The Origin of MASK
Chapter 9: Fast Food, Part 3
By Qweb and/or Jelsemium
After their wild escape, Dusty dropped Matt off at the Bonaventure in downtown L.A.
The young man refused any offer of reward, but he gladly shook Matt's hand as if it was the greatest honor he could have received. Then he drove off, a cheerful figure in a battered pizza truck. Dirty, dented, scarred and scorched, sagging on tired shocks, it was a far cry from the shining, silvery vehicle that had rushed to Matt's rescue.
As he walked into the hotel, sagging a bit on his own springs, Matt noticed Firecracker still parked in the hotel lot. He felt a tinge of resentment that Bruce hadn't gone looking for him, then realized he'd only been gone a couple of hours, hardly long enough for Bruce to get worried.
Matt could have sworn he'd been gone a week.
Wearily he opened the door to his suite. Bruce came out of one of the bedrooms wearing a grim expression along with his MASK costume. Lifter was in his hands. His face lit up with relief when he saw his friend.
"Matt! I was getting worried! Scott told me I was being silly, but I was about to go looking for you."
He saw the dazed look on Matt's face.
"Are you all right?" he said, guiding Matt to a chair and taking the briefcase that had caused all the trouble.
"Where's Scott?" Mat asked.
"I sent him to the coffee shop."
They both knew food would occupy the growing boy for hours. Matt decided that was good. He wasn't ready to tell his tale of terror and exhilaration to his 10-year-old son, though he wouldn't be able to keep it from him for long. The inventor had a feeling Scott wouldn't be as horrified by his father's narrow escape as he would be regretful that he'd missed the wild ride himself.
Matt realized with a silent chuckle that his son and Dusty Hayes would get along just fine. And maybe they'd get the chance.
Bruce touched his silent friend's shoulder in concern. "Matt, what happened?"
Matt smiled brilliantly. "Serendipity," he explained.
-MASK-
Matt used the computer link to call Alex in Nevada, then told him and Bruce about his day's adventures, enthusing about Dusty's driving ability. Alex agreed to check out the Texan for possible membership in MASK. Then Bruce went, armed and cautious, to rescue Thunderhawk. He met no trouble since the Venom agents were holed up, licking their wounds.
Alex called back the next day with the report on Dusty Hayes.
"Tell us all about Matt's rescuer," Bruce said.
Alex was reluctant. He knew Matt wouldn't like it.
"Well," he said finally. "Up until yesterday he was employed as a pizza cook and delivery man by Montoni's Finest Pizza."
"Up until yesterday?" Matt said with a sinking feeling.
"What did you expect, old boy," Alex said gently, "when he brought back the truck looking like a refugee from a demolition derby with eight undelivered, stone-cold pizzas splattered all over the inside."
"Dammit, Alex, that was my fault," Matt said wearily.
"True. But this is the seventh job young Hayes has lost in less than six months. I'd say he must be used to it by now. As Mr. Montoni said, once I got him to stop screaming, Dusty Hayes is a nice young man, and a surprisingly good cook, but he's unreliable."
Something about Alex's tone made Matt suspicious. The Brit was holding something back and enjoying it.
"Come on, Alex," he warned. "Give. Dusty didn't strike me as the unreliable kind. There's more to it, isn't there?"
"Oh, yes," Alex laughed. "There's a nice little pattern here."
And he told them about Dusty's recent employment, or rather, unemployment history.
"Hmmm, sounds promising," Bruce said. "But why is he working as a delivery driver at all? He told Matt he'd been a stuntman."
"He got into stuntwork by way of the rodeo circuit. He'd been a working cowboy on the family ranch, you see. Rodeo riding made more money than that, and his family needed it. Stuntwork was even more steady employment, at least for him. He has a reputation for being great with horses, cars or boats, and he had a gift for doing a stunt right, on the mark, first time."
"The directors must have loved him," Matt commented.
"All but one," Alex said, naming one of the whiz kids of the profession, a bright star whose name on the credits alone meant an extra million at the box office.
"He and your Mr. Hayes had an argument over whether a stunt was safe and Hayes ended up walking off the set. Well, the director got some young fool to do it, and, sure enough, two people were injured. But the director managed to turn the blame around. He said if Hayes had done the job as he was supposed to do, no one would have been hurt. Apparently no one who knows Hayes believes that version, but the director had enough clout with the front office to get Hayes barred from all the major studios. None of them like a contract breaker no matter what the reason. The only stuntwork he's done in more than a year has been for small independents."
