DETECTIVE COMICS #1
By The Mauve Lantern
THE SPIRIT in THE GHOST OF CENTRAL CITY
It was a dark and foggy night, the perfect night for mischief of the criminal sort. The police were out and about to keep the peace but even they could not catch every little crime committed in the dense cover. In fact, a patrolman walking the beat by 27th and Eisner did not see three young boys climbing over the gates of Wildwood Cemetery. By the time he had gone to the gates to check for who was rattling them, the culprits were long gone, lost in the maze of tombstones and statues.
The boys, Michael and Ronnie O'Donald and Len Weisman, should have been at home sleeping after a long day of work, but curiosity got the better of them. Rumors of a ghost in Wildwood had been traveling around Central City for the past few months, and while this was not an uncommon occurrence, it did pique the interest of the three young, inquisitive boys. They had heard stories of a specter dressed in blue that left the cemetery every night and came back every morning; how it flew around the city and punished evil-doers. Word had gotten around that someone wanted this phantom and were willing to pay an enormous amount for it, so the boys decided to collect the reward themselves and capture the ghost.
"I hear he doesn't even look like a man," said Len to the O'Donald boys. "He's just a blue blur!"
"That's just a bunch of hooey! He's a man just like your dad n' my dad," Michael argued.
"They say that's how he gets you," Ronnie whispered. "You think you're talking to an ordinary man, and then wham! He turns into a monster and gobbles you up!"
"There's no such thing as monsters, Ronnie."
"There are too, Len!"
"What, like the boogie man down at the mill?"
"Or like the creature you thought was the Krampus?"
"Wasn't that just old Fritz down at the butcher's shop?"
"Shut up, the both of you! I know what I've seen and haven't seen!" Ronnie shouted. His friends were quick to silence him by slapping their hands over his mouth.
When they were sure that Ronnie would be quiet, they let go of him. Michael asked Len, "Ronnie's superstitions aside, how do you suppose we'll catch him?"
"You're the biggest, Mikey, so you're going to hold him down while me n' Ronnie shove this bag over his head and tie him up. When we've got him incap'citated, we're going to drag him to the police and claim the reward!" Len explained to his friend.
"I don't think that's such a good idea, Lenny," whispered Ronnie. "I mean, what if the ghost really does eat people?"
"Actually," said a voice from behind them in the fog, "I find little kids to be too stringy."
All three boys jumped at the sound of the voice and ran for cover; Len hiding behind a tombstone and Michael and Ronnie cowering behind a large statue of an angel. They could just make out a large form moving through the mist: tall, shadowy, and covered in blue from head to toe. Whatever it was, man or phantom, it was carrying a man over its shoulders and, to the boys' horror, they could not tell if he was alive or dead.
"It's the ghost! Run for it, boys!" Len shouted as he sprinted away. Michael and Ronnie were quick to follow.
The phantom clicked its tongue in disappointment. "Kids these days. A little fog and they think they see a monster."
Monty Montague awoke with a start. His head was buzzing with pain and the memories of the last hour were a blank. All he could remember was working in his lab, trying to resolve some formulas, and the next thing he knew, he found himself in utter darkness.
"Wh-wh-wh-what?"
Not a single bit of light could be found; it was as if his eyes were still shut. The frightened professor moved his hand up only to hit something wooden and solid a few inches away from him. He brought his other hand up to the wood and shoved it with all his might, hoping against hope it would let him out of wherever he was. With a mighty push, he forced the wood away, only to be hit in the face with dirt.
Spluttering, he yelled, "What is the meaning of this?"
"You looked tired, so I figured I'd give you a dirt nap," a man replied nonchalantly.
When Montague cleared the dirt from his face, he found himself looking up into the sky, framed by massive walls of earth. Raising himself up, he found himself to be lying in a coffin of poor craftsmanship. He looked up at the sky again and found that now, there was someone who pierced the fog, appearing out of thin air. The weary man could not tell who he was, only that he was dressed all in blue.
"I took you to my favorite spot for a little relaxation. You don't have to worry about noisy neighbors; everyone's pretty quiet," the man said with a chuckle.
"Why are you doing this to me? I have done nothing to you," Montague whimpered.
"Not directly, no. Unfortunately, Professor Montague, I'm looking for an old associate of yours, Dr. Eugene Cobra; someone you've worked with on and off for years. And I know that you worked with him just a short time ago. What were you making? Oh yeah, a formula that would place a human in a death-like state for twenty-four hours! Quite the invention, I must say," said the man.
"I don't know what you're talking about," the scientist replied with hesitation.
The man sighed. "I was really hoping that you would crack. Most guys who come here are ready to piss themselves after waking up in that coffin. But if you want to play like that, we can play like that."
Before Montague could get another word in, the man picked up a shovel and began to hurl dirt down into the hole. The scientist shielded himself with his arms and yelled again, "What are you doing?"
"Burying you; I thought that was pretty obvious."
"Wh-wh-wh-what?"
"Relax, Monty, this won't take long. I've gotten so good at this that I'm considering applying for a position here. The only downside is I may have to start paying for room and board if I do. What do you think?"
"Let me out of here, you psychopath!"
"Tell me where I can find Dr. Cobra and I'll consider it," said the man, shoveling in a large mound of dirt.
Montague screeched, "I don't know where he is! I swear to God, Cobra is dead!"
"That's not what I've heard."
The man stopped shoveling the dirt and stuck the shovel in the ground. He looked down into the hole and, for the first time, Montague could make out the man's face. His features were chiseled and handsome, though his skin was deathly pale. Around his eyes was a blue domino mask.
"Word is that Cobra is back," said the man to Montague, "and he's getting his old help back together. I saw his old crony, Gratch, down at the pier the other day."
The scientist scoffed, "Preposterous! Gratch was executed last month!"
A toss of dirt from above silenced Montague. The man in blue asked, "That's what I thought until I saw him down at the docks. What was he doing there?"
"I don't know! I have no idea how a dead man could be alive."
"Really? 'Cause, from what I understand, you're rather good at that. You and Cobra."
The scientist paused and collected his thoughts. "If I were to tell you what I know, even if it was just a little bit, would you let me go?"
"You tell me anything you can about Cobra and I'll help you out," the man promised.
"Cobra is back in Central City," Montague began, "but you already knew this. He came to me a few weeks ago with some new plan, some idea he had concocted since that detective botched up his last scheme. I told him that I was done, that I was going straight, but he told me that if I was to 'change my mind', he could be found in his old lab in Warehouse 14, down by the docks."
Up above, the man asked, "And that's all he said to you? Nothing else?"
"That's all I know. Now, please get me out of here!"
"All right, here you go."
