‘So as I was saying,’ Rowe continues, ‘I end up literally shouting at the screen. “Why, dumbass?! Why are you throwing a punch at someone wearing an iron freaking suit?” Right? Or like, you’re gonna kung fu with The Hulk? Hulk’s bulletproof, but has a weak chin? Come on.’ Rowe paces, commanding the room, just as he does during City Council meetings.
‘He and I kinda bonded over these kinds of things,’ Jupiter explains.
Additional salt in Ernest’s wound.
‘You, on the other hand, don’t have a weak chin,’ Rowe adds, shifting the boat oar in his hands. ‘But you, my friend, are no Hulk.’
The combination of suit and lacquered wooden club give him the affectation of a Mafia knee-capper. ‘So now I’m in a pickle here. A real pickle. Because the other part of the superhero movies that I can always see coming a mile away is that the hero ends up in some kind of moral bind. A dilemma. He’s forced to choose between saving the city, and compromising his values. Saving the girl or saving the entire world, e.g.’ He says both letters: Eee, then Gee.
Ernest starts to reply that it doesn’t quite work that way.
The way it actually works, he almost says, is that he only saves one person at a time. But that one person is someone else’s entire existence. Ernest doesn’t save the world, he saves someone’s world.
But he can’t get those words out. In part, because he’s injured. From the throbbing bulge he feels in his cheek, it’s a good bet that he indeed has a broken jaw. Also in part, because he’s gagged with a thick strip of cloth. From the taste, it’s a good bet the gag has been used—many times—to help change the oil.
‘Except in this case,’ Rowe continues, ‘I’m the one with the dilemma. I’m the one facing the choice. So well done on that. You, my friend, are what they call a genre-bender.’
Ernest’s eyebrows wrinkle in confusion.
‘I take it you aren’t familiar with Save the Cat.’
Ernest’s eyebrows do not un-wrinkle.
‘No? Not a cat person? Figures. What I’m trying to say is that I’m the one, my little superhero friend, who must decide whether to kill you and send you to the bottom of the Missouri, or let you live, and trust you won’t try to stop all this from happening. So this contraption here,’ Rowe glances at the suspended cargo box, ‘buys me time to hear your answer.’
---
In the Missouri River, Fergus Smith slices a clean path to the boat dock.
Ever since Flynn detached in order to check out the speedboat, there’s a lot less weight for the grappling gun to drag against the current. In addition, now that he’s closer to shore, there’s less current to fight in the first place.
Outfitted in his matte grey supersuit, he resembles a torpedo quietly readying to deliver an explosive payload. He looks up just above the surface of the water and sees several men milling about, disappearing into the corrugated metal shed. He glimpses just enough behind the wide shed doors to make an educated guess as to what’s going on.
One of the men sits against a concrete pillar. One climbs into a small warehouse forklift and hoists a shipping container in the air. For a few moments, the shipping container sways perilously in mid-air. Two more men seem to be addressing the one on the ground.
Water carrying dark silt splashes into his eyes, blurring his vision, but he’s pretty sure the one seated next to the post is his father. And if those other three men on shore are in any way trying to hurt my dad, Fergus thinks, then those men are going to wish I were only a torpedo.
Fergus concentrates, warmth coursing into his right hand.
---
‘Call it a gamble. Us land developers do that.’ Rowe says, continuing to pace along the cargo box’s shadow. ‘I especially like to gamble when I know the outcome of the bet. Red, I win; Black, you lose. That kind of thing.’
Through a broken jaw and a cloth gag, Ernest replies, ‘Then what the hell do you want? What’s so important that it’s worth the lives of all those people ruined or even lost to the flood?’
Or at least he tries. It comes out something like this: ‘Uhhbuhhbuhhbuh.’
‘What? I can’t… look, it’s a very simple concept. The most lucrative improvement I can make on the land I own is to open a casino. I’ve already got bidders lined up: Caesar’s, MGM, Wynn Resorts, that dude who owns the Venetian. They all want access to the money flowing through Chesterfield and Clayton like a, well, like a river, as it were.
‘But in order to open a casino, I face two huge obstacles. One: I need investment capital. Yes, I’m rich, but all my liquid worth right now is sunk up in that money pit of a shopping center. Tax increment bonds. Deferred compensation. City Council stuff that no one bothers to care about. It’s complicated.
