Desperate Times Read online

  This was going to suck.

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  Chapter 8

  I managed to miss the worst of the traffic and crowds by taking an early exit and keeping to side streets. Still, I caught view of more than a few mobs doing everything from milling around to having yelling matches with each other. Nothing nearly as violent as the news would have had me believe. Honestly, I can't say I ever subscribed to the mob mentality. I saw signs with messages ranging from the traditional "The End is Nigh" and "Repent" to some less biblical phrases including blaming people of particular sexual orientations, ethnicities, creeds, and more for the current state of the world. What wasn't on display was any blame for the supers. There were plenty crying out for their help, but no one was saying what was on everyone's minds: It's their fault. One of their own did this and many of the world's leaders and other innocent tippys were taken out with them. They all realized, just like I did, that if anyone was going to stop this Raven character, it would be a super. There would be plenty of time to blame them after they'd saved the world.

  Flanagan's was the sort of dive bar that should only exist in movies full of fake Irish gangsters and thugs. It's the sort of place that left you with a bit of a brogue, the taste of Guinness on your tongue, more than a few shots of whiskey in your gut, and convinced that darts is an actual sport. It had the sort of feel to it like you either stepped back in time or entered the world’s best amusement park of bars. There were only two ways out of Flanagan's - you either stumbled out or someone threw you through the swinging back door.

  That someone was Shawn O'Malley.

  I'd done some work for Shawn a while back. His super persona was Flamer, a name that, to this day, I don’t think he ever realized made people laugh behind his back. He's a typical "brick" or strong man. Super strong, super tough, and super willing show it. His hook was that fire, or more specifically, being on fire, increased his power. His sidekick, a girl who called herself Cindar, could throw flaming blue lumps of coal that exploded on impact - like the one sitting in my office. Well, exactly like the one in my office since she had thrown it at me.

  I'd heard a lot about Flanagan's, but I'd never been inside. When I entered, I understood the fascination. There were mounted heads of boars and other animals, coats of arms, and bladed and projectile weapons mounted to every available space on every wall. It was like a museum of Irish clichés. The only women I saw were tight-shirted waitresses carrying tall, dark beers and small shot glasses. Most people seemed to receive one of each. The bar was full of men in various states of inebriation, but it was early in the evening, so only about half of them looked like they'd have to be carried home.

  I liked my bars full of little more than quiet conversations in hushed corners. Short glasses filled with strong liquid being consumed by people who were consumed by something else. A bar should be a place of misery. Misery being drowned. Occasionally, someone in a bar should succeed. They should manage to drink enough to find release. And everyone else should look at them enviously and then order another. Because if they could do it, so could you.

  Flanagan's was my kind of place.

  I approached the bar and squeezed in next to a man with a thick accent who was talking rapidly to another man who was obviously asleep. I could only make out every third or fourth word, my comprehension of his speech further hindered by the man occasionally, and from what I could tell, randomly, breaking into song. He'd sing anything from a line to an entire verse before continuing his conversation. Of course, I couldn't tell if he changed the subject or not, but whatever he talked or sang about seemed very important to him. His hands waved passionately and I suspected that his power, if he had one, was to talk animatedly without spilling his beer.

  There was a single bartender on duty who poured beer and whiskey with the sort of confidence a lifetime of experience endows. I tried to flag him over, and he acknowledged me, but it was clear it'd take him a while. I cringed as I tapped the talker on the shoulder.

  "Hey, buddy, you know where the bouncer is?"

  The man turned slowly, careful to reposition his beer and shot. He was older, probably in his sixties, but his eyes showed that neither age nor drink had dulled his mind. "Aye!"

  And then he said...something. I couldn't begin to hazard a guess as to what. At one point, I thought I heard a bit about onions, but that didn't seem right. It was loud in the bar, but not nightclub loud. In the back corner, a red-headed woman with a guitar sang folk songs, but the noise of the conversations in the bar nearly drowned her out. I put my hand to my ear and tried again.