Matt was silent, but he clenched and unclenched his hands in anger.
"He's an odd duck, your Mr. Hayes," Alex continued. "He doesn't care for hunting, but he's a dead shot. Not just with a rifle either. His baseball coach said Hayes was the best pitcher on the team, but he was too good a batter to waste on the mound. He used to clean up the prizes at the county fair's midway booths every summer. He's been known to say the only thing he's really good at is driving; yet, everyone I talked to, including Mr. Montoni, mind you, said that what he's really good at is helping others. The director at the Boys Club he attended said Hayes was a shoo-in for Boy of the Year his senior year, but he had to virtually quit the club to help support his family after his father died. He's an interesting one, Matt. I'm looking forward to meeting this Mr. Hayes of yours."
"Alex, couldn't you just call him Dusty?" Matt asked.
"Before we've been properly introduced? Perish the thought!" Alex laughed and cut the connection.
-MASK-
It was well after 5 p.m. when Dusty Hayes returned to his apartment after a fruitless day of job hunting. He was tired and discouraged.
The phone rang just as he dropped his jacket on a chair. He answered it. His eyes lit up and he smiled for the first time in hours.
"Hi, mama," he said, stretching out on the bed. "How'd you know I needed someone to talk to? I've been out job huntin'. Yeah. Again."
He told her about his adventures the day before.
"You couldn't blame Mr. Montoni. The poor ol' truck looked like she'd been through the wringer. And he prob'ly lost a lot of business because I didn't deliver those pizzas; but I just couldn't leave Mr. Trakker to be run down by those owlhoots. They were gonna kill him! You should'a seen him, mama. He ran past me, and the look on his face reminded me of a dog fox bein' chased by a pack'a hounds. He was all scared and desperate, but there was kind of a proud look, too, like a fella who won't give up no matter what. I just couldn't stand by and do nothin'."
Elsie Hayes told her son at length how proud she was of him. How could she be otherwise when Dusty believed so strongly in the ideals she and her husband had lived and taught, that all life was sacred and the only way to find happiness yourself was by helping others. But it distressed her to see Dusty being punished for his good deeds. She worried it would break his spirit. Tentatively she asked how the job hunt had gone.
"It doesn't look like anyone wants a fella who's been fired as many times as I have. Can't blame them, I s'pose."
Elsie assured Dusty that she wanted him, and there would, heaven knew, always be work for him on the family ranch. Both she and Dusty knew that he would feel a failure if he went home because he had to, not because he wanted to. The way Elsie couched the invitation, though, made it sound as if the whole place was falling apart for lack of a man around the house.
"Problem is, I hardly even have bus fare home. Didn't feel right about takin' pay from Mr. Montoni after I wrecked his truck," Dusty told her, but he didn't really sound worried any more. His natural cheerfulness had reasserted itself. "Tell you what, mama. If I don't find a job by next month, before my lease runs out, I'll come home for a while. But you know there's always work for a fella who don't mind gettin' his hands dirty."
A knock at the door interrupted the conversation.
"Gotta go, there's someone at the door," he laughed. "Maybe it's opportunity knockin'. Bye, mama. I love you."
He cradled the phone gently. There was still a half smile on his lips as he opened the door. He blinked in surprise.
"Hi, Dusty," Matt said. "May we come in?"
"Sure, Matt," Dusty said, remembering his manners.
He ushered Matt and his Oriental friend inside. Matt introduced Bruce who had been looking around with interest and approval. The apartment building was, frankly, a dump; but Dusty's room was neat and clean, not finicky, but much better than merely livable. The Texan didn't have to rush around straightening things up for his unexpected guests. He did have a problem with seating arrangements, however. He solved it by putting Matt in the old armchair, Bruce in the desk chair, and himself on the edge of the bed.
Matt studied Dusty as if it had been months since he'd last seen him.
"You look tired, Dusty," he said finally. "Job hunting's hard work, isn't it? Especially when you don't have any luck."
Dusty ran his fingers through his hair.
"I always figgered anyone who became a millionaire had to be a mind reader," he said.
