by Al Roker
As I worked the cocktail shaker, one-handed, I asked Juan to place six martini glasses on the bar. That accomplished, I handed him the shaker. “You do the honors,” I said.
All eyes were on the cloudy green liquid as Juan poured.
By the time he finished, I’d cut up the green apple. I carefully placed one slice in each glass, then raised mine in a toast. “To justice,” I said.
Rodell and the others raised their glasses. What else could they do? Mr. DA must’ve been serious about the poisoning, because he waited until I’d taken a healthy gulp of my apple martini before trying his.
The others in Rodell’s party followed his lead. The girl whose name I didn’t know said, “This is delicious, Mr. Blessing.”
“Yeah,” Rodell said, after he’d drained his glass. “Not bad. You’re a good sport, Blessing. If somebody’d screwed me over, I wouldn’t be so nice. I’d be planning a get-back.”
“Revenge isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” I said, filling his glass.
“You shoulda thought of that before you killed Rudy Gallagher,” he said. Gracing me with another of his blood pressure–raising smirks, he swirled the liquid and apple slice around in his glass and took another swig.
“Uh, Phil, this is getting a little weird,” one of the young men said, “I’m gonna split.”
“Nobody’s chaining you to the bar stool, Joe,” Rodell said.
“I’ve still got to prep for the Schwarz case in the morning—”
“Via con Dios, Joe,” Rodell said. “Five’s a crowd, anyway. This way it’s boy-girl, boy-girl, right, Edmund?”
Edmund, the remaining male, shrugged.
“I should go, too,” Bess said, getting to her feet.
Rodell grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. “Uh-uh. Not this time, ice queen. You barely touched your drink. You don’t want to offend Blessing. You know how sensitive some … people are.”
My smile felt like it was turning to stone as I watched him shoot his second apple-tini. I used the last of the shaker’s contents to drown his apple slice. The cocktail would be a little watery, but I didn’t think that would matter too much to Rodell.
He got two sips down before his head dropped sharply enough to cause whiplash, chin digging into his chest. He dropped the glass to the floor and slumped forward over the bar.
“Holy crap,” the girl who was not Bess exclaimed. “Is he dead?”
I pressed Rodell’s carotid artery. “No such luck,” I said. “But I imagine he might settle for death when he wakes up in the morning. Think you folks can get him home, or shall we just roll him into the alley?”
The others were staring at the unconscious man as if uncertain what to do.
“I guess I could phone Mrs. Rodell,” I said.
“I’ll get him home,” Edmund said. He was a big enough boy to handle it. Before he had a chance to move his boss, I took out my cell phone and snapped a shot of the unconscious DA.
“What are you doing?” Bess asked.
“For the website,” I said. “You know, another satisfied customer.”
I took a second shot of Edmund dragging Rodell off the bar, making sure to include the two ladies.
“You’re not really going to put that picture on your website?” Bess asked.
“That’ll be up to your boss,” I said. “When you’re dealing with a rodent as vicious as Rodell, it’s best to have a rock handy.”
She stared at me for a second, as if trying to decide something. Then she smiled. “You’re a very interesting man, Mr. Blessing.”
“I try to be,” I said. “And it’s Billy to my friends, Bess.”
“Well, thank you for the drink and the entertainment, Billy.”
“If I do use the shot, I’ll Photoshop you out,” I said, prompting another smile.
When the law folk had gone with their fallen chief, Juan took a dustpan and brush to the broken glass.
The remaining couple were curious about the little vignette. “Who was that creep?” the man asked.
“Just another bad drunk,” I said.
“Sucker sure can’t handle the sauce.”
I nodded, though I knew that Rodell’s sauce had been particularly hard to handle. It had been enhanced by three tabs of Alprazolam that I’d stuck in his green-apple slice.
I’d have to tell Stew Gentry that the warning on his pill bottle was correct. You really didn’t want to mix alcohol with those bad boys.
Chapter
THIRTY-ONE
“Why devote an exhibit of comic art to deceased superheroes?” I asked at precisely eighty-forty-one a.m. the following morning.
