Fifteen minutes later, they descended into a wide boulevard on which most of the traffic had stopped and people were outside their cars, staring in one direction at a big building on a small hill. A ring of blue-clad police officers and their cars, bulbous roof lights swirling, surrounded the slope. They barely noticed the arrival of this big, white dirigible.
“Heads up.”
Pretty Amazonia seemed to be finally paying attention as she leaned over next to Jack and looked at the building.
“I see Chop Suey and Sinistro. Down there, loitering next to that — what kind of car is the Mediterranean-blue number, Brick, the one with all the curves?”
“Late 1930s. Chrysler.”
“Yeah, I think it’s a ’39 Chrysler Royal.”
The Brick and PA stared at Jack.
“Dear God,” the woman muttered, “not another motor-head. Stick to your comics, darling.”
Jack blushed. “I defer to the Brick, of course.”
“Whatever. See the two Rotters? Next to the blue Chrysler.”
“Spotted,” said the Great White Hope. “They will be acting as look-outs — no doubt there will be more of the devils in the museum proper.”
“No doubt.” PA blew out her cheeks.
As their blimp came lower still, settling just a few feet above the asphalt of the expansive thoroughfare, two figures that had been skulking behind the automobile took off and raced into the building via its grand portico. This place had a dazzling dome slapped on top and could’ve filled in as Everymuseum.
“Brick, Pretty Amazonia, you’re up,” their glorious leader announced. He swivelled a lever, opening a door behind the Brick. “Take Southern Cross with you. Time he learned the ropes. I’ll stay here to co-ordinate activities.”
“Course you will,” PA remarked. She looked Jack in the eye. “I’ll be brief, SC — Sinistro sticks to the shadows, literally becomes a shadow, gets his kicks scaring kids like you. And, for God’s sake, watch out for Chop Suey’s hands — they’re ten fingers of death. One time he nearly karate-chopped our erstwhile giant here in two.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t fun. Little bastard.” The Brick stood beside the door and bowed. “After you — an’, kiddo, be careful o’ any other Capes we meet out there. If in doubt, ask.”
“Or scream,” the woman behind Jack helpfully suggested.
With that, they jumped. PA and Jack landed without much ado, but the Brick’s descent was announced with the loud crunch of broken paving.
“Oops.”
“Elegant,” his tall teammate muttered.
“Mebbe I should go on a diet?”
The coppers were armed with an array of nasty-looking weapons, some of them new, but most World War II vintage — things like bazookas, Vickers machine guns and .45 Thompson submachine guns (“Chicago typewriters,” the Brick said). The officers kept these in check as the trio passed through the cordon and after that walked up a neatly trimmed driveway toward the museum, past pampas grass and palm trees.
“Mister B, you take the rear,” Pretty Amazonia instructed; apparently she was second in charge or had decided to appoint herself thus. “I’ll head straight inside. SC, you hold down the entrance. Anyone comes out, smack them one.”
“Even you?”
“You won’t see me.”
And she vanished — no password, just pure speed. The Brick lumbered away at a more sedate pace, leaving Jack on the doormat.
For a while, all was peace on earth.
Zero was happening on a front lawn that looked as well-manicured as Pretty Amazonia’s nails, and Jack could hear nothing special within the building. Eventually, however, a tall, wiry-looking individual in a baggy black leather costume approached from inside.
He wore a midnight cowl loosely covering the top half of his head, tied in a knot at the back. Incongruously, so far as Jack was concerned, he had on a pair of thick, square eyeglasses and the Equalizer could see mutton-chop sideburns poking out from under the mask.
“Hope you don’t mind me asking,” Jack said, as the man came closer, “but why the specs?”
“These are my night-vision goggles.”
“It’s daytime.”
“One does like to be prepared,” pontificated the man. “I am Black Owl.”
“Oh, hoot-hoot.”
The Cape’s mouth fell open, possibly in an attempt to catch passing flies. “How dare you! Don’t you realize who I am?”
“Some lame-arse clay pigeon in a recycled Zorro mask?”
“This is not a Zorro mask. I made the cowl myself.”
“So you’re a seamstress to boot.”