Just Another Job (11 page)

“I don’t think I can add many deep thoughts
on fashion today,” said Chris, and moved his hands up and down to
indicate the awesomeness of his current outfit. “But I had some
baggy jeans too. I looked like I shopped in André the Giant’s
closet. It was college and I didn't know how to dress yet. I still
don't know how to dress yet, according to my wife.”

“What's her name? You never mentioned her
before. Do you have kids?”

“Yeah. I mean... Her name is Sadie. We have
a daughter and son.”

“I'd love to meet them. We should get
together outside of work. Especially since we're going to be
partners and everything now.”

“Sidekick. I don't know how much good I can
do for you. You're already amazing and I was just lucky
before.”

“It happened for a reason, Chris. And there
are plenty of things you can do for me and for us. We're a team.
Plus, I'll look out for you.” Johnykin gave him a smile that melted
his legs and cleared his conscience in one. She then made his heart
thump when she grabbed him by the collar. A move Sadie had pulled
on him to get in a passionate kiss once or twice. A part of Chris
thought Johnykin was attempting the same thing, but instead she
turned away to run him halfway across the store to a rack of shirts
in the men's section.

“You would look so cute in this,” she said,
and held up a turquoise oxford.

Chris stood nervously while she held up a
medium to his chin to check the length and rough fit.

“Do you have a husband or anyone,” he
said.

“No, no, no. Too busy right now. I couldn't
give up this for a family yet.”

“You want children?”

“Of course. Who doesn't? I just can't yet.
This is too good of an opportunity. Don't you think so? Besides I
couldn't get a date right now unless it was Klaus and he'd rather
date himself.”

“What? I mean I kind of see that.” Chris
looked over at Klaus still talking to Frank. Klaus was leaning
against the glass wall of the store and looking down at his arms
and legs in between bits of dialogue. “Is he checking himself
out?”

“Does that a lot.” Johnykin flipped through
a clearance rack of sweaters. “So annoying when you're trying to
talk to him.”

“Frank won't mind as long as he has someone
to bitch to.” Chris copied Johnykin and eyed a pair of khakis.

The pair continued through the store. There
were few customers and all of them skirted around Chris and
Johnykin. Chris was beginning to talk as if Johnykin was an old
friend by the time they made it to the kid's area and he finally
asked her something that pried too deep.

“What did you do before all of this?”

“Before this? I lived in L.A.” Johnykin
stopped there and examined a flower print skirt for a
five-year-old.

“And...What did you do there?” Chris didn't
get the hint.

“Uh, how old's your daughter?”

“Too old for that. Did you act or something?
I have a cousin in show business. If that's what they still call
it. He edit's movies. Well, he edited a movie last I heard.”

“No acting. I worked in real estate. It was
boring.”

“Did you want to become a superhero?”

“’Did I want to become a superhero?’ That's
a funny way to put it. I didn't know what I wanted. This just
happened. One day selling houses, the next punching holes through
them.” Johnykin had enough and walked out of The GAP. Chris hurried
behind her, trying to figure out what he said to send her
running.

“Find any cute dresses?” asked Klaus.

“Nothing in my size,” said Johnykin.

“Find any cute dresses, Chris?” asked
Frank.

“Nothing in your size, Frank,” said
Chris.

With the lame jokes aside, the four walked
on. Klaus began a campaign of waving to little kids when they
passed. Frank picked it up awkwardly. They didn't go into any more
stores or rather Johnykin didn't force Chris into any more. She did
start talking again, but it was all meaningless chatter. It was a
strange scene; two superheroes and their sidekicks strolling
through a mall without a single shoplifter in sight and without any
real business to take care of.

On the second floor, Klaus brought them over
to a Hot Dog On a Stick and ordered four lemonades. Chris pulled
out his wallet to help pay, but the eighteen-year-old manager
cheerfully told him to put it away. The normally three dollar
drinks were on the house for the superb law enforcement the four of
them delivered in the two hours since they arrived. Chris enjoyed
the cool drink while wondering how many Hot Dog On a Sticks
actually need any kind of law enforcement.

