“Japanese,” the man said when he caught drift of Jack’s attention. He was drying cups using a tea towel decorated with Scottish highland tartans, and then hung it on the wall. “A prezzie.”
“I was wondering where you dragged that thing up from,” commented Pretty Amazonia, who’d sat down on a blue metal stool, one too small for her, over by the kitchen table.
“The pot, or the towel?”
“What do you think?”
“I’ll go with the pot.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Yep. So. Homicide victim number three. Head blown clear off. We now know the murders’re indiscriminate — doesn’t matter a hoot whether yer a good guy or an utter bastard.”
“This could have been an accident — maybe he blew himself up in the process of pulling the heist?”
The Brick stopped what he was doing to look at Pretty Amazonia. “A cheat an’ liar he may’ve been, but incompetent? Nah.”
“Well, at least he was still wearing his mask.”
“Some kind of lucky,” Jack muttered from his place perched on the kitchen bench. “Is that like dying with your boots on?”
The woman crossed herself, a surprising gesture. “The police never found his boots.”
“Where’s the Great White Hope?”
“Off sulking in his quarters,” the Brick said, retrieving a carton from a stainless-steel refrigerator that looked big enough to house a dairy. “Missed all the fun. Milk?”
Jack nodded. “Sure. For a leader, he spends a lot of time flying solo.”
“One o’ the reasons the Big O was our original boss. Sugar or honey?”
“I’ll go with the honey.”
“Good call. One squirt or two?”
The Brick held up a plastic container with a nozzle on the end.
“Ah, gimme two.”
“Sweet-tooth, huh? Learn somethin’ new about’cha everyday.”
“Mister B stopped trying to suss me out a long time ago,” said PA, tagging the observation with a laugh.
“Nothin’ more to know, m’dear.”
“Oh, you would be surprised.”
The Brick again looked at her, serious now, while he handed a cup to Jack. “Actually, nah — I wouldn’t be. At all.”
Innocuous as it sounded, the Brick’s comment wound the woman up. Her eyebrows lost their separate arches and became a shared straight line across her face — an integral part of a fast, angry burn.
“You think you’re not an open channel?” she sneered. “You and your teapot.”
This obscure rebuttal had its own effect.
The Brick moved quickly, fist clenched, to stand over Pretty Amazonia. Jack gave her ducats for bravado — she sat there on the stool with her chin up, a challenging look on her mug. Then again, she could afford to. With her speed she would be able to beat a retreat before the Brick started swinging.
Jack shifted his legs uncomfortably. “Nice tea.”
“Grand,” said the Brick, offering not so much as a sideways glance. Both parties inched closer to fisticuffs right there on the chequered linoleum floor — with sufficient tension brewing to serve a room full of guests after dinner.
“What kind is it?” Jack hedged.
“Mariage Frères.”
Jack peered from one angry face to the other. “Okay, guys, take it outside or try getting back to the here and now. Better yet, calm down — won’t you?”
The Brick glared his way. “You tellin’ me, sonny jim?”
Jack sipped at his tea. “Asking.”
“Right-o.”
The Brick unclenched his fist to flex the fingers. His face, however, remained a clenched gathering of pebbles. Smouldering, Pretty Amazonia pulled her lips together in an indignant pout.
Jack decided changing the subject might help, since he couldn’t see it making things worse.
“So, what’s actually going on in Heropa with these murders? And have you given any serious thought to changing the locks on this place?”
PA heaped a cranky glare on Jack. “Which part of ‘none of this is real’ do you not get? It’s all just idI shenanigans.”
“IdI? — You mean idInteract.”
“Der.”
“What rock’ve you been shelterin’ under? Pun intended,” the Brick guffawed. Obviously Jack had distracted them from pummelling one another — just so they could channel the mockery onto him. Things could get worse after all.
“Surely you know about idIocy?”
In honesty he couldn’t say he did — Jack was not altogether up on what went down in the big wide world of Melbourne, having buried himself away for two years — but a wild guess wasn’t off the table.