"Not a mind reader. I just do my homework. I've been checking up on you, Dusty."
"On me? What for?"
"I want to hire you. I like what I've seen in your rèsumè," Matt said.
Dusty looked wary. "It's been a long time since anyone's said that. I reckon you haven't read the current version."
"Oh, I know your history," Matt assured him. "You've worked for three delivery firms and four pizza places, and been fired from all of them for being unreliable. You're just the kind of person I need."
Dusty's knuckles were white where his hand gripped a fold in the bedspread.
"Are you jokin' with me?" he said in a voice as tight as his fist.
"Does the oak tree grow pine needles?" Bruce said.
"Come again?" Dusty said. He was much too polite to say, "Huh?"
"He means it's not my style to make fun of people," Matt said. "I meant what I said. I'm offering you a job."
Matt stepped across the small room and put his hands on the Texan's shoulders.
"Dusty, you saved my life yesterday. Do you think I'd track you down and come here, just to make fun of you?"
Dusty looked up into Matt's blue-gray eyes, which held no trace of mockery.
"No," he said, relaxing. "I guess you're too busy a man for that."
Suspicion was gone, but Dusty was still puzzled.
"Gettin' fired ain't exactly what most folks look for in a job applicant."
"But it's the reasons you were fired, Dusty," Matt said. "Being late with your deliveries because you were taking a pregnant woman to the hospital. Or stopping to help a bicyclist hit by a car. Not to mention saving my life."
"I'm not so sure about rescuing a kitten from a tree, though," Bruce put in.
Dusty grinned at him.
"You didn't see that little girl cryin' as if her heart would bust."
The young man looked over both his visitors. "Then you're really serious? You're not doin' this just 'cause you feel sorry for me?"
"Feel sorry for you?" Bruce laughed. "You don't know how hard it is to find people like you, Dusty. Someone who wants to help. Someone so honest he will do the right thing, even when he knows it will get him into trouble. And someone who can drive like raving maniac."
"I guess you've got the right person at that," Dusty said, scratching his head in puzzlement. "What is it you want doin'?"
"Remember those people who were chasing us yesterday?" Matt said.
"Can't say that I do," Dusty said innocently.
Matt made a face at him. "What we want is to give you a chance to face them again, in something better equipped than a pizza truck."
Matt began to tell him about Venom, and about MASK.
Dusty was excited. He didn't think he'd ever have a better chance to help people than he'd have with MASK, but he still didn't know what his part was supposed to be.
"Right now we're still getting organized," Matt said. "We need someone to test drive all our vehicles. And I can't think of anyone who could put them through their paces better. I want you to come to Nevada and work for me. What do you say?"
Dusty's shining eyes said it all.
"Then get packed. You're moving into our suite at the hotel. I don't want Venom tracking you here the way I did."
"It won't take me but a minute … boss," Dusty said.
Matt and Bruce went down to wait by Thunderhawk.
"I'll have to call Mama and tell her it was opportunity knocking," Dusty said to himself as he threw his meager belongings into a bag.
-MASK-
Standing by the car, Bruce said, "I thought MASK was supposed to be a volunteer position, Matt."
"You saw his credit file. He's dead broke. He gave his last paycheck back to Montoni to pay for repairs on the truck."
"True, but he's a proud man, Matt Trakker. He won't thank you for giving him a job out of pity."
"Pity, Bruce? It's not pity. I don't think I ever met anyone who needed pity less than Dusty. But I won't see anyone who helps me suffer for it. Besides, we do need someone to test your doohickeys."
"The way you described his driving, I'm not sure I want him to even touch my babies," Bruce retorted.
-MASK-
Dusty was mightily impressed by the Bonaventure Hotel. The multiple towers were all glass and steel. They looked like futuristic buildings and had portrayed the same in many movies.
Matt ushered him into the penthouse suite. The inventor looked around for his son and heard noises coming from the boy's room. He looked in to find Scott engrossed in the final action-packed scene of a movie he'd seen a dozen times at least.
Dusty followed Matt gingerly across the plush carpet as if he was afraid he'd bruise it.
"Scott, I want you to meet someone," Matt said.
Scott didn't even look up. "Just a minute, Dad. This is the best part."
"Scott," Matt said in parental warning.
"It's okay, Matt," Dusty said. "This is the best part."
