by Nick Svolos
A quick smooch, a couple of “I love you’s” and an affectionate squeeze later, she was out the door and headed for her car. I spent a few minutes tidying up and gathering my own gear. I considered shutting off the fan to save on my electric bill, but I took a few sniffs and decided to leave it running with the windows open to let the apartment continue airing out during the day. I wasn’t worried about someone breaking in. It’s one of the benefits of being broke. If a burglar happened by, he wouldn’t find much but a cheap TV and my eclectic collection of reading material. Maybe the burglar would steal some books, learn something and reassess his life choices. One can hope.
It was a four-block walk from my apartment to the Los Angeles Beacon, and it was shaping up to be a pleasant early November morning, the kind you only get in Santa Monica, so I walked it. I liked walking. It gave me time to stop thinking. Usually, I had a million things going on in my head. Deadlines, financial troubles, repairing my car, an IRS audit that I was convinced was payback for a story I did last summer, and now this kid, Karl, all competed for processing time in the old cerebral cortex. But walking in the sunshine kind of slowed all that down. The sky was clear and blue, birds were chirping, and if we had any fjords around here, I was absolutely sure they’d be fjording. All wasn’t right with the world, but at least I could take a ten minute break from it.
My pleasant stroll came to an end a little before eight that morning, as I turned the corner onto Sixteenth Street and arrived at the Beacon building. Most of the time, the newspaper headquarters they show on TV or in movies make it look like we all work in glamorous skyscrapers downtown. About twenty years ago, long before I came to work here, that was the case. But, as circulation started to drop across the entire industry, the paper’s owner went into cost-cutting mode and moved the whole operation here to this four story building where they had the printing presses. So, the Los Angeles Beacon was completely produced in Santa Monica, which suited me just fine. I’d take a four block walk over a rush hour commute downtown any day.
I trotted up the stairs to the noisy cubicle farm on the third floor. It was a chaotic place, crowded and full of energy. The constant hubbub made it hard to get much work done. There were just too many distractions. Still, there was something to be said for rubbing elbows with so many news hounds. I got caught up in the flow, dodging and greeting co-workers as I made my way to my cube.
A quick glance at my watch showed me I had plenty of time, so I booted up my ancient laptop and did a quick scan of my email. What it lacked in quality, it made up for in quantity. There was a guy who thought his roommate had superpowers and wanted me to check it out. At least a dozen requests for an introduction to Mentalia, Suave or one of the other superhumans in the area. Several angry missives, in varying degrees of coherency, from readers taking me to task for being too pro-super, or too anti-super. Oh well, if you’re not getting hate, you’re not doing your job. No death threats today, I noted. That was a refreshing change. I must have been slipping.
I spent a few moments reviewing the notes and photos I’d put together for a story I planned to pitch to my editor and started printing them out. I hated fumbling with electronics during a meeting, and my crotchety old laptop took perverse pleasure in locking up as soon as it detected I was in a hurry for some piece of information, so I went with hardcopy. Harry was pretty old-school, so putting stuff on paper made things go smoother with him, anyway.
I walked down the row of cubicles to the printers and found one of our staff photographers, Ratna Banerjee, looking at the photos I’d printed.
“These yours?” Ratna asked.
“Yep.”
“You’re getting better,” she said as she thumbed through the photos. “Good focus, decent composition. Your thumb isn’t in the shot.” She looked up at me with a wink. “You trying to put me out of work?”
I grinned. “Wish I could take credit. They’re from some anti-super demonstrations over the last couple of weeks. I dug ‘em up online. Notice anything interesting?”
Ever one to rise to the challenge, she took a closer look at the photos. After a few moments, she observed, “They’re all from different cities. See the cops’ uniforms?” She pointed to each photo, identifying the city each was taken in. “Chicago, New York, Tampa, Phoenix, this one might be Seattle, and of course this one is from the protest in MacArthur Park last week.”