The man in blue grabbed the shovel and lowered the handle down into the hole for Montague to grab. As soon as the scientist had his hands on it though, the man above let go of his hand, dropping the shovel down in the grave.
"Wh-wh-wh-what did you do that for? I thought you were going to help me!" Montague cried up to the man in blue.
"I am, Monty. I'm helping you to help yourself," the man replied, moving back into the fog.
As the man walked away, Montague could hear him say, "Be grateful you got a shovel. All I had was my bare hands."
Downtown at the Central City Police Department, Commissioner Eugene Dolan was hard at work. His desk was covered with files and records on every two-bit crook in the city, from the lowest of the low to the cream of the crop, the ones who got the misfortune of working directly for the Octopus. Almost all these men kept getting out of prison thanks to connections they had, and, gangster or not, it all traced back to the man out in the harbor. The Octopus.
"Used to be disease you had to worry about," the commissioner grimaced. "Now I've got to worry about seafood too?"
"Then I suppose you won't like dinner."
Dolan turned and found his daughter, Ellen, standing in the doorway. She was a pretty young girl; she took after her mother in that regard. Ellen was tall, blonde, and beautiful enough to be a movie star, though she devoted her time more towards finding ways to fix Central City. If she had her way, the commissioner's daughter would see the city changed from the ground up, rid of everything awful that polluted the streets. All the criminals would need to find a new place to wallow in corruption; they would find no asylum here.
"If it's something you made, Ellen, then I think I can choke it down," Dolan chuckled.
Ellen carried a bag over to her father's desk and set it down on the small gap between papers. "I made you a fish sandwich and packed some chopped vegetables in as well. You can't live off cigarettes and coffee, Dad."
"The day I start eating right is the day I quit this job, m'dear."
"What's got you so busy tonight?" Ellen asked her father, glancing over the files. She remembered some of the names from the newspaper but most were unfamiliar to her.
The commissioner let out a puff of smoke. "There was a robbery a couple of days ago at the local chemical plant. The names escape me, but whatever they took, they took a lot."
"Strange," Ellen hummed. "Do you think this has anything to do with the robbery at the automaker last month?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out. We got one of the guys who did the factory job but he didn't say a word; he's still rotting in a cell with his mouth sealed shut. I've been trying to figure out the connection for the past two days and I can't make heads or tails of it."
"Maybe I can help."
The Dolans turned to the window and found that the man in blue was crawling through, easing his way into the office.
"Good evening, Commissioner, Miss Ellen. I'd have knocked, but I needed the exercise, so I took the fire escape."
Ellen snickered. "Good evening, Mr. Spirit. Catch any criminals tonight?"
"Just one. By the way," the Spirit said to Dolan, "you should send a man over to Wildwood. I've got somebody waiting in the unmarked grave next to Walter Wood's."
"Why must you torture these poor souls?" the commissioner asked sarcastically.
"What can I say? I love to put on a show."
"I'll leave you two to talk shop," said Ellen, kissing her father on the cheek. "Mr. Spirit, try not to add too much to my father's workload, okay?"
"I'll try my best," said the Spirit, tipping his hat to the commissioner's daughter.
When she left the room, the masked detective turned to Dolan and remarked, "Sweet girl. How'd a grump like you wind up with a daughter like that?"
"By getting almost all her mother and none of me. But you're not here to talk about my family, Spirit. What've you got for me on Cobra?"
The Spirit paced the room, tapping his on Dolan's filing cabinet. "I pressed Montague like you recommended. He said that Cobra was working out of an old lab in Warehouse 14; it's all we need to go after him. If you say the word, we can take a squad down there and get Cobra right now."
"Not yet," Dolan replied. "I want you to take your time and try not to rush this. We both know what happened the last time you tried to go after Cobra right away."
The masked detective groaned, "Fine, do what you want. But I'm going to check things out, just scout the area."
"No, you're not. The last time you did that, you got yourself killed. I'm not about to be responsible for letting you die a second time," Dolan glowered at the Spirit.
The two men glared at each other before the Spirit broke away and walked to Dolan's desk. He picked up the bag with the dinner in it and walked over to the window.
"Fine," he said to the commissioner, "but I'm taking your dinner."
"Go ahead! Just as long as you stay away from Cobra!"
The Spirit flipped Dolan a mock salute before climbing out the window and descending down the ladder outside. The commissioner gave a weary sigh and walked back to his desk. He opened up the bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and a glass.
"And now I'm telling ghosts what to do," he grumbled. "This city gets stranger every year."
While the Spirit was meeting with Dolan, a similar meeting was going on at a yacht in Central City Harbor. The boat, massive and white, stood like a monolith in the still waters of the bay, towering over the other, smaller boats around it. Many cars were parked outside it, on the dock. The cars belonged to some of the most dangerous and most notorious men in the city, from Carlton Condor to Julie Caesar. They were gathered together to celebrate "Maggot" Mahoney's release from prison, a feat accomplished thanks to their gracious host's connections inside the state penitentiary.
Their host, the Octopus, was the only one not out on the deck amidst the festivities. He preferred to remain in the shadows, where no one could see him coming. Tonight though, he had business to attend to. Holed up in his darkened office, the Octopus sat across from Johnny Frost, an informant of his, with two bodyguards standing beside him.
"So, what did you have to tell me, Johnny? You came here out-of-breath, so I imagine it must be something big," said the Octopus, turning to face his informant.
Johnny had a terrible time making out his boss in the darkness. All he could see of him was a pair of purple gloves with three white stripes on the back of the hand.
"Well, I spoke with Lenny Lizard, who said that he saw Gratch, Doc Cobra's old muscle, down by the docks."
"This I already know. Proceed."
"Lenny told me that he tailed Gratch for a while and found out that he was making stops at a certain warehouse. Number 14, I think he said."
"Go on."
"So I decide to tag along with him and see if he's just blowing a bunch of smoke," Johnny shifted in his seat, "'cause he's screwed me over in the past. Well, I get there and I take a peek through the window. Who do you think I see talking with Gratch? Doc Cobra, alive and well as the day I first saw him."
The Octopus took a seat behind his mahogany desk and drummed his fingers together. If Dr. Cobra really was alive, the scientist would need to pay him back all the money he owed him. Never before had a man run up such an impressive debt with the Octopus; he had killed for much less in the past.
"What do you propose we do about this, Johnny?" the man asked his informant.
"You want my advice, sir?"
"Absolutely."
Johnny thought for a second, trying to find the right words to say. "If it were up to me, I'd run in there right now and just scorch the place. Even if Cobra isn't there, it'll be a big warning for him."
The Octopus clapped. "I like the way you think, Johnny; you remind me of a younger, brasher me."
"Th-thank you, sir."
"Now, get out and enjoy the party. Maggot's been looking for you all night."