‘At any rate, the only way I can get money out of that investment within the next five years is to have something very bad happen. What the insurance business calls an “act of God.”’
‘At your service,’ Jupiter takes a theatrical bow.
‘The other problem: I don’t own land near a river,’ Rowe says. ‘Usually, it’s a bad investment. The flood insurance alone is a deal-killer. Unless, that is, you build a 16-story ATM on the banks of that river. And the casinos in this state need to be located on the river—like physically touching water, so that it can be called a boat if you tilt your head and squint.’
True to his word, Rowe takes a gamble. A huge one. He steps forward into the shadow of the shipping container. Squats down, eye-level with the superhero. ‘So,’ he says in a low voice, taking his measure of Ernest Smith, making a bet that Ernest won’t just let go of the rope, ending this whole thing right now. ‘What’s a land developer to do if he wants a casino built on land that isn’t on the Missouri River?’
Rowe arches his eyebrows, waiting for the answer.
Jupiter Blackshear provides the answer. ‘He moves the river.’
‘He moves the river,’ says Rowe, pointing at his business partner, but not taking his eyes off Ernest. Rowe stands. Strolls to the edge of the shadow again.
‘You think we’re bad, don’t you? Trust me, we’re nothing. We just have a plan, and the plan is to make money, same as everyone else in business or politics. Wait till you see those casino moguls. Those casino owners will literally stab each other in the eyeballs for the opportunity to cut me a check for a million dollars.’
Douglas Rowe clicks his tongue in his cheek twice. ‘Brains and brawn. Quite the winning hand, as you can see.’
‘That’s good. I like that one,’ Jupiter says, eyebrows raised.
‘I should get my own show.’ Rowe claps in delight. ‘Damn, I wish I could remember the one about losing your head. That’s really bothering me now.’
‘You could, you know. Your own show. You’ll own a casino,’ Jupiter offers.
‘Yeah. Note to self. Anyway, that brings us back to my pickle, which is what to do with you.’ Rowe says, tapping the boat oar on the ground. ‘You and that stupid dam you just made with the help of your stupid son. Rowe hoists the boat oar over his shoulder. ‘Because look, I like you, Ernest Smith. I do. Probably hard to see at this moment, I grant you, so you’re gonna have to take my word for it.’ Rowe clicks his tongue again. ‘The thing is, you’ve got superstrength, and my colleague here has super… whatever it is he can do.’
‘Transmutation,’ offers Jupiter.
‘Ah, yes. That,’ Rowe says with a wave of his hand. ‘But here’s the deal: I’ve got the best superpower of all. I’ve got the superpower that can defeat any enemy.’
Ernest looks up, wishing that he had chosen to learn how to shoot laser beams from his eyes, à la Superman, or even Cyclops. He’ll have to settle right now for trying to burn a metaphorical hole through Councilman Douglas Rowe. His eyes ask the question well enough, however. Which is?
‘Money,’ Rowe replies.
‘True,’ Blackshear adds, matter-of-fact. ‘They say money can’t buy happiness. But you know what it can buy?’
The words are muffl
ed by Ernest’s gag, but he gets it out well enough. ‘Jet Skis?’
‘Hookers. That’s what I was thinking,’ says Jupiter. ‘Good-looking ones, too. Not the ones with more tattoos than teeth. Good-looking hookers can make a man very happy, trust me. Also, money will buy a lot of vacations in the Maldives. With Jet Skis. And hookers.’ Jupiter turns the frown into a wide smile. ‘And I don’t even know where the Maldives is. I mean, the larger point here is this: I can turn my right arm into a giant scimitar,’ Jupiter says, brandishing his right arm-sword. ‘Cool, but I’d still rather have money.’
‘That’s because money can buy illegal weapons. And men who can use them. And above all else,’ Rowe interjects. ‘Money can buy the Saint. Louis. Cardinals.’
Ernest turns his head from Rowe to Jupiter, asking the man he mentored whether Douglas Rowe is serious. Or deranged.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Rowe says, in answer to Ernest’s unspoken question. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard the recent news about the owner and the cocaine and the underage girls.’
