by Adam Graham
The detective spread his hands on his desk. “Hello, Powerhouse. You have come to consult me.”
“If you’re Neil Worthington.” Powerhouse glanced at the orchids. “Am I mistaken, or are those plastic?”
“Yes, I have the world’s largest collection of artificial orchids. 10,000 of them.”
“But you spent two hours up there.”
“To emulate my hero Nero Wolfe. Of course, his are organic, but I’ve not had as much luck with organic orchids, though my assistant and new butler have actually started some and they left me instructions.”
The mustache trainer said, “Wasn’t that to leave them alone?”
Worthington glowered. “You can go back upstairs.”
“I could comb your mustache.”
This is getting weird.
Worthington shook his head. “Not in front of a potential client.”
Powerhouse cleared his throat. “Are you sure you’re a detective?”
Worthington glanced over Powerhouse. “You are in your mid-thirties, white male American. You are not a white collar worker and you came to this address after going to the wrong address on the other side of town.”
Powerhouse blinked. “How did you know that?”
“Your costume’s design is more consistent with the design of popular superhero costumes from the 1990s than with the current styling, therefore the age. Your voice was highly suggestive as well. You’re obviously not comfortable in an office environment, thus the guess you’re not a white collar worker. As for going to the other side of town, the sediment on your suit contains dust found only in that part of Portland.”
“Wow, that’s amazing. You must be fun at parties.”
“I don’t go to parties. Now sir, your problem.” He pulled out a pipe and poured some liquid in.
Powerhouse winced. “You smoke?”
“No, tobacco smoke disagrees with me, but I must have a pipe. Sherlock Holmes had a pipe.”
So did Bruce Wayne and Captain America in their early comics. Doesn’t mean I’ll go and buy one.
Worthington said, “Proceed.”
“It all began in 1937—”
A stream of bubbles flew out of Worthington’s pipe.
Seriously? Powerhouse chortled.
Worthington waved. “My eccentricities are built into my fee. Pray continue.”
“Okay, here is everything I know about the Case of the Missing Major.” As best I can say straight-faced with you blowing streams of bubbles. “Major Joshua Speed was a great hero in World War II. After the war, he took to fighting Communists in the U.S. as well as behind the Iron Curtain. In 1957, he disappeared in Seattle. The Warehouse he went to was restocked by Dorado Incorporated and filled with empty crates.”
Powerhouse also recapped what happened at the nursing home.
Worthington grimaced. “It sounds like quite the three pipe problem, if I were to take it, which I wouldn’t.”
Powerhouse growled. “I flew an hour to get here, and you won’t take the case?”
“A genius needs something to work with. There’s likely something somewhere, but the FBI and police will have that covered. I’d bet the kidnappers are already out of the city. They could be anywhere on the face of the globe.” He pointed the pipe first at the gigantic globe and then at Powerhouse. “You are the most powerful superhero on Earth, and you can’t find them. What am I supposed to do?”
“I thought you were a super-detective. Don’t you have amazing powers?”
“Powers of deduction, sir, are not magic. If the FBI is not enough, what you need is not one great mind but thousands of small ones. I would recommend the Fortieth Street Detectives located in Garden City, Idaho. Its respectable residents all deny their hometown and insist they live in Boise, all evidence to the contrary aside.”
Powerhouse sighed. “Why do I feel like I wasted my time? If I thought my comic book writer had any power over my real life, I’d swear you were a cameo to promote your own comic book.”
“Sir, I’d never appear in such lowbrow work.” He smiled. “Though I do have plans to self-publish my memoirs within the next two to three years.” He blew a stream of bubbles Powerhouse’s way.
Where was Arkham Asylum in the real world when he needed it for one of the alleged good guys? Powerhouse strode toward the exit, calling, “I must get to Boise, or Garden City as the case might be. Powerhouse-away!”
Naomi carried a four pack of AA batteries to the express checkout aisle. She eyed the checkout guy. Oh no. Not Grumpy Rufus. She smiled as sweetly as possible.