When Johnny left the dark office, the Octopus rose from his desk and looked to the bodyguards that framed him. He gave them both a nod of the head, prompting the two men to follow right behind Johnny. When the second bodyguard left, he shut the office doors and locked them. Taking one last look at the party outside, the Octopus drew the curtains on the windows surrounding him and walked over to a shelf of antique treasures from Africa. He lifted one, a rosy statue of an octopus, and the back wall slid open, revealing a room lit only by a few stray candles and containing a bed surrounded by thin, translucent curtains.
"Madame, we have found Cobra. How shall we proceed?" the Octopus asked, stepping into the dark room.
The figure on the bed tilted her head up slightly and hissed. "Go to the cobra's den and set it ablaze. Let him and his other snakes scatter into the streets that we may hunt them down with ease. But do not kill him! Bring him to me so that he might pay what he owes me!"
"It shall be done, Madame Octopus."
As Johnny Frost was entering the Octopus's office and Ellen Dolan was delivering her father's dinner, a sinister plot was unfurling in Warehouse 14. Dr. Cobra worked without rest at a nearby table, mixing chemicals of all colors and compounds in the hopes of enhancing and perfecting the drug he had created not long ago. The thin, wiry man poured a beaker filled with a blue solution into a bottle containing a green, bubbling liquid. When the potions came into contact with each other, they turned a strange teal and let out a puff of orange smoke.
"Fascinating!" the scientist said to himself.
"I should hope it is," a loud voice boomed from behind. "I took all that I could carry with me from the plant!"
Cobra glanced behind him at Gratch, who was carrying crates that most men could not even move. He was a bear of a man, straight off the boat from Russia, and he was fairly smart to boot. Not as smart as Cobra, but just smart enough to be useful. Gratch was one of the few people the doctor was able to scrounge together from his last operation, but they were able to bring in so many more thanks to their stunt at the prison.
"Yes, yes, you did quite well, Gratch, and I thank you for all your work," said Cobra, returning to his own devices.
"So, what happens now?"
"Once I get this new chemical just right, we'll be able to move into Phase 2 of my brilliant plan, dear friend!"
The scientist took another beaker and filled it with a luminescent, yellow liquid. He glanced over his shoulder again and asked, "Which reminds me: what have you heard from the engineers?"
Gratch set down his crate and said, "They'll be ready by tomorrow. After that, they'll need until the end of the week to have the units mounted around the city."
"I suppose we can work with that."
"I am impressed you were able to put this together in such a short period, doctor," Gratch said as he moved to retrieve another crate. "After what happened in December, I assumed you'd have stayed away from this."
"Nonsense, Gratch. The misstep in December was just that: a misstep. I simply needed to recalculate and reformulate a new plan and strategy. Besides, if nothing else, the whole thing served as a lesson for me; we should be thankful in that regard! If it hadn't been for that nosy P.I., we would have released a toxin that killed everyone in Central City. We know better now, thus we can proceed with the revised plan," Cobra explained to his assistant.
The muscular assistant wiped the sweat from his brow after moving the last of the crates. "Good thing, that happening and all. I ain't about to be responsible for nothing like that."
"Nor am I, Gratch; nor am I," Cobra replied, pouring the yellow liquid into a glass bubble. The liquid traveled out of the bowl, down some spiraling tubes, and wound up in a sphere the size of a bowling ball. When it made contact with the teal liquid inside, the chemicals began to evaporate and turn into a pale green gas.
The scientist took the sphere and hoisted it above his head, shouting, "Success! I have done it once again!"
"Congratulations, doc," Gratch applauded. "I knew you could do it."
"Thank you, dear friend. Even though I had to work off scraps stolen from all over the city, I have been able to not only complete my formula but perfect it as well! Truly, I am a genius!"
Cobra set the glass orb down on the table again and turned to his assistant. "I need you to visit our friends tomorrow, Gratch. We need to let them know that we are ready to begin Phase 2 of The Smokescreen Project!"
"You got it, boss."
As Gratch left the warehouse, Cobra gazed at the teal gas with a wicked grin on his face. He whispered to the smoke, "Soon, you'll be put to good use, my dear. You are going to help me bring Central City to its knees, and this time, no one will be able to stop us. The reign of Cobra the Great is at hand!
THE CLOCK in THE NEW BATTLEFIELD
The skies were dark and foreboding that chilly day in March. It was the sort of weather that invoked melancholy in people, which meant more business for George Brenner. He welcomed the bad weather, as it seemed to increase the number of patients who came to visit him. So he stood at the window in his office, smiling out at the bleak day while drinking a cup of coffee.
"Dr. Brenner," said Margret, his receptionist, "Mr. O'Brien is here to see you."
"Send him in, Margret," the doctor replied without turning from the window.
Shortly after Margret left, a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped into the room. He carried himself with poise and elegance, making him seem even taller, and he wore a tailored three-piece suit. There was a slight limp in his walk, though he was aided by an obsidian cane with a polished ivory handle. Brian O'Brien was one of the lucky few who managed to survive the hit of the Depression and he flaunted his good fortune wherever he went, even on a trip to his doctor.
"Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, Dr. Brenner," Brian apologized. "I realize you're a busy man, so I just wanted to tell you how glad I am you could fit me in today."
"Not at all, Mr. O'Brien; you know I'm happy to help," the bearded doctor said to his patient, moving from the window over to his desk.
"What brings you in today?"
Brian walked over to the leather couch near Brenner's bookcase without saying a word. When he sat down, he said to his doctor, "I went out last night."
"You did what?"
Brian hung his head in silence while Dr. Brenner eased himself into his desk chair. The old doctor glared at the man as a parent would a misbehaving child.
"Mr. O'Brien," Brenner sighed, "please tell me that you did not wear the mask."
When the man did not reply, the doctor rose from his chair and crossed over to the couch. "I thought we were making improvements, Mr. O'Brien! I thought that we had gotten to the point where you did not need to wear the mask anymore!"
"I know, but," Brian raised his head to look at the doctor, "it wasn't my fault. Not entirely."
Dr. Brenner glared at him in silence, so Brian continued, "I'm serious. If I had done nothing, innocent lives would have been lost. I needed to put on the mask."
"Needed to? Or wanted to?"
Brian looked away from the doctor. Brenner said to him, "Mr. O'Brien, if you do not cooperate with me, then I'm afraid I cannot help you. Now, can you tell me why you went out with your mask on?
"I can," Brian nodded, "but it's something of a long story."
Last week, I told you that I was going to be at a gala on the 14th; the museum was putting on something to celebrate their new addition. I was invited to come along by the curator, Mr. Hawkins, and I planned on taking Ruby Dean, the singer down at the Apollo Lounge. The whole evening was planned out: dinner, dancing, music; no expenses were paid to make the evening complete. Unfortunately, I never attended the gala, though I was told it was a spectacular show.
