The Hero Beat

by Nick Svolos

  Ah, so the truth finally comes out. I figured I might as well go with it. Shrugging, I said with a grin, “Sure. Come on up. Just promise to not be jealous. Few are privileged to see the sort of luxury a reporter’s salary buys.”

  I led the way up to my second floor apartment and opened the door. Back when they converted the motel into apartments, they combined each pair of adjoining rooms into one unit, so that each unit had a living area with a kitchenette and a separate bedroom. The room was sweltering. I turned on the air conditioner under the living room window, and it awoke with a clatter. It was noisy, but it worked. The temperature dropped from unbearably hot to just uncomfortably hot within minutes.

  The luxury a newspaper reporter’s salary buys these days isn’t much. My living area held a beat-up, second-hand couch, a discarded cable spool that I used as a coffee table and an inexpensive flatscreen television connected to a cable box set upon a low bookshelf from IKEA. The back wall held the kitchenette and a door to the bathroom. The side wall contained a door leading to the bedroom. Any space on the walls not otherwise in use was taken up by more cheap, Swedish fiberboard bookshelves, filled to the point just short of collapse with books. I read a lot. Herculene took it all in with a slight smile. “Well, I am suitably depressed. At least it’s honest.”

  “It’s all a cover. My volcano-powered island lair is under renovation,” I joked. “Make yourself at home. I need to file my story.” I went into my bedroom, where, in addition to a full-sized bed, a cheap nightstand that was there when I moved in and more overloaded bookshelves, I had my workspace, complete with a computer and telephone. This room has an AC, too, left over from the days when it was a single motel room. I switched it on. It came to life with a steady hum, and within a few minutes this room, too, was merely uncomfortable. I looked down at my shirt. It was torn, dirty and sweat-stained.

  Struggling with the sling and cast on my left arm, I changed into a fresh shirt, sat down at my desk, picked up the phone and dialed the night desk at the Beacon. Livia Deen answered the phone with a professional, “Los Angeles Beacon, editor’s desk. This call may be monitored. How may I help you?” Livia has been the night editor at the paper for as long as I can remember. For my money, she’s about the best in the business. She’s sharp and has good instincts. The Beacon, like most newspapers nowadays, only prints a morning edition, and she’s in charge of overseeing the process. You know how, in old movies, you’ll hear an editor shout, “Hold the presses!” At the Beacon, she’s the one who makes the call. At a little over sixty, she was nearing a well-earned retirement, but she was still going strong.

  It felt good to hear her voice. It had been a weird night, and it was far from over. Livia’s familiar voice was a welcome shot of normality. “Hi Liv, it’s Reuben.”

  Her voice turned anxious. “Reuben! Have you been following this Refinery thing? Please tell me you’ve got something on this.”

  I smiled, “Yup. I was there. Listen, I kinda broke my arm out there. Do you have someone around who can take dictation? It’ll take forever to type this in one-handed.” Personally, I prefer to write my own stories. Less can go wrong that way, and I enjoy the craftsmanship of putting the words together. If I tried to type this up with one hand, however, I’d never make today’s edition. Reporters used to phone in stories more often back in the old days, when a reporter would have to make it back to the office to type it up on a typewriter, but nowadays you can just tap it in on your phone. Still, in circumstances like those I found myself in, it’s good to have such a service available.

  “I’ll do it. Everyone else is on other things. Give me a second.” Through the phone, I could hear Livia rummaging about her desk for a notebook. As I waited, I took a moment to order my thoughts, focusing on the events of the night and sifting out the facts from events I merely thought had happened. I popped the memory card out of my busted Nikon, slipped it into the computer, and started looking through the photos. They weren’t terrible, but a professional photographer would have done better. A couple of the shots were a little shaky or out of focus, but the rest were serviceable. I compressed the photos into a single file and mailed it to Livia and my day editor. The Nikon looked to be a total loss, but I made a note to take it to the shop to see if it could be fixed. It was insured, along with the rest of my equipment, but it was an older model and a new one would probably set me back much more than whatever the insurance company would pay.