Rufus beamed at her. “Good afternoon. How are you?”
“Good.” What was up with him?
He rung up the item, grinning as he looked her over with an uncomfortable gleam in his eyes. “Honey, that will be two dollars and seventy-five cents.”
Naomi fished out two dollars and put two quarters on the table. “I got a couple dimes in my change purse. Just a second.”
Rufus reached in his pocket and dropped a quarter. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Uh, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, my dear.” He put the money in the register and smiled brighter than ever. “Come again!”
Naomi grimaced. So, that was how grumpy men treated women who were a ten rather than a four. Though, if he’d stared at her any longer, she’d have much rather had him back to grumpy.
She walked to the car, got in and looked in the mirror. The perfect face smiled back at her. She frowned. This was going to have to disappear along with the dress.
Sigh. She pulled out of the store, signaled, and pulled out into traffic. Dave could be a bit dense, but if his brunette wife with a bob grew a foot of long blond, wavy hair overnight, he’d notice. So would other people. Maybe she should gradually improve her appearance. Hair would be easy enough. She turned into the driveway.
She took one more glance in the mirror. She sighed. “Body, revert back to normal and change my clothes to my gray University of Washington sweat shirt and jeans.”
Fantasy warped back to boring old reality.
Powerhouse landed in front of a Jackson’s filling station. Where was Fortieth Street already?
A man in his mid-twenties wearing a lime green suit and a long black ponytail walked out of the gas station carrying a newspaper.
Powerhouse said to the man, “Where’s Fortieth Street?”
Lime Green Suit glanced Powerhouse over and nodded. “Get in. I’ll drive you. We’re not too far.”
“Okay.”
Lime Green Suit led Powerhouse over to a late 1990s Pink Jaguar.
Powerhouse sat on the smooth, light brown leather in the passenger seat. Lime Green Suit got in, grinning at him. “My son lives in Seattle, goes on about you all the time. I bought him a subscription to your comic book for his last birthday.”
Wow. Powerhouse whistled. “I didn’t know my fame had spread this far. I don’t get out of Seattle much.”
“You’d be surprised.” Lime Green Suit pulled out of a gas station and drove down a main street and turned down a side street. “If it wouldn’t be any trouble, could I have an autograph or something for my kid?”
“I’ll take ‘or something.’ What’s his name and his size?”
“Jensen and small.”
Powerhouse superimagined a Powerhouse T-shirt into existence with the name Jensen on it. “And what’s your name?”
“Cole Ustick,” Lime Green Suit replied, popping bubble gum as the pink Jaguar reached a stop sign. “Where you heading?”
‘“The Fortieth Street Detectives.”
“Oh, those jokers. I’m the competition.”
“Can you tell which part of Boise I got lost in before I found Garden City?”
Ustick turned right. “You went to Portland and saw Neil Worthington.”
“Wow! You’re a genius too.”
“I’ve simply heard of Worthington and his parlor tricks. He makes things hard on real, working detectives like me.”
>
“He said I needed a lot of small minds to find Major Speed. He disappeared without a trace and could be anywhere in the country.”
‘They’re not small minds. They’re good guys. Specialists. I’ve consulted them a couple times—I meant my wisecrack in a friendly way, before you ask. Oh, you should probably try a local detective first.”
“Who would that be? Harry Nile’s not real.”
Ustick signaled a left turn into a trailer park. Two sedans passed them and a gold Ferrari turned into the trailer park. Finally the coast was clear. Ustick stopped outside the fourth trailer, a white doublewide with a black roof. “There you go. The headquarters of the Fortieth Street Detectives.”
“This is a trailer.”
“Yep, this is the home of their chief operative. His name is Fernando Ortega, but just call him the Vicar.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome, and thank you for the t-shirt.”
Powerhouse got out of the car and Ustick drove away.
A shiver tingled down his spine. Why did that feel like he’d just experienced another cameo?