You see, as I was leaving my building and walking towards my limousine, I noticed a man walking down the sidewalk on the other side of the road. He had brown hair cut so that he had just a thin stripe of the stuff running down the length of his scalp, running all the way to the nape of his neck. He was glancing over his shoulder every other step, as though he was watching for someone. And he was, Dr. Brenner. He was watching out for me.
The man's name is Casey Kelley, and the reason he was looking for me was because I had been looking for him. With my mask on, you understand. Casey is a small-time crook who does work for almost all the big names in the city; everyone from Glen Starr to Antony Abelli has him on their payroll. I keep tabs on men like him because they have information, information I can use for work.
I told my driver to go to Miss Dean's house and take her to the gala; there were more pressing matters at hand. Once I was sure he was gone, I took my mask from my coat pocket, slid it on, and chased after Casey.
"And there's the first problem, Brian. Why did you have the mask in the first place?" Dr. Brenner asked.
"I had it with me in case of an emergency."
"That's what the police are for, Mr. O'Brien! Let them handle the emergency; it's their job, not yours."
"It is my job."
"It used to be your job. Now you don't need to worry about such matters. The police need to worry about Casey Kelly; all you need to worry about is yourself," said the doctor, gesturing at Brian's head.
Brian took pause. "I did not call the police because I did not think to do it at the time."
"Do you expect me to believe that?"
Brian grimaced and said, "No. I didn't call the police because I know that I can do a better job than they can."
"You think you can, you mean."
"No," the rich man scowled, "I do not. I know I can."
I was able to catch up to Casey with relative ease; he has never been a fast-moving man, even when running away. When I drew near him, I slipped the mask on and grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Make a move, and I yank your arm right out of its socket," I hissed at the man.
Casey is about as brave as he is fast, so he crumpled almost instantly. He began to cry, "What do you want with me? I haven't done nothing today!"
"That's not what I've heard."
I dragged the man, kicking and screaming into a nearby alleyway. Casey shut up when I slammed him up against the wall, which was good for me, as I do not need beat-cops looking for me. I took my cane and held it against his throat, pinning him against the bricks.
"Let me tell you what I've heard, Casey: word is that Marcello Conti is back in town and pedaling moonshine, Danny the Dog's boys were responsible for turning over a jewelry store, and Rotten Oscar is dealing in stolen guns. So, what did you do for your country today?"
When I asked him that, I was just listing off names. None of the big names have been in business like for that a while, but if you have false information, you can sometimes get them to spill the beans on what you really want to hear. And, thankfully, Casey is as predictable as he is cowardly.
"I don't know nothing about booze or cars or guns! Please, just leave me be!" he said, gasping for air. I pushed a little harder on his throat and put my face inches from his.
"You're a very busy man, Casey; you work for all these men, some of whom are enemies. You must know what somebody's up to tonight," I smirked, though he did not see it, "so why don't you make this easier on yourself and tell me what's what."
"All right," he wheezed, "all right! I'll talk!"
I let up on the cane just a bit, enough for Casey to grab some air. He rubbed at his throat, feeling the dent I had made, and coughed, the returning air forcing its way into his lungs. When he was ready, he started to babble like a brook.
"A couple days ago, two guys came up to me with a job offer; one of them was Johnny Two-Steps but I couldn't tell who the other guy was. Johnny told me about this new guy that was in town, the Carver, and that he was promising a pay-off for everyone involved. I said I needed to know what kind of work he was doing and Johnny, he looks down and gets all quiet, and that's when the other guy takes over.
"He steps up to me and says, "We are selling meat to the poor, to those who cannot afford to eat. We provide for them and take care of them."
"It couldn't be that simple though. He's up to something, sir, and it can't be anything good. I hear that people have been disappearing from the East District and the poorhouses are losing people too. This Carver guy, whoever he is, is up to no good."
When Johnny was finished, he looked about ready to cry. I figured him to be out, so I let him off the cane just a little more. I asked him, "Where can I find Johnny and his friend?"
"He said that if I changed my mind, I could find them over on Fleet Street, Building 837. Please, you've got to do something about this. This whole thing rubs me the wrong way!"
I refused to entertain his noise any longer, so I hit him in the stomach with the end of my cane. As he lay on the ground, clutching what was surely a cracked rib, I told him, "I'll check the house out, but if I'm ambushed, I'm coming for you. Remember that, Casey."
"Y-yes, sir," he whimpered as I walked away.
"Why did you feel the need to hurt him?" Dr. Brenner interrupted. "He cooperated and told you what you wanted to know."
"I wanted to put the fear of God in him, let him know that, if he crossed me, he would have to pay for it," Brian replied.
"It seemed to me that you had him plenty scared already, Mr. O'Brien. Your actions were completely uncalled for."
Brian fiddled with his fingers, feeling the lines on his fingertips. "They were justified, Dr. Brenner. Casey is a criminal who has been in and out of jail for years; with enough reminders, he might be steered away from crime."
"If you had a child who acted out in a way that displeased you, would you hit them to stop the behavior?"
"We're not talking about children, doctor; we're talking about criminals."
"The same ideas apply to both, Mr. O'Brien. You can't expect a man to reform if you beat him without mercy!"
"It can be done," Brian said, lowering his head, "I know it can be done."
Dr. Brenner sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. This job was taking its toll on him; such words might have disturbed him in the past.
"We'll discuss this later. For now, tell me how the rest of the night went."
After I spoke with Casey, I went back to my building to get my car; Fleet Street is a way's away, and I do not care for walking around with my mask on. Once I was on my way there, I tried to make sense out of what Casey had said. I knew that vagrants had been disappearing from the streets, but I had no idea it was so bad that even scum like Casey would stop and think about it. Johnny Two-Steps knows almost everything going on at anytime in the city, so I hoped he and his new friend would have the answers I was looking for.
When I got to Fleet Street, I parked in an alleyway and began to search for 837. It did not take long to find the place; it was the only building where the doorman was built like a gorilla. He stood tall and strong, bigger than me, but you and I both know that has never stopped me in the past.
"What do you think you're doing here, Clock?" the big ape asked. I recognized him as one of Conti's old enforcers.
"I'm here to see Johnny Two-Steps," I told him, refusing to back down.
"He ain't here right now. Last I heard, he was on his way to your mother's house."
Before he could even smile at his joke, I struck him in the mouth with my cane. While he recoiled from the blow, I jabbed him in the chest, striking the areas most vulnerable. I could hear his insides cracking with every single blow until I finally heard the sound of bone breaking in his rib cage. He swung at me with a wild left punch, but I dodged it with ease and delivered one last blow to his head, breaking his jaw.
