by Matt Cowper
“Oh no you don’t,” she said, blocking my path. “I want my rent – now. In cash. The last check you wrote me bounced all the way to the Beacon.” Her expression suddenly softened, and she looked at me coyly. “Or you could mow me, and I’d knock off fifty percent. You know I love how you run the trimmer.”
“Remove yourself from our path, grass woman,” Dak rumbled, “or I will make your vegetation wither and die until you resemble a sun-baked desert.”
“Oh, shut your trap,” Mardi snapped. “You’re not gonna do shit without Johnny’s consent.” She cocked a hip and licked her lips. “So, what’s it gonna be, Johnny boy?”
I stared at her grassy body. Mardi walked around without clothes – since the grass covered her entire body, including her lady-bits, she could technically get away with it, but you could still see plenty of curves.
She actually wasn’t bad-looking, despite having a few extra pounds; I knew she still had plenty of paramours, judging from the screams of ecstasy I’d heard when I passed the first-floor “love-making” flat she kept here.
But I was disturbed because she wanted me to mow her, which literally meant take some clippers or a hedge trimmer and cut off the grass that protruded from her body until she looked like a mobile well-manicured lawn.
I knew it wasn’t all that different than cutting someone’s hair, but to me it felt like slicing off someone’s skin. It had been the same with Felicia; I couldn’t stand to be around when she trimmed her fur. I’d vomited the few times I’d mown Mardi to save a few bucks in rent – which pleased her a little too much – and I didn’t want a repeat experience, especially since I had Julia Anderson’s retainer.
“No, I’ll pass on the mowing,” I said, pulling out my checkbook. “I’ll pay up, in full. Got a pen?”
“I said cash.”
“I don’t have it on me.”
“Tough shit. Go to an ATM.”
“If this check bounces, I’ll mow you for free for two months.”
Smiling maliciously at the hole she thought I’d dug for myself, Mardi pulled a pen from a tuft of grass on her stomach and handed it to me. I quickly wrote out a check, slapped it into her palm, and started running to the stairwell.
“I do hope your account has insufficient funds,” Mardi called after me. “I’ve got a new set of clippers that cuts off my grass like a laser. Would love to see you work it.”
I didn’t reply. I banged into the stairwell and flew down the stairs five steps at a time. When I got to the street, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Burt’s secure line with one hand, and tried to flag down a cab with the other.
“It’s your dime,” Burt’s voice said.
“What the hell are you…you know what, I’m not going to touch that.” A taxi screamed by me, despite my frantic waving, and I gave it a one-fingered salute. “Things just got even more difficult, no thanks to you.”
“What are you yakking about?”
“I just spoke with Julia Anderson. You know, she’s a…person of interest in the Captain Neptune case. Damien Woodruff is having a sit-down chat with her as we speak. Whatever he’s doing, it can’t be good.”
“Shit,” Burt said.
“Thanks for the heads up, buddy.”
“I didn’t know, Johnny!” Burt said. “He said he was going out for gelato! He loves that stuff. You know I’d tell ya if he was planning on screwing around with your case.”
“Doesn’t matter now, anyway,” I said. “He’s there, and I’m going to see what—”
“Whoa, there,” Burt said. “You got a plan, or are you just going to run in there cursing and yelling like a Kraggian star-sailor?”
“I’ve got a plan.”
“What is it?”
“There’s, uh, no time to explain.”
“Sure there isn’t,” Burt said. “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t catch Woodruff going out there, but I told you the bill would come due. You—”
I hung up. I felt a Burt Harrison lecture coming on, and I didn’t want to hear it, especially since most of what he’d say would be right. I’d kicked the hornet’s nest, and now the little buggers were pouring out to sting all of us.
I’d debate the morality of my actions later – after I handled Woodruff.
Or Woodruff handled me….
A cab finally screeched to a stop in front of me. I slid in and told the driver to get to Forest Hills, and to make it fast.
Chapter Twelve
I made it to Forest Hills, where Julia Anderson lived, in twenty minutes. I got lucky with my cabbie; once I impressed upon him my need for speed, he laid on the horn and screeched through traffic with the dangerous aplomb that only certain Z City cabbies have. There was much cursing and gesticulating, and hollered complaints about the bums on the Z City Swashbucklers, our long-suffering baseball team.
