THE CASE OF THE FLYING FOOLS

"How's it going?" our prospective client said as he sat next to me. He had a deep rumble of a voice. I could easily imagine him yelling orders.

We were sitting at the improvised bar (some planks over two barrels - I'm not kidding) in a nameless speak-easy. The speak-easy was hidden in a not-quite-abandoned building that was located just behind a downtown strip-joint. A tired-looking, squat, fireplug of a man was behind the bar, wiping shotglasses 'clean' with a dirty rag. The customers consisted of me, my maybe client, two dancers in flimsy robes who were obviously taking a break from their job next door, an old man who was peering mournfully into an almost empty shotglass, and a pretty girl in the far corner who never seemed to actually touch her drink.

I could see her point. The bathtub gin the place served maybe wasn't bad, but it definitely wasn't good.

The client was a big, blocky, rugged-looking guy who came across as someone you wouldn't want to mess with. You could kind of tell he hadn't grown up easy and knew his way around the wrong parts of the world. Judging from the pattern of small scars around his eyes, he'd done some boxing somewhere along the way. Unusual for my clientele, he was wearing a uniform. In fact, he was a captain in the U.S. Army and the insignia pinned to his chest indicated that he was a pilot.

He wasn't particularly handsome, but he had an impressive pair of blue eyes. It seemed to me that if a woman wasn't careful, she could fall into those eyes, maybe losing all of her clothes in the process. After shaking hands, I found myself avoiding his gaze.

We'd talked on the phone about two hours earlier. The flyboy didn't want to meet at the office, and he suggested our current meeting place. It was just six blocks from the office, so I didn't even bother to drive.

"I'm Domino," I told him - maybe unnecessarily. Thanks to my coloration and the patch-like mark over my left eye, I'm a bit on the recognizable side.

"My name's Grimm," he told me. "Ben Grimm."

I stuck out a hand and he unhesitatingly shook it.

"How can Domino Investigations help you, Captain Grimm?" I asked.

Grimm put a picture on the makeshift bar. It was a print of a mugshot that looked like it had long ago been torn out of a newspaper. It showed a skinny-faced man with dark hair and narrow eyes. He was staring at the camera in a coldly defiant way. The small blackboard he was holding indicated that he'd been arrested by the local police about a year ago.

"His name's Abner Jenkins," Grimm told me. "He's an inventor who takes shortcuts to get the money he needs for his work. This picture is from the only time he got caught - a bank robbery that went wrong a few years back. He beat the charges."

"I've heard of him," I replied. Jenkins had a gangland rep as a guy who played by his own rules and wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. He was also a jack-of-all trades when it came to robbery - everything from second-story work to bank jobs. Jenkins wasn't the kind of guy who shoved a gun into people's faces. Instead, he did difficult break-ins that involved challenging, hard-to-enter, places with good payoffs. I'd heard that he personally builds the special equipment he uses in his jobs.

"Jenkins turned up missing a day or two ago," Grimm added. "I need to find him."

"Does he want to be missing?" I asked.

Grimm shook his head. "I don't think so. We grew up in the same neighborhood, but he never left. He's been living for the last ten years in a house in Rookstone - he's even in the phone-book. I asked around and nobody knows where he is or why he's gone. Word is that nobody's particularly mad at him, but I checked where he lives and its been turned upside down. Some valuable stuff was left behind, so it wasn't a regular robbery."

"Is Jenkins a friend of yours?" I asked. An Army officer who had connections to a high-end thief was a little odd. I wasn't sure what a guy like Grimm would see in someone like Jenkins.

Grimm shrugged. "Not really. Back in the day, we knew one another, but we weren't interested in the same things. You might say we went in different directions."

"Does he have a crew - guys he works with on heists?"

"Nope," Grimm said with a slow shake of his head.

"Friends or family? Maybe a girl?"

"The guy's kind of a loner," Grimm answered. "His family's gone. And if he has a girl, I've never heard of it."

"You understand there's a good chance he's dead?" I told Grimm carefully. When bad-guys go missing, the odds are against a happy ending.

"Yep," Grimm said very flatly.

"Why not call the cops?"

That made Grimm stir uneasily. "I'm not a fan of the local law. And how much time and effort are they going to put into finding a crook? They'll just figure his body will turn up in the bay eventually. And they might be right."

"Okay, last question," I said. "Why do you care about Abner Jenkins?"

Grimm looked me in the eyes - damn, his baby blues really were fantastic - and said, "Jenkins may have invented something big. It's a suit that can fly. Last week, he gave me a call right out of nowhere - we haven't talked in years - and told me what he had. He said he wanted to sell it to the Army, but that I was the only connection he had with the service. He swore up and down that it was legit and he was hoping to make some honest money. He wanted me to set up a meeting with the brass."

Then Grimm paused before continuing. "I told him that I'd have to see his flying suit in action before I stuck my neck out. He agreed and we set up a time and place to meet, but he never made it. After that, I tried checking on him, but he was gone."

Grimm's story wasn't as crazy some might say. Actually, I already knew a guy who had a suit that could fly. His name is Stark.

