapestry tools, don’t you reckon?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

“Jack. And you must have an artistic bone somewhere.”

“None I’m aware of — at my age the osseous matter tends to accelerate into disrepair.” Stan also crooked his neck. “However…now you mention it, I can see the ‘Z’.”