“That’s the address,” I said, pointing at a two-story home that looked like all the other two-story homes. Thankfully, there was a mailbox out front that had “1174” on its side to distinguish the Anderson household from the others. A giant black SUV sat hunkered in the driveway, like it was resting after guzzling a tanker’s worth of gasoline. If anyone had a doubt that the SUV was Woodruff’s vehicle, the red, white, and blue banner running down the side that said “DAMIEN WOODRUFF: THE PEOPLE’S PROTECTOR” would put those doubts to rest.
The cabbie slammed to a halt, and my seatbelt strained to keep me from flying into the front seat. I quickly extricated myself from its frayed sashes, jumped out of the car, and tossed the cabbie his fare plus a fat tip.
“Hey, thanks, guy,” the cabbie grunted.
“You earned it,” I said, hustling up the Anderson property’s flagstone walkway. I noticed a “COMFORTABLE FORTRESS” placard stuck into the lawn, and I saw two cameras mounted to the roof and some sprinkler-like sensors embedded into the grass. Julia must have turned off some aspects of the system for Woodruff’s visit; otherwise, there would be screeching alarms and pre-recorded voices telling me to drop to the ground.
Two linebacker-sized men in black suits and black sunglasses stood on the front porch, their hands folded in front of them. Obviously Woodruff’s goons. One of them stepped forward as I climbed up the porch steps.
“This is a temporarily restricted area,” the goon said. “Damien Woodruff, Chief Prosecutor for the Division of Superhuman Crime, is speaking with Mrs. Anderson. I don’t know your relation to her, or what business you have, but—”
“I know that greaseball boss of yours is here,” I said. “I just talked to Julia on the phone. Move out of the way before I rip off your steroid-shriveled dick and feed it to you.”
The other goon stepped forward, and both of them made a show of flexing their muscles and glaring.
“Big words from a small man,” the second goon said, his voice pure gravel.
“You know, someone said that to me yesterday,” I said. “Things didn’t work out too well for him.”
“You really think you can take both of us?” the first goon said. “I could bench-press you with my pinkie.”
“Dak, some intimidation, please,” I said.
Thunder shook the rocking chairs on the porch, and Dak spoke: “Indeed, were John Wagner alone, he would have little chance against burly men such as yourselves. But he is not alone. I, Dakroth’gannith’formaz, the God of Destruction, am bonded to him, and even the barest exhibition of my power would cause you two mortals to prostrate your sacks of flesh and blood before me and beg for clemency.”
“Who said that?” the second goon said, looking around the porch, his hand on his gun.
“Wait, I know this guy,” the first goon said, pointing at me. “He’s the one the boss was talking about. Johnny Wagner, has a God Arm or something….”
The front door opened, and out stepped the boss in question, like a ray of sunlight bursting through a cloud. Damien Woodruff had on a pinstriped suit, a robin’s-egg-blue tie, and a smile that 87% of the mothers in Z City trusted, according to a recen
t poll I saw in the newspaper. His arms were spread wide, as if he wanted to hug all the world.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen,” he warbled. “I heard sharp words from inside. What’s going on out here?”
The first goon motioned to me. “This…gentleman threatened us, Mr. Woodruff. We told him you were meeting with Mrs. Anderson, but he was belligerent. He said, and I quote: ‘Move out of the way before I rip off your steroid-shriveled dick and feed it to you.’”
Woodruff looked at me, his expression somehow conveying shock and dismay as well as the shining possibility of forgiveness.
“Such vile language,” Woodruff said. “You’re John Wagner, the so-called Godlike PI, aren’t you?” He wagged a finger at me. “Does Julia know the man she’s hired is so crass and violent?”
“How do you know she’s hired me?” I asked.
“Oh please.” His finger-wagging intensified. “You came running here as soon as you got off the phone with Julia. Not that I needed that evidence. I’m the chief prosecutor for the DSC – I can find out anything I want to find out.”
I wanted to chop off that wagging finger and jab it into his admittedly handsome hazel eyes. “Does Julia know you’re a slimy, conniving jackass?”