I told Grimm our rates, wondering if that would be a deal-breaker for him. Defending our country doesn't exactly pay well and absolutely nothing about Grimm suggested he had any other source of income.

"Sure," he said without any hesitation. And that was interesting.

After Grimm left, the girl in the corner joined me.

Marie is my girlfriend. Once, she was my secretary, but then she became my full-time partner in the P.I. biz. She's gorgeous - tall for a woman, with a body and face that attracts attention everywhere she goes. She also has a striking head of auburn hair that features a sexy streak of white just above her forehead.

Not a day goes by that I don't wonder how I got so lucky that she settled for me.

"I take it we're on the case?" Marie asked.

I nodded and then filled her in on the details.

When I was done, Marie considered what I'd said for a little while. Then she turned her head and looked at the two strippers. They were sitting at one of the decrepit tables that took up most of the room. It was like a pair of brightly-colored flowers growing in a field of otherwise dead wood.

"Hey, is Sif working today?" Marie asked them.

Both girls nodded.

"Marie!" the old fellow at the box-office grinned in surprise. "Long time no see!"

The Red Fox is widely considered to be the best of the downtown strip-atoriums. City wide, only Remy's is better, but Remy's is actually a nightclub. The Red Fox is less elaborate.

Once upon a time, the Red Fox had a different name and a different set of shows. Yeah, girls in skimpy clothes danced there, but it also featured comics, jugglers, magicians, singers and bands. However, the Depression created a horde of pretty girls who were completely willing to take their off clothes for really not that much in terms of a paycheck. It also created a lot of guys with time on their hands who wanted cheap entertainment. That changed how things worked at a lot of the burlesque houses. The other acts tapered off in favor of a full slate of dancers.

Actually, Marie used to be one of those girls. She left Mississippi and headed north, looking for her missing mom. But she also needed work, and she eventually found it. The Red Fox was her place of employment right up until the day a handsy customer almost died after giving Marie a pat on her unclothed ass. She didn't have as much control over her power in those days.

Why did a woman with dangerous skin take a job that required her to show a lot of that same skin? Marie's never talked about it. I figured she was either trying to prove something or deny something, but I don't know for sure, and I've never asked.

"Hiram," Marie answered warmly. "How's it going?"

"Same old, same old, sweetie," the box-office guy replied with a shrug.

Marie put a dollar in front of Hiram. He didn't take it. "Go on in," he told us. "And let me know if you're thinking about getting back into the business."

"Actually, I'm looking for a girl named Sif," Marie told him. "I hear she's working for you."

Hiram nodded. "Yeah, she and her partner are in dressing room three. You know the way."

Marie left the dollar on the counter as we walked inside.

The interior was cheerily raucous. The house band was playing a spritely, drum-heavy, tune as a girl dressed like the Hollywood version of an Indian chief pranced across the stage, steadily losing clothes in the process. A fair-sized crowd was loudly cheering her on. There were some tables further away from the stage where customers who didn't want to be a part of the up-close mob sipped coffee or soda as they enjoyed the show. A few lady customers were there, and their coolly interested eyes were somehow the oddest thing about the place.

"Hello, Marie," a slender, iron-haired, and expensively dressed woman said as we passed. Marie didn't respond and the woman chuckled at that.

I recognized the woman. I'd last seen her in the Hellfire Club, dressed to the nines in an evening gown as she danced with an undressed boy who I was pretty sure was a lot less than legal age. The look on that boy's face as he rubbed up against his mistress was so blankly adoring that I wondered if he was drugged.

Suddenly, the Red Fox seemed a lot less cheerful. It never occurred to me that Hellfire Club predators might be prowling around, hunting for the young, beautiful, and desperate.

We walked past a velveteen rope that blocked entrance into the non-public part of the Red Fox. Marie took us through some twists and turns, and suddenly we were in a hallway with closely-spaced doors on either side. There were numbers neatly tacked onto each door.

Marie knocked on door number three. "Used to be mine," she told me with a quick grin.

"Come in!" a woman's voice called from inside. I recognized it.

Marie opened the door and...

"Sorry!" Marie blurted as she hastily backed away. I was right behind Marie and she bumped into me so hard that I was knocked across the hall. In the process, I caught a glimpse into the dressing room.

Oops.

Dressing room number three featured a show a lot wilder than anything happening onstage.

"Sorry!" Marie called again as she hastily yanked the door shut. She was actually blushing a bright shade of red. And if anyone ever tells you I was doing the same, then they're a damned liar.

"I thought she said it was okay!" Marie told me in exasperation.

"So did I!" I seconded with a helpless gesture.

The door opened again. Sif - all six feet of her - was wearing a fancy-looking robe that wasn't belted shut. And she was wearing nothing else. From a piled-high bun of lustrous black hair down to her bare feet, we were getting one hell of view. Behind Sif, a blonde woman was kneeling in front of the chair that Sif had just recently occupied. She was completely naked and had the irritated look of someone who'd been interrupted while doing her job.

"I told you to come in," Sif said impatiently. Then she saw who she was talking to and smiled.

