In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition

by Michael Stackpole

  “I’ll ask any prospective wives on their feelings about that.” I smiled, then shook my head. “I don’t know what it is with these Drunken Bandits. They just have my number.”

  “Nope, not at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The second thing, son, is this: you must have confidence. Sure, they’ve knocked you around a bit. You’ve had some bad luck, but that doesn’t change the basic equation: you’re better than they are.”

  “Not so’s you’d notice.”

  “Yes, you are, son. I do notice.” He leaned back against the eagle’s copper skin. “Back during the war I did pretty good, but there was this one guy, Colonel Von Gurgen. He started doing arms deals with some American industrialists and later led an elite Nazi unit. His guys made the Waffen SS look tame. I tangled with them several times. I usually nabbed one or two, but Von Gurgen would get away. It drove me nuts.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Not really what I did, as much as looking at what I’d done.” Puma smoothed his whiskers. “I’d taken the string of losses and built Von Gurgen into something he wasn’t. Fact was, he was a cigar-smoking, brandy-swilling Nazi sadist with a taste for torture and defenseless farm animals. I knew I was better than he was. I was fighting for the red, white and blue. He was fighting for the red, white and black. It was no contest.”

  “You caught him?”

  “Yeah, I figured out how. Spring of 1945, Bavaria. The countryside was beautiful and the sheep were fetching.” He laughed. “You never want to see a fat man running through a barnyard in nothing but riding boots. Some things you just can’t unsee.”

  I laughed. “So, you’re saying I should find out where these guys keep their sheep.”

  “Well, that could work, but probably not too well.” He leaned over and tapped a finger against my temple. “You’ve got a fine mind. You’ve been using it to build them up into more than they are. They’re not Einsteins. They’re not complete morons.”

  “They’re the guys who get away with murder, according to your detective friend.”

  “Well, he said the ones who do get away with it are smart enough to run, and lucky enough to leave very few clues behind. But that’s on a one-time basis. Your boys keep coming back. Their luck will run out. You just got to stop thinking about who you’ve made them into, and figure out who they really are. And those are the guys you want to catch.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “But you’re going to have to be confident. You need to tell yourself you’re better than they are. You need to say it over and over again, when you get up, when you go to bed, constantly. If you don’t have the confidence right now, fake it until you do. I do it all the time.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  Puma smile indulgently. “Look son, there are a lot of heroes these days–the new generation and even kids like you, up-and-comers. Nighthaunt is ten times the hero I am. The dark and scary thing he has going for him, I’d have loved to have that but, in my day, dark and scary was the Nazis. Graviton? How can you not be a hero when someone could throw a planet at you and you’d just toss it back? All the others, they’re incredible, too; and the villains are getting tougher. I’ve been able to hang on this long only because so many of those who have come up are terrified of me from when they were kids. I tossed their dads into Sing-sing. I’m the Bogeyman. It’s like you with the Drunken Bandits: they make me out to be something I’m not, and I use that to my advantage.”

  “Forgive me for saying this, but if that’s the only reason you think you’ve been hanging on, you’re wrong.”

  “Thank you for that, but I’ll still be of my opinion.” He winked and stood. “Remember, son, be confident. And be good.”

  I really thought that confidence thing was nonsense, but I gave it a try. Every spare moment I told myself I was confident. I told myself I was better than they were. I practiced saying it with a smile, looking at myself in the mirror, making me believe it.

  And it worked.

  I got more confident. I looked at the guys from a new angle. I saw their flaws and figured out how to defeat them. And I did, ending their careers. Then I used that confidence–faked as needed–to push my career a bit further, right to the place where C4 noticed and decided to recruit me.

  Well, that same sort of affirmation worked for retirement. Every waking moment I told myself I didn’t care. It wasn’t any of my business. I was out of it, and I was leaving that stuff to those equipped to handle it. I just didn’t care.

  You tell yourself you don’t care enough and you actually come to believe it.

