East Side Slums, April 19, 2001. Leroy was feeling very good—even with his 'insurance policies' in place these last few months he still hadn't had any trouble from the Big Blue Boy Scout and business was climbing back to pre-Superman heights very steadily. There was also the Daily Planet headline that served to further his good humor; the Man of Steel had not been seen or heard from in the last two months.
Uncle chose to celebrate his thirty-fourth birthday in style.
East Side Slums, September 11, 2001. Today terrorists executed the single largest attack on American soil in sixty years. People all over the country are mourning for what's been lost here, and it all happened on the thirteenth anniversary of my father's death. God has a sick sense of irony; half the world shares in my misery on this wretched day but not in my grief.
East Side Slums, October 23, 2001, 11:29 pm. A portly man in his late forties stepped out of his car and surveyed his dingy surroundings with a proprietary air.
He knew that the Batman's reach did not extend far beyond the Gotham City limits. He knew that the Man of Steel was gone; that he had been MIA for a number of months and, given the previous month's attack in New York City, it didn't look likely that he'd ever return. He also knew that the dockyards along the waterfront in the Metropolis Slums were prime real estate for drug smuggling and were currently controlled by a man known only as 'Uncle', who was alleged to be a bit on the young side.
He thought that the East Side Slums were ripe for the taking.
Hector Caro thought wrong.
East Side Slums, October 27, 2001. "Excuse me, Uncle?" Jacob asked hesitantly upon entering the spacious office; Leroy looked up at his right hand man nonchalantly. "It's been confirmed; Hector Caro is in Metropolis and right now we know that he's taken over the old Buffalo Furniture building on the border of the East Side and Downtown. Our intelligence is too unreliable at this point to say whether or not he's in the building right now, but we do know that it's his base of operations now that he's no longer working out of Gotham; his entire organization just up and left, and it looks as though they have no intention of returning."
Uncle ground his teeth together viciously at the news then swiveled around in his chair so his back was now to his associate. "I warned Marcel about this," he snarled in a low voice.
"Sir?"
"And now Caro thinks I'm the weak one."
The young man tried again. "I'm afraid I'm not following you…"
"Gather everyone together, Jacob; it's only a matter of time."
"A matter of time before what, Uncle?"
Leroy turned back around in his seat and leveled his gaze at his employee, a cold, calculating look on his face and an ominous tone in his voice. "Before war."
O'Malley's Pub, October 8, 2009, 9:38 pm. Jim arrived at the bar at a relatively early hour and smoothed his hands over the front of his rented Italian suit nervously as he slipped in through the door. He caught Clark's eye as he spotted his tall friend sitting at a tiny table just beside the entrance; the other man nodded, then quickly avoided his gaze so it would appear that Jim had arrived alone and knew no one. Sidling up to the edge of the bar, the young man took a seat and ordered a soda water.
The cover story was one the three of them had worked on and perfected all day; it was simple, plausible and clean. His name was James Olmstead, a marketing salesman spending a night out on the town because he'd just sealed a deal with a big client. He was single, had few friends and even fewer family members, and nobody was expecting him back at work until Monday morning because they'd given him Friday off for a job well done—in short, he was the seemingly perfect target for the Ladykiller Killer.
The only flaw the trio found to their whole plan was that Jim might actually pick up a woman who was genuinely interested in him—someone who wasn't out to kill anyone but who was searching for Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now—and then he'd have to break it off. Truth be told, that was the only part of the overall scheme that Jim felt remotely nervous about; he wasn't afraid of being picked up by a knife-wielding serial killer, but by a pretty young girl from down the block looking for a boyfriend. Lois thought his apprehension was comical—almost as comical as the sight of him in the expensive, rented suit—and that he was over-estimating his prowess, but the young photographer was a sensitive man who would never set out to intentionally hurt anyone; the thought that things might get messy between him and a young woman in a crowded bar made him extremely uncomfortable.
Clark's level of discomfort only grew after his unexpected visit from Chloe earlier on that afternoon. Jim had waited until the last possible second to tell her of their scheme, informing her of his intentions over the phone while on his lunch break. She ambushed her friends at work after that and only reluctantly agreed to let Jim go along with their plan after a lengthy, private conversation with her super-charged friend.