Woodruff chuckled. It sounded like champagne glasses tinkling. “I’m not that at all, Mr. Wagner. But why don’t you come in? Our discussion is germane to the Gray Squirrel case. I have many enlightening things to tell you – and perhaps you have many enlightening things to tell me.”
His arm moved through the air with a flourish, gesturing me inside. The two goons looked at each other dubiously, but they didn’t argue with their boss. I stepped into the house, and Woodruff shut the door behind us with almost comical gentleness, as if the wood and the doorknob had feelings he didn’t want to hurt.
We were in a dusty foyer strewn with children’s toys. A staircase rose to the second floor, its banister badly needing a polish. The air was thick and ripe; it actually smelled like my apartment building, and that was a smell I didn’t expect to find in Forest Hills.
Woodruff made another flourishing gesture, and I followed him through an entryway into the cluttered living room. A smattering of DVDs lay by the television, some of them in their cases, some out. More children’s toys were scattered about, and the coffee table was piled high with newspapers and magazines in mounds that looked like one breath of air would send them tumbling to the hardwood floor. Glancing at them, I saw they contained old stories featuring Captain Neptune. Cobwebs hung from the corners, and dust bunnies sat under the furniture.
It was obvious Julia Anderson was hurt and grieving, and had let the maintenance of her home fall by the wayside. She probably spent most of her days on the couch, rereading old stories about her superhero husband, watching DVDs, remembering when she and her husband had watched this or that particular film. Remembering when a certain comedy had made him laugh, when a certain tear-jerker had caused him to bawl….
Julia looked up at us now from her seat on the couch, her expression somehow both hopeful and fearful. Her hands were trembling, and her eyes were puffy.
“Mrs. Anderson, you of course know Mr. Wagner,” Woodruff said, sitting down primly in the large recliner next to the couch. “Please sit, Johnny – can I call you Johnny? We were just having a wonderful conversation.”
“It was not wonderful,” Julia said, her voice raw and angry. But that flare-up of spirit sputtered out instantly, and she buried her face in her hands. “Oh, how can you say those things?”
“But Mrs. Anderson,” Woodruff said, his voice silken, “I’m just telling you what we’ve uncovered in our investigations.” He crossed his legs and put his hands on his knee. “I thought you, the wife of our beloved now-deceased hero, would want to know the truth. Aren’t you zealous in your quest for truth? After all, you hired this private investigator.”
“What lies have you fed her, Woodruff?” I growled, raising my God Arm. “If you—”
“Please, sit, sit,” Woodruff said, pointing at the couch. “It’s rude for you to stand while we’re both seated.”
“Good,” I said. “I don’t mind being rude – to you, at least.”
Woodruff let out a theatrical sigh. “Mr. Wagner, really. Do try to be nice.”
“What have you told Julia?” I said.
“I told her that her husband was a drug smuggler,” he said evenly. “Excuse me, an alleged drug smuggler. Our investigation is still ongoing.”
“Stop saying that!” Julia yelled. “You’re…you….” She trailed off as sobs racked her body.
“I know it’s hard to believe,” Woodruff beamed, “but really—”
“Smuggling?” I said. “It sure is hard to believe. I smell bullshit.”
Woodruff leaned forward, like a teacher reaching the favorite part of his lecture. “I don’t care what you smell, Mr. Wagner. We have evidence that Captain Neptune – may he rest in peace – was smuggling large quantities of drugs into Z City, specifically into Booth-eel.”
“You know damn well it’s pronounced Boot-heel,” I said.
“Of course you would know the correct pronunciation – that’s where you reside.” The smile he directed at me was radiant. “Anyway, with Neptune’s powers, he made an exceptional smuggler. He could control ocean currents, swim at high speeds, and breathe underwater. He was able to slip tons – quite literally, tons – of drugs into this fair city.” A pause that seemed mathematically calculated. “Or, that’s what we think. Again, nothing is conclusive.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
“We investigated,” Woodruff said. “Didn’t I say that?”
“Can you be more specific? Or are your precious investigations top-secret?”
“For the moment, I’ll keep my information-gathering methods to myself.”
