Wildcat
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WILDCAT

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Comin' Out Swinging

An EARTH 2 Event

  JLU: 2001
PRESENTS #6 - Featuring:
Wildcat 		by Bertram Gibbs

It’s Make-Believe Ballroom Time
Put all your cares away
All the bands are here to bring a cheer your way
It’s Make-Believe Ballroom Time
And free to everyone
It’s no time to fret
Your dial is set for fun

Just close your eyes and visualize in your solitude
Your favorite bands are on the stands
And Mr. Miller puts you in the mood

It’s Make-Believe Ballroom Time
The hour of sweet romance
Here’s your make-believe ballroom
Come on, children, let’s dance, let’s dance!

“That’s right, folks,” said the announcer, “This is Martin Block and the Make-Believe Ballroom.  Everyone is dressed to the nines tonight and for good reason!  We’re going to begin the show with that tall lanky Texan we can’t get enough of.  That’s right, folks; you guessed it!  Harry James and his band are going to serenade you with his latest hit, ‘You Made Me Love You’!  Take it away, Harry!”

The rough weathered hand turned the knob down on the radio on the corner of the counter.  He leaned forward to the tilted cap and repeated, “I said, ‘What can I get you’?”

“Oh, uh, sorry, Mac,” said the voice under the hat’s extended peak.  “Just coffee.”

“Sure thing, Pal!” said the man, adjusting his slightly soiled apron.  “You want a slice of apple pie with it?  It ain’t only fresh, it’s still warm!”

The broad shoulders of the worn leather jacket shifted under the material.  “Naw.  The Joe is all.”

“Your call, Captain,” said the man, brushing a wayward graying lock from his eyes with the heel of his hand.  “But lemme tell you; you ain’t had an apple pie like my Mabel’s apple pie!  You don’t know . . . “

Before the diner’s proprietor could advise the patron more on his wife’s pie, a large hand with bruised knuckles had wrapped itself around his necktie and had dragged him inches from the hat’s brim.

Slowly, the head tilted upward and the gasping man swallowed when he stared into the dark blue eyes.  There was not only rage behind the orbs, but a cornered fear, like a wild animal seeing a cage closing in on him. 

And the animal was angry at itself for feeling weak and helpless.

“What’s yer name, pal?”

“Uh, uh, uh, . . . “

The fist became tighter and pulled the man an inch closer.

“Your.  Name?”

”Coen!” the man gasped.  “Izzy Coen!”

The brim of the cap dipped slightly.  “Just the coffee, Iz,” said the man, his voice deep, flat and menacing.  “That’s all.  Got me?”

Izzy Coen began to nod quickly.  At this point in his life (which he saw trailing like a Columbia Pictures short across his eyes), he would state Mabel was sending coded apple pie recipes to those Brown-shirts across the ocean.  While many of his buddies would not even acknowledge the goings on in Germany, Izzy had family out there and he knew what was up.

The fist relaxed and Coen pulled back sharply.  He was about to turn to the steel coffeepot on the stove when he took a second look at the face before it ducked back into the hat’s shadows.  His mouth opened and closed again and turned back to the man at the counter, his fear fully consumed by his curiosity.

“Hey, Pal,” Izzy said coming closer and frowning.  “Ain’t you . . . ?”

“No.”

The abruptness in his tone made him stop in his tracks.  He turned slightly and reached for the pot with one hand and an empty mug with the other.  He filled it and placed it in front of the man and took a few steps back.

“Hockey puck; taken through the garden with a rose on it, a Coney Island chicken, a million on a platter, and an M.D.!” cried the grinning face through the framed rectangular portal into the kitchen.  He placed the well-done hamburger with tomato, the hot dog, the plate of baked beans and the Dr. Pepper on the shelf and looked up at his boss, whose eyes were glued on the man in the brown cap.  “Hey, Izzy!  That egg better add a Bromo to . . . “  The cook looked in the direction Coen was staring, and leaned forward, almost coming through the rectangular window.  His eyes locked on the man quietly sipping his coffee.  The cook’s eyes widened.  “Hey, Iz!” Ain’t that . . . ?”

“Nix, Henry!” Coen quickly whispered. 

“He looks just like . . . “

Izzy spun on Henry and blocked his view, his eyes boring and pleading into his friend and employee’s eyes.   “Henry!”

Henry actually moved his overweight body to the other side of Coen and pointed at the man.

The man whose eyes were now locked with Henry’s.

“That’s him, Izzy!” cried Henry.  “That’s that murderin’ bum, . . . .”

A hand grasped the shoulder of the man in the cap. 

“Yeah!” said the towering patron, wearing a thick cloth jacket.  “It is him!”
 The man in the cap gently placed the cup in its saucer with a deep sigh and turned slightly on his stool.  He looked up (and continued to look up) at the red-haired man with the tight angry face.  He glanced down at the man’s hand and saw how bruised and scraped it was, and that several bones were pressing against the underside of skin, like they were broken and were never set properly. 

Red’s other hand came around and grabbed the man’s open shoulder and lifted him to his eye level.

“Yeah,” whispered Red.  “It is you.  You’re . . . “

Izzy Coen always felt lucky he got that spot on Broadway and 52nd Street.  It was a corner location, right in the middle of the theatre district, with plenty of view through the L-shaped window.  It allowed the passerbys and tourists seeing New York for the first time to see into the brightly lit eatery, see how spankin’ clean the joint was (a greasy spoon this wasn’t!) and know that Hershel and Ruth’s brown-eyed baby boy’s diner was always open for business.  You want pancakes at nine in the evening?  No problem!  You want a Blue-Plate Special at the crack of dawn?  Coming right up!  You want to sit all by your lonesome with a never-ending cup of Joe at your elbow?  Just tell me how you want it!

And people from all walks of life came into Coen’s Diner.  You got the regular bums sitting down aways from a small stuffed shirt contingent.  You had a cabbie slurping down an egg cream in one booth while a sawbones sipped on a cup of coffee in the next.  Yeah, the coloreds sat in the rear of the joint, but they were always served fair and never complained. 

Izzy always told Mabel that the place was a small extension of New York.  Everybody that came in was just another mug, trying to get by.  Izzy felt that they might as well have a solid meal in their bellies before they moved on.

That morning when he opened, Izzy noticed a smudge on the glass, like someone was leaning on the pane from the outside.  That someone Izzy knew was Mickey; no last name.  Mickey was on the streets due to his love of the needle.  When he was off the junk, he would come in grinning shyly and Izzy would have him sweep up the front of the place for a hot blonde with sand (coffee with cream and sugar), an order of Graveyard stew (buttered toast, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon, and dropped into a bowl of warm milk), and a whiskey down (rye toast).  When he was using, Mickey would never come in.  Izzy thought that Mickey felt that Coen seeing him in that condition would disappoint him.  Instead, Mickey would only come around after closing and stand and stare through the windows, his hands and face pressed up against the glass.  Izzy made a mental note that when things died down to a dull roar, he would get a bucket of hot soapy water and clean the windows.  But business seemed non-stop today and he resigned himself to do it in the morning.

That would not be necessary.  Red came flying through the window upside down with a huge crash.  He bounced on the sidewalk and slid to a stop against a parked taxi.  From the street, you could see the man in the cap fling a handful of greenbacks at the gaping Izzy and leap through the broken window and run down the block.

The man ran as fast as his legs could move.  His cap flipped off his head as he dodged a few dandies, coming out of a theater.  He could hear the cries of outrage, followed by many cries of recognition. 

“Isn’t that . . . ?”

“Hey!  You’re . . . !“

“That’s . . . !”

“Call the police!  That’s . . . !”

He ran around and shouldered a few more pedestrians, then cut across the wide expanse of Broadway, leaping up and across the hood of an oncoming taxi.  By the time the cabbie slapped the horn in protest, the man was halfway down the block. 

He ducked into an alley and slammed his shoulders against a wall and tried to slow his heart before it exploded.  He used his sleeve to wipe the sweat dripping into his eyes and panted, waiting to see the boys in blue come around the alley’s opening, gats drawn.  But that didn’t happen.  The man was left to his own pained thoughts, which was the worst thing of all.

At the cry of his name, the man stopped breathing.  He closed his eyes tightly and ground his teeth, waiting for the first of many Billys to strike him.  But that didn’t happen either.  After a few seconds, the man opened his eyes and peered around the opening.

It was a kid; no more than twelve at best, hawking newspapers.  He held one over his head and cried, “Getcha paper!!!  Ted ‘The Killer’ Grant still on the loose!  Police baffled!  Getcha paper right here!”

He hated running.  He knew he had to, but he hated it with every fiber of his being.  When the chips were down, he folded.  He went down like a tower of playing cards and ran like a coward.  Like his father. 

He watched how his old man always backed away from any confrontation.  From his boss, who everyone knew was cheating him.  From his neighbors, when he had the radio too loud (the young Grant knew that the next setting on the volume control was OFF).  From his own wife, who for years had tried to goad him into standing up for himself until the constant demeaning nagging became her only method of communication. 

Young Grant swore that he would never back down from a fight.  He would always go in swinging rights and lefts, and keep on swinging until the offending mug was down for the count.  To think otherwise would make him remember his father.  He hated a part of himself that equated his father with weakness and promised himself that he would never just stand there and take it. 

But here he was hiding in an alley, afraid to walk into the light.  Like father, like son.

Grant sunk back into the alley and its comforting shadows.

Every day for the past week, every time he found himself hiding in the shadows, every time he closed his eyes to rest, even for a scant few minutes, he saw a tough but gentle face looking down at him.  That was the face that was in front of him when he was fourteen when he had walked past the gym, trying to calm down.  Grant’s clothes were torn in several places, his lip was cut and he knew he would have a beaut of a shiner in the morning.  He was hopping mad because he had once again stood up for the old man when one of the local punks called him a weak sister.  Sure, he had got his licks in, but he took the brunt of the beating.

He knew his mother would give it to him good for fighting again.  His father would again look at him with that sad helpless expression, lower his head to his newspaper and say nothing.

The tall broad shouldered man with the red hair and the smirk was Socker Smith, who was eleven years older.  He placed a strong hand against his chest and sat him down on the gym’s steps.  Smith pulled out a worn pack of cigarettes from the inside of his sock, lit a cigarette, took a puff, then flipped it into the street.  Smith told him that he understood what he was going through.  It was the same anger and rage he had carried in himself when he was Grant’s age.  Smith told Grant that if it wasn’t controlled; channeled, it would eat him up alive
It almost did that to him.

Socker smiled and told Grant with a modicum of pride that he had the perfect release for it.  And he would show him how to use that angry burning in the pit of his stomach. 

Always a fan of the sport, listening to every match on the radio, Ted Grant was in seventh heaven being on the inside of an actual boxing ring.  It was here he was introduced to pain he had never before conceived.  The constant exercise, the running, the rigorous training, remembering each combination, each way to throw a punch and inflict a specific damage, different directions to move, to bend, to back up and advance, throwing his entire body weight into the blow, until everything he was taught became second nature.

After each training session, Socker regaled the young Grant of the championship fights he went to. 

Dempsey taking the title away from Jess Willard in Toledo, 1919, and how Jack’s KO in the 3rd round made everyone at the arena jump up and down and scream like it was no tomorrow.  How it took Tunney ten rounds to take it away from Dempsey in Philly, 1926, Socker describing his every move, every punch Gene Tunney made, unable to give Dempsey the quick knockout.  And, last year, the Schmeling – Sharkey match in ’30, with the kraut coming out on top. 

“And you know who’s gonna win the title one day?” asked Socker after he told of every fight.  As always, Grant smiled at him and shrugged his shoulders.  “Me!” he would say with a grin and fire in his eyes.  “Like who else is better’n me?”  And, as always, Grant gave him a hard look and gave him a list of the heavyweight contenders at that time.  Grant knew to expect the hard jab to the shoulder and Smith saying, “Well, there’s one stumble bum that can’t beat me, and that’s you, Teddy.  Yer gonna be good, but never that good!”

As a present for a good training session, Smith, sweat dripping from his matted red hair, would go to his corner and pull out two tickets to a heavyweight match.  Together they saw Sharkey take the title back from Schmeling.  The kraut wasn’t going down easy and it took fifteen rounds for Sharkey to take the title.

They watched Primo Carnera knock out Sharkey in the sixth round, the incredible Baer/
Braddock match in ’35, and the ’37 Louis/Braddock match where the Brown Bomber took both glass slippers off the Cinderella Man in the eighth round.  

