He first hears the clatter of a broken door, then sees a body plummet from a dangerous height, and then another step out on the apartment balcony with a baseball bat in hand. Jupiter drops into a crouch on the two feet of ledge created by the theater wall. In his mind’s eye, he observes his posture. He’s duly impressed. He looks like Spider-Man looking out over New York City. Or Batman keeping vigil over Gotham. Or about a dozen others he’s seen in the frames of a comic book. All that’s missing is a cape swirling in the breeze.
The figure on the balcony looks over the railing, considers the man below, then heads back inside. Jupiter presses a button next to his ear and speaks into the headset microphone. ‘Let me guess: Pepper spray?’
The figure lying on the grass below moves hand to head, then rolls to one side. There’s a crackle of static. The first thing Jupiter hears is a gasp for breath, followed by a prolonged hacking cough. Fortunately, Ernest’s downward momentum was slowed by a row of dense boxwoods planted along the downstairs patio. The shrubs may have just saved him from (further) brain injury.
‘No! Aaack! Aaaough!’ Jupiter listens to Ernest spit. ‘Mace!’
Jupiter blinks once.
My partner is strong, he thinks. And also a dumbass.
Just then, he sees a first-level door swing open. A man runs out holding a bat in his right hand, a backpack in his left. The man looks at Ernest and pauses. Seems to decide something. He slings the backpack over his shoulder, heads toward the rows of cars in the apartment’s parking lot.
Jupiter stands, tracking the man’s movements.
He retrieves a grappling hook from his belt. With a satisfied grin, he remembers it’s the grappling hook Ernest told him not to bring.
---
Not only do the apartment’s decorative streetlamps do a fine job illuminating criminals, they also make a fantastic target. Having scrambled from theater rooftop to ground, Jupiter breaks into a run, aiming for the top of the lamppost closest to the man’s car. Jupiter fires. The years of gun range target practice pay off—he feels the satisfying recoil of the grappling hook finding its mark.
Meanwhile, the tweaker has made it over to his car—a Pontiac Firebird. He opens the door and tosses the bat and backpack inside, looking like a teenager headed out for baseball practice. He gets in. Turns the ignition. Checks the rearview mirror.
Jupiter Blackshear crashes onto the hood of the car.
The tweaker stops. He looks through the windshield, eyes wide with shock and terror. Some dark and terrible humanoid beast, dressed in armor the color of shadow and capable of flight, has just materialized out of nowhere, and seems intent on ending his life. Either that, or something contaminated his last batch of meth other than chili powder.
Jupiter looks from the tweaker to the apex of the streetlight.
That was awesome!
The tweaker scrambles for his backpack. Locates whatever he’s looking for.
It’s a gun. Big Guy is armed after all.
The weapon looks sinister and oily in the tweaker’s hand, like it’s holding a wet shine. Jupiter’s guess is that it’s some kind of Glock. The tweaker hits the power window button, then reaches out, firing four un-aimed shots toward Jupiter. Sloppy stagecraft, but from this distance, sloppy is all that’s required—only one needs to hit the target.
Except none do. And it’s not because they weren’t properly aimed. And it’s not because they bounced off of Jupiter’s carbon fiber-reinforced suit.
Instead, the 9mm bullets deflect harmlessly off a safeguard—a round, steel shield that’s between Jupiter’s body and his attacker.
A shield formed by Jupiter’s own right hand.
The repeated clicking of an automatic weapon with an empty clip.
Jupiter’s shield turns into an elongated blob resembling blown glass before the glass is turned into a chalice or mixing bowl. What had just been something resembling a shield of ancient Sparta takes on the shape of a human hand once again.
‘Haha!’ You see that, jackass?’ Jupiter asks, gleefully rubbing the victory in his opponent’s face. ‘You have a gun, chump, but I can make my hand into hardened steel! Any shape I want!’
And it’s a hell of a lot of fun, Jupiter adds mentally.
The Big Guy’s arm sags in defeat, and he drops the semi-automatic. He hesitates while considering his next move. Apparently, it’s this: run. He retrieves the bat, then opens the car door. He steps out, clearly hoping to use the bat only in defense, keeping his focus on Jupiter’s right hand the whole time. His eyes go wide.
