‘Well. He is smart. You gotta give him that.’
‘Yeah. Colgate smart,’ Phoebe says.
‘Which means?’ Ernest asks.
‘Which means that when I look at Jupiter Blackshear, I get the sense of there’s a lot in the window, but not much in the room.’
Ernest purses his lips as though he were one of Flynn’s friends posing for a duck-faced selfie. ‘I have no idea what that means.’
‘You don’t know what it means because you’re a big dummy.’
‘Recovering dummy.’ Ernest closes the file and sets it on a small side table next to the chair. ‘A dummy who listens to his wife now.’
Phoebe turns her head and flashes a playful smile. ‘No, you don’t. You’re stubborn as a pack mule. Still. And you’re just getting my opinion so you can talk yourself into doing what you’ve already decided to do.’
Ernest returns the smile. ‘A dummy who recognizes his flaws.’ One of which is not quite knowing what I’ll do with myself once I settle on a successor, he almost adds, but keeps this last thought unspoken.
Twenty Two
Ernest flinches at the sound of a small explosion.
Good gravy, he thinks. Even wearing earplugs, it sounds like I’m being shot at.
Except that’s not quite right. If you’re truly being shot at, Ernest has discovered, you quickly realize that bullets travel faster than sound. So the sound of being shot at isn’t the crack of gunfire, but rather the high-pitched whine of a bullet whizzing by. The firecracker pop of gunpowder follows. So because he only hears the latter, not the former, Ernest is reassured he’s not, in fact, being shot at.
A paper bull’s-eye attached to a thick roll of straw about 15 yards away is being shot at, however, and city councilman Jupiter Blackshear is the one squeezing off round after round from his Beretta 9mm. He finishes his cluster. Two seconds later, the echo of the gunfire bounces off lush, variegated hillsides that surround the outdoor firing range.
All three men—Ryland has joined them on this training session—remove their ear protection. Jupiter handles the Beretta admirably, Ernest thinks. He also considers that with the job he and Ryland have offered the councilman, Jupiter just might need to lean on that knowhow. Jupiter makes sure the chamber is empty, applies the safety, and sets the 9mm on a small wooden table cut into the shape of a “U.”
Ernest notices Ryland nodding ever so slightly while he looks on, no doubt appreciative of Jupiter’s respect for the firearm.
‘Wanna shoot?’ Jupiter asks, turning to the shorter of the two.
Ryland waves a dismissive hand. ‘Haven’t fired a weapon in years.’
‘A cop? Hasn’t used a gun in years?’
‘Police Chief. Gets other people to do the dirty work,’ Ryland says with a sideways grin. ‘Speaking of: you handle that Beretta like Dirty Harry.’
‘Shit. Dirty Harry would never be issued a sidearm,’ Jupiter says. He grabs for a maroon towel on the table. He wipes a thin film of sweat and gunpowder from his hands. Throws the towel over his shoulder. Just like a cape, Ernest observes with some amusement. ‘But, I’ve also done this a time or two. We used to own a shooting range. My dad got a wild hair one day and converted a little patch of land next to our farm.’
‘Used to?’ Ernest asks Jupiter.
‘Yeah. Then sold it. Then he died.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ernest says.
‘Tetanus.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘He died of tetanus. Cut himself on a rusty nail while tending the fence that surrounded the land—still does, in fact—and then the old fart just… look, it’s kind of a long story, and it could have been a short one about a guy who got a tetanus shot if he weren’t dumb as a hammer. Anyway, before he went out, he said he was seeing too many gun wackos.’ Jupiter answers, ‘Guys who wanted to spend hours talking about The Bilderbergs, faked moon landings, CIA mind control—
Ernest casts a sideways glance at Ryland.
‘—and he didn’t see the need to invite all that nuttiness to his front door.’
‘So what became of the range?’ Ernest asks.
‘Sold off the guns and ammo part and put the land under the plow again. When he died shortly after fencing it off, he left all of that land to his son,’ Jupiter angles a finger toward his chin, ‘who gives exactly zero shits about running a business that nets out 4 percent on a good year. Why? Wanna buy it?’
‘Is it for sale?’