Powerhouse walked up to the trailer marked #4 and knocked.
A pasty guy in his sixties opened the creaky door. He wore a black sports coat, green turtleneck, and a gray pair of slacks. “Hello, sir. What can I do for you?”
British accent—was this guy a butler? In a trailer park? “I’m looking for Fernando Ortega.”
“That’s me!” The pasty white British guy with a Hispanic name grinned. “Bless my soul, you’re Powerhouse!”
“Yes, I wanted to see you about a case.”
“Come on in.” He led Powerhouse into the trailer’s dining room. Sitting at the table was a very fat man about six foot, three inches tall with red hair and beard. He wore a white t-shirt and a blue baseball cap with an American flag on it. Ortega waved at his fat friend. “I’d like to introduce you to my colleague Ray Davis. Ray, meet Powerhouse.”
Ray adjusted his frame and extended his dirt-caked hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Powerhouse shook his hand.
Ortega gestured to a black metal folding chair. “Please, take a seat.”
“Your chair’s funeral.” Powerhouse eased himself down. The chair held. He eyed the Chinese checkerboard on the table. Half of two areas of the star were filled with marbles. “Mr. Ortega—”
“Please, call me Vicar. Everyone else does. I love my stepfather dearly and I’m glad he adopted me, but I get a lot of stares.”
“What’s a vicar?”
“It’s like a pastor. I was an acting pastor in Northumberland for about a year and a half and spent nine months as a missionary to Haiti. That was the longest career I had.”
“That and what you do here, Vicar,” Ray said.
Powerhouse scratched his helmet. “Wait, how many careers has he had?”
“Let’s see.” Vicar stroked his chin. “Twenty-three.”
Ray laughed. “If he details them all, we won’t have time to hear your problem.”
The two played Chinese Checkers while he talked.
He took a breath. At least they weren’t blowing bubbles.
Ray tapped together his fingertips. “We got three things we gotta know. First, is Major Speed still alive?”
“Almost certainly.” The Vicar lifted one of his marbles and jumped another marble. “Whoever set up the charade at the retirement home had a reason for wanting Major Speed alive. If they couldn’t kill him before, they still can’t.”
Ray stared at the board. “As long as the kidnapper ain’t loony, I think you’re right, Vicar. That brings us to question two. Is he still in Seattle?” Lee stared at the board and moved one of his pieces forward. “Maybe they got some underground bunker, but I don’t think they’d keep that guy laying about the city. Would be too big of a risk of Powerhouse finding him.”
Powerhouse said, “The FBI had airplanes, trains, and bus stations covered and the police had bulletins.”
Ray shrugged. “Sounds like the bad guys gave the major a paralytic drug. If that’s the case, I could manage getting him out of town. Just put the guy in the back of my rig. You’d have to be careful, so people couldn’t see him through a spot inspection. If I could manage it, it’d be a snap for them.”
Vicar made his move on the board. “What’s the third question?”
“Whether we can help Powerhouse. I know a lot of truckers and can keep an ear open for information. A couple other folks like Susan and Falstaff know people across state lines. They can check, but most of our sources on the ground are in Boise. That said,, I think we can join the FBI in the search.”
The Vicar glanced at Powerhouse. “You understand that this would be subject to board approval, but I don’t expect this will be a problem.”
“How much will you charge?”
“We want to be reasonable.” Vicar leaned back in his chair.
Ray moved a piece on the Chinese Checkerboard. “Tell you what. Charge you one day as being Boise’s superhero, if we actually find him.”
Vicar smiled. “That’s a capital idea. Patrol the city, do a couple charity events.”
Ray added, “Maybe throw out the first pitch at a Hawks game!”
Vicar chuckled. “We’re getting way ahead of ourselves. Is that payment agreeable to you, Powerhouse?”
“What if you don’t find him?”
‘“You pay nothing.”
“I’ll check with my CEO, but we should be able to do that.”
