“Ouch,” he mumbled between kisses.
He explored her chin, her cheeks, and then her throat, became fascinated with the nape of her neck and rained more kisses there, while his hands located the girl’s buttocks and gently squeezed.
Louise arched her back, peered heavenward, and let out a great sigh.
“Oh, Lee,” she moaned.
Both people froze.
Straight after, Jack’s hands fell away, and then he backed up on the bed, staring at the girl’s upturned face. Louise, for her part, still looked at the ceiling; still breathed in jerky, ragged fashion — but she was gnawing at her lower lip as a tear rolled down the closest cheek.
“Oh, God,” the girl finally squeezed out.
“Louise.”
Jack tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t, couldn’t, look at the man in front of her.
“I’m so sorry.”
Blinking several times, unsure of what to say or do, Jack rubbed his right index finger and studied the foreign joints, the strangely well-manicured nail. “That was his name? Lee? — Your husband’s name?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Finally, Louise lowered her face and peered his way. “Please forgive me, Jack. Please. I’m damaged goods. You shouldn’t be with me.”
“It’s okay.”
He braved himself, reached over, put arms around her, drew her closer. “Louise, really — it’s okay.” Told the truth. “In all honesty, I think I’m way more damaged than you. This evens things out a morsel.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I believe you. You’re just saying that.”
“Believe me.”
“God, I am sorry.”
“Forget it.” He gently kissed her nose, and she looked at him.
“You know what? You’re amazing.”
“I wish I could say ‘of course’. Far from it.”
“It’s true anyway. Thank you.” Louise broke into a grateful smile, disarmed and relieved, if still nervous. “Heavens, I thought — well, I thought you’d hate me.”
“Never, ever possible.”
The two of them ended up spending the rest of that night lying side-by-side on the bed covers, occasionally nestling up to the other, but mostly taking turns reading aloud passages from different books selected at random.
That was how they fell asleep, with an opened copy of The Count of Monte Cristo on Jack’s stomach and Louise’s face pressed against his, Tarpé Mills’s against hers.
#126
Jack had to be up early and back to Timely Tower by eight a.m., since their fabulous ringleader had scheduled a red-eye get together.
He wasn’t certain why one should feel either fatigue or wired on caffeine in a make-believe place like Heropa, but even after three espressos the fatigue was winning and he struggled to keep it together.
Flashbacks peppered his more lucid moments — of waking up on Louise’s pillow and gazing into her green eyes. Of her looking back with an earnest, open expression. Of her saying, in a soft voice, scared, “I love you.”
Jack and the Brick were the only two at their round table when eight segued by. According to his cinder-block teammate, Pretty Amazonia was ill.
“Not fair,” Jack decided.
“Tell me ’bout it.”
“Do people actually get sick here?” Jack asked.
“Blandos do — they run the full gamut o’ illnesses we have in the outside world, somethin’ t’do with makin’ it more realistic, poor sods. But Capes? Nah. We have our own probs back home, health or otherwise. PA was out late. Figure she’s feignin’ illness, an’ catchin’ up on beauty sleep.”
“And she needs it.”
The Brick chuckled as he looked at his rocky left wrist, like there was a timepiece there, when in fact a watchband would never circumnavigate its width. “Anyways, where’s the Great White Dope? The loser called this meetin’.”
“I heard that.”
The Great White Hope, bedecked as ever in stainless white robes, did his smooth-descending-the-stairs trick from the balcony.
“Nice to know yer hearin’, at least, is intact.”
“It’s nice to know you care.”
The Equalizer had reached the bottom-most step, but remained in that spot as his gaze swept over Jack, like he was inconsequential, and affixed itself on the hulking man to his right.
“By the way, perhaps you might be courteous enough to help me understand — why stick with a name like the Brick, when you could better resort to the Dick?”
“Oh, gee, the bozo has a wily sense o’ humour — he even rhymes. Hurrah.”
Stifling a yawn, Jack lifted his fourth coffee and decided to hose down some of the tension.