It was the first question on the list Kiki had prepared for the bottom-of-the-hour remote. We were telecasting from the Manhattan Museum of Culture and Art, where the exhibit The Mortal Superheroes: The Reality of Fantasy would debut with a charity opening on Saturday evening.
“Well, first off,” co-curator Marius Cathcart replied, “our exhibit actually covers all of the superheroes, including, of course, Superman, Spiderman, Wonder Woman, and Batman, although the Bat, as we all know, isn’t really a superhero. That is to say, he’s a normal human being, if highly intelligent and close to physically perfect, as opposed to the mutant X-Men. Or Superman, for that matter.”
“You speak of these comic characters as if they were real.”
“To some of us, they are,” Cathcart replied. “And for those whose imaginations can’t quite make the leap, films have provided the dimension of reality. These superheroes live and, as our exhibit points out, some of them die, the same as you and I eventually will.”
Cheery thought, fanboy.
An hour earlier, when segment producer Jolie Durbin, cameraman Gabe Farris, and I had arrived at ManMOCA, I’d discovered that the exhibit was a considerably bigger deal than I’d supposed, blessed by the governor, the mayor, several film studios, People magazine, assorted business and social groups, and, perhaps most important of all, Donald Trump.
Cathcart gave us a jiffy tour through five large showrooms filled with vivid comic art, panels, splash pages, and covers, along with statues and movie posters. There were photos of costumed crusaders shaking hands with presidents, sports figures, and other world leaders, entertaining soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan, and helping out at the Special Olympics.
Placed in key positions in each room were video monitors on pedestals displaying documentary footage of comic artists at work, while live and animated versions of their creations did their super-heroic stunts on white walls via projected imagery. One artist caught my eye. I blinked and said, “Is that Rita Margolis?”
“Rita? Sure,” Cathcart said. “She draws Funny Girls.”
“They’re not exactly superheroes,” I said.
Catchcart giggled. “Not exactly,” he said. “But Rita’s a good friend, and she’s helped us put this whole thing together. You know Rita?”
I told him I did.
“She said she’d be here today,” he said.
She hadn’t arrived by the time we went live with Cathcart, his partner, Harris Whirley, and me seated on director’s chairs in the midst of all the Slam! Bang! Pow! action art.
“I have to admit,” I said, “I didn’t realize that superheroes could die.”
“Why not?” Cathcart asked, blinking into Gabe Farris’s hot camera. “Death exists in the real world. Why not in the comic world, too?”
“It’s what the fans want,” Whirley added.
“They actually voted for it,” Cathcart said.
“Right,” Whirley said. “D.C. Comics asked them to decide whether Robin should live or die in the graphic novel Batman: A Death in the Family.”
“And Robin died,” Cathcart said. “Of course, like Batman, Robin wasn’t literally a superhero, either.”
Cathcart and Whirley were both bespectacled, pale, intense young men who could have been brothers or involved in any other kind of relationship one might imagine. Their fascination with comics seemed endl
ess. I liked the idea of them batting the conversation back and forth, since I was clearly out of my league and, in truth, way beyond my interest level.
I continued to nod, letting them natter on, throwing in an occasional question, like, “How do you kill a superhero?”
“There are a lot of ways,” Whirley said, “because all superheroes come with an Achilles’ heel. Some, like Captain Marvel, revert to vulnerable flesh-and-blood forms. Superman has Kryptonite that renders him powerless, although, in truth, it was Doomsday’s brute strength that killed him.”
“Superman died?” I asked.
“Of course,” Cathcart said. “It was well covered by the media.”
“My subscription to the Daily Planet must’ve expired,” I said. “Aren’t there still Superman comics and movies?”
“He didn’t stay dead,” Whirley said, as if I was an idiot for asking. “He’s Superman.”
Our segment producer, Jolie, correctly sensing that we needed something more than sparkling badinage, cued the hunks and hunkettes standing by in their skintight outfits.