Eyes sparkling, Dusty sat down on the edge of the bed to watch the Everglades chase scene. Matt could do no less for hospitality's sake. He watched as the boats careened through small channels, leaped hollow logs and finally wended their way to the crash-bang finale. As they came to the rather mushy anticlimax, Scott turned away, heaved a sigh of enjoyment and scrambled to his feet to meet the new MASK agent.
"Hi, I'm Scott," he said, offering his hand like a man.
Dusty took it gravely and told the boy his name.
"I'm sorry about this, Dusty," Matt apologized. "That's his favorite movie."
"Mine, too," Dusty said.
"Isn't it neat!" Scott enthused. "The best part is where the boat goes flying into the air and lands on top of the canoe!"
Dusty laughed. "That always makes my hind end hurt all over again when I watch it."
"Is this one of your movies, Dusty?" Matt asked.
"Uh huh. See?" He pointed at the rolling credits where his name appeared in tiny letters.
"Wow! You're a stuntman?" Scott said.
Dusty confessed that he used to be.
"Gee, what movies did you make? Did you ever meet anyone famous? What kind of stunts did you do?"
Scott prevailed upon Dusty to tell his war stories. Matt and Bruce weren't slow to ask questions, either. The cowboy began to relax under their genuine interest, but the fancy building still had him overawed.
When he excused himself to put his gear away in the room Matt assigned him, Dusty put his bag down as gently as if he was setting it on eggs. He kept his cowboy hat in his hands, turning it around and around.
"You're making me nervous," Bruce said.
"Sorry. This suite is bigger'n the whole town I grew up in," Dusty said.
"If you think this is bad, wait until you see Matt's house," Bruce advised.
-MASK-
Alex had persuaded the PNA to keep an eye on Montoni's pizza place to make sure Venom didn't try to track down the mysterious pizza truck driver the way he had. He needn't have worried.
Mayhem never considered tracking down the driver of the pizza truck, because he didn't believe it was a pizza truck.
Upon careful consideration, based on the philosophy he knew best, Mayhem decided that the pizza truck driver must have been working with the runner all along. After all, no one would take risks like that for a total stranger! To Mayhem, the Good Samaritan concept was nothing but a fairy tale. And whatever he couldn't comprehend, he automatically rejected as impossible.
"That 'pizza truck' must have been superpowered to outrun our vehicles and armored to protect it from our lasers," he rationalized to the others who were lounging around the warehouse where their battered vehicles were hidden.
He smacked his fist into his palm in anger.
"Sounds like one of our vehicles, Mayhem," Rax drawled. "Someone's stealing your ideas again."
"Just like those 'masked invaders from Mars' in Boulder Whatsis, Nevada," Vanessa said.
"Yes," Mayhem growled in speculation. "I'd forgotten about Boulder Hill, Nevada. Maybe the two things tie together. Let's check it out."
He looked around his depleted motor pool.
"After you pinheads get this junk running again," he amended with a snarl.
-MASK-
Matt's mansion left Dusty speechless; but it was MASK headquarters that made his jaw drop.
He stared at the computers and the flashing lights on a world map. He gawked at the high domed ceiling with the "chandelier" of dangling masks that hung over a round table surrounded by high-backed chairs. And all of it was dwarfed by a wall-sized view screen.
Matt didn't say anything. He let Dusty absorb the scientific wonders at his own pace, counting on the young man's natural resilience to see him through. Matt figured that events might bend Dusty out of shape, but he'd snap back as fast as a rubber band.
Finally Dusty shut his mouth and turned his gaze back to Matt. There was immense respect on his face at the thought that his friend had designed all this. His eyes sparkled.
"Whooo-wee!" he breathed. "I feel like I'm on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise."
Matt slapped his shoulder affectionately.
"Don't let it scare you, Dusty. They're only tools."
Dusty shook his head.
"A hammer's a tool, Matt. This's … magic!"
Matt showed off some more magic, taking Dusty on the mini-subway to the Boulder Hill gas station.
Dusty sighed with something like relief as he crossed the threshold of the secret door into the gas station. Here at least was something he understood.
Then he paused. Or maybe not. He remembered that the sleepy looking desert gas station concealed the headquarters of a high tech crime fighting force. What was it Matt had said, "MASK: Where Illusion is the Ultimate Weapon." Dusty wondered whether he'd ever look at things unsuspiciously again.