  "Sorry, buddy, could you repeat that? I missed the part..."

  "What can I get you?"

  I turned. The bartender was faster than I had thought. His accent was lightly Irish, but not hard to understand. He was tall and large and his face was stern, but not unfriendly. This was a man who didn't take any crap, but wasn't going to give you any either. Unless you made him. And then it was on.

  "I was just asking your friend here..."

  "Iain? Don't waste your time, he's a Scotsman," the bartender's smile was easy and brightened up his face. Next to me, Iain said something in return and they both laughed. Iain turned back to the sleeping man on his other side.

  I leaned in to the bartender nodding to my side, "He had a little much?"

  He laughed, "Nah, you just haven't had enough. With Iain, the more you drink, the better you understand him. So what you need?"

  "Your bouncer?"

  He shrugged, "Gonna have to be more specific. Place like this, we got a few."

  "Shawn?"

  "We got a couple of those too."

  "O'Malley?"

  He nodded knowingly, "You a friend of his?"

  I considered lying, but didn't. This guy didn't seem the sort I should try to play. "No offense, but Flamer doesn't strike me as the type with many friends."

  His eyes narrowed, then he nodded slowly, "You do know him." He leaned in, "Listen, he thinks we don't know about his...other job. Let's keep it that way."

  "No problem," I winked conspiratorially.

  He raised his eyebrows and quickly nodded, causing me to look over my shoulder to a booth near the front window. I turned and saw nothing but a table shrouded in darkness. After a moment, a hand reached out and grabbed one of the many mugs that covered the tabletop. A head leaned forward to meet the lip of the glass. Flamer had either turned off or removed the bulb from the hanging light above the table, but there was no mistaking his shape. With him seated, I was barely taller than him. Part of that was because of the spiked red hair, but mostly it was just because he was so huge. Even by super standards he was impressive at nearly seven feet tall and three wide at the shoulders. In the dim light, I could barely make out his short, red beard that traced his jawline and cut up the sides of his chin to meet his mustache. The table in front of him was littered with empty beer and shot glasses. He tipped back the one he'd grabbed, rubbing his lips and the front of his shirt as he set it down. He sat back, once again swallowed up by darkness.

  "You gonna be okay?" The bartender's question sounded more like a warning.

  "How long has he been at it?"

  The bartender hesitated long enough that I turned back to him. He was looking down, absently rearranging some of the glassware, "Ever since the Tournament. Bastard Raven," he spat. "He hasn't stopped drinking since."

  "That's over 24 hours!"

  "Tell me. He doesn't need money - Super State stipend and all - so I let him drink for free. Usually it's just a beer or two. Way he's been going at it, I might not break even."

  I turned back to Flamer, "So, what's it worth to you if I get him out of here?" No use wasting an opportunity.

  "What'cha mean?"

  "I mean just that. I get him out of here, away from the alcohol…what's that worth?"

  "I don't want no part of nothing..." He paused, "Shawn's good people. Sure he's a bit hot headed from times..."

  I turned back to him, "No, no, nothi
ng like that. I came here to get him anyhow. I'm just saying, I might be more motivated if there were something else on the table."

  The bartender rubbed his chin, "I don't know. Maybe you drink as much as him."

  "No," I handed him one of my cards, "it's just...occasionally I need help. You know, nothing illegal," usually, "but help. Call it a favor."

  The bartender nodded slowly, "Nothing illegal?" He thought for a moment longer, "Okay. Sure. I heard of you anyways. You that guy that investigates supers, right?"

  "That's me."

  "Yesterday not so hot for you neither, eh?"

  "We'll see," I muttered.

  "Bob Moore, huh? What kind of name..."

  I put a hand up to stop him, "Don't ask. I'm done answering that one."

  He shrugged, "You want something to drink?"

  "Scotch, neat."

  "SCOTCH!" Iain turned, his eyes beaming, "Aye, laddie..." and then more gibberish.

  I put a hand on his shoulder, "Iain is it? Got to go, buddy. We'll have to pick this up some other time."