The ape crumpled to the ground and lay there twitching. I scoffed, "And here I thought you'd be made of sterner stuff."
I opened the door and crept down the hallway, trying to make as little sound as possible. The building was old and in a poor state of disrepair, making it the perfect place for a hideout. No one would think someone was living here.
Further down the hall, I heard voices coming from an open door. I looked and found the door lead down into the cellar, where I heard a man in a thick Russian accent commanding other men. Maybe this was the "Carver" Casey was talking about.
"I am finished with this one. Prepare the next one!" said the Russian.
"We're almotht out, thir," said Johnny Two-Steps. I would recognize that lisp anywhere.
"What all is left?"
"Just this kid we snatched out of the alley. Scrawny thing, but she put up a hell of a fight," one of the men remarked.
"Da. She will have to do. Bring her over to my table."
I could not linger by the door any longer. With great caution, I walked down the stairs and into the basement, lingering for a moment while I fiddled with my watch. I twisted the dial on top and lobbed it into the room, where it exploded and released a cloud of white smoke into the room.
"Vat is dis?" the Russian cried out.
"Tear gas! Someone must have set off a bomb!" Johnny Two-Steps wheezed as the gas crippled him.
"That was me," I said, leaping down the rest of the stairs and landing in the middle of the men.
I told you before, Dr. Brenner, but I had my mask specially treated for emergencies such as this, because I knew this would happen. The eyeholes are covered by a translucent film that acts as a shield, protecting my eyes from the harsh chemicals in the gas. Fortunately, the men in the room had no such protection. They were clawing at their eyes, begging for the pain to stop, but it was only just beginning.
Having no idea how long the gas would stay in the room, I moved fast. I struck the nearest thug on the back of the head with my cane and punched the next one in the face. Being distracted, they fell without putting up much of a fight until the Russian got smart. He navigated his way towards a small window and shattered it with his fist, bringing ventilation into the room. It was not long before the gas had filtered out, but in that time, I had taken down almost all his men.
"You are crafty like fox," he said to me, wiping the tears from his face. "I admire that. If you are here for job, I have place for you as enforcer. What do you say?"
"I refuse."
I pressed a button on the side of my cane and fired the ivory knob at his head. The Russian was not fast enough to dodge it, so he took the blow right on the nose. He staggered back and grasped at his shattered nose, only to be stopped by a blow from my cane. When I got close enough, he tried to grab me, but I stepped to the side and, taking his wrist in hand, twisted it until it snapped.
"My hand!" the Russian screamed. "I will kill you for that!"
He never got the chance. When he charged at me to attack, I stepped to the side and tripped him up with my cane, sending him flying into the wall. As he got up, I ran up from behind and bashed him in the head. The Russian got up again, so I hit him a second time. Every time he got up, I hit him and sent him to the floor. His face was a bloodied mess by the time I finished, though I may have hit him again for good measure.
With all the thugs in the room either unconscious or incapacitated, I started to search the room. It was empty save for some cages in the back of the room, all of which seemed to be empty. Near the cages was a table covered with knives of varying sizes. What really sickened me though, doctor, were the bones near the cages. They were not the bones of an animal but the bones of a man. I had to control myself and keep from vomiting on the spot.
I looked around some more and found that there was an operating table not too far from the cages and the bones. On closer inspection, I saw that there was a girl, no older than twelve, strapped to the table and wheezing her lungs out. This was what Casey had worried about: the Carver was carving people.
Behind me came a groan, so I stormed over to the source of the noise and found it was Johnny Two-Steps, still conscious and, unfortunately for the rest of us, still breathing. I picked him up by his collar and threw him as hard as I could. He crashed into the cement floor with a sickening thud. As he tried to prop himself up, I came up behind him and slammed my foot down on the joint of his leg. I could hear the bone break under my foot.
"Please stop! Please, please stop this!" he screamed.
"That must have been what they said," I told him as I broke his other leg. "That's what they were saying, wasn't it, Johnny? Wasn't it?"
"I'm sorry! I swear to God, I had no control over this!"
"I know that, you monster. I know you people, scum though you are, would never do something like this. So that's why you're going to tell me where I can find the man who is responsible for this. You're going to tell me where I can find the Carver and you're going to tell me everything you know about him."
Johnny was a blubbering mess but, with a little pressure on his arm, I was able to squeeze out what I needed. He said, "Th-th-the Carver's n-n-name is…is Ivan Zsasz. His c-cousin cut up the bodies and we had t-t-to cook them. I'm sorry! God forgive me, I'm sorry!"
Now I knew who this monster was; all I needed was a place. I asked Johnny, with more pressure on his arm, "Where is he?"
"Agh! He-he's downtown, right above Green's Butcher Shop! Please, I swear I don't anything else!"
"I believe you."
I left him lying there, crying and sobbing, while I took the girl off the table and out of the basement. I should have called the police and let them know that she was there with them, but I could not risk Zsasz making a visit and finding her alive. So I did what seemed sensible at the time: I took her back to my home.
"And that's why I had to see you this morning. I'm afraid it's getting worse, Dr. Brenner."
"I agree, Mr. O'Brien. What you did was beyond anything you've done before when you become "The Clock"."
"What?" Brian blinked in confusion. "No, I meant the city, Dr. Brenner. We live in a city where this sort of crime is going on right under our noses and we don't even think about it. I am only doing what I know is right."
"You are doing what you think is right!"
Dr. Brenner rose from his seat and said, "Look at what you've done, Mr. O'Brien! You've brutally assaulted over half a dozen men and kidnapped a child. You need to find a way to control yourself and your urges before this gets any worse!"
"I don't need control! I need to be better so I can keep this from happening again!" Brian shouted, standing eye to eye with the doctor.
"Stop what from happening again?"
"I won't let those men die. I can't let those men die. I refuse I refuse I refuse I refuse."
Brian began to pace about the room, his hands clenching and unclenching, beads of sweat rolling down his face. Dr. Brenner followed Brian and tried to understand what he was doing, what he was thinking, but all he was getting was mumbled gibberish. The doctor walked faster so he could be in front of the man and found that Brian's eyes were glazed over and distant; his mind was unfocused.
"Mr. O'Brien!" Dr. Brenner snapped his fingers. "Brian, get a hold of yourself!"
The snapping brought Brian back to reality. He slowed down and glanced around the room as if he had never seen it before. He placed a hand on the doctor's desk to steady himself.
"Brian, do you know where you are?" Dr. Brenner asked, taking a few steps back as a precaution.
It took a few moments for the words to come out, and though they came slowly, Brian said, "I thought I was back in Germany. I was in the trenches. Jesse King was dead to my left; they put a bullet in his brain. David Erikson was to my left; gangrene would get him before the end of the week. I was stuck in mud up to my knees and my gun was jammed. I could hardly hear over the roar of gunfire and the sounds of explosions."