‘Yes. And it’s in a perfect, perfect, spot for a shopping center, right by the new Highway 40 expansion. Or at least it would be if it weren’t for a certain councilman whose name I can’t say. But his name rhymes with Rouglas Dowe.’
‘Well, look at it this way.’ Ernest says. He tucks his earplugs into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘If this all works out, you won’t have to work with him anymore.’
‘I guess that’s one upside, isn’t it?’ Jupiter says, directing this particular question toward Ryland.
The police chief shrugs. ‘We’ll see.’
---
The afternoon is overcast.
The battered wooden picnic table where the three of them have taken a seat is in the shade of the small industrial shed that marks the entrance to the firing range. Neither of these last two factors makes it feel any cooler. The humidity must be north of eighty percent. Thick air clings to each man’s skin as though taped on. All three have gotten something cool to drink from a nearby vending machine, but that isn’t providing much relief, either.
Jupiter has the Beretta and a black case on the table. Out of the case, he retrieves a few items: a soft polishing cloth, a bristle brush, a few cotton swabs, and a small vial of oil. He begins breaking down the weapon. And continues talking.
‘So, let’s say I take this opportunity. What’s the pay?’
Ernest opens his mouth to answer, but Ryland heads him off. ‘It pays what it costs for one year’s lease on an armored military vehicle.’
‘You have one of those? Cool,’ Jupiter says, then hesitates. ‘But wait. You do? I’ve never actually seen that thing on the streets. Or on the news. Where do you keep it?’
Now it’s Ernest’s turn to chime in. ‘The better question: why does a police force need a BearCat Armored Vehicle?’
Jupiter stops polishing the gun. ‘Ryland?’
Ryland shrugs.
Jupiter gets it now. ‘Ah. I see. Clever.’
‘They never ask where I keep it parked,’ Ryland says. ‘So I just reallocate the funds.’
‘To answer your original question,’ Ernest offers, ‘it’ll maintain a certain standard of living. A modest house in the ’burbs. One car and two weeks vacation. Surround sound for the basement TV. Everything a man needs.’
‘What if I need front row season tickets to Cardinals games?’
Ernest smiles. ‘Then I’d suggest selling that farm.’
All three chuckle at this while Jupiter maneuvers a small strip of cloth into the gun’s barrel with a cleaning rod.
‘Don’t we wish,’ Ryland offers. ‘But with the salary and the hours, it’ll give you a chance to catch all the matinees you want.’
Jupiter pauses his cleaning. ‘Oh?’
Ryland motions Jupiter’s way using his head, but directs his next words to Ernest. ‘Jupiter might be as big a movie fan as you.’
Ernest looks at his potential partner with fresh perspective. ‘Yeah? I love going to the movies. As in going. Sitting in a theater. Eating an entire bucket full of popcorn. I used to take my kids all the time.’
‘Used to?’ Jupiter asks Ernest.
‘Long story,’ Ernest says. ‘The short version is that little kids become teenagers, and then the idea of hanging out with Dad is a lot less appealing. My daughter walked out of the last one I took her to. I don’t blame her.’
‘How so?’ Jupiter asks, before taking a swig of his sports drink.
‘I’m not very good company in a theater. I tend to ask questions that the movie doe
sn’t address.’ Ernest turns his water bottle, wiping off some of the condensation. ‘And I tend to ask those questions out loud.’
Ryland’s face brightens. ‘Jupiter told me he’s a big fan of zombie movies.’
‘Zombie movies?’ Ernest asks, looking from Ryland’s face to Jupiter’s. ‘Serious?’
Jupiter cocks an eyebrow. ‘Nice.’
‘What?’ Ernest addresses Jupiter, trying to piece together the sarcasm in Jupiter’s response. ‘Not a horror fan, then?’
‘No.’ Jupiter places the Beretta in the case.
Ernest looks at the candidate, turning his palms in the air: Explain, please.
So Jupiter does: ‘Every zombie movie is fundamentally flawed.’
‘Flawed? As in no such thing as zombies?’
