Above the comics there was a Soviet-style image of workers raising their fists, placed in the centre of a scattered collection of postcards showcasing vamping Hollywood actress Jean Harlow.
But the main feature in this room was a wraparound desk as big as a small bus, boasting a marble surface that was clean and tidy aside from burnished silver inand out-trays, a hefty Ming vase on the side, a bust of some composer like Beethoven, and a double-lamp on a curving stand.
In the centre of the wraparound sat a middle-aged man in a leather throne that boasted enough space for three people. It was backed by a curving headrest, itself a frieze looking like a ripped copy of the Elgin Marbles.
The man had a black moustache above a taut scar of a mouth and was smoking a cigar wedged in a cigarette holder. He was on the phone. His scalp, hairless, was as polished as the desktop. Somewhat more bizarrely he had a nervous-looking squirrel monkey leashed to his shoulder with a lollipop stuck in its gob.
“Wright talking! My answer is no! I will not lend your bank any more money!”
The man slammed down the receiver, puffed on his cigar, looked up, and discovered Jack in costume. His fury vanished in an instant.
“Ahh, you must be that new fellow Southern Crossed.”
“Cross.”
“Perfect, perfect. That’s wonderful. Well, don’t just stand there! Come on in.”
Jack walked over and stood to attention before the desk.
“Relax, baby,” Wright crooned, in a patronizing tone his guest didn’t appreciate. “I like the stars — they’re sweet. Take a chair.”
So he did.
“I’m Donald Wright — among other things, the publisher of this newspaper. This here is Miami Beach.” He nodded to the twelve-inch monkey perched on his shoulder. “You look thirsty. Me too. Parched. Pointless business dealings with tardy financial types. What’s your poison?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You know, the ’60s or World War II.”
“I still don’t follow.”
“Which era do you prefer?”
“Are you talking comics?”
“I’m talking up comicbooks, baby. Don’t you know comics are the funny ones?”
“Then, I guess I’d say the ’60s.”
“You guess? Thought as much, but you don’t sound so convincing. Me? I’m partial to the period too, as you can see from my collection of curios — but the late 1930s and the decade after offers more to catch my fancy.”
“Four times more,” Jack observed.
“Indeed.”
The ringing phone interrupted Wright’s flow. He scooped up the handset with an angry flourish.
“Haven’t I told you never to interrupt me when I’m talking business?” he barked at somebody on the other end of the line. “When will you learn to know your place?” Straight after, the man hung up. “Now, where were we?”
“The ’30s and ’40s.”
“Of course, of course. This was the golden age of newspaper strip comics as much as the comicbook, the time they begot Buck Rogers, Batman, the Flash, Captain Marvel, you name the iconic hero. The Soviets and fascists were taking on the capitalist West, the cars were superb, the men’s fashions sweet and, ahhh, the noir: Chandler, Hammett, Cain.” Wright seemed, then, to remember his manners. “Can I buy you a drink, kid?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Sure about that?” The publisher absent-mindedly stroked his pet.
“I’m sure.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Alrighty. Let’s get straight down to the practical details, parched or not — nasty business, these killings.”
Jack looked over the desk, in the publisher’s remote direction. “Which ones, sir?”
“Well, the Capes, of course. Everyone is a suspect. Do you good people have any leads to pursue?”
“No concrete ones I’m aware of.”
“There’s a pity, SC-baby. Do you mind if I call you that? People gossip, you know, when there’s an information vacuum.” Wright flicked through a thick dossier in front of him. “Son, I need a friend. A reliable person on the inside, an extra-vigilant cat, keeping an eye on activities as they transpire, and all that kind of shenanigans.”
Jack stared at him. “You mean like anonymous source material — or a spy?”
“Neither. More an observer, seeing the wood for the trees, or in spite of them. Plus, I’ll loan you the axe.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Jack stood up again. “I don’t believe that’s my job.”
“Is that so?”
“So, indeed.”
“Then what, may I ask, do you believe your job to be?”