Ted Grant could never voice the words, but he felt Socker Smith was the older brother (and father figure) he never had. 

And I went and killed him! his mind screamed.  I killed Socker! 

No you didn’t, ya jerk! his mind answered. 

I hit him too hard and killed the poor bastard! 

That’s a load of hooey and you know it! his mind said.  Socker trained you.  You know you could drop a building on Socker’s skull and that’d only make him mad!  And bust up the building some!

HE’S DEAD AND IT’S MY FAULT!

Before his mind could respond, a voice came from above Grant’s head.

“Ted Grant.  You’re a hard man to find!”

Grant spun away from the wall, but not before a gray, sticky webbing adhered his hand to it.  Grant pulled and ripped his hand from the webbing and went into a boxer’s stance.

Dropping from a fire escape and landing deftly on his toes was a man wearing a brown and black jumpsuit.  A brown mask with a spider in its center covered his face, but his bright blonde tousled hair poked through the top. 

Grant, not lowering his hands, squinted in the gloom.  “Yer that bug guy, ain’t ya?”

The man’s face and shoulders drooped slightly.  He sighed and placed the gun in his side holster.  “Tarantula,” he said.  “My code name is Tarantula.”

Grant’s frown deepened.  “Ain’t that a hairy spider?”

The Tarantula took a step forward, then stopped.  “Uh, yes.  Yes, it is.”

“You ain’t hairy,” Grant said. 

The Tarantula’s jaw muscles loosened.  “Uh, right.”

Grant back-peddled slightly and began to circle around  the Mystery Man.  “So yer callin’ yourself a tarantula and you don’t look nothin’ like one?   Since you already paid some mug to drawn those spiders on your union suit, why not call yourself, oh, I don’t know, ‘Spider-Man’ f’rinstance?”

“’Spid . . . ‘,” the Tarantula began, his mouth twisting in distaste.  “Uh, no.  The Tarantula works for me.”

Grant knew he was making the hero uncomfortable and distracting him.  He grinned inwardly.  He was good at that.  He altered his footing and moved closer.

“Hows about the name of another spider?” Grant suggested.

“Look, Grant,” he began.  “I’m keeping the name, so drop it!”

Grant held up his hands in a no offense pose.  “Hey! Your choice, pal!  Don’t get yer panties in a bunch!”

“I’m not upset!” protested the Mystery Man.

“You sound sore,” replied Grant.

“Well, I’m not!”

“Hey,” shrugged Grant, taking another step closer.  “No skin off my nose.  I get ya.  I got problems of my own!”

“Yes, well,  . . . , what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means . . . “ and Grant swallowed the rest of his sentence.

“Didn’t catch that,” said the Tarantula, stepping closer, now less than two feet away.

“Sorry,” grinned Grant.  “I said, you ain’t taking me in!”
 Grant sent a right-cross to the Tarantula’s jaw, snapping his head to one side.  Grant came in with a left, then another right, backing the hero up.  The next blow the man caught on his forearm, and the Tarantula countered with a right-cross of his own, putting his full weight into it and catching Grant on the jaw.  Blood poured from Grant’s grinning mouth.

“Uh, oh,” whispered the Tarantula.

“Got that right, pally!”

Grant sent a hard fist to the Tarantula’s midsection, doubling him over.  A shot to the back of his head, sent him to his knees.  Grant danced a few steps back, giving the man air.  The Mystery Man began to pull himself up.

“Stay down,” whispered Grant, then he stepped forward and sent a fist to the man’s exposed jaw, sending him face first into the concrete.  Again, the Tarantula began to pull himself up.  “I said, stay down!” repeated Grant in a horse whisper, and again drove another hard fist to the man’s jaw.  For a few seconds, the Tarantula didn’t move and he saw Socker on the floor of the ring, his eyes rolled back in his sockets.  Suddenly, the hero took a deep breath and the sight of that alone made Grant want to cry.  He took a second breath and began to pull himself up.

“For the love of Mike, stay the hell down!” growled Grant.  He came forward just as the Tarantula spun on his knee and sent a hard foot into Grant’s midsection, sending him backwards on his heels.

Grant grasped his wounded middle, thinking the mutt cracked a rib.  His fingers went under his jacket and deftly ran across the pained area.  Almost, he thought.  Just a good shot.  He looked around quickly and ran directly at the Mystery Man, who was just now getting to his feet.  Grant darted forward, placed both hands on the Tarantula’s shoulders and hoisted himself into the air, leaping upwards and catching the rusted ladder on the fire escape above them.  As he pulled himself up the rungs, the Tarantula grabbed Grant’s dangling foot.  Grant’s hand almost slipped off the rung he was holding and looked down. 

“Yer a good egg, Spider-Man!” he called.  “Don’t let anyone tell ya different!”

“The name is the Taran . . . “ the Tarantula began through a bloody mouth, but that was all that came out due to Grant driving his heel into the man’s forehead, sending him reeling backwards to the concrete.

Grant looked around and saw no Johnny Law or John Q. Public sticking their respective noses in his business.  He inhaled deeply and felt a sharp pain in his side.  Maybe it was a good shot, he thought.  Ignoring the pain, he pulled himself up the ladder.  Up Grant went, from landing to landing, his eyes always looking back to see if bug-boy was following.  By the time he reached the roof, the Tarantula was just getting to a sitting position.  He’d go rooftop for as long as he could until he got to lower Manhattan.  From there, he’d call in a few chips to bunk for the night.  He dropped his feet to the roof and stopped when he saw a shadow in front of him.

“Theodore Grant!” a voice said from the shadow.  The voice sounded hollow and muffled and in pronouncing every syllable of his name, a little too hoity-toity for Grant’s benefit.  His ma was the only one to call him by his full name, and that was only when he was in hot water.  He fought a chuckle.  This looked like one of those times.

“Yeah,” answered Grant.  “What’s it to you?”

“The sands of Morpheus have shown me you are innocent,” the shadow said.  “You must come with me!”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Mac,” said Grant.  “But I ain’t going nowhere except where I gotta go.”

“You will come with me, Theodore Grant!  You have no choice!”

Grant’s eyes squinted into thee shadow.  “For someone hidin’ in the shadows, yer givin’ a lot of orders, pal.”

Grant’s eyes widened when the man in the long trench coat, Fedora and gas mask walked into the moonlight.  His eyes widened even more when he saw the weapon in his hand.

“What is this?” asked Grant.  “A flippin’ costume party?”

“This is the time of your destiny, Theodore Grant.”

Grant slowly back-stepped.  “Well, sorry, chum.  Gotta see a man about a horse!”

Grant spun on his pins and ran across the roof.  He heard a pffft! from over his shoulder, then felt his ankles being drawn together and felt himself tip forward.  He looked down to see a cable wrapped around his legs that led to the weapon in the masked man’s hand.  He looked up at the mask and could have sworn that the face behind it was smiling.

“And Theodore,” said the masked man, raising his arm and now aiming the weapon at Grant’s face, “your time of destiny is now!”

“WAITAMINUTE!” screamed Grant.

The man in the gas mask pressed his finger against the trigger and a plume of yellow gas encased Grant’s face.  Grant’s arms – which were lifted in a protective gesture – suddenly dropped to his sides.  His eyes rolled in their sockets and back into his skull, which did a fair Gene Krupa drumbeat on the roof.

The masked man unwound the line from around Grant’s ankles and pressed a button on the weapon, retracting it back into the weapon.  He placed the gun into a side pocket of his trench coat and turned around in time to see the Tarantula pulling himself over the roof’s wall.  The brown-suited hero walked unsteadily to the gas masked man.

“You want to tell me how you knew he’d take me and go to the roof?  It’s not like I pulled any punches with the guy.”

“I dreamt it.”

The Tarantula nodded and winced, gingerly touching his jaw.  A purple bruise was rapidly forming and his skin was stained with blood.  “You need any help?”

“No,” said the man.  “I have it from here.”

The Tarantula looked down at the snoring Grant and back at the masked man.  “Look here, Sandman,” he began.  “You’re no lightweight, but this lug outweighs you by at least fifty pounds!  You’re going to lift that dead weight all by yourself?”

The Sandman turned to face the Tarantula.  “No,” he said.  “I do not intend to move him at all.”

A hand composed of green flame reached down from the sky and wrapped itself around Grant.  A second tendril of fire made a platform for the Sandman to stand on and both were lifted into the air.

The Tarantula looked up to see a smiling man wearing a purple cape, red jersey and green pants.  He shook his head.  “Don’t know why people think you don’t have a sense of humor,” he said.

“It’s difficult to tell a joke while wearing a mask,” he said.  “You know you are invited as well.”

The Tarantula grinned and winced again.  He shook his head and immediately regretted doing so.  “No thank you,” he said.  “I like working alone.”

The Sandman nodded.  “If you change your mind, you know how to find us.”

“I won’t,” replied the Tarantula.  “But thanks just the same!  Have a good night, Sandman!  Green Lantern!”

“And to you as well . . . Spider-Man,” replied Sandman as they lifted into the sky and out of sight.

The Tarantula watched the three float away.  Fighting a smile, he muttered, “And that’s another reason why I’m not joining you bums.”

He gently touched his jaw again, sighed and ran to the fire escape and leapt over the roof’s edge and out of sight.


Ted Grant’s head was buried in a fluffy down-filled pillow.  He grinned to himself and pushed his head in deeper.  He was in the process of snuggling when his eyes snapped open.  His bulging eyes canted downwards and he saw the fistful of blanket he had under his chin.  His eyes darted left, then right and he realized that he was in a very large room and in the most comfortable bed he had ever slept in.  Panic leaped in and he swiveled up to a sitting position. 

Grant looked down and was relieved to see he was wearing his slacks and union shirt.  He flexed his feet and could tell he was barefoot.  He gently lowered his feet to the floor and walked across the room (bedroom?) and to the door at the far end.  His eyes glanced around at the old furniture; at its gold inlays and mosaic patterns.  He figured that the mug that picked up these trifles had to be well-heeled.

He opened the door and looked down on a brightly polished cherry wood floor and up at the ornately framed paintings that lined the walls.  He came out on tip-toe and went down the hall.

Grant looked over his shoulder and absently wiped his dry mouth with the back of his hand.  And stopped, his eyes widening in shock.  He didn’t feel the stubble of beard and ran his fingers across the rest of his face.  Someone shaved him!  A cold hand grabbed the back of Grant’s spine roughly.  He slowly lifted his arm over his head, tilted his head on an angle and sniffed.  His arm slowly lowered and he stared straight ahead.

Someone gave him a bath!

He looked down at his pants.  There were creases in them! 

Someone had taken him in, washed him, pressed his duds, and let him sleep!

Who?

The last thing he remembered was . . .

The mug in the gasmask.

Grant padded down the hall only a few feet before he heard from behind:

“Oh! You’re awake!”

Grant spun on his heels, taking a fighting stance.  Before him was a beautiful brunette wearing a white blouse open at the neck and grey pants.  She was smiling.

“I think you need a cup of coffee,” she said.  She turned on her heels, then surprised Grant by spinning back.  “Wait right here!” she said.  She frowned slightly.  “Actually, I think you better follow.  Having coffee in  the hallway just isn’t done.”  She spun back and began to walk down the hall to doorway and ducked out of sight.  Her head popped back out.  “Come on!”

Grant felt his feet move forward before his conscious mind realized it.  Since he was already in motion, well, in for a penny, he thought.

He walked to the doorway and looked inside seeing a large sitting room.  More paintings and statues filled every available area.  And there was the brunette pouring steaming Joe into tiny porcelain cups.  She turned and looked directly into his eyes, making him back a step.

“Sugar?”

“Uh, no,” he replied.  “I’ll take it as is.”

“Fine with me!” she said, handing him his cup. 

Grant took a whiff and knew this was the good stuff.  He downed the contents in one gulp and held his empty cup out for a refill.  The brunette smiled and poured him another.  After two more servings, she pointed to an empty chair in front of a roaring fireplace.

Grant sat down and took a sip from his cup.  The woman drained hers and placed it on a nearby table.

‘My name’s Belmont,” she said, holding out her hand.  “Dian Belmont.”

Grant gently shook her hand.  “Ted Grant.”

“I know.”

“Figured as much,” he said.  He looked down at himself.  “Who do I have to thank for the once over?”

She grinned.  “Me.”

Grant swallowed.  “. . . you?” he croaked.

Belmont’s grin widened.  “Well, we sent out your clothes, but I washed and shaved you.”

