8FOLD/ACRA: Jolt City # 21, "Promise and Terror!" (Part 2 of 3)

[Tom Russell]

THE STORY SO FAR: Martin is attempting to confirm Gallery's story that
Pocket Vito is alive so that the reformed villain can earn an early
release from prison. To that end, he has made contact with one of
Vito's suspected capos, Antonio "Frankie Salad" Salvatore. Meanwhile,
Derek and Bethany investigated a break-in at a Cradle laboratory by
four mooks in matching costumes. The four mooks are dead by their own
hands.

               "PROMISE AND TERROR!"

   EIGHTFOLD PROUDLY PRESENTS
////////////// TOM RUSSELL'S
    ////  //////  /// //////  ////// /// ////// \  //
// ////  //  //  ///   //    ///    ///   //     \//# 21
//////  //////  ///// //    ////// ///   //      // PT.2

J. Donald Proctor gets the call at two in the morning. The short man
wants to see him. He gets dressed and hurries over.
   He's immediately shown into the office. A large wood desk dominates
the room. On that desk, no less dominating despite his size, is Pocket
Vito. The miniature mafioso soaks in a hot tub some eight inches in
diameter. Between luxurious puffs on his tiny cigar, he motions for
Proctor to come closer.
   Proctor gets close to the desk and kneels so that he's roughly at
eye-level with the short man.
   "I thought we had an agreement, Donnie. That our little triumvirate
only works if we keep our nose bleachy-clean."
   "That is our agreement," says Proctor. He wonders what the hell is
so important that it couldn't wait until the morning.
   "You screwed it up before," says Vito. "With those kids. Came very
close to coming back on you. And Canton. And me." [1]
   "It didn't, though," says Proctor. "And I learned my lesson. I've
been leaving the, uh, the questionable stuff to you."
   "Nothing I'm doing for you is questionable," says Vito. "Canton
insisted on it. Every dollar I'm funneling in is legitimate. Which is
hard, Donnie, on account of money is like kids. Hard to make them
legitimate, damn easy to make bastards. So I'm keeping my part of the
deal."
   "And I'm keeping mine," says Proctor. "I'm really not following you."
   "Just heard from my man inside that four kids in costumes broke
into one of the Cradle labs. Looks like they were trying to steal
something. Something military. They got busted up by the Green
Knight's little faggot and his girlfriend."
   Proctor isn't quite sure how that last bit works, but he doesn't
press his luck. "I had nothing to do with that. What would be the
point? Cradle doesn't need my help getting out of Jolt City. As for
military stuff, my research boys think that market's going to shrink
like a dick after November." [2]
   "For your sake, I hope you're telling it true," says Vito. He
extinguishes his cigar and chases it down with a slug of scotch.
"Because you don't want to mess with those costumed freaks. Don't want
that kind of heat on you. On your candidate. And I sure as shitting
don't want it on me. Keep it clean."
   Proctor nods and, having been dismissed, heads out the door. On the
way out, he passes a big hulking gangster.
   "Come in, Salvatore," calls Vito. "Now what the hell is so
important you couldn't wait until the morning?"
   Salvatore closes the door behind him. "Martin Rock."
   Vito takes a long thoughtful drag on a new cigar. "He's looking for me?"
   Salvatore nods.
   "Seemed pretty sure I was alive?"
   Another nod.
   "Just said that he wanted to see me."
   And another.
   "You didn't confirm that I was alive."
   He shakes his head. Then, against his better judgment, he opens his
mouth, trying to be helpful. "He said he wanted to talk business."
   "I bet he did," says Vito.
   "So. What do you want me to tell him?"
   "What do I want you to tell him?" Vito says, his voice suddenly
turning vicious. "Come here. Get closer. Now, slap your face."
   "Slap my...?"
   "I can't slap it for you," says Vito. "And your ugly mug deserves
it right in the kisser. Slap it."
   Salvatore slaps himself across the face.
   "Like you mean it."
   He gives himself three slaps in succession.
   "Good," says Vito. "You ain't going to tell him nothing, you stupid
piece of shit. I'm not alive. I don't exist. You sure as hell aren't
setting up any cockamamie meet-cute between me and that black
bastard."
   "But," begins Salvatore. He flinches, as if he expects another
self-inflicted slap on the face. "But why you want to cross him, boss?
Why not hear him out?"
   "I'm not scared of Martin Rock," says Vito. "You are, because
you're stupid. He's not one of us. He didn't do time in Earbox. He was
a plant. Working with the cops and the costumes. He had help. They
built him up like a bogeyman, and the only reason, the onliest reason
to do that, is so a year or so down the pipeline they can use him to
scare dumb shits like you to get to smart shits like me."
   "So, you want me to pull a Pesci?"
   "God damn it," sighs Vito.
   Salvatore gives himself another slap.
   "He's being watched, dummy. Something happens to him, his friends
on the police department will know that they were onto something. Then
it comes out I'm still alive. I don't want his guys on the police to
know that. Hell, my guys on the police don't even know that, and
they're my guys. You just leave him alone."
   "But boss, he'll..." He stops and slaps himself again.
   "He won't do a damn thing," says Vito. "Least not any worse than
police would do. We just wait it out until after our guy wins in
November."[3]

