That Radium Glow

Chapter 2

"Sorry about the mess," I lied as I swept a couple newspapers and a bottle or two off the passenger seat. The bottles were a leftover from my marriage to Bobbi. She told me to quit drinking, so I did it in the car where she couldn't see. I'd thought I was being clever. She didn't. Even after the divorce papers were signed and I'd dried out a bit, I hadn't been able to shake the habit.

Captain America watched me with a nearly straight face. I wasn't feeling particularly forthcoming, though, and he kept his mouth shut. That got him another reluctant point in his favor. Rogers needed to work on his poker face, but at least he wasn't nosy.

He climbed in the car carefully as soon as I did, holding the manila folder from Coulson in one hand and adjusting his gun in his shoulder holster with the other. The Ford's engine roared to life, but it wasn't enough to cover the clink of empty bottles in the back seat. A chill raced down my spine. The sound always reminded me of my old man and that was no way to start a day.

Okay, so maybe Coulson had a point about cleaning my car.

I signaled and pulled into traffic. Rogers managed to keep his mouth shut for another five minutes, but I had the sneaking suspicion his curiosity was going to win out at some point soon. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as we drove towards the lake. He flipped through the manila folder again, closed it, tapped it up and down a few times on his leg. He turned to me and started to ask a question.

There was only one thing, other than the case, that we had in common and I was about as keen to discuss that with Steve Rogers as I was the reasons behind the bottles in my car.

"2nd Marines," I said shortly, before he could ask. I kept my eyes riveted to the road. "Until Saipan in '44." Rogers swallowed. He turned to me again, ready to speak, but I cut him off. "I know where you served, Captain."

His eyes fell to his lap, and I suddenly felt like a real heel. Unlike me, he was trying to make the best of the situation. It wasn't Rogers' fault I was in such a lousy mood; that I fully attributed to bad dreams and Phil Coulson.

I sighed and took one hand off the wheel to run it through my hair. "Stark's got a penthouse in his building on the Mag Mile," I explained, and Rogers glanced up. Vaguely, I remembered that he was new to Chicago. I gestured at it with my chin; the ostentatious skyscraper on the river emblazoned with Stark Industries. "The glass and steel number."

Rogers leaned forward to peer through the windshield. He raised an eyebrow. "Wow."

There was a hint of distaste in his voice that made the corner of my mouth quirk upward. Stark's modern tower did look a little out of place, with the stately Tribune Tower and the bright white Wrigley building. But that was Tony Stark, for you.

We did the usual thing, showing our badges, waiting for a secretary, showing our badges again, and so on, until we were allowed to be whisked upward in an elevator to the top of the building. Another secretary greeted us as the steel doors opened. We both quickly removed our hats. She looked cut from the same no-nonsense cloth as Maria Hill, with the suit and pinned-up red hair to prove it.

"Agents Barton and Rogers?" she asked. I caught a whiff of a Chanel number when she stepped forward to shake Rogers' hand. "I'm Virginia Potts, Mr. Stark's confidential secretary. I spoke with Maria Hill on the telephone. Will we be requiring the services of Mr. Stark's lawyer for this interview?"

"I don't think so," I said.

"We're just trying to get some information, ma'am," Rogers said politely. "Mr. Stark isn't being accused of anything."

There was an unsaid yet hanging on the end of that sentence that made Miss Potts raise an eyebrow. "I see," she said aloud. She gestured towards another set of doors, this time ornate wood. They looked like the oldest things I'd seen in the tower so far. "This way, please. Jarvis will show you where to go from there."

Our footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet as we walked inside Stark's penthouse. A suit of armor stood in the foyer and I felt my jaw drop. Sure, I'd seen suits of armor in photographs and the movies, but never one like this. It was rough and dirty, scarred by what looked like bullet holes. An iron mask with empty slits for eyes stared judgmentally at me and Rogers, as if to size us up.

"Is that the armor?" Rogers asked, and this time there was awe in his voice.

