In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition

  I frowned. “Same thing on the other side? Will Kid Coyote and Vixen scoring points hurt the income of other heroes?”

  “The folks in their own class, certainly, and a few others. Once you’re a heavyweight, you have sponsors, so you’re a little insulated.” She glanced up for a second. “This might actually pull some sponsors down to Vicki and the others, which would not be a bad thing.”

  “But we need to get back to your core point, Selene: why the ceremony? Panda could have done this anywhere. It embarrassed Redhawk and the Hall. It embarrassed those heroes who, it turns out, weren’t there. Who gains by that?”

  “I don’t know.” Selene looked me straight in the eye. “But is that a question you want to pursue?”

  I slumped back against the pillows. “There once was a time when you wouldn’t have asked that question. You would have known the answer.”

  “Perhaps I do.” She nodded slowly. “Let me ask another question. Are you going to pursue that answer?”

  I hesitated, then closed my eyes and shook my head. “No. I got the message Grant was sending me, that you wanted me to see. Like I said before, I’m retired. I promise.”

  “Good.”

  I opened my eyes and she was smiling happily. “Is it?”

  “Absolutely.” She came over, leaned down, and kissed my brow. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow I’ve got a present for you. A whole new life.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I did manage to sleep. The ass-end of an adrenaline rush can make that tough, but pain is just exhausting. Sleep came in fits and starts–like a whale coming up to breathe, I’d surface, roll over so I was less sore, and drop back off.

  I had a couple of dreams, but they were just dreams. Images that made no particular sense. I could have spun a story around them, but it really wasn’t necessary. I’d made my peace with retirement, and nightmares reinforcing that decision were just overkill.

  I got up around dawn, stretched and did some basic exercise. I wanted to keep my muscles warm and limber. I also wanted to establish a regime so I’d have some personal discipline. It wasn’t hard to imagine myself becoming addicted to the Murdoch, getting fat and molding a trench in some couch. I might not be fighting criminals, but I could fight myself on that score.

  Victoria appeared at breakfast half asleep. The other half was sullen. She glared and grunted in my direction, but really didn’t seem that angry with me. She grabbed juice and a bagel before darting out the door.

  She missed her mother by a gnat’s whisker. I figured that was no coincidence. Selene had downloaded some news into her uTiliPod and studied it in silence while her domestic, Oksana, brought her a soft-boiled egg, two triangles of toast and a big mug of black tea strong enough to etch steel. Selene looked beautiful and well rested, despite having had no more sleep than I did. She seemed happy, too, but I didn’t want to interrupt her morning ritual and discover I was wrong.

  Looking up, she smiled at me and turned the uTiliPod off. “Are you ready for your new life?”

  “I guess.” I laughed at myself. “I’m really looking forward to it, in fact.”

  “Wait until you hear the offer.”

  “Compared to life so far in Capcity, scraping gum off sidewalks would be a step up.” I stood and straightened my trousers. “Why are you doing this?”

  She fixed me with a curious stare. “You’re the one who came to me looking for a friend, remember? I know how to be a friend. So, for old time’s sake.”

  “Okay.” My guts flip-flopped a little, but settled fast. Friend was good.

  We took the elevator down to the basement and got into her limo. She put the partition up and the driver took us out into the world. The limo’s soundproofing and darkened windows insulated us from the cacophony of life outside.

  “I run a very successful art business. The gallery is only part of it. I do authentication, arrange for restoration and do consulting on preservation, conservation and security. I have satellite offices in Paris, Moscow and Cairo. I am very well respected in the field. I’m in high demand.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “And you know I know art.”

  She smiled at me, and I mirrored that smile. I’d known of Scarlet Fox well before we’d ever met. She’d been a legendary art thief who had crossed paths with Nighthaunt on numerous occasions. Tabloids even suggested they were an item for a while. Sensual, trim and tall, with long auburn tresses and even longer legs, she’d always topped lists of the sexiest villains. Just like every other young man of that time, I’d lusted after her, but she operated at a level way above mine. I never expected to meet her.

  I’d been tracking the exploits of a gang of art thieves calling themselves The Doodlebugs. They’d hit a variety of public and private museums and were working their way east. They used to leave glyphs on the gallery walls which were a code pointing at their next caper. In between doing tax returns, I’d worked on the code and had cracked it. So when the Capital City Museum of Art brought an impressionist exhibit in, I staked it out and waited for the Doodlebugs.

  My patience had been rewarded. A shadowy figure moved through the night and entered the museum through a skylight. I followed, figuring she’d open the museum for the rest of the gang. I actually thought I was being pretty quiet, but she turned, flicked her whip out, and bound my ankles together. I went down with a crash and Scarlet Fox loomed over me, right there in the main gallery.

  I seem to recall she made an offhand remark about ‘a Nighthaunt wannabe,’ which stung a lot, but before we could move to the part of the evening where I’d escape, we’d duel and one of us would be put out of the fight, the lights came on. The Doodlebugs had arrived and really weren’t in a mood to have someone else poaching their loot.

  The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  Scarlet Fox was a great friend. The Doodlebugs’ only advantage was in numbers, but that just meant we had more targets. Red and I were in sync immediately, taking out the toughest together, and working down. As battles go, it was short, sharp and nasty.

