"What?" she said again.
He pressed his palms to his chest, fingers curled on the creepy picture of a spider on his chest. Tosh twitched at the thought of a real one on his chest. "I'm the local neighborhood hero. Spider-Man," he said.
She nodded. "Pleased to meet you," she said. "Toshiko. I have to go." She stayed stuck to the spot.
"Some of them call me the Webhead Menace." He looked up to a ledge on an office block down the street. He raised a palm to point warmly to the distant spot. "You can call me Spidey." His head turned and the left eye plate almost winked. His body flew after the receding line as if he had no weight at all.
Tosh still held the two suitcases in taut fists.
:::
NYPD had turned up within seconds of the departure of the weird man who had referred to himself as 'Spider-Man'. The press of the crowd as the yellow tape was unreeled pushed Tosh further and further back from the road. It was almost as if no-one had noticed her. No-one had noticed her talking to the amazing flying figure.
"Time for that coffee," said the seated beggar. She turned, still bewildered. He got up from the step and pushed his way across the street. Tosh followed until they reached the door of the diner. Most of the original customers had vacated to watch the street battle. New customers were trickling in, bored, as the sideshow wound down.
They watched thru the grubby window as the police searched visually for artefacts of the fighting.
"Tosh," she ventured.
"Giorgio," he said.
A plastic tent was erected over the crumpled figure.
"They work quick," Tosh noted. She sipped the oily black Americano and felt her headache clear.
"Must be something important." He slurped a giant hot chocolate brimming with marshmallow. "Or they want to open the street again in a hurry. Did you see what was in that bag? I think it was, like, millions of gold coins."
"Who's the young man in the stretchy pyjamas? You seem to recognize him."
"You've never heard of Spider-Man?"
"Well, yes", she mumbled. "He introduced himself. Now, I know him. But he looks like a trapeze artist with some kind of identity crisis."
"Yeah. But he has those webs and flies about. I think that must be the spider thing."
She sipped some more coffee, watched her eyes wobble in the reflection, growing and shrinking at random. "Is he a good guy? He seems like a polite enough young man."
"I don't recall him stopping to chat to me any time. But he beats up the bad guys." Giorgio started to tap the side of the cup. Tosh guessed that he might be in need of a cigarette. "He's like a crime fighter. So the papers and the bloggers call him a vigilante, but so what? Every now and again he roughs up some piece of street garbage. I'm a liberal, but he stands for something. We don't have to take crap from anyone. Now if we could get him to to do something about Wall Street…"
The horn from a large vehicle sounded disturbing their discussion. Two beeps like a British taxi driver would do to alert their arrival. Tosh then thought that, of course, it could be for her.
"This could be my ride," she said. She looked at the trickle of cars beginning to file past.
"There's about a thousand cars on this street. I think most of them honked to get by the cops."
Tosh heard her Blackberry chirping in her purse. Of course, someone was polling the device for its location. With the highest level of encryption it should only be her own people looking for her.
Then, to confirm her thoughts, a Dodge minivan was mounting the curb right outside the diner. The passenger window opened and a fresh faced young woman stuck her head out, apparently mid conversation.
"Sorry," said Tosh. "I've got to go." She really did feel that she was compelled to leave. Probably fear.
"Don't mind me," said Giorgio. His voice had a hint of grouch about it.
Tosh emptied out the loose change from her pockets. There were no notes. "Have your next coffee on me," she said. She felt lame. But she also felt the need to leave.
:::
Tosh bundled her bags into the back seat of the Dodge, slumped back, and tried to smile.
"Welcome aboard the Greyhound Express," said the young man in the driver seat. "My name is Sheila, and this is Tony." He gestured to his colleague who rolled her eyes.
"Please ignore Tony," said Sheila. "It's supposed to be a joke."
"I love my handicapped vehicle," Tony beamed. He patted the rams-head logo on the steering column.
"It's a mobility vehicle, Tony," Sheila chided. "We don't use that word in England."
"I can use whatever word I bloody like," he sniffed. "I'm the cripple."
Sheila winced. "Just get our guest to the safe house. We'll leave the politics to the diplomats."
Tony put the minivan into 'Drive' and edged it out into the steadying traffic. Now the traffic police were waving the vehicles on their way, desperate to get everything back to normal.
Tosh slumped in the back seat and let her head fall onto her chest.
Sheila turned back to talk to her. "You can let go of those now," she grinned. "No-one here wants to steal your stuff."
Tony rocked his head in mild disagreement. Tosh thought that perhaps there were a few bits of Torchwood kit he would like to take a look at. But Tosh let go of the handles anyway, feeling the tension go in her arms at least.
"I thought I was at the safehouse already?" she said quietly. "Is this your idea of a joke? I know U*N*I*T like to piss us about. But we're on the same side."
Sheila turned again. "Sorry Tosh. There really was a safe house there in the 70s. Some idiot in Wiltshire used the legacy database to book all our accommodation. We were lucky that the Y.M.C.A. where we're staying is still there. That building is old as crap, maybe even a fire risk. But we'll sort out something for you there for now."