Fantasy

by Rich Horton

  Whipple grabbed champagne from a nearby fridge and filled two beakers with the bubbling liquid. He slyly admitted he happened to keep the bottle handy for just such an occasion.

  “Oh my,” said Ginny. “I’ll have to watch myself around you, Professor.” Ginny grinned. He was trying so hard.

  Professor Whipple gave her a well-studied “who-me?” look. She would have felt no compunctions about slipping a Mickey into his beaker right then, but she had no idea where to begin searching for the diamond.

  “So, Professor,” she said. “I’m told the Venus has special properties. Magic powers, they say.”

  “A legend. We are safe, my dear. The crystal enclosure around the Venus protects from its delirious effects.”

  “Oh, my! Is it very dangerous?”

  “Exceedingly,” said Professor Whipple. “Even momentary ex­posure to the skin can cause feverish symptoms, followed by extraordinary exhilaration, leading to impulsive bravado, reckless aban­don, and truth-telling. It is not to be trifled with.”

  “I can’t believe one little diamond can do all that.”

  “Little? I’ve never heard the Venus described as little.”

  “I meant that figuratively,” said Ginny quickly. “It’s certainly the largest, hardest diamond I’ve ever seen.”

  “Indeed it is beautiful—but it is not the most beautiful gem in the museum tonight.”

  Ginny groaned inwardly. “No?”

  “You are the most beautiful gem in the museum tonight, my dear.”

  “Careful,” said Ginny. “You’ll flatter the pants off me.”

  “Am I so transparent?”

  “I’m afraid so, Professor.” She closed in, placing her arms around his neck and fingering her champagne flask behind his head.

  “A-am I?” he stammered.

  “You are. And you know what else you are?” He shook his head rapidly, barely breathing. “You are a big fat liar.”

  “M-miss Flynn?”

  “Call me Ginny. I know your secret; there isn’t any magic diamond, is there?”

  “Miss—”

  “Ginny.”

  “Miss Ginny, why certainly there is. You’ve seen—”

  “A fake. Now show me the real one, or I will tell Excelsior City what a naughty boy you’ve been.”

  Whipple swallowed. “I’ll be ruined.”

  “I want one little photo. No one need know how I got it.”

  “It won’t matter, the minute the public finds out the real diamond has been…”

  “…under your protection, safe from the hands of super-villains, foreign powers, and alien invasions, why you will be a national hero! It’s all in how I write it, lover. And right now, I could go either way.”

  Whipple nodded. She took a step back. He stuffed his hand under his belt, and her gut constricted. She’d miscalculated. Whipple was going to pull a weapon. At least, she hoped it would be a weapon.

  A moment later, with the sound of his waistband tearing, Whipple produced a diamond the size of her pinkie nail instead of—whatever else. He held it forward.

  “Did you have it in your underwear?”

  His shoulders contracted. He nodded.

  “Wipe it off, please.”

  He polished the diamond with a bit of gauze, then cleared a space on the counter to set it down. The diamond was extraordinary. Immaculate clarity, with no hint of the stand-in’s gaudy green. Each angle of cleavage was cut with precision, infinitely sharp. Ginny was no expert, but she understood perfection when she saw it. “Lord,” she breathed.

  “Didn’t I tell you? Now please, Miss Flynn. Take your picture and go.”

  “Call me Ginny,” she whispered. “Everybody does.” No picture would ever do it justice. “Professor, is it chipped?”

  “Chipped? There’s no chip,” he said, incredulous.

  “Look closer.”

  He put his nose to the diamond, exposing his neck. One quick karate chop dropped him, stinging her hand in the process. Less subtle than the knockout drops, true, but the moment had inspired her. Ginny seized the diamond and shivered. More solid, and heavier than she’d guessed, clasping it electrified her.

  From the instant she’d first seen it, Ginny knew she had to possess the diamond. The Venus wanted her to possess it. The life-energy it exuded belonged to her, to any and every passionate, yearning soul by right, by natural law.

  Professor Whipple stirred on the floor, moaning, and her heart beat faster. What to do with the diamond now that she had it? Christof had thoughtlessly designed the outfit with exactly no pockets. Damn fashion! Only one thing to do—she pressed the diamond into her belly-button. The diamond cleaved to her skin, like it belonged there; white light shot through her spine.