The reason: Jupiter’s hand has formed into the shape of a giant warhammer. He hops down from the Firebird’s hood. ‘Feeling frosty today, son?’
The tweaker considers the bat. Then the warhammer.
He flees.
And runs directly into Ernest Smith.
Using only his right arm, Ernest gathers up the loose collection of skin and bones by the shirt collar, hoisting him off the ground.
The tweaker’s feet dangle helplessly. Exercising at least some measure of wisdom, he drops the bat.
‘Thank you. Also you’re under arrest,’ Ernest says with a scratchy voice, his eyes still a red, watery, sloppy mess. ‘Now, then—’
Ernest sneezes.
And since Ernest’s nose is also still a runny, sloppy mess, the tweaker’s face is now a runny, sloppy mess, too. Fortunately, this particular mess will only injure pride, not skin.
‘Now, then… where’s the stash of meth?’ Something like that, right?’ Jupiter asks.
Ernest wipes his nose with his sleeve. He opens his mouth to reply in the affirmative.
He sneezes again.
Twenty Seven
The tweaker’s name, according to the warehouse membership card found in his back pocket, is John Abbetoir.
Along with the drug- and firearm-related charges (and a host of others), John faces a solicitation rap, a fact that quickly becomes a source of unending amusement. For Jupiter. His quip about John being escorted into police custody seems a particular favorite.
For his part, Ernest tries to relax. He crosses his legs, but the chairs of this jailhouse antechamber remain uncomfortable no matter how he’s positioned. The furniture—along with the entire room—isn’t designed for long periods of use. It’s more or less an upgraded foyer with a few rows of future-now chairs from the late ’70s bolted to the floor. On one end: a locked door leading out to the main lobby. On the other: a heavier door leading to interrogation rooms and holding cells. The antechamber is a place for lawyers to speak with inmates from behind one of two perforated Plexiglas dividers, or for family members to await loved ones who’ve posted bail. The cramped space smells of antiseptic that almost, but not quite, covers the stink of vomit.
Ernest works the wrapper off of a throat lozenge. This is a place, and a smell, he knows far too well.
He also knows from doing this a hundred times that he and Jupiter might as well settle in. And they might as well get going on the paperwork. At least they don’t have to wait for everything to be typed in. Scanning makes things sooo much easier compared to when Ernest first completed these citizen’s arrest forms. But while the technology has much improved since those bygone days, the seats, alas, have not.
The heavy clank of a steel latch.
Ernest turns toward the door leading to the lobby, expecting a cop, perhaps leading a perp to their temporary housing. He’s a bit surprised, then, when he sees the person entering isn’t dressed in navy blue and wearing a sidearm. He’s further surprised to recognize the man.
Douglas Rowe.
To be fair, Ernest notices, he is dressed in navy. Resplendent, in fact, in a pinstriped two-piece with peaked lapels and a pocket square matching his orange tie. Despite the late hour, he appears as though he may be headed to a city council meeting, or a TV appearance.
Jupiter also looks up from his paperwork. His eyes narrow at once, but he doesn’t stand to greet his one-time colleague. ‘What the hell? What’re
you doing here?’
Rowe takes a moment to run his hands down the sides of his suit coat. A man used to commanding a room, Rowe puffs his chest out of habit, Ernest sees, but the gesture lacks conviction.
‘Got a call from my building manager. What’s going on in my apartments?’
Jupiter gestures with his clipboard. Pages of the report flap. ‘RTFM, man.’
Ernest sets the clipboard aside and approaches the city councilman. Rowe either ignores, or doesn’t understand, Jupiter’s suggestion to Read the Fucking Manual.
Close up, Ernest can see sleep deprivation in Rowe’s bloodshot eyes. He also sees the outline of a college football linebacker at the University of Missouri. Middle linebacker, if memory serves. Ernest notes that the outline has been obscured by big crayon brushstrokes of age and wealth, but the outline is more than evident.
The two men shake hands. Rowe’s grip is nothing to sneeze at.