"I think so," I replied, walking over to get a closer look at the jagged welds and bullet scars that marred the hand-forged metal. There was still German writing stenciled on some of the pieces in fading paint.

I glanced over my shoulder at Rogers. Tony Stark wasn't just a famous weapons designer and a playboy. He'd done his bit in the war, flying experimental aircraft over Germany even before Pearl Harbor dragged the rest of us in. The problem with experiments is that sometimes they didn't work so well, and Stark had gone down in enemy territory. A couple years in a Nazi prison camp was no picnic, especially for someone as famous as Tony Stark. His name kept him alive, but rumor had it that they'd done things to him in the camp before he'd managed to construct a suit of armor and literally cut his way to freedom.

It was one hell of a story. There was even a movie starring Errol Flynn to prove it.

A door opened behind me, and we both jumped. A short, round little man with a valiant comb-over and a bowtie had appeared. Right. Jarvis, the butler. "Mr. Stark will see you now," he announced in an indulgent English accent. He directed us through yet another set of doors, into Tony Stark's inner sanctum.

Tony Stark was sitting in a fat leather armchair that looked out of place amid the sharp lines and block colors of the modern décor in his study. A highball glass, half-empty and with beads of condensation running down the sides, sat on a table beside him. He picked up the glass and waved absently towards us. I could practically feel the distaste radiating off Rogers.

Stark looked older than his years, despite the lack of silver in his dark hair and impeccably trimmed goatee. Stark hadn't bothered to dress to meet us, as he was wearing a gaudy silk robe that opened to mid chest over what looked like silk pajamas. A faint blue glow came from the center of his chest under his shirt, and the tips of a pair of thick white scars were visible just below his collarbone. Maybe some of those Nazi experimentation rumors weren't so far off.

"Mr. Stark," Rogers said, flashing his badge. I quickly followed suit. "I'm Special Agent Steve Rogers, and this is Special Agent Clint Barton. We'd like to ask you a few questions about-"

"Whoa, hang on there, Captain," Stark cut in, and I resisted the urge to grin as Rogers' patriotic jaw clenched. Recognized again. "First things first. Pleasure before business. Take a seat."

He gestured to a couple pieces of minimalist furniture that on second glance appeared to be chairs. I took a seat and this time Rogers uncertainly followed my lead.

"Drinks?" Stark asked. It was barely noon, but that didn't seem to bother him in the least. "Jarvis makes the best cocktails in the city."

"Sure," I said, at the same moment as Rogers said: "No, thank you."

He shot me a look and I rolled my eyes. I'd better not let him see the flask I carried in my breast pocket. "On second thought," I said, caving to my new partner's clear irritation (and his ability to rat to Coulson that I was drinking on the job), "I'll pass."

Stark cocked his head slightly to one side and gestured expansively with his glass. "I know you guys can't afford this on your salary. Unless the Captain here has some extra currency from Uncle Sam stashed away the good government isn't telling the tax payers." His bright brown eyes roved over Rogers' suit and he added: "On second hand, maybe not."

Rogers' face darkened at the insults, and I stifled another grin. I decided I liked Tony Stark. "Another time, maybe," I cut in, before anyone could get too sore.

Stark shrugged. "Your loss." He picked up his glass and drained it in one swallow. He twitched his eyebrows at Jarvis, and the butler disappeared with a silver tray. "Now what was it that you wanted to ask me about?"

"Do you know this man?" Rogers asked, producing the photograph of Dr. Banner and handing it to Stark.

Stark looked at the photograph without touching it and raised an eyebrow. "Bruce Banner?" he asked with some surprise. "Sure. We worked together during the war; went our separate ways after."

I leaned back in the not-quite chair and studied him for a moment. "What can you tell us about Dr. Banner?"

Stark picked up his empty glass and swirled it idly, making the melting ice tinkle. His eyes narrowed and for the second time that morning, I felt like I was being x-rayed. They said Stark was sharp, but even half-sauced the guy was clearly leaps and bounds ahead of me and Rogers. "He's no Communist, if that's what you're afraid of."