  She moved to the door only to stop. She should tie Whipple up, or something. No. Hit him again. No. Put the diamond back. No. Run. She ran. Her heart pounded as she reached the corridor’s end. Which way to the ballroom? That way; she went the other.

  The corridor grew darker, and the ballroom revels began to fade. She had just begun to relax when an invisible grip seized her, snatched her into a corner. She smelled the rubber body armor; felt the familiar, heavy breath heat her neck. A voice like the night commanded her silent while an iron hand, not trusting her to obey, covered her mouth.

  The Wing.

  “Ginny…” he breathed, as his other, equally powerful arm ran across her midriff, just above her belly button and the diamond lodged within. “Ginny, Ginny…I spoke with Lofton. I agree with him. Archetype is dangerous. Please be careful. If anything were ever to happen to you—Lofton couldn’t bear it.” She tried to turn around, but he held her fast, his giant body cocooning her. “Ginny, if I could explain…” She pried at the fingers clamped over her mouth. He held them tight but she kept prying, and so he relented.

  “Then explain,” she said. “Tell me, Wing. Tell me everything. I’m right here.”

  The grip on her midriff loosened. She almost stumbled, he let her free so quickly. Gone, she realized when she turned; gone as silent as he’d come. No surprise there.

  Ginny lurched back the way she came, back to the party. She was perspiring. She removed the leather trench coat, throwing it over her arm, holding it before herself to hide her diamond-studded belly button. The Wing had no idea she’d taken the real diamond; all he cared about was poor old Archie Pupper.

  The ballroom was in uproar. Brewster Stevens, his brow damp, ran up and seized her shoulders. She jumped at his touch. “Ginny! The Wing was here! I didn’t see him, but he swung right across the ceiling. He stared down Archetype and pointed right at him. Then poof! He disappeared! I was using the facilities and missed the whole thing!”

  “That’s something, Brewster. Come to think of it, no one’s ever seen you and the Wing at the same time.”

  “Ha ha! Good one, Ginny. Say, do you think the Wing would endorse a Lang candidacy? And where is Lang? I wonder if he saw the Wing?”

  “I don’t know where he is, but when you find Lang, give him this from me.” She grabbed Brewster’s face and planted a wet kiss right on his lips.

  Brewster flushed. “Jeez, Ginny! What’s gotten into you?”

  “Must be the exuberance of the evening,” she said, and she slipped into the crowd.

  * * * *

  It was a warm night and, after the ball, Ginny walked with Pupper in the general direction of her Southtown apartment and his Lower East End flop house. At 24th Street, a trio of street toughs spotted them and began making vulgar, though not altogether unflattering, and absolutely accurate, remarks about the magnificence of Ginny’s figure.

  “Gentlemen,” said Pupper when the toughs drew near. “This lady has been kind enough to escort me safely through a rough neighborhood. Please do not insist upon embarrassing yourselves.” The toughs snickered and moved closer. Pupper seized a nearby garbage can lid and spun it toward their heads. They ducked, and the garbage can lid embedded itself in a concrete wall behind them. The toughs ra
n.

  “That wasn’t necessary,” said Ginny.

  “I am aware. But allow an old man at least the pretense of gallantry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It was nothing.”

  He massaged his shoulder, and Ginny couldn’t help but stare. “You’re going straight, I think,” she said. “For real.”

  Archie nodded. “I am. Ours is a young man’s game.”

  She laughed. “Tell the Wing.”

  “I would not presume.”

  “Ah, well…”

  “However,” said Archie. “The Wing is not long for the world.”

  Ginny blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s an egg uncommon, your champion,” said the aged super-villain. “He always wins, but one day, I fear, he shall fall victim to his own triumphs. Now, with nary an enemy left, he shall begin to fade away. He knows little else, and will not find retirement easy.”

  “Like Alexander weeping, with no worlds left to conquer.”

  Pupper stopped and gazed at her, eyes shining. “Yes! My, do I wish I had said that.”

  Ginny chuckled. “Feel free to use it.”