“Let me know if you get any more details.” The Vicar reached into his coat pocket and handed Powerhouse a card.
Powerhouse read it. The Fortieth Street Detectives: You Don’t Have to be Smart to Be a Detective. Powerhouse frowned. “I’m not sure my CEO will like the motto.”
Ray leaned back. “What we mean is you don’t have to be Neil Worthington. None of us is as smart as him, but we all know quite a bit about one thing or another. Together, we know more than he ever could.”
“Ah, then I salute you fellow non-geniuses.” Powerhouse stood up. “I need to get home. It’s been nice meeting you. This is the best cameo yet. My kind of people!”
The Vicar and Ray glanced at each other, their brows pushed together.
Powerhouse headed out the door and flew up over the row of trailer parks, passed the outskirts of town, and panted. I’ve flown way too much on the jetpack today. He pulled a miniaturized, jet-shaped spaceship out of his inner pocket and superimagined it to its full size. He climbed in, cloaked the ship, and zoomed home.
The ship came to a halt above his house. The clock on the dash had advanced by half an hour. He lowered the ship to the ground near the fence between his house and the neighbors. He once again assumed the identity of mild mannered Dave Johnson. He pushed the top hatch open and climbed out of the invisible ship before he shrunk it, superimagined it visible, and put it in his pocket. He strode in the house.
“Oh Dave!” Naomi ran to him and gave him a big hug. “Blue Cat Comics has been sold to avoid bankruptcy. The new owners are canceling seventy percent of their titles. The new majority owner wants to talk with Powerhouse and me in half an hour.”
Chapter 4
Sorry, Wrong Hero
Naomi paced in the basement. “What if they’re canceling your comic? I quit my job assuming the royalties would be there.”
Powerhouse swallowed and scratched the back of his neck. “Why would they cancel us? We’re selling more than any other comic they have.”
“One, they don’t have to pay royalties to fictional superheroes, so it could save them money there. Two, what if the new owner is Mitch Farrow?”
Yeah, he’d cancel the comic no matter how well it sold. “Do you remember when you were pregnant and in college and I got laid off? We made it through that and we made it through James being sick.” He squeezed her hand. “Over the last fourteen years, we’ve proved we’re survivors, honey, with or without superpowers.”
She s
ighed. “I guess.”
The Powerhouse Phone flashed red. He put an arm around Naomi and pressed the speakerphone button. “Hello, this is Powerhouse.”
”Good to hear you. This is John Delaney, the new majority owner.”
He knew that name. “Don’t you own Powerhouse Family Insurance?”
”Indeed. You’ve helped our business grow exponentially, despite the huge risk we carry with your premium-free liability policy. So, when I heard Blue Cat Comics was in trouble, I decided it’d be a good investment. The company is bankrupt except for your comic, which is quite profitable. We have plans for you.”
Powerhouse raised his right eyebrow. “What types of plans?”
“We think giving you only one comic book leaves most of your potential profits untapped. Look at Spider-Man. Some of the titles we’re axing, we can replace with Powerhouse ones. From what I’ve gathered, by adding just an adjective or two, we can create a whole new comic.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ll have the Indestructible Powerhouse, the Magnificent Powerhouse, and the Implausible Adventures of Powerhouse.”
They wanted to do three additional, made-up continuities? Powerhouse muted the phone, flipped open his visor, and glanced at Naomi. “And you were worried about them canceling us.” He turned back to the phone and turned off the mute. “I hate to tamper with your enthusiasm, but you’re going overboard with that many titles. Maybe one more ongoing title and one special edition, so long as I approve their story lines.”
Delaney said, “Powerhouse, we’re getting rid of fourteen comic book titles that aren’t making money.”
“Are you sure you have to replace them all?”
“They’re losing us money. What else can we do?”
“Sometimes a character just needs rebooted, so you can fix the writers’ mistakes. You should see about doing that, particularly with Rip Wallace, Karate King.”
“Really? You seem to know a lot about comic books.”