Two in the morning, and Derek's still awake. Still wide-eyed, staring
into the dark. He closes his eyes when he notices. Clamps them tight,
then he starts breathing deep, focusing all his brain power on his
breathing, on the sound and sensation of the air moving deeply in,
than pushing slowly out. Not thinking about anything but the air.
   But then (and he's never quite sure where this transition takes
place), he finds his eyes open again and his mind restless. He's going
over the paperwork he has to file tomorrow to make Mason & Rock
Preservation a real thing. He's going over his team-ups with Knockout
Mouse, and daydreaming about the next one. His thoughts wander to
Trinity Tran. He might see her at City Hall tomorrow while he's filing
his paperwork. Maybe they can talk for a few minutes. Maybe he'd get
to know her better. Most of his contact with her has been in
costume.[4]
   He thinks suddenly, though not for the first time, of Barbara.
There's a rush of shame that he's too tired to feel fully. He's
suddenly struck by the desire to go back to her apartment and
apologize. But for what? He didn't do anything wrong. She offered, he
took her up on it, then she regretted it, now he regrets it. Showing
up at her door again won't change any of that, won't make it any
better.[5]
   Don't have time for this. He closes his eyes again. He has to get
some sleep. He can't function. Can't run a business. Can't go to
school. Can't save the world. Not if he can't sleep. Not if he can't
stop thinking. It's not even thinking, really; something else
entirely. Because half of what's streaming through his head doesn't
make sense, and the other half is just remembering things he doesn't
need to remind himself of. That's not thinking. Thinking is putting
things together. Finding answers. Moving forward. He wouldn't mind
keeping himself up all night if he was actually thinking. And he
becomes aware again that his eyes opened again some time ago, that
he's back to breathing shallowly, that the jumble of words and images
is once again clinging to the insides of his head.
   Three in the morning, still awake.

Soon Mason & Rock Preservation is up if not necessarily running. Derek
has business cards printed and leaves them with everyone he knows. One
of Roy's parishioners had a clogged bathtub that needed fixing; turned
out they had a well trap. They were going to call a plumber to switch
it out for a p-trap, but Father Riddle said that maybe Derek would be
cheaper than plumber prices?
   Well, sure. But in his eagerness to charge less than plumber
prices, he ended up quoting a price that almost covered his materials
and the sales tax thereon. It wasn't his only mistake; he should have
put a bucket under the well trap and stood clear when he started
taking it apart. So, he ended his first job in the red and covered in
wet, stinking human hair.
   He knows though that the steady work and the real money comes with
signing on with a property preservation company. He finds one that
will take him on for a three-month training period. He files the
paperwork and he waits. And he waits. And waits.
   Middle of August he calls his representative, inquiring (politely
(he thinks)) if he'll be getting any work before the end of the
training period?
   The rep laughs a little. "We just have a lot of other vendors in
your area, and we like to keep a property assigned to the vendor who
secured it. But if we get any work that needs to be reassigned I'll
let you know."
   A couple days later, he gets a call, and a couple hours after that,
he's removing a tree branch that was growing into the soffit. Then he
fixed the soffit. Turned out he wasn't supposed to do that; this was a
Fannie Mae house, and Fannie Mae requires a bid. They can't pay him
for the soffit, but he'll get paid for the trimming at the end of the
month. And that will almost cover half his filing fees and the
business cards.

On the last Friday of the month, Derek's at a vacant home in Hamlin to
obtain a bid to bleach treat discoloration (Fannie doesn't like the
word "mold"), using a digital camera he borrowed from Pam to take the
photos he needs to support his bid. His bleeper goes off; it's the FCL
office. He snaps three more quick photos, locks up the house, and
speeds home to change.