  I did still care about some stuff, of course, but I kept it in perspective. Kid Coyote was solidifying his rankings. He pulled off a couple jobs with Vixen. And Barbara Nimura got out of the hospital. She even wrote a nice note of thanks which her brother hand delivered.

  The business picked up. I created a network of pawnbrokers who would send folks to me when they had some sort of hero or villain memorabilia. I would pay the brokers a finder’s fee, and occasionally appraise items for them. They didn’t get swindled and made some on the side, which kept them happy.

  Their referrals often brought things more insubstantial than street trash. They brought information. Some tried to be subtle. Others went straight to bold or brazen bragging. They offered specifics on upcoming capers and other underworld gossip for cash.

  Every time they did that a part of me got tempted. I untempted that part fast. I just smacked it down with an “I don’t care.” I traded in debris, not rumors. Didn’t matter the price, I steadfastly refused all of it.

  Sometimes my conscience niggled. It ask how I’d feel if I could have stopped something before a bunch of people got hurt. That question plopped me at the top of a very slippery slope. It was the “it’s just one beer” to an alcoholic. If I accepted one tidbit, I’d have to confirm it, which would lead me to more and more. In the blink of an eye, I’d be back in the game.

  Plus, I was putting myself in the same position as one of Puma’s smart murderers. All of a sudden, after having been out of Capital City for twenty years–which is akin to three criminal generations–I would some how be seeing things that Constitution and Redhawk had missed?

  Not happening.

  And certainly not believable.

  I didn’t care. That was that.

  There were days my resolution got sorely tested. One time, I was working back in the workshop piecing together an antique clockwork device. It had belonged to a British hero who had toured the American west back in the 1880s, Lord Sterling. One of Selene’s clients had purchased it several years before, wanted it authenticated, cleaned and restored. He also wanted to know what it did.

  As nearly as I could tell, it was a wind-up eye-glass polisher.

  Diana buzzed me. “A Mister Coyote is here to see you.”

  “I’ll be right out.” I took a moment to stoop and hunch my shoulders, dropping three inches from my height, before appearing in the front room.

  I recognized the man, of course, from that day at the Hall. Jeans and a flannel shirt, tattered work boots, with his gut forcing his belt buckle parallel to the floor. Three days growth of beard, some of it white, and dark rings under his eyes. He’d not been sleeping.

  “How may Castigan assist you?”

  The man hefted the gym bag he brought with him and put it on the glass case, eclipsing Nighthaunt’s Spookstar. “I’ve been told you’re an expert on Coyote. I have some stuff here.”

  “To sell, or to have authenticated?”

  He laughed. “It’s authentic. I know. It’s mine.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re Coyote?”

  “In the flesh.” He unzipped the bag and pulled out two shock-rods. “These are the real deal. How much?”

  We stood four feet apart. One punch. With one punch I could have driven front of his face through the back of his skull. He never would have seen it coming.

  I wanted to do that. Badly, very b
adly. A bead of sweat slowly sliding down the side of his face told me he was ready for it, too. He knew the trouble he was inviting. And he just stood there.

  Why?

  Didn’t matter. I exhaled slowly. “Castigan is afraid those items are worthless.”

  “What? No, these are the real deal. They come from Coyote’s Hideout, my hideout.”

  “They may once have belonged to Coyote, but you were never Coyote.”

  “Are you saying I’m a liar?”

  “A liar or delusional. Regardless, you were never Coyote.”

  He reached out quickly–at least quickly in his mind– and grabbed two handfuls of my shirt. He yanked me against the counter. “Listen to me, punk. You ain’t no expert. I’m Coyote.”

  I stared at him blankly. “Castigan would suggest that you release him immediately. Diana, the receptionist, has removed one of Puma’s original Cat-claws from a drawer. She’s practiced enough with it to sever your spine midway through the lumbar region. You will lose all use of your muscles from that point down.”

