When he pushed open the door and a bell attached above announced the arrival of a customer, Jack back-patted himself for a guess proven correct.
The store was rammed full of old furniture — secretaires, shelves, clocks and paintings — along with piles of books and magazines, and chaotically organized bric-à-brac that included a moose’s head next to a hanging kimono, boxes of 78-rpm records, a suit of tarnished armour that had a woodcutter’s axe leaned up against the right leg, several ancient willow cricket bats, and a statuette of a black bird of prey.
He browsed the bigger hardback and paperback tomes, along with the vintage magazines, always curious.
There was a worrisome mathematics book titled A Treatise on the Binomial Theorem, along with the November 1887 issue of Beeton’s Christmas Annual, containing a novel by Arthur Conan Doyle (A Study in Scarlet). One copy of Life Magazine, dated July 12th, 1963, had actor Steve McQueen and his wife Neile on a motorbike together on the front cover.
Sadly, there were no American comicbooks, only British ones from the 1930s —Tiny Tots and The Beano — along with three from the early ’70s (Cor!!) and a single copy of an Australian-published version of The Phantom, dated 1948, with a flimsy, matt-paper cover.
“Jack!” The Professor, emerging from a backroom, came over and shook the Equalizer’s hand with a lot more energy that he expected. “My apologies for the mess.”
“No need. This is a pretty nifty shop.”
“A pigsty, that’s what it is — but the customers like that. Plus I’m too busy to pay attention to the cleaning. Come into the office. Far more spacious there.”
Jack followed the Professor to a backroom in which Vera Lynn crooned ‘We’ll Meet Again’ from a teak wooden radio. He shifted some cartons and gestured for his visitor to take a seat on a divan.
The Professor sat down across from him. The man was so small he looked like a diabolically aged child.
“I’m so happy you came to visit. I have a question for you.”
“Go on,” Jack said, waving aside some of the dust in the air.
“You may find it foolish.”
“I doubt that.”
“You’re a good man.”
“Not really. Anyway, what was the question?”
“Oh, a silly one, I assure you: Who is your preferred superhero?”
Jack shot a look at the older man. “What, here?”
“No, no, of course not. In comics, my boy. I’m a Phantom aficionado myself — the hereditary crime fighter from deepest, darkest Africa. ‘Ghost Who Walks, Man Who Cannot Die’, and all that wonderful brouhaha.”
“I noticed you had a copy in the shop.”
“That issue out there is a double. I have another copy, in better nick, beneath my bed. You should see how many I store there! Alas, Louise does not approve.”
“Because of what happened to her husband? — Your son.”
“Ahh, she told you.” The Professor shook his head. “No, more because she sees it as both a childish pursuit and a fire-trap. All that paper.” The man laughed. “Anyway, I do believe it’s your turn to speak.”
“About what? Are we still discussing favourite superheroes?”
“Yes, please. May I hazard a guess?”
“Go ahead,” Jack laughed.
“I would wager you prefer your Spider-Man or Batman.”
“Nice try — both of them have their moments, but I’d go with Captain America.”
“You like the pretty stars and stripes?”
Still laughing, Jack shrugged. “Well, yeah, I do dig the costume.”
“Oh, come now, you strike me as a gentleman with better taste. Those showy red boots and gauntlets? The little wings on the head? The chainmail? Really.”
The Professor reached over and manhandled Jack’s suit jacket.
“This is far nicer. What is it — Frederick Scholte?”
“Phineas Horton. He’s our local tailor, whiz with a needle.”
“Wool-blend?”
“Mm-hmm. With cashmere.”
“I must meet this Mister Horton. I am in dire need of a new wardrobe. Anyhow, I detract. You were talking about the good Captain.”
“And his kitsch costume.”
“I recall something along those lines.”
“Well, honestly? I think the costume is beside the point.”
“Go on.”
“The Captain America they reinvented in the 1960s swayed me with his personality, not his wardrobe. A man out of place, out of his time, looking to fit in — a humble guy, once weak but now blessed with great strength, who wants to do the right thing but is coming to grips with guilt related to the death of his partner. The world has changed and he doesn’t understand it — reflecting the crisis of confidence in the U.S. at the time. Even though Cap may be old-fashioned, he’s a symbol of hope — for everybody — and maintains that despite all the evil tossed his way.”