‘No. Of course there can be zombies. The storyteller can make up whatever rules for their world that they like. But zombie movies are set in contemporary society. Worlds with cars, grocery stores, dogs, cats, shotguns, beer, bikes, and skyscrapers.’ Jupiter stops cleaning the weapon and looks at both men, as though he can’t believe he actually has to put words to a flaw so blatantly self-evident. ‘But they never address the vulture issue.’
It takes a few seconds, but Ernest snaps his fingers. His face lights up. ‘Oh my god! Of course. Why don’t zombies get attacked by vultures?’
‘The vulture issue. Or what about this?’ Jupiter sets the gun down and grabs the last of his beverage, holding it aloft for consideration. ‘The human body is like, what, eighty percent, ninety percent water, right?’
‘Way ahead of you: Batman Begins.’ Ernest says with the satisfaction of an MI6 agent reading an intercepted Enigma transmission.
Jupiter acknowledges Ernest with an open palm. Thank you. And since Ernest has it pegged, the only one left to explain it to is Ryland. ‘If Ra’s Al Ghul turns on that machine, people in Gotham would start popping like infected boils on YouTube.’
Ryland considers. ‘I think you two are going to get along famously.’
Jupiter’s eyes dart from the old superhero to the old policeman. He takes a long exhale. ‘So. Help me process this. Because it’s not every day— I mean half of me is still saying this is just some elaborate political stunt by the Council.
‘I won’t even tell you what I did when my mentor told me,’ Ernest says.
‘And the whole idea is that I put my life at risk almost every week. I get punched, shot at, thrown off of ledges. I run into burning buildings, dive under frozen ponds, and help old ladies cross the street. And in exchange for all that, you, Ernest, can teach me… stuff. You can teach me how to be a superhero?’
Ernest nods. ‘It’s a process.’
‘And what would I be doing right away? Is SlipKnot tunneling under Busch Stadium? A chupacabra loose in the Botanical Gardens?’
Ryland almost chuckles, but remains serious. ‘Hopefully, nothing. The idea is to transition while things are quiet. Ernest has left this city a much safer place than he found it. But there are always evil men and women ready to fill a vacuum. And even good seeds can bear poison fruit when grown in bad soil. It’s just a matter of time before someone begins tilling again.’
Jupiter takes another long breath, his eyes searching the hills in the distance. ‘You gentlemen know what else is eighty percent water? This air. It’s hotter than my balls in a steam room. Let’s head to the car.’ Jupiter closes the gun case, and the three men rise from the picnic table.
And that’s when Jupiter extends his hand to Ernest. ‘As far as the job. It sounds like… it’d be an honor.’
‘Very well.’ Watching the men shake on it, Ryland looks positively elated. His eyebrows arch a good quarter of an inch. He then extends his own hand. ‘We can talk terms in the car.’
Jupiter retracts his hand. ‘Wait. What terms?’
---
‘Well, that’s what I’m saying. I expected it to be a more difficult decision,’ Phoebe Smith tells her husband while walking through the open-air, outdoor section of a giant home improvement store that may be spread across two zip codes. ‘It should be a more difficult decision.’
Said husband pushes a wide, low shopping cart. Wife, meanwhile, is mostly occupied with an iPhone app, swiping through a few pictures for inspiration. The app lets Phoebe take a picture of her house and then try out landscaping ideas, finally presenting her with a shopping list once she commits. The app is called houzz, or rooomez, or landscapez, or something spelled in a way that makes the app easier to sell to a bigger company because it’s “branded.” The free app is harmless enough when used in a bedroom or a couch, Ernest has concluded. When used in a cavernous home improvement store? The thing siphons cash from the family wallet.
Phoebe halts the procession in front of the hostas. She consults her phone again while frustration has started to get the better of Ernest. She’s supposed to be more excited about this; the fact that Ernest has finally settled on his replacement.
‘I don’t get why you’re so cynical about this,’ Ernest says choosing his words with as carefully as he chooses hostas. To his eye, they all look green.
Phoebe selects one of the blue variety (which is green), then casts an icy stare toward her life partner. ‘Please. Caution is not cynicism. Hesitation is not cynicism. And my hesitation is about Jupiter’s relationship with power.’
