by Nick Svolos
I couldn’t make any sense out of it. “Longshot? That’s crazy. Are your people sure about this?”
She nodded. “The say it’s an eighty-five percent match. He was wearing a mask, so they went mainly off of size and body movements. Not enough to take action, but something to follow up on. He fits pretty well when you factor in the sniper angle. They said they got a good look at the bomb, too. I guess there’s a database that they can look up the type of bomb and maybe get a line on who made it. Should know something in a couple of hours.”
I chewed a bite of enchilada while pondering this information. “What could be big enough to make a guy like Longshot come all the way across the country and get mixed up in something like this?” I wondered aloud. Something clicked in my head. Sometimes, just voicing my questions causes me to answer them myself. “You know, if I was looking to do a test of the cape-killers, he’d be a good choice. Sniping’s his bread-and-butter. Maybe he’s doing it for a supply of the bullets. Give him an edge in going after bigger bounties. I never heard of him using a jetpack before, though.”
She frowned as she considered this. “True. One thing’s for sure, if it is him and he’s working for the other side, this thing just got a lot more dangerous.”
I frowned. I didn’t like the idea of a hitman being after me one bit, but Longshot was another thing entirely. If he had access to the cape-killers, Herculene was at risk too, and for some reason, I realized I liked that thought even less.
She looked at me and put her hand on mine, her expression serious. “Reuben, what you’ve done so far is very brave. You don’t have anything to prove, least of all to me. You’ve given us enough information to run with this on our own and I don’t want to see you get hurt. Walk away from this.”
I rotated my hand and gave hers a squeeze. I looked her in the eyes. “This is going to sound corny, but I mean it. Ever since I was a teenager, this is what I wanted to do, get out there and chase the big story. Drag the truth out into the light and show it to the world. If I walked away from this one, I wouldn’t be, well, I wouldn’t be me anymore. I’d be the frightened guy who turned away from the story because it got scary. He’s the guy who will walk away from the next scary story, too, and the one after that. He’s the guy who ends up covering dog shows for the Sunday Style section. I don’t want to meet that guy, and I sure as hell don’t want to be him.
“Let’s put the shoe on the other foot. We both know things are going to get very nasty before this is over. I don’t want to see you get hurt. Would you say anything different if I asked you to walk away?”
She looked down and softly said, “No.”
I continued, “How about we both agree that we’ll be very, very careful?”
She didn’t look satisfied, but she nodded. “Sure. We’ll be careful.” She took her hand back, “You sure got a way with words, Reuben.”
“This is what I keep telling my editor!” That got a smile back on her face.
We finished up our lunch and walked to the elevator. She pressed the up button and I pressed down. She smiled and gave my right arm a gentle squeeze with her hand. “That was fun, Reuben. Thanks for inviting me. I’m going to go rob your apartment now.”
I laughed. “I had a great time too. I hope we can do it again, sometime. Say, I have a favor to ask if it’s not too much. The memory card with the stills from the fight is in my computer at home. While you’re burgling my place, do you think you could grab it? The cops are going to want it, and I figure a peace offering is in order. I imagine they aren’t all that happy with me right now.”
She assured me she would and we said good-bye. I got back to my room at about one-thirty. I figured I had a little over an hour before I’d have to start getting ready for the funeral. That’s how it is in L.A. You never know how the traffic is going to be, but it will always be worse than you planned for. People make fun of Los Angelinos for always being late, but I think it’s a wonder we ever get anywhere at all.
I decided the best use of my time would be to start digging on Stormfront Holdings. There wasn’t much out there on the internet about them. Normally, I’d expect to find a lot of press releases, SEC filings and what-not, but not so with Stormfront. It looked like a dead end.
It struck me as odd that I couldn’t find out anything about the company. I began to suspect that I just didn’t have the background for this. Fortunately, I knew someone who did. I dialed the internal number for the Beacon’s Business Desk.
Sylvester Blake answered. Sylvester is far too rich, talented and old to be the editor of a local daily’s business section, so naturally, he’s really good at it. Back in the 80’s, he made a small fortune as a corporate raider. He turned that into a larger fortune by funding a few well-chosen tech startups a decade later. He parleyed that into real estate on the West Coast, which he got out of in 2005, just before the bubble popped. I sometimes wonder if he has some sort of time machine through which he receives newspapers from the future, but in reality he’s just really smart. Nowadays, the sixty-seven year old man wakes up in the morning in his fantastic Venice Beach home, kisses his twenty-seven year old wife and five-year-old son, and takes a leisurely drive up Pacific Avenue to the Beacon offices, apparently because he’s the kind of guy who just has to do something.
His voice came on the line, “Beacon Business, this is Blake.”
I smiled. I always got a kick out of the flair with which he answered the phone. “Hi Sylvester, it’s Reuben Conway.”
“Reuben, my boy, how are you? I hear you’re on to quite a story.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m calling about. Do you know anything about a company called Stormfront Holdings?”
“Hmm, Stormfront.” Sylvester went silent for a few second while he accessed the extensive database he stored in his brain. “I’m afraid I don’t know much. They’re privately held. One point two billion capitalization, if I remember correctly. Diversified portfolio. I’m not sure who runs it. Why do you ask? Finally looking to do some investing?
