“No,” replied Alex with a firm shake of his head. “That’s not what I mean. I won’t need a nickname because I quit.”
The pronouncement finally drew Lawman’s full attention. He looked up and stared at Alex for a long moment. “What’s the reason this time?”
A dry, humorless laugh slipped from Alex. “The same as the one I’ve been giving you for two weeks: you’ve been tossing me around the training room like I’m a rag doll. It’s all I can do to hope I don’t dent your walls.”
“You’re getting better.”
“At what?” huffed Alex. “Bleeding?”
Lawman folded his hands. “We both knew this might take some time.”
Shaking his head, Alex said, “I’m not cut out for this. I told you that when you hired me, and I’ve told you that pretty much every day since. In the last week alone, I’ve mentioned it at least two dozen times.”
“Twenty-seven, actually.”
“Keeping count?”
Lawman shrugged. “I’m observant.”
Letting out a long, heavy sigh Alex dropped his chin to his chest and stared at his ragged, dirty, sole-falling-off Nikes and the expensive rug upon which they stood. The carpet was from the king or shah of a country Alex could not pronounce, a thank you gift to Lawman for one reason or another. Alex’s shoes belonged on this rug as much as he did in Lawman’s office as a sidekick-in-training.
“Look,” murmured Alex, staring back across the table. “I appreciate the faith you’ve shown in me, but it is severely, impossibly misplaced.”
“Is it the costume? We can work on it.”
Lawman’s first pass at Alex’s costume had been a garish thing that looked like a purple, chartreuse, and white tube sock. While as ugly as sin, it had nothing to do with this decision.
With exasperation swelling from deep within, Alex snapped, “I get winded walking up two flights of stairs, I can’t lift half the weapons in the training room, I have all the grace of a drunken, three-legged possum, and you ask if it’s the damn costume?”
Lawman remained quiet, his steely-eyed gaze never leaving Alex’s face. Alex waited for Lawman’s inevitable pitch for why he should stay, ready to refute whatever the superhero had to say this time. However, after a few quiet moments, Lawman nodded once and said matter-of-factly, “Well, thank you for your time, then. You can go.” He sat forward and reached for the papers on the table.
The acquiescence surprised Alex. “Wait, what?” Lawman always tried to talk him out of quitting.
“Seems I was wrong about you,” said Lawman, paying attention to a pair of photos showcasing a seedy-looking man in a trench coat. “There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.” Glancing up, he nodded to the door. “See yourself out.”
“You’re letting me go?”
“Good luck with your life, Mr. Butterworth. I hope you find your place. I trust you to keep the location of this facility to yourself. No one knows about it. Not even Pierre.”
Pierre was Lawman’s personal assistant, a large man whom Alex still referred to as Shades on account of the sunglasses the man never, ever removed.
Alex’s bafflement deepened. “Uh…yeah, sure. You got it.” He stood there few seconds longer watching Lawman shuffle through a sheaf of papers. “Well…see you later, I guess…?” After a distracted, non-committal grunt from Lawman, Alex turned and exited the office, walking back into the sterile hall and his old and incredibly boring but safe life.
While early weekday mornings were always slow at the Save-n-Shop, this one was particularly so. A man had stopped in around seven, bought two bags of powdered donuts, hot pink nail polish, and ant spray. Alex had rung up the man’s odd combination of items without comment. People bought the strangest things in the morning.
Since then, Alex had been leaning against the wall of his checkout cube, perusing the vast array of tabloid magazines in his lane. Currently, he held a copy of People, the cover of which screamed “It’s Over!!!” in giant yellow block letters. As he had not recognized the self-indulgent celebrity couple in the picture underneath the blaring headline, he had picked up the magazine, curious as to why three exclamation points were needed to announce the breakup. So engrossed by the superficial two-page article filled with supposition, hearsay, and gossip that he did not realize he had a visitor until a woman’s raspy voice cut into his quiet morning.
“Are you busy?”