As they came out of the empty gas station, Dusty looked unsuspiciously at a bald-headed man who had his hand on his red-bearded chin as he studied an orange jeep with obvious disapproval.
Matt introduced him as Alex Sector. The Englishman took his thoughts away from the jeep with no reluctance.
"So you're Dusty Hayes," he said, pumping the Texan's hand. "We owe you a debt of gratitude. We'd have a hard time coping without Matthew here."
Alex knew Dusty's whole life history. All Dusty knew about Alex was that he was one of Matt's oldest friends. But that was recommendation enough for the Texan.
"I'd be obliged if you'd call me, Dusty, sir," he said to the man who, as it happened, was exactly old enough to be Dusty's father.
Alex winced. He did not want to be reminded of the 20-year age gap between himself and Dusty. He told the Texan firmly that he would call him Dusty, if Dusty cut out the "sir" stuff.
"Where's … ?" Matt let his question trail off.
Dusty took the hint and wandered over to look at the jeep.
"He's gone back to Washington," Alex said referring to Buddy Hawks, master spy, master mechanic, master of disguise, and the gas station's pump jockey. "Duane recalled him for a debriefing. Buddy balked a bit, but when Duane threatened to hold up his last paycheck, well, I haven't seen him move so fast since we were shooting at him."
Matt laughed. He'd intended to introduce Dusty to Buddy, the two men were close in age and he'd hoped they would get along. But he'd had second thoughts even before he left the subway. Matt remembered how close Venom had come to getting the names of all the MASK agents from his own briefcase computer. It might be safer, he thought, to keep the agents' identities secret from each other — at least until he had his 12-man roster set.
"I wish Buddy was here," Alex continued, unaware of Matt's wandering train of thought. "This blasted jeep is giving me fits."
"What's wrong with it?" Matt said, raising his voice to include Dusty in the conversation again.
Alex explained that the engine was running rough, but he couldn't seem to find the problem.
"Of course, my specialty is computers, not internal combustion engines," he said.
"Can I take a look at 'er?" Dusty asked. "Me'n jeeps have an understanding."
"Of course," Matt said.
Before he could say another word of advice or warning, Dusty gripped the front of the hood and lifted. It wasn't latched down, of course, since Alex had been working on it.
The whole front of the car — hood, fenders and windshield — reared back, rising up off the wheels; and Dusty found himself looking at the prow of a motorboat.
There was a smothered silence behind him as Dusty looked at the unexpected sight. But after Matt Trakker invited you into his home, every other miracle seemed pretty paltry. Dusty Hayes was learning to expect the unexpected.
He turned to look at the older men who were trying manfully to maintain straight faces.
Totally deadpan himself, Dusty drawled, "I think I've found your problem, pard. She's got a boat where her motor ought'a be."
The others dissolved in laughter.
"Dusty, old chap, you're all right," Alex said, shaking the Texan's hand all over again.
"This more of that illusion stuff you were talkin' about, Matt?" Dusty asked.
When Bruce and Scott drove up in Thunderhawk to join the group around the jeep, Matt and Alex were taking turns describing the vehicle's hidden assets. They made way for Bruce who was the designer.
Inside the auto shell was a powerful motorboat that could be launched for varying distances by an adjustable hydraulic spring. The boat was armed with depth charges and a water cannon that was more than a fire extinguisher. The water gun was paired with a freeze ray and, by changing the synchronization of the pulses, the driver could shoot a plain jet of water, a jet that froze on contact, or a stream of solid ice balls.
"That'd sure knock you cold," Dusty commented.
"You wouldn't have a snowball's chance," Matt agreed.
Dusty looked at the jeep. The front was still propped up, gaping like an open mouth — a big mouth.
"Just look at 'er, grinning there like a big ol' gator," he said. "She's got a few more tricks up her sleeve, I'll bet."
The others knew a christening when they heard it. Bruce had hoped for something a bit more elegant; but he had to admit "Gator" fit the sturdy, swamp-slopping, amphibious vehicle.
Bruce shut Gator's "mouth" and climbed up on the back of the jeep. He swung up the cannon that trailed from the rear roll bar and brought it into firing position, resting its muzzle on the front roll bar.