"It's good to see you again," Sif said hospitably. Sif, Marie, and I were scattered around the dressing room, sitting on anything sittable. The naked blonde was busy pouring honey-gold mead from a bottle into cups and handing them around. Whether she was just Sif's very submissive girlfriend or her actual property, won fair and square in battle against the forces of Hela, was an awkward question that Marie and I had never settled. Marie did once ask the blonde if she really wanted to be with Sif, and she'd replied by performing a riveting act of quasi-oral sex on one of Sif's ears. Ever since then, we'd filed the relationship under 'none of our business'. A pair of women like us have to be careful when making judgments about what other people do for kicks.

Still, it rattled the hell out of me when the blonde girl handed me my drink and, using her body for cover, took the opportunity to cup one of my breasts and give me a gentle squeeze. She has a scar on one side of her face and neck that normally makes her look hard, but the smile that lit up her face was gorgeous. It wasn't the first time she'd shown some interest in me. And, actually, I suppose some of that was my fault. She once searched me, and in the process I thought she was a little too thorough. So I returned the favor. Perhaps I'd just started something that I wasn't woman enough to finish.

"What brings you here?" Sif said as she took a slug of mead. The blonde put down the bottle and made like she was about to kneel on the floor next to Sif. Instead, Sif pulled the blonde into her lap. That concealed the more socially forbidden parts of Sif's body, but I'm not sure if covering nudity with someone else's nudity really counts.

Sif put a hand high up on the blonde's pale thigh. A strong-looking thumb caressed the blonde's wispy pubic hair. We were getting a crash course in just how uninhibited Asgardians could be.

"We wanted to ask you about a customer," Marie said. She was leaning forward in her chair, the cup of mead in one hand, with her legs primly crossed. I think the show we were getting was having an effect on her. And if anyone ever tells you I was feeling the same way, then they're still lying bastards.

"We have a lot of customers," Sif pointed out with a chuckle.

"This one sticks out of the crowd," I said. "He's an Army pilot named Ben Grimm. Big guy, but more broad than tall. Brown hair and blue eyes."

"Benjie!?" Sif exclaimed in delight. The blonde grinned.

"He used to be a regular here," Sif said. The hand that wasn't holding a cup was now ambitiously on the blonde's stomach, her strong fingers spread wide in a manner both possessive and oddly gentle. It took some effort not to become mesmerized by that.

"'Used to be'?" Marie asked with a raised eyebrow.

Sif sighed. "He plans to marry."

The blonde rolled her eyes.

"What's her name again?" Sif asked the blonde.

"Susan Storm," the blonde said with vast disapproval. She had a strong accent that was Swedish-like, but not quite. That was the first time I'd ever heard her speak. Up until then I would have guessed that she was mute.

"We saw her once," Sif added. "She and Benjamin were together at a restaurant."

"She's a mouse," the blonde said flatly. Spite was almost oozing out of her.

"Inadequate breasts and hips," Sif sniffed judgmentally, "and a face like a cow. The thought of her sexing Benjamin is just ridiculous."

"She'll never... NEVER... fuck Lord Grimm the way we did," the blonde chimed in angrily. She sounded really sure about that. And since Sue Storm was just one woman, she probably had a point.

"I assume Ben's family chose her for him," Sif added mournfully. "Now, I understand a man has responsibilities, but still..."

"I'll bet she doesn't have a clue what to do with her mouth!" the blonde groused. "She has that prim, frigid, look about her."

"Oh. the prick on that man..." Sif said dreamily.

"And when he climaxed, it was like a river," the blonde sighed. She seemed to be as lost in memories as Sif.

"Uhm..." Marie interrupted timidly. "What else - besides... uh... that sort of stuff - do you know about Grimm? Would you say that he's trustworthy?"

One of the most important rules of being a P.I. is to know your client. That's why Marie had decided to check out the Red Fox. Ben knew the speak-easy next door well enough that he wanted to meet me there. It made sense that he also spent time in at least some of the other local businesses. And both Marie and I just happened to know someone who worked in one of those businesses.

Sif and the blonde considered Marie's question for a split second, and then burst out laughing.

"Benjie is one of the most trustworthy men I've ever met," Sif eventually managed to sputter out. "And I've been around for a very long time, Marie. A very long time."

We finished our mead as Sif and the blonde reminisced about the things Benjamin Grimm could do to quiveringly eager female flesh. Then Marie and I did the right thing and listened to their bitchy opinions about Sue Storm. They were both obviously hurting from the breakup and needed to get it out of their systems.

I guess that was when we became friends, rather than just acquaintances.

The blonde held the door for Marie and I as we left. Then, still naked, she followed us out into the hallway.

A black stripper, glossy with sweat, dodged past us. She was wearing a few feathers, and none of them covered anything vital.

"Hi, Hildy!" she chirped to the blonde.

"Hildy?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.

The blonde - Hildy - hooked a finger around one of my belt-loops and dragged me closer. Then she gave me a hug that involved both of hands on my ass and her lips up against my ear.

"If you see Lord Grimm, tell him that Lady Sif isn't really mad," she told me before she finally let me go. "And neither am I."