Wow. Six for six. She had a visual memory like you wouldn’t believe. “Uh, yeah. That’s not what I was getting at, though. Take a look at the woman with the blowhorn.”
Ratna went through the photos again. “Oh wow, it’s the same person. Hmm, six cities in two weeks,” she observed, “This gal gets around.”
“That’s for sure. Anyhow, that’s what I’m working on.”
“Cool,” she said as she handed me the photos. “Let me know if you need a good shutterbug. If I gotta do one more street festival, I’ll go out of my mind.”
I told her she’d be first on my list as I noticed the time, gathered up my stuff and headed over to my editor’s office. Ratna had been with me when I covered the battle between The Angels and Gale at the Coliseum, and after that, I think she was finding the normal world a little boring. I knew the feeling. I’d been reporting on supers full-time for about a decade, and I didn’t think I could ever go back to covering courtrooms and city council meetings. I was fortunate to have a gig where they let me do what I do. Most news organizations only ran stories on supers when something big happened, and they just handled it with whatever pool reporter happened to be available. They missed a lot. The Beacon, on the other hand, let me do investigative journalism in the super-powered community. I was one of the only people in the business who got paid to do this full-time. It was a pretty awesome job.
The door to Harold Praeger’s office stood open, so I knocked on the wall next to it. Harry looked up from his terminal and waved me in.
“Tell me what ya got, kid,” he asked in a voice that always reminded me of some ancient, malevolent entity that just got an unexpectedly large water bill. I was only partially sure it was an act.
“I think there’s something fishy going on with these anti-super demonstrations over the last couple of weeks,” I said as I laid out the photos on his desk. “See this woman with the megaphone, here?” I pointed her out. “She’s in all these other protests, too. Six cities, all in the last two weeks.”
Harry’s eyebrows raised, and I knew I had his interest. He cut his teeth on political reporting, and he knew a good story when he saw one. “Who’s she working for?”
“That’s what I’d like to find out.”
“OK, run it down. Bedwell covered the event in MacArthur Park. Talk to him yet?”
“He’s next on my list.”
He nodded. “We don’t have the budget for travel right now, so try to keep it local. What else ya got?”
That was another thing about Harry. He was never satisfied. Fortunately, I had a backup. “I just found out this morning that Panhandler’s apprentice has gone missing. Fifteen year old homeless kid, and it doesn’t look like the cops are doing anything about it. It’s thin, but I thought I’d poke around and see what I could find out.”
Harry leaned back in his chair. “Good time of year for stories on the homeless. See what you can find on the kid and try to get an interview with Panhandler in time for us to run before Thanksgiving.”
“Got it.”
“Good. OK, one more thing. Lockley’s been asking if you’re gonna do that book. What’s holding you back? Most guys would be jumping at this.”
Ugh. This again. They wanted me to write a book on the cape-killer case from last summer. It started when Phoenix Fire, one of The Angels, was murdered by an assassin’s bullet. That’s something that shouldn’t have been able to happen, given that she was burning like a small sun at the time. The team’s leader, Ultiman, roped me in to help with the investigation and before I knew it, I was on the run from the cops, the assassin and the supervillain group Omega. It ended
with a big chunk of downtown and the Coliseum being trashed. I’d been putting off dealing with the request. If Elizabeth Lockley was getting directly involved I’d probably run out of time.
“I don’t know, Harry. That story’s been told. Between the articles for the paper and the interviews I’ve given, I don't think there’s anything new to be said about it. I wonder if I went too far with my involvement in the whole thing. I mean, word on the street is that I’m the guy who took down Unstoppabull and Longshot. I’d kinda like everyone to forget about all that. Writing a book about all that feels kinda like taking a victory lap. Feels cheesy. Not to mention I’d probably have to do a whole new batch of interviews to promote the book. I’d really rather work on new stuff.”