City Hall, FCL.
   Trini smiles at Blue Boxer when he finally comes into the office.
Derek smiles back, closed-mouth. Good, he's learning; he used to smile
with his teeth in both identities. She'd like to be kind and pretend
that's the only  thing that gave it away. [6]
   "Where's your boss-lady?" says Derek.
   "Same place as your boss-man," says Trini. Derek bristles a bit.
She probably shouldn't needle him, but he's cute when his dander is
up. "White Ant thing today with Tad Dmowski." [7]
   "So what's the what?"
   Comes a flush from the bathroom adjoining Lacey's office.
   "She's the what," says Trini. "Homeland Security. About the Cradle
break-in four weeks back."
   "You're certainly in the know," says Derek, bristling again. Lacey
never told him anything. Didn't trust him.
   "Comes with the job," says Trini, sticking it in a little deeper.
   "You won't have it much longer, will you? Aren't you going back to
school next week?"
   "No, I'm taking the semester off." She has some family issues to
take care of, but nothing he needs to know about. "So I'm keeping on
until next semester. Might help defray some of the ridiculous amounts
of debt I'm getting myself into." [8]
   The agent is standing in the doorway to Lacey's office.
   "Blue Boxer? I'm Rebecca Glass, DHS. Step into my office?"
   If Lacey heard her say that...!

Derek closes the door behind him. Glass's hair is short and red. Pale
skin, almost white as flour, but not a single freckle. She wears a
suit and tie, but holds the jacket over her shoulder with her right
hand. She slides into Lacey's chair like she owns it and opens her
laptop without even looking at him.
   "Miss Tran said this was about the Cradle plant?"
   Glass nods. She swivels the laptop towards Derek. On the screen is
the red reverse-teardrop that was on the headpieces the mooks wore.
Beneath the teardrop, in bold caps, is the word FEVER.
   "It was a thermometer," says Derek. "She said, 'The fever is
rising'. You're Homeland Security, so they must be... terrorists?"
   "I think so," says Glass, emphasis on the 'I'. "We don't have a
whole lot of intel on them. I was investigating a series of four
suicide bombings. One in Belgium. One in Iceland. One in Alaska. One
in the Congo. You've heard about these?"
   Derek shakes his head.
   "That's because there's only been four casualties: the bombers
themselves. They found secluded areas and blew themselves up. A little
property damage, but nothing that appears to be any kind of symbolic
target."
   "This is going to get weirder, isn't it?"
   "The bombers had nothing in common. Just normal, local people from
the area. Phone records, internet, nothing in common, other than how
they died. And that much we knew wasn't a coincidence, because the
bombs were the same in each case."
   She swivels the laptop back towards her, taps a couple keys, and
swivels it back. "This is a piece of a bomb fragment from the Alaska
bomber. See that little red bit there against the black?"
   "It's the head of the thermometer."
   "I looked at the picture, couldn't grok it, filed it away months
ago, and then I came across the Cradle break-in, saw the headpiece.
Went back and looked at the victims again..."
   "Victims?"
   "I'm fifty-fifty on it," she says. "None of the four really fit the
profile of a cultist or terrorist. And actual cults and terrorist are
localized. In more ways than one, which I'll come back to. My working
assumption was that the four bombers were bombers against their will.
Your adventure shook that up a little, and I'll come back to that as
well. Your four also had something in common." She tippity-taps at the
keyboard, bringing up some autopsy photos. Derek blanches. "Some kind
of elective surgery? An initiation of some sort? Some kind of implant
in the brain. Possibly a receiver. Don't know what it does exactly."
   Derek briefly considers the most fanciful possibility, mind
control, but dismisses it; outside of the Gorgon's hypnotic parlor
tricks, mind control isn't real.
   "We're going over the remains of the four bombers, but given the
nature of their demise, it's unlikely we're going to find anything
useable. Still, if we can find something, then we'll know they're
connected. Which raises more questions, because none of your four were
victims. Which is why I'm fifty-fifty."
   "It goes deeper than that, though, doesn't it?" says Derek. "This
isn't the way terrorists act. Not just the costumes. But this
violence. It doesn't have a purpose. Terrorism isn't, pardon me, but
it isn't just about hating our freedom."
   "I'm more than aware of that," says Glass a little sharply.
"Believe me, we all are. Part of effective counter-terrorism is
understanding that the terror is always a mean to an end, be it
political or religious. If we don't understand what those ends are, we
can't anticipate what they're going to do. That's one of the problems
with this thesis, is that there are no apparent ends. They're not
taking credit for the attacks, not making demands. They have no web
presence, no way we can see of recruiting people. Even the name,
FEVER, is just the name that I've given them. And like I was saying
before, terrorist groups are usually highly localized. Usually ethnic
in nature. That's not the case here."
   "But you do think they're terrorists."
   "I do," says Glass. "Everyone else says supervillains. And then
they can dismiss it, because as dangerous as they are, most human
supervillains don't kill thousands of people. Most black capes can be
reasoned with, in a way, because they don't have a cause that they'll
die for. FEVER does. I just don't know what it is yet. And I think
they're keeping themselves hidden because they're planning an attack
on a scale we've never seen. They're terrorists, alright. And I keep
plugging away and plodding along at it, and it keeps coming back that
I'm reaching, that they're just supervillains."
   "And that's why you're talking to me," says Derek.
   "That's why I'm talking to you," says Glass. "A smaller part of
Homeland Security's mission involves providing limited support to Phil
Whaley's office." [9]
   "So, we work together, you still have funds and resources to work
the case, stop these guys," says Derek. "But why me?"
   "You have first-hand experience."
   "But why me? Why not Knockout Mouse?"
   She takes a short little breath and pushes it out through her
mouth. "Because she said no."
   He grimaces.
   "Hey, you're the one that asked." Then, she leans in across the
desk. "You're not chopped liver, though. You stopped the Gorgon. And
the Doc-classers."
   He lets out a little gasp that settles into a self-satisfied smile.
"How do you know about that?"
   "We know a lot of things," says Glass. "Derek."