I had to stifle a chuckle. I didn’t know which was funnier, that he had just given me far more information in twenty seconds than I’d managed to find in about thirty minutes of research or that he thought I had any money to invest. I should have just called him first.
“Actually, I’m following up on them because of a company they own. It’s a slurry hauling company down in Wilmington by the name of Fourstar Trucking. Last night, they shut down before the refinery explosion. It looks like it was sabotage and somehow they knew about it before it happened. I looked into them and ran into a wall, but I did manage to find out they’re owned by Stormfront Holdings. That’s where I’m having trouble. There doesn’t seem to be much info out there about them. I was wondering if you had some suggestions on how to proceed. I was hoping to see if there were any interesting names on their board or something.”
I could almost hear the wheels turning in Blake’s mind. “Interesting. You think someone at Stormfront might be involved?”
“I’m not sure. It’s pretty clear someone at Fourstar was tipped, but it could have come from anywhere. It’s pretty thin, but Stormfront’s the only lead I have at the moment. I’d like to run it down before I go out to Fourstar and directly confront them.”
“I see. Well, it’s simple enough to look into.” I could hear him tapping at his keyboard. “I’m looking at their site now. Interesting that their board isn’t listed.”
“Nope. Their fund managers are there, but nothing about the people who own or run the company.”
“Hmm. That’s odd. Well, I can have one of my guys look into it.”
That’s exactly what I didn’t want. I spoke quickly, “Actually, maybe it would be better if you told me how to do it. I don’t want this getting out, but whoever’s behind all this is playing for keeps. Someone tried to shoot me this morning. I don’t want anyone else from the paper to get on their radar.”
“What? My God! Are you alright?”
“I’m fi
ne. I’m somewhere safe right now, but I need to figure this out and find the people responsible before they find me.”
“Reuben, what’s going on?” He didn’t sound satisfied.
“At this point, the less you know, the better. I don’t want them to have a reason to go after anyone else.” This thing was bad enough without having my co-workers’ safety on my conscience.
“I don’t suppose I can convince you to do something sane, like take a vacation? My place in Belize is available.”
Tempting, but I knew it was a false hope. “Naw, I can’t do that. Whoever’s behind all this isn’t going to give up. They have too much at stake. Besides, I have some powerful support here.” I gave a little emphasis to the word, “Powerful”.
He took the hint. “I see. Well, I have a friend at the FTC. I’ll ask him to look into it. He’s a good man, knows how to be discreet.”
I didn’t like it. There’s no telling how high up this went. “You sure you can trust this guy? I don’t want you to show up on the bad guys’ radar. How about you just give me his number and let me call him.”
“Can’t do that, Reuben. He won’t talk to you. You’re a reporter.”
“OK, well, just be careful.”
“I always am. I think I’ll make the call and take a few days off. Jill’s been after me to take the family to Geneva again.”
Good, he was playing it safe. “That sounds awesome.”
“It is. I’ll call you when I have something. Good luck, kid.”
“Thanks, Sylvester.”
I tried to get my brain to think of something else to do, but it wasn’t working. I found myself nodding off. The bed looked inviting and adrenaline can only take you so far. I told Archangel I was going to take a nap and asked the her to wake me up in a half hour. I sprawled out on the bed and was asleep within seconds.
***
At about 2:30, Archangel informed me that Mentalia was outside my door. Groggy from my brief nap, I got up and opened the door. Mentalia is a petite African-American woman, probably about five-foot-six, but the heels of her flared thigh-high, black go-go boots brought her up to about five-eight. She was in a fresh costume, a jet black, low-cut, form-fitting number with a short skirt and silver piping that always reminded me of something a dancer would wear. She wore her hair in one of those mid-seventies Afros that never should have gone out of style. She had her left arm resting in a sling and a big bruise on her cheek, but it did nothing to mar her beauty. My clothes were suspended in mid-air behind her in a transparent, vaguely purple field.
“Special delivery for Mr. Conway,” she said as I opened the door.
“Well, this is embarrassing,” I said as I lifted my left arm, “Every time I decide to go with a new look, someone else shows up wearing the same thing.”
She smiled, “I wear it better, honey.” I stepped aside and she came in, levitating my clothes behind her and setting them on the bed. “Here, she said you needed this, too.” She handed me the memory card.
“Thanks, I really appreciate you guys doing this.”
“Think nothing of it, Reuben. Can I call you Reuben?”
“Of course. I’d like that. Was there any trouble with the cops?”
“None at all. We got Ben to drive your car into the lot, and then he turned around and left. The cops followed him and we just walked right up and did the deed.” My face must have betrayed my concern for the old woody, because she quickly added, “Don’t worry, Ben got away clean and your car is safe.” Changing the subject, she asked, “You got pictures of the fight on that thing?”
“Yes. Would you like a copy?”
She nodded. “Uh huh. I keep a little scrapbook.” She sounded a little embarrassed, which seemed odd to me. Heck, if I could do the things she does, I’d be putting up billboards.