Brian looked up at the office again. "I'm not in Germany, am I?"
"No, Brian. You're not a soldier anymore. The war's been over for nearly fifteen years," said Dr. Brenner. "You're a socialite in New York City, one of the few who's managed to stay afloat all this time. You're a very fortunate man."
The doctor took Brian's hand and guided him back to the couch. He had never seen such a reaction from the man before; this was the first time he had even mentioned the war. At first, Dr. Brenner had thought his patient's problem to be something inherited from his childhood, but it seemed to be more recent. The Clock was born in the war.
Brian lay on the couch and tried to recollect his scattered thoughts. One second, he was talking about the night before; the next, he was back in Germany, knee-deep in mud. He could hear Brenner in the background, pouring a glass of water, but it felt so far away. Brian raised a hand to his face and wondered how he was able to move it; it did not feel like his own. Everything felt so alien, so unfamiliar.
"Drink this," Dr. Brenner said, passing the glass to Brian. His hands were shaking terribly, so the doctor helped him hold the glass and bring it to his lips. When Brian managed to choke down a few gulps, the doctor took the glass away and put it on a side table.
"I think I understand why you do the things you do, Brian," the doctor began, "though this is only a guess. You put on your mask and become the Clock because you survived where so many others died. You feel responsible for their deaths, so you take it on yourself to better the world in their place."
Brian said nothing, so the doctor pushed on. "Those instincts you were taught in training, how to kill a man and how to survive? They never left you, did they? You stayed on that battlefield even after you came home."
Silence filled the room as Brian digested all he was told. It was true: life after the war had never been the same; everything he had lived through refused to go away and live on as memories. But Dr. Brenner was wrong, saying that he had never left. The world was his battlefield, and Brian O'Brien would fight in the frontlines until the day he died.
"So, what should I do?" he asked, only partially listening to the answer.
"I'm coming to your house to check on that little girl. After all she's been though, she'll need a doctor. And I would like to talk to you about ways to help you leave the past behind."
Brian nodded and shook his head to whatever the doctor was saying. All he could think about was the mask in his coat pocket, burning and telling him there was still work to do…
THE CRIMSON AVENGER in QUI VINDICET IBIT
Lee Travis had lived his life thinking the world to be black and white; two parallels that complimented each other. The night cooled the world after the sun set and the ocean needed the sky to make rain so it may fill with water. And for every good deed, there must be a wicked one so that people may understand what is right. There must be a villain so that the hero may have a reason for being.
All his life, he had lived as a hero. When he was a child, he fought off the bullies who preyed on the weak and helpless. When he was in school, he won games so that he might bring honor and pride to his schoolmates. When he went to war, he fought not for one nation or another's victory, but for the ideals and beliefs he held dear to his heart. He could never once see himself not on the right side of life, the side of the good.
So how had it come to be that he was meeting with none other than "Rotten" Oscar Fierro?
That question buzzed around the newsroom of the Daily Star, Travis's newspaper. Lee had been on a campaign against people like Oscar for months, and now he was meeting with them in his private office. Nothing about it made sense to anybody. All they could do was try and listen in on the conversation in the office…
"Mr. Travis, I am hurt and appalled by the disparaging comments your paper has made about me," said Oscar to Lee, "and that's not easy to accomplish. I've been called many things in my life, but the muck you're throwing at me in your paper is simply unbelievable!"
"I hate to break it to you, Mr. Fierro, but that's the way things work here at the Daily Star. That's how it's always been and that's how it always will be," Lee replied, leaning back in his chair.
The two men sitting across from each other could not have been any more different if they had tried. Oscar had walked into the meeting in a fine suit and stinking of foreign cologne; Lee was wearing the same old shirt, trousers, and vest he had worn yesterday. Oscar was well-groomed and portly; Lee was disheveled from head to toe and thin as a rail. And while Oscar had four men, each one a mountain of a man, Lee only had his assistant, Wing. "Rotten" held all the power in the room.
"You're a man of integrity, Lee, and I can respect that. However, I want you to remember who it is that's been keeping your paper afloat," Oscar said with a triumphant smirk. If ever he had to put someone in their place, all he had to do was flaunt his control and they would stand down without hesitation.
Lee did not stand down easy though. "We've paid our debt to you in full, Oscar, and we can stand on our own two feet. We're not "partners" anymore."
Oscar's smirk collapsed into a frown. He snapped at one of his lackeys, who pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and passed it to his boss. Oscar took a puff and blew the smoke at Lee.
"I don't think you understand the nature of our relationship, Travis, so let me explain it to you nice and clear. I own the property where you print your little pamphlet; I bought the machines you use to print your garbage; I even took down a company or two so you could get better writers. Whether you like it or not, I own enough of this newspaper that you'll be paying me till the day the Earth stops turning," the man sneered through gritted teeth.
"And if you insist on being a hero, then I can just take back what's mine. I could torch the place and start over from scratch. Maybe I'll open up a gin joint here; I'd be working with my kind of people that way."
Lee sank into his chair. No matter the bravado he put on, Oscar was right. The Daily Star was his, and there was nothing Lee could do about it; he simply had to persevere and stay alive. If not for his sake, then he had to for the sake of his employees.
"I understand, Oscar," the gaunt man acquiesced. "I assume you'll be wanting the payment tonight?"
"I'll be wanting a little extra to make up for the slander you've been printing about me in the paper," said the greasy criminal, his smirk returning once more.
"How much more do you want?"
"Not much: just an extra thirty dollars or so."
"Thirty dollars?"
"I understand times are tough, so think of it as a token of my generosity."
His fists clenching and teeth grinding, Lee said, "Thank you very much, Mr. Fierro."
"It's the least I can do for my favorite businessman," Oscar chuckled. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got another "business meeting" to attend to. I'll see you tonight; don't be late!"
When Oscar and his men walked out of his office, Lee gestured at Wing to close the door, which the young man was all too happy to do. The weary owner slumped down in his chair and covered his face with his hands. Every month ended the exact same way: Oscar would come and take more money from the paper, each time demanding a little more. There did not seem to be an end in sight for either party.
"Wing, would you mind fixing me a drink?"
"Not at all, Mr. Travis," the assistant replied. Wing walked to the side of the room and opened a cabinet using a key his boss shared with him. Inside the cabinet was a treasure trove of drinks, enough to make any bartender envious.
While Wing prepared a vodka tonic, Lee got up and moved to the window. He wanted to spit at Oscar when he saw the fat man getting into a fancy car. That would just be stoking the flames and would end up costing him more in the long run.
"Your drink, sir."