Then she vanished back into the dressing room.

Marie was looking daggers at me. And that was really unfair. Usually, she's the one who attracts the sex-crazies. While I'm not exactly homely, Marie is a knockout.

"Oh, cut it out," I told her irritably.

Marie sighed, shook her head, and put her arm in mine as we headed towards the exit.

"Tonight, we're flipping a coin to see which of us is the dominant warrior-woman and who's her submissive slave-girl," she told me. "And you better hope I'm the slave-girl, because you're in a lot of trouble otherwise."

The front door to Abner Jenkins' house was still firmly locked. The back door had been broken open. Judging from the marks on the door-frame, the burglar had used a crowbar.

"Is there any point to asking around the neighborhood?" Marie asked without a lot of hope in her voice.

I shook my head. It was one of those parts of town where nobody saw anything. If we got really desperate, we might try later.

As Benjie - uh, Ben - had told us, the place had been thoroughly tossed. The floors were covered with debris. At one point, I picked up an expensive-looking wristwatch that had been dropped into a corner. Ben was right when he said it wasn't a normal robbery.

Jenkins' workshop was in the basement and it was even more torn apart than the rest of the house. Even then it was an impressive place, with workbenches, tools, and all sorts of hoists and other equipment hanging from the ceiling. The scent of gas, lubricants, scorched metal, and electricity filled the place.

Marie and I did our level best, but we eventually had to admit that we were over our heads in terms of Jenkins' lab.

"We need a science guy," I told Marie.

"Stark?" Marie suggested.

I shook my head. "He's out of town - I saw it in the morning paper. A conference in Washington."

"Banner?" Marie tried again.

"He and Betty are still in Chicago."

"Parker?"

I took a long look around me. "Maybe, but this isn't exactly his thing. He's a biologist and chemist, right?"

"Emma probably has someone who works for her that we can borrow."

I let out a long sigh. "Do you really want to owe Emma any more favors?"

Marie winced. Emma tended to collect her favors with a riding crop.

"How about Pym?" Marie suggested - she obviously wasn't thrilled with the idea, but felt she had to mention it anyway.

"Oh, hell no. Pym doesn't like us. And with our luck, he and Trask will kiss and make up and then Trask's next Sentinel will be able to fly."

Marie shook her head. "Sounds like we're out of luck."

Then she looked at me. "Wait... there is someone else..." she added slowly.

"Who?" I asked.

Actually, I'd never met Forge. He didn't sign up with Logan until after I quit. He's an important part of Logan's gang, but not many people know about him.

He's an inventor - and maybe something of a mad scientist. Somewhere along the line, he'd lost a hand. The prosthetic on the end of his wrist seemed to incorporate some kind of mechanism and gave him functioning fingers. He also limped slightly, and I wondered if he had a replacement leg.

At the moment, he was standing in the wreckage of Jenkins' basement, looking around in disdain. We'd made a call and he'd agreed to stop by. He was doing a favor for Marie.

"This guy is an amateur," Forge - I didn't know his real name - said flatly.

"He's a missing amateur," I pointed out. "And we're supposed to find him."

Forge gave me a skeptical look. According to Marie, he's an honest-to-God Cheyenne whose people live on a reservation somewhere out west. And if he could get that scornful look off of his face for just a second, he'd be a handsome man.

Without another word, Forge began to prowl around the basement shop. Every now and then he'd pick up some piece of gear, turn it around in his hands a couple of times, and then drop it. Sometimes he opened containers and sniffed the contents. More often, he shuffled through Jenkins' paperwork. I noticed that Forge neatly piled any papers or notebooks he found on the nearest table or bench. He also spent a lot of time just looking around, staring critically at the walls, the ceiling, and the floor.

"Yeah," he eventually said. "Jenkins was working on some sort of flying equipment. And, it was roughly man-sized. It might be something that you could wear."

I couldn't see how he'd reached that conclusion.

Forge pointed to a big alcove that was built into the back of the basement. An open frame elevator was installed there. It would lift up into the backyard behind the house.

"See the scars on the side bars?" Forge said. "They're new - like in the last few weeks. Something that spanned the elevator frame was hauled up and down on it. The only thing that fits the pattern of those marks would be something with wing-like structures. And then there's the lack of anything at all in terms of paperwork or equipment for a gizmo that would make those marks. The prototype was taken out of here - and so were all of Jenkins' notes and schematics. That's what the guys who broke in were after. They left everything else."

"Still doesn't mean that it's something that flies," I said carefully. I seemed to me that Forge was making a leap.

Forge gave me a "I'm being patient with a moron" look. "There's a... a... pattern in some of Jenkins' older notes. He did a few things pointing in the direction of a flight system a long time ago. And do you see the gas-cans in the corner? They had aviation gas in them. Nothing else here needs that, but a man-sized flying device would absolutely need fuel that energetic."

I kept my mouth shut, but it still thought Forge was making a guess.

"So who stole it?" Forge asked as he thoughtfully looked around. "I wish we had more to work with."

