The Brick yawned.
“Big on their gals, eh? Yeah, yeah, I know the history.”
“SC doesn’t. And there is a point to this little rehash — look at the picture again, both of you. Three of the four founders of the Equalizers are dead.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You reckon there might be a link?” Jack asked.
He was staring at the tumbler of black fizziness before him, in the midst of which rolled a scoop of white.
“I’m not sure what I think,” PA confessed.
“Can’t I take off my mask for a couple of minutes?”
“No. Roll it up if you need to appease your stupid sweet-tooth.”
“Hardly the same — that’s just mean.”
“Nah,” the Brick was saying, still focused on the picture. “Milkcrate Man? No way.” He leaned on the table and of course it tilted, very nearly flipped, spilling some of his precious beer. “Oops — tarnation!” he muttered.
Luckily, PA hadn’t noticed the misdemeanour. “Maybe. Verdict’s in the air. And what happened to Big Game Hunter and Major Patriot?”
The woman sat back on the bench seat to take in both her partners.
“Remember — the Major was leader of the Crime Crusaders Crew, yet he wasn’t a shoo-in for the Equalizers.”
“Prob’ly both o’ ’em got bored an’ left,” the Brick suggested.
“Maybe.”
“Wish I scored a dime fer all the maybes we’re liberally sprinklin’ about. Y’know, I heard tell that the Big O an’ Major Patriot were two o’ the original programmers, the designers of Heropa. Dunno if it’s true, tho’.”
Pretty Amazonia finished her beer and scoffed.
“Let’s steer clear of hearsay. We need some kind of lead here, and I’m saying that Milkcrate and Patriot are two people we should check into — for their safety, if not some connection to the murders.”
“Why? As I says, they prob’ly done a runner.”
“Even so.”
“So, are we’s on the prowl fer superheroes or demented-lookin’ children like these in the pictures?”
“Laugh it up, big boy.”
Straight after, Pretty Amazonia frowned and, by turns, grimaced, looked horrified, and finally pushed angry.
“What is it, dollface?” the Brick asked, alarmed.
“Listen — they’re playing Olivia Newton-John. Hear that? ‘Xanadu’. Dear God, no. Turn it off!” she shouted at the waitress.
Repressing a grin, Jack looked again, long and hard, at the smiling façade of Bullet Gal in the Crime Crusaders pic.
“Why’d she do that?” he finally asked.
Surprisingly, PA intuited his meaning.
“You’re asking why Bullet Gal changed name and costume?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Nipper has a point. No one ever told me — what’s the hearsay on that?”
The woman fidgeted on her seat. “I haven’t the time for this.”
“What’s your hurry?” Jack asked.
“She’s late fer her meeting with the Women’s Canasta an’ Mah Jong Society,” laughed the Brick.
With no further word the woman vanished, leaving the two others to foot the bill.
“Guess she don’t like our ol’ Olivia,” the Brick decided while he and Jack divvied up their cash. “PA was right — there are still things ’bout her I dunno.”
#131
That evening Jack found Pretty Amazonia ensconced in the lofty hangar above Equalizers HQ.
Lying on her front on the concrete, flicking through a big book of manga and listening to Giacomo Puccini’s Madama Butterfly, she twirled a metre-long coil of lavender hair round her forefinger.
Once Jack made some shoe-scuffing noises to announce his presence near the ladder, her eyes ventured up and over.
“Well, well,” the woman mused. “Look what the cat dragged in. What brings you here?”
“Me? On the prowl for a decent cheddar — I thought you were running late for your thingamajig with the Women’s Canasta and Mah Jong Society.”
“Ahh, the Brick and his zany sense of humour.” She smiled, closing her book. “I gather I owe you some money.”
“Forget it. Our shout.”
“That’s kind of you, hon, but are you sure Mister B agrees? He can be a miser and you might have to prepare yourself for another kind of shouting.”
“No worries.”
“Your funeral. I’ll pay next time, then.”
“Sure. PA, can I ask you a personal question?”
“Depends.”
“Yes or no?”
“What, am I supposed to take pot-luck and pray it’s a question I’m inclined toward?”