  Herculene stuck her head in through the open door, “Say, are you hungry? I’m starved.” She smiled hopefully. “You mind if I raid your fridge?” I nodded and shot her a thumbs-up. She retreated into the kitchenette and through the thin wall I heard her rummaging around. She muttered something about “freakin’ bachelors”.

  A thought struck me, and I went to the door and asked Herculene, “Say, do you have any word on Mentalia? She took a pretty nasty shot back there.”

  The warrior goddess had finally found where my frying pan lived and was inspecting my meager store of provisions. She turned and said, “She’s fine. Bad bruise to her shoulder, probably won’t be doing much with her left arm for a few days. You using this for the paper?”

  “Yup. Mind if I quote you?”

  She suddenly looked unsure. “Uh, sure. It’s not gonna get me in trouble, is it?”

  “Not from me. Your PR guys may not like you talking to me.”

  She grinned. “They’ll get over it. You can write that Fist and Electric Spider are in custody, too. Spider’s in the hospital. It just came over the communicator.” I think she kinda liked the idea of annoying her PR people.

  “Awesome! Thanks,” I said as I went back to my desk.

  Livia came back on. “OK, shoot.” I started out by listing the facts. Once she had that down, I went back and gave as detailed descriptions as possible of each of the events. I didn’t have anything in the way of numbers of casualties or the extent of the damage, but those would probably be available by the time the story made it to print, and they could put it in a sidebar accompanying the article.

  The process took about twenty minutes, with Livia questioning me and making me go back to areas of the report she felt weren’t clear enough. Finally, she emailed the story to me so I could read and sign off on it. It would go out under my byline, and I would be responsible for any inaccuracies. We finished up, said our goodbyes and ended the call. I noticed the smell of cooking food coming from the other room, and my belly rumbled with approval.

  I emerged back into the living room just as Herculene was setting two plates on my makeshift table. The plates bore a pair of omelettes made with egg whites and various items she had found in the kitchen. Hers was about three times the size of mine. Noting the look on my face, she explained, “I hope you don’t mind. I have a metabolism like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “No worries. It smells awesome.” I sat down on the couch next to her, grabbed my fork and dug in. The omelette had cheese, olives, bell peppers and some kind of meat I didn’t even know I had. “Man, this is good,” I said appreciatively.

  “Thanks,” she replied cheerfully. “By the way, you might want to plan a trip to a grocery store sometime soon. I kinda used the last of, well, everything.”

  “That’s cool,” I told her. “It’s a small price to pay to dine with a bona-fide protector of Truth, Justice and the American Way.”

  She giggled, and I was struck by how down-to-earth she seemed. Sitting there with her, I got the impression that I was talking with a woman wearing a Herculene costume, not the fictional persona it represented. From her unguarded speech, I began to suspect the reason why the PR guys kept her under wraps. Her manner was refreshing, and I found myself starting to like her. I swallowed a bite of my omelette. “You know, I’ve been trying to get an interview with you since you came to town.”

  She seemed genuinely surprised, “Really? Little ol’ me?”

  “Sure, you’re big news. You’ve made quite a splash since that dust-up last Fall, when you took down Uns
toppabull. Your team’s selling lunch boxes, T-shirts and posters with your picture on ‘em. Heck, little girls were dressing up like you for Halloween.”

  Her eyes narrowed, “Yeah. So were the hookers.”

  So, she’d heard about that. I couldn’t really imagine what that must feel like. I looked at my plate, “Yeah, I wasn’t going to mention that, but yeah.”

  She shrugged, “I hear they do that to everyone. They don’t have powers, so I really can’t do much about it.” That was true. Enforcing the law on normals was a job for the police. If a super took action against non-powered pimps and hookers, they’d most likely find themselves in hot water. Self-defense is one thing, but setting out to bust heads is something entirely different. A solo act can get away with it to some extent, but The Angels were far too high-profile.

  I could tell it bothered her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.”

  She waved it off. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just something I’m still getting used to. It’s alright.”

  “Anyway, my point was that Herculene’s captured people’s imagination. They want to know about you.”

  She smiled. “Well, okay, what do ‘they’ want to know?”