“We’re talking idInteract gaming with the cheat mode switched off?” He remembered the deaths of the Big O and Iffy Bizness. “Safeties inoperative. Making them very, very illegal?”
Just to be sure, Jack studied both colleagues. Acknowledgement filtered through in their faces and the truth settled in to roost. He felt brave enough to take another stab. “So Heropa is idIocy?”
“Not exactly.”
PA stood, stretched her legs and arched her back — already she seemed in a better mood. “Let me give you a lesson in the basics: IdInteract is the state-controlled stuff, government-licensed. Legit.”
“I do know this,” Jack fudged. “I’m not as stupid as you think.”
“Bear with me, SC, so there’s no confusion.”
“About me being stupid or not?”
“About anything you like.”
“All right.”
“Good boy. Now, let’s get back on track. IdI’s role, as you must know, is to entertain the masses, keep them addicted — but never kill the losers. Think of extreme sports without the bruising. Players create a whole world of advantages for themselves to make the game easier, usually via cheats — activated from within the game or created by third-party software and hardware. Things like enhanced abilities, superhuman strength—”
“Increased sexual prowess an’ a killer libido,” intercepted the Brick.
“—and so on.” Pretty Amazonia wiped away a knowing smirk.
“I get the gist,” Jack said. He hated to be lectured.
“Well, number one on the idI agenda is an automatic shut-off that stops a player from being fatally or seriously injured. We could debate the issue of trauma, since a load of officially-approved horror merchandise is ultraviolent and gore-central — but let’s leave that to the Australian Recreation Classification Board.”
“Who’re in the pocket o’ the pols, big biz and the profits made from them there horror,” the Brick added.
“Yep.”
Heading to a sink after finishing the tea, Jack rinsed his cup and noticed it had the brand name IMPERIAL DALTON stamped on the bottom, with smaller print reading Morris René Goscinny. An obligatory Equalizers hallmark hogged one side of the chalice.
“So, horror aside,” he mused, staring at the silly symbol, “idInteract basically comes down to ego-stroking shenanigans with a nanny complex — anything goes, so long as you’re safe.”
“Basically.”
“Sounds like here.”
PA proceeded to touch her toes. The manoeuvre was a striking one, given her towering height.
“Except for the nanny,” he heard the woman say as hair tumbled over her face and she was upside down, placing palms flat on the floor.
The Brick grinned. “That’s where idiotic stuff comes in.”
“Exactly.”
PA had bounced straight back up to her full seven feet.
“IdInteract games are legal, whereas idIocy is not — this is bootleg, obviously idiotic street stuff with cheat mode and all safeties switched off. I don’t condone that merchandise either — absolute madness. If you ever try it, SC, I’ll kick you. You hear me?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Better. Just saying. Anyway, platforms like Heropa sneak through somewhere in the middle. Usually idI and idIot lurks
are private affairs for a single player. Our one is networked, so we all get to roughhouse together. We’re not constrained by the boring restrictions of permissible produce — we can take risks and dice with death, but have rules and regulations to keep the anarchy of idIocy at bay.”
“Why take the risk at all?”
“Adds an edge,” said the Brick. “If Superman falls off of a skyscraper nobody cares, since the bastard’s invulnerable. But if Daredevil takes the same plunge, equal chance he survives or is dead-meat. Human condition, an’ all that.”
“Okay, fine, if this is the case — what happened to the Big O and the Aerialist? Not in Heropa, but back in the real world.”
“Haven’t seen for meself. Been here the past few months, no timeout.”
Jack glanced at Pretty Amazonia. “You too?”
“Mmm.”
“Any guesses, then?”
The Brick scraped one stone finger along his paved left temple, like he was scratching. “I’m guessin’ their brains were fried, going by what we saw of the bugger that was Little Nobody.”
“After you stepped on him?”