Rogers' eyes narrowed a little and I realized he'd heard the defensive note in Stark's voice, too. I also knew for a fact that Banner wasn't a member of the Communist party, so that jived. The defensiveness was over something else, then.

I decided to take a gamble and go with straight-up honesty. "It's nothing like that," I told Stark, watching his face carefully. "He's gone missing."

"Christ," Stark sighed. He leaned over to retrieve a cigarette from a silver case on the table beside him. He offered me one and I took it gratefully. He had a fine silver lighter to match the silver case. Stark took a few drags before continuing. "How long?"

"Couple of days," I said, resisting the urge to blow smoke at my new partner.

"He was last seen here," Rogers added. "Apparently you hosted a party, what, three nights ago?"

"I did," Stark said, and the hint of an edge came into his voice. He sure didn't like Rogers much. "Nothing illegal about that, Captain. Banner was here at my invitation."

"Mr. Stark, given the nature of his war work," Rogers retorted, and the way he lingered on war work made Stark look up sharply, "it's possible he could be in danger."

"All we know is Banner was supposed to run some experiment the morning after your party and never showed," I added quickly, trying to smooth things over. "Anything that you can tell us about that night, Mr. Stark, or about him, where he might go, who he might see, could help."

Stark leaned back in his chair and for the first time since our arrival, I got the impression he was being serious. His face was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that caught my attention. Something pained, that reminded me of sleepless nights and too much whiskey.

"You know what we were working on, then?" he asked. Rogers and I nodded and he continued with carefully measured words. "Banner's a great scientist. I mean, genius, real genius. Best in the world at what he does, and I don't say that lightly. And he's a good guy. It's a rare combination, in our line."

"Was he acting strangely at the party?" Rogers asked.

"Not for Banner, no. I was surprised he came at all." Stark stubbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray. He saw my questioning look, and he smoothly added: "Not really his crowd."

My gut told me that wasn't what he had meant, but I let it ride. For now, anyway. "Any idea where he might have gone after he left the party?"

Stark let out a bark of humorless laughter. "I don't remember what I had for breakfast, Agent Barton," he quipped. He thought for a moment and said: "Jarvis might know. He might have called a cab for him."

He stood and stretched, before crossing the room to lift a shiny black telephone from its cradle. He murmured into it for a few moments before setting it down. "I've asked Miss Potts to ask him, and to get you a guest list for the party."

It was a polite dismissal, especially for Tony Stark, but a dismissal nonetheless. "Thanks for your help," I said, standing to leave. Rogers and I shook his hand.

There was a knock at the door, and Miss Potts entered. Rogers stepped forward to the entryway to speak with her. I moved to follow, but Stark grabbed my arm. A grim line had appeared on his forehead as soon as Rogers' back was turned. I eyed him.

"Look, Bruce always does things by the book, since the- well, since New Mexico," Stark told me in a low voice. "He would have never left town without telling anyone, let alone the night before a criticality experiment."

"I see," I said, in my neutral lawman voice.

Stark handed me an engraved card with a set of numbers scrawled on the back. "My private line. I didn't want to ask in front of Captain Patriot there because it's probably not regulation, but Banner's a friend. Let me know if he's in trouble. Any time, day or night."

I hesitated for a moment before accepting his card. He was right, it wasn't exactly regulation, but I felt for the guy. "Just don't tell my boss, okay?"

The corner of Stark's mouth quirked upward, and I had to suppress a grin.

"Agent Barton?" Rogers called from the doorway. He had a piece of paper in his hand, to add to our file. I quickly shook Stark's hand and joined him. We tipped our hats to Miss Potts, and followed Jarvis through the maze of doors to the elevator.

"The guest list," Rogers told me, holding it up and tucking it in the folder. "I don't know any of these people. And the destination of the cab Banner took. The Black Widow Bar mean anything to you?"

I grinned. "It's nightclub in the South Loop," I said aloud.

