by Nick Svolos
“You got it.” I turned back to my laptop and started going through the search results.
“Oh, hey, there’s one more thing,” Herculene interrupted. “They’re holding Phoenix Fire’s funeral today at four. I’m going to have to be there. Since I don’t think you should go traipsing about town on your own, I’m thinking of stashing you at the Tower. Ultiman’s already set you up with a room on the guest floor. Will that work for you?”
I had mixed feelings about this. As one of the people Phoenix Fire had saved last night, my inclination was to go and pay my respects. On the other hand, there was a lot of work to do, and I didn’t want to increase Herculene’s burden by refusing. The Angel Tower would be as good a place as any to do what I needed to do. “Yeah, I suppose. Like I said, everything depends on how much I can get from the internet and phone calls right now. At least until we find out if your techs can ID our bomber. I can hold off on any field work until you get back.”
She appeared relieved. “Cool. I wonder why they’re doing it so soon. I mean, it hasn’t even been a full day.”
I explained, “She was Jewish. The funeral’s supposed to be held as soon as practical. It’s tradition.” I suspected Ultiman wanted to get the body into the ground as soon as possible to avoid uncomfortable questions from the Coroner, but I didn’t mention it.
She looked at me, still more surprise in her eyes, “I had no idea. You found that out when you interviewed her?”
I nodded. “Yup. I take it she didn’t have any family? I never asked her about that. Wouldn’t have been appropriate.”
“Just a sister up in Santa Barbara. I guess Ultiman’s picking her up. There’s an alternative, if you’re up for it. Ultiman had them print up a press pass for you. He figured you might want to cover the funeral. There’ll be a lot of security there, so it should be about the safest place in town.”
“Sure, I’d like that.” I thought for a second. I wasn’t appropriately dressed for a funeral. “Think we can drop by my place and pick up my suit? These things aren’t usually business casual.” I sighed, answering my own question, “Of course, the cops are probably watching my place.”
The superhero smiled, “Already thought of that. I’ll drop you at the Tower and handle it myself. It’ll be nice to do something other than play chauffeur for a suicidal reporter.” Herculene turned the car towards the 110 freeway, and I returned to my laptop and got started on researching Fourstar Transport.
VI
Truth be told, my job is pretty boring. Interviewing supervillains and watching people fight each other with mind-boggling powers actually takes up a very small part of my time. The majority of my day is spent doing research. People generally don’t just walk up and drop leads on me, I have to go out and find them. It’s dull, hard work, but I’ve gotten pretty good at it over the years. If I was around in the old days, I’d have spent my time in records archives digging through dusty old boxes full of files. Fortunately for my generation, we have the internet. It saves me a lot of shoe leather. Obviously, the web doesn’t have everything I need, but it takes care of the grunt work allows me to focus on the hard stuff.
I started with the Beacon archives. I didn’t expect to find too much. Even though the Beacon bills itself as a Los Angeles daily, our business section focuses more on national stories and businesses located in the Santa Monica area. Our business section only has a couple of pages to work with, so there’s not a lot of space to cover small, boring businesses like trucking companies in Wilmington. I moved on to the public search engines and got better results.
A general picture of Fourstar Transport began to emerge. It was founded in the early seventies to service the OilCo refinery’s need for shipping out their slurry, a by-product of something called fluid catalytic cracking. Reading up on it, I learned a bit more of the oil business than I ever thought I would, like how this stuff got used in fuel oil production. The American market didn’t use anywhere near as much of this stuff as we produced, so a lot of this material got shipped out to Asia. Fourstar picked up the slurry at the refinery and drove it over to San Pedro or Long Beach. They did most of this at night to avoid traffic. It seemed like a pretty solid business model. During the nineties, OilCo found itself holding too much cash and went on an acquisition binge. In addition to absorbing a couple of smaller refineries, they bought out some of their support businesses. Fourstar was one of them. After the sale, the founders, a married couple by the name of Jason and Erica Billings, took their small fortunes and bought a nice chunk of land in St. Croix, built themselves a mansion and were still living the good life, from what I could tell. Sometime around 2002, market conditions changed and OilCo found itself strapped for cash. They started selling off some of the companies it had acquired. Fourstar Transport was picked up by a holding company called Stormfront Holdings, which held it to this day. It was a solid little revenue generator.