"Are you guys out of your frickin' minds?!" she yelled at Clark from the top of the Daily Planet building where she'd dragged him. She knew that of the formidable Daily Planet foursome—Perry, Lois, Clark and Jim—that he was the reasonable one and would be more likely to listen to her once she got him away from his influential Editor and his wife. It especially irked her that Perry White, of all people, had gone ahead and agreed to the plan without batting an eye—Jim told her that he even offered to cover all the necessary expenses so long as the Planet stopped the killer before anyone got hurt and got the scoop. "You, the man who's invulnerable to EVERYTHING, is going to sit back and play casual observer while my very MORTAL boyfriend puts his life on the line?! You have got to be kidding me!! Tell me this is all a really, really bad joke, please."
"It's not a joke, Clo; but hear me out for one second, will you?! I wasn't originally on-board with Jim going undercover either, but he and Lois talked me around. Apparently, I can act well enough when it comes to being a bumbling stooge in the bullpen, but when it comes to the part of the single man living the high life I just haven't got the chops. The way the two of them tell it, I wouldn't be able to pick up any woman, let alone the killer, even if I wanted too—it's just not in my skill set. AND, as Jim also wisely pointed out, he's the only other guy involved in this investigation who can be trusted for the job, so he has to do it."
"No, I won't allow it, I'm not going to let him risk HIS life for one of YOUR stories!" she adamantly shouted.
"It isn't as if we're sending him out there all by himself!" he retorted, reminding himself eerily of Lois in the process. "I'm going to be right there keeping an eye on him and I'm better, stronger and faster then any bodyguard you could hire, not to mention that Lois will be waiting and watching outside and we've both got Al Henrickson on speed dial should anything go wrong! Besides, we don't even know with any particular certainty that the killer is going to be at this bar tonight—but in the event that she is, we have ALL the angles covered; Jim won't get hurt, I promise."
She turned away from him indignantly, crossing her arms in front of her chest and pouting. The puttering drone of the rotating globe resounded above their heads as Chloe silently brooded over her friend's words. "I still don't like it," she said, turning sharply on her heel to face him once more.
"I don't either, but if Jim wants to do this and if it means taking down this killer once and for all, then I'm going to let him play his part in the whole affair."
Chloe nodded, the concern written plainly on her face, and she headed back to the stairwell and the bullpen without uttering another word or protest.
Clark now sat at his table, opportunely angled so that he had an unimpeded view of the entire bar, and he kept an ear on Jim while scanning the faces of the women in the establishment. By his estimate, there were thirty-nine people in there so far, twenty of which were women, and seeing as how it was 'Thirsty Thursday' and the night was still young he expected it to get much, much busier. Apparently, no one's paid much heed to the warnings in all the papers—why would the owner even advertise discounted drinks on Thursday evening of all evenings? he mused as he looked around the room. Clark also kept an eye peeled for the baubles, pins and jewels the women wore in their hair, closely watching to see if anyone kept their tresses pulled back in a gem-studded elastic band. So far he, Lois and Jim were 0 for 2 in their hunt for the serial killer.
10:17 pm. He'd chatted up a few of the women at the bar in the short time that he'd been there, but to no avail. Not only were they not his type personally, but none of them even remotely put off the vibe that they were capable of killing a man, let alone thirteen—they also didn't appear to be on the prowl for another victim. One older woman went so far as to proposition Jim shortly after he fed her his tale; he quickly and politely declined the offer and resumed drinking his soda water to try and regain his composure.
A quick glance at Clark and another nod in return led him to proceed with 'Phase 2' of the plan and order a bottle of beer. Jim's tolerance for the brew was average, if not slightly higher then most, but he decided to feign a less-than-sober state before he was halfway through with the beverage in order to appear more vulnerable should the killer be patrolling the room. The bar was getting more crowded by the minute and Jim stepped up his cover act accordingly in order to successfully draw out the killer.