  “Perhaps I will!” They arrived at Pupper’s doorstep shortly afterward. “It seems I am home,” he sighed.

  She looked up at the decrepit hotel. “Didn’t you put anything away for your old age, Archie?”

  He looked down his long nose. “It’s just isn’t done, my dear. However, I assure you I will be fine. Thank you for a wonderful evening, Ms. Flynn.”

  “Call me—never mind.” She fingered the diamond in her belly button, hidden beneath her coat. It still filled her with the same delicious fever it had from the first. She loved the feeling. She continued touching the diamond, until the night air became charged with a sudden, unexpected electricity. “Archie,” she said. “Would you like to come home with me?”

  Pupper smiled with his eyes, and shook his head. “Dear lady, though your sofa is more comfortable than my hard cot to be sure, I must—”

  “I didn’t say anything about any sofa,” she said. “It’s just that, well, we’re not getting any younger, Archie.”

  Pupper seemed unable to meet her eyes. “Um. I recall a villain named Vertigo once had some success with an experimental chrono-reversal ray that—”

  “Archie. The moment’s not going to last forever.”

  He looked up at her. “Yes. Well. Oh my…”

  * * * *

  Professor Whipple twitched awake, his neck throbbing. What had happened? The girl reporter stole the diamond. Cripes! Fug! He looked at his watch: 3:00 A.M. What time did the early papers come out? Oh gosh, no! She was a television reporter. The whole story could be out by now. By now, she must have discovered that not only was the green display diamond a fraud, but even the real Venus had no special powers. He was trapped in a net of his own lies. It was a diamond: a beautiful, valuable stone, but it had no curse, no magic power. But such simple baubles yielded no Lang Foundation grant money.

  He jumped up, threw flat champagne in his face, and took the only logical next step. He stuffed his pockets and briefcase with as many gems as he could carry, to convert to cash later. Marching straight downstairs, he walked calmly past the night watchman. Once outside, he ran to Grandiose Central Station and took the train on the first track he came to, without marking its destination. Centre City, Las Paci­ficas, it mattered not. Any place with plastic surgeons and a dark corner to hide in would do.

  In a first class compartment, once the train was moving, he sank into plush purple cushions and wiped his face with a tuxedo’s rented sleeve. What a narrow escape!

  * * * *

  Ginny sank in her heart-shaped bed’s center, silk sheets curling betwixt her toes, arms outstretched as she welcomed her lover. The panoramic cityscape twinkled through the bay window beside them. This was it, she thought. It was going to happen. Not the way she expected, certainly not with the man she expected, but with a kind, willing man anyhow.

  Archie kissed her neck (so this is how kisses feel, she thought), ­unlaced her bustier (so this is what it is to be naked in someone’s arms, she thought), and pressed his length against her. She moaned. Her nipple hardened between his lips. “Oh lord,” she whispered. He kissed down her body, so excruciatingly slow she wanted to scream and force him even lower, faster. He kissed her belly button—delicious fever!

  Archie coughed. He choked, and the fever died. Ginny opened her eyes. Archie’s face was purple. “Archie! What is it? Is there…is there something wrong with me?”

  He pointed to his throat, pounded at his chest, said nothing.

  “Oh, my stars! The diamond!” shouted Ginny. She spun him around and hugged under his ribs, balling her fist. Three sudden thrusts, and he coughed it out. “Archie, are you okay?”

  He wiped the tears from his eyes, and swallowed. He picked up the diamond. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “I’m so sorry, I forgot I had it in.”

  “Forgot you had it in! This is the Venus Diamond! Land’s sake!” He jerked his head up, listening, desperate. He scrambled to the bay window and dragged the vertical blinds shut. His old, naked flanks shook. “He’ll think I took it! Did you do this on purpose?”

  “Archie, what are you talking about.”

  “The Wing! He’ll come for me now.” Archie ran to the corner, picked up his pants, couldn’t find the leg holes.

  “But you didn’t have anything to do with it!”

