The Temporary Hero

by Nick Svolos

  “The out-of-town henchmen.”

  His head bobbed in a single nod. “It’s bad for business.”

  “I can imagine. Having the FBI on my ass is bad for mine.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Clearly there’s an aspect to all of this that I missed. An oversight on my part, Mr. Conway. One I trust you will forgive.” Mickey paused to mop up some bar sweat. “Now, how can I help?”

  “They tried to get me to roll over on Reggie, which I now know would have led them here. I need to stay ahead of them. How’d you find out about Backdraft?”

  “Ah. Well, there was an altercation between his men and some locals at The Thirteenth Step. You know the place?”

  I nodded. Mickey’s wasn’t the only place like this—just the most survivable for a guy like me. The Thirteenth Step made the King look positively upscale. A dive for people who got themselves banned from all the other dives. I’d heard they’d serve you a free drink if you turned in a thirty-day AA chip.

  “That’s not the question we should be asking, though,” the retired henchman continued. “What was Backdraft after?”

  “It sure as hell wasn’t DVD players and microwave ovens.”

  “Exactly. Were I you, that’s where I would focus my considerable talents.”

  I let another sip of Scotch burn its way down my throat. He was right. I was so busy trying to figure out what the FBI was after, I hadn’t thought about working on Backdraft’s motives. If he was on the run from the FBI, he’d have done a lot better getting as far away from them as possible. Again, I wondered what could make a guy like that come to LA?

  A rotating red light above the bar flashed to life, interrupting my thoughts. Mickey grabbed the remote and changed the feed on the TV to a closed-circuit image of the parking lot. Somebody was parking their car in it.

  To the uninitiated, an event like this may not sound like an earth-shattering revelation. Except, at the King of Spades, it kind of was. Other than Mickey, nobody parked in the lot. It wasn’t the kind of place one advertised being a patron of. Nobody ever posted “Hey, I’m at the King of Spades. Let’s get drunk and commit crimes” on their social media wall. Whenever somebody parked there, the red light turned on. If you were new to the joint, Mickey knew he needed to check you out. If you turned out to be a legitimate low-life, he’d tell you to park on the street. If you didn’t, there was a better than average chance you and your car wouldn’t be seen again.

  I watched a black SUV—it looked like an Escalade—pull into one of the many open spaces. Two guys got out. They were wearing suits.

  LaBlanc and Forney.

  Ah, hell.

  “Mickey, I swear to God, if they followed me here they gotta be using magic.”

  The barkeep just chuckled. “More likely their boss told them about this place. I have an arrangement with some of the senior staff at the local field office. But if you want to maintain your lead on them, this is your cue to leave.”

  I wanted to follow up on this “arrangement” of his, but he was right. “Thanks. Mind if I use the bathroom?”

  “By all means.”

  Once in the men’s room, I stuck my finger behind the paper towel dispenser and felt around until I found a round button. I pressed it, and a section of floor slid open. If the restroom was smelly—and it was—it couldn’t hold a candle to the smell that came from under it. I snugged my bag closer around my back and climbed down the ladder into a storm drain that conveniently ran under the King. This escape route was a big part of the reason Mickey chose the old building on Rosecrans in the first place. It wasn’t a sewer, but I think he might have re-routed some lines to give the place its discouraging stench. Kids might explore a storm drain, but nobody got curious about a sewer.

  I pressed a button, and the floor slid closed above me. It was about a half mile to the nearest exit, so I got moving, doing my best to ignore the reek, thanking God that Ultiman’s powers didn’t include a super sense of smell.

  IX

  “So, I heard you had a run-in with the FBI,” Dawson commented as I took the interchange from the 110 to the eastbound 91.

  According to Dawson, his Crown Victoria was in the shop. That wasn’t all that surprising, seeing as it was about seven years old and he’d already turned the odometer over twice. The surprising thing was that he’d asked me to give him a lift. It wasn’t like cops were in the habit of asking reporters for rides to crime scenes. He wanted a private conversation, and he wanted it far from the prying eyes and ears of his fellow policemen. The mid-morning traffic between San Pedro and Whittier gave us plenty of time.