  My inner reporter cheered at this stroke of luck. A major story and an interview in one night. Heck, I could take the rest of the week off. I pulled out my pocket recorder and set it on the table. I was about to turn it on when I noticed the expression on Herculene’s face. She looked like I had just placed a live cobra next to her plate on the wooden spool.

  I stopped before turning it on. “Are you comfortable with me recording this? It’s standard practice. Protects both of us from misquotes or something being taken out of context.”

  She looked uncomfortable, but nodded her head, “It’s okay. Go ahead.”

  I pressed record. “Let’s start with something easy. How’d you get into this business?”

  She began awkwardly, eyes transfixed on the recorder. “Well, you know, it’s the same old story. Girl from Kansas grows up, gets super powers, moves to the big city to claim her fame and fortune.” She took another bite, chewed it thoughtfully, swallowed and said, “Okay, so, when I was sixteen, I put a kid in the hospital during a dodgeball game. I wasn’t trying to throw it hard, just fast. Broke one of his ribs. Over the next week or so, all my hair fell out. All of it. I have to wear these false eyelashes to keep stuff out of my eyes.” I hadn’t noticed before, but now that she drew my attention to it, I saw what she meant. Her eyebrows were drawn on, too. It was an excellent make-up job. I never suspected a thing.

  Now that she was talking, she warmed up to the interview process and became more comfortable. “Anyhow, I started to have even more problems with my strength. Everything I touched just seemed to break so easily. You know, doorknobs coming off in my hands, that sort of stuff. I crushed a phone against my head when I tried to talk to a friend. After a couple of days of this, my folks took me to a doctor in Topeka. He went through three needles trying to draw blood. Eventually, they diagnosed me as having some sort of random mutation. Nothing harmful, but it wasn’t going to go away.”

  I made a mental note to ask some follow-up questions, but she was rolling so I just let her talk. “A few days later, this guy shows up at the door. Says he heard about my condition and offered to help. Turns out he was Dynamo. He has a similar...condition. I missed the next six months of school as he taught me how to control myself. My folks made up some story for the school.” She laughed, “I think they spread a rumor that I was pregnant! Can you believe that?”

  “Yeah, makes sense. Smart move, probably. I’ll bet it saved you from some ID problems down the road,” I said.

  “Exactly. Still, it kind of stung. You know, ‘I’d rather tell people that my kid’s a slut than admit that she’s a super.’”

  “Ouch. I hadn’t thought of it from a teenaged girl’s perspective. Yeah, that probably hurt.”

  “Yeah. I’m over it. So anyways, I wasn’t breaking things anymore. I got a couple of wigs and learned how to use makeup, and my folks let me go back to school. Nights and weekends, I worked as Dynamo’s apprentice. I had this cute, pink outfit and went under the moniker of DynaGirl.”

  My ears perked up at the name. “Wow, that was you?”

  “Yup. That was me,” she smiled with pride.

  “Cool! You guys took down Twister and Barnstorm, didn’t you?”

  “Sure did. Dynamo did most of the work, of course, but I got my licks in. Anyhow, I got hooked on the Life. I don’t know if this makes any sense, but the only time I can cut loose and get a really good workout is when some maniac who can take a punch is trying to kill me.” She paused, “That probably sounds crazy.”

  “Not really. But then, I once interviewed Crimson King. That dude had issues.”

  She laughed and continued, “Eventually, I left to go to college. I got a scholarship to Coe up in Cedar Rapids and did my grad work in classical history at Johns Hopkins.”

  “Whoa,” I cut her off. I reversed the recording to before her last statement. Technically, this was unethical, but the information she just gave me could be damaging to her. For some reason, I didn’t want that to happen. “Don’t tell me what school you went to. I could look that up really easy.” I pressed record again.

  She smacked her forehead, “Ugh!” She recovered and revised her story, “OK, so I got a PhD in classical history.”

  I nodded and paused the recording again. “Perfect. If I were to follow up with a question about where you went to school, I’d recommend you just tell me you’d rather not say. You’re kinda unique. I can’t imagine there’re all that many six-foot-two knockouts studying classical history at any given time.”