  He glanced back over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “The fact is she would, but will restrain herself for the moment. As for you…” I kept my voice even and cold. “Your name is Norman Becker. You first met Coyote when he stopped you from stealing a purse from a woman you’d hurt in a drunk driving accident. Coyote broke your collarbone and your left forearm.”

  Becker let me go. I stepped back, but did not stop speaking. “The lair you were taken to was in the Meadowlands, in a container buried in a landfill. You were allowed to discern its location. That location you sold to a group of small-time hoods, including your brother-in-law, who went by the sobriquet of the Drunken Bandits. They waited to ambush Coyote, who you had summoned to a meeting, promising information about the Drunken Bandits. You then went and hit the garage where they had stashed twenty-seven stolen televisions, but Coyote apprehended you. And the police took the Drunken Bandits into custody. They had, while waiting for Coyote, drunken themselves into a stupor. Do they yet know that you gave the police the evidence that sent them to prison?”

  “You’re wrong! I’m Coyote.”

  “Mr. Becker, if you persist in this fraud, Castigan will be left with one alternative. He will issue a press release and statement on his business site which denounces your claim. Furthermore, he will retain a lawyer and begin a class-action civil suit against you for fraud. We will recover every cent you ever made signing pictures which, along with penalties and interest, guarantees you will be a pauper for the rest of your life. And Castigan will be forced to locate the Drunken Bandits and inform them of your role in their incarceration.”

  “Why, I ought to…” He raised a fist.

  The Cat’s-claw transfixed it.

  Becker spun, but Diana had followed up on her throw. As he came around, she snapped a kick into his knee. He went down, then she drove a knee into his face, dropping him on his back.

  She looked at me. “You okay?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I straightened my shirt. “Retrieve the Cat’s-claw. We’ll dump him in the alley out back. When he comes-to, he’ll run.”

  “Not far with that knee.” She wiped the sharpened metal crescent off on his shirt. “What about the stuff he brought?”

  “Into the dumpster with him.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded as I grabbed a wrist and an ankle. “Once upon a time I might have been intrigued, but now, I just don’t care.”

  Chapter Thirty

  After we heaved Becker into the dumpster, we hit the gym and worked out with Terry. He’d alibi us if anyone asked, but no one would. Who was Becker going to go to? What would he tell them? He had nothing but stigmata and would probably get more traction talking miracle to a church than crime to cops.

  The workout was a good idea. I had some P-crud to deal with but, to tell the truth, not as much as I would have thought. That was Kim’s fault. He came into the gym about halfway through things, which completed the Becker circle and allowed me to put a lot of that to rest.

  The three of them decided to go for a slice. I opted out. Diana had been good at not saying anything about what had happened, but she was clearly dying to tell someone. It was the first time she’d ever drawn blood, ever hit anyone and ever knocked anyone out. The trifecta. It was also the first time she’d gotten rid of a body, obstructed justice, and violated someone’s civil rights. There’s your double-triple. It was a big day for her. Kim and Terry would be a great audience for it.

  I headed home. The first inkling of anything wrong was when lights didn’t go on. Could have been a blown fuse.

  It wasn’t.

  The clink of ice in a glass tipped me off, and the scent of Scotch whisky confirmed it.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” I almost added, “Mr. Chase,” but if he’d come as Nick Chase, the lights would have worked. Ditto the Murdoch, which he’d somehow extinguished.

  “I need a favor.”

  “Okay.” I headed toward the kitchen to get a beer. “Fridge light going to be out, too?”

  “You don’t want a beer. Drink the good stuff.”

  “I don’t have any good stuff.”

  “I brought it. Housewarming gift. The bottle’s on the table, next to a tumbler, no ice.”

  “You remembered.”

  “My curse. I remember everything.” Ice clinked again. “I’ll take the bottle after you’ve poured.”

  I sat. My chair afforded me just a bare glimpse of his silhouette. Full mask, hooded cloak, leather boots and trunks, all black, including the spandex. His logo, a bat-winged vampire creature, glowed softly on his chest. The mask, when light penetrated the shadows, was a skullface slightly softened as if he were long dead and returned from the grave.