Clark had to hand it to his friend; Jim wasn't ready for Broadway by any means, but he was pulling the part off well enough to get the job done. Flirting with four women in one hour—I didn't even think Jim knew he could do that! Must be some kind of record for him, he thought, smiling in amusement as the waitress brought him another soda and took away the empty glass. The photographer was currently chatting up a perky, bright-eyed, strawberry blonde who was easily a decade younger then he was; Clark x-rayed her wallet just to satisfy himself and discovered that he wasn't too far off the mark—her name was Tiffany and she was twenty-two years old compared to Jim's thirty-four. He caught his friend's eye just then and very subtly shook his head; neither man suspected her of being the killer and Jim politely ended his conversation with her and moved on.
He winced when a large explosion, followed by a loud, metallic, wrenching sound drew his attention away from the bar and to a point beyond the West Coast. The shouts of several seamen reached him too, and he quickly ascertained that an oil tanker was going down 400 miles off the coast of Baja California. Oil was leaking into the ocean and a fire raged below deck, trapping several of the crew while those above deck jumped into the merciless sea. Help will never make it in time…Clark's eyes darted around the room as he weighed his options. Jim appeared to be by himself at the moment, sipping slowly from his beer at the bar, with no new prospects forthcoming. I can be at the wreck in two minutes, put out the fire, assess the damage—hopefully get the ship back upright so I can tow her and the crew to safety—and be back here in fifteen minutes, twenty tops. He chanced a second look at his friend. There's no way she can get in here and grab him in fifteen minutes.
There was a scuffle in the back corner of the bar, drawing the attention of the majority of it's patrons as well as that of the undercover Daily Planet photographer; Clark saw his chance and took the opportunity to duck out the back entrance. As he sped off across the continent to assist the distressed oil tanker, he sent up a silent prayer that Jim would be safe until he got back; he felt guilty for leaving in the first place, but it wasn't in his nature to ignore so many people in need, especially when the situation was as dire as this one. Clark was also secure in the knowledge that their friend had been left in Lois' very capable hands as she sat in her sedan on the street, watching the front door of O'Malley's like a hawk.
That's odd, Jim mused as he turned back around in his seat, setting the empty beer bottle down on the bar and registering his friend's absence for the first time. I wonder where Clark went? He surreptitiously glanced around the room as the two men causing the disturbance were forcibly led outside; absently, he noted the large influx of people fighting the outgoing bouncers as they tried to come in. He must've gone to the bathroom—I don't blame him with all that soda he's been. A young woman leaned into the counter beside him just then, catching his attention as she ordered a beer from the bartender. She wore dark jeans and a deep red halter-top under her black leather jacket, while her long, raven hair hung unadorned and straight down her back. Her pale complexion was flawless, causing the lipstick matching her shirt to stand out in stark contrast to the rest of her features and drawing Jim's attention unabashedly to her full, luscious lips. Better turn on my 'A game', he thought, swiveling in his stool to fully face her.
"Why hello, Beautiful. You know, Prince Charming called here a minute ago, he was wondering where his Snow White had run off to."
"Ha!" she laughed, playing along with him, "Well, you can tell him she's here at O'Malley's, chatting up a handsome stranger." She stuck out a hand. "My name's Theresa, and you are…?"
He took her nimble hand in his. "I'm James, James Olmstead."
"Nice to meet you. So, what brings you to O'Malley's? I don't think I've seen you around before."
"Well, I usually don't get out much, but tonight I'm celebrating."
"Oh?" Theresa asked, batting her dark eyelashes at him prettily. "And what exactly are you celebrating?" She turned and leaned in a little closer to better hear him over the din.
"I sealed the deal on a big account with the Stop and Save chain; now they're going to use our company exclusively for all their marketing needs, which means we've nabbed practically the entire East coast!" he replied exuberantly, trying too hard to pass the lie off as a truth. Realizing his mistake, he held his hand up next to his mouth and added in what he hoped was a loud, inebriated whisper, "Plus, it means a nice commission bonus for me!"
She narrowed her eyes a little before instantly smiling again. "Well congratulations!" Theresa looked around the bar. "Who else is here with you?"
