Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(70)
Jack was barely able to breathe.
He peered over his shoulder at the distant theatre box, wondering when it would be his turn. He blinked several times, quickly, holding back tears he knew were ready to run riot. Why didn’t the person shoot? Why drag it out in such a way? At least for von Gatz and Ching it’d been quick.
This was how he spent the next fifteen minutes — waiting to die. Only after that quarter of an hour did he cotton on that death was not here and the killer had gone.
Police entered the theatre, about a dozen of them — pistols drawn, a couple of Tommy guns ready, torches out. They found Jack huddled beneath the stage. His legs were cramping and he shook.
“You all right?”
This was a plainclothes asking, one of two who’d positioned themselves next to where Jack slouched in a fold-down theatre chair far from the mayhem. What made this particular plainclothes stand out was the black leather patch covering his left eye.
The Equalizer tried not to stare as the man handed over a paper cup of lukewarm coffee poured from a Thermos he had in his coat pocket. Aside from the patch, this was a mostly dark-haired cop with salt-and-pepper to either side, pushing fifty, ruggedly handsome and bearing a slightly lopsided nose, broken at some stage in the distant past. He had on a long, mustard-yellow trench coat and olive-green pants, and surprisingly the combination worked.
His partner, a beefier individual with a pot-belly, sandy-coloured hair and a moustache, same age as Eyepatch, hovered a few feet away in a clothing combo that failed.
“You all right, mate?” the first officer repeated.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Just shaken up.”
The Equalizer dragged off his mask. Sure, it was against regs — but after all he’d that evening experienced, Jack didn’t care about any of it. He huddled there with the cup between both hands.
“Scared shitless, actually. Thought I was a dead man.”
“Part and parcel of the territory,” the cop said, “but you never, ever appreciate it. Funny, that.”
He threw out a hand and Jack reached over to shake it.
“Lieutenant Robert Kahn. Call me Bob.”
“Jack.”
“Say, aren’t you people supposed to keep your names a secret?”
“Something along those lines.”
Kahn chuckled. “You want a splash of whiskey with that there coffee?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Behind him Kahn’s partner whistled. “He’s fine, he says.”
“Shut up, Irv. Jack, you’ll have to excuse Detective Forbush’s manners.” Kahn then pointed over to the distant stage. “So. What happened here?”
“Looks like it was a set-up,” Jack mused, bewildered still. “Meant to be a trap for me, but instead the tables got turned.”
“By you?”
“No.” He looked into the cop’s single eye. “Someone else. With a whole lot of spare ammo.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Another Cape — goes by the name of Prima Ballerina.”
Kahn scribbled in a small, dog-eared notebook. “Prima Ballerina. Where is she? I, uh, presume we’re talking up a sheila?”
“With most o’ these Bops it don’t seem to matter,” Detective Forbush said. “Fuckin’ freaks.”
“Irv — give us a moment.”
“Sure thing, boss.” The other man wandered away with hands in pockets. Kahn watched him go, and then turned back to the Equalizer.
“Guy has a serious problem with Capes,” Jack said.
“Unprofessional, yeah, but a good cop. So, tell me — what happened to this Prima Ballerina? Dame, right?”
“Yep. And I don’t know. After the shooting started, she skedaddled.”
“Smart lady.” The cop raised an eyebrow and stopped writing. “Too smart?”
“Good question.”
“Even better if you could answer.”
Kahn thought for a while, eyeballing the middle distance with his good peeper, and then he looked like he remembered something.
“By the way — we’re long overdue returning Sir Omphalos’ effects to the Equalizers. Can I pass them on to you now?”
“What, you carry them round?”
“Not much to carry, sadly.” He produced a small, sealed plastic bag and handed it over. “Just this.”
Inside was a piece of notepaper folded several times to be about two centimetres by two centimetres — the perfect size to fit in the hidden pocket of a costume like Jack’s. As he unfolded, the cop continued talking.
“The Words and Pictures Museum of Fine Sequential Art requisitioned his costume — didn’t think you people would object. They see it as a state treasure.”