Fourstar’s website was pretty basic. There was a page describing their business, a career page listing their available job openings, one touting their safety record and efforts to operate in an environmentally friendly way, an investor relations page and a page listing their senior management. According to their site, they had about thirty employees and operated a dozen trucks. The general manager was a man in his forties, with the name of Jason Billings III, one of the founder’s grandchildren. The page had a little bio on him. He grew up in the business and took over after the passing of his father, Jason Junior. The manager page also listed a head of operations and human resources director, Howard Page and Kelly Crenshaw-Page, each with similar little bios. From all appearances, it appeared to be a simple family business. Their investor relations page had a block of text indicating that they were owned by Stormfront and referred the reader to the Stormfront Holdings site.
It didn’t make sense that Fourstar would be part of a plot to damage the refinery. Hauling slurry for OilCo seemed to be their only revenue stream. No refinery, no business. Still, someone there decided to shut the place down and protect their drivers. Someone from outside the company must have tipped somebody at Fourstar off, someone with the power to close the shop for the night. Jason Billings and Howard Page seemed to be the best bets for that. I weighed my options. Northbound traffic on the 110 was still backed up, so I figured I had some time to kill. I turned my phone back on and placed a call to Fourstar. I identified myself to the lady who answered the call and asked to speak to Jason Billings. She politely informed me that he was in a meeting and offered to take a message. I asked if I could speak with Howard Page instead and she told me the same thing. I left a message with her, asking them to call me back when they were available. After the call ended, I shut the phone back off. They were probably in the same meeting, trying to figure out how to keep the company afloat with their only revenue source a smoking heap of tangled wreckage.
I hit a dead end at Stormfront. Their website made it look like they were an investment company, and was geared more towards people interested in putting money into their funds. There was no mention of the companies they held, and none of the fund managers’ names meant anything to me. I made a note to talk to our business editor when I got a chance, to find out how to get a list of the major shareholders of Stormfront. It could be a dead end, but it was worth running down. I didn’t expect a call back from Fourstar. They had bigger problems than press relations.
I sighed and closed the laptop. My eyes followed suit as my tired mind started running through the facts, trying to figure out how they might fit together.
***
I felt disoriented as Herculene pulled into the Angel Tower’s underground parking garage. I realized I must have fallen asleep on the drive. “I’m sorry. Guess I passed out there.”
“No problem. I figured you needed it. Gave me some time to think. Welcome to the Tower,” she grinned. “Come on, I gotta check you in with Security.” She stepped out of the car as an attendant came forward to park the Lincoln. I grabbed my gear and followed her out of the
garage.
The check-in with Angel Security was quick and efficient. They had me sign a visitor log, took my picture and printed out one of those ubiquitous RFID cards you see everywhere. It had my name, picture and a bright orange border. The security folks had blue ones. “You’re all set, Mr. Conway. Your badge will let you into any areas you’re authorized to access. Please keep it on at all times. If you lose it, the system will flag you as an intruder. If that happens, whatever you do, don’t move or freak out. We’ll come get you, “ the young woman behind the desk said. Her manner of speaking led me to believe she was ex-military. Most of the security staff I met at the Tower struck me the same way. They were like the superhero version of henchmen, people who had good training, could handle themselves and work as a team. Where the henchmen were usually the dregs of society, these were the cream of the crop. It probably didn’t pay as well as thuggery, but it was honest work. I’d take a few of these people over a dozen of Mickey’s patrons any day.