  “He won’t believe that! What have you done? He’s going to get me!” Archie collapsed in a ball, a little old naked man trying to hide in the corner. She ran to him and put her arms around him, making shushing noises. He resisted. “He’s everywhere! Everywhere…”

  After several minutes he became calmer, allowing himself to be led back to bed. She drew the blankets over herself and Archie, let him cry into her breast until sleep took him. The Wing was everywhere in Excelsior City. Inside Archie’s head, under the covers with them—everywhere, except the church come wedding day.

  Sometime after four, she nearly drifted off herself. A sound came from the balcony—perhaps she dreamed it; a soft tap on the window. A moment later, the sound of crashing glass filled the night. The memories faded by daylight.

  * * * *

  The Wing’s gut twisted in knots. He saw the coiled bodies of Ginny and Archetype through the vertical blinds, and he fought the impulse to crash through and kill him in the animal act, the villain. But, there was no telling what Archetype had done to Ginny’s mind. If the Wing killed him, whatever spell or psychological trick Archetype used on Ginny might be irreversible.

  The Wing dropped from Ginny’s balcony, spun off a flag pole across to the next rooftop, ran full speed for the edge, then leaped. He careened ten or twelve floors, then trampolined off an awning, up and across to the Clocktower Building. He scaled fire escapes until he reached the minute hand of the enormous art-deco clock.

  Whirling up, feet together like a battering ram, he crashed into the clock face. Glass shattered, covering him and littering the street below. Crouching amidst the oversized clockworks and broken shards of glass, the Wing finally forced himself to see the truth. It was no spell. No psychological torture had been used. No, he’d lost Ginny all by himself.

  The Wing stayed still, a statue of rage, grief and self-doubt. He needed a face to smash, a chest to kick. Why now, after so long, had everything and everyone he’d ever known chosen to abandon him? Tears ran from beneath his mask, dripping off his chin one by one as the seconds passed. The night seemed to last forever.

  * * * *

  Two hours later, the next morning, Ginny put Archie in a cab home and went in to work. On her way in, the secretary told Ginny that Lang had asked to see her before she went on the air for the morning broadcast. When Ginny reached his office, she found Lang sitting on the edge of his divan. “Ginny,” he said. “Before you say anything, hear me out.”

  “Go ahead, Lang.” she said, unsure what to expect.
A delicious thrill—hope, maybe—shimmered through her belly.

  “Thing is, Ginny, I’ve decided to run for mayor and I’m turning the network over to you.”

  She smiled inwardly. Of course. “Oh,” she said. “For a moment I thought…”

  “Ginny?”

  “Congratulations, Lang. You’ll make a great mayor.”

  “I pray that I do. I couldn’t bear to let this city down, although the job does means curtailing certain…other activities. Such as the station. I need someone here I can trust; the mayoralty will be an all-consuming job…” he trailed off again when he saw the look on her face. “What is it?”

  “Lang, can you have Wally sub for me on the air this morning?”

  He looked stunned. Except when held hostage, she never missed a broadcast. “What’s the matter?”

  “A little fever. Nothing.”

  “Go straight home,” he said. “And get some rest.”

  “I have to stop by the Museum to return something first.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he said quickly.

  Ginny shook her head. “I’ll be okay. Is there anything else?”

  He frowned. “Nothing comes to mind,” he said.

  They looked at each other. Lang broke the long silence. “I can’t say you seem bowled over by your new assignment,” he said. “But then, you’re not feeling well.”

  She nodded. “That must be it.”

  He nodded back and watched as she left the office.

  * * * *

  Downstairs, outside, the street was snarled up with an armored car ­delivery. Two rotund guards dragged a canvas sack toward the First Ethical Bank branch in the lobby of the Kryse Building. The sack’s drawstrings were loose and a packet fell out. The guards seemed not to notice this. Ginny picked the money up. She whistled to get their attention, then tossed the packet on top of the sack.

  “Thanks, lady,” said one.

  “You boys seem a little relaxed,” she said.

  “What’s to worry about? If anyone tries anything the Wing will get ’em.”

  Ginny raised her eyebrow at that, but said nothing. She turned back to the street, and hailed a cab. A short ride later, she arrived at the Museum and asked an apple-cheeked docent where to find Professor Whipple. The young girl looked around to make sure no one was listening, then leaned forward. “Took a powder,” she said. “Know what I mean? Vamoosed. Made like a library and booked.”