“You got it. You know, I saw what you did back there. You were amazing.”
She blushed a bit, “Thanks. You know, ‘All in a night’s work,’ and all that.” She glanced down, probably remembering how it all ended. She shook it off and changed the subject, “Anyhow, Herc picked out the clothes, so blame her if they don’t match.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. I look bad in anything.”
She chuckled. “Well, it can’t be worse than that get-up. You know, I’ve never seen a girl have so much fun going through a man’s closet.” She favored me with a sly smile, “I think she’s kind of sweet on ya.”
Something in my chest gave a quick, happy little jump. This must be the superhero equivalent of passing notes in history class. It was my turn to blush. “Yeah, well, she’s pretty incredible.”
She laughed heartily. “You white boys are so cute when you’re put on the spot. Alright, Reuben, I got to go. Ultiman’s called the team in for a briefing in five.” She turned to leave, but stopped at the door. “There’s just one more thing, something you should understand. She hasn’t been around here that long, but we all love that girl. Do not hurt her.” She said the last four words carefully and gave them a minute to sink in. “She’s the type who wears her heart on her sleeve. You probably already noticed. People like that, when they get hurt, they learn to start hiding that heart. The world loses something wonderful. If you don’t treat her right, well, I know where you live.” She smiled. “It was nice meeting you, Reuben. You seem like a good guy. I really do hope we’ll be seeing more of you,” she said as she left the room.
I shuddered. The lecture was actually not so much the passing notes thing as the superhero equivalent of telling me she had a daddy with a shotgun. Common sense would dictate that I break it off before it went any further. A schlub like me had no business messing with a gal like her. I mean, she’s a superhero. How does that even work? I didn’t have a protocol for something like this. Still, there was something about her…
I tabled this train of thought and got busy getting ready for the funeral. The pile on my bed included a gym bag with a couple of shirts, my black dress shoes and a few day’s worth of underclothes. My black suit was there, as well as, inexplicably, my tuxedo. Why the hell did she bring my tux?
Yes, I own a tux. A couple of times a year, I have to attend formal events, award ceremonies and the like, and renting tuxes is a pain. It turns out that a tux is about the cheapest suit you can buy, a decent one will only set you back a couple hundred bucks. That’s about what renting one a few times will cost you. Plus, you can pretend to be James Bond at Halloween parties. The thing practically pays for itself.
None of this explained its presence. It was a mystery I’d have to solve at another time. I hung it in the closet and started dressing for the funeral. I debated how best to get to the cemetery. I didn’t think I’d be riding with The Angels. It would be bad for the investigation if I appeared too chummy with them in public. I decided to save the mental energy and spoke into the air, “Archangel, any ideas on how I should get to the funeral?”
“Arrangements have already been made, Mr. Conway. I have allocated a car from the motor pool for your use, an older-model Honda Accord. It’s very inconspicuous. Angel Security uses it for surveillance work.”
I wondered if it flew. “That’s perfect, Archangel. Thanks.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Conway.”
I had to admit, staying as a guest of The Angels sure had it’s perks.
VII
It took me about 30 minutes to drive to the cemetery, even though it’s not much more than twelve miles. That’s a good day in LA, folks. I checked in at the guard booth as I drove in and identified myself, presenting the press pass Archangel had waiting for me when I collected the car, and the guard handed me a little map with the route I should take clearly marked on it in blue highlighter ink. He also offered me a yarmulke, which I accepted. I followed the winding road through the Memorial Park and came at last to the parking lot circled on the map. It was a short walk to a cluster of mourners standing around the gravesite. I parked and set out to join the group. The sun beat down through overcast skies with oppressive fo
rce, and I was sweating profusely from even the minimal effort of the short hike.
The people there appeared to be mostly people from The Angels’ staff. There were a few reporters sprinkled here and there, and the Mayor and a few other city politicians were in attendance, but I didn’t see any other civilians. I felt terribly lonely for Phoenix Fire, as I wondered whether she had any friends outside the Tower at all. I knew the superhero business can be isolating, but she deserved better. Perhaps she did have a good life outside of her persona, but the people who knew her in the real world just had no way to know the person they loved was being laid to rest today. Whoever she was in that life, she deserved better than to be buried by co-workers and politicians.
I was pleased to note that none of us reporters brought cameras. We’re not always known for our forbearance, but for once we all behaved like decent human beings. Several of the reporters were speaking with the mourners, asking how they had known Phoenix Fire, what was she like, and so forth. A couple of them recognized me and came over.
Shelly Brice did on-air reporting for the local NBC affiliate, and I only knew her by reputation. Richard, or Rico as he was known on air, Chavez of Telemundo, I knew pretty well. We had a strained relationship. Rich and I worked the Vengeance Squad story together. At first, we got along just fine, sharing contacts and resources as we were putting the story together, but as the truth started to come out, he wanted to kill the story. I never learned whether he was scared, if someone had gotten to him, or if he just wanted to protect the superteam that had once had such a good reputation. In the end, I moved ahead with the story on my own and he asked me to remove his name from the byline.