Meanwhile: Tad Dmowski's office.
   "I'm sorry to've kept you waiting," says the ADA as he shows the
Green Knight and Lacey Trimmer to their seats. "I've had my hands full
dealing with the Berg case." [10]
   "So have I," says Trimmer a little brusquely. "After the botch my
predecessor made of it." (The dig at Dani causes something in Martin
to tense reflexively, then immediately relax.)
   "Can I offer either of you something to drink?" says Dmowski.
"Water, tea, soda?"
   "Not for me," says Martin with an obvious wave to his mask-covered jaw.
   Trimmer perks up a bit. "I've often heard District Attorneys keep
excellent scotch in their desks."
   Dmowski smiles and retrieves two glasses. "Foster does at that, and
he can afford it, on his salary. Being on an ADA's salary, my scotch
is much less excellent, but still quite at your disposal, milady." He
pours. [11]
   "So," says Trimmer. "White Ant."
   "I've talked it over with Foster and we won't be pursuing the
prison break, given his assistance of the Green Knight. We've also
been in contact with the DSCC at the FBOP and recommended that this
not negate the standard good time he's accrued. Additionally we've
asked Grand Prairie to consider awarding extra good time in
recognition of his actions, that time being equal to the remainder of
his sentence." [12]
   Trimmer takes a sip and smacks her lips. "Excellent enough. Do you
expect they'll grant it?"
   "Given the recommendations of the warden, your office, the
non-violent nature of his original crimes, the, uh, non-violent nature
of his powers... I think they will. Touching on that?"
   "Hmm?"
   "Well, do you think this is a good idea?"
   Martin speaks up. "From all accounts, his desire to reform is
genuine. If he hadn't saved my life, he could've escaped, but he stuck
around long enough to chase off Gray Glaive. I think people deserve
second chances, don't you?"
   "I've had more than two chances myself," says Dmowski. "But we all
know that's not what this is about. This is about Fitzwalter." [13]
   "Trimmer can push back against the Fitzwalter crowd if she has a
hero with powers," says Martin. "He's a hero with powers."
   "I said I could try," says Trimmer. "White Ant doesn't give us a
lot to work with. Unless we're invaded by an army of sentient
end-tables, I'm not sure his 'termite touch' is going to inspire a lot
of confidence in the populace. Like I said though, I'll try. Really,
though, it's less on me and White Ant and more on Blue Boxer. Both of
you are likely aware why it's called the Fitzwalter Rule?"
   They nod grimly.
   "If he screws up. Drops the ball. If there's another tragedy like
there was in March. Then there's nothing I could do. And choosing
White Ant to replace Darkhorse as our guy with powers, that's going to
bite all of us in the ass."
   "Not me as much," says Dmowski.
   "Really?" says Trimmer. "Assuming he wins, this is going to be
Foster's last term. You're about to prosecute a very high profile
case. Also easy on the eyes. Stars aligning, Tadeusz. Four years from
now...?"
   Dmowski downs the rest of his scotch. "I have faith in Blue Boxer,"
he says to Martin. "I saw what he did with the Gorgon. And you have
faith in him?"
   Martin nods.
   "That's good enough for me," says Dmowski.
   "Not for me, though," says Trimmer. "I believe in him because I
have to. Really, the best thing he could do, besides not screwing up?"
   "I'm listening," says Martin.
   "He could get serious with his little girlfriend," says Trimmer.
   "She's not his girlfriend."
   "That's why he needs to work on her," says Trimmer. "I've been
making overtures to Knockout Mouse, trying to lure her away from
Chicago. Popular heroine, very powerful, and, uh,
demographically-appropriate for Jolt City. More-so than an Irishman
like White Ant. It's a hard sell, of course, but I've been pushing
'where could you do the most good', 'you'd be the big fish here', et
cetera. The answer's been firmly no, and I think a big part of that is
she has personal ties in Chicago. If she could get some personal ties
here..."
   "I'll let him know," says Martin.
   "Do I detect a twinge of disgust?" says Trimmer.
   Martin shrugs. "There's what I do, then there's all this.
Image-stuff. 'Demographically-appropriate'. Politics. Just not my
speed."
   "That might be part of the problem," says Trimmer. "It wasn't
Handler's, either, and look what happened. You're either of the world,
Mr. Knight, or you're against it. And we don't really have the option
of being against it."