Grant swallowed again.  “. . . you?” he croaked.

“Mr. Grant,” Dian Belmont said with a coltish tilt of her head, “Whatever you have, I’ve seen before.”

Ted Grant felt his mouth open and his lips move, but for the life of him, he couldn’t make a sound.

“It was the least I could do,” she said.  “But if you’re ready, there are some people who want to see you.”

“A stooge with a gasmask wouldn’t be one of them, would he?”

Dian smiled.  “One of many stooges you’ll meet tonight, Mr. Grant.”

Ted allowed himself a grin as he leaned forward.  “Since you know me on such a personal basis, why don’cha call me ‘Ted’?”

Dian’s smiled widened.  “I’d have to square it with my boyfriend,” she said.  “Who you’ve met.”

Grant’s eyebrow rose a notch.  “I have?”

Dian Belmont nodded.  “The stooge with the gasmask.”

“Oh.”

“Shall we?” she asked.

“The meeting?” Grant asked.

She nodded her head.

“Sounds better than shoving the other foot in my mouth,” he said.

She led Grant out of the room and down the hallway.  They passed rooms filled with paintings, rooms filled with statuary, and room after room filled with books.

“Big place you have here,” said Grant.

“You have no idea,” she sighed.

They passed more rooms causing Grant to momentarily stop and gape and almost collided with Belmont, who had come to a halt besides a suit of armor.  She looked at Grant dryly.

“You’ll have to excuse this,” she said in a flat voice.  “He got the idea from a Shadow radio show.  I’m hoping he’ll grow out of it.”

She reached up and grabbed the lance with both hands and pulled downward.  The sound of muffled gears reached Grant’s ears as the suit of armor slid forward five feet, then slid five feet to the side, revealing an opening in the wooden panel.

“Down there.  Have a good time!” she called, walking back down the hallway.

Grant stared at her back for a few seconds then looked into the shadowy opening.

“You got some crazy notions on what’s a good time, lady,” he muttered.  His eyes peered into the shadows and saw nothing.  Grant sighed.  “In for a penny . . . “

 Ted Grant stepped forward and allowed the darkness to swallow him whole.  He kept his hands out; one touching a wall and the other out in front of him.  He walked that way for several seconds, wondering when he would hit the furthest wall (if there was a wall out there in the first place).  Grant’s mind flashed on a Bugs Bunny cartoon he had seen at the flicks a week earlier.  He remembered Elmer Fudd walking through the darkness and through a doorway that led to a cliff with a million foot drop.  He heard the Wascally Wabbit’s voice call out, “Hey Doc!  Watch out for the first step!  It’s a loo-loo!”  It would be just his luck that he would suffer the same fate.    His stretched hand brushed against something that shifted and crashed to the floor.  It would also be his luck he would have to pay for that; whatever it was.  A small flickering green light in the shadows turned him in that direction. 

Suddenly bright lights came on, sending Grant’s vision into pockets of flashing gold and black spots.  Once his vision cleared, he found himself staring at a massive ballroom, except that there were maps on the walls and ones covering a huge dining table.  In the corner was a radio on a stand, and next to it, a shortwave with headphones and a microphone, and on the wall above it, more maps.  His eyes landed on a red circle around Germany.

“Anybody here?” he called.

Grant felt a movement behind him and he turned to see the Sandman.  Behind him was a tall smiling towhead with a mask, red jersey, green pants and purple cape.  Next to him was a man wearing a red jersey and blue pants.  On his head was a round silver hat (if it could be called a hat).  Grant eyed the yellow lightning bolt that covered the front of the jersey and raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” sighed Grant.  “The gang’s all here.”

“Greetings, Mr. Grant,” said the golden haired man. 

“Sorry about the dramatics,” grinned the man in the red jersey, placing the silver headpiece on the large table and running his fingers through thick brown hair.  He angled his head at the Sandman.  “He listens to too many radio shows.”

Behind the gasmask, the Sandman sniffed.  “What good is having all this space without having a little fun with it?”

“That’s where she gets it, huh?” asked Grant.

The gasmask turned to him.  Grant could imagine a cartoon question mark floating above his head.

“You and your girlfriend,” Grant said.  “You two need to rethink that fun definition.”

The Sandman took a small step forward.  “My . . . girlfriend?”

Grant noticed that the other two glanced at each other, sharing a smile.

“That’s what the frail said,” answered Grant.  “That you were her boyfriend.”  He frowned.  “Unless she talked out of turn,” he added.

The mask moved from side to side.  “No,” replied the Sandman.  “It’s nothing.  Dian never classified our relationship before.”

The blonde cleared his throat loudly and stepped forward.  “But this little entry into domestic bliss is not the reason you’re here.”

“It ain’t?”

“There was a residue of drugs in the rinse water,” said the Sandman.
 
“Socker Smith died from an overdose,” said the man with red jersey. 

Grant’s legs felt like rubber and he backed up a step, his mind going in several different directions at once.  He felt his blood begin to boil at the implication against his opponent, friend and mentor.

Suddenly his mind was filled with a picture of bar with him sitting next to Smith, hoisting an ice cold beer.  The boxing commission just announced that he and Socker were going for the heavyweight title and Smith took him out to celebrate.

“Somebody once said,” began Socker, wiping the foam mustache from his lip with the back of his hand, “’The student becomes the teacher’, or something highbrow like that.”

“Nix on that,” grinned Grant.  “You’ll always take me in five.”

Socker’s eyes turned hard as ice covered steel.  His fist shot out and he struck Grant’s jaw, sending him flying backwards off the barstool.  Grant came up on his elbows and spat a small puddle of blood.  He rubbed his wounded jaw and looked up to see Smith standing dangerously over him.  The entire bar came to a stop, staring at the two men.  All ceased drinking.  All ceased talking and laughing.  All ceased serving.  All motion stopped.  In the background, ‘Dancing in the Dark’ played on the radio.

“You stupid lug!” Socker Smith spat.  “You’re almost as good as I am!”

“I’m thinkin’ you could’ve phrased that better,” said Grant, pulling himself off the floor.  He was about to say something when he looked around and saw everyone in the bar staring at them.  “ALL RIGHT!” he barked, his upper lip curled over his teeth.  “QUIT YER GAPIN’!”  His snarling visage turned to a beaming smile.  “Get back to yer drinkin’!”

The crowd returned his smile and went about their collective businesses.

“Tell ya somethin’, Teddy,” said Socker, calm again and taking a sip from his glass.

“You want me to get on the floor now, just to make things easier?” he asked, a half smile on his face.

“Yer better than you think you are, Teddy,” Socker said, ignoring his remark, facing straight ahead.  “You’re more than just some stumble bum with a good right and can take a beating.  Yeah, I showed you the ropes, but you got something I ain’t never seen before in a boxer.  It ain’t just your speed, your finesse, or what you got behind yer right hand.  You know me; I ain’t smart enough to put it into words, but there’s something special about you.”  Socker turned slightly on his stool and faced his friend.  “It’s in here and here,” he said, tapping chest and his temple.

Grant felt his face warm up, from collar to crown.  He took a deep pull from the glass, then drained it and signaled the bartender for another.  “Good of you to say, Socker,” Grant said in a soft voice.  “It means a lot comin’ from you.”

“That’s why when we get into the ring, since  the title is up for grabs, I’m going to have fun knocking your block off,” said Socker.

Grant’s mouth opened slightly.

“I’m gonna beat you like a red-headed stepchild, Teddy,” Socker said, turning back on the stool.  “But I know you, Teddy.  Maybe better than you know yerself.  You ain’t gonna quit.  Your corner’s gonna throw in the towel before I’m finished with you.”

Grant grinned from ear to ear.  “You can try, Socker,” he said.  He shrugged an Oh well shrug.  “You ain’t got a snowball’s, but you can try!”  He leaned forward to Smith.  “I want this title, Socker.  I really want it.”

Socker ran his fingers through his crewcut and smiled.  He raised his glass and tapped the ridge of Grant’s.  “Well, ain’t that something, Teddy,” said Socker.  “I want it too.”

Grant raised his glass.  “Then to the better man?”

Socker grinned and tapped his glass against Ted’s.  “And to you too, Teddy!”

Grant’s hands balled into hard, tight fists.  “Socker Smith never took a dive in his life!” he snarled.

“We know,” said the man in the purple cape. 

Grant eyes widened, then narrowed and flamed.  “Yer sayin’ someone slipped Socker a Mickey?”

“Exactly,” said the Sandman.

“How’d you find out when the cops didn’t?” asked Grant.

“Let’s say we have a doctor on call,” replied the man with the lightning bolt, a small smile on his lips.

“And that the person who set this up has someone in the coroner’s office and the police department,” said the caped man.

“Then you know who’s behind this?” asked Grant.

The Sandman nodded.  “Victor Moretti.”

Ted Grant whistled through pursed lips.  “Moretti?  He had Socker bumped off?”

The man in the purple and green shook his head.  “They wanted to slow Smith down, not kill him.  The amount of drugs was miscalculated.  We think it was an accident.”

“Moretti,” Grant repeated, his eyes darkening.  “That’s Black Hand.  The Mafia.”

“Our sources show that Moretti had a lot of money bet on you,” said Sandman.

“Well, the laugh’s on him,” spat Grant.  “I still didn’t win!  And I could’ve taken Socker . . . fair . . . and . . . square. . .”  Like puzzle pieces coming together, Grant’s face fell, then reassembled itself into a beaming expression of realization.  “HOLY COW!  That means I’m innocent!  I didn’t kill Socker!”

“As you should have known,” said the Sandman.

“Then let’s bring this to the cops and the boxing commission an’ clear my name!”

“We can’t,” said the Sandman.

Ted Grant’s eyes bulged in their sockets.  “Whaddya mean ya can’t!?!?!” spat Grant.  “You got proof I didn’t kill Socker!  You got the goods on Moretti!  Why can’t you tell the cops!”

“The evidence isn’t admissible.  Our source works outside the law,” explained the man in the purple cape.

“As do we all,” added the man in red shirt.  He stepped forward and held out his hand to Grant.  “Call me the Flash,” he grinned.  “I’m from Keystone City.”

“I’m the Green Lantern,” said the man next to him.  “Gotham City boy; born and bred.  You know the Sandman.”

Grant stared at the three Mystery Men, stepped back and spat on the carpeted floor.

“You three can go screw for all I care!” he growled.

“Grant!” said Flash.

“You know what killed Socker!  You know who’s behind this!”

“We do,” said the Sandman.

“But you ain’t doin’ a thing, are ya?!?!” bellowed Grant.  “You clean me up, let me get a little shut-eye and that’s all, brother; you’re on your own?!?!”

“We can’t tell the police about our findings,” said the Green Lantern. 

“But you can,” said the Sandman.

Grant’s mouth dropped open.  “Me?” he said, his voice rising an octave.  “Are you nuts!?!?!  My puss is plastered on the front page of every paper on the Eastern Seaboard!  Posters of the fight showing my mug are hangin’ around the Garden!  Even Walter Winchell’s askin’ me to turn myself in peaceably!  I take a single step outside and they’ll be on me in a minute; guns a-blazin’!” 

Green Lantern smiled.  “We have an idea,” he said.

Grant looked at the man in the red jersey, who was also smiling.  He looked over at the gasmask.  He could guess what his expression was.

“I don’t think I’m gonna like this,” he muttered.


“I ain’t wearin’ that thing!” snarled Grant.

“It’s your uniform,” said Flash.

Grant shot the Flash with a side-glance.  “Mebbe that salad bowl you wear on your noggin did somethin’ to yer hearing,” he said.  “I said, I ain’t wearin’ that thing!”

“It will provide you with night coverage and will conceal your true identity,” said Sandman.

“I don’t care if it comes with a free pack of Chesterfields!” barked Grant.  “I ain’t wearin’ that thing!”

“Why?” asked Flash.

Grant looked at the Mystery Man with a skeptically raised eyebrow.  “Do I look light in the loafers to you?!?”

The Flash took a step forward.  “What is that supposed  to mean?”

“Jeepers crow!” sighed Grant.  “Look, I didn’t mean nothin’ by that remark!  It’s just . . . just . . . well, AW!  I’d look . . . strange.”

“Meaning, this would be something Ted Grant wouldn’t be caught dead wearing?” asked Green Lantern. 

Grant looked at him in relief.  At last, someone got it! he thought.  “Exactly!”

“All the better,” said Sandman.  “Proof that Ted Grant couldn’t be behind the mask!”