Herculene led me deeper into the Tower and into an elevator car. She pressed the button for the twelfth floor and a few moments later, we were standing in a clean white corridor outside the room I had been assigned. There was a little grey panel beside the door, and when I waved my badge over it, the door opened with a smooth thunk. “This is the visitor floor. The galley’s up on fourteen, if you get hungry. Listen, I’m going to go get cleaned up and plan ‘The Great Clothing Heist’. See ya in a bit.”
She didn’t just walk off like I expected. She stood there, leaving me an opening. I suddenly felt very awkward. I threw common sense to the wind. “That sounds great. Say, uh, you wanna get together for lunch?”
She smiled, “Yes, Reuben, I’d like that very much. How’s one-o’clock sound? I’ll pick you up here. Wouldn’t want you getting lost in this place.”
“Perfect,” I grinned back.
She spun on her heel and started walking back towards the elevator. She turned around after a few steps, did a fairly impressive Lauren Bacall imitation, saying, “If you need me, just whistle.” She giggled as she continued on down the hallway. I stood there, leaning back against the doorjamb, enjoying the view as she walked away. I shook myself out of it and went into the room.
Apparently, the Angel Tower’s guest quarters were designed by the same guy who designed every other business hotel I’ve stayed at. In addition to the usual accoutrements, there was a small desk with a phone, lamp and instructions for accessing the guest network. The entire back wall behind the desk was a window overlooking downtown Los Angeles. I dropped my bag at the desk and went into the bathroom. I really wanted a shower. I’d have to find something waterproof to cover my cast, and was considering pulling the plastic liner out of the wastebasket and securing it with one of my shoelaces. I decided to play a hunch, and went back into the room and opened the top drawer of the bureau. Inside, there was a plastic bag and a length of rubber band to seal it. Next to that was a grey T-shirt emblazoned with The Angel’s logo, a pair of navy blue sweatpants, socks and even a fresh pair of boxers. Wow, these guys didn’t miss a thing.
The shower was a little slice of heaven. About midway through, I found myself thinking of the view of Herculene as she walked down the corridor and turned the hot water off. The cold water shocked me back to my senses. I needed to stick to business.
So, cleansed and looking every bit the douchebag in the Angel-provided outfit, I navigated the procedure to get my laptop on the network, planning to start returning calls and emails. I glanced at the clock radio and saw I had about an hour to kill. I knew I’d have to return the calls from the cop and the FBI agent, and soon, or things would escalate. Cops tend to get annoyed when a guy they want to talk to is seen gallivanting around town and not returning their calls. They start to feel he’s thumbing his nose at them. They start getting ideas.
On the other hand, I didn’t really have anything I could tell them. I wasn’t going to give them Reggie, and right now my only leads were Fourstar and possibly Stormfront, and I didn’t want to tip my hand. If they started looking into the companies, my job would be impossible. I decided to hold off and see if the techs could ID the bomber. I figured that would make for a nice peace offering.
Instead, I chose to return the work-related communications. It’s always a good idea to maintain your personal network. I sent an email to Harry, letting him know I’d be covering the funeral. Once that was done, I churned through some of the backlog of calls I owed to colleagues. The calls were all pretty much the same. There was the apology for taking so long to call them back, a little small talk, a series of questions about last night’s events, an explanation that I was developing an angle on the story, a promise to provide more details later and another apology for cutting the call short. I tried my best to keep the calls under ten minutes each but there was no way I’d get through the whole list. I just did as much as I could.
I had just finished up one of these calls when a disembodied female voice said, “Mr. Conway, Herculene is outside your door.” I must have jumped a foot and a half out of my chair. I quickly looked around the room, but found nobody.
“Who said that?” I asked, cautiously.
“I’m sorry to have startled you, Mr. Conway. I am Archangel. I am an artificial intelligence construct with the primary task of overseeing the Tower’s operations and ensuring the safety of its occupants.” The voice added, “Apparently, I also serve as a doorbell.”
I smiled. Once again, superheroes got the coolest freakin’ toys.
It was fun, talking to a computer. Kind of science-fictiony. Yes, I’m fully aware that’s not a word. “Well, thank you, and I’m pleased to meet you, Archangel.”