Ernest hesitates. (At least he’s not being cynical.) His eyes squint in confusion. ‘His relationship—
Phoebe pivots. ‘Negotiations should be harder. Why would he give up that much influence so easily?’ An additional blue hosta goes on the pushcart while she lets the question linger. ‘If he chooses to take over, he gets shot at. He gets buildings blown up around his ears. He gets bitten while saving the adorable family Rottweiler.’
Out of instinct, Ernest glances around. All other shoppers are busy deliberating over grass seed, starter fertilizer, or organic potting soil.
‘And, he gets to do all those fun things, putting his life at risk every day, without a single word of thanks. Without being able to tell anyone, “Hey, guess what I did today? I saved the entire city. You’re welcome.” Oh, and we need mulch.’
‘You’re kinda on a rant, hon.’
Phoebe snatches the cart handle. Ernest lets her.
The two walk side by side to the back corner of the Lawn and Garden department. Pallet upon pallet of bagged mulch await. Judging from which pile Phoebe is heading toward, it looks like the Smiths are going a shade or two darker this year. ‘As a councilman, it’s almost all upside.’ Phoebe says.
‘Like?’
‘Like you get streets and parks named after you. You get to be an honored guest at Rotary Club lunches and Chamber of Commerce dinners. Front row for the Symphony. Box seats for the Cardinals.’
‘You get Cardinals seats for being a councilman?’
‘We need… 22. And yes. The city has a suite. You didn’t know that?’
Ernest’s mouth draws into a frown of admiration. ‘Huh. He actually made a joke about Cardinals tickets. But yeah, I guess that’d be a tough perk to give up.’ He bends to grab a few bags of mulch. Then, from his squatted position, scans for fellow shoppers.
‘Don’t.’ Phoebe commands.
‘What?’
‘Just stop. Two or three at a time. Please.’
Ernest tosses a half-dozen on the cart. ‘No one’s looking.’
Phoebe pitches in, tossing one bag at a time atop the pushcart’s growing pile. She watches her husband retrieve bags numbers 21 and 22, double-checking the bag count. ‘All I’m saying is that it should be something he has to sleep on at least. I’m saying that if he accepted the conditions so quickly, he can’t really understand what he just signed up for. That’s why I don’t trust him.’
‘But I don’t understand lots of things.’
‘Yeah, but you’re at least smart enough to know that. Which is why— Phoebe interrupts herself. ‘Ugh. Really?’
The reason: Ernest has tried to dust off
wet, mulchy residue from his hands. The effort meets with less-than-ideal results, so he’s used his jeans to finish the job. Now both his hands and pants smell like nature. So Phoebe grunts again.
‘What?’
She inhales to answer.
---
‘I trust you. That’s the reason.’ Jupiter says into a small cluster of microphones, his inflection precise. His tone measured. ‘I trust you, the people of the greatest city in the world: St. Louis.’
Some of the audience claps in appreciation. For a city council meeting on a Tuesday night, this one is well-attended. Then again, this one is hardly routine. Along with the usual discussions about speed bumps and library closing hours, this one’s agenda also includes a farewell speech.
Perhaps because the farewell speech will be over in time to make the 10 o’clock news, reporters from all three local news channels are in attendance, along with the usual crowd of print-only journalists. Ernest and Ryland have taken up observational positions along the auditorium’s earth-toned back wall. Ernest’s arms are folded across his chest; Ryland’s tucked deep into the pockets of his suit jacket, pulling the coat tight across his narrow shoulders. Both men’s interest has them kerning forward like a stylized typeface, however, as councilman Blackshear holds forth from a small lectern.
‘No public servant has ever made a bad call by putting their trust in the people. They’ll always make the right decision.’ Jupiter casts a frown toward the men and women seated behind name placards to his left. He reserves his most disdainful looks for Chairperson Ephron and Councilman Rowe. ‘Eventually.’
Jupiter favors the TV cameras now. On second thought, Ernest sees, he might be favoring not the cameras, but rather the new KMOX reporter Kelsey Rudd-Perkins, who’s busy checking for split ends in her luxurious brown hair. The reporter sniffs. Ernest thinks he spots the puffy eyes of her springtime allergies.
I, Superhero Page 11