“Course you will,” I said, stepping forward until I was looming over the chief prosecutor. “What’s the point of this spiel? Captain Neptune’s dead—”
Woodruff gave no indication that he was intimidated. “Yes, he is – unfortunately. He was a good man. I remember when he saved this city from that tidal wave.” Another calculated pause. “Of course, being dead, we can’t charge him with anything – but the press may still be interested. And then there’s Mrs. Anderson, who may have been an accomplice to all this criminality – though I think that’s a very slim possibility, since she seems so kind and meek.”
I clenched my God Fist. “You’re blackmailing Julia, you son of a—”
“Blackmail?” Woodruff gasped. “My word, to level that accusation at me, Z City’s dedicated and compassionate chief steward of justice!” He shook his head as if sadness was about to overwhelm him. “But then, you know something about underhanded tactics, don’t you, Mr. Wagner?”
“I—”
“Yes, you convinced my staff you were a fellow named Reginald Fairfield, a psychiatrist who was going to help us – help Squirrel and his lawyer, I mean – in court.” He tsk-tsked. “Poor Burt Harrison – he’s a good employee, and you manipulated him horribly. Do you know how upset he is? I told him it wasn’t his fault, that he did what he thought was best to ensure the reputation of the DSC wasn’t impugned, but the fellow is so high-strung.”
“If you want to get revenge on me, go ahead and take your best shot,” I said, “but leave Julia out of it.”
“Oh, I want to,” Woodruff said, clasping his hands as if in prayer. “I want to desperately. I would love to shut down your irresponsible business, and I would love to find out if you were behind several ill-considered incidents yesterday. But I must consider Mrs. Anderson also. While Patrick Anderson is dead, his lovely and loving wife is not. As I said, I cannot help but ask: did she know anything about her husband’s activities? Did she help him commit these heinous crimes? Should she be charged with something? Did she—”
“I didn’t know anything!” Julia wailed. “This is…I don’t….”
“So you say,” Woodruff said, reach
ing over and patting her hand. “But—”
“Don’t touch her,” I growled.
“I’m just trying to comfort her, Mr. Wagner.” His eyes were glistening, as if being so misunderstood was about to make him cry. “I do care for her well-being, truly—”
“This is getting old,” I said. “Quit your oozing and tell us what you want.”
Woodruff closed his eyes and frowned, as if being put on the spot like this confused and unsettled him. Then his eyes blinked open and he smiled. “I want you off this case, Mr. Wagner – I want everyone off this case – except me, of course. Gray Squirrel killed Captain Neptune. The evidence is incontrovertible. Mrs. Anderson will have to be content with that.” Another perfect pause. “And I want a full transcript of your conversation with Homer Bollinger. Every syllable. Once you’ve done that, you are not to speak to anyone about any of this – ever.”
“Fuck you,” I said, though it died on the air as soon as I uttered it. “Homer was set up. The bomb—”
“Yes, Gray Squirrel likely purchased the bomb from some mad scientist in the criminal underworld, who may or may not have set him up, but I must say – so what? If we tried to trace where every supervillain acquired his weapons, we’d never get anything done. It’s hard enough to convict these criminals in a culture that indulges all manner of depravity and violence.”
“You don’t want to find out where that null-raxite came from,” I said. “You’ve got an easy case, so you’re going to shove Squirrel through the system as fast as you can, truth be damned.”
Woodruff shrugged and rose from the recliner. “Your hysterics are unsettling me. I think I shall depart.” He nodded to both of us. “Being the generous man I am, I’ll give you twenty-four hours to decide. Mrs. Anderson, simply remove Mr. Wagner from your employ, and we’ll forget about this unsavory business.”
Then he gave me a singular smile-glare. “That is, unless Mr. Wagner decides to pursue this case on his own accord, out of some misguided sense of justice. If he does so, I will run him and that gimmicky God Arm of his out of this city forever – and I will still inform the press of the late Captain Neptune’s forays into illegality, and Mrs. Anderson will be charged with a bevy of crimes, either by myself, the district attorney, the FBI, or whomever else I decide to work with. Not that I need to involve anyone else – the Division of Superhuman Crime has a wide mandate.”