Alex cringed and looked up. His boss and owner of the Save-n-Shop, Mrs. Yellow, stood on the other side of the conveyor belt, her arms crossed and a scowl on her face. Her hair, a mass of thin white strands that reminded him of cotton candy, sat atop her head, jiggling a little as she tilted her head to the side. He offered her a tiny smile. “Define busy, ma’am.”
Mrs. Yellow reached across the counter, grabbed the People magazine from his hands, and began stuffing it back into the rack with the others. “If you have time to read the merchandise, you have time to set up a display. Aisle four, storefront.”
Alex groaned inwardly. He hated setting up displays. “What if we have customers?”
“I will take care of them.” Mrs. Yellow nodded in the direction of aisle four, setting her hairspray-armored coif shaking again. “Go. The directions are taped to the cart just inside the storeroom.”
This was not a battle he would win. “What’s the display of?” He hoped it was something light and easy, like cotton balls or already-popped popcorn in bags. Knowing his luck, it would probably be forty-pound bags of dog food.
“Pancake mix and maple syrup,” answered Mrs. Yellow.
Alex’s eyes narrowed. With a last name like “Butterworth,” the breakfast food jokes were as old as they were frequent. “Did you do that on purpose?” Before Mrs. Yellow could respond, he lifted a hand. “You know what? Don’t answer that. One pancake and syrup display coming up.”
With a disgusted shake of his head, he walked off, meandering through the cereal, juice, and sports drink aisle while listening to the quiet soft jazz number playing over the Save-n-Shop’s speaker system. Glancing back to see if Mrs. Yellow could see him—she could not—he grabbed a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts from the shelf and started opening it. It was the least she could do for him.
Upon reaching the double swinging doors of the storeroom, he pushed the right one open and slipped into the back. He shuddered at once, staring up at the myriad of flickering florescent tubes overhead. He had been long convinced that whoever invented florescent lights used the devices to literally suck the will to live from humanity.
Hearing the storeroom television blaring from the back corner, its volume cranked up to the point no one could escape its sound, Alex frowned. If the TV was on, then Jack was here. Late, as always, but here. Like all employees, Mrs. Yellow’s nephew had a work schedule, yet could rarely be counted upon to show up on time or stay until he was supposed to.
Munching on one of the cold Pop-Tarts, Alex grabbed the cart by the door and headed toward the shelves where the pancake mix awaited. The cart’s wheels squealing, he pulled the paper with the display directions and groaned. It was a castle of pancake boxes, the windows, doors, and towers filled with jars of syrup.
After swallowing a mouthful of strawberry and dry cardboard pastry, he muttered, “This is going to take me all morning…”
Stopping before the shrink-wrapped crates of pancake mix, he folded the display directions and stuck the paper in his pocket. As he pulled free his box-cutters and started slicing open the plastic, he could not help but listen to what was undoubtedly the Today Show, in its third hour as Hoda and Kathy Lee were chatting away. Their current inane topic was about some scandal involving a TV reality “star” and a prominent congressman.
He tried ignoring the prattle, but after packing his cart a quarter full of pancake mix, he turned and marched down the aisle, heading for the TV. Upon rounding a corner, he spotted Jack sitting in one of the roller chairs from Mrs. Yellow’s office. Jack’s gaze was fixed firmly on Kathy Lee’s stup
id grin as he took a too-large bite from the fast food breakfast sandwich clutched in his hand. Based on the three crumpled-up wrappers on the floor, he was either on his third or fourth.
Without saying a word, Alex marched to where the remote typically rests in a holder bolted to the wall, but found it empty.
“Looking for something?”
Glancing over, Alex spotted Jack holding the remote over his head, shaking it side-to-side in the same way a mean-spirited brother might teasingly tout the possession of his little sister’s favorite doll. “Mind turning that off?”
Jack lowered the remote to his lap while taking another crumb-producing bite of his sandwich. “Yup. I do.”
“Could you at least change the channel?”
“Nope. I’m watching this.”
Alex was tempted to use what little he had learned during his time with Lawman. Jack was already pretty much useless around the store. It was not as if a few broken fingers would hurt his chances at employee of the month. Nevertheless, Alex swallowed his annoyance and turned his back on Jack, Hoda, and Kathy Lee. Hurting Jack might be satisfying—check that, it would definitely be satisfying—but would undoubtedly result in Alex searching for a new job within the hour.