‘That’s why you go with hookers,’ Jupiter offers.
‘You know what this scandal means? It means the MLB commissioner’s office will step in to force a sale. It means the St. Louis emm-effing Cardinals are going to up for auction. And if they’re up for sale, we can buy them. All we need is the cash,’ Douglas Rowe says.
Jupiter then looks at his boss.
‘Yes, you can have hookers in the suite, Jupiter. Hell, we can have ’em playing middle infield if we want.’
Rowe abruptly pivots, like he just remembered where he parked the car. He takes a few paces toward the Muddy Mo, and more specifically, at the police boat pacing just off the shore. ‘But right now, there’s one more invite that’s of more pressing concern. You know this now, Ernest, but this is all just a diversion. I need the police here, converging on this dock, and not out in the river, trying to track down my runabout.’
Rowe tosses the boat oar to Jupiter. He begins walking to the garage entryway. Ernest asks Rowe what’s on the runabout that’s so important: ‘Uhtsuhbubub.’
‘Oh, what’s on the runabout?’ Rowe says over his shoulder. ‘You know, every business plan has a section titled, “Contingency.” And my contingency plan is what’s going to take out that levee once and for all.’
Land baron Douglas Rowe steps into the wide doorway of the corrugated boat garage. Ernest watches him signal to the police boat, and knows that whatever signal he gives doesn’t augur well for what comes next. ‘Help! Ernest is hurt! Help, please!’
All three men wait for a few seconds.
Ernest begins fighting against his bindings, even biting down against the gag despite the pain in his jaw. But he loses his grip on the rope in the effort, and the wet knots that bind his right hand behind him only bite further into flesh. Rowe is right; he can keep the container suspended, or struggle against his bindings, but not both. Not if he wants to survive, that is.
Several thoughts enter Ernest’s mind at once, all jostling for space and attention. Thought one: my kids are in that boat, or they should be. Thought two: neither Douglas nor Jupiter know my kids are in that boat. Thought three: my kids, and actually one kid in particular, might be my only hope.
Ernest hears the police boat rev its engine as Crowley responds to the distress call, just as he’s been trained to do.
Ernest sees the shuffling figure of Bob enter his field of vision. Bob takes up a position next to the gesticulating figure of Rowe. Ernest glances at Bob’s right hand. He beholds something that gives birth to a fourth thought. Please, Crowley, don’t steer that police boat toward the dock. Please do the smart thing. Please, just run.
With a crack—fragments of a broken jaw colliding—Ernest bites through the gag.
Fifty
Sergeant Martin Crowley sees the figure in the suit emerge from the shed’s doorway. Alone. Alarm bells in his head ring. He’s worried for Ernest’s safety. He’s even more worried for Ernest’s kids. The teenagers jumping overboard was bad. Looking back to the boat dock after a quick search, and not seeing anyone—that was even worse.
The figure in the suit starts waving. Calling for assistance from the police vessel. Shouting that Ernest is hurt. With the mental alarm bells blaring more urgently now, Crowley calls it in. Vehicles are being dispatched to the boat garage in this little corner of nowhere.
He clicks off the boat radio and makes a decision he already knows will likely turn out badly. As someone sworn to protect and serve, Crowley can hardly ignore a distress call. And especially because the distress signal concerns a fallen brother—in many ways Ernest gave Martin Crowley a life worth living the day he showed up at his security kiosk 10 years ago—he hits the throttle of the police craft. The outboard motor emits a low growl.
He’s within about forty yards of corrugated shed adjacent to the boat dock when the man in the grey suit is joined in the wide bay doorway by another figure. This other figure is tall, yet walks with an apelike slouch, arms draped at his sides. Grey Suit points at Crowley’s boat. Then the tall, shambling figure pivots, also pointing in Crowley’s direction.
Unlike Grey Suit, the ape-man isn’t pointing a finger.
And by the time the good police sergeant realizes what’s being pointed his way, he knows it’s too late. The boat is too close, and it’s a boat for God’s sake, not a car. You can’t exactly stomp the brakes, put it into reverse, and peel out in the other direction.
