The Night's Legacy (19 page)

“For you, maybe.  I don’t care about the cops.” 

He doubted Set would care about the police either.  Right on cue, a bolt of lightning struck the helicopter.  The light winked out, followed closely by the rotors.  The helicopter spun around several times on its way to the ground.

The Seraph dashed out of the guardhouse, towards the helicopter.  Set seized the opportunity to take a shot at her.  She dove, continuing to roll to where the helicopter came down in a fiery heap.  The Private Eye watched as she tore open the helicopter’s door, trying to reach the pilot. 

From his knees, he saw Set aiming his staff for another shot.  The Private Eye raised his pistol and fired.  The bullet hit the bastard in the hand.  It didn’t seem to do any damage, but it got his attention.  The Private Eye flattened himself on the ground before the lightning bolt could burst his head open like a water balloon.

The guardhouse had survived the trucks exploding and the helicopter crashing, but the lightning bolt proved too much.  The roof caved in, chunks of cement raining down.  The Private Eye did what he could by rolling to the left, but there was nowhere to go.  One of the chunks hit his left shoulder.  He cried out as he heard something snap, probably his collarbone. 

He tried to drag himself out of the rubble, but it was too hard with just one arm.  Maybe one of the cops would find him before he died.  In which case he was as good as dead.  He supposed he was going to have to face it sometime.  Today might as well be the day.

The weight on him lifted.  He heard the Seraph’s voice say, “I ought to leave you here, but there’s some questions I need answered.”  She lifted him up, dragging him as if he weighed nothing over to her motorcycle.  He remembered this motorcycle; Jessica had ridden it before buying the Spyder.

As the first SWAT van drove into the compound they were on their way out.  There was no sign of Set, but the Private Eye knew he was still out there and he wasn’t about to stop.

Chapter 17

Even if the man weren’t dressed like a film noir detective and wearing a red ski mask,
Lois would have remembered him from the smell.  She had met more than her fair share of hobos in her time, but he stunk worse than any of them.  Didn’t he ever bathe? 

He clung to her with one hand, the other hanging limp at his side, probably broken.  She should take him to a hospital, although then she wouldn’t get a chance to find out what he knew.  He had been at the museum the night of the robbery, had saved her life.  He hadn’t saved Mom’s.  There was also how he knew about Set being able to see her.  He must have seen what had happened to Mom.  Had he just sat there and watched?

She looked back at him and said, “I’ll get you to a hospital after you give me some information.  Think you can stay conscious long enough?”

“No hospitals,” he hissed into her ear.  “I can take care of it.”

“Really?  You can fix a broken arm?”

“I’ve done it before.”

“Right.”

He gave her an address that was in the middle of the old industrial section.  Not a private address, but then someone who smelled this bad didn’t probably live in a forty-room mansion.  She supposed it could be a trap, but she doubted he would have warned her about Set if he planned to turn her over to that nut.

She could feel him going slack against her as they entered the maze of old factories.  Long ago these factories had churned out radios, bikes, and refrigerators.  The last of these had closed down the year Lois came into the world.  These days all Ren City made was money—and corpses.  She wondered if the smelly man would become the latter.

The address he had indicated in another life had been the
Brinkman Electronics Company.  She rode through the open gate, along a cracked concrete road.  She reached back with one hand to give her passenger a shake.  “Hey, buddy, we’re here.”

“Take me to the main building,” he said.

“Sure.  Then we can discuss the fare.”

She found a freight door open, the ramp allowing her to drive right up, into the building.  Once inside she began looking around for any sign of where someone might live.  The helmet’s visor allowed her to see in the dark, though she was pretty sure it didn’t do anything cool like shoot laser beams. 

He lived inside an old generator.  The generator had been hollowed out, the shell serving as his house.  He had left the door open so that she could see a three-legged desk propped up with cinderblocks.  This was where he lived?

She stopped the bike and then helped him dismount.  He wrapped his good shoulder around her neck, letting her drag him inside the generator, into his house.

It wasn’t a lot to look at.  The whole area was probably seventy square feet, smaller than most prison cells.  Other than the desk, there was a “bed” made from stacked wooden pallets covered with old rags.  No wonder he smelled so terrible!

She eased him onto the pile of rags, careful not to hurt his shoulder.  Looking around, she didn’t see any medical supplies.  “Not exactly a hospital, is it?” she said.

“Grab a rag and make a sling out of it.  The arm will heal in a few weeks.”