The hinges on Grant’s jaw let go.  He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.  “Aw, nertz!  Give it here!” he said, holding out his hand.

Green Lantern held back a smile as he handed Grant the black uniform, boots, gloves and mask.  Grant stared at the three heroes.  The Flash, Sandman and the Green Lantern stared back.

“We’ll I ain’t gonna change in front of you!” he exclaimed.

“Oh,” said Sandman pointing to the closed double doors of the modified ballroom.  “Please use the room next door.”

“Sheesh!” Grant said, stomping towards the exit.

The three looked at each other for a beat and silently nodded.  “Grant!” called the Green Lantern.

“Ohhhh, now what?!?!”

Lantern removed his mask and ran his fingers through his thick blonde hair.  “Alan Scott,” he said grinning.

Grant almost tripped over his feet.  “Scott?” he said.  “That radio guy from Gotham?”

Scott smiled.  “The same.”

The Flash smiled and Ted Grant stared at him.  His face looked different than it did a second ago.  “Jay Garrick.  I’m a scientist by trade.”

“Humph!” grunted Grant, a small smirk on his face.  “Probably the brains of the group,” he muttered.  He fought back a full smile when he saw the insulted expression on Scott’s face.

The Sandman removed his fedora and gas mask, revealing a man with sandy hair and an oval face.  He felt his spectacles were crooked on his face and straightened them, then took them off and rubbed the lenses on his sleeve and then replaced them on his face.  “I’m Wesley Dodds,” he said finally.  “Uh . . . I’m rich.  I finance our operations.”

“And this is your joint?” Grant said, looking around him.

“Yes,” Dodds replied.  “Yes, it is.”

“Good.  Put me down for a raise!”  he turned on his heel and walked to the double doors.  “Lemme put this on before I change my mind!”  He flung the uniform over his shoulder and dropped the boots at his feet.  He opened the doors, walked through, grabbed his boots and slammed them shut.

“I like him,” said Scott.

“I think he’s a good addition,” agreed Garrick.  “But will he join us?”

“He will join us,” replied Dodds reaching for a crystal decanter and pouring himself a sherry.

“How can you be sure?” asked Scott.

Dodds sipped and stared at the closed doors.  “Grant is a good man,” he said quietly.  “A fair man.  Being from the streets, he knows injustice firsthand.”  Dodds turned and looked at his partners.  “Besides that,” he added with a smile behind the crystal goblet, “I dreamt it.”


“I look like a jerk,” groaned Ted Grant.

Scott, Dodds, and Garrick stared at Grant, giving him the once-over.  Garrick and Dodds were out of their uniforms and wearing suits and ties while Scott stood with his arms folded across his chest, sans jacket and tie. 

“Looks good, Wildcat,” grinned Garrick.

The lower half of Grant’s visible face turned sour.  “Wildcat?” he said.  “What happened?  All the good names’re taken?”  He snatched the mask from his face.  “What am I talking about?  I’m just doin’ this to clear my name!  This ain’t no career change!”

All three men looked elsewhere.

Grant’s eyes slid from face to face.  “Oh, no you don’t!’ he said slowly.  “If you think I’m joinin’ your Boy Scout troop, yer daffy!  I’m just wearin’ this getup until I get out of this jam!”

Scott looked at Grant’s hands and frowned.  “You taped your hands?” he asked.

“Nothin’ gets past you, Bright Eyes,” Grant sneered.

“The gloves will give you added protection,” said Garrick.

Grant shook his head.  “They’re too constrictin’!”  He held up his taped hands.  “This’ll do!”  He looked down at the mask in his hand, then at the Mystery Men.  He looked up at the ceiling.  “I know I’m gonna hate myself in the mornin’ for bringin’ this up,” he said, his lips twisted in a sour expression.  “But lookin’ at the fuzzy mask here (and knowin’ my unpleasant demeanor), I understand why you’re callin’ me Wildcat.  Scott here, with that green lantern on his chest; ‘nuff said.  Doddsy got his kayo gun, so I’d have to be as dense as a rock not to get the Sandman moniker.  But you, Garrick.  You got a lightning bolt and a salad bowl chapeau.  I’ll bite; why the Flash?”

Jay Garrick grinned and, in the blink of an eye, was standing behind Grant.  He tapped him on the shoulder.

 “AHHHH!” Grant screamed.  He looked at Garrick, then turned to see where he was no longer standing.  When he turned back, Garrick was no longer behind him.  Grant spun and found the Flash standing in his original spot.  “But . . . I . . . how . . . ?”

“The hat comes from the Greek god, Mercury,” Garrick said with a grin.  “He was also a speedster.  And Ted; in the words of Jolson, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Before Ted Grant could open his mouth, he found himself in a different room with a pool table.  Cueing up was Dian Belmont.  She looked up and sighed.

“Showing off again, Jay?” she asked.

Garrick’s face flushed.  “A little,” he said.

Belmont looked at Grant.  His face had gone bone white and his eyes were bulging.

“Nice outfit, Mr. Grant,” she said.

“I didn’t  . . . he . . . uh . . .“ he stammered, looking like a dying fish.

“We’ll see you later, Dian,” said Garrick.

“You boys go play,” she replied.

Before he knew it, Grant was back in the room with the Green Lantern and Sandman.  Standing next to them was the Flash, calmly pouring a glass of water from a crystal decanter.  Grant swayed back and forth, his eyes rolling in their sockets.

“You gotta stop doin’ that!” he exclaimed.

“Water?” Garrick asked, holding up the glass.

“I’d like somethin’ a lot stronger right now, but yeah; H2O’ll do.”  Grant looked down and saw the glass in his hand.  He looked up and saw Jay still standing a distance away from him, smiling.  Grant swallowed the contents in one noisy gulp.  “Don’t do that anymore, okay?”

“Moretti’s back in the city,” said Dodds, ignoring what just went on.  “He just returned from a meeting with Luciano in Chicago,” said Dodds.

“’Lucky’ Luciano?” Grant said in a hushed voice.  He frowned.  “But he’s in jail.”

“And still controls his operations from the inside,” said Scott.

“We’ll get back with you on Moretti’s location and let you know how guarded he is,” Dodds said.

“Don’t do me no favors,” said Grant.  “I know how to find him.”

“We have excellent sources, Ted,” said Scott.

“Don’t doubt you do,” Grant replied.  “But if Moretti has someone on the inside, you know the flatfoots on the take are watching out for me.  I’m going to have a chat with a few people I know on the street.  Ex-boxers on the skids.  They’re leg-breakers now.  They’ll lead me to him in a pinch.”

“They would be willing to rat on Moretti?” asked Scott.

Grant smiled darkly and held up two fists.  “Not at first,” he said.  “But I’m known to be very persuasive.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of paying your apartment’s rent and utilities,” said Dodds.  “You have full access to the mansion until you’ve cleared your name.”

“Awfully white of you, Doddsy!” grinned Grant.

Ignoring the snickers from Scott and Garrick, Dodds reached to the large table and lifted a stack of papers and turned back to Grant.  “This is all the information we have on Moretti,” he said.  “You should look this over.”

Grant waved the air in front of him.  “Naw!” he said.  “Never been much of a reader.  Probably bore me to tears.”  He pulled the mask over his head, letting the straps dangle under his chin.  He walked quickly to the doors of the modified ballroom.

“You’re leaving now?” asked Scott.

“Ain’t no time like the present!” Grant called over his shoulder.  He opened the doors and stopped, turning slightly at the hip.  “Besides,” he added, “it took me a bit to get into this clown suit.  I don’t cherish the notion of taking it off just to put it back on!  Keep yer eyes on the funny papers, Boys!  You’ll here from me!”

“But . . . “ began Dodds.

Grant turned, his eyes on fire.  “Look,” he said, “Thanks for the chance to prove I didn’t kill Socker.  But I not only gotta clear my name, but Socker’s as well!  Socker Smith never took a dive in his life, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let mugs say he did, even if it proves I didn’t eighty-six him!  You got me?”

Alan Scott, Jay Garrick and Wesley Dodds looked at  each other, then back to Grant.

“Be careful,” said Garrick.

“If you need anything, let us know,” said Scott.

“You will do fine,” said Dodds.

Grant tilted his head, regarding the Sandman.  “Thanks again for the vote of confidence, Doddsy,” said Grant, “but how can you be so sure?”

“I dreamed of you,” Dodds replied.

Grant ripped the mask from his face and gave Dodds a very repulsed look.

“Awww, you didn’t have to tell me that!” he groaned.  “That’ll put me off my feed, for sure!”  He jammed the mask over his face and stormed out of the ballroom.

“Can’t believe people don’t think you have a sense of humor, Wes,” said Scott.  Garrick was giggling so hard, he had to prop himself up on the table.

“It’s the mask, Alan,” smiled Dodds.  “It’s the mask.”

  
Ricardo Carlos Francisco Estaban Sheldon (after his god-uncle, Sheldon Lipschutz) Dejesus (also known as Ricky the Piñata) came out of the Kit Kat Club with a giggling Bobby-Soxer at his elbow.  Even though he was six foot six, two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle, pug ears, an oversized lower lip, a nose that had been broken a half a dozen times, and had a face that even his sainted mother classified as ‘homely as a basset hound’, he was dressed to the nines in his pearl gray zoot suit (with reet pleat), spats, pocket watch with the extra long chain and wide brimmed white hat.  He had spent the evening jitterbugging with several nubile young ladies, flashing his wad of greenbacks, and plying them with drink, exiting with the young lady, she of innocent (but tipsy) face, the wide skirt, the short rolled white socks over penny loafers, the white cotton blouse and pigtails (and of course there were freckles).  He had already forgotten her name, but told her that he wanted to make a stop at his apartment, then they would continue the dancing until dawn early hours.  After going to several showings of Errol Flynn in They Died with Their Boots On and Dive Bomber, Ricky made a valiant attempt to grow a thin penciled mustache.  His sainted mother, who was the only honest voice in the crowd, told him he looked like ‘a basset hound trying to look like Errol Flynn’.  Everyone else told Ricky he looked great, for fear of Dejesus losing his temper, which he did on a regular basis.

To Dejesus’ credit, despite his size, he was very fast, had a very strong right, and fought – in the day – an impressive one hundred and ten professional bouts.  Impressive, because he lost one hundred and five.  The five he won were decisions, if holding the referee’s wife, children, and/or both hostage could be a deciding factor. 

If you look up the word ‘glass’, you’d find its definition to read: any of various amorphous materials formed from a melt by cooling to rigidity without crystallization.  Such could be said of Dejesus’ jaw.  Such could also be said of his well-toned gut.

Not seeing his winning streak improving, Victor Moretti decided to use Dejesus’ size and bad temper for better use; like helping individuals who were delinquent on paying him back money see a bigger picture.

Like Dejesus standing over them with a ball peen hammer.

But tonight, Dejesus was off the Moretti clock.  He had a good buzz on.  He had a wad of cash in his pocket.  He had the giggling chippy at his elbow.  He had a packet of Spanish Fly waiting for him at his apartment.  What could go wrong? he asked himself as he walked past the alley.

“Ricky Piñata!” called a gruff voice.

Dejesus spun at the voice’s direction and could only see shadows in the alley opening.

“The name is Ricky Dejesus!” he snarled peering into the darkness.  “Who’s that?”

“You still a sucker for a right cross?” asked the voice.

Dejesus took a step forward into the mouth of the alley and walked into a taped right fist, sending his head back on his neck.  A left struck him in the midsection, doubling him over, followed by a vicious uppercut to the jaw, sending Dejesus up on his toes.

Two hands caught him by the lapels of his zoot suit (with the reet pleat) and dragged him into the shadows.

The giggling Bobby-Soxer had stopped giggling, her mouth open in a small o.  She backed up when an animal’s face came out of the shadows, stiff-arming her date into the alley wall.  His mouth hung open and a small tear of blood ran from its corner.  His eyes were rolled back in his head so only the whites showed.

“What’s yer name, girly?” asked the manimal.

“Uh . . . uh . . . uh . . . “ she stammered.

Dejesus began to move against the bricks.  The girl saw a small smile appear on the lower half of the creature in front of her.

“Hold that thought,” he said, spinning on his heel and sent a combination to Dejesus’ face.  Dejesus’ head bounced against the brick wall behind him.  The large man slid down the hard surface and landed in a sitting position.  His head lolled forward on his thick neck and he actually began to snore.  The creature in black turned back to the girl.  “Now,” he said, “What’s yer name?”