Jim gestured around at the other patrons. "Everyone and no one, I'm afraid. I work a lot, so I don't have many friends outside the office, and, sadly, I'm still single." He held up his ring finger and wagged it freely in front of her face.
"I see." She motioned to the barkeep for another bottle. The man popped the cap off for her, leaving it on the bar before tending to the rest of the crowd. Theresa fished around in the pocket of her jacket with her right hand, while she used her left to brace herself against Jim's shoulder as she leaned in to whisper, "Well then this drink's on me. Congratulations again."
"Th-thank you," the young man spluttered, breaking character slightly as he accepted the bottle from the tall woman. "Cheers!"
"Cheers," she replied less than enthusiastically as she watched him take a long drawn-out sip.
10:35 pm. "Damn!" Lois cried aloud softly from the front seat of her car. She looked over at the two empty coffee cups beside her and cursed again. I don't know which my bladder hates more; pregnancy or coffee, she wondered, crossing her legs tightly while keeping her eyes riveted to the front entrance of the bar.
She'd parked her little four door in front of the all-night diner to the right of O'Malley's after dropping Clark off shortly before 9 to scope the place out. Lois scrutinized every woman as they walked in and out of the front door, wondering if she was staring at the serial killer and hoping that that question would be answered sooner rather than later. Ever since Jim stepped into the bar, she'd found herself growing incrementally more worried for Jim and Clark as the time passed. Now, an hour and a half later, she was beginning to regret suggesting such a venture in the first place.
Her bladder pulsed again, and Lois knew she'd have to relieve herself and fast. Turning off the radio and pulling the keys out of the ignition, she grabbed her purse and ran around the front of the car into the diner, dashing all the way through to the restroom located in the back and out of sight.
Four minutes later, she exited the tiny restaurant with yet another cup of coffee in hand and returned to her car to watch and wait.
10:34 pm. He'd only taken three swigs of the beer Theresa had bought him and already Jim was beginning to feel light-headed; that, and the metallic taste growing in the back of his mouth weren't helping to make him feel any better. The room started to spin, something it hadn't done since his hard drinking days at the Ace several years ago, and he cut off the young woman beside him in mid-sentence as he doubled over in his chair, a hand clutched over his mouth. "I think I'm going to be sick…"
Theresa caught him by the shoulders with both hands, bracing him there before he fell off the stool. "Whoa! Easy there, James, steady as she goes!"
At the sight of all the commotion at the end of the bar, the bartender came over and quickly recognizing that his patron had had one too many, spoke up. "I better call him a cab and get him home."
She held up a hand while still easily supporting Jim's slumped form. "No, no, it's alright, I'll help him." Turning her attention back to her friend, she threw one of his arms around her neck and helped him unsteadily onto his feet. "Ready to get out of here?" she asked tenderly, guiding him toward the front door.
"I…Kent…" he said in labored gasps, struggling to catch sight of his friend. A group of four twenty-somethings were now crowded around the same spot where Clark had been, and the man in question was nowhere to be seen.
"Of course you can!" Theresa replied cheerily. "My car is just around the corner…oh, why thank you!" she exclaimed as a man near the entryway held the door open for them.
Jim leaned into Theresa for support, stumbling in a zig-zag pattern as she urged him down the sidewalk away from the bar and diner where Lois' car sat parked. He was in no condition to help himself as she led him around the corner and out of sight of his friends. "Come on, my van's right over here," she nudged him along, pointing to the gray vehicle parked mid-way down the street.
"Van?" he asked, clutching his head with his free hand. His thoughts were muddled and hazy; Van…van important…why?...Killer! Killer uses van! They were almost to the passenger door when Jim put the jumbled pieces of information together. "NO!" He shoved Theresa as hard as he could into the side of the vehicle, then turned to run in the opposite direction and get away. His wobbly legs had other ideas, however, and he only made it a step away before he found himself kissing the pavement.
Theresa picked her way over to him carefully, knowing that the GHB she'd slipped in his drink was now working to its full effect. Her latest prey wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, and she was enjoying watching him flail about like a fish out of water—she hadn't had this much fun since Ivan, the music executive who'd given her a run for her money a month earlier; he'd struggled so much she'd had to break his nose.