“I get that. But consider a few things before you decide. The first is that you haven’t gotten the whole story. In all of your reports, you never did any interviews with the principals. Between The Angels and Omega, you have a dozen people you should have at least tried to get on record with their account of the events. The Omegas are still awaiting trial, so they may not talk, but that’s no reason not to try.”
I thought I’d covered all the angles, but I realized he was right. Other than Glowstikk, the Omega leader, I’d never actually gotten much in the way of interviewing done. I was too busy trying to stay alive for most of that time. I looked down at the photos on Harry’s desk. “Okay, that’s a good point.”
“Good of you to agree,” Harry snarked. “Secondly, it’s expected in a story this big. People want to know more about what happened. There’s a market for this, and you’re a writer. A good one. It’ll be a good payday for you, and set you up for bigger things in the future.”
While I needed the money, it really wasn’t about that. “Hell, you know I like being poor. It’s part of my charm.”
“Bullshit. Well, consider this, then. If you don’t do the book, somebody else will. Someone who doesn’t know these people the way you do. Do you trust anyone else to cover this material and do it right?”
I shifted involuntarily in my seat, feeling like a trapped animal. “No,” I said with resignation, “I guess I don’t.”
“That’s what I thought. There’s one other thing you should think about. The paper needs this. Circulation’s up for the first time in a decade, but it’s not enough and it’s slowing down. We need something like this to keep the lights on. I know that’s a lot to put on you, but there you have it. We need you to do this.”
Wow. The Beacon’s finances must be worse than I thought if our business plan rested on me somehow managing to churn out a book. I wasn’t even sure how to write a book. I’d be willing to bet there was a hell of a lot more to it than just embellishing the articles I’d already written.
“Geez, are things that bad?”
He nodded and met my gaze straight on. “We’re trying to keep it quiet, so don’t spread it around, but yeah.”
I sighed. “Fine, I’ll do it. So, how does this work? Do I keep doing my job around here and work on the book at night? Do we need a contract? Is a guy with a pair of red long johns and a pitchfork going to be dropping by for my soul?” I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d never considered this stuff.
Harry parted with a rare chuckle. “No, yes, and only if you want to parlay this into a movie deal. We’ll put you on sabbatical for a couple of months to get the first draft done. I’ll let Lockley know and they’ll set up a contract with you. You should probably consider getting an agent, just to make sure her people don't screw you over. I can recommend a couple of people,” he went to his Rolodex—yeah, he actually has one of those—and fished out a couple of business cards. “When do you think you can get started?” he asked as he handed them to me.
I took the cards. “Maybe a couple of weeks? I’d like to wrap up the stuff I’m working on.”
“Yeah, I figured as much. It’ll take that long to get the contract done, anyways. I’ll let Publishing know you’re on board. Now get outta here, kid. You got work to do.”
I didn’t wait for him to tell me twice. My stories were greenlit, and suddenly I had a book deal. Best to skedaddle before something came along to spoil it all. A general sense of well-being followed me all the way back to my desk, where I found an official-looking envelope sitting on my chair. It stuck around while I picked up the envelope and examined the return address. It joined me in my apprehension when I read that it was from something called The Permanent Representative of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea to the United Nations, but it hung tough. When I opened the letter and started to read, however, the sense of well-being suddenly remembered an appointment across town and unceremoniously fled to find a less disaster-prone host.
II
At first, I figured somebody must be pranking me. I stood up and looked over the low cubicle walls, half-expecting to see a colleague looking my way to catch my reaction. No such luck. I still didn’t rule out the practical joke angle. This was just the sort of thing Helen would do. The girl loved her jokes, but something told me this letter was legit. It just looked too real.
The letter was on official-looking letterhead and while it was long and filled with a lot of diplomatic doubletalk, the gist of it was clear. Glorious Leader, in his infinite wisdom, had magnanimously deigned to grant me the enormous honor of interviewing His Excellency at his palace in Pyongyang.