  Captain Arnold Dawson, master of the ulterior motive, followed up. “Anything you can talk about?”

  “I asked the lawyers at The Beacon the same question. Still waiting on an answer.”

  He nodded. “Figured the whole story wasn’t in the paper.”

  “Nope. Is this just between us?”

  “What, you going ‘off the record’ with me?”

  “Turnabout’s fair play.”

  “Alright, off the record it is.”

  “The whole time they had me, they never asked me a question. It wasn’t me they wanted—it was my phone. They hacked it.”

  He whistled. “You sure about that?”

  “Yep. The IT guys at the paper did whatever magic they do and got solid evidence. My editor and I both want to go for blood, but legal’s holding us back. The feds are trying to tie everything up as a matter of national security, and the lawyers are worried that they might be able to make it stick.”

  “I see. I suppose you gave them your usual level of cooperation.”

  “Yep. You know, I try real hard to help the good guys when I can, but I’m not sure they’re the good guys here. Besides, they wanted me to roll over on a source. I can’t do that.”

  “True. That’s a pretty big ask. Still, what if it really is a matter of national security?”

  I shook my head. “It isn’t. This is a cover-up.”

  Dawson’s head spun around. “What? How you figure?”

  “We can’t prove it yet, but it looks like Backdraft was one of theirs. They grabbed him when he was a teenager. Kidnapped his sister as leverage. Trained him and stuck him in the ERD. He slipped the leash, and they’re trying to cover it up.”

  The matched set of hairy caterpillars Dawson used for eyebrows tried to knit themselves together in some sort of lepidopteral version of Voltron. “That’s a pretty serious charge.”

  “Yeah, that’s why we need something bulletproof before we go public. Any chance of getting me a few minutes alone with him?”

  “Sorry, can’t help ya there. He’s lawyered up. We can’t even talk to him. Same story with his goons.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Not without their lawyers in the room, and even then they won’t say a word.” He drifted off into thought. “Doesn’t fit with your theory.”

  “Yeah. I’d think Backdraft’d be singing his head off. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Sure it does. Your theory’s wrong. Maybe this really is a security issue.”

  “Could be. Still can’t shake the feeling that there’s something dirty about this, and the feds are behind it.”

  “Geez, what is it with you and the government?” His voice took on an irritable tone. “It’s like you got this chip on your shoulder when it comes ta anyone in authority.”

  “Checks and balances, Captain. I keep a check on authority to keep it all in balance.” We were coming up on a snarl of traffic as we got closer to the 710, and I decided to try my luck with the diamond lane. I spotted a gap in the line of cars and weaved into it, crossing the double yellow line in the process. With my illegal act for the day behind me, I continued. “What those guys did to me yesterday was an abuse of power. They hacked my phone without a warrant. I can’t let that slide.”

  “Sounds like they had probable cause.”

  “Then they coulda gotten a warrant, right?”

  He sighed.
“Yeah, I suppose.”

  “Exactly. Look, you guys are given authority for a reason. I get that. But if we don’t raise a big stink over this, maybe they go a little further next time.”

  “Alright, alright, I’ve heard this pitch before. Look, I’m just sayin’ you gotta consider that these guys might be on the level. Maybe there really is a big threat out there. It might be better ta work with ‘em than against ‘em.”

  “That’s just it. I offered to help, but they decided to play things this way instead.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s how things work. They don’t know you. They should count their blessings.”

  I found myself gripping the wheel with increasing strength and had to remind myself to relax before I bent the thing. The feds didn’t know me, but they were going to. Backdraft had to have a pretty good reason for his actions. I was going to find out what it was, and the feds could pay a buck to read about it just like everyone else.

