Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(74)
“Try the smoking room. Down the corridor over there, third door on the left.”
Jack walked along a narrow hallway obviously intended only for staff, straight past Henry Holland — who had his jaw wired and looked miserable. The Equalizer knocked on the third door.
When no one answered, he pushed it open.
As promised, Louise was in there, alone, next to a barred window. She had one arm, her left, crossed over her chest as she dragged in on a cigarette she’d recently lit. Several drowned brothers were stashed in a small bowl of water on a table in the centre of the room.
Jack could see the girl had been crying, the telltale signs some screwed up tissues lying abandoned next to the improvised ashtray.
“Congratulations — you’re famous,” Louise said.
This was the second time he’d heard the very same words, on both occasions bearing a certain degree of venom.
“No wonder you told me nothing about yourself. I’m so stupid. So naive. I can’t believe you’re a Cape.”
Walking straight over to her, Jack held her arms and looked into those vivid greens. “What difference does it make?”
“We can’t — I don’t —” Louise broke away from him.
She stared out the window at a yellow Plymouth parked on the other side of an alley, in front of a warehouse with signage that read Carson Chemical Laboratories.
“I want you to leave.”
“What difference does it make?” Jack repeated, voice now flat.
“Just go.”
“Louise.”
“Go.”
“Listen to me—”
“I said, just go!”
By the time she would’ve finished the current cigarette, Jack was out on a busy street, pushing through an ocean of people he didn’t know.
BLACKJACK
#145
“Psst — mister!”
He’d been walking the streets of Heropa in relatively aimless fashion, dodging other pedestrians and avoiding the occasional glance of recognition — despite the fact he wasn’t in costume.
Things were unravelling so damned fast.
His career as a Cape was, according to Pretty Amazonia, pretty much on the rocks; his relationship with Louise finished before they’d had the chance to truly begin.
At some stage in this ramble, Jack bumped into Gypsie-Ann Stellar on an intersection near the offices of the Port Phillip Patriot.
She walked beside him, head down, nose almost to the ground, and her eyes occasionally glancing at her colleague as they walked.
“Wasn’t me who published the picture,” she said, like it mattered and Jack cared. “I tried to block them using the image, but I only have so much pull. I know the rules, and I realize this could seriously imperil your career.”
“So I’ve been hearing,” Jack muttered, hoping she couldn’t keep up with his pace.
He may have had longer legs, but the woman was better on high-heels than he figured.
“Look, I know Chief Justice Fargo is in consultations with my boss and Black Owl re: your case. Unfortunately, you didn’t make a good impression on either Wright or the Owl, but don’t fret — everyone knows they’re dipsticks. Joe Fargo is a fair man, maybe the fairest in this city.”
Gypsie-Ann punched his shoulder.
“Hang in there, okay? I’ve been snooping about a fair bit regarding your Sekrine lead…figured you’d need a professional hand. Nothing to report — as yet — but ’tis early days.”
“Forget about it.”
“I’m never one to forget a budding story. Anyway, must go. Good luck.”
With that, she crossed the lights against the traffic and had a bunch of old cars honking and swerving.
In a side-alley next to a bookshop with elegantly flowing writing on its signage, a man caught Jack’s attention when he stumbled past.
“Psst — mister!”
Jack looked over and saw a tall figure in a buttoned-up brown trench coat that hung down over grey wool trousers with red pinstripes. What grabbed him most was the red Stetson the man had down low over his eyes, so he couldn’t see the face clearly.
“C’mon, mister!” the stranger urged. “Step over here. Just for a sec. I won’t bite. You’re that Cape — Southern Cross, right?”
Jack came marginally closer. Hell, at least he’d have someone to whine to.
“Supposedly. Like the hat. Seen it before.”
“It’s a pre-war Bross and Clackwell. Only one of its kind in town.”
“That so?”
Jack didn’t see the blackjack until the thing had passed across his eyes — on the way, a split second later, to dance a frolicsome jig on his left temple.
#146
The Equalizer came to inside a cramped, dark place he quickly realized he’d prefer not to be. His legs were folded up, wrists tied together, suit crumpled, and his head ached.