Oh Lord, what fresh hell is this? In a particularly bloody one-man coup, Glorious Leader seized control of North Korea four years ago. Originally the world hoped that, despite the brutality of his rise to power, he might reverse the horrible conditions in that country, but he turned out to be just more of the same. Only with super powers. During the last several months he’d imprisoned five journalists as spies. I wondered if they’d received letters like this one.
The letter ended with a phone number for me to call to confirm my acceptance of this “great and historic honor.” I was almost tempted to dial it. On the one hand, getting an interview with the superpowered dictator would be a hell of an accomplishment. Nobody else had done it. I had to admit it was a little flattering. I mean, I was just a beat reporter for a regional daily. It seemed pretty incredible that I’d been noticed halfway around the world, even if it was by a cape-wearing megalomaniac who could fly and punch his way through a battleship.
On the other hand, the one with more common sense and a penchant for self-preservation, if this thing wasn’t a prank, it could very well be a trap. Damned if I could figure out why Glorious Leader would want to add me to his collection of imprisoned reporters, though. He could be playing an angle, but what? The first thing that came to mind was the upcoming trial of the Omegas. The DA was considering putting me on the stand as a witness. If I was in a North Korean prison, I wouldn’t be around to testify. Could there be a connection there? Self-preservation won out, and I stuck the letter in my bag. I’d have to do some research before I made a decision.
Meanwhile, I had more immediate concerns, namely a mysterious anti-superhuman activist and a missing super-kid. I scanned through the photos from the demonstrations again, and then went back to the articles I’d pulled them from. Each piece had several quotes from people at the protest, but I couldn’t find the same name in different cities. My mystery woman, if she was interviewed at all, must be using an alias. Standing up, I scanned the cubicles at the other side of the floor to see if William Bedwell was at his desk.
I was in luck. From my vantage point, I could see his balding head over the low wall of his cube. I grabbed the photos and walked over. When I got there, I noticed he was on the phone, his free hand plugging one ear in a vain attempt to drown out some of the newsroom’s din. I stood politely by and tried not to eavesdrop. After a few minutes, he wrapped it up and asked, “Hey Reuben, what brings you to these parts?”
“Looking for a name,” I said as I held out the photo from the MacArthur Park demonstration. “Did you happen to speak to this woman, here?” I pointed out the woman with the megaphone.
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p; “Yeah, that’s Jennifer Blake, if I remember correctly. Hang on a sec.” He dug out a notepad and thumbed through it to confirm the name. “Yeah, that’s her. Said she got involved in the movement after her father died at the attack on the refinery. Blamed the superhumans, didn’t seem to care which group. I wasn’t able to verify that against the casualty list, though, so I didn’t use the quote. Seemed odd.”
“Oh yeah? How so?”
“She seemed to be in the inner circle if not the ringleader. Very motivated. But, when I tried calling her, all I got was voicemail and she never returned the calls. Not like one of these activist types to pass up a chance at an interview.”
“Indeed. Mind if I take a run at her?”
“Not at all.” He handed me the notepad so I could copy down the number. “I take it you’ve got something on her?”
“I’m not sure.” I handed him the photos from the other demonstrations. “She seems to be getting around. Thought I’d run it down.”
“Well, like I said, it certainly looked like she’s motivated.”
“Do you know if they pulled a permit from the city for this?”
“The city never called me back. I’m guessing they did, because the cops didn’t shut ‘em down. Most of the cops seemed pretty sympathetic towards the protesters, though, so it’s possible they just let it slide. Anything else?”
“Naw, I think I got enough to get started on. Thanks for your help, Will.”
I went back to my desk. Now that I had a name to go on, I wanted to see how much traction I could get. I was pretty sure Jennifer Blake was an alias and that the number William had was as fake as the name. I was also pretty sure I’d find a similar story when I contacted the reporters who’d filed the reports in other cities. Typically, a reporter who gets assigned to cover something like these protests has a pretty tight deadline. They get what they can and don’t have a lot of time to follow-up before they have to move on to the next story. By greenlighting my investigation, Harry had given me the time to run all this down.