"There were three thieves who broke in through the back," I told him, "you can see their tracks in stuff they spilled. There were two big guys with size ten or larger boots, and a woman in much smaller shoes - high heels actually. They came down here first, then went back upstairs and tossed the rest of the joint. After that, they came back down here and took the elevator up - you can tell by the fresh grease marks on the shafts."

"There's no sign of violence," Marie added. "And those smaller shoes are Italian and expensive. The lady in question has money."

Forge looked back and forth from Marie and I, and then he gave us a grunt of approval. That must have hurt.

"There are two obvious sets of suspects," he said flatly, like it was a law of physics. "The first is a private outfit - like a company or those AIM assholes. The other is a government, and probably a big one. But when Logan and Lehnsherr clamped down on AIM, they also shut down the other dangerous private players here in town. So it's probably a government. And the most likely one is the Russians."

"Why them?" I asked - trying hard not to show my skepticism.

"The U.S., British, and French governments would just buy the suit. The German's don't do a lot of technical espionage because they figure they already have the edge on everyone else - and they might be right. The current Italian government is clueless. For whatever reason, Logan doesn't let the Japanese run a serious spy operation here in town. So that leaves the Russians, and they love grabbing everyone else's technology. Mark my words, they're going to have some really dangerous tanks pretty soon just because of that. And an army of flying soldiers would really appeal to Stalin's generals. Russia has a lot of territory to control."

I barely restrained myself from telling Forge that he was full of crap.

Forge was gone. Marie and I were back in the office. Sooraya - our Afghani secretary - was waiting for us.

"I don't know if we should trust Forge or not," I admitted.

Marie didn't argue with me. "He's an inventor, not an investigator, so I'm neutral on the Russia thing. But I'm willing to believe what he said about the flying suit."

I shrugged. "So what? Grimm already told us about the suit and..."

Then I paused.

"What?" Marie and Sooraya said simultaneously.

"Aviation gasoline," I said as I reached for the phone.

Sooraya looked puzzled, but Marie got it and nodded in approval.

I was getting towards sundown when we picked up Jean Grey in front of her apartment building.

"What's up?" she asked as she tumbled into the backseat of my Packard. Jean's a red-headed hottie who's a student at State University. She lives with Emma Frost. Emma is a beautiful, rich, and evil trollop who I'm a little bit in love with.

"There are two suppliers and a dozen regular large-scale purchasers of aviation gasoline here in town," I told her. "We need to check them out."

Jean gave me a puzzled look. "What the heck is aviation gasoline?"

"Really high octane gas," Marie said. "Better quality airplane engines need it. It's kinda rare."

"We need to find anyone who's buying small amounts of it," I added. "Like maybe ten gallons at a time. That would be unusual."

"Whoever is selling might not be doing it legally," Marie picked up. "That's where you come in. You're our lie detector."

Jean's a psychic, and a really powerful one. However, she has rules about how she uses her powers. That can be inconvenient, but one thing that doesn't bother Jean is using her abilities to see if someone is lying. We've had her on retainer for some time, and I'd never regretted a single dime that we've paid her.

Jean glanced at the setting sun. It was being clipped by the mountains west of town. "Odds are we won't get this done today," she said.

"I know," I admitted, "but we might have a time problem here. Something's been stolen that uses avgas, and it could be moved out of town pretty soon. The guy who invented it is also missing. The guys who snagged the gizmo probably also have him as well."

We got ridiculously lucky. General Atlantic Fuels has a facility just north of the airport. It was the closest, so we checked it first. Everyone there was clean, but the airport was a major purchaser, so we checked them next.

"We'd don't sell avgas in amounts that small," the airport POL guy told us. I didn't need Jean to tell that something was bothering him. He looked nervous.

"You've been stealing from your boss and selling to private pilots at a cut rate," Jean told him irritably. "That includes a guy who only buys a few gallons at a time. You can't figure out why he wants so little."

The guy was frozen for a split second, then he took a swing at Jean.

Jean made him freeze in mid-punch, but that didn't stop Marie from breaking his nose.

"You didn't need to do that," Jean told Marie.

Thank goodness, Marie hadn't punched the guy. She probably would have broken some bones in her hand. Instead, she used a heel-hand strike. That was something she'd picked up back when she was a member of Logan's gang. Logan has some ferocious brawlers working for him.

Marie also had a gun pointing at the guy she'd just clobbered. She learned that from me.

The gas-guy was sitting down, with his back up against the side of a shed. There was blood all over the front of his shirt and his nose was leaking. He was probably thanking God that nobody had seen him get decked by a girl.

"We don't care about your racket," I told him curtly. "We just want to know if anyone's picked up a few gallons of avgas in the last day or so. It could be the guy you've been selling to, or maybe someone else."

"It's a new guy," the gas-guy said as he used both hands to painfully test the damage to his nose. "A foreign fellow who wanted fifteen gallons. He was here last night."

"Description?" I asked.

The gas-guy wiped his bloody hands on the ground on either side of him. "Big - over six foot. Blocky build, a crappy black suit, and ugly as hell. He speaks English, but has a little bit of an accent. I couldn't tell you what kind of accent."