"This way, James," she murmured ever-so-sweetly as she straddled his form and brought him back to his feet again. Theresa roughly shoved him into the back of the van, slamming the door shut before making her way unobtrusively over to the driver's side. She turned looked over her shoulder at his unconscious form sprawled out amongst her equipment before turning her key in the ignition. "You and I are going for a little ride."
10:40 pm. Clark re-entered the bar from the back, wiping the last of the oil off his hands and grimacing at the smell of seaweed that clung to his damp hair. The place had filled up quite a bit in the twenty-five or so minutes that he'd been gone, and his table was now overrun with young, drunk, twenty-somethings who were having a very good time. He smiled a tight smile, glad that they were enjoying themselves safely while wishing he still had his earlier vantage point, before he remembered to look around for Jim. The spot at the bar where the young man had been sitting earlier was now taken by a plump woman in her early forties, who sat sipping a Cosmopolitan while chatting with her husband who stood nearby.
His heart skipped a beat in his chest. Where's Jim? A quick trip to the men's room proved fruitless. Clark lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose and carefully scanned the area to confirm that his friend was no longer in the bar. No, he's definitely not here; I've got to get to Lois, something must have happened, she must be following them. He strained his ears above the din inside and singled out her heartbeat, discovering that it was uncharacteristically close by; another quick x-ray showed that she was sitting outside O'Malley's in her car, sipping on a cup of coffee while humming softly to the radio. As swiftly as he could, he made his way to her side.
The loud rap at her window startled Lois so badly she nearly upset her piping hot beverage, but once she saw it was Clark she hastily rolled down the glass. "Well, do you think he's got her?" she asked, breathless with anticipation.
His face went ashen as the realization washed over him. "More like she's got him," he murmured through clenched teeth.
"She's got him? She's got him?! How could you let this happen, you were supposed to be watching him! How could she sneak him right by you!!" He held a hand up to quiet her panic attack as he listened for Jim's voice. It was uncharacteristically silenced.
Returning his attention to Lois, he replied, "I had to rush off to an oil tanker spill, Lois—and before you say anything, hundreds of lives were in danger, so yes, I had to go! When I left he was all alone; I didn't think that she could pick him up and get him out of there in twenty-five minutes!" He pulled at his hair and paced frantically next to the car. "Wait a minute, how come you didn't see him as he left?!"
She bristled at his tone and got all defensive. "Because he OBVIOUSLY didn't leave by the front door, Clark; I've been watching it the whole time!!" she retorted, angry and scared for her friend. He watched as her face suddenly fell. "Oh shit!"
"What? What is it?!"
"I got out to use the bathroom and get a cup of coffee—I couldn't have been gone for more then three or four minutes. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!!"
Clark reached into the car and grabbed hold of her shoulder. "We're going to find him, I promise you, we're going to find him and he's going to be ok. Now when did you go on your bathroom break?"
She wiped away the tears that threatened in her eyes. "Less than five minutes ago, why?"
Without a word, Clark spun into the suit, momentarily forgetting the very public setting he was in. "I'm going to search for the van; hopefully we'll get lucky and the killer will be using the same one she used to dump Francis McGowan. I need you to call Chloe and tell her to open up a window for me, because if I can't find him quickly enough then I'll be dropping in on her and I need her to be prepared. Whatever you do don't give her any cause for worry just yet though, ok? Not that she's prone to panic, but I need her to hold it together and help me when I arrive. When you're done on the phone I want you to search West and South of the City and be my eyes and ears on the ground—and don't forget to call Al."
Lois nodded and whipped out her cell phone, hitting the speed dial button as her eyes misted over, blurring the dashboard before her. Clark didn't waste any more time as he leapt up into the air, hovering near the tops of the buildings while frantically scanning the streets surrounding the bar in search of a gray van with an 'H' in its license plate.
A/N: GHB is also commonly known as the 'date rape drug'. It dissolves easily in a drink and renders people temporarily unconscious when administered.