“We have a group of superheroes and, I think, supervillains about to join us,” I said. “Give us a rundown on who they are, or, I guess, who they were.”
As the models paraded in, flexing and posturing, the two curators provided the introductions. First to appear was Blue Beetle (murdered by someone named Maxwell Lord), followed by Black Canary (who died of “natural causes”), the first Captain Marvel (who died of the same “natural causes”), Silver Sorceress (killed by sniper fire), and Batgirl (killed, “as we all know, by the Joker”).
“A lot of deaths for so early in the morning,” I said. “But they all look healthy enough.”
“Well,” Cathcart said, “some comic characters may die …”
“… but comic art lives forever,” Whirley said.
“Especially in the case of the superwomen, good and evil,” Cathcart said.
“Because they’re super-hot,” Whirley said.
He wasn’t exaggerating, I thought, as more models sauntered past Gabe’s camera. Cathcart gave them names that meant nothing to me. When, on Jolie’s cue, we cut to a commercial, one of the models approached me, a truly stunning redhead with golden eyes, wearing a chamois bikini and skin painted in tiger stripes. Her comic-book name I remembered from Cathcart’s list. Tigra.
“I have something for you in the dressing room, Mr. Blessing,” she said. “Don’t run away, now.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said. Tigra smiled, gave me a cute little growl that I hoped wasn’t just in character, and pranced away.
“On in ten seconds,” Jolie yelled. “Then wrap it up.”
I struggled through the wrap-up, trying not to speculate about what Tigra might be bringing me, while Cathcart and Whirley plugged their opening-night gala, dropping the names of celebrities whom they expected to be on hand and inviting fanboys and fangirls to visit the exhibit during the weeks ahead.
I sent the show back to Gin and Lance at the news desk and we were clear, at least until the final wave to the audience under the eight-fifty-nine a.m. credit crawl.
Grinning like a goose, I watched Tigra jiggling back my way. She was carrying an envelope. “As promised,” she said, handing it to me.
My name was on it.
“Thank you, Tigra,” I said, amused, thinking it was a setup from Jolie or Arnie back at the studio. I opened the envelope and slid out the card. The grin froze on my face when I saw the childish cat drawing and the scrawled words I have nine, but you only have one. Pity.
“Who gave you this?” I asked Tigra, trying to stay calm.
“Nobody. I found it in the box with my costume,” she said.
“And where did you get the costume?”
“Here. We had a fitting yesterday at the WBC building. And the costumes were waiting for us here today. I think the wardrobe people must have brought them. Maybe one of them put the card in. Is there a problem?”
“No. No problem,” I lied. Nothing to get upset about. Just being stalked by a killer. No big deal.
“Good,” she said. “I was thinking, maybe a friend of yours at the network happened to see me yesterday and thought this might be a sort of meet-cute. I am a fan.”
As if to prove there are more powerful emotions than fear, I immediately stopped worrying about Felix and started wondering what Tigra might look like without the red wig and body makeup. “Are your eyes really gold?” I asked.
“Only when I wear these contacts. Tigra isn’t my real name, either.”
“What is?”
“It’s Maureen Bet—”
“Ten seconds to credit wave,” Joie called, and began the countdown.
Tigra joined the group of models gathering behind the curators and me, any one of whom, I realized, might be the mysterious Felix under the costume. On cue, we all faced the camera and waved, and I verbally bid the audience farewell.
When the little red light on the camera blinked off, I thanked God, silently, that I was still alive, then thanked the curators and the models for all their efforts. As much as I wanted to, I forced myself not to take the envelope from my pocket for another look. Better to keep my eyes open on what was going on around me. Like Tigra/Maureen Bet-something approaching.
“As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted,” she said, “I’m Maureen Bettenhaus. I’m in the Manhattan phone directory under the name Moe Betta. In case you might want to call me sometime.”
With that, she did an about-face and walked away. Slowly.
That woman can’t be involved with Felix, I told myself. God wouldn’t be that cruel.