But Chris's thoughtful moments hit a wall
with a two word shout, “Stop, thief!”

On the opposite walkway a teenager sprinted
across the smooth tile floor, while a middle-aged woman with too
much make up pointed.

“I thought they weren't supposed to yell out
thief anymore?” said Klaus, watching the chaos and sipping on his
lemonade.

“Yeah, something to do with innocent until
proven guilty and insurance policies,” said Johnykin, who passively
watched the scene as well.

“We're supposed to do something, right?”
asked Chris.

“Oh, fuck yeah. He's mine,” said Frank, and
took off running parallel to the possible thief.

Chris puzzled over the inaction of the
Supers and then looked back to the teenager. A black shoebox with a
silver Michael Jordan logo was tucked under his arm. The teen also
ran funny with a slight skip. Chris's mind fumbled over the scene
his eyes couldn't quite keep in focus until all the clues clicked.
It was the same tight jeans, fauxhawk punk that flipped Frank off
earlier. Chris took off immediately.

Chris and Frank had never run full speed
against one another, but Chris imagined he had the advantage. He
was slightly taller and leaner than Frank, but Chris didn't make up
much ground in the beginning. At the first bridge between the
second floor walkways Frank cut naturally and lost only half a foot
in speed to get behind the teen. Chris came up less graceful when
turning the corner and knocked over a wannabe gangster that mixed
Spanish and English curses as he dusted off his sneakers, but
didn't dare get involved past that.

The chase continued with few if any shoppers
making an effort to get out of anyone's way. This helped Chris as
he found a groove weaving in and out while Frank plowed through
shoulders and backs that slowed him down. The teen looked back at
his pursuers and tripped over a stroller wheel sticking out of a
Pottery Barn Kids doorway. Frank was on top of the teen, but he
scrambled to his feet and zipped to the elevator that
serendipitously began closing with his approach. The teen squeezed
through the closing steel as Frank skidded to a halt before
slamming both fists into the doors to leave a slight dent meant for
the thief's face. Chris caught up, but as soon as Frank
acknowledged his friend's presence he took off again.

Chris followed, already surmising their
destination. The escalators were packed, but the bulldozing Frank
made an easy path to follow. Halfway down the moving stairs Frank
topped the entire event by making an action movie jump off the side
to land ten feet below in a controlled tumble. “Of course,” thought
Chris and followed suit.

On the ground again, Frank led the way to
the elevator in a fast jog. He stepped right in front of the door
and glared savagely at what was to come. Chris thought of a better
plan and shoved Frank to the side of the elevator and out of sight.
Then he put himself by the exit. The elevator opened and the teen
sprang out towards the exit and Chris. The brakes were put on at
the sight of the excessively padded sidekick blocking the way to a
free pair of two hundred dollar shoes. The teen turned only halfway
to make another run for it when Frank met him chest to chest in a
perfect form tackle. Two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and
foam met little resistance with a hundred and fifty pounds of bone
and hair gel, leaving the teen on his back with the wind knocked
out of him. Frank moved fast. He flipped the juvenile delinquent
over and pulled his hands behind his back before realizing there
was nothing to cuff with.

Frank sat on the teen's legs and held his
wrists. Then he looked to Chris. “Don't just stand there, get me
some cuffs.”

“Does it look like I have a utility belt? If
you don't have any cuffs than I don't.”

“Get me some something. I'm not gonna sit
here all day till the cops come.”

Chris shrugged and glanced around. The
stolen shoes fell out of their box and the laces hung limply on.
Chris grabbed one end and yanked the shoelace through the holes
until he had – in his mind – a genius bit of improvisation.

“Don't get full of yourself. I fucking
tackled him,” said Frank, and tied the teen's hands together.

Frank stood up and Chris picked up the teen,
whose lungs filled back up with air. “You fucking fascists. You
have no right to do this.”

“Do you even know what fascist means dick
face?” said Frank.