“Yeah, yeah, rub it in, bub.”
“So dying here kills people — pretty much — in Melbourne.”
“In all likelihood,” agreed PA. “The risk factor right there.”
“But they shouldn’t have died, since you people are supposed to have rules that stop the anarchy riding roughshod over your doormat.”
“Yeah.” The Brick frowned. “But anarchy stepped over the threshold. Somethin’s changed.”
“Then it’s unequivocal, dangerous. I didn’t sign up for self-mutilation.”
“What did you sign up for?” PA asked.
Jack looked at her. “A comicbook world in which people didn’t really die or vanish. They picked themselves up, made a quip, brushed themselves down, and moved on to the next adventure.”
“The way it used to be — so long as you were a Cape, not a Blando.” The woman put a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t understand. You missed that part of Heropa, when things were lighthearted and fun. Everything now is out of whack.”
“Could always go home, bub,” suggested the Brick, screwing up his cement face and looking like Michelangelo had taken to one of his least-loved works with a mallet.
Jack thought about the notion for a few seconds.
“Never said I was doing a runner — and even though I didn’t pop in for all the intrigue and back-biting going on, let alone impending homicides, I’m in no rush to return to my old digs.”
“Why?” PA asked.
“For one thing, there’s a mystery here to unravel.”
“Oh, hurrah.” The woman’s eyes glittered from some inner amusement she wasn’t one to share. “Why else do you think we’re sticking on here, darling? Not for the scenery.”
#105
Jack’s first full day in the supposedly exciting city of Heropa was shelled out at the requiem for a man he’d never met.
He stood with the Brick and Pretty Amazonia on the tiled rooftop of a three-storey apartment building overlooking a main thoroughfare.
The metropolis had come to a standstill.
Thousands of people mostly in black lined the streets below, a majority morose, as immaculately dressed, sombre-faced police, musicians and dignitaries in morning suits filed past on the road proper. Prancing at the head of the VIPs was a tall, moustachioed man in a tuxedo and top hat.
“Donald Wright,” Pretty Amazonia said. “The real power-broker in Heropa. Chief Justice, publisher of the Patriot, head of the Television Board of Control, Chancellor of Metro College, and a million other things. Wanker — you’d like him, SC.”
A discordant marching band of children plodded along, decon-structing ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’, followed by more professional practitioners. When the bands weren’t carousing, music played on loudspeakers — sight unseen — spitting out a blend of Gregorian chanting and despondent organ recital.
At a hiccup in the middle of the parade, a gorgeous sportscar appeared. Painted British racing green, this low-slung, well-rounded beauty was driven at a mundane pace that sullied the name and purpose of the sleek vehicle. The cop behind the wheel also stood out like a sore thumb since his starched blue uniform clashed with the shiny moss green.
“The Big O’s 1957 Jaguar D-type XK-SS,” confided the Brick, “with a Tony Nancy leather job an’ Von Dutch’s locking glovebox — identical to the one owned by Steve McQueen. Legendary stuff, only sixteen built, an’ blended road-racin’ science with art. Won three straight victories at Le Mans in 1955, ’56 and ’57. The chromed bumpers’re a nice touch, if I say so meself.”
“Blah, blah,” PA said, evidently annoyed.
“Well, sad thing is Heropa state requisitioned it. Prob’ly rot away in some museum nobody frequents. And y’know what gets my goat more? That flatfoot there can’t drive it prop’ly — the insult makin’ a man outta Mac. Lemme at the creep!”
Precisely then, a coffin appeared several metres behind the Jaguar.
It was carried slowly, conjuring up howls and much tearing of hair. A small woman ran from the crowd to throw her body at the casket; the trio could hear shrieks a hundred metres away. Cops had to drag her aside.
Next to Jack, the Brick shifted uncomfortably. “Nuts — the croc tears’re in full flow.”