“Do I look like a Girl Scout to you?” she snapped.  “You think I can make a sling and set your arm?”

“It’s not that hard.  Just find a nice long strip, one that’s fairly clean.”

“That might be hard,” she said as she began rummaging around.

“You complain a lot more than your mother.”

She froze at this.  After a moment to get back to her senses, she spun around.  “What did you say?”

“You’re Jessica’s daughter.  You ought to keep that red hair covered better.  Your mom used a hairnet.  Probably not much you can do about the feet without surgery.”

Seeing no point in the pretense, she took off the helmet and shook out her troublesome hair.  She tossed the helmet onto the desk.  “All right, who the hell are you?  How do you know so much about me and Mom?  And how did you know what was going on at the museum?”

“I’d rather not answer those questions.”

“This isn’t optional.  You answer me or your shoulder will be the least of your troubles.”

He smiled at her.  “I bet you would.  Didn’t get your mother’s temper, did you?”

She put her hand on
Caledfwlch’s hilt.  “The next time you say something like that I’m going to cut off your damned head.”

“You might want to check with your friend Percival about that.  I think your Sissy Society has rules about that.”

“Yeah?  Let’s see how well you insult me without that mask, Stinky.”  She ripped the fedora off his head, followed by the mask.  He was a lot older than she’d thought, his tangled hair entirely white, as was his patchy beard. 

She focused on the tangled hair and his pointed nose.  Subtract the beard and change the eyes from brown to blue and it was like seeing what she would look like when she was about Mom’s age.  She staggered back, reaching out to grab onto the desk for support.  Besides the desk, there was how he knew so much about her and Mom and how he’d saved her life in the museum.  “Daddy?” she whispered.

* * *

When she was a child she had concocted a number of scenarios about her father.  When not thinking that Dr. Johnson would one day reveal himself as her dad, she had imagined he would be a big, strapping man with bulging muscles and a square jaw.  She pictured him as a fireman or construction worker or something manly like that.  When she was little, she imagined that he would pick her up and throw her into the air, catching her as she screamed with delight.  Even as she got older, she kept these images of her father looking like the model for paper towel or cigarette commercials.

In reality her father was a grubby little hobo.  Dropping onto a three-legged chair that went with the three-legged desk, she supposed it made sense.  That was why she had taken so readily to life on the streets; she was a chip off the old block.  “You?” she said.  “You’re my father?”

“Yes.”

She buried her face in her hands, feeling the pointed nose and tangled hair she had inherited from him along with the ability to be comfortable in filth.  “And you’ve been here the whole time?”

“Not here.  I’ve moved around a lot.”

“Well sure, there are laws against vagrancy in this town.  That’s what you are, a vagrant.  My father is a fucking vagrant.  No wonder Mom never told me.”

He laughed at this.  “Do you think your mother would have kept this secret for so long on her own?”

She looked up at him.  “So that was your idea?”

“Of course.  Look at me.  What kind of girl would want me for a father?”

“Me!”  When she punched the desk, the augmented strength of the armor caused her to break it in two.  “I’d rather have a fucking vagrant than no father at all.  Do you know how badly I wanted to see you?  Every fucking birthday and Christmas I hoped you would come through the door.”

“I’m sorry.  It had to be that way.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say?  You abandoned me for twenty-three years and that’s all you’re going to say?  Couldn’t you have even sent a goddamned postcard so I’d know you existed?”

“I thought it was best not to get you involved at all.  It was better for both of us that way.”

“Why?  What was so goddamned important that you abandoned me and Mom?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Then uncomplicate it or else I’m not going to need the armor to choke the life out of you.”

The smelly man stared at her for a moment, the look lacking the hardness of Mom’s Glares.  He nodded.  “All right.  I suppose you know enough already.”  He took a deep breath and then explained it to her.

* * *

My name is Sam Rivers.  It used to be Detective Sam Rivers until about thirty-five years ago.  I worked in the homicide bureau for the Ren City police.  The department wasn’t any better back then than it is now.  In some ways it was worse.

We were getting paid by the Ren City government, but most of us were in the employ of the mob.  Back then it was still the Italians at the top of the heap, a guy named Bolchenzo ran the whole thing.  He was the type to have you put into the river with cement shoes if you crossed him.

When they promoted me to detective it took me about five minutes to see how deep the corruption went.  I was still green enough I thought I could change things.  I went to internal affairs.  They made a few token inquiries, but nothing happened to the bad cops.  Me they cornered in the locker room and told in no uncertain nose to keep my big nose out of their business.