"What kind of car did he drive?"

"Ford. Late model sedan. License plate FG-121."

I frowned. That last detail seemed a little too good to be true.

The gas-guy picked up on my doubts. "I didn't like the looks of him," he explained. "And I wondered why another guy was also buying small amounts of avgas. So, after he left, I wrote down his plate number. I figured it might be a good thing to know."

I glanced at Jean, she nodded her head in confirmation.

"I have images of the two men who bought the gas," Jean added. Getting views of other people's memories is another useful trick that she can do.

Fishing the picture of Jenkins out of my jacket pocket, I handed it to Jean.

"That's the first man," Jean confirmed. "The guy who's been here most often."

"Who the hell are you people?" the gas-guy complained.

We didn't bother to answer.

Sometimes, there are advantages to living in a town this deeply corrupt. A lieutenant working at the twelfth precinct sells me a copy of the license-plate and vehicle registration directories every year. A quick call from a phone booth in the airport terminal, and Sooraya was able to get us the information about the car.

"It's registered to a Dmitri Bukharin," I told Marie and Jean after I got back in the car. "He lives on Fairway street."

"Russian name," Marie noted.

I grunted in agreement. Maybe it was unhappy agreement.

"Is that important?" Jean asked.

"A friend of Marie's thinks that Russian spies are involved," I told Jean.

Jean's eyes went wide. "Okay, that's weird."

"I thought Forge was full of it," I admitted to Marie.

Marie shrugged. "I know. What you've got to understand is that Forge's mind doesn't work like everyone else's. He picks up patterns and fills in the blanks in a way other people can't. Hank thinks it's a big part of how Forge invents things."

The address where the Ford was licensed wasn't a home. And it was a little strange.

"A flower shop?" Marie asked slowly.

I double-checked the address I had written down. It was right.

"Natasha's Fine Flowers," Jean read aloud from the sign hanging over the front door. "You know, I once bought Emma some roses from here. It's on the bus route back from the college. A really pretty lady runs the place. She's a redhead with a sexy accent."

By then, it was almost midnight. Like the rest of the stores in the neighborhood, Natasha's was closed.

"I guess part of the point of being a nest of spies is to not look like one," I said doubtfully. I was beginning to wonder about this line of investigation. Were we veering off course?

Jean was still staring at the flower shop. She settled my doubts.

"There are three people in the basement," she said suddenly. "One is Jenkins - but he's knocked out, or drugged, or something. The other two are Russian agents. I can see Jenkins through their eyes."

I glanced at Jean in surprise. She was awful close to busting her rules about how she uses her powers.

"A man's been kidnapped," Jean told me quietly.

I guess everything has a time and place.

"Thanks," I told Jean. Marie reached back over the seat and gave her an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder.

We got out of the car - we were parked down the block from the flower shop. Then, after checking up and down the dark street to see if anyone was watching, I pulled my M1911 out of my shoulder holster and chambered a round. Marie was on the other side of the car. She had her big-ass Smith and Wesson revolver.

Jean followed us out. In the back-light of the city, I suddenly saw her frown. "Look out!" she suddenly yelped.

But it was too late.

A woman leaped down at us from the roof of the building located next to the flower shop. And she was fast. Damn fast. She was in some kind of skin-tight black outfit.

I saw Jean go down in a flare of yellow-white electricity. Our dark-clad attacker had some sort of electrical weapon. Then a precise kick knocked my pistol out of my hand - it flew all the way across the street, clattering across the concrete sidewalk.

Our attacker was right on top of me and we began trading punches. I caught a glimpse of dark-red hair and a whiff of expensive perfume. Marie couldn't get a clear shot so she rounded the car, hurrying to give me a hand.

I'd been working out at a boxing gym lately and that was a good thing. The lady I was fighting was damn good. Just a few months ago, she would have probably taken me out. As it was, we were barely blocking each other's punches. However, she was also good with her feet. I had to dodge kicks and that was keeping me off-balance. I missed one and a boot heel painfully clipped my shoulder.

I had the impression that she was surprised at her inability to take me down.

Then I got lucky. My opponent stepped on a patch of oil and lost her footing. She didn't fall - and her recovery was ridiculously graceful - but all of a sudden she was out of position and Marie was about to intervene. So she back-flipped away and scrambled over the hood of my car. By the time she was done, the car was between her and us.

Marie barely ducked in time as the lady we were fighting tried to fry her with that electricity weapon. As near as I could tell, it was actually mounted in what looked like a wide, gold-colored, bracelet. And the redhead had one on each wrist.

I dropped to the street, yanking my backup revolver out of my ankle holster as I fell. Under the car, I could see our opponent's feet. I took a snapshot, hoping to blow off one of her ankles, but I was in too much of a hurry and missed. The sharp noise of the gunshot caused dogs to begin barking all up and down the block.

Then Jean staggered to her feet, a small Mauser-Stark semi-auto in her hand. She immediately fired a flurry of shots over the top of the car. I kept firing under the car. Marie ranged back out into the street so she could get a clear shot behind the car. The redhead was in trouble and I didn't feel any sympathy for her at all.