He had taken a few steps, heading back to the pancake mix boxes, when Hoda and Kathy Lee suddenly stopped talking. Alex looked back, about to ask Jack what had changed his mind, but the image on the TV’s screen killed his question. The 42’’ Samsung no longer displayed the Today Show hosts, but instead showed Lawman lying on a table with arms and legs outstretched and tied down. His eyes were closed, head lolling to one side.
“What in the hell?” grumbled Jack. Lifting the remote, he began to repeatedly press the buttons. “This thing is busted…”
Ignoring Jack’s mumblings, Alex stepped closer to the TV. He recognized the expensive carpet on which the dark cherry table stood. As he approached, a voice emanated from the TV’s speakers.
“Greetings, Mayor Gallet.”
It was the Howler. Of that, Alex had no doubt. Besides the physical training, Lawman had had Alex review files on various criminals and villains. The Howler was one of the worst, the villain responsible for the attack on the Edison Building during Alex’s ill-advised sidekick interview.
The shrieking voice continued, its screeching tone reminding Alex of long nails slowly dragging across a chalkboard. “As you can see, I have Lawman. In exchange for one hundred million dollars, I will consider not killing him. You have until six o’clock this evening to comply.”
With that, the feed cut off, switching back to Hoda and Kathy Lee in the midst of toasting one another with glasses of white wine. Jack lowered the remote and looked back at Alex, eyebrows raised. “A hundred million? Damn. Mayor Cheapskate ain’t gonna pay that.” Facing forward, he chuckled. “So long, Lawman…”
Alex shut his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. Jack, unfortunately, was right, although not for the reason the simpleton thought. The mayor had a reputation for being a penny-pincher, yes, but Lawman had confided in Alex the mayor’s stringent “no negotiating with terrorists” rules. The Howler was never going to see a dime of the demand.
Alex untied his apron. “Hey, Jack. I gotta go.”
Jack twisted around. “What? Now?”
Lifting the apron over his head, Alex said, “Yup. Now. I don’t feel good.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You look fine to me.”
Alex walked to the wall, hung his apron on a peg, and faced Jack. “By the way, your aunt wants you to put up a display on aisle four. Pancakes and syrup. Have fun.” Slipping the directions from his pocket and tossing them in Jack’s general direction, Alex strode to the rear door, threw it open, and stepped in the store’s back alley.
Six weeks had passed since the Howler attacked the Lawman’s offices on the 111th floor of the Edison Building and repairs seemed to be going well. The wall of windows was intact once again and the area smelled of fresh paint and new carpet. Replacement furniture had yet to arrive, however, leaving the space open and bare. Three men were working on the trophy case at one end of the room while Alex stood with Pierre—“Shades” to Alex—at the other. The workers kept glancing over, evidently curious as to why a skinny guy from Save-n-Shop—his bright orange shirt gave him away—was here in Lawman’s downtown office.
Shades had taken a beating during the Howler’s attack, and his recovery matched that of the office. The cut on his forehead was healing nicely, as was the bruise on the right side of his face, having taken on that yellowish brown color that meant it was days away from fading for good.
As always, the tall and muscle-bound man stared at Alex through his ever-present sunglasses and shook his head. “There is nothing I can do, sir. The mayor must pay or Lawman is finished.”
“Stop calling me sir,” whispered Alex with a touch of exasperation. “I don’t work here anymore. Now, can’t you just call in some help? Captain Moonrise? The Red Buckle? Waterwoman?”
“That would not do any good, sir.”
“Why not?” asked Alex, entirely ignoring the ‘sir’ this time.
“Because, sir, you say Lawman is in his hideout.”
Not seeing the point, Alex cocked an eyebrow. “And…?”
“And I don’t know where that is.”
“Hell,” huffed Alex. “If that’s all that’s stopping you, you know the old Oak Park—”
“No!” interjected Shades, throwing up a hand. “Do not tell me the location!”
Alex’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Why the hell not?”