“It is my pleasure, Mr. Conway. Have a nice lunch.”
I crossed the room and opened the door. As indicated, Herculene stood outside the door. She was dressed in a fresh costume. She took a look at me in the borrowed exercise clothes I was wearing and snickered, “Guess I should have dressed down a bit more.”
“Not on your life. You look great. I’m dressed like a schnook, but at least I’m used to it. Let’s go eat.”
“Sounds great. Mind eating in the galley? I still need to rob your apartment. Judging by that get-up, I’m thinking it’s a life-threatening emergency.”
“Go ahead, make fun all you want, miss. I’m totally going to steal this shirt when I leave.”
She laughed. “Fanboy.”
“Hey, I resemble that remark.”
We continued making with the small talk as the elevator carried us up to the fourteenth floor. The doors opened onto the galley, a well-appointed room that took up the entire floor. A wood-paneled wall divided the dining area from the kitchen, and the other three walls were made of glass and provided an excellent view. Along the kitchen wall was a series of buffet tables and a couple of kiosks.
Herculene explained, “The food’s great, and there’s plenty of it. The kitchen’s open around the clock. You can order almost anything you want from the kiosks. As much as I hate to cut this short, I have a nefarious scheme to implement. We should probably just hit the buffet this time.”
I agreed, and we grabbed plates and started loading them up. I selected a couple of chicken enchiladas with rice and beans, and added some steamed veggies. Herculene, well, it would be easier to note what wasn’t on the plate. Supers can certainly pack it away, and they never seem to gain an ounce. It takes a lot of energy to lift busses, run at the speed of sound, or teleport halfway around the world and it has to come from somewhere. If you ever want to find out if any supers are in your town, all you have to do is camp out in your local all-you-can-eat joint and look for well-toned people loading up huge plates of high-calorie food.
We joked and swapped stories as we ate. She was just finishing up a story from the day she and Dynamo took down Barnstorm, “So, we had him all tied up, but he’s conscious now and he tries to fly away! Dynamo tells me to stay with the henchmen then he jumps up and lands on Barnstorm’s back and the two of th
em just keep going up and up. Dynamo has his legs wrapped around him and he’s punching him in the back of the head while Barnstorm’s doing everything he can to shake him off. This kinda reminds me of a rodeo, and I just started laughing my head off. A couple of the henchmen are awake by now and they’re scoring this, like it was a bronco riding event. Dynamo finally brings him down in the cornfield, and drags him back to the barn. The henches gave him a score of seventy-nine.”
I chuckled as I imagined the scene, “I’m afraid I don’t know much about rodeos. Is that a good score?”
“It’s pretty good, but Dynamo’s incredibly competitive. He wakes up Barnstorm with a bucket of water, and tells him, ‘We’re going to have to do that again, pal. This time, try to put up more of a fight!’” We both burst into laughter.
I was enjoying myself immensely, but time was a factor, and we had jobs to do. I observed, “You know, I’m having too much fun to talk shop, but we kinda need to.”
“Yeah, I know.” She smiled at me, but quickly dropped it and got back to business. “I’ll start. The tech staff completed the analysis of your video. They think it was Longshot that planted the bomb.”
The news confused me. Longshot was a bounty hunter who mostly worked the East Coast. What was interesting about him was that he wasn’t a super, at least not a “natural”, meaning someone who gets their powers from a mutation in their DNA. Naturals were rare, the portion of the population who gets the mutation is generally accepted to be around one or two per million. Guys like Longshot, normals who managed to train and equip themselves to a level where they could compete with supers were even rarer.
By all accounts, he was extremely agile, possessed superior reflexes and was deadly with almost any weapon. He made his living by taking down supers who had crossed the line and ended up on the List. He was good at it, too. At last count, he had claimed fifteen bounties. If he planted the bomb at the refinery, he was taking a huge risk. Bounty hunters could hardly be considered “good guys”, but they were careful to stay in the law’s good graces. Getting caught doing something like this would land him on the List for sure.