“Not fair. They adored him. Don’t love us, though,” Pretty Amazonia sighed, while toying with her long hair. “Even the Reset doesn’t appear to have fixed that. I thought they’d forget and move on. Isn’t it the way things are supposed to work?”
“Prob’ly helps havin’ Gypsie-Ann an’ the Patriot remind ’em in the mornin’ paper.”
“Maybe that’s the answer.”
Jack noted six sturdy police officers carrying the casket. A flag was draped across the top of this box, but not the Equalizers banner as he expected. Instead, he made out a navy blue number with a sailing ship dead centre inside a yellow rope, two crossed swords behind that, and several golden stars around the lot.
“What’s the flag?”
“Heropa City’s.”
“Why not the Equalizers’ one?”
“Dunno. Didn’t ask us t’be pallbearers, neither,” the Brick complained.
“Or choose the music. This dirge is killing me.”
While the others continued their complaints unabated, Jack focused on the ceremony unfolding below.
He could see anguish en masse, one very public display of emotion that affected him in ways he hadn’t expected. Pretty Amazonia was right. These people did adore the Big O.
“Will you guys shut up?” he muttered.
#106
Turned out the Equalizers had to pay their rent for the penthouse aerie on the second of every month. Given how mundane banking could be, and the fact that dealing with Blandos was boring at the best of times, they rotated the chore. Jack’s recent apprenticeship meant he jumped to the top of the short queue.
“The Blandos won’t remember whether or not we settled up last month,” Pretty Amazonia told him as she handed over an ox-leather, Dinah-brand Gladstone belted with lanyards, “but it’s our duty to be honest.”
When he opened the bag Jack spied stacks of one hundred dollar notes. There had to be thousands of bucks in there.
“Want to count?” the woman inquired, having taken stock of his observation.
“No, I trust you. Why d’you trust me?”
“Well, what are you going to do with money that’s only legal tender in Heropa? Skip out downtown? By the way, you might want to be more discreet.”
“Huh?” Jack thought she meant about theft.
“The costume.”
“What about it?”
“Usually we wear civvies out there on the streets when we’re not on active duty.”
“Why? The Blandos care?”
“I wouldn’t give a toss if they chucked a wobbly, but this is one of our customs. We play by old comicbook rul
es, secret identity and all, even if it’s a given the secret doesn’t matter. Brick’s suits will be ten times too big for you, but I’m sure we can nick one of the Big O’s outfits — he won’t need them again — just till we get a tailor in to cut something specific.”
“I don’t know if I dig the idea of wearing a dead-man’s duds.”
“You’ll live.”
Jack looked at the woman’s fine head of purple hair crowning her height. “I almost hate to ask, but given the colour and length of that mane, how d’you play it straight — and how do you hide seven feet?”
She gave him a lopsided smile — it could have meant anything from jest to warning. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
#107
Jack was in a line behind several grey-looking, inconsequential types. No wonder the Equalizers called them Blandos.
He yawned and stared instead at the architecture holding up the domed ceiling dozens of metres above. Now that was impressive. Not just the masonry, but also the sense of depth. So much space would never be found in Melbourne, not with its twenty million forlorn souls squeezed into every nook and cranny.
A row of six ceiling fans up there spiralled slowly, creating a pleasant draft, but the back of his neck ached from all the craning, so Jack looked down and straight ahead to see how much longer he would be stuck in this place.
The man in front of Jack peeled away in silence, not so much as a “thank you” to the girl behind the grille.
Which placed Jack at the front of the queue, one hand on the counter, gazing at the girl behind the grille as she gazed back at him.
He lost everything in mind — the banking, the building, other people, the money in the bag, how to breathe. Behind tortoiseshell cat’s eye spectacles all he saw were a pair of wonderful, emerald-green eyes, the most precious articles in the world. In any world.
“May I help you, sir?”
It took Jack a second to realize she’d asked this, and he prayed she hadn’t been forced to repeat the jingle while he was knocked out — in thrall to her peepers. The comment at least kick-started his diaphragm.