“It is one of Lawman’s rules. Knowledge I do not possess cannot be extracted by his enemies.”
Alex blinked a few times while remaining quiet. “To be clear, his enemy—namely, the Howler—already knows where he is. You know, as he already has him as a prisoner there at this very moment.”
Shades shook his head. “That may be, but I abide by Lawman’s rules. I always have and always will.”
Alex reached up and rubbed his eyes. “Fine, then. At least call one of the other heroes. I’ll tell them where to go.”
“No. Lawman was very specific. No one was to know of his hideout.”
“Really?” grumbled Alex. “Because I know.” He could not see Shades’ eyes, but he sensed they were boring into him.
“Yes, sir, you do. Perhaps you should do something about it, then.”
Alex stood there a moment, staring out at the city’s glittering skyline, listening to the tap-tap of a workman’s hammer pounding a nail in the trophy case. “Want to come with me?”
“Not my job, sir.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not mine, either.”
“Then why exactly are you here, sir?”
Watching a pair of pigeons fly past the window, Alex muttered, “’Cause I’m a fool.” A fateful, momentary surge of a workman’s circular saw swallowed his response.
After the saw went silent, Shades asked, “What was that?”
Alex shook his head. “Nothing.” Looking around the office, he said, “I know he keeps some gadgets around here. I need some things to help me not die.”
Shades nodded. “Follow me.” He headed for one of three doors in the room and Alex followed.
The other side of the door revealed nothing more than a small, wood-paneled room with a pair of elevator brass doors. Shades pulled a key from his pocket, inserted it into a lock, and turned it. A small, eye-height—for Shades and Lawman, not for a person of Alex’s short stature—panel slid open. Shades leaned forward, lifted his glasses, and presented an eyeball for a security scan. A soft, pleasant ding filled the room, the doors opened, and in they went.
Alex saw the panel to the right had but two circular buttons: one marked B1 and the other marked B2. Shades reached out, placed a thick finger on B1, and pushed.
“What’s on B1?” asked Alex.
Shades kept his gaze straight ahead as he answered. “Things to help you not die.”
“And on B2?”
; After a quiet moment, Shades answered as if blithely commenting on the weather. “Things that would kill you.”
“Right, then,” muttered Alex. “B1 it is.” As they dropped at an incredible rate of speed, fast enough that he was afraid his feet might leave the ground, his stomach lurched. This was a bad idea.
Alex stood outside the city park mausoleum, sweating up a storm. Wearing gray sweats with the words “All-Star” on his chest and left leg. Hiking boots, fingerless black gloves, and a matching ski mask completed the outfit. He was more than a little overdressed considering the afternoon heat. On Shade’s recommendation that he try to keep his identity a secret should anything happen, he had stopped at a sporting goods store on his way and made do with what he found. In his left hand he clasped the sporting goods store bag in which he had stuffed his jeans, sneakers, and Save-n-Shop shirt.
After taking the subway to the city park station, he had changed in the putrid public restroom, sprinted up the stairs, and hurried to the mausoleum through the trees hoping to avoid the scrutiny his outfit would surely draw. He looked like an idiot. Or a burglar. Or an idiot burglar.
Staring at the once white, now weathered-gray stone building, he reached down and adjusted the gadget belt Shades had given him, shimmying it back and forth as he pulled it back up to his waist. Made for Lawman of course, it kept slipping down even though he had the buckle’s prong in the crimson belt’s first hole. He stared down at the belt, a scowl on his sweaty, ski-mask-covered face. While Shades had explained the use of each item as he had attached them to the belt, Alex remembered only a few now that he stood here. Either nerves were fogging his memory now or he had not listened all that well back in B1 of the Edison Building. Probably both.
Hearing the crunch of gravel, Alex looked up, his already quick heartbeat surging as though he was attempting to sprint a marathon. Expecting the Howler, he instead encountered a young boy on a bike rounding the mausoleum’s corner on one of the park’s many paths. The kid’s eyes went wide and he veered suddenly to the right, riding through the grass to avoid running Alex down.
A Hero By Any Other Name Page 11