“Uh . . . Betty?”

The thing in front of her grinned.  “Okay, Uh Betty,” he said.  “I think I hear your momma’s callin’.”

She stared at the creature with a slack jaw.

He/it took a step closer, making the girl back up the same distance.

“Fade,” the voice growled.

The fear in her face momentarily evaporated and was replaced by confusion.

“SCRAM!” the creature barked.

Uh Betty scrammed.

Grant looked around and saw the streets were empty.  He looked down at the snoring Dejesus.

“Ricky, my boy,” he said.  “We’ve gotta talk.”

He leaned forward and hoisted Dejesus over his shoulder and disappeared into the shadows.


Ricardo Carlos Francisco Estaban Sheldon (after his god-uncle, Sheldon Lipschutz) Dejesus (also known as Ricky the Piñata) came to in the center of a boxing ring, its bright domed light shining in his eyes.  He, for more times than he could remember (or count, for that matter), rubbed his aching jaw.  He sat up and looked around with eyes so wide, the eyeballs threatened to pop out of his skull. 

“Need some information, there, Ricky,” said a gruff voice from below the ring. 

Like a bolt of lightning had gone through him, Ricky got to his feet and quickly removed his jacket, rolling up his sleeves as he began to back-step around the ring, looking into each and every shadow.

“Aw, it don’t have ‘ta be that way, Ricky,” said the voice with the utmost insincerity.  Dejesus spun when the voice came from over his shoulder.  “All ya gotta do is tell me where Moretti is.”

“Who’s dat!?!?” bellowed Dejesus, backing away quickly, his eyes on the lookout for the barest hint of movement in the shadows. 

“I’m askin’ the questions here, Ricky,” the voice said from another spot in the arena; again behind him.  “Where’s Moretti?”

“Who the hell wants to know?” Dejesus screamed, his head turning from side to side.

“Me,” said the voice directly behind him.

Dejesus spun around and stared incredulously (which was a word not in his lexicon, so we’ll say stupidly) at the heavily muscled man in a skintight black coverall wearing what looked like a cat mask.  Being a boxer, Dejesus’ eyes automatically noticed that the man had taped his hands like a pro. 

“Who the f . . . ?”

“The name’s Wildcat,” Grant replied.  “I want Moretti.  Give.”

For the first time since he revived, Ricky Dejesus grinned.  “You comin’ to me?  For Moretti?!??!” he asked.  “Lookin’ like that?”

“Don’t let the pajamas fool you none, Ricky,” Wildcat answered.  “You know where Moretti is and you’re gonna tell me.”

“The only thing you’re getting’ is a dirt nap!” barked Dejesus swinging a haymaker to the side of Wildcat’s head. 

Grant easily ducked under the swinging arm and sent a flurry of jabs into Dejesus’ midsection.  Suddenly winded and doubled over, Dejesus backed away.  Wildcat, fists at the ready, advanced.

Dejesus stepped forward with an uppercut.  Wildcat sidestepped and sent his own into Dejesus’ open jaw, sending the man’s head back on his shoulders.  Dejesus sent a hard left into Wildcat’s stomach, backing him up just slightly.  He then came at him with a roundhouse right that Wildcat blocked.  Wildcat in turn fired more shots to the man’s middle.  Dejesus backed away, even more winded than before.

“We could call this quits now, Ricky,” the Wildcat said with a dark smile.  “All ya gotta do is fess up on Moretti.”

“I don’t know where Moretti is,” he replied with a mean grin.  “That means you’re getting a beatin’ for nuttin’!”

Grant looked at Dejesus’ hands and blinked in surprise.  He didn’t see him slip on the knuckle-dusters.  He looked up to see a rectangle of brass coming at his face and he backed up at the last second.  Dejesus sent a swinging left at Wildcat’s head and again, at the last moment, Grant backed up a step, allowing the fist to go by.  Dejesus moved back a step and sent the toe of his size thirteen, high polished spat to Wildcat’s jaw, sending the hero backwards into the ropes.

Seeing his advantage, Dejesus began to pummel and kick Wildcat into the canvas floor.  Each kick was sent with accuracy into Grant’s stomach, upper thighs and head.  Each alternating blow was either a low one or a head shot.  Grant did all he could to cover and protect himself, looking for any opening; a way out.  And then he found it.

Dejesus, was getting tired and began had begun to beat and kick him in a pattern.  There was no more homicidal anger in his blows; he was just doing it for punishment sake.  It was what he did now.  Kick, punch, punch, kick, kick.  And there were now additional seconds between each shot to the head and kick to the midsection.  Grant absorbed the punishment for several more minutes, on his knees, his head placed between them, grazing the canvas surface.  Dejesus leaned forward and began to punch and kick on a downward angle.  After the last punch, Grant came up like a rocket and sent a hard right and a left into Dejesus’ ribs, breaking them.

Excruciating pain and surprise filled Dejesus’ features.  His feet unconsciously moved him backwards several feet.

Wildcat came at him swinging, aiming his fists for Dejesus’ face and fragile jaw, hitting hard enough to stun, but not to knock out. 

The skin under Dejesus’ eye split and blood trickled down his cheek.  He felt his nose crack and his teeth loosen.  He heard gongs sound off in his head as his ears were boxed.  He saw the yellow eyes and the whiskers begin to swim in front of him. 

Grant then sent several punches into Dejesus’ stomach, doubling him over, only to fire shot after hard shot to the sides of his head.  He grabbed a handful of matted hair and dragged him to his eye level.

“Give me the line on Moretti, Ricky?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Ricky groaned, spitting out several teeth in the process.

“Yeah, ya do,” Wildcat said, sending a right into Dejesus’ stomach  that lifted his feet from the floor.

“No!” panted Dejesus.  “I don’t!”

Grant dropped a hard boot on the tip of Dejesus’ shoe, breaking his toes.  Dejesus inhaled sharply, then screamed.

“Then you know someone who does,” said Wildcat.

Dejesus shook his head, tears of pain and frustration flying from his eyes.  “Can’t tell you!” he gasped.  “They’ll kill me!”

Wildcat sent several rabbit punches to Dejesus’ kidneys, making him cry out.  He sent hammer-blows to the man’s ribs, cracking the broken bones.  He raised Dejesus’ head with the heel of his taped hand and sent punch after punch to either side of his face.  As the man sunk to his knees, Wildcat grabbed his dripping hair and lifted him up.  He brought his face next to Dejesus.

“There are worse things than dyin’, Ricky,” Wildcat whispered hoarsely. 

Dejesus’ eyes began to flutter and roll back in their sockets.  Wildcat, in two quick moves, dropped a heavy boot on the man’s unbroken foot; not enough to break, just enough to hold in place.  He then drove the heel of his other boot into Dejesus’ knee, shattering it.

The eyes of Ricardo Carlos Francisco Estaban Sheldon (after his god-uncle, Sheldon Lipschutz) Dejesus went wide, his bronze skin turned ashen and he let out a scream that echoed in the arena.  He felt himself being pulled up by the front of his shirt.

“Now that I’ve got yer attention,” the masked man whispered, a dark smile on his face, “allow me to enlighten you.”

Wildcat then went to work.


The New York City police found Dejesus’ badly beaten body in the arena the next morning.  That was followed by the early AM discovery of Jimmy ‘The Bruiser’ McCoy, hanging by his wrists in the projection room of an abandoned movie theater that never came back after the depression.  His ribcage was cracked in several places and  his entire upper torso was one gigantic bruise.  The beat cop who found McCoy (after hearing his groans echoing in the theater) said someone used the pug-ugly as a heavy bag.

The morning after McCoy, they found Eddie Marx lying unconscious in an alley, his jaw dislocated, his arm broken, his hand crushed and his skull fractured.  

After Marx, there were three more.  Johnny ‘the Gent’ Casson, Tommy Flanagan, and Dale ‘the Knockout Kid’ Cleese.

Each body was found severely beaten and broken in the early morning hours.  Each man was an ex-pugilist and now mob enforcer.  Each man had the name MORETTI written in their own blood on their clothes.  And each man, when they regained consciousness all spoke of a black-suited man in an animal mask.

“And that, Mister Moretti, is what brings me here today,” said the tall pale man in the belted trench coat.

Victor Moretti was very wealthy, very powerful, and very well-fed.  He was also very scared.  The thin sheen of perspiration on his pale and wan face was a dead giveaway.

“You said that yesterday, Detective,” snarled Moretti.  “And the day before that, and the day before that.  You say that all the time!  When you gonna change the record?”

“When you spill who’s takin’ out your stooges, that’s when!” spat the man, shoving a worn notepad in his coat’s pocket.  The detective took a step forward making Moretti flinch.  “Who wants you so bad, Moretti?” he asked.  “Who’s been after you since you jumped in port?  Who’s the Wildcat?”

Victor Moretti shoved past him and poured himself a stiff drink with shaking hands.

“Awfully early to start drinkin’,” the man warned.

“There ain’t no Wildcat, Detective,” said Moretti after a few noisy gulps of the bourbon.  “And there ain’t no one after me.”  He grinned but the humor never reached his glassy eyes.  “Must be some other guy named ‘Moretti’.  That’s it!  The jerk’s got the wrong guy!  It’s a case of mistaken identity!  I got no enemies, Detective.  Everyone likes me!”

The detective moved across the room and swatted the glass from Moretti’s hand, grabbed him by his shirt and slammed him against the wall.

“I don’t like you, Moretti,” the man hissed.  “You’re nothin’ but a lowlife crook, and I don’t like lowlife crooks.  Especially ones on my beat.  You see, Moretti, I don’t allow mugs like you on my beat.”  He released him and stepped back, running his fingers through his hair and straightening the creases in his coat.  “So aside from me, the bo that’s takin’ your boys apart ain’t exactly your number one fan,”

The Detective pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his coat pocket and lit one, dropping the lit wooden match to the expensively carpeted floor.  After a second of watching the carpet fibers ignite, he snuffed it out with the heel of his shoe, leaving a charred black sooty smear.  He exhaled a plume of smoke in Moretti’s face and walked to the door of the room. 

“I’ve said my piece,” the Detective said, opening the door.  “When you’re ready to pigeon, look me up.  I’m in the book.”  He chuckled as he shut the door behind him. 

Victor Moretti stood vibrating in the middle of the room, his face so red, cartoon steam rushing out of his ears would have been appropriate.  He released a howl of absolute rage and grabbed the chair from the writing table and smashed it against the wall.  Three men burst through the door, their guns held out in front of them.

“You okay, Mr. Moretti?” asked the one in the lead.

“Where the hell were you five minutes ago when that stinkin’ cop mussed me up!?!?!” screamed Moretti.

The three goons looked at each other nervously, then back to their boss.  Moretti’s eyes narrowed at his goons.

“You ain’t telling me that flatfoot made you lose your nerve!”

“Uh, Mr. Moretti,” began the second thug.  “There’s somthin’ about that pounder that ain’t right!”

“That’s Jim Corrigan!” exclaimed the third.

Victor Moretti stared at the men.  The men stared back at Moretti.  Moretti’s left eye began to twitch.

“That’s it?” he asked.  “That’s your excuse?”

“But . . . “ began the first.

“I ain’t never heard of this bum, Corrigan!!!” Moretti screamed.  He reached down and grabbed a chair leg and threw it at the men.  The spinning length of wood went over their head and hit a framed painting of several ballet dancers practicing their moves.  “Get outta here before have the three of you idiots killed!”

The men ran out the room, the last closing the door behind him.  Moretti stalked across the room and to the telephone.  He gave the operator the number he wanted and ground his teeth while he waited for someone to pick up. 

“Victor Moretti,” he said.  “Tell him I need to speak with him.  It is very important.  Yeah. I’ll be here.” 

Moretti hung up the telephone, went to the bar and poured himself a double of bourbon.  He was on his third drink when the telephone rang.

“Yeah? Thank you for calling back so soon.  There’s a matter I need your assistance taking care of.”  Moretti listened and his redden face paled.  “You . . . heard . . . Yes.  You’re right.  I should have called you sooner.  Yeah, that’s what this guy calls himself.”  A small smile slid across Moretti’s greasy face.  “Thank you!  I owe you . . . uh, did you just say sixty-five percent?  NO! No, I ain’t complainin’!  It’s more than fair!  Thank you, I . . . Hello?  Hello?”

Victor Moretti hung up the telephone, grabbed another broken chair leg and threw it across the room.