But who’s to say God doesn’t have his playful moments?
Jolie and Gabe were waiting for me by the front door. I told them I wouldn’t be going back to the tower with them in the van. Mighty Joe was picking me up for the trip to see Mr. Turducken. In fact, I could see him in the dirtmobile, parked in front of the museum.
Instead of exiting, I returned to the main exhibition showroom, where I found Cathcart and Whirley going over the plans for opening night. “Where are the dressing rooms the models are using?” I asked.
“I’ll show you,” Whirley said, heading toward an exit that led to the rear of the museum. “What did you think of the Owl?” he asked.
“Which one was that, exactly?”
“Lavender bodysuit. Owl face, big eyes. Beak. A rather obscure hero from Crackerjack Funnies in the 1940s,” he said. “But some of his adventures were written by … wait for it … Jerry Siegel.”
When I didn’t fall down on the floor, writhing, he said, “Jerry Siegel? Co-creator of Superman?”
“Oh, that Jerry Siegel,” I said.
“Yes. We’re quite proud of bringing that little-known fact to light. Too bad you didn’t see the Owl.”
“See the Owl.” It sounded like a euphemism for some sort of indecent behavior.
Two portable dressing rooms—black curtains on metal tube frames—had been hastily constructed in the museum’s shipping area. I wasn’t interested in them. It was the wardrobe mistress I wanted to talk to.
It turned out to be a wardrobe mister. Simon (“just Simon, surnames are superfluous”) informed me that “the costumes, once they had been fitted and adjusted, were either put on hangers or, in the case of tiny little nothings, wrapped in tissue and placed in cardboard boxes, all of it labeled, of course.”
“And where were the hangers and boxes kept overnight?”
“In Wardrobe.”
“Locked up?” I asked.
“Not well enough, evidently,” Whirley said.
“I think the costume was simply misplaced, though frankly I don’t see how,” Simon said.
“What costume?” I asked.
“The Cheetah,” Whirley said. “From Suspense Stories, 1965, Charlton Comics. Very, very sexy lady. Costume was skintight, yellow with black spots, a sort of bookend to Tigra. Marius and I were so looking forward to seeing both of them togeth
er. Though I must say Tigra was pretty impressive on her own.”
“Who had access to the costumes?” I asked Simon.
“There weren’t that many who knew about them. People from Wake Up!, mainly.”
“Who specifically?”
“The show’s producer, who was wearing a Hawaiian shirt that I would have killed for. Some woman with a skunk-tail streak in her hair. But you know, anybody could have just walked in.”
We thanked Simon for his information and made our way to the front of the museum.
As we crossed the main hall, Cathcart called out, “Did you see her, Chef Blessing?”
“Her?”
“Rita,” he said. “Rita Margolis. She was here just a few minutes ago. I mentioned you’d asked about her.” He looked around the large exhibition hall. “I don’t see her now. She’s probably off on some errand. Rita never seems to stand still.”
“Like a hummingbird,” I said.
I thanked the two curators again for hosting us and was heading away when Cathcart called out, “Rita will be back shortly. Would you like me to convey a message?”
I told him not to bother. I’d probably be running into Rita myself before too long. Actually, I couldn’t imagine anything I’d have to say to Rita or she to me that would be of any consequence. Not exactly a perceptive forecast, as it turned out.
Chapter
THIRTY-TWO
“What’s that perfume?” I asked Joe when I stepped into the Volvo.
“I don’t know,” he said, clearly upset. “I left for just a minute to—you know—walk the dog. Come back. Stinko. Stinko.”
“It’s almost toxic,” I said.
“Be okay with window open, once we get going,” he said.
“Do we have to use the Tunnel?” I asked him.
“For you to get to the address in Fairview by ten,” he said. “We take bridge, far out of our way, maybe make it by eleven. Another hour of stinko.”
“Okay,” I said.
“This guy you go see, he put chicken inside duck?”
“And both of them inside a turkey,” I said.
Joe started giggling. He didn’t do it very often, but it was kind of infectious.