"This is an electrical interface scrambler," Bruce said proudly, displaying his most revolutionary development. It wasn't quite like anything else in the world.
Dusty scratched his head. "What's that when it's at home?"
Bruce tried to explain. "It fires a beam which disrupts the flow of energy in machinery."
The puzzled look on Dusty's face deepened.
"Are you with me?" Bruce asked doubtfully.
"I'm not sure I'm up with you," the Texan admitted. "But I think I see your dust. Keep'a goin'."
"It shorts out machines," Bruce said, simplifying as much as he could. "It makes engines stop. It gives people a good jolt, too."
"Sort of an electronic 'ouch'," Dusty said, his eyes lighting with understanding.
It was Bruce's turn to scratch his head as he heard his ultrasophisticated, high tech device described in Dusty's simple terms. But, as with Gator, it was accurate. He smiled at Dusty's inquiring gaze.
" 'Electronic ouch' sums it up pretty well, Dusty," he admitted.
Dusty nodded to himself as if to fix the definition in his memory, then he turned his attention to the contrary engine.
"Now, where's the engine and what's wrong with it?" he asked Alex.
Alex showed him. Dusty started the engine. It coughed like a baby elephant with bronchitis. Dusty frowned at it like a serious-minded pediatrician.
"Poor, baby," he said sympathetically.
He reached his arm into the engine clear up to his shoulder and began fiddling with something. Matt started to explain that the clean-burning, superpowerful engine wasn't exactly what he was used to, when the coughing stopped. The engine roared, then settled down to a sweet hum that, Bruce could have sworn, exactly matched the tone of Dusty's murmured encouragements.
This isn't mechanics, Matt thought. It's magic. Of course, that's what Dusty had said about his inventions. To each person his special talents. That's what MASK is all about, Matt decided.
"When are you going to test it, Dusty?" Scott asked eagerly.
"No time like the present," Dusty replied, looking at Matt for permission that came immediately.
Dusty reached for canvas bag he'd been carrying.
"Can I come with you?" Scott begged.
Dusty saw panic flash in Matt's eyes and fought to keep from grinning. He held his face grave as he looked at the youngster.
"Wellll, I dunno. You bring your crash helmet with you? How about kneepads? Gloves?"
Disappointed, Scott had to admit he didn't have any of the protective gear Dusty was unpacking and putting on.
"See, Scott, whatever it looks like on film, a stuntman don't take unnecessary chances," Dusty said seriously. "He always wears a helmet, fastens his seat belt and takes a fire extinguisher along. And he makes sure he's got some backup in case things go wrong. Speakin'a which, you fellas gonna tag along?"
"I, for one, wouldn't miss it for the world," Alex said.
Matt agreed to trail Dusty in Thunderhawk, keeping watch on the young man from the air. The others insisted on coming along, too.
For the first time, Scott was glad that T-Bob had locked himself up in the mansion as he worked on the dumb project Buddy had inspired. If the robot had been along, Thunderhawk would have been too crowded.
Scott still looked glum, though, as he climbed into the flying car.
"Cheer up, pard," Dusty advised him. "Once Gator 'n me get used to each other, we'll give you that ride."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
The wink Dusty gave Matt was a promise, too. The inventor could be sure Dusty would never do anything to endanger the boy.
As for endangering himself, that was another matter.
Dusty started out easy enough, taking Gator into the desert at an unhurried pace, getting the feel of the steering, bounding over an occasional dune, gradually picking up speed.
Bruce's eyes started to bug out. Alex turned a little green. Even Scott gulped as Dusty began to wrestle his Gator. Matt, with the wisdom of experience, didn't watch.
He didn't try to keep up with all the turns, skids, spinouts and leaps Dusty put Gator through. He just circled overhead in Thunderhawk giving his passengers a bird's-eye view of the 'E' ticket ride.
The exhibition explained a lot to Scott that his father hadn't.
"Dad?" said the boy without removing his nose from the window where it was pressed. "Is that the way Dusty helped you escape from Venom?"
Matt could try to tone down his adventures, but he couldn't out-and-out lie to his son. He admitted it was true.
"I think you left out the best part," the boy said.
In the next installment:
Dusty meets a mask that doesn't understand him
and a motorcycle that doesn't like him.
And T-Bob microwaves pizza.