  "Aye, aye, mate..." gibberish.

  "Your scotch," the bartender pushed a glass into my hand. "How you want to pay?"

  "Just put it on my tab," I grabbed the glass and took a sip. Blended. I should have been specific.

  The bartender grunted. "I already don't like this deal," he murmured.

  I pretended not to hear him and walked over to Flamer's table.

  The huge super tensed as I approached. Now that I was closer, I could see he was in street clothes, thankfully. The last time I saw him, he was wearing his costume, which consisted of oversized work boots, spandex tights, and a tied-on eye mask. All pink. His beer slammed to the table, empty.

  "Not in the mood," he slurred in my general direction.

  I pulled a free chair from a nearby table and sat in front of him. He leaned back further into the booth, the shadows completely obscuring his face even from such close proximity.

  "Hello, Mr. O'Malley." I glanced up. The light was still in the fixture and looked undamaged. I reached up and gave it a twist. It flickered to life. "Now, that's better."

  Flamer leaned forward quickly, arm outstretched toward my neck. An inch shy, he stopped, "Bob? Bob Moore?"

  "Shawn, I'll be honest, you look like crap."

  "Bob, man...oh man," his head fell, slamming into an empty beer mug, shattering it. Glass shards shot out in all directions; more than a few bounced off my overcoat. I pulled my hand into my sleeve and wiped them off. "Oh, man, she was there Bob. She was there!"

  Cindar.

  Flamer raised his head; there was no evidence of injury, but the bottom of the glass had been driven a quarter inch into the wood tabletop. "They're dead, Bob, they're all dead!"

  "Yeah, yeah," I peeked over my shoulder. The bartender was watching our exchange carefully. He obviously wasn't impressed with my performance so far. "Listen, I got a proposition for you."

  Flamer tried to focus his pale red eyes on me, "Wha? Huh?"

  "Yeah, eloquent as always." I could tell I was going to have to be direct, "Listen, this Raven guy - he killed everyone, right?"

  "Right," his eyes misted.

  "And what, you wish you were there?"

  His shoulders tensed, blood vessels popping to the surface on his neck, "You betcha! You betcha I would! I could have..."

  "I'm sure. But what good are you doing here?"

  "Huh?"

  "He's out there. Right now. Killing supers. Killing supers just like her."

  His face started to fall again, his hand reaching for a mug. This was the wrong tack. "But you won't let him, right? Not this time?"

  "But what can I do, Bob? I don't even know where he is."

  "But don't you see? You don't need to!"

  "Umm..."

  "You just need to get in with the cops."

  "In with the... But what will that do?"

  "Don't you see? There aren't many of you supers left. They need you. They need you to keep the peace. And they're going to parade you around as their hero. Their savior. What's that asshole Raven going to do when he hears of that?"

  He slowly sat up as I spoke. It was hard to keep a straight face as I could see him picturing himself on billboards, on TV, shaking the Mayor's...no the Vice President's hand.

  "He'll come to me!"

  "You bet he will!" I cheered.

  "Yeah, but how can I do that? I don't really know any cops."

  "Right, right," I stared out the window behind Flamer, pretending to think, "I mean, I know a few..."

  "Oh, Bob! You've gotta help me. You've gotta get me in there!"

  "I don't know, Flamer. This is my reputation we're talking about. You go out there and mess up and it's on me."

  "Oh, Bob, I won't," he slurred, "I shwear. Just get me in!"

  "I suppose I could make a call or two. But you'd owe me one."

  Flamer stood up quickly, knocking over the table in the process. I jumped back just in time to dodge the majority of the liquid and glass.

  "Jimmy," Flamer motioned to the bartender who was frowning hard at me, "my friend here needs a phone."

  I shrugged and approached the bar.

  Jimmy, the bartender, scowled, "Do you really need a phone?"

  Behind me, I could hear more crashing as Flamer tried to navigate the ruins of the table and multiple mugs and shot glasses. At one point, it sounded like he fell onto another table as I heard cries of protests and indignation.