A flare of light suddenly illuminated the street. It wasn't exactly blinding, but it was enough to make us blink and flinch away. And we lost track of the redhead in black.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

Trying to blink my eyes back into focus, I helped a dazed-looking Jean steady herself, all the while trying to keep an eye on the street around us. That was when the door to the flower shop opened. Some guy was pointing a heavy automatic in our direction.

Marie shot him in the chest. He went down like a sack of potatoes.

Jean covered Marie and I as we checked on the guy Marie had shot. He was down and out, but it wasn't critical. Marie began packing a handkerchief into the bullet hole.

"When did you start carrying a piece?" I asked Jean as I stood up and wiped the Russian's blood from my hands.

Jean rolled her eyes. "Emma gave it to me for my birthday and made me learn how to shoot. And she's a complete pain-in-the-ass if I don't take it with me when I work with you two. She says psychics need other options besides our powers. And Emma's right - whatever that bitch shot me with knocked me for a loop. I couldn't concentrate enough to grab her mind."

"Our little gunslinger," Marie said with a smile as she stood up. The Marie kissed Jean on the forehead. I did the same. Jean tried to look offended, but couldn't really pull it off.

Then there was a blast of wind and the high-pitched scream of a revving engine. From a rooftop a good block down the street, a winged figure spiraled into the sky. The lights of the city caught the wildly wind-blown red hair of the woman who was in Jenkins' flying suit, just before she vanished into the night sky.

Marie and I didn't bother to take a shot. The distance was too much.

Jean was staring into the night sky, concentrating in the direction where the flying woman had vanished. But then she looked at me and shook her head.

"Sorry. I couldn't get her," she told me regretfully.

I just shrugged. We'd lost the flying suit, but I didn't really care. Jenkins was the job, not the suit.

We had to move fast. The racket we'd made was sure to attract the police.

The three of us swept the flower shop together - I didn't want any of us separated from the others. Miss All-in-Black-Kick-You-In-The-Face-Flying-Electricity-Tart may have flown the coop, but someone else with ill intent might be around.

Jenkins was in the shop's tiny basement. He was doped up, but alive. The third Russian that Jean had sensed in the building had apparently decided to run for it. Maybe he was the only one involved in what was happening who had a lick of sense.

There was a siren blaring in the distance as we bundled Jenkins and the perforated Russian into my car and left. The cops were on the ball that night.

Josh Foley is Sooraya's husband. He's our healer. Like Jean, he's also on retainer. That's more money that I've never regretted spending.

We were overfilling the living-room of Josh and Sooraya's small apartment. Josh was wearing a pair of pajama bottoms. Sooraya had the top, but it went down to mid-thigh on her. Actually, Marie and I do the same thing. Marie is adamant about having my breasts immediately available when we're in bed together.

Jean and Marie took turns holding Hassim - Josh and Sooraya's baby - as Sooraya helped Josh with his work.

Josh healed, cleaned up, and bandaged the worst of the damage Jenkins had taken. That still left Jenkins' face and upper body wrapped up, but he'd be up and around pretty soon. Josh's healing powers are damn near miraculous.

"It's best if we let the drugs wear off naturally," Josh told me. "It's rough on people if I accelerate something like that. Especially if I've already healed physical damage."

"What about him?" Marie asked with a nod of her head.

The Russian we'd shot was on the floor, laying on a blood-stained blanket. He had cuffs on his wrists and ankles and a hood over his head. Josh had pulled the bullet out of him and stopped the bleeding.

"He'll be fine," Josh shrugged. He'd actually healed the Russia first.

We took the long way back to the office and dropped the Russian a couple of blocks from the Soviet consulate. The last we saw of him, he was mournfully staggering down the street. I didn't envy him the job of explaining to his bosses what had happened. Those guys don't tolerated failure.

Back at the office, I made a phone call. Jenkins was on our couch, still doped up and barely conscious. Marie poured Jean a drink - she was still a little woozy from the miniature lightning bolt that the redhead had hit her with. My shoulder ached from where the redhead had landed one of her kicks. I made a silent vow to shoot her from a nice safe distance the next time I saw her. I made another vow to keep visiting the gym.

Grimm showed up in less than an hour. He was dressed in civilian clothes and needed a shave. I noticed a long blonde hair on his collar.

"Dammit, Abe, you flying fool," Grimm sighed after he carefully gave the still down-for-the-count Jenkins a surprisingly expert once-over. I suppose first-aid was part of his training. And either Grimm was a good actor - which didn't really strike me as a skill he was likely to have - or he was actually worried about Jenkins.

Jenkins cracked open his eyes. He still looked loopy, but he was getting better. "Hey, Ben," he whispered, G'd'see'ya. Thanks."

Then he closed his eyes again.

I told Grimm the whole story. Russians and all.

"Your call, Grimm," I said once I was done, "do we bring in the cops or the feds? I'd rather not, since we shot a Russian agent while getting Jenkins back, but we can probably figure out a way to cover our tracks."