Rogers frowned a little, and I agreed. The Black Widow wasn't just another nightclub, It was the place to go in the South Loop for a good time. The proprietor, Natasha Romanoff, and I had worked together regularly. She helped me suss out the Communist True Believers from the amateurs looking to get a rise out of their parents or looking for excitement, and I helped keep things smooth with the Feds. Sometimes we were a little more friendly than professional, but Rogers didn't need to know that. I frowned a little. It seemed an odd destination for Dr. Bruce Banner, but as it was all we had to go on, I'd take it.

"So what do you think of Stark?" I asked Rogers as we retrieved my car from the garage.

Rogers shrugged. "Seems concerned about Banner. I think he might know more than he's letting on, though."

"Definitely," I agreed.

Noon was too early to visit a bar, even Natasha's, so we headed back to the office for a few hours to check up on Maria Hill's progress in contacting Banner's fiancée, Elizabeth Ross. Apparently she was in New Mexico visiting her famous father, and the Air Corps was making things difficult out of what seemed like sheer spite. I had faith in Maria's tenacity, though, and Rogers and I even shared a laugh at the flyboys' expense.

It was still light outside when Rogers and I finally pulled up outside the Black Widow Bar. I was hoping to catch Natasha in the brief period of peace between readying the bar to open and the actual opening. She was proud of her joint and she worked harder than anyone in keeping it running, though she'd never cop to it.

Rogers peered through the window at the building's front, frowning a little. He didn't look the type to approve of nightclubs either, but I didn't know a soldier either living or dead who had never set foot in one. Not when they were full of girls and a good time, and you didn't know when or if you'd ever see either again.

In his defense, the Black Widow Bar wasn't much to look at on the outside. The South Loop wasn't exactly prime real estate, and the building had that shabby look during the day, before darkness and neon lights worked their magic, like a softly blurred lens on an aging Hollywood starlet. A tall sign with a stylized spider spelled out "BLACK WIDOW BAR" in what would be red neon once night fell, but for now was simply dull gray script.

"Okay, listen up," I said, and Rogers turned to look at me. It was important he didn't ruffle any feathers inside with this earnest, Captain America badge-flashing act. "The owner and I go back. Her name's Natasha Romanoff, and she's done some real favors for me in the past. I'd appreciate it if you didn't torpedo that by flapping your badge all over creation in here."

"Romanoff?" Rogers demanded incredulously. His eyes narrowed. "She's a Red?"

I snorted. "Relax, Captain, she's Russian, but she ain't no Red," I retorted. "Not anymore, at least." The bureau had exhibited the same attitude when I'd first put in a request to vet Natasha, and with good reason, but Coulson had come round in the end. I sure wasn't going to push aside the best asset I had because it made Captain America a little uncomfortable. I tried to remember that he was fresh out of the Academy and God only knew what they were telling recruits now that the Soviets had the bomb, too. "You know someone better for rooting out Reds than a former one?"

Rogers didn't look happy, but I could see thought in his serious blue eyes. Still, he hesitated outside the door when we got out of the car, and I could tell he badly wanted to adjust his pistol in its shoulder holster.

"Natasha Romanoff has a lot more cause to hate Joe Stalin than most, Rogers, and a hell of a lot more than you," I snapped at him, and he swallowed. "Now, when we're inside, we drop the agent act. We're just a couple of guys come to see the Widow about something, not Feds. Get it?"

"Yeah," he said sourly.

"Let me do the talking," I added. "And keep in mind, she's currently our only lead on Banner."

"Fine," Rogers grumbled, conceding the point.

We pushed through the glass double doors and stepped inside. The Black Widow Bar had the vaguely dull, dilapidated air of any nightclub during the day, all the enticingly dark corners and velvety glamor chased away by sunlight to reveal plain walls and faint evidence of spilled drinks on the carpet. A sliver of parquet marked a dance floor before the cubby of a stage on one wall, while the wooden bar gleamed spotlessly from across the room. It was the only truly spotless thing in the joint. The spider motif on the sign outside was repeated everywhere, from the stylized art deco webs on the tables to fat black spiders with red hourglasses on their bellies in stained glass bordering the mirror behind the bar.