Lee took the glass from Wing and almost downed it in one gulp. He turned to his assistant and asked, "Wing, do you think it's fair?"
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"Do you think it's fair that people like Oscar Fierro get to control everything? They've got all this power, the power to run a city, and they use it to terrorize people. You saw what he did just now; he's taking money from us just because we're doing our jobs! I ask you again: do you think that's fair?
Wing took Lee's glass and moved back to the liquor cabinet with it. He answered, "Not at all, sir, but, as you said, he is the one with the power to shut us down. I have seen many men like him in my life and they are all the same. They abuse their fortune and exploit the people below them."
"Isn't that the truth? I've always believed that there is good and evil cannot exist without each other, but I had no idea that it would be a give-and-take relationship."
As Lee drank some more, he heard a knock at his door and signaled for Wing to lock up the liquor cabinet. He downed the rest of his drink and said, "Come in!"
In walked Marty White, a young reporter who covered local news. He had several papers and photographs in his hands, no doubt material for his next piece. When he entered the office, he looked around as if searching for Oscar or any of his henchmen.
"Don't worry, the bad guys are gone," Lee said. "They just left a minute ago."
"Sir, is everything okay?" Marty asked his boss. "Some of us were a little concerned, especially since he's, y'know, "Rotten" Oscar."
"I know who he is and I can assure you we have nothing to fear from him. All he wanted to do was ask that we tone things down in the paper. Now, what did you want to talk about?"
"Actually, I just wanted to get your okay on the Red Tornado piece."
"'Red Tomato'?"
"No, sir, 'Red Tornado'. Here, take a look."
Marty passed him three pictures of what looked like an escaped circus performer. This man was running around in red and yellow tights with a cape, black boots and gloves, and a pot on his head. Lee was not sure what was more amazing: that someone would dress up like that or that they were not committed to an asylum.
"What exactly am I looking at, Marty?" he asked, holding up one picture for reference.
Marty pointed at the man and said, "That's the Red Tornado, sir. He's been running around Suicide Slum and taking out small-time criminals with things like pans and rolling pins. It's pretty impressive, really."
Lee tapped his fingers on his chin. "So this guy dresses up in a costume and goes around beating people up? How has no one killed him yet?"
"Well, they don't exactly know what he looks like outside of the costume. No one knows what's underneath that helmet, which just adds to the mystery."
"So he just does whatever he wants and gets away with it?"
"He seems like he's fighting on our side, Lee," Marty said as he took his papers back. "So, is this okay to print?"
"Yeah, go ahead and print it. Just make sure you don't talk about Oscar Fierro!"
When Marty left, Lee snapped his fingers and remarked, "I've got an idea!"
"What would that be, sir?" Wing asked.
"Wing, old friend, this Red Tomato knows what he's doing. He's got the gumption to take to the streets and handle the problems that police aren't. He's got the mask so no one can trace him anywhere. And this is the best part: he's getting the attention of all the right people. Whatever he's doing, I like it!"
"Indeed," the assistant replied, "he does seem to be bringing much attention to Suicide Slum. Very needed attention, if I may say so."
"Exactly. Now, what if I were to do the same thing?"
Wing cocked his head to the side. "You wish to run around with a pot on your head?"
"No, no, no. I have some dignity, y'know! No, I'm talking about putting on a mask and a costume and just going to town on these boys. We could finally make Fierro cut us loose!" Lee exclaimed, shaking Wing's shoulder.
"Many apologies, but how do you plan on doing this?"
Lee gave his assistant a cocky grin. "Surely you haven't forgotten who you're talking to, have you? I've been to war, Wing! I was an ace back in school! I've held my own against men twice my size and shot down snipers before they could see me. I'll use what I know and take it to the streets!"
"Like the Red Tornado?"
"Exactly! Now, the only question is how I'll get around. People are going to notice if a man's walking around in a costume, and I want to surprise these people," Lee pondered aloud.
Wing raised his hand and offered, "I would be willing to drive you around, sir."
"No, I couldn't ask that of you, Wing," said the editor. "Bad enough I'm sticking my neck into this. I don't want you getting hurt either."
"Sir, I can provide you assistance if you needed it. My father taught me how to deliver medical assistance while in combat and my mother taught me the art of silence and observation. I can support you while you go on the offensive," the assistant explained.
Lee went back to his desk and drummed his fingers along the surface. Finally, he relented and said, "All right, you've got the job. When we get home tonight, we'll get everything ready for the meet with Oscar Fierro and then we'll go out and bust him!"
"Will you need a disguise or should I procure one right now?"
"No need. I've got many a costume hanging in my closet after years of parties and events. If I need anything, I'll just pick one of those. You just need the darkest clothes you can find."
"I understand," Wing nodded.
"Good. Now, get me another vodka tonic and make a drink for yourself. Let's toast to a successful night, Wing!"
That night, after leaving the Daily Star, Wing waited in the garage at Lee's house. He had decided to simply wear his valet's uniform, though he added a red cloth that ran around his head and left his eyes exposed. The better part of the evening had been spent fixing up Lee's black sedan and removing any traces of familiarity on it. The license plate had been covered up and covers had been placed on the seats. To the average person, this was an entirely different car.
"How do I look?"
Wing looked up to see his boss standing in the doorway of the garage in a crimson costume, one he vaguely remembered from a Halloween party last year. Lee was wearing a dark red suit with a white shirt and red vest beneath it, plus a crimson cape and hat. The piece was completed with a red domino mask that fit perfectly on his face, covering his nose and his cheekbones while leaving his eyes exposed. His hands and feet were protected by black gloves and shoes, and, though it was difficult to tell, he had two pistols hidden within the confines of the coat.
"Very red, sir," Lee remarked. "A good disguise though."
"Thanks. I was going through the costumes that I owned, and then I remembered reading about that Clock fellow in the newspaper. Something about a man in a suit just struck me, so I went with my bandit costume from Halloween," Lee explained.
He opened the car door and marveled at the work done to the interior. "You're sure this is my sedan? It looks brand new!"
"I did some work on it, Mr. Travis," said his assistant, sliding into the driver's seat.
"Now, I recommend we get going if we are to arrive at your scheduled time with Mr. Fierro."
Lee chuckled. "That's what I like about you, Wing: you're efficient. We probably shouldn't keep him waiting. Drive on, driver."
"Yes, sir."
They drove through the darkened streets of New York and carried on through the rain. Lee was shivering with anticipation the closer they got to the meeting place. He wondered how Oscar and his boys would react: they could draw their guns and start firing right away; they could sit there and gawk at the sight; they could even start running at the first sign of trouble. It may have sounded crazy, but he was hoping for the first one.