The teen thought about it while Chris and
Frank held each of his arms in their march up the escalator back to
the Hotdog on a Stick and their waiting Supers. “Fucking, rental,
cop pigs.”

“Dumb ass,” said Frank.

Klaus and Johnykin were nowhere to be seen
once they got back. “You think they called the cops?” asked
Chris.

“Who knows. Let's take those shoes back and
find the security room to lock dipshit up.”

They got directions from the manager of the
Foot Locker and a zip tie to use instead of the laces. The teen
decided to remain silent for the trip through the back hallways to
his detention cell or whatever containment the mall deemed
appropriate for shoe thieves.

Down the last concrete hallway was a steel
door with a small thick glass window. Next to the door was an
intercom. Frank pushed the button. “Hey, we caught a loser stealing
shit. Let us in.”

Chris frowned at him to say that they should
act more professional. Frank just glared back his answer.

A buzzer sounded and the door opened to a
blurry eyed security guard with a permanent beer belly. “Great job.
I thought there was a girl?”

“There was,” said Frank, and pushed the teen
inside. Two more security guards sat at a table playing with their
phones. “Did you see where they went?”

“Who?” asked the chubby one that answered
the door.

“The man and the woman that were with us.
The Supers,” said Chris.

“I thought you were the Supers,” said
another security guard.

“We are, but there were two more with us
idiot,” said Frank. “You have cameras all over. Where did they
go?”

The room had four large monitors that
flipped back and forth between a hundred plus feeds. The security
guard motioned his hand across the setup as if Frank and Chris
would be better suited at searching than him. Frank didn't need any
more approval and sat down to face the monitors. He acclimated to
the controls swiftly and sped through the different cameras across
the mall. It was a relatively easy task, two figures dressed in
black with confident postures that would put a Greek statue to
shame. Unfortunately, they couldn't find any trace of them and
after five minutes the other two security guards decided it would
be more interesting to watch the monitors than their phones, which
put the pressure on even more to find the missing Supers.

“Where the fuck did they go,” said Frank in
a louder whisper than he thought.

“You should call them,” said one of the
security guards, and held up his phone in a misguided effort to
help.

Frank ignored him and Chris explained they
didn't have a number, which made the security guards chuckle in
superiority.

“Shit. I'm gonna call Erik. At least we can
get out of here if they already ditched us,” said Frank.

“We're not in junior high. They wouldn't
just ditch us,” said Chris.

“Come on,” said Frank, and took off without
waiting for Chris to answer or object.

Just outside the security room, Chris heard
the guards making jokes and laughing at them. He looked back and
glared at them the way Frank would have, but Frank was already on
his way down the hallway with his cellphone to his ear.

Chris jogged to Frank at the corner of the
concrete hallway when a distinct boom echoed down to them. Frank
ended his call and both of them ran to the entrance where screams
now took over the pop music atmosphere. Plastic and paper bags
filled with designer and not so designer clothes fluttered behind
the backs of frightened shoppers darting for any and every exit
they could find. The boom that first alerted Chris and Frank
changed to a drummer's roll of gunfire followed by higher pitched
screaming.

The gun blasts and the crowd's opposite
direction of panic made it easy to pinpoint the shooter. Frank
ducked behind the escalator and Chris followed while tracking the
apparently lone gunman's whereabouts.

“Do you think this shit is bulletproof?”
asked Frank, and slapped the chest padding.

“I would hope so. What the hell are you
planning?”

“We need to flank him. Where the fuck are
they?”

“We should wait. They can take him head on
or any other direction.” A splattering of tiny explosions came from
the floor near their cover and sent chips of porcelain flying at
them. “Shit!”

“Did the security trolls follow us?”

“I doubt it.” Chris pulled his head out to
look back to the doorway they came in and saw no signs indicating
they would get support any time soon from those paid to do so.
Chris also saw the shooter taking long strides towards them while
switching from a semi-automatic rifle to a shotgun in a smooth
motion. The glass walls of a Men's Wearhouse exploded into tiny
consumerist shrapnel and then just for good measure another shotgun
blast took out the business suit mannequins.