"We're here to see Ms. Romanoff," I said to the bouncer, a real bruiser of a man not less than six-six and at least three hundred pounds. He recognized me and waved me through to her office. Rogers followed, though I could tell he was looking around with clear interest.

Natasha's office was as plain as her bar was opulent, tucked away behind a hidden door beside the stage. A few photographs lined the walls in simple wooden frames, mostly of men and women in Red Army greatcoats, standing among shattered buildings or sitting on tanks adorned with red stars. But the real piece of interest rested on nails in the wall behind her dark wooden desk: a long barreled rifle with a fat scope. The butt was adorned with rows and rows of neat scratches, grouped into fives. A frame containing several Soviet medals for valor and another frame, containing a photograph of a smiling man and a woman I recognized as Natasha in uniform, flanked the rifle.

Rogers stared at this display with his mouth open slightly, and I grinned.

"It's a Mosin 1891/30," a female voice said behind us, and we both turned. "In case you were wondering."

Natasha Romanoff stood in the doorway, her bright red lips quirked into a knowing smirk. She was dressed for work in a curve-hugging, off-the-shoulder black number with a daringly high slit. Her curly red hair was perfectly coiffed and she studied me and Rogers with green eyes that would have made Vivien Leigh jealous. All in all, the effect was more Hollywood than bar owner or Hero of the Soviet Union.

Rogers picked his jaw up off the floor and scrambled to doff his hat. I suppressed a chuckle and removed my own hat. Natasha walked around behind her desk, smirking, and clearly enjoying the effect she had on Rogers. She gestured to a pair of uncomfortable wooden chairs, and we sat down. It was hard to take my eyes off her, and I'd known her for years.

"Agent Barton," she greeted me coolly. Her voice was pleasantly husky, with just the barest trace of a Slavic accent. "And you must be Agent Rogers."

She won some points there, for not calling him Captain. "Ma'am," he said aloud.

Natasha reached into a battered holder decorated with a red star, and retrieved a cigarette. She held it directly between her lips and lit it. "My husband, Alexei," she said conversationally, gesturing to the photograph beside her rifle. "He was killed in Stalingrad. I wasn't."

"I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am," Rogers said politely. He'd added up the medals and the rifle, and there was a new light of respect warring with the suspicion in his eyes.

Natasha exhaled a puff of smoke and glanced at me. She favored Russian cigarettes; strong enough to make me cough my lungs out, and she made them look as smooth as a Havana cigar. "I have twenty minutes to opening, Barton. What can I do for the FBI?"

I produced the photograph of Dr. Banner and handed it to her. "Have you ever seen this man before? Name of Bruce Banner. He might have been in here, three nights ago."

She studied it carefully before handing it back to me. "He looks familiar," she said, her eyes narrowing a little in thought. "I think he came in with a tall fellow, tall and dark-haired. Had an English accent and an English suit. I'd recognize him if I saw him again, but I didn't get his name."

"Any idea where Banner might have gone after he left?" Rogers asked eagerly.

I glared at him, but Natasha simply took another drag on her cigarette. "I don't; I didn't see him leave," she said with a shrug. "A lot of people come through here, Agent Rogers. Besides, there was a fight that night. The bouncers had to throw a man out. I was busy smoothing some ruffled feathers. You know how prickly Judge Hart can be, Barton."

Natasha glanced up at the clock on the wall, and I nudged Rogers. We stood to leave. I extended a hand formally to Natasha. "Thanks for your time, Ms. Romanoff," I said aloud, and she smirked at my exaggerated courtesy. "Let us know, if you hear anything?"

"Of course. You boys have a good night."

We wove our way back through the bar, which was getting darker by the minute as the sun set. Rogers and I hesitated outside for a moment, looking at each other. No soap on our best lead so far. Just like that, we were back to square one with Bruce Banner.

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