  "Not really. Could use another drink, however."

  Jimmy the bartender looked hard at me, "Not when you're driving, buddy."

  I scowled back, "Fine. I get the hint. See ya."

  "Not too soon, I hope."

  I turned to see Flamer pull himself unsteadily from the wreckage of two tables, the chair I had been sitting in, and an unknown number of glasses and drinks. His long coat was askew and wet in places, but he had the sort of childish smile that would have been endearing if it weren't coming from more than a foot above mine. He put an arm on my shoulder and leaned on me heavily. I had to struggle to stay upright.

  "Bob, shou're a great friend, man. I owe you big time."

  "Yeah, you do," I managed.

  "Come on, my car is out back."

  I stopped short; his forward motion spun us 180 degrees, "No way."

  He looked at me blurrily, "What? I'm," he leaned in and whispered loudly in my ear, "Flamer. I'm a shh-ooper hero. You think driving is going to be a problem?"

  I certainly did think driving was going to be a problem as the man couldn't even pronounce "super" correctly, but these brick types didn't take criticisms so well. "Oh, for sure. Not an issue. But they'll be expecting me. Shouldn't we be in my car?"

  He poked me in the chest, painfully, "You know what, they are expecting you. Plus, I'm suddenly feeling a little tired. Maybe I should close my eyes for a second."

  As he spoke, his lids started to droop. This wasn't going to do. There was no way of knowing how heavy this guy was. I'd heard of brick types who had fallen through floors into basements simply because of their weight. Could have been that he was putting most of his weight on me, but it could also have been only a fraction of his true bulk. I didn't want to have to enlist the aid of everyone in the bar just to get him to the car.

  "Shawn! Shawn!" I punctuated each word with a snap in front of his face, "Stay with me. I'm just outside."

  I managed to get him to the car and seated before he passed out. I walked around the back of the car, which was clearly closer to the ground on his side. I didn't think the shocks were bottomed out, but it was close. I sat down in the driver's seat and closed my eyes slowly.

  Costume.

  Damn.

  Flamer seemed unconscious, but you never knew. I reached over and carefully pulled his jacket to the side. He didn't move. I concentrated on his breathing as I pulled his shirt up just enough to see the top of his torn and faded jeans. Hooking a finger under the waist, I pulled them down as far as I
dared. Considering how tight they were, that wasn't very far. I didn't see or feel any tights or underwear for that matter.

  Damn.

  I felt his pockets and lucked out when I discovered his car keys in his jacket. I quietly removed them and headed back to the bar. Jimmy wasn't happy to see me so soon, but he gave me a more than adequate description of Flamer's car.

  "Pink."

  Of course.

  Out back there was a small subcompact that wasn't really pink. It was white with pink flames painted to look like they were coming from the grille and headlights. In the back, I found a small, silver, metal case that I guessed contained either poker chips or his costume. When I tried to open it, a voice warned me I wasn't authorized, so I figured it was the latter.

  I threw the case in the back seat of my car and sat down heavily. The car didn't even jiggle. This was going to be a bumpy ride.

  "Are we there yet?" Flamer's head flopped around, but his eyes didn't open.

  "Not yet, princess. Soon though."

  I was pretty sure I knew how to get back to the city center while avoiding any crowds, but the question was where to take him. I hadn't caught the names of most of those cops, though I guessed they'd come from the main downtown precinct. Best to run by the office and make sure. Plus, Nissa probably needed to go home. She'd been on the clock for nearly 36 hours. I could pick her up at the same time.

  "Mama?" Flamer flopped over, his head landing in my lap. He started to snore loudly.

  Geesh. What a tool.

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  Chapter 9

  By the time I got back to the office, my leg was tingling from lack of circulation. Shawn was one solid lump of unconsciousness, and his head felt like a lead weight on my thigh. His snoring was as big as him, and I had some fun with a couple that walked by as I was at a light by closing one eye and pretending to drive while asleep.