For a while I tried to look the other way.  I even took a few bribes just to keep from drawing any attention.  I dropped the bribes into the poor box at church; maybe the blood money could help some poor sap who needed it.

Then one night me and this detective named Foote responded to a call.  Supposedly a heist at a jewelry store.  They had the owner, a Mr. Schulman, tied to a chair.  He hadn’t made with the protection money.  Foote put a bullet in him while I watched.  He turned to me and said, “Looks like the thief put a bullet in him and run off, right Sam?”

I saw a picture of Schulman behind the counter.  He had a wife and kids, one a girl about your age.  Something in me snapped.  I couldn’t let it go on anymore.  They could kill me if they wanted, but I wasn’t going to be their patsy anymore.

I drew on Foote.  Put three bullets in his gut.  He’d spend the next few hours in constant pain until he finally gave it up and joined Schulman.  I hoped he’d wind up in a different place, one with a lot of flames and burning sulfur like the priest used to say.

I was still a sap, though.  Turns out the whole thing was a double-cross.  Foote had been in deep with the mob for something like a quarter-million.  Bolchenzo told him that whacking Schulman would make them even.  Then he figured I’d take out Foote and solve both problems for him.  If I didn’t he had a couple goons on standby to whack me and plant a murder weapon so it’d still look the way he wanted.

Those goons got the drop on me before my pistol even stopped smoking.  They put two bullets in me, about the same place where I got Foote.  Then they dumped about a freighter’s worth of gasoline and lit a match.

What they didn’t count on was that I would be able to crawl out of there.  It was tough going, but there’s nothing like an inferno on your heels to motivate you.  I crawled out the back door, into an alley.  I found an old bum.  He was wearing this coat and hat.  They’d put a couple bullets in his head just to make sure he couldn’t come forward as a witness.

I had lost a lot of blood and I could hardly stand, but somehow I found the strength to get off his hat and coat.  I dragged him into the building along with the others.  Tossed my wallet in there too.  Then I put on the bum’s clothes and got myself to a hospital.  Without ID they treated me as a John Doe, just another hobo meeting a bad end.

They didn’t try hard to save me but I lived anyway.  Saw in the paper that as far as Bolchenzo was concerned everything was wrapped up neatly.  Schulman, Foote, and me had all died in the fire, three problems out of his way.

When I could get up and around, I grabbed my clothes and walked out.  The hospital didn’t give a shit.  If I went and died in an alley it’d be less paperwork for them to fill out.

I knew I couldn’t go back to my old life.  Between the dirty cops and the mob, I’d be dead if I ever showed my face at the station.  So I took to living on the streets like a real hobo.

That didn’t mean I’d still be their patsy.  I bought this mask from a thrift shop and then got some blank business cards.  Since most private eyes are cops put out to pasture, that seemed to be a good moniker.

I started going after the dirty cops and the mob, the ones who’d taken my life from me.  I didn’t think I’d last thirty-five days let alone thirty-five years.  Luck was on my side, though sometimes I wondered if it were bad or good.  Seeing you, I think it was good luck.

“Don’t try to flatter me, old man,”
Lois said.  “Tell me the rest.  Tell me about Mom.”

Your mom came onto the scene about five years after I did.  I heard rumors about her for a few weeks before seeing her up close.  She was something to see, the way she moved around was like a dancer in spite of her size. 

We really met the night Bolchenzo died.  I’d heard that a rival gangster from Cleveland named Butcher Brown was going to hit him on his yacht.  I stowed away to make sure they took each other out.  I’d pick up any pieces they left behind.

Brown’s people had already come on board when your mom showed up.  Even with that armor she managed to swim from another boat onto Bolchenzo’s.  I heard the commotion outside and decided to go find Bolchenzo.  He was in his quarters, on the bed with a girl.  They were both dead already.  I didn’t feel as good as I thought I might about that.

Your mom saved me for the first time that night.  I was so caught up in seeing Bolchenzo dead I let Brown get the drop on me.  He had the pistol at the base of my neck when your mom took him down.  I just dove onto the floor and watched as she went through five guys like they were made of straw.

We made our introductions.  Your mom was younger than you are now, but not nearly so cocky.  She was smart enough to realize she could use my help.  I knew the city a lot better than her and I could do things she couldn’t.  I was the bad cop and she was the good cop.