“What’s up, GWH?”
The remark earned him that piercing grey stare, but this at least meant he amounted to more than a hill of coffee beans.
“Please, Southern Cross, use my full name. Don’t you realize how much the acronym ‘GWH’ irritates me?”
“Actually, sorry, I didn’t. Everyone else uses it.”
Very discreetly, the Brick winked at him. At least, Jack thought he winked — it was difficult to tell amidst the masonry.
“Yeah, it irks our boss. Makes ‘im sound like some kind o’ dangerous, illegal drug. GWH-slash-GHB — geddit?”
Jack didn’t get it at all, but shammed. “Sure.”
For his part, the Great White Hope plumbed unhappy. “Dear God. Do I really need to listen to this nonsense first thing in the morning?”
“Course not, bub. Y’could kick us out on our arses right about now — only, I seems to remember we’re here by yer explicit invitation.”
“Ahh. That.”
“Ahh, that,” the Brick mimicked.
Their all-white host finally drifted across the marble foyer, and then lingered to stand over the other two Equalizers. In close proximity, Jack noted the GWH had some weird, eerie personality clout, leading the Brick to renounce his breezy charms and slouch instead to examine his feet. His partner wondered if he was searching for remnants of Little Nobody or the Tick between his toes. Biting the bullet, Jack peered up at their leader.
The GWH held him with those cold grey peepers — no, Jack changed his mind, mark them down as refrigerated.
“What’s the scam?” he hedged, equally ruffled.
In response, the GWH barely moved. “Scam?”
“The rort — you know, what’s up?”
“What makes you think anything is up, Southern Cross?”
“So, you invited us down bright and early for drinks and polite conversation?”
The Brick raised his head. “That sounds half my cuppa. Drinks — without the yabberin’.”
“You two fools are incorrigible. No wonder you get along well.”
The Great White Hope sighed, loud and long. It appeared the whole of Heropa disappointed him.
“I had hoped you would learn the proper ropes, Southern Cross, our true calling — not the self-indulgent gutter paths trod by your ‘mate’ here.”
“Dunno, ol’ boy. I’d call self-indulgent the amount o’ time you spend on yer hair every mornin’.” The Brick guffawed his rumbling, heavy bass laugh. “Oh, yeah — an’ what about the pristine wardrobe, huh? How much dosh an’ effort do you waste there?”
The Great White Hope stared at the ceiling. He apparently had nothing to say.
“So, anyways, where’s this hooch you promised?”
“What hooch?”
“The hard stuff, el firewater, capiche?”
Jack laughed. “Gotta admit, I’m pretty thirsty myself.”
The GWH did his menacing-stare trick as he again focused on Jack. “Well, you can’t drink.”
The announcement caused him to shrug. “I know we can’t — I’m only kidding round. No Capes can drink alcohol here, I remember.”
“No,” the Great White Hope said in a smooth, honeyed tone bordering on contem
ptuous, while he slipped silently across the floor, “I’m not referring to the general alcohol restrictions in Heropa. You, my boy, would not be allowed to imbibe anywhere.”
This made Jack’s heart skip around a bit — he wasn’t sure if it sped up or slowed down.
“Whaddaya mean by that crack?” the Brick demanded on his behalf.
“Well, correct me if I’m wrong, you blockhead, but the meaning is clear enough,” continued the GWH. “Southern Cross is too young to drink. Back in the real world, he’s only fifteen. Young enough to be your son, my cobblestoned friend.”
Jack glared at his leader. “How the fuck do you—” Like a shot, his hand covered his mouth, far too late. The profanity had slipped out before thinking.
Yet nothing happened.
He didn’t eject or unboot or whatever the hell they called it. There was no slap in the face back to Melbourne. His eyes darted over to the Brick’s, who appeared equally astonished.
“What?” Jack whispered.
“Fuck?” the Brick said in a soft, testy tone. Then he smiled in broad fashion. “Fuck!” he threw to the ceiling, his head tossed back. “Shit, bloody, anal…CUNT!”