  We drove on to our destination, debating the topic to pass the time. Civil rights against law and order. Neither of us gave an inch, but neither of us got disrespectful or angry about it. It was refreshing to have an honest disagreement that didn’t end with someone pulling a gun and shooting an obstinate and mouthy reporter.

  “This is it, up here on the left.” Dawson pointed at a large office building. A chain-link fence surrounded the property, festooned with signs. “For Lease”, “Will Build to Suit” and “No Trespassing”. The main building’s broken signage proclaimed it the headquarters of VertiVault, Inc. The “i” dangled from some electrical cables.

  The place looked tailor-made for a supervillain to set up shop.

  “How’d you guys find this place?” I asked as we ducked under the police tape and walked into the lobby.

  “Power company came out here to check out an illegal tap,” Dawson explained. “Found the stolen merch in the loading docks and called Whittier PD. They called us once they figured out what they had.”

  “Cool.” I reached the entrance to the warehouse area. Chinese electronics stood piled haphazardly against the far corner. A lot of the stuff was busted. It looked like they’d just dumped the stuff there, shoving it toward the back with a forklift when it got in the way.

  A plainclothesman approached us, and Dawson handled the introductions. Captain Serrano gave me a skeptical look as Dawson introduced me as a consultant on the case, but led us upstairs anyway. On the second floor, we saw the offices Backdraft and his crew used as living quarters.

  There were two kinds of communal living arrangements in the criminal community. The more common type involved living like animals. Actually, that would be kind of an insult to animals, who at least designated a single, out-of-the-way corner to dump their leavings. The other type, favored by professionals who had standards, was a lot neater. The bathrooms still didn’t get cleaned, but at least they tried to use them.

  Apparently, these guys were professionals. The abandoned cube farm was empty and untouched. Loose papers and office supplies were scattered about, but each of the offices along the outer wall were fairly tidy. Mattresses on the floor, personal effects in knapsacks and duffel bags, and fast-food wrappers stuffed into wastebaskets. It all looked like the quarters of a group of men intent on having a decent place to crash in between pulling off jobs. Yet, they were obviously ready to bug out at a moment’s notice.

  A couple of forensics technicians made their way through the rooms, collecting samples of this or that, while another plainclothesman followed behind, methodically going through the personal effects of the occupants.

  “It doesn’t look like they were using the other floors,” Serrano began. “If you’re gonna find anything useful, it’ll probably be here.” He led us to a corner office. “Looks like your torch was staying in this one.”

  Backdraft’s little home away from home looked pretty much like all the others, just larger and with a view of the freeway. There was a mattress on the floor, covered with the contents of a gym bag, probably the work of the Whittier detectives. A folding chair sat next to a card table, facing a laptop on the makeshift desk.

  Dawson made a slow circuit around the room, taking it all in. He squatted down to peruse the personal items on the mattress, examining each one with a gloved hand. I knew his routine well enough to know to keep my yap shut and let him work.

  “Did you get anything from the laptop?” Dawson asked once he completed his process.

  “Encrypted,” Captain Serrano said. “We got a guy who can take a whack at it, but I didn’t want to take the chance until you looked at it.”

  “Good call. No offense, but I’d hate to have that thing wipe itself before we can crack it.”

  “None taken. We’re not set up for that sort of work. Usually turn things like this over to the FBI.”

  “Yeah, well, we got a squad set up for this downtown. Mind if I take it?”

  Serrano shrugged. “Not at all. The best I can get these guys for is trespassing and theft of electricity. If it helps you put them away, it’s all yours.”

  While the detectives talked, I examined the items on the mattress. A couple sets of street clothes, a spare costume, a dollar fifty-eight in change, a wallet and a ballpoint pen.

  I pulled out a pencil and used the eraser end to lift the collar of the costume. The label proclaimed it was a product of Skinsuit, Inc. The real deal. Those things didn’t come cheap. The only reason I had one was because The Angels paid for it.