  Good thing he brought Scotch. That vision required strong drink.

  It really was the good stuff. Fifty years old. Life is good when you get to drink whisky older than you are. I poured and extended the bottle toward the shadows.

  It disappeared.

  I raised my glass. “To friends and obligations.”

  “Salut.”

  I sipped, letting the vapors fill my head. “I’m retired, you know.”

  “I remember. I still need your help.”

  I laughed.

  “What?”

  “That’s many a little boy’s dream: hearing you say you needed their help.”

  “It’s not a little boy I need.”

  “It’s a different boy you need.” I lowered my glass. “Greg’s still fit for action.”

  “Greg’s not going to help me here.” He sighed. “Greg is a fine man, but he was never truly cut out for what you and I do. Nine years ago he came to me, said he was going to run for mayor. He wanted my blessing and my support. He told me that there was only so much we could do from the shadows. People needed leadership to draw them into the light. He wanted to provide that leadership. He’s done well. If it weren’t for term limits, he’d probably be elected again and again. As it is, he’s out next March.”

  “But whatever you want me to do concerns his city, doesn’t it?”

  “This was never really Greg’s city, not in the way we know it.” He set his glass down and leaned forward. “Anthropologists and sociologists classify men as primates. They use the label to explain our behavior. They like to point to apes and say we have Alphas and Betas and Omegas just like our lesser brethren. They so much want us to be simple to understand, but they miss how we are different.

  “Mankind breaks down into four groups. The least of us are the Daisies. They’re harmless. They seek the sun. They feel pleasure and pain, but are intellectually incapable of understanding the depth and complexity of life. If they were, they would live in terror. As it is, they want toys with their happy meals, beer in the fridge, and a good game on Sunday afternoon.”

  “That’s not a bad life.”

  “They work, they earn their daily bread, they hurt no one.” His cape slippe
d forward of a broad shoulder. “Next are the cattle. Docile creatures, they do see the complexities of life. They know fear, but they conquer it with material things, and things of consequence. At least, it’s what they see as consequential. For them the Superfriends checks and a chance to appear on the Murdoch are the highest forms of achievement. Their problem is that they are either of below average intelligence or they willfully under achieve. Self-esteem issues, other insecurities, or the lack of will to conquer character flaws, sabotage them.”

  Ice clinked as he drank. “And then there are the wolves, who prey upon them. You know the wolves. Criminals, sadistic bosses, demanding spouses, anyone who can manipulate someone else into doing their bidding. There may only be one wolf for every thousand cattle, but fear allows them to wield power out of proportion to their numbers.”

  I sat back, steepling my fingers. “By that definition, you and I are wolves. Rather, you are and I was.”

  “No, my friend, we are wolfhounds. We are the fourth type of Man. We are the elite who have chosen to prey upon the wolves. We know, as President Roosevelt said so long ago, ‘The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself.’ He spoke for the cattle, but to the wolfhounds. Show heart, destroy the enemy and you redeem all.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Surely Greg must be a wolfhound.”

  “I wish he was. He is formidable, yes, but merely a bull among the cattle. Some do rise up, but they fail to see that keeping the cattle in the light does not eliminate the wolves from the shadows. Without destroying the wolves, safety is illusion. And the problem is that the cattle, even the mightiest of the bulls, come to believe that illusion is real.”

  “I think you do Greg a disservice, or you overestimate me.”

  “No, my friend, no. Had that thought ever occurred to me, it would have been dispelled the night we came for you. Do you remember?”

  I nodded.

  There was no forgetting that night. The Drunken Bandits had been eliminated, but I’d not yet met Selene. I was running around, picking off mid-range villains. They had potential, but needed seasoning. I was a scrimmage before they went big time. I’d tagged a string of them and pulled a wounded cop out of a drug sting gone bad. I even collared the dealers.