A while later Martin announces that he had better get going.
   "I have a couple more things to discuss with the ADA," says Trimmer.
   "I'll see you out," says Dmowski. "Lacey, help yourself."
   She's already reaching into his desk drawer. "Don't mind if I do."
   Dmowski shuts the door behind them. "Any news of the short man?"
   "Like looking for a three-inch mafioso in a haystack," says Martin.
"But I'm getting closer. I do have a couple of... friends looking into
things for me, going places that I can't."
   "You're more of the world than Lacey thinks," says Dmowski.
   "I'm enough of it to want it to be better," says Martin.

Three weeks earlier, or a couple of days after the break-in at the
Cradle lab, Martin Rock goes back to the restaurant. He immediately
spots Frankie Salad at his usual table, and Frankie Salad immediately
spots him.
   The greeter smiles awkwardly at Martin, in that way that greeters
do. "Just one, sir?"
   "Oh, no, my party has already arrived," says Martin. He points.
"Mr. Salvatore. I'll just go join him now."
   He walks up to the table.
   "Seat's taken," Salvatore says, strangely bemused. "And Gills won't
take kindly to that."
   "I'll just warm it up for him," says Martin. He sits down. "You get
in touch with the short man for me?"
   "I don't know what you're talking about," says Salvatore. "Short
man died in the box."
   "Did he now? He died in the box?"
   "He died in the box."
   "Strange you didn't tell me that the last time," says Martin. "I
mean, I told you to tell him, and that would've been an opportune time
to let me know."
   "He died in the box," says Salvatore. "And you're full of shit."
   "Yeah?"
   "Yeah. You're a bullshitter. Stuff you did in the box, you didn't do."
   "Who did?"
   "Green Knight. The cops. All smoke and mirrors. And you're still
working for them."
   That confirms it. Vito is alive, after all. Salvatore isn't smart
enough to reach that conclusion himself. Vito's calling his bluff. And
it's not like Martin can just reach over and break the guy's arm, not
here. Not outside the prison. Vito knows that. Salvatore knows that
now. Probably all the other people that work for Vito do as well.
Suddenly his whole fearsome reputation is punctured like a balloon.
   And Salvatore is smiling now, the smug bastard. "I ain't scared of you."
   "I can see that," says Martin. "I guess there's no use pretending.
I did have some help in Earbox. But it wasn't the Green Knight. It was
another costumed mucky-muck. Another mask."
   "Yeah?" says Salvatore, disinterested. "Who would that be?"
   "He didn't have a name," says Martin. [14]
   The mobster's face loses its color. Then he recovers. "Bullshit.
Mask with no name hasn't been seen in years."
   "He's coming back," says Martin.
   "Bullshit."
   "You saw him once," says Martin. "He remembers. In a flower shop.
You hesitated, and then he was gone. Like he was never there. But he
was."
   Salvatore is silent and ashen.
   "He's coming back," says Martin. "And he's coming for the short man."
   "I, I tell you, he's dead."
   "Then he's got nothing to worry about," says Martin. "Because if he
was alive, and the mask with no name was coming after him, the short
man should be worried. The short man shouldn't be so quick to dismiss
someone who's trying to help him. Someone who knows the man behind the
mask. Someone who can give that information to the short man. But only
face-to-face. Yeah... if the short man was alive, he might be
interested in someone like that. Interested enough to pay his price."
   "What, what price would that be?"
   "Don't matter," says Martin. "Because I'm not talking to the short
man. He's dead, remember?" Martin gets up to leave. "Don't worry, I
won't come around no more. And don't bother to look for me, because
you won't find me."
   He turns and starts walking off. "Wait! Wait!"
   Martin doesn't turn around.
   Salvatore comes after him. "I'll tell him."
   "Tell who?"
   Salvatore grabs Martin and whirls him around. "The short man."
   "But he's dead," says Martin.
   Salvatore shakes his head, mouthing the word 'no'.
   That won't do. Needs to be audible. "Didn't catch that."
   "I'll set up a meeting," says Salvatore. "Come back here tomorrow
night and I'll give you the details."
   Martin doesn't press his luck; if he keeps fishing for Salvatore to
say the words, the big mook will catch on that Martin's wired, and
that will spoil the whole lovely thing. Besides, the tracer Martin
just slipped into Salvatore's pocket might just lead him to Vito
anyway.