It was midday in the Dodds' mansion’s guest room when Ted Grant woke up, and that was because the scent of fresh brewed coffee filled his nostrils.  Buried under a thick blanket in what he knew had to be the most comfortable bed he had ever slept in. 

His head had made a deep indentation in the thick fluffy pillow; so much so, the ends of the pillow gently pressed against the sides of his face.  At the smell of joe, his nostrils flared and in his sleep he began to sniff.  The aroma was so powerful, that after several seconds of his nose alerting his mind, he opened up one sleep encrusted eye and turned his head.

Standing on one side of his bed, wearing a soft, but expensive looking lavender dress and holding a cup was Dian Belmont.
 Grant smiled sleepily, muttered an unintelligible ‘good morning’, closed his eyes and snuggled deeper in the pillow.  Three seconds later, Grant’s eyes shot open and he skated backwards off the bed, slamming onto the floor.  Though momentarily stunned, it took only a second for his mind to register that his naked flesh was pressing on the carpet.  He reached out, grabbed the sheets from the bed and pulled it across him.

“Jeeze!” exclaimed Grant, his face now very flushed.  “Ain’t it customary for you rich types to knock before enterin’ a room!??!”

“Coffee?” she asked nonplussed, holding out a small porcelain mug.  She tilted her head to the steaming silver urn on the night table.

“I’m fully awake now, thank you very much!” he said.  “And I ain’t movin’ a muscle until you leave the room!”  She began to speak, but Grant cut her off.  “And don’t go giving me the malarkey about you knowin’ . . . I mean, that you’ve seen . . . Oh, you know what I mean!”

“Since it would be a waste of time to leave the room only to enter again,” she said with a bemused smile on her face, “how about I turn around?”

Grant frowned and considered her suggestion.  Then he considered his nakedness.  “Aw! You shouldn’t hit me with the tough ones before I had my coffee!” he said wincing.  “You promise you won’t look?”

“I swear on my trust fund,” she replied holding up her hand, palm out and flat.

“Very funny,” he groused.  “You should go on Major Bowes!”  They looked at each other for several beats.  Grant pulled his hand out from under the sheets and pointing his index finger downward, spun it several times with a Well?-look on his face.  Belmont’s smile widened and she turned her back on him.  Still holding the cup in one hand, she raised her free hand to the side of her face, shielding her peripheral vision.

Grant looked around and saw his pants hanging over a chair several feet away.  Pulling the sheets with him, he slid across the floor and hooked the belt with the stretched fingers, pulling the pants to the floor.  He dragged the pants under the sheets and gyrated underneath them for a few seconds.  Pants on, he pulled himself to a standing position, the coverings pooled at his feet.  He walked over and plucked the cup from her fingers and drained its contents.

“May I turn around now?” she asked innocently.

“Don’t play cute,” Grant said, trying to hold his smile back.  “It don’t suit you.” 

Belmont poured him another cup from the urn and Grant took that one a lot slower.  He looked at her, his eyebrows knit. 

“Look, Dian,” he said.  “I know yer a free thinker and one of them ‘modern women’, but there’s gotta be a limit!”

“There is no limit in freedom,” she replied.

Grant’s eyes narrowed.  “Oh, no ya don’t!” he said.  “I ain’t getting’ into one of those discussions!”

“One of what discussions?” asked Belmont.

“You know!” he said.  “How you dames’ve been under the thumb of every Tom, Dick and Whozis and it’s time you had your say type of discussions.”

“Very simplified,” she muttered.  “You don’t believe women should be treated equally?”

“I didn’t say that,” he replied quickly. 

“Then what are you saying?” she asked.

“What I’m tryin’ to say is . . . “Before Grant could finish his sentence, he smiled slightly, narrowed his eyes at Belmont and nodded his head.  “Yer good,” he said.  “Ya almost got me there!  You’re very good.”

“I try,” she said, flashing him a bright smile.

“Well, there must be somthin’ jumpin’ to disturb me from my beauty rest,” he said.  “Give.”

“The boys want to see you,” she said.  “It’s important.”

Grant nodded, his face serious.  “Lemme splash some water on my face, run a comb through my mop and I’ll be down in a few shakes.  Thanks for the joe,” he said, placing the fragile cup on the silver urn’s matching tray.  He turned and walked to the room’s private bath.

“Do you have to be so brutal?” Belmont asked.

Grant stopped and turned back.  He looked at her with an expression of confusion. 

“I’ve read the newspapers,” she said, walking around the large bed.  “They go into detail on what you did to those men.  Why such senseless brutality?  It borders on the sadistic.”

Grant face clouded over.  He walked back to where Dian Belmont was now standing. 

“What I do to those mugs is what they understand,” he said flatly. 

“But . . . “ began Belmont.

“No buts, Dian,” he said, cutting her off.  “These guys learned about life in the streets, using their fists, not some boarding school where they walk around with their noses in the air.”

“You don’t understand . . . “ she began.

“That’s right; I don’t!” snapped Grant.  “And neither do you!  You don’t know what it’s like to get smacked around on a daily basis; sometime by yer folks!  You don’t know what it’s like to have to fight for a fair shake every day of your life!”  He held up his bruised and battered hands.  “WITH THESE!”    Grant pointed his finger at her.  “You!  Don’t!  Know!”

Grant stalked away, then turned back and stopped only inches from Belmont.  The woman held her ground and she locked eyes with the prizefighter.  Grant’s hard face softened and he gave the woman a warm smile.

“You don’t hobnob with the slobs I do, D,” he said.  “I wouldn’t give these pugs a beatin’ they didn’t deserve or couldn’t take.  What seems brutal to you is light stuff in comparison to what I could have given ‘em.”

It was Belmont’s turn to glare.  “First,” she began, “I am fully aware of the ‘slobs’ you hobnob with!  For your information, my father was a policeman and is now the district attorney, and because he has this habit of bringing his ‘work’ home with him, I am fully aware of the pugs you brutalized! And . . . ”

“Waitaminute!” Grant said, cutting her off.  “Your Pop was a beat cop?  Then what was that crack about the trust fund?”

“A small joke,” Belmont replied. 

Grant looked at Dian Belmont up and down, like it was the first time.  “And here I am thinkin’ that you and Doddsy met at some fancy cotillion or somethin’.  That you’re as well-heeled as he is.  Well, is my face red!  How the heck did you guys meet anyhow?”

“That’s a tale for another day,” she replied.

Grant chuckled and made a slight bow at the waist.  “Lemme tell ya somthin’, Miss Belmont,” he said, “This life seems to fit you like a glove.  Like you were born for it” 

 “Are you doing all this to get to Moretti, or are you doing this to vent your frustration?” she asked, stopping Grant in mid-turn.

Grant grinned and wagged a finger at Belmont.  “Don’t go playin’ shrink with me, Dian,” he said.  “You don’t know me that well.  Look, if the guys need to see me, lemme put a fresh shirt on and let’s get goin’.”  He walked to the closet and pulled out a white shirt and began to button its front. 

He looked up at her with an uncustomary whimsical look on his face.  “Tell ya something, D,’ he said over his shoulder as he opened his pants to tuck his shirt in, “Part of this is Moretti.  I won’t lie an’ tell ya different.  But these mugs are bad eggs.  They go after the weak and the poor, makin’ ‘em weaker and poorer.  They break fingers, they break legs, they burn good people outta their homes, and all for what?  That they were down on their luck and borrowed a few simeoleons from the wrong guy?”  He walked back over to her.

“Now I don’t know who you guys go after, but I’ll make bet it ain’t always for the little guy.”  He held up his hands, stopping her protest before it began.  “I ain’t sayin’ you don’t, but on a regular basis, I don’t think ya do.”  He shoved his hands in his pockets.  “I feel good helpin’ out the regular Joes,” he said.  “Don’t know why, but I do.  Maybe because I know what it’s like to have someone in my corner, rootin’ for me, tellin’ me that all this didn’t have ta be.  That there was somethin’ better.  Aw, I ain’t good with words!”

“You’re talking about Socker, aren’t you?” she asked gently.

Ted Grant nodded.  “Ol’ Socker was there for me,” he said.  “Who’s there for them? I figure while I’m wearin’ the union suit, I might as well pinch in, ya know?”

Dian Belmont smiled warmly at Ted Grant.  “I do, Ted,” she said.  Her smile turned to a smirk.  “You’ll fit right in.”

“Now don’t you start!” exclaimed Grant, failing at hiding his grin.  “I tell you like I told the guys; this thing is only temporary!”

“Says you,” she said opening the door for him.

Grant frowned and grinned at the same time.  “You’re tellin’ me you don’t believe in ‘ladies first’?” he asked.

“I’m tellin’ you I was the foist to get to the door,” she said in a perfect lower Manhattan accent.

“Well, that’s all right then,’ he sniffed walking past her, exiting with his nose pointed to the ceiling.

Dian Belmont smiled and followed him, closing the door behind her.


“There’s a contract out on you,” said Dodds.

“A what?” asked Grant.

“A contract,” repeated Alan Scott.  “Moretti called Luciano, who contacted Meyer Lansky . . . “

“Who made a call,” said Jay Garrick. 

“Actually, a few,” said Scott.

“Murder Incorporated,” whispered Grant.

Dodds nodded.  “You need to be careful, Ted,” he said. 

“Always am, Doddsy!” Grant said with a forced smirk.  “I’m close to finding Moretti.”

“He’s been found,” he said. 

Grant’s eyes suddenly widened and flared.  “You know where he is?”

“They have people on the inside,” Scott said with a smile.  “So do we.”

“Name’s Jim Corrigan,” said Garrick.  “He works under the name, the Spectre.”

“Spectre, huh?” sniffed Grant.  “What does he do?  Walk around in a sheet and yell BOO! at the bad guys?”

Garrick, Dodds and Scott looked at each other.  Grant noticed that they looked uneasy.  Very uneasy.  Garrick turned a tight face to Grant.

“Uh, no,” he said, his voice cracking.

Grant was about to ask what he was talking about, but his mind flashed with Moretti’s face.  “So Corrigan knows and now you know.  So give.”

“He’s at the Continental,” said Scott.  “Penthouse suite.”

“Nice digs,” replied Grant with a smirk.  “Well, I’m gonna go do a workout and get ready for tonight’s meeting with Mr. Moretti.”  Grant tightened his hands and his knuckles cracked loudly.

“If you can forgo the workout,” said Dodds.  “I think it would be better we plan tonight’s raid.”

Grant frowned.  “What’s this ‘we’ stuff?” he asked.  “You already gave me the high sign that you weren’t helpin’ me.  What gives?”

“We said,” began Scott, “that we couldn’t give our evidence to the police.”  He grinned and tilted his head.  “We didn’t say we wouldn’t give you a hand.”

“Besides,” added Garrick, “Corrigan told us Moretti hired outside help.  The place is going to be filled with Moretti’s men and whoever Murder Inc. sent to kill you.”

“A few on every floor,” said Dodds.  “To the penthouse.”

Grant stared at the three men.  “Just the five of us?  Against a mobster’s army?”

“Correct,” said Dodds. 

Grant stared at them for a beat.  “What are you doing this for?” asked Grant.  “What’s in it for you?”

 “Ted,” Scott.  “You’re not alone anymore.”

Ted Grant stared at the men and realized the truth of it.  He was now part of a family.  He was more than comfortable hanging around the mansion with the guys (and Belmont), feeling like they were his brothers (and annoying sister).   He ate with them.  Drank with them.  Joked and talked with them.  They were good eggs; a little nuts at times, but good people. 

He was filled with a sudden melancholy. 

Ted Grant knew it was going to be hard leaving when all this was over.

Regardless, he smiled.

“So I take it you got a plan?” he said.  

“As a matter of fact,” said Dodds with a smile, “We do.”


The streets of New York shimmered in the glow of the street light after the early evening rain.  A few passerbys walked the damp streets, skirting wide puddles, talking amongst themselves.  They all had this expression of content, as if they were all renewed by the smell of fresh air and rain. 

Small puddles refracted the blinking marquee of the Continental sign and sent up brief sparkles of light.  A single doorman stood waiting with an umbrella for a client to come out and need a taxi.  His face also showed that comfortable expression. 

The doorman looked around at the empty street and over his shoulder at the empty lobby.

“Gonna be a quiet night,” he said aloud to no one.  He folded the umbrella and rested it against the building’s wall.