‘A tweaker. A couple of girls. Pretty routine drug bust, until the tweaker decided to take batting practice,’ Ernest says.
‘If you call meth and prostitutes routine.’ Jupiter interjects. ‘Me? I call them felonies. You? You probably call them a bad cell in a spreadsheet, Rowe, because that’s all you ever think about.’
The stately man glances over Ernest’s shoulder, absorbing Jupiter’s broadside in silence. He looks back at Ernest. ‘Prostitutes?’
‘Girls say they were just friends. They can’t verify income or housing. But they were wasted, so they also couldn’t verify what day it is. The prosecutor might question them, try to establish consideration in lieu of cash, something like that.’
‘Huh. Sex in exchange for room and board? Sounds like my parent’s marriage,’ Jupiter says. If there’s a nugget of truth within every joke, Jupiter’s face says this particular nugget is quite large. ‘What I’d be more worried about are the dope charges. The reputation that your shiny new apartment complex is a meth lab. The press will have a ball. Especially once I tell the press.’ Jupiter crosses his arms, clearly taking smug satisfaction in Rowe’s look of dread. ‘Which, of course, is why you’re here.’
Rowe exhales. ‘It’d be nice if it escaped media attention.’
Ernest notices the anguish etched into the councilman’s eyes. It’s an anguish not explained by the potential loss of money, or reputation, but something more valuable. He reflects once again of the outline of the college football player.
Then he sees it. The resemblance.
He sees that if you took the outline of a strapping college football player and then traced a line inside of that line, stretched it out just a bit, what you’d end up with is—
‘How old is he? Your son?’
Jupiter’s head swivels. ‘What? Whose son?’
Rowe exhales again. This time, his entire body seems to deflate. Whatever force he was counting on to command the room has been leached from both his eyes and voice. ‘Jack is 24. And, I’ve screwed up. Too much money. Not enough responsibility. Too many weekends at the lake. Too many friends latching on for a free ride. He’s been circling the drain since he flunked out of Mizzou.’
Jupiter chuckles. ‘Flunked Mizzou? Is that possible?’
Rowe continues, confessing to Ernest the way a drunk would to a bartender, seeking a brand of silent empathy only adults with children can provide. ‘You do what you think is best, you know? I thought that by putting him in charge of a few my apartments, I could give him some sense of purpose.’ Rowe breaks eye contact. ‘I guess I was wrong. The video games. The social media. Those goddamn drugs. They’ve turned him into some kind of… monster.’
Jupiter looks at his clipboard for a long moment.
The junior superhero stands, then approaches the two elder men. ‘I’m sorry, Rowe. Really. I had a cousin one time who…’ he lets the explanation trail off. Places a hand on Rowe’s arm.
Rowe nods at Jupiter’s hand. When he looks back to Ernest, his eyes have taken on an even brighter shade of crimson. ‘So. Where do we go from here?’
‘Well. Some of that’s up to the prosecutor. And some is up to you.’
Rowe nods, listening.
‘You want to press charges?’ Ernest asks.
A sigh. ‘I don’t know. Can you scare him?’
‘I can.’ Jupiter offers. His eyes burn with the intensity of an entrepreneur pitching to a panel of venture capitalists. ‘Is he in interrogation yet?’
‘Check with her.’ Ernest motions to the clerk behind the wall of Plexiglas. Her dark hair stops at her chin, encircling a round face. She sees Ernest’s gesture and folds substantial arms across her chest, as though saying: yeah, just try checking with me, punk.
‘Let me talk to him,’ Jupiter pleads. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
Rowe says nothing for a long time.
---
Ernest has seen enough.
One slap from Jupiter is all it takes to send Ernest out of the room with the closed-circuit television (which, unlike two-way glass, can keep an eye on all interrogation rooms at once, duh). He knocks once on the door behind which Jupiter is having his “talk” with Jack Rowe, aka John Abbetoir.
‘Hey. I think that’ll do,’ Ernest says after letting himself in.
‘Why? We’re just getting started.’ Jupiter leans, arms crossed, against concrete walls the same color as an elementary school gymnasium.
Ernest walks to the corner. He retrieves a charcoal-colored chair and drags it back into place under the steel table. Hand still on the chair back, he glances at his partner. ‘That’s kinda what I’m worried about.’