  Toward the end, one of the Doodlebugs slid a small explosive device across the floor toward Scarlet Fox. It looked like a hockey puck, except that it was glowing gold around a blinking red core. She leaped away from it, but it exploded while she was in the air. It knocked her across the room, but I managed to catch her with an arm around the waist and spin. I set her down as if we were stars in the Metropolitan Ballet.

  We finished the Doodlebugs off, then faced each other, ready to conclude our business. We circled, wary, curious, intrigued. I was scared. She was a living legend. And she was hotter than I had ever imagined.

  Then she stopped. “It would be rather unseemly to end with hostilities what has been an otherwise diverting evening, don’t you think?”

  “Sure, but I can’t let you walk out of here with any of the paintings.”

  She smiled. “You don’t have to. A client inquired about the Manet. He wanted to know if it or the one in his collection was a forgery.”

  “And?”

  “This one is.” Her smile broadened. “As is the one he owns.”

  I stared at her. “Um, couldn’t you just have bought a ticket to the exhibit and learned what you needed to know?”

  “And what would be the fun in that?” She winked. “Wrap up your prizes and deliver them to the police. Perhaps I’ll see you again some time.”

  And then she went out the way she’d come in. I’d hoped we’d meet again. In fact, I watched the museum to guarantee it. But she didn’t come back. Months later we met, and under very different circumstances.

  I nodded as the limo stopped for a light. “You know art, no doubt about it.”

  “One of the things you may not realize is that there is a sub-genre of art that has an avid following. It began late last century with serial killer art. The works of John Wayne Gacy sold for ridiculous sums despite being little better than paint-by-number pictures. Some of Hitler’s work sold as well, and many death row inmates w
ere encouraged to indulge their artistic sides by ghoulishly greedy art brokers.

  “Today’s equivalent is super-art.” She picked an invisible piece of lint from the hem of her black, cashmere skirt. “I’ve done better with hero art than villains, but that market segment is growing. It’s cyclical. While I deal with super-art, it’s privately and not on display in the gallery. Again, much of it is of dubious quality and only valued for the signature.”

  She held a hand up. “We’re here.”

  The limo descended a ramp and brought us to an elevator. Selene and I got in and she handed me a key on a chain. “You’ll need this. Third floor.”

  The elevator rose quietly and opened into a stock room filled with empty shelves. She led me through it and out to the front of the shop. Light and dark patches on the walls suggested lots of pictures had hung there for a long time, but it had been cleared to the bare walls. Save for some track lighting, nothing remained.

  I looked at her. “You can’t want me to run a gallery. I know nothing about art.”

  “That has not escaped me.” She opened her arms and turned about. “The same people who collect super-art also collect hero memorabilia. I’ve stayed away from the trade because I don’t know how to authenticate the stuff, nor can I repair or restore it. Milos Castigan, on the other hand, comes highly recommended in that regard. He once planned to open a clock repair shop near here. He can still do some of that if he wants. This is his shop.”

  “What are you saying?”

  She smiled. “This is your new life. You’ve got a budget of thirty grand for fixtures and remodeling. I’ve got fifty grand in stock in storage and you have another fifty for purchasing new things. Rule of thumb, you sell for a minimum of twice of what you buy for.”

  I shook my head. “But I don’t know anything about memorabilia.”

  “You can learn. Big advantage: the hottest market segment is from your time. The stuff’s rare and there are lots of knock-offs.”

  I half-closed my eyes and surveyed the gallery. Proper fixtures, good lightning, enough space to try some things out. And the room in the back to tinker. I looked at her, my eyes fully open. “What’s in this for you?”

  “’Thank you,’ sounds nicer.”

  “Thank you.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “How can I repay you?”

  “Haven’t you been listening? You make a profit.” She laughed politely. “Next stop is my lawyer. We’re partners, sixty/forty until the initial investment is paid back, fifty-one/forty-nine after that.”

  “You don’t have to do this. I already told Victoria I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Look, it’s important to me that my daughter gets to know you. I don’t know if she will ever like you or will hate you forever, but either one of those is better than her not knowing. Frankly, it’s done a lot to screw up the few relationships she’s had, since no guy can live up to the hero she made you out to be, and every guy is a heartbeat from running off like you did.”

  “Yeah, I see that. And I’ll do what I can to clear that up.” I watched her carefully. “What’s the other part?”

  She pressed her lips together tightly for a moment, then spoke in a low voice. “Twenty years ago things changed radically for both of us. I’ve made peace with my past because I had Vicki to anchor me. You never had an anchor. You said Milos Castigan was going to be that anchor. I’ve been where you are now, so I know you need an anchor. Friends do things like this for friends.”

  I nodded solemnly. “Thank you. Is making a profit the only ground rule?”

  “Nope. I need you to be good.”

  I smiled. “Don’t do anything you wouldn’t do?”

  Selene shook her head. “Less.”

  “Less?”

  “Yeah. You turn the other cheek. If they hit that one, you offer all your other cheeks. You can’t throw the first punch. You can’t intervene in robberies.”