So Martin Crowley, former security guard, current police sergeant, and lifelong aspiring novelist, decides not to spend his last moments on this earth letting fear decide his fate. Fulfilling the promise he made to himself ten years ago, he will live life on his own terms. Anything short of that isn’t really living at all.
Martin Crowley draws his sidearm.
He squeezes off exactly three rounds.
Crowley’s gunfire includes a beginning, a middle, and an end. The story lover in him takes no small satisfaction in that fact. As the protagonist in his own life, Martin Crowley will go out a hero.
He sees a small puff of smoke emerge from just behind the shoulder of the man pointing the rocket launcher. He then sees a huge fireball erupt next to the man’s chest.
His final conscious thought is that he’s not sure which has occurred first—the puff of smoke, or the fireball.
In the end, it doesn’t really matter.
---
The weapon in Bob’s hands dispatches the 21-foot police boat, along with the man policing that boat, with a lethal finality.
Wow, Douglas Rowe thinks. The power he has at his disposal. Just wow.
And then, while smoke still curls out of Bob’s weapon, he thinks this:
Holy shit!
He thinks this because the weapon in Bob’s hands is designed for taking down armored tanks. He thinks this because the weapon in Bob’s hands is intended to blow a giant hole in the levee protecting about five square miles of Chesterfield, Missouri, allowing the Missouri River to carve a new route on its way to join the Mississippi.
Most of all, though, Rowe thinks holy shit! because the weapon in Bob’s hands is now the weapon that was in Bob’s hands.
The RPG lies inert on the ground, Bob has seemingly vaporized, and Rowe, for his own part, has been knocked flat on his ass.
Rowe rolls to his left. There. Not vaporized exactly, but Bob now lies in a smoldering, unconscious heap. Panicked, Doug Rowe scrapes himself off of the pavement. His suit coat is in tatters, his face is a jumble of bloody scratches, and smoke rises from the right side of his head where hair used to be. But he’s very much alive. He peels out of the ruined jacket and tosses it to the ground.
Fergus Smith swings down from overhead. The hook of the grappling gun is attached to a steel support beam running the length of the garage shed. Fergus lands on the cement pad, knees bent. He tosses Flynn’s marvelous gadget aside using his left hand. He then raises his right one, palm outstretched.
It’s the color of volcanic lava
; the color of a hand that’s just launched a tight bolt of flame, and is ready to launch another.
‘Let. Him. Go.’ the boy orders.
That’s my boy. The landing. The command. The muscular menace conveyed by the supersuit. The further threat of mayhem conveyed by his outstretched right hand. Ernest watches his son in awe, feeling like he’s looking at a frame in a comic book.
And yet, Ernest flinches at the sight.
Paternal instinct kicks in. The instinct is to protect—one as automatic and unthinking as a heartbeat. The rope jerks in his hand. The conscious part of Ernest’s brain takes over once more. Hang on. Just survive.
Ernest spits out the torn end of the cloth gag. It slides down his cheek, falls into his lap. Though his words are masked by pain and the immobility of a broken jaw, he manages: ‘Fergus! Don’t!’
Rowe casts a glance at his henchman.
Jupiter nods. Contained in that subtle communication is a signal—no, a warning—about all that will follow: Jupiter will take care of the teenager. Rowe will male a sprint for the runabout, speed away, and go blow another hole or two in the levee. Eventually, Ernest will grow weary and take care of himself. Whatever help might arrive is still several minutes away at best.
Douglas Rowe takes a step to his left. Fergus tracks the movement with his outstretched hand, ready to end the man.
That’s when Jupiter makes his move.
His right arm still in the form of a massive scimitar, Jupiter drops his center of gravity and launches himself at Fergus. In two long strides, Jupiter is at full speed, rapidly closing in on Fergus.
Fergus shifts his aim from Rowe to Jupiter. Both men are in a full sprint now, but only one is sprinting at him. Fergus’s mouth draws into a tight line. A column of flame erupts from the center of his palm; a searing lance directed at Jupiter’s chest.
It’s blocked.
Blackshear turns the scimitar into a body-length shield with the speed of a good idea. The flame deflects, crashing into the shipping container. Sparks rain down on Ernest’s head. He cries out again, struggling to maintain his grip on the rope as the cargo box sways like the trunk of an elephant.
I, Superhero Page 27