His name is Bill DeLuise.  He is thirty-seven years old.  DeLuise is married and has a baby girl.  He was a doorman at one of the biggest hotels in the city; next to the Plaza.  Up until this very moment, DeLuise is usually right about things.  That was because he was highly intuitive.  He could tell with a glance what the client wanted before they asked.  And that made them happy; not having to ask.  He was known through the small collective of doormen in the New York area as the ‘doorman’s doorman’, and some tried to follow his methods. 

Some would think that the position of a doorman was a subservient one, but DeLuise found untold power in anticipating the wants of the rich crumbs.  Sure, he thought.  Go ahead and look down on me.  Go on thinking you’re better than me.  But who knows what you want before you want it?  Who knows what your needs are without you speaking a single syllable?  Who do you come running to?  Who gets called in to solve your oh-so important problems on his day off? 

Who gets the big tips?

Bill DeLuise looked up under the white canopy at the sky.  His face became dotted with specks of rain. 

“Sprinkle,” he said smiling into the mist.  

He pulled his head back, adjusted his top hat and tailed jacket, and pulled a starched white handkerchief from his inside pocket.  He dabbed at his face, refolded the square of material, and returned it to his pocket.  He looked at the empty streets to his left and right.  Not a soul could be seen.  DeLuise then turned at the waist and gave the lobby the once over.  Except for that new guy behind the desk, and the men reading newspapers and magazines and drinking in the lounge, the brightly lit area was empty.  He gave the man at the desk a sour look.  He didn’t look the Continental type. 

As a matter of fact, most of the staff had changed to ones less desirable.  Especially that maid.  DeLuise made a mental note to talk to the shift supervisor in the morning. 

But it was quiet and that simple fact chased all other thoughts from his head.

“Yeah,” he said.  “It’s gonna be a quiet night.”

As said, up until this very moment, Bill DeLuise is usually right about things. 

At the moment DeLuise’s teeth and tongue finished the ‘t’ on ‘night’, a dark figure walked from the shadows of the alley across the street.  Bill DeLuise blinked several times when the figure walked under the glow of a street lamp.  His mouth opened and closed when he saw the man was coming in his direction.  Bill DeLuise’s entire body became rooted to the spot when the man stopped inches from where he stood. 

He couldn’t take his eyes off the jutting whiskers.

“How ya doin?” a voice snarled.

The man walked past him and through the revolving door.

As DeLuise turned to follow the dark-clothed man, a sudden gust of wind went past him and sent the revolving door spinning.  DeLuise turned back to the street just as a flash of green went by him, making him turn back.

“William DeLuise!” said a ghostly voice from over his shoulder. 

The doorman’s shoulders went up around his ears.  He turned around slowly and saw a man in a gasmask standing only inches in front of him.

“You do not need to be a party to this, William DeLuise!” said the Sandman.  “Sleep!”

One gloved hand latched onto DeLuise’s lapel and his other arm raised and fired a plume of yellow gas into the doorman’s face.

When he fell back, he felt himself stop in midair.  He tilted his head back and saw a man wearing a hat that reminded him of pictures of the god Mercury.  The man smiled warmly at him.

“Don’t worry,” he said.  “I’ve got you.”

He craned his head forward and saw the man in black and a green glow standing in front of the revolving doors, then turned and looked at the man wearing the gasmask.

The last thought Bill DeLuise had before the quiet night closed around him was: These gentlemen will have trouble getting reservations.


Jerry D’argi was sitting in one of the plush chairs, reading a Dick Tracy comic book.  His face wore an expression of intense concentration.  Joe Jonah was on the public side of the front desk in a heated debate on last night’s Yankees game with Paul Manners, who kept adjusting the knot on his tie.  Carl Elliott, ‘Fancy’ Phil Danvers, Carmine Ragusso, and Tommy ‘Dink’ Hannigan were at a table playing poker, frosty bottles of beer at their elbows.  Rudy Avon was in a comfortable looking chair near the revolving door, dining on his ragged looking nails. 

Rudy wasn’t nervous; not by any extreme.  Many said whatever substituted for blood in his veins was colder than iced water.  No, the thug was not worried; he was just hungry.  A small dim bulb lit in his brain and whispered the word ketchup.  A brighter flicker reminded Rudy he was working.

There were three others, dressed as bellboys, two wearing dress pants, starched white shirts and aprons like the kitchen staff did, four dressed as guests of the Continental, and one uncomfortable looking soul wearing a maid’s uniform, makeup, a brassy blonde wig, and a pair of pumps that looked a size too small.*

“Heard you mugs were lookin’ for me!” yelled Wildcat.  Rudy looked up from his second course (meaning his left hand) in time to see a fist enter his line of vision.

Everyone moved as one and turned to the large revolving door, guns drawn.

Wildcat grinned, cocking his head behind him.  “Since this is a party, I brought some friends,” he said, not taking his eyes off them.  “Hope you don’t mind.”

The gunmen looked at the Green Lantern, the Flash and the Sandman standing behind Wildcat.

“Well don’t we look cute,” muttered Phil Danvers.
 
“Moretti said to plug ya if you showed,” snarled Joe Jonah.  “And here ya are.”  His grin widened.  “Gents?” he said as he pulled the hammer back on the .38.  “Commence with the pluggin’!”

Like a firing squad, the torpedoes fired as one, sending a rain of bullets at the costumed men.  The bullets flew across the room and into a fiery green wall of flame where they first imbedded, then dropped harmlessly to the floor.

Paul Manners dropped his weapon and reached behind the desk and pulled out a Tommy gun.  He screamed “DOWN!” signaling the mobsters in front of him to kiss the expensive tile floor.

The Flash ran up to him, hands a blur as he plucked each bullet out of the air.  He came to a stop and grinned at Manners and dropped handfuls of spent shells on the desk in front of him.  Manner’s eyes were saucers as he watched the bullets drop, then closed as he was knocked unconscious by ten hard blows delivered in the time it takes to blink.  The Flash darted away to go after the other hoods.

The Sandman ran forward spraying thugs with his sleep gas, sending them into dreamland.  When he didn’t use his gun, he sent the now panicky men to the floor with hard punches and kicks.

Carl Elliott, ‘Fancy’ Phil Danvers, Carmine Ragusso, and Tommy ‘Dink’ Hannigan were rapidly reloading when Ragusso looked up and muttered “Aw, crap!” A large green hand slammed them to the floor.  Green Lantern then flipped the hand behind him, sending other mobsters flying.

Ted Grant had a more simplistic approach: he pummeled anything that was in his way.  This was proven by his treatment of the first thug he came upon.  The gunsel, having emptied his weapon at the flaming green shield, ran with fists raised at the oncoming Wildcat.  Grant sent a hard first, straight from the shoulder, not only keeping the criminal’s head in place and shattering his teeth, but sending his still moving legs and torso forward.  The man fell on his back unconscious. 

A hard and heavy blow struck Grant from behind.  He spun and saw a lead sap coming towards him for a second strike, reached out and held the arm straight out with one taped fist and sent a shot to the man’s elbow with the other, breaking it.  The gangster’s mouth opened in a silent scream as his hand released the sap.  Grant deftly caught it and swung, catching the man on the side of the head.

Grant waded through the crowd of men, momentarily forgetting his extensive training.  There was a time for boxing and there was a time for street fighting.

The latter was one of those times.

A thug with bronze coat tree came at Grant swinging, but Wildcat easily ducked under the golden metal.  He dropped to one knee and sent a haymaker between the man’s legs.  The man screamed, dropped the rack and dropped to his knees, but not before Grant stood up fast and sent a wild uppercut to the man’s jaw, sending him up on his toes.  Grant grabbed the rack and swung it liker a truncheon, taking out a few more approaching hoods.  Like a javelin, Grant threw the tree at a man leaping over the reception desk, catching him full in the face and sending him flying backwards, followed by a loud crash.  Wildcat continued forward.

Behind the feline lenses, his eyes were fire, as he measured every blow, every strike.  Skin tore beneath his knuckles, teeth snapped and bone broke.  In his mind, each punch connected with Moretti’s jaw.  This was the man that destroyed his world; his friend.  Socker didn’t deserve the way he went.  He didn’t deserve the rap being pinned on him.  And as Ted Grant saw it, what Moretti deserved was far worse, and he was going to make sure he got it in spades.

“Wildcat?” said Garrick, suddenly over his shoulder.

Grant turned, his teeth bared, his hands up and ready to strike.

“We’re done here,” said Garrick, suddenly standing on the other side (and out of reach) of Wildcat.

Grant turned and stared at the Flash for a beat, then looked around and could see Moretti’s men unconscious on the floor.  He looked at his tightened fist and saw strands of golden hair between his fingers.  He looked at his feet and saw a gunsel, face bloody, wearing a maid’s uniform.  Grant turned back and shot Garrick a humorless grin.

“Yeah,” he said.  “Let’s go.”


Standing by the elevators on the second floor were two men, their weapons held in front of them.  They, as well as the three men who stood behind them, had heard the melee that had come from the floor below and were ready to kill any and everything that moved.  Two moved cautiously to the stairwell as the door opened.  All five men jumped, spun to the opening door, and the triggermen opened fire.  They startled again when the ding of the elevator sounded behind.  They spun to find their weapons gone from their hands.  Standing off to the side was the Flash, their guns dismantled at his feet.  The elevator door opened to reveal the Sandman, who fired a plume of yellow gas at their heads.  They dropped to the floor.


Floor by floor, hoods were summarily disposed of.  One of the men on the fourth floor had the foresight of calling the penthouse (before falling to the floor with a mouth of shattered teeth) to advise Moretti that things weren’t going very well.

Victor Moretti paced the floor of his immense suite, his eyes darting to the double doors of his room, then to the waxen faces of his three personal henchmen. 

“Why ain’t they stoppin’ him?!?!?!” blared Moretti.

“It ain’t just him, Mr. Moretti!” cried the first one.

Moretti stopped, his flushed face now turning wan. 

“What do you mean, it ain’t just him?” he whispered.  “Who’s with him?”

“Some guy who shoots green fire that does crazy things,” said the second.

“A guy in a gasmask and some crumb that can run fast.  Real fast,” added the third.

“Mystery Men,” the first clarified. 

I KNOW IT’S MYSTERY MEN!” screamed Moretti.  His eyes narrowed and the sheen of perspiration on his face began to drip.  “So,” said Moretti more to himself than to his men.  “So Wildcat is mixed up with the Mystery Men.  Okay.  Big deal.  They can be taken out as well.  They’re only human, right?” His eyes snapped to the triad of stooges, making them jump.  “THEY’RE ONLY HUMAN, RIGHT?” Moretti barked.

“Uh,” said the first.

“I, uh . . . “ began the second.

“We’re not sure,” muttered the third.

“Idiots!” he snapped.  “Never mind.  Call downstairs and have them spread the word that the Mystery Men are helping Wildcat.”

Without another word, the three men left the room.

Victor Moretti walked to the bar on unsteady legs and poured himself stiff bourbon.  As he lifted the glass to his lips, the intense shaking of his hand made a little of the amber liquid spill over the top and run down his fingers.  He released an animal wail and flung the glass at a large mirror on a far wall, shattering it.

“Mystery Men,” he whispered.


Word of the Mystery Men went to each floor.  Some of the hoods began to panic; word on the street was that these heroes had special powers, and that there was nothing that could stop them.  A few of the ones in the know quietly discussed a hasty retreat but were reminded that the only way out was down and that they may have to go toe to toe with a Mystery Man (or worse, Men) in order to get to safer ground. 

That information was passed along to the thugs who were less informed, and that caused more panic to fill the floors of the Continental.  There were a few that thought the information, passed from man to man, had been blown out of proportion.  They chose to ignore the warning, but found themselves double and triple-checking their weapons. This was ludercrous when you considered that some of the men only wielded knives.

But one thug on the eleventh floor had a plan (possibly because he had finished the eighth grade).  Half of the men on each floor stay and fight the Mystery Men, while the others joined the group on the floor under the penthouse. 

“They may be able to handle smaller groups, but not a whole flippin’ army!” he said.

The plan was put into action and hoods ran up the stairs to the floor in question, only stopping at each floor to explain the plan and get additional men.  Of course, because the tension in the Continental could power Delaware, a few of the hoods were shot by panicked mobsters as they came out of the stairwell.

The man with the plan; the one with the higher level of education, was a good organizer and was very ambitious, feeling that this could get him to the top of the food chain.  He directed the remaining hoods to the center of the floor, away from the elevator and stairwell.  They stood in a small circle, weapons held in front of them. 

