The Brick appeared well and truly bamboozled, a feeling Jack shared. “Think yer losin’ me, Exy. Who the heck is this Son o’ Man?”
“I can’t say.”
“Fat lot o’ good that confession does us.”
“Look, I hate to be a fly in the ointment,” Jack spoke up, “but do we need to know any of this ecclesial hogwash? Marat here is dead.”
“Rabble Rouser,” Exegesis reminded him. “But, indeed. Electrocuted. The Good Book mentions lightning — in all likelihood the two are connected.”
“Or not.” Jack glanced at his teammate. “Are we done?”
“Hang on, kid.” The Brick went around the tub, pushed aside the plastic curtain, and with patience peeled something off the windowsill.
“This is interestin’,” he said, as he held up a small black oval sticker with the tag ‘if?’ printed on it — identical to the one they’d found at the Harvey’s Gems jewellery heist. “Murdered by a dead man.”
After notifying the police, the Brick and Jack drove in silence.
At that time of night, Stan the Doorman was home in bed, but the Timely Tower security guard — or a carbon copy — sat in his same position, sucking on a Brown’s Iron Bitters as he watched the rolling black-and-white portable TV. This time they heard a male glee club advertising ballad about a fly:
Boppie the Fly, I’m Boppie the Fly
Straight from rubbish tip to you.
Spreading disease, with the greatest of ease…
The Brick slammed the concertina door —“I hate that commercial, I feel fer the bug,” he muttered — and they took the elevator to the penthouse accompanied by ‘A Walk in the Black Forest’.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Jack groaned. “Hate to say it, but the ad’s gotta be better than this mundane tune. Don’t they play anything else?”
The lights were on when the doors finally parted and Pretty Amazonia was there, trussed up in a flowing purple satin nightie. According to her, the Great White Hope had tucked himself in early.
The Brick gave the woman an abbreviated version of what had been discovered and, for her part, she looked uncommonly serious while tuning in.
Then the Brick showed her the sticker.
“Interesting,” PA mused, adjusting the bodice on her gown. “You think someone wants to infer Iffy Bizness did the deed?”
“Double-R hadn’t been dead long enough. I’d say it’s someone messin’ with us.”
She nodded. “While you were out, we got a message from that Blando cop Kahn, at City Hall.”
“What’d Dick Tracy want?”
“To let us know they found another dead Cape.”
“Double-R.”
“No. Someone else.”
The Equalizer frowned by lowering a layer of bricks low over his blue eyes. “Who?”
“Sir Dagonet.”
“Crap.”
“My feeling exactly.”
“I thought that bastard were adept at hightailin’ it from trouble — guy was more court jester than hero. Foul play?”
PA raised one eyebrow. “Unless you call being spit-roasted in your own armour an accident, I’d say yes.”
“Jesus,” Jack mumbled from where he sat propped up on the arm of a sofa.
“Stop it, kid — yer remindin’ me o’ Exy. Once a lifetime’s religious hokey pokey is enough.”
The Brick walked over to the big window that dominated the shared living space of Equalizers headquarters. Dawn was only minutes away.
“So. Another Grail Quester bites the bullet. Reckon there’s a connection?”
“I don’t know,” said Pretty Amazonia. “Those people are socially retarded.”
Jack held up his hand. “What is this Grail Quest stuff?”
PA sighed. “You know medieval re-enactment festivals?”
“Sure. Heard of them, anyway.”
“Same thing — on a twee idI level.”
The next evening, when Jack went out for a stroll, a newsboy was standing on the corner, a Grit satchel over his shoulder, holding aloft a paper while he shouted.
“Extra! Extra! ‘Nother Cape found dead! Suicide verdict questioned!” As people bustled past, the kid’s eyes found the Equalizer’s and he rushed over. “Want one, mister?”
“How much?”
“Five cents.”
Jack dropped a coin in his hand and stood beneath a streetlamp to read. The Marat picture took up a fair chunk of page one of the Patriot.
They’d nailed it.
#119
“Grab yer mask, kiddo. The Sandman’s amiss, an’ we’re up,” the Brick grouched from the open door to the bedroom, before vanishing with surprising speed.