  “But…”

  “No, dammit. In your head and heart you know this isn’t a game you can play.” She sighed. “It’s a lesson I learned. Do you know how long it took me to stop carrying one of my Fox-fangs with me?”

  “I bet you still do.”

  She blushed, then frowned the color back out of her face. “Sure, in the bottom of my purse. It’s good for opening packages. But I used to have them in trios, forearm sheathes and garters. So many times I saw things and I wanted to act, but I didn’t. I had a little girl at home counting on me to return.”

  My head came up. “So you’re telling me that if you saw a woman being raped…”

  “No, you’re not going to go there, because it’s not about a helpless girl. It’s about a three hundred-fifty pound man flailing and drowning, and you’re a ninety-eight pound swimmer watching him go under. You can’t save him. He’ll take you down if you try. You have to sit back and wait for the lifeguard. If you don’t, you’ll die.”

  That was one of those times when I wanted to argue, but I had nothing. We both knew it. My time to be a hero had passed. Somehow I’d survived it. It was time to be grateful and move on to the next phase of life.

  I nodded. “You’re right.”

  “I’m always right. Remember that.” She tossed me another key. “There’s an apartment one floor up. It’s yours. No furnishing, though the fridge is stocked. I’ll have your clothes sent over.”

  The key felt cold in my hand. “Thanks.”

  Selene closed and caressed my cheek. “I know this will be a big transition. You’ve had a lot coming down on you in the last three weeks. Some welcome home, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But, Milos, remember that you do have a home.”

  I put a smile on my face. “Thanks, boss.”

  “Not boss, partner.” She kissed my cheek, then walked away. “I’m off to the lawyer. Call me if you need anything. You’re opening in a month.”

  I told myself that shock was why I let her walk out of there. Maybe it was, in part, but there was more. I felt it lurking in my chest like congealed shadow, but it didn’t explode until the elevator returned and I rode it up to the apartment.

  I stepped into darkness broken only by the jaundiced flash of an ad on the Murdoch. Desolation. Even the promise of food in the refrigerator couldn’t dispel the sense of death that pervaded the apartment. Musty and dusty, with water-stained wall paper that been installed about the time Puma returned from the war, it felt as if the apartment had been in limbo forever.

  Just like my life.

  Bam, twenty years gone, and now what waited for me? Death? Puma’s ruined chest flashed through my mind. He’d not quailed nor hesitated. He’d been there, defending people.

  Defending me.

  And that’s when the darkness crashed in.

  Fear. I had hesitated. I had despaired. I’d been trapped and helpless. I’d waited to die. I’d given up and that meant I really was dead. The fear of dying had taken away the last vestige of who I’d been.

  No, not who I’d been, who I imagined I was again.

  I sank to my knees and began weeping. Though I didn’t want to be alone, I was glad Selene wasn’t there.

  These tears, they were for me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There are two ways of dealing with the sorts of feelings I had welling up inside. One is to find a good therapist, engage in a series of dialogues and undergo rigorous self-examination. Through honest self-assessment I could uncover trigger-points that were the wellspring of adversity. I could deal with those problems, confront people, resolve my issues with them and, after a couple years, emerge whole.

  Or I could ignore the feelings entirely and just throw myself into my work.

  I went with option B.

  In the old days “work” meant finding a hapless boob or three committing some crime–I always made sure it was at least a felony except for that one graffiti artist. I’d round them up and beat the crap out of them–the
cathartic effect of a good beating can’t be underestimated. I might have had problems, but I was still king of part of the jungle, and that made my day much better.

  My promise to Selene cut off that avenue of self-help. I could still throw myself into my work however, and did. This was my new life, and Milos Castigan had a lot to learn about everything from the collectors’ market to basic retailing. It called for tons of analysis, which is great because while the thinking side of the brain is roaring along, emotions get buried deep.

  I approached the collecting market as if it were a racket. There were other vectors I could have taken, sure, but I was going with my strength. If all you have is a hammer, every problem conveniently looks like a nail. Besides, collecting was a racket. Lots of money got made on items with dubious provenance, and the possibility of fraud loomed large.

  The market operated on three levels: street speculators, enthusiasts and connoisseurs. Street speculators were the hustlers and formed an interesting network. One guy had a compact car and a police scanner. He’d show up at the fight’s location, snap pictures, then print them out on the computer rig in his trunk. He’d get a few pictures signed, scrounge around for any scrap that was identifiable, photograph it in situ, bag it, tag it and then offer it online or move it to a dealer.

  A lot of stuff showed up in pawn shops–most of it being fake, but I found and bought several small pieces that I figured were authentic. That included one of the shock batons that Kid Coyote used and two of the four-pointed Spookstars that Nighthaunt used to toss around.

  The online trade was brisk, but mostly low grade stuff. You’d see a flood of it come in from overseas if a hero ever made an appearance there. Prices remained low, but fluctuated wildly. I wondered why until I figured out that some automatic bidding programs had their bidding structure tied to a hero’s current rating. A hero makes a splash, the speculators snag the stuff then immediately flip it. That latter strategy was especially true with collections that were then cherry-picked for a valuable item that would pay for the whole lot.