  The detectives had opened the wallet and laid its contents out. One hundred and sixty dollars, all in twenties. A worn and faded photo of a young girl and another of a couple in their thirties. A prepaid credit card and California Driver’s License bearing the name Phillip Coffman.

  “Did the ID check out?” I asked.

  “Naw,” Serrano said. “It’s a fake, but a damned good one. The card’s legit, though. Ties back to a real account with a company in Delaware. We’re running down the records to see if we can get a line on the funds.”

  I nodded and straightened up, being careful not to do it too hard so I didn’t accidentally jump up and bury my head in the ceiling. I’d done it more times than I cared to admit.

  “What’re ya thinkin’, Conway?” Dawson asked.

  “He’s sentimental, for starters.”

  “Oh?” Serrano seemed pleasantly surprised. “How you figure?”

  “The photos. That’s his sister and parents, circa 1991. Tells me he hasn’t been in contact with them since he disappeared.”

  “I don’t see how that gets us anywhere,” Dawson observed.

  “Well, it’s an atypical trait for a supervillain. A certain level of sociopathy kind of comes with the job. It helps explain why he’s gone to such lengths to avoid civilian casualties.”

  “He seemed pretty comfortable with threatening folks the other night.”

  “You guys had his back against the wall. He wasn’t ready for you to bring a superhero along. That made him desperate. Which leads me to my second thought.”

  “Which is?”

  “He’s working for someone. A third party’s funding him.”

  “Okay, this I gotta hear,” Serrano said with a grin. He was getting a kick out of all this, although whether out of the novelty of having a bona-fide supervillain on his turf, or amusement at a reporter playing Sherlock Holmes, I couldn’t say.

  I pointed to the garish costume. “That, Captain, is a Skinsuit, handmade by the good people of Skinsuits, Inc., in Whippany, New Jersey. That model will run you about fifty thousand bucks. Winters has two of them.”

  Serrano boggled. “That’s a hell of an investment.”

  “Yep, and since we don’t have a crime pattern that matches his MO, I’m guessing he didn’t pay for it with the proceeds from a successful career.”

  Dawson whistled. “Not bad, Conway. They should have some records of the sale.”

  I shook my head. “You can try, but you’ll find it a dead end. They aren’t forthcoming with info on the
ir clients. All their customers get a code number. Anything that can be traced back to them gets purged once they ship the order. But even if you got lucky, I don’t think it would get you anywhere.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The people he’s working for are very good at covering their tracks.”

  “How so?”

  Before I could answer, a uniformed officer stuck his head through the doorway. “Uh, Captain, we have some FBI agents downstairs. They asked to see you.”

  Serrano frowned and looked at Dawson. “Friends of yours?”

  “Hardly. Whatever they’re up to, inter-agency cooperation ain’t part of it.”

  “Thought so. I’m going to have to deal with this. If you guys don’t wanna be part of it, take the back stairs.”

  Dawson stuffed the laptop into my messenger bag.

  “Planting evidence on a reporter, huh? You guys never change.”

  “Shaddup and follow me. They catch you with that thing, we’re both gonna burn for it.”

  He barely finished his sentence before he was leading the way down the emergency stairs to the ground floor. He did a slow count before cracking the fire door open to peer into the lobby. Satisfied that the feds had moved upstairs, he went through, waving me to follow.

  A few tense moments later, we were back on the street and climbing into the woody. Eager to get as much distance as possible from LaBlanc and his goons, I drove away from Backdraft’s hideout at just under the speed of light. Well, maybe I’m exaggerating, but Dawson looked a bit worried as I cut some corners a little close. Still, nothing kept him from doing his job. He pulled the laptop out of my satchel, transferring it to a large evidence bag on his lap.

  A mile later, I finally slowed down to the speed limit. I didn’t want Whittier’s finest pulling me over, even with an LA cop in the passenger’s seat.

  “You never finished your thought about these guys covering their tracks.”

  “Yeah,” I said as I got us to the freeway. “You know the last time I saw a fake ID like that?”