“Interestin’ deductin’,” said the Brick in noncommittal fashion.
“Thanks.”
“Nothin’ else?”
“Nah. Still working on it. And me?”
“You? Easy. Young — yep, I already had insider tradin’ on that particular nugget — but yer obviously a babe in arms lookin’ for somethin’ you’ll prob’ly never find. You seen a lot, but who hasn’t in this day and age? Still have hope round your neck, chokin’ like a garrotte.”
“Gee. Ta.”
“Hey, I am the Brick. Got a reputation t’uphold — terror, an’ all.”
“So, why’re you telling me this? Is there a point, or do you get kicks out of offending your teammates?”
“Bit’a both?”
“That’s sad.”
“Well, now.” The Brick rubbed his blocky chin. “There is another element — the game’s taken on a brand-spankin’-new dimension. What d’we really know about any o’ these people?”
“Who?”
“The Capes, kid.”
“Got’cha.”
“An’ the answer? Nothin’. Sweet FA. They’re just sham window dressin’, avatars. Question now being — who, among all of ’em, is killin’ the great Capes of Heropa?”
“What’s to say it’s a Cape doing these executions?”
“Well, fer starters — there’s no one else here. Boom-boom.”
“You sure about that?”
The Brick looked at Jack. “Why? You got other ideas?”
“Disgruntled civilian.”
“A Blando?”
“Yeah.”
The Equalizer chuckled. “Oh my, and one flauntin’ an axe t’grind!”
“Seriously. You and the other Capes insist that the regular people here — the Blandos — are part of the woodwork, that they don’t think for themselves, but how do you account for someone like Stan, downstairs at Equalizers HQ?”
“The Doormat? He’s off-colour. Diff’rent.”
“More like us.”
“No way.”
“But you’re saying there are degrees of Blandoism — some being more fluff than others.”
“Ain’t gave it much thought. Is Blandoism even a word?”
“Is now.”
“Point.”
“Brick, how many of these people have died in battles between the Capes?”
“Again, dunno.”
“You given some thought to the notion that our killer might be one of them, exacting comeuppance for years of indiscriminate killing?”
The Brick squeezed out a contralto chuckle. “Yeah, right.”
“Haven’t you noticed anything? What was used to kill the Big O? A gun. Somebody sabotaged the Aerialist’s jetpack and Double-R was electrocuted — after having his throat cut. The GWH was crucified. The weapons of choice for Sinistro and Iffy Bizness? Explosives. No special powers necessary. No costumes.”
“But this’s nit-witted, you talkin’ up some kind’a Blando conspiracy theory. What, you sayin’ there’s some kind’a vendetta goin’ on here, Dirty Harry style? — A Blando fifth column?”
“I’m not making any assumptions. Just throwing round alternatives.”
“Careful — you might poke out an eye. Geddit through yer head, junior — these are not real people. They’re inconsequential electronic blips in a computer.”
“What if one of those inconsequential blips just got angry?”
“Nah, impossible. Blandos have no will o’ their own, no identity, no surprises. We’d be wastin’ our precious time lookin’ for spooks in this lot.”
“You know what they call us? Bops. That’s not a term of endearment. It’s a slap.”
“Yeah, but words is words. Actions’re…diff’rent.”
Right then, Jack and the Brick noticed a small pair of shoes before them.
Their combined scrutiny followed up two skinny legs, past a pair of shorts and a half tucked-in shirt, to a redheaded boy’s face, maybe ten, with a dirt-smudge on one cheek and a yacht tucked under his arm.
“Beat it, kid. Yer blockin’ my view.”
“Excuse me, but you’re Mister Brick, right?”
The Equalizer’s response sounded uncharacteristically anaemic. “Er…No.”
The kid thrust out the boat and a marker.
“Don’t care what anyone says — you’re all right. Can I have your autograph, right here on the bow?”
#136
Jack went directly from the park to Louise’s apartment block.
He realized it was too early in the day for the girl to be home, but reasoned that the antique shop downstairs might be open, enabling a chat with her father-in-law.