After a brief moment, Jupiter pushes himself off the wall.
‘Good,’ Ernest says. ‘Now. Anything else you want to say?’
Jack Rowe flips the bird.
‘Right. A fountain of information. Let’s go, Jupiter.’
The superhero and superhero-in-training exit the cramped room. Ernest shuts the door behind him. Jupiter is already petitioning Ernest by the time he’s taken his second step back toward the jail antechamber.
‘Dude, I’m telling you: he was starting to crack. I think I can find out who his distributor is.’
‘Crack?’ Ernest asks. ‘This is a burner who’s lost his way. We’re not Batman and Robin, and he’s not Joker. You can’t just go beating information out—’
‘He’s connected to something bigger. I know it. I want a tail on him.’
Ernest produces the first part of a chuckle. ‘That’s nice. But that’s Ryland’s call, not ours. He’ll review the tape. If he wants to commit the resources, he’ll do it.’ Ernest hasn’t broken stride. ‘But there’s a thousand people he’d like to put a tail on. And you have to pay people to do a stakeout.’
‘I don’t need Ryland’s help. Or his permission. I assume tweakhead will make bail?’
‘Yes, Jupiter. His father, the millionaire land developer, is waiting in the lobby with his checkbook. So yes, he’ll make bail. And there’s something else we need to talk about.’
Ernest pulls up short of the doorway to the holding room with the uncomfortable chairs. The two superheroes turn to face one another. Ernest takes a deep breath. ‘Look, Jupiter. I didn’t come up with this phrase, but that doesn’t make it any less relevant. And we need to be mindful of this in everything we do.’
‘What?’
‘With great power, Jupiter,’ Ernest says, his eyes sincere, ‘comes great respons—’
Jupiter farts.
This is new, Ernest thinks. Not even Fergus has tried this.
Jupiter shifts his weight. ‘Was that out loud?’
Ernest blinks at his partner. He steps back, retreating from the blast radius.
‘I’ve always found that with great power comes great opportunity.’ Jupiter waggles a finger in the air. ‘Huh? Think about it that way. You and I have the opportunity to do something fantastic with our lives. Something normal people can’t do. I mean, how many people have the gifts we do? Like two.’
‘Actually, it’s more
like—’
‘How many people can leave a legacy like we can, huh? I can change the shape of my right arm, and by doing that, change the shape of this entire city. I can make it a better place. And when I do, people will celebrate. People will know I chose not to piss my gifts down the crapper. So maybe they won’t piss away their own.’
‘You know, you have a way of phrasing things, Jupiter—’
With a flick of his eyebrows: ‘Pretty awesome, eh?’
‘—that involves cursing,’ Ernest says. ‘That might be your true gift. Now, we have paperwork to finish. And then I have to get home.’
Jupiter raises his right arm. Wiggles his fingers. Each of four digits lengthen and narrow until each resembles a No. 2 pencil—pencils made of steel. The thumb he uses the old-fashioned way. ‘Ready when you are.’
---
Ernest stops writing and shakes out his hand.
Completing the “How Apprehended” text box took several minutes, and he’s in need of a break. He’s about to ask how Jupiter’s report is coming along, but when he looks up, sees that his understudy has also decided to hit pause.
‘You gonna be OK with them?’ Jupiter asks, motioning to the two women scooped up during the raid of Jack Rowe’s apartment and recently deposited in the holding area. Their long night isn’t over just yet. Ernest nods. Jupiter tucks two clipboards under his arms and walks through the door to the interrogation rooms. Ernest’s eyes track Jupiter’s exit, and then meet for a fleeting moment with the prostitute’s—
Ernest catches himself.
How easy it is to look at someone and not truly see one thing.
There’s a woman seated across from him. She has dirty blonde hair and oily skin and full lips. She’s young, but tiny wrinkles from what Ernest guesses is a smoking habit picked up in high school have aged her prematurely.
He guesses that she’s also a drug addict. And that she’s scared. And lonely. And trying to survive the best way she knows how, just like any of us.
I, Superhero Page 15