Grimm considered that, but then shook his head. "Nah, that's too risky for you guys. I'll bring Abe back to base and have a talk with the Colonel. We'll hold onto Abe for a while and get everything he knows about the suit. After that, the Russkis won't have any use for him. Abe may not get rich, but at least he'll be safe."

I gave Grimm a long and suspicious look.

"What?" he said to me. And those endless blue eyes were looking right into mine. Only this time, instead of being charming, they were narrow and hard.

"Grimm, did you deliberately walk me and my people right into some spy-versus-spy crap? Are you a pilot or are you Army intelligence?"

Grimm blinked in what looked like honest surprise and then shrugged. "No. I just wanted Abe's ass back in one piece. Check all you want, I'm a pilot assigned to the Third Pursuit Squadron at Ricketts Field. And if I'm some kind of spy, why the heck am I hiring a pair of private eyes? Doesn't the secret part of the Army have people of its own to do this sort of thing?"

That last part made a lot of sense. Of course, did the Army's spies have the connections and familiarity with this city that Marie and I have?

"Just how does an Army flyboy from the wrong side of the tracks have the cash to cover our rates?" I challenged.

Grimm snorted. "I have another buddy who invents things. His name is Richards and I'm sometimes a test pilot for him. He pays pretty good."

Grimm seemed to have an answer for everything, so I dropped it.

But I wasn't done.

Grimm made a call and eventually a gang of Military Police showed up. By then Jenkins had recovered some more. He and Grimm were sitting together, talking quietly about old times and current troubles. The way they talked didn't really jive with the idea that they hadn't had much to do with each other for quite some time.

"Hey," Marie said just before Grimm, Jenkins, and the MPs left. "We talked to Hildy and Sif."

Trust Marie to bring something up like that. And for the first time since we'd met him, Grimm looked less than completely sure of himself.

"They're pissed at you and they miss you," Marie continued. "Hildy said there are no hard feelings, which is sorta true and sorta not true. If you get a chance, maybe you should talk to them."

Then Marie paused before finishing. "Sue Storm must be one hell of a lady."

By then, Grimm looked more embarrassed than anything else, but he still smiled.

"You have no idea how special she is," Grimm told Marie. Then he, Jenkins, and the MPs left. It was only then that I let out a sigh of relief. I'd been half-expecting the NKVD, led by that damned redhead, to storm the building.

I glanced out the window. Dawn was breaking. Jean, Marie, and I were dead tired, but we were also pretty wound up. It had been a busy few hours since Ben Grimm sat down next to me.

"Breakfast?" I suggested to Marie and Jean. They both nodded.

"Well?" I asked Jean as we trooped downstairs. I wasn't sure if Jean would answer. It all depended on what she thought we needed to know, and what she thought was right. Jean can be tough about that sort of thing, but I respect her for that.

"Ben isn't a spy," she told us. "And he more-or-less told you the truth, but he and Jenkins are tighter than he let on. They did some border-line crooked things together when they were younger. Ben used his share of the money to go to school. Jenkins... well, Jenkins refuses to grow up and Ben worries about him. Ben keeps trying to convince him to go straight."

I shook my head. Maybe Grimm and Jenkins were both a pair of flying fools, but which of them was worse?

"If you can win him over, Ben's one hell of a friend," Jean said after a moment's thought.

Then Jean looked at Marie as an embarrassed look crossed her face. "Uh, when you mentioned Hildy and Sif, Ben's memories... well... I think you should know..."

Yikes!

Marie and I held our hands up to stop Jean.

"We know!" we chorused together.

Author's Notes: This was a short chapter, but I still introduced, revisited, or mentioned a lot of characters - and that was a lot of fun.

We all know Ben Grim and Susan Storm. Reed Richards was briefly mentioned. That leaves Johnny Storm missing. I'm sure he'll turn up eventually.

Hildy - Sif's girlfriend/thrall - is not from the comics. In this story, she's a woman of ancient-Scandanavian origin who somehow became one of Hela's servants, and was freed (or captured, or both) by Sif during "The Case of the Man Who Never Was".

Forge has been mentioned multiple times in these stories, but this is the first time we've actually seen him. An interesting thing about Forge is that Marvel has never given him an actual name! I didn't realize that until I tried to look it up.

Abner Jenkins is also an existing Marvel character. He's sometimes erroneously called 'Abraham Jenkins'. As a villain, Abner was originally known as the Beetle. Then he eventually became a sort-of hero (a member of the Thunderbolts) who goes by Mach-X. He and Ben Grimm have no particular connection in the comics, but I thought it would be amusing to make them into 'friends from the old neighborhood' for the purposes of this story.

The Russian agent Dmitri Bukharin is better known as the Crimson Dynamo. Whether or not he gets an Iron Man-style suit in this universe remains to be seen. By the way, he isn't the guy Marie shot. In fact, we never actually saw Bukharin in this story.

I'm pretty sure we'll see Natasha Romanoff again. Maybe once she gets that flying suit back to her bosses, she'll recruit/seduce a talented archer as an accomplice, and then make a dedicated effort to get into Tony Stark's pants and steal all of his secrets. That sounds a lot like her.