Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(3)

“But no ‘E’.”

“Sadly amiss.”

“So, these people are expecting me, you say?”

“Certainly are.”

“Which floor?”

“The Penthouse Suite — of course.”

“Top of the heap, huh? Inside the bullet?”

“All the better to keep an eye on the city.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Stan didn’t respond. Either he’d missed the question or preferred not to offer up his two cents.

A half-moon shaped reception counter stood nearby. The guard sitting behind it would’ve been somewhere in the vicinity of forty to sixty — hard to tell — and his gaunt, expressionless face ignored them, so Jack ignored it back.

The guard was cradling a softdrink can of something called Dixi-Cola with red and blue ovals on a white background. He had his gaze fixed on a portable telly.

Jack stared at this small contrivance. “I thought TV wasn’t invented till after the period we’re supposed to be in — given the décor outside, I mean. Isn’t this the 1930s?”

“Is it? I have no idea. But there is some debate about the true inventor of the television: Vladimir Kosma Zworykin, John Logie Baird, or Philo Taylor Farnsworth.”

Having heard of none of these people blessed with three names, Jack remained mum.

“It was commercially available from the late ’20s,” the old concierge went on, “so television wouldn’t be out of place here by any means. The TV dinner, on the other hand, wasn’t invented until 1945.”

Hearing about any kind of dinner made Jack’s stomach growl.

Over on the TV in the here and now, the monochrome picture rolled occasionally, but on it was an old guy in a clown suit with a ventriloquist doll on his knee. The wooden figurine was crooning a sad-sack jingle:

‘Be a Top Man, flee the Bop Man, and drink a bottle or can of Tarax Top Ten flavours!’

By the end of this, Jack decided he’d had enough viewing time, so he turned around.

Inset beside one of the elevators, a little plaque read ‘The Foundation Stone of this Building was laid by Mr William Eisner, President, Leland Baxter Paper Company’.

“Huh. I thought foundation stones had dates on them.”

“Well, now, as I think we’ve established, dates don’t matter here,” said Stan.

The traction lift was one of those antique movie jobs with teak panelling and bulbous globes; these announced each floor as it passed in sluggish fashion. Jack had left Stan the Doorman in the lobby to do his real job, and after a month of Sundays and the piped-in, mind-numbing instrumental sounds of ‘A Walk in the Black Forest’, the cubicle reached the Penthouse Suite. This had its own private globe with a ‘P’ marked on it.

There was a lovely leviathan awaiting him.

Shoving aside the metal concertina door like a shower curtain, she smiled down with something Jack would have called benevolence, if he knew what it looked like. He took in a face composed of strong cheekbones; enormous eyes with purple irises, long lashes, and tiny, swollen lips that in most cases would infer a mild food allergy.

A full twelve inches higher than Jack, this particular giant was gift-wrapped in frills and ribbons, most in plum, with a big periwinkle bowknot on her bosom, a pair of long white satin gloves and one very short, voluminous miniskirt.

She also had a headband holding in check lavender hair spiralling down to her ankles — a touch of Wonder Woman interbred with far too much Sailor Moon, making her resemble someone dragged out of a manga comic and stuck on a pair of towering legs.

“I’m Pretty Amazonia,” the woman announced with a tight smile that nullified the sultry effect of her mouth. “And a quick warning — before you conjure up any unwisecracks, I could break both your legs in quite the jiffy.”

“Nothing comes to mind.”

“Oh, dandy. You must be Southern Cross. We’ve been expecting you.” Pretty Amazonia gave him the once over. “To be honest, I thought you’d be taller.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’ll live. Well, come on now.”

He followed the woman down a brightly lit passage along which were framed monochrome and primary colour pictures of heroes in action and/or hamming it up for the artist.

There were dozens of these; no photos, but drawings in black and white or red, yellow, green and blue — heavily outlined in black — with names attached like Lord Evolve-A-Lot, Kardak Da Mystic, Slam-Dunk Ninja, Babe Boon, The Soldier, Big Game Hunter, McBlack, Vesper, Mister Sniffer, Ace Harlem, Fraulein Helmet, Captain Atom, Cowboy Sahib, Flasher Lightning and Kid Squall, Sans Sheriff, Curvaceous Crustacean, Vege-Might, That Bulletproof Kid, Trick-Or-Teet, and Yarko the Utterly Greatest.