Nothing.
The three men stood in a circle beside the table, in the middle of their headquarters in puritanical Heropa, and it now looked like they could swear like sailors on shore leave.
“You sly dog,” the Brick suddenly decided, appraising the GWH anew. “You set up some kind o’ force field round this room, so’s we can get away with murder while in here — about time we put our powers to good use. You sly bugger.”
The Great White Hope held up his right hand. “Not me. But, as you can see, the rules have changed. Things are in flux.”
“Yeah? That so…? Luv’ly. Or should I say ‘shit a brick’? You know how long I’ve been meanin’ to throw down that quip?”
Stomping over to a trunk covered with a beautiful throw-sheet, the Brick yanked off the material. There was a padlock beneath, instantly broken to smithereens, and then the man delved inside the box for a bit.
Finally, he stood up straight — with a silver cocktail shaker in one mitt and several unopened bottles in the other.
“Well, if the ol’ restraints are passé, I’m fer havin’ a drink. Wanna join me?”
“I told you. This boy is a minor.”
The Brick stopped to study the Great White Hope. “So, who cares? How old’re you again, kid?”
“Fifteen,” Jack admitted, embarrassed and reasonably humiliated. It felt like someone had wrenched away his gut. What if the GWH somehow got word to Louise? What if she found out?
Panic set off alarm bells somewhere in his belfry, and in the middle of them darted the flashback again, his eyes close to hers, the slight hint of peppermint and citrus. “You mean the world to me,” he’d whispered, just as frightened, and he meant it.
The Brick’s next sentence switched off the clamour.
“Then you’re old enough.”
Cutting back to the here and now, Jack glanced over at his partner, was silently grateful.
“Kid’s an adult, in my book,” the man went on. “Been in action already, kicked arse, got kicked himself in the bum. Been on the receiving end o’ some serious shit. Fuck it.” He chuckled —“Lordy, I do like the new world!” — and then thumbed the patio outside. “You comin’, bright eyes? We have a party t’get started.”
Beaming, Jack nodded. “For sure, Mister B. Ta.”
“Then go grab the ice.”
Somewhat deflated, their lionhearted leader trudged in the opposite direction, toward the stairs. “Inconceivable,” he hissed to no one in particular.
They could even see his legs move.
#127
Jack was less recuperating, more reeling, from his first ever drunken binge when they got the scoop.
“SC — wake up. Come on. Wakey-wakey.”
Pretty Amazonia shook him roughly, and went so far as to throw in a couple of jarring slaps. He came to half-on, half-off a lounge chair, outside on the balcony.
The sun was low in a sky tainted pink. The Brick lay spread-eagled on the tiling at Jack’s feet, an empty martini glass stuck in his fist. He was snoring like an outdoor generator.
“I don’t feel well,” Jack grumbled, about to close his eyes again.
“Not my problem. Pull yourself together — we have business.” After slapping him awake one more time, the woman studied an array of scattered bottles. “That’s alcohol?”
“We can drink!” roared the Brick, suddenly awake, as he reared up into a sitting position and attempted to drain emptiness from his glass. “Way o’ the new world — halle-friggin’-lujah!”
The notion of any similar celebration far from his mind, Jack felt ill. “I’m never drinking again,” the disoriented Equalizer said to nobody.
It seemed impossible to recollect everything he and the Brick had yacked about while toasting one another into oblivion. The Brick reciting cocktail recipes was one tangent — a Luis Buñuel surrealist martini being the standout — and, later on, the big man offered fatherly advice over his shaker, something about women being an enigma. Had Jack mentioned Louise? He couldn’t remember — and prayed he kept his trap shut.
Pretty Amazonia squatted down beside her rock-ribbed colleague and carefully prised away his glass.
“Hon, much as I don’t want to rain on your party — I’m going to rain on your party. We got a call from the mayor. They found the Great White Hope.”
“Yeah? Where was the Great Gazoo off sulking this time?”