Salvatore's door, around midnight. Fix gives it a faint little knock,
then tries the doorbell.
   Salvatore opens the door a crack. "Fix. It's you. Boss ready to see me?"
   Fix holds up his thinly-fingered palms. Salvatore backs up and lets him in.
   Fix waves his hand towards the chair in the den. Salvatore takes a
seat, then waves to the sofa. Fix remains standing.
   Fix speaks, his lips barely moving. "Your wife and child?" He
speaks in a whisper, monotone, slightly high-pitched; 'child' has two
syllables.
   "Staying with her mother. Another one of those things. You know."
Salvatore makes careless semi-circles in the air with two fingers. Fix
doesn't seem to know, and Salvatore doesn't press the point. "So, the
boss? Can I see him? It's kinda important."
   "Let me judge that," says Fix. He gestures again with his open palm.
   In response, Salvatore begins to recount his most recent encounter
with Martin Rock.
   "He's lying," says Fix.
   "I don't think so. I can tell when one of them is lying. There are
signs what give it away. Different than when a white man lies. You
know the signs."
   Fix doesn't know.
   "And he knew. Knew things that only, you know, him, that he knew.
About me. Things no one else knew."
   Fix is silent.
   "So he has to be telling the truth."
   "What did you say?"
   "To him? Nothing. Just that I'd set up a meeting."
   "With who?"
   "With the boss."
   "You named him?"
   "Well, no."
   "Then with who?"
   "I mean, with the boss, but I didn't say, I was smart about it, I
didn't say the boss was alive or dead. I was cagey. Deniable. You
know?"
   Fix doesn't know.
   "But, you know, I don't think he's working with the cops, because
they wouldn't be working with the, with him. You know?"
   Fix doesn't know.
   "So I think we should take this to the boss."
   Fix pulls out his gun. He shoots Salvatore once in the head.
   If you know what you're doing, once is enough.
   Fix knows.

The next evening.
   Martin shows up at the restaurant, and waits for forty minutes. He
calls Roy Riddle from a payphone. "Dinner plans fell through. Your
offer still open?"

Riddle's manse. Friday night fish fry.
   "Almost done," says Riddle, letting him in. Martin takes a seat
across from Derek, who is staring intently at his laptop.
   "I should warn you," says Riddle, "I'm not a very good fryer." He
immediately doubles over, cackling. Derek joins in. Martin shakes his
head. Puns. That's one thing of Ray's that he never quite warmed up
to. [15]
   There's truth in this pun, though. For all his admirable qualities,
Roy's knowledge of the culinary arts is negligible. Nowhere near as
good as Pam. Better than Dani, sure, but even Derek is better than
Dani. Still, he'd prefer Dani's cooking to Roy's. But. Free dinner is
free dinner, right?
   ... Right, and you get what you pay for.
   "Derek," says Martin, chewing and swallowing before continuing,
"about your tracker."
   "Hmm-mm?"
   "You worked out all the bugs on it?"
   "Yeah," says Derek confidently, almost taking umbrage. Then, "Probably."
   "I put one on my mook yesterday. He never showed up tonight.
Tracker says he's still at home. Went there last night and never
left."
   "Then he's still at home," says Derek.
   "Probably," says Martin.
   "Probably," says Derek.
   "I'll have to swing by after and check."
   "Of course," says Riddle, "people do change clothes. He might have
left. It could still be on his other clothes."
   "Why didn't I think of that?" says Martin sardonically.
   Derek mutters something.
   "Pardon?"
   "Because that's the same shirt you had on yesterday," repeats Derek.
   "No it's not," says Martin. "This was Tuesday's shirt. Monday-Thursday Rule."
   Roy raises his hand.
   "Shirt you wear on Monday, you can wear again on Thursday," says
Martin. "Then you have to wash it."
   Roy lowers his hand.
   Derek clears his throat. "But this is Friday. And that shirt is
from Tuesday."
   "Monday-Thursday, Tuesday-Friday," says Martin.
   "Wednesday-Saturday?" says Roy.
   "No," says Martin. "But Saturday and Sunday you can wear the same
shirt as Friday."
   "And Tuesday," says Derek.
   "No, not if you wore it on Tuesday," says Martin.
   "You know," says Roy, "I have a machine. I can wash your shirts.
You can wear a different shirt every day."
   "He only has four shirts," says Derek.
   "You wear the same thing every day," says Martin to Roy.
   "I have eight different outfits," says Roy. "They just happen to be
identical. Comes with the job. Do you guys even have spares?"
   "Hey, costumes are expensive," says Martin. "Especially if you
redesign it every two months," he adds pointedly.
   "I'm almost to the point where I'm happy with it," says Derek. "At
least I don't look like a generic green ninja."
   "My costume is classic. Iconic."
   "Yeah, classic iconic generic green ninja." Derek stops for a
moment and stares at his computer screen. "What's the guy's name? Your
stooge?"
   "Frankie, um, Antonio Salvatore."
   Derek turns his laptop towards Martin. "He never left his house."

