Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(40)
“G’night.”
Once the door closed, Jack followed the girl to its partner on the left.
“Friendly neighbour,” he remarked, grateful the man was just that.
“Handsome Harry. Your tone makes you sound like the Prof — he says you can’t trust someone looking so good who lives in this neighbourhood. Not jealous, are you?” Louise laughed softly, a gentle guffaw. “Harry’s harmless. He watches out for me, and even better keeps an eye on the old man.”
Louise quietly unlocked, and then opened the door. Vague lighting flickered within, making the girl stop to sniff.
“I smell fire.”
“Nonsense, my dear — hardly the smell of a furnace, but the aroma of Vita-Rays! Welcome home.”
The door swung completely open, allowing Jack to feast lowered eyes on an elderly man who only reached his shoulder. Distracted as he was, he banged his forehead on a dangling lightshade. Now he understood how Pretty Amazonia perceived the world — like a clodding giant.
“Nothing’s broken, is it?” he worried aloud.
“Nothing important,” said Louise, with an affectionate hand touching Jack’s forehead.
The living room here had a bull’s head on one wall, a zebra rug over the floor, three-tiered shelving on a singular pole, a legion pallet table on wheels, two globe lamps either side of a huge rectangular mirror, and one claw-foot bathtub sofa. Behind the couch was a filigree-pattern, mod-style lattice partition.
In the centre of this flashy spread stood the tiny old gent.
Pushing seventy, the man had unkempt white hair, skin like parchment and wild silver eyebrows, skittish and all very mad scien-tistish — but he also had a capacious grin.
Less concerned about the crack on the skull than the mention of Vita-Rays — deployed in comicbooks as an integral part of the Super-Soldier Serum that created Captain America — it dawned upon Jack that the way the old man used the term made them sound like nothing more than incense. This had to be coincidence.
“Well, now. Hello there,” the elderly gent said, rubbernecking Jack’s way. “Please, come inside, and do mind your head.”
“Once bitten,” Jack agreed as he absent-mindedly loosened his necktie. “It’s sweltering in here.”
“That would be the Vita-Rays.”
“Prof, this is Jack. Jack, this wonderful gentleman is the Professor.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Please, please, call me Prof. I haven’t the faintest idea what my real name is — forgotten ages ago. Paul? Fred? José? Truman? …nothing rings a bell.”
Louise’s father-in-law shook Jack’s outstretched hand and continued to smile, but he felt some kind of searching going on in the man’s gaze.
“Jack, was it?”
“That’s right.”
“And you know Louise how? Through the bank? You’re a fellow employee.”
“Not exactly.”
“Prof!” The girl gave out an exaggerated sigh while she bolted the door, and then hung her jacket. “Leave the grilling for later. Please?”
“Yes, of course — perhaps I should parboil my questions?”
“I have a soft spot for stir-fried,” Jack said.
“Ahh, but without the parboiling the carrots may not be completely cooked when seared with the other vegetables. If the carrots are subjected to parboiling first, they will be tender along with the rest of the stir-fry. The soft spot you prefer.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“The Prof,” Louise said, as she deftly removed Jack’s coat, “is an amateur chef, among other talents.”
“Don’t let her fool you. Louise applies the term ‘talent’ so loosely.” The Professor continued to study his visitor’s face. “Definitely not a banker,” he mused, “since you have a chin. I’d say a detective, but one of those canny fellows would have avoided the lightshade.”
This discussion was becoming too personal for Jack’s liking. “You mentioned Vita-Rays,” he politely cut in.
The Prof suddenly clapped his hands —“I did!” he shouted, while Jack backed away — and, straight after, the man’s eyes slit with a blend of understanding and mischief. “A detective, after all,” he decided, and then poked his guest in the chest. “For Heaven’s sake, take a seat. Put your feet up. We’re not heathen here!”
“Better do what the Prof says, Jack,” Louise whispered in his ear. “My lovely father-in-law has a robot sofa chair over there that he made, with retractable arms and hooks — it forces people to sit down. Really uncomfortably.”