Finally, they reached the meeting house. It was a brick building that looked like any other, which made it perfect for a consortium of those with less-than-pure intentions. Lee knew that area well, having sent many a reporter down these streets to get their stories and having made numerous visits to Oscar Fierro. Hopefully, all that would change tonight and Lee could finally stop paying protection money to these people.
"We've arrived, Mr. Travis," Wing said, parking the car across the street from the meeting house.
Lee twisted his neck to the left and right, feeling the joints crack with each turn. When he felt ready, he dipped his hat down and said, masking his voice with a growl, "Excellent. Wait here until I come out."
"And what happens if you don't come back out?"
"That won't happen."
Lee got out and walked to the house, feeling the rain fall on him and slide down the length of his coat. He almost smiled, feeling like something out of the movies, but he refrained. If he was going to pull this off, he needed to be intimidating; he needed to be tough. Thinking back to his days in Europe, fighting the Germans, helped focus his mind and bring him to the state necessary for this job. He needed to be a force of nature, something these men could not comprehend, much less control.
When he got up to the door, he brought his leg up and kicked with all his might. He broke through the cheap wood and took the door off a hinge. A guard reached for his pocket, only to be stopped by a bullet to his knee.
"Oh God, he shot me!" the man screamed as he grabbed his leg. Lee ignored him and ran further into the building.
He came upon another door at the end of the hall and, tucking his head down, he rammed it open with all his strength. The men inside were stunned when they saw him spin into the room, cape flowing and all. As they reached for their guns, Lee shot one in the shoulder and another in the leg. Both went down, but there were still three more, Oscar included.
"Shoot him! Shoot him in the face!" the fat man hollered as he fired his gun at Lee.
Lee ducked down and rolled, spinning across the floor so as to avoid the bullets. He fired at the remaining thugs, but they shielded themselves by flipping their table up and hiding behind it. When he stopped rolling, Lee ran towards the icebox and used its door as a shield for himself, making him even with the other thugs. He peeked over the door and fired two more shots, winging one thug but missing Oscar by a hair's breadth.
Oscar and his last man were not able to hit Lee either, both being mediocre shots when it came to the use of handguns. They were able to hit the icebox door, but they only left dents in the metal. Lee went unharmed until they ran out of bullets.
"I'm all out, boss!" said the thug to Oscar.
"Me too!"
"Want mine?"
Lee took the chance and ran out from his hiding spot. He sprinted towards the table and, as he did with the door, he shoved it out of the way with his shoulder. As Oscar and his guard ducked out from behind, Lee spun and shot the thug in the leg, right below the knee. The guard laid bleeding and screaming, but his shooter had already turned his attention to Oscar, who reached for one of the fallen thugs' guns.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Oscar Fierro," Lee growled, pointing his gun at the fat gangster.
"Wh-who are you?" Oscar cried.
"I was sent here by Marcello Conti to let you know that your time is up. He wants what you've got, and he's not taking "no" for an answer."
"Conti? H-he can have whatever he wants!"
"What he wants is control of the Daily Star. You're going to hand it over to him bright and early tomorrow morning, and if I hear you haven't, then I'm going to pay you another visit. Do you understand me, Fierro?"
"Y-Y-Yes, I understand! I'll go tell Conti that he can have the newspaper. Just please, please don't kill me!"
Lee gave a gravely laugh. "I'll let you live tonight; I'm feeling generous."
As he walked out of the house, Lee could not help but breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, he was free from that pompous, horrible man. He could run the paper the way he wanted to, with integrity and truthful journalism. There was nothing that could stop him from doing the right thing now. Unless Marcello Conti had something to say about it.
"Why did I say that? Why, why would you mention another gangster, Lee? Do you like punishing yourself? How could you do something so stupid?" he berated himself, smacking himself in the head.
Wing stood by the car and asked, "Sir, is everything okay?"
"No, everything's not okay, Wing. I got rid of Oscar, but I think I just doomed us to another boss."
"But how did things go in there? I heard many gunshots."
"Oh, that went off without a hitch. I haven't had that much fun in years. Why did I have to mention Marcello Conti?"
The next day, Marcello Conti marched into the office of the Daily Star. He cut an imposing figure, standing taller than any man and wider than a wrecking ball. The floor shook as he stormed in, a group of thugs trailing behind him.
"S-sir? Can I h-h-help you?" the nervous secretary asked.
Marcello gave her a half grin and said, "No, thank you, ma'am. I just have to talk with Mr. Travis. Could you let him know that I want to know why I suddenly own this place?"
The secretary squeaked out of fear and ran for Lee's office. There was some excited whispering from the room and, seconds later, Lee strode out with a beaming smile on his face. He had not expected Marcello to be in quite so early.
"Mr. Conti, what a pleasant surprise! To what do we owe the pleasure?" he asked, knowing full well the answer.
"'Rotten' Oscar came to me this morning and said one of my men forced him to sell me your paper. I don't remember sending any men his way lately, but I did get to thinking: I don't particularly like the way your paper's been talking about my business ventures," Marcello explained.
"I am hurt, appalled even, by your accusations."
This was sickeningly familiar to Lee, but he grinned and bore it all the same. "Step into my office and maybe we can work something out, Marcello."
The two men disappeared into the office and did not come out for another hour. The noise coming from the room ranged from polite speaking to full-on shouting and ranting. By the end though, they had started to laugh and, when the doors opened again, Lee was clapping Marcello on the back.
"You're all right, Travis," the big man snorted. "I think I'm going to like doing business with you."
"I'm looking forward to it, Mr. Conti," Lee said as he watched the man leave. Once the last of Marcello's goons had left, the editor turned to his employees and clapped his hands.
"I need everyone's attention up here," he said, "and I need it now. Lately, we've been getting a lot of noise from the people we've been writing about. They've voiced their complaints before, but this is the first time I've had them come into this office to talk to me. After close review, I have decided that we will no longer cover stories on Marcello Conti, who proved that we are defaming a good man."
There was angry chatter stirring up in the employees, so Lee clapped his hands again. "I need everyone to understand that this paper will still stand for integrity and journalism. The only difference is now we will need to be careful about whose toes we trod on. Everyone must send their pieces to me for review and, if I find that they are defamatory, I'm kicking you out. We will not stand for false accusations in here, only what we are told is the truth."
As people barraged him with questions, Lee walked back into his office and had Wing lock the door. His assistant turned to him and said, "It sounds like they took it as well as expected."
"This is a turning point, Wing. I'm going to be working for Mr. Conti, and now I know how to play this game. I'll get close to these men and use the information they give me; once I have that, I'll go in as the Crimson Avenger and take them down. They'll never see us coming, old friend!" Lee exclaimed as he opened his liquor cabinet.
"Very good, but, if I may ask, why "Crimson Avenger"?"
"To sell papers, Wing. I'm trying to run a business, after all."