Martin calls Trimmer.
   "Good evening, Mr. Knight."
   "Mr. Knight is my father. Call me Green."
   Silence on the other end. Trimmer's not the laughing sort.
   "I'd like to request access to a crime scene. The Salvatore murder."
   She clicks her teeth. "That's kind of out of your purview. Unless
this is about the short man?"
   Martin doesn't respond right away. "How do you know about...?"
   "Dmowski likes to keep me abreast of things."
   I'm sure he does, thinks Martin. "It's about that, yes."
   "Then I'll move some mountains," says Trimmer. "In the morning?"
   "Tonight would be better."
   "I'll see what I can do."
   "Obviously, about this case. Uh, we need to. We need to keep it
tightly-wound, keep it secret..."
   "I know that," Trimmer snips. "You don't need to tell me how to do
my job. Unlike Dani Handler, I actually know what I'm doing."
   "Thanks," says Martin. White bitch.

The body wasn't discovered until an hour before the news hit the
internet. Salvatore's still in his chair, head bent back, a clean
little red hole in his forehead. His estranged wife found him, and had
closed his eyes.
   "And that tells us something," says Detective Marquez as she leads
Martin and Derek to the den.
   Martin nods grimly. "He was killed from the inside. Not a gang war
or a hit, but punishment."
   "Exactly," says Marquez.
   Derek counts four silent locomotives in his head, then bites the
bullet. "Why does that tell us that?"
   Marquez looks at Martin; but goddamn is Derek getting tired of
those sideways looks.
   Martin explains a little. "His soldiers would have come and checked
on him when he didn't show or answer the phone. Then they would've
called it in, anonymously."
   It clicks. "They didn't come and check because they knew. But why
wouldn't one of them call it in?"
   "Part of the punishment," says Marquez. "I don't think anyone was
expecting the missus to show up again for at least a few days. Body
would just sit there, rotting. Show of disrespect."
   "More than that," says Martin. "A warning."
   "But of what?" says Marquez.
   "Oh, I wouldn't know," weasels Martin.
   Marquez slips her finger and thumb under her glasses and squeezes
the bridge of her nose. "With respect, obviously you do, or you
wouldn't be here."
   "Killer stood about there?" says Martin.
   "Thereabouts," says the detective.
   "Someone he knew," says Martin. "Wasn't expecting it. Didn't try to
scramble, didn't fall back. Stayed seated the whole time."
   "Look it," says Marquez, "I ain't trying to bust your chops. I
appreciate what you do. I remember last year, Apelantis. Night my son
was born, and people were running around, worried, because there's
goddamn underwater monkeys with harpoons running around. And I wasn't
worried, because I knew you and yours would come through." [16]
   Martin's sure she remembers the softball team from this year, too.
But Marquez is tactful enough not to mention that. "I trust you," she
continues. "I'm happy to work with you. With you. You need information
and access, I'll give it to you, but you need to return the favor.
Because if I'm investigating this thing, I don't want to run into a
monkey with a harpoon. Bit above my pay grade."
   "Far as I know, no monkeys with harpoons," says Martin.
   "Salvatore's a warning," says Marquez. "But to who, and why?"
   Martin shrugs. "If I find out, I'll let you know."

He's not lying, exactly. He's fairly certain the warning was for the
short man's organization, and that the gist of it involves keeping
Vito's existence a secret. But he doesn't know who makes up that
organization; he doesn't know which gangs belong to Vito, which are
his allies, his client-kingdoms, which are his enemies, and which
parties in all those categories even know that he's alive. He had a
good feeling that Salvatore was one of Vito's capos, and one that
might respond well to pressure. But it took him weeks to even get that
much. The rest of Jolt City's underworld are much smarter and harder,
and will be doubly so in the wake of Salvatore's execution.

In the Knight's Den, Martin sets up a pin-board. Mugshots, newspaper
clippings, city maps. He studies it. He researches. He makes guesses,
tries them out, and discards them.
   Until one day, out of the corner of his eye, he spots the photo of
Federico "Fishface" Maranzano. He's called Fishface because of his
large black eyes, thick lips, and the two parallel scars running up
each cheek. The first two were genetic, but the scars are from a nasty
knife fight. His parents gave him the eyes and the mouth, but it was a
life of crime that gave him his gills.
   Martin finds the tape he recorded at the restaurant. "Just one, sir?"
   "Oh, no, my party has already arrived. Mr. Salvatore. I'll just go
join him now."
   Step, step, step; chatter, chatter, chatter.
   "Seat's taken. And Gills won't take kindly to that."
   "I'll just warm it up for him." For Gills. For Maranzano.
   If Salvatore was part of Vito's circle, so was Fishface Maranzano.