PA deliberated a moment.
“Remember the statue they dedicated to the Big O yesterday? Ten-metre granite thing with his arms outstretched, over on the Boardwalk?”
“Don’t ‘member nothin’ right now, babe.”
“God, I’m there with you,” Jack muttered. “Never drinking again.”
“Well, both of you must remember how put-out the GWH was — come on, use those pickled brains. Him going on about being the new leader of the Equalizers, yet having no monument to call his own.”
“Oh, yeah. That I do recall.” The Brick smiled as he reached for the cocktail shaker, which was lying abandoned under Jack’s chair.
The woman stopped him. “Not now,” she said. “Later.”
“Why?” The Brick sounded like an annoyed drunk.
“Good reason. The GWH is dead.”
Both men looked at her, stunned, but the Brick still got in his usual word first.
“What?”
“He’s dead.”
“Yeah — you said.”
“So I did.”
“How?”
Clearing her throat, PA pressed lips together and focused above her large partner’s skull. Then she spoke. “Someone strung him up from the arms of that statue — the Big O’s — and crucified him there, his eyes gouged out.”
“Jesus,” Jack exhaled, hangover misplaced.
“I’m thinking that’s precisely what the perps wanted to replicate, except for the bonus extra with the eyes.”
“See no evil?” he suggested.
“And there was a message.”
The Brick rubbed his skull, likely trying to rejig his brain. “What message?”
“Messily painted on the plinth beneath the GWH, spiralling round the column.”
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense — what’d it say, dollface?”
“I have no idea.”
“You fergot yer glasses?”
“No, I have no idea what it said. I can’t begin to pronounce the paintjob, but I can spell it for you: H-O-U-Y-H-N-H-N-M-S.”
“What is that? Welsh?”
“God knows, but we’re dealing with creative types—”
“Horses fer courses,” the Brick muttered, looking bewildered.
“—and now they’ve had their way with the GWH,” PA steam-rolled on, ignoring him, “we’re likely next up on the agenda.”
“Poor bloody bastard. All that hand
iwork is goin’ t’do serious damage to his unsullied image.” He grabbed back the cocktail shaker and partially filled a glass with the last drops of a Vesper. “When’d they find him?”
“Just before five o’clock.”
“What time’s it now?”
“Six. The last time you saw him?”
“We had a meeting at eight this morning, the one you slept through, an’ he stomped out about eight-thirty.”
“And you passed out when?”
“The kid lasted only a couple’a hours. Me? Sheesh, now I’m strugglin’. Reckon, last time I checked, it was three in the arvo. Guess I lost it after.”
“So he was butchered some time between eight-thirty and five. Daylight hours, in a very public space, while you boys were having your soirée.”
“Hey, fair crack o’ the whip, dollface — also while you was indulgin’ in mootably deserved forty winks.”
The woman looked away. “Mmm.”
“Makin’ all’a us appear incompetent, an’ the GWH the beneficiary o’ that lapse.” The Brick finished his drink in an instant. “Okay, well. Blame games aside — let’s get them facts. Any witnesses?”
“The mayor says none.”
“Is that possible?” Jack wondered.
“Dubious, if you ask me.”
“I was asking.”
Lobbing his glass over the railing, the Brick stood up. “Pity the statue can’t blab.”
PA almost smiled. “If it did, we could replace you. So. What on earth are we going to do? For all his faults, the GWH did lead us.”
“You think so?”
“I’m trying hard to be generous, since he’s dead. Anyway, we need a new leader.”
“No way I wanna be boss. You?”
“Not my style.”
Jack panicked. “Don’t dare look at me.”
“Kid — we’re not.”
Seemingly thoughtful, Pretty Amazonia stared out over the city as the sun set. “Maybe we should play it democratic for a while?”
#128
After they inspected, and then identified, the mutilated corpse on a slab at City Hall’s morgue, Jack cut loose from his cohorts under some pathetic pretext. He got changed in a public toilet upstairs and met Louise outside the Warbucks bank.