  She blushed a little. “’Knockout’, huh? Are you trying to butter me up, Mr. Conway?”

  I chided myself for my own unguarded speech. “Just stating the obvious, Miss Herculene. But that is one of the tricks of the trade.”

  She gave me a little, knowing smile. “I see. I’ll have to watch out for that.”

  I started the recording again and she continued, “Anyhow, I had to cut down on the super stuff while I was in school. Didn’t want a lot of questions about why Dynamo Girl kept showing up in different towns, you know? I mean, I still managed to get some action in, but most of it was small-scale vigilante-type stuff. Stopping muggers and the occasional out-of-control frat boy. Light touch, under-the-radar kind of work. After I got my PhD, Ultiman recruited me. I guess Dynamo told him about me. I thought, ‘Hell, yeah!’ I mean, who’s gonna pass up a slot on The Angels? That’s the big leagues! I caught a flight out here the next day.”

  “So how come you’re not here as DynaGirl? Seems like you had already built up a rep.”

  “Well, I figured I’d be better off with a new persona. DG was cool when I was a kid, but I wanted something more grown up. I’ve always loved Greek Mythology, so I decided to go with that. I was originally going to work up some sort of ‘Have at thee!’ shtick, but that got old pretty quick. Still, this ‘Herculene, Warrior Goddess’ outfit has a certain intimidation factor going for it.”

  I decided to push a little, see if she would keep her cool. “How do you feel about the popularity you’ve gained with the public?”

  She smiled, “Well, when I heard about the little girls dressing up like me for Halloween, I gotta say, it felt pretty good.”

  Her answer relaxed me a bit. I had no desire to antagonize her with the subject of the hookers, so I didn’t follow that line of inquiry. Instead, I changed the subject and kept things light, “So what do you think of Los Angeles so far?”

  “I like it. It’s a far cry from home, but so far, so good. Lots of things to do when I have time off. I found a great job, got my own place so I don’t have to stay at the Tower unless I’m on duty. I get to beat up on bad guys. Things are pretty good.”

  “Oh yeah? What do you do? In the real world, I mean.”

  “I’m a professor of Grecian History a
t USC.” She stopped short, and both of us stared at the other with wide eyes, shocked at what she had just let slip. My hand darted for the recorder, shutting it off. Embarrassed, she buried her face in her hands.

  I was dumbstruck. She had just blown her secret identity. I couldn’t think of anything I could say that wouldn’t make her feel worse. “Oh my God. You’re not going to write any of that, are you?” she looked at me, her face reddening.

  The look on her face tugged at my heart. “Of course not,” I said softly as I erased the last bit of the interview. “I don’t out people’s IDs.”

  She relaxed a bit. “Thanks.” She sighed and looked at the table. “I guess the media office is right. I’m not ready for this.”

  I wondered if she’d ever be ready. I thought about trying to soften the blow, but decided against it. She could be her own worst enemy, and I knew I had to give it to her straight. “No, I’m afraid you’re not. They’re trying to protect you. Are they giving you any coaching?”

  “Not really.” She sighed in resignation, “Well, they have a guy I’m supposed to be working with, but we don’t really click, if that makes any sense. It’s probably my fault. I duck most of our sessions. It all just makes me so uncomfortable.”

  “Like you’re hiding yourself?” I ventured.

  “Yeah! How’d you know?”

  “Maybe I’m reading too much into this, and stop me if I’m making you uncomfortable, but with most of the supers I’ve met, their persona - the name, the mask, the wacky costume - it’s a character they play. Like a biker who looks and acts all tough but goes home at night and has a good cry watching romantic movies. When I talk to them, I know it’s all a facade. I have to dig to learn what makes them tick. I’m not getting that vibe from you.”

  She thought about it for a bit. “Yeah, that’s got a ring of truth about it.” A few seconds later, her head shot up and her eyes flashed with mischief, and she gave me a gentle shove. “Hey! My costume isn’t wacky!”

  I laughed. “I’m sorry Herculene, but togas are wacky. Blame John Belushi.”