But Fishface isn't Salvatore. He's smart; he swims with the sharks. If
Martin tries to push him, he won't bite, not even a nibble.
   But in a way, this is a little like Mafia Sudoku. If he can pencil
Fishface into a box, it eliminates other possibilities. His informants
might not know that Vito's alive, or which gangs are his. But they
know that Fishface would never serve under the same boss as Vise-Head.
   "Who's Vise-Head?" asks Derek.
   Martin points to a photograph on his pin-board. In stark
black-and-white is an extremely long and narrow face wrinkled to the
point where it no longer appears human. Though no, that's not right;
his face isn't long, it's squished by the vise around it. "He's
alive?" chokes Derek.
   Martin nods.
   "I thought that was a, like a murder photo."
   "No; someone put his head in a vise, and he survived. Word is he's
still in excruciating pain. But if they remove the vise, his whole
head will fall apart. It was Fishface who did it. Both of them been
trying to get at the other for the better part of a year now, ever
since it happened. There's no way they can both be Vito's capos."
   "Where does that get you, then?"
   Martin stares at his pin-board. "Somewhere. I hope."

Early the next morning, the Green Knight meets Detective Marquez
outside Riddle's church. She waits for him with her back against the
brick, arms crossed against the chill of autumn.
   "Sorry I'm late," says Martin. "You said it's important?"
   "Yeah," says Marquez. "About that warning. We think we have an ID
on the messenger." She pulls a file from her case and presents it.
Martin reaches for it. She hesitates before letting go.
   "Fix," says Martin. Another piece slides into place. Fix is not for
hire; he solves problems for only one crime family and its allies. He
belongs to the O'Lantern mob, an Irish outfit, whose patriarch sports
a single triangular nostril and a lipless face-wide grin that shows
all five of his teeth. If Fix is working for Vito, so is the rest of
Jack O'Lantern's gang.
   "I see the wheels turning, green-man," says Marquez. "You're not
going to hold out on me again, are you? I didn't have to come and give
you this."
   "If I had something to give you, I'd give," says Martin. "But I'm
still coming up empty."
   "You're a terrible liar, green-man," says Marquez.
   "That's why I always tell the truth," says Martin.

The manse. Riddle draws the blinds, and Martin takes off his mask.
   "She seemed nice."
   Martin grimaces. "A bit nosey."
   "Who's a bit nosey? Me or her?"
   "Her. You too, now that I think of it. But her."
   "You know," says Riddle, "you could have just said, 'She's a bit
nosey.' Complete sentences."
   "It's the way people talk."
   "It's the way you talk, maybe. I don't know anyone who talks like
that. Except you. You never catch the Big Guy doing that."
   "Roy..."
   "The Holy Spirit didn't float down over Jesus and just say, 'Most
pleased.' It won't play in Peoria. Or Perea, as the case might be."
[17]
   "Roy, please."
   "Anyway, how is she being nosey? Shouldn't you be sharing
information, pooling resources? At least let her know what this is
about?"
   "Vito's too careful for that," says Martin. "If it's Martin Rock
poking around after him, he has to be careful, but can keep himself in
circulation. The police get into it, he goes into hiding before I can
get proof he's alive, get Gallery out of prison. And once he hides,
well, it'll be a lot harder to find a man of his, uh, stature."
   Riddle sips his tea, never taking his eyes off Martin. "No, there's
something else. I know there is."
   Martin sighs. "Even with the union, the speeches, and the code-- as
nebulous as that can be-- what I do, I work outside the law. They can
dress it up, they can make it sanctioned, even whip up an entire
cabinet department to do it, but in the end, I do things the police
can't do. And shouldn't do. And maybe shouldn't know about." He
inhales; he exhales. "Maybe you shouldn't know about it, either."
   Riddle puts his saucer down. "You're conflicted about it. Otherwise
you wouldn't have starting telling your priest about it. I know you;
you know me. Let's get it off your chest."
   Martin nods. "Alright. I think I know a way to get to Vito. But
it's. It's not clean, Roy."
   "What is it, then?" says Riddle. "I know you wouldn't take a life."
   "Never again. Not by my own hand."
   "But by another's?"
   "I just give a little push," says Martin, almost in awe of himself.
"Like dominoes. Just one little push... and I start a mob war."

(TO BE CONCLUDED IN JOLT CITY # 21, PART THREE)