“Be ready for anything, you guys,” he said and received a series of nods and grunts.

“Hey!” said a voice from behind.

The men spun to see a tall man in a trench coat smoking a cigarette.  He wore a dark smile and ran the fingers of his free hand through his thick red hair.  Strangely enough, the white streak stayed in place. 

“You ready to give up?” he asked in a tone that said he’d rather they didn’t.

The leader stepped forward and pressed the barrel of the .38 to the jaw of the tall man, tilting his head to the ceiling.

“What do you think, wise guy?” he snarled.  The man with the plan grinned.  “Looks like we have a hostage, fellas!” he said over his shoulder.  He looked back at the redhead.  “Now call off your goons or I’m going to decorate the place with the inside of your skull!”

The tall man looked down into the eyes of the self-appointed leader.  The thug felt his entire body go cold.  There were twin skulls in the man’s eyes.

“Sinners,” he said in a voice that seemed to be coming from everywhere.  “Sinners one and all.”

Minutes later, the elevator doors opened and Wildcat sprang out.  He came to a sudden halt when he looked around. 

Behind him, the Sandman walked out, his gas gun held out at arm’s length.  The Flash entered from the stairwell and Green Lantern appeared behind him, floating above the floor and encased in a shimmering green aura.

In the center of the foyer stood the tall man.  He had his back to them and was lighting a cigarette.  He turned and looked at the Mystery Men and walked over the leader who was gibbering on the floor, face flushed, his trembling body in a fetal position, eyes wide, tearing and filled with fear. 

The other gangsters were in similar states, with the exception of one who had used his own weapon – which happened to be a switchblade – to cut his own throat.

The tall man stood in front of Wildcat holding out his hand.

“Jim Corrigan,” he said calmly.

Wildcat looked at the hoods on the floor, then back to Corrigan.  He glanced at the faces of his friends, but they were unreadable.  He back at Corrigan.

“What the hell did you do?” he asked in a shocked whisper.

“Me?” asked Corrigan, flicking an ash from the tip of his smoke.  “Nothing.  They just took a good look at their sins, now paid in full.”

“Don’t start with the Holy Roller crap!” snapped Grant taking a step forward.  “What the hell did you do?!?!”

“I told you,” said Corrigan his eyes wide and filled with a spectral light, “They paid for their sins.”

Grant felt the saliva in his mouth turn to dust.  He felt a hand on his arm.  He looked around to see the Sandman, his eyes through the gasmask’s goggles staring into his own.

“Let’s go,” was all he said.

Grant turned back to the men on the floor and the widening pool of blood. 

“You sure this creep is on our side?” he asked the Sandman.

“I dispense justice for the innocent and for those not in this mortal realm who are incapable of doing so,” said a voice that rumbled in Grant’s chest and head.  He turned to see a white-skinned man wearing a long green hooded cape where Corrigan once stood.  “I render those with malevolence in their souls to pay the price for their sins.  I am the Spectre.”

Grant glared at the ghostly visage, then looked back to the bodies on the floor.  “Yeah,” he sniffed.  “The pleasure’s all yours.”  He walked quickly to the stairwell with the Green Lantern hovering behind him.  “When this is over, we’re gonna have a long chin-wag about that sap!”


From the street, the Continental was eerily quiet.  Not a stirring.  Lights shown from every window and balcony on every floor and if you found yourself looking in the right window at the right moment, you’d see a flurry of shadows on one floor, followed by a sudden stillness; all would be repeated on the floor above.

The Mystery Men made their way to the penthouse.


Victor Moretti was sweating as he pushed the couch in front of the double doors. 

The rooms were soundproofed and Moretti could not hear the storm approaching.  A trip to the balcony fixed that.  He had yet another drink in his hand and had ambled out to the balcony for some air.  As soon as he slid open the glass door, he heard the sounds of gunfire and screaming echoing into the night, coming from below.  He walked backwards into the room and felt the floor vibrating underneath his feet.  He dropped to his knees and pressed his ear against the plush carpet.

It sounded like a full scale war was going on below him. 

A very loud THUD made Moretti pull his head back.  Versed in the art of physical abuse, he was very familiar with that sound.  The sound of a body hitting the floor.

But the sound came from the ceiling . . .

Yet another glass was pitched across the room, destroying a painting on the far wall.  Moretti began to push furniture against the wide double doors.  He angled the chairs and barstools so the doors could not be opened inward, then pushed the couch against the jutting legs, anchoring them.  He began to pile end tables, coffee tables, lamps and bric-a-brac on the cushioned seats for weight.  He was trying to rip the bar from the wall when he heard a scream and muffled gunfire come from outside the doors, in the suite’s expansive foyer.  He ran behind the tilted bar and pulled out a .45, the barrel snapping from one side of the doors to the other.

More gunfire.  More screaming; this time in mortal fear.  The piercing howls sent a river of ice down Moretti’s back and made him shiver.  Then like a switch turning off, the unsettling sounds ended.  The hand with the gun shook.  Moretti glanced down and realized that in standing behind the bar, he was pinned against the corner wall with nowhere to go.  He dashed out and stood with his back to the large picture window, showing the glimmering tops of the city. 

His eyes, now bulging, darted from one corner of the room to the other; his eyes boring into any shadow it came across.  Moretti looked back at the door.  It stared quietly back at him.  The silence was complete and overwhelming.  Moretti could hear every beat of his heart in the empty room.  It throbbed faster with each passing second.  A small animal growl purred in Moretti’s chest and quickly increased in volume and doubled in rage.

“COME ON!” he screamed.  “DO IT!”

The large picture window exploded behind him sending shards of glass everywhere.

Moretti turned and saw a Yellow cab that had come through the window, its rear tires lifted on window ledge.  Yards from the shattered window he saw a trail of flickering green flame disappearing in the night sky.  He looked back to the cab and saw a large, muscular man in black jumping out of the driver’s seat and heading directly for him.  This was immediately followed by the said large, muscular man in black’s fist heading for his face.

Moretti flew backwards and into the makeshift barrier with a loud crash.  He looked up from floor level and saw the whiskered man walking towards him.

“Talk to me, Moretti!” the costumed man barked.  “Talk to me about Socker Smith.”

“That’s what this is about?” he asked.  “The pug that Ted Grant killed?”

Moretti didn’t see the round house right until it was too late to dodge it.  He went crashing down hard into the furniture.  Two hands grabbed him by the throat and lifted him to his feet.

“Ted Grant didn’t kill anybody,” Wildcat snarled.   He shook him roughly.  “But you know what killed Socker Smith.  And you’re gonna talk.”

Moretti grinned with as much venom as he could muster.  “You don’t know whose backin’ me, pal!” he exclaimed.  “Take me down!  Go ‘head; you may do it.  I don’t know.  But somewhere, someday, you’re gonna get plugged!  So stay alive pussy-cat and walk away.”

Grant sent a hard fist into Moretti’s midsection, doubling him over.  Wildcat roughly scissored his nose between his index and middle fingers and pulled him up to his face.  Moretti squealed in pain.

“Moretti,” he began in a harsh whisper, “I know exactly who is backin’ you, and guess what?  I don’t give a fig.”  He sent a left uppercut into Moretti’s jaw as he released the hold on his nose.  The mobster flew backwards again into the scattered furniture.  Wildcat reached down and pulled him back up.  “You’re goin’ to the cops and tellin’ ‘em you had Socker Smith’s water drugged, and that killed him!”

“I do that and I’m a dead man,” snarled Moretti.

“Remind me to shed a tear,” said Wildcat.  He sent another right to Moretti’s jaw, sending teeth flying from his mouth.  “You’re going to clear Ted Grant’s name.”

“Who’s he to you?” asked Moretti moving away.  “What’s your interest?”

Wildcat’s jaw hardened.  “Grant’s an honest mug,” he said.  “He fought hard to get where he is.  And Socker Smith helped him every step of the way.”

“Yeah? So?” asked Moretti.  “I’ll buy ‘em a medal if it makes you feel any better.”

Grant back-slapped Moretti, then fore-slapped him, making his eyes rattle in his greasy head.

“Smith ‘n Grant?  They’re little guys tryin’ to make it big,” Wildcat said, pulling Moretti in close.  “Just tryin’ to get their share.  It’s parasites like you that take away the little guy’s dreams.  From now on, someone’s lookin’ out for the little guy.”  Grant smiled.  “But I digress,” he said as he delivered a combination of blows to Moretti’s face and stomach.  Moretti went down to one knee.  Grant grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back.  “You’re gonna sing like a canary, Moretti.  You can make it easy or you can make it hard, but before I leave here, you’re gonna sing.”

Victor Moretti felt the blow before he saw it and felt something in his jaw give.  He took a few steps back and felt his heel touch something hard.  At his feet lay his .45.  He dove for it, grabbed it, and aimed it at Wildcat from the floor.

Wildcat saw what Moretti was going for and dove over and behind the bar.  As Moretti got to his feet, Wildcat flung a bottle of scotch at the mobster’s head.  Moretti ducked and fired wildly just as Wildcat dove to the floor, rolling out of range. 

Wildcat ran across the room, bursts of gunfire exploding in his ears, sections of the wall behind him spraying wallpaper and plaster.  The roar of the weapon was suddenly replaced with the sound of dry firing.  Wildcat leaped to his feet and heard an explosion, followed by a burning in his shoulder.  He looked down and saw the seeping bullet hole.  He looked up at a grinning Moretti, standing by the bar, holding another .45.  Wildcat’s eyes slid across the bar and saw an empty hidden compartment open under the padded lip.  He looked into Moretti’s eyes and saw malevolent, triumphant glee glaring back at him. 

“You’re gonna sing, Moretti,” he said taking a step towards him.

“YOU’RE GONNA DIE!” Moretti screamed, firing another shot at the Wildcat.  Moretti paled slightly when he realized that the Mystery Man’s gait had not altered and he was still walking towards him.  He aimed the weapon directly at Wildcat’s face.  The tight jaw under the masked face did not change, nor was it ravaged by a .45’s bullet.  Moretti fired again, then again, but Wildcat kept coming until he was directly in front of him.

Wildcat slapped the gun away and sent an over-handed right to Moretti’s jaw, snapping the mobster’s head back on his neck.  Moretti’s eyes crossed and his knees became the consistency of oatmeal.  As he dropped to the floor, Wildcat grabbed a fistful of shirt and pulled him up.   

“Now,” he said, “Where was I?”  Wildcat grinned.  “Oh, yeah; I remember.”

Twenty minutes later, Ted Grant, presently known as the Wildcat, had convinced Victor Moretti to confess to the police.  It took another ten minutes to convince Wildcat that Moretti was telling the truth.

And five more just for fun.


“I still don’t get it,” said Ted Grant as he walked into the Dodds mansion’s ballroom, “How can the fastest man alive get there late?”  He lifted the sling that held in arm in place and dropped the suitcase noisily at his feet he held with his free hand.

Garrick was red-faced.  It added to his American flag motif, with his starched white shirt, red tie and blue suit. 

“I know, I know,” said Jay.  “I spent an extra second taking care of a few torpedoes.  I was showing off.”

“Again,” muttered Dian Belmont behind her drink.  She wore a finely tailored gray suit and had a black leather clutch on the bar near her elbow.

Jay Garrick shot her an annoyed glare.

“Well, that’s all right then!” Grant snarled with a barely concealed grin.  “Every time I lift my arm I’ll remind myself not to get sore ‘cause you were just showing off!”

“I said I was sorry!” Garrick said.

“That he did,” said Alan Scott, wearing tan slacks and a white open collared shirt.

“We were there,” added Wesley Dodds, wearing a brown suit and sipping a sherry.

“I’ll take their word for it,” said Jim Corrigan from the couch, a tumbler of bourbon in his hand.

“I don’t recall asking you mugs to toss in yer two cents!”  Grant said, resplendent in worn dungarees, hard leather shoes and a white tee shirt under his worn leather jacket draped across his shoulders.  He shot a look at Garrick and grinned from ear to ear.  “S’okay,” he said.  “Just funnin’ ya!”

“I know,” said Jay.  “But I still feel lousy about it.”

“Aw, don’t lose any sleep over it,” said Grant. “It was a clean shot and I’m a fast healer.”

“So, you’re leaving?” asked Belmont.

Grant grinned at her.  “Yeah, D,” he said.  “Time to hit the road.  I’m getting’ soft hangin’ around this joint.”

“You know there’s a gym in the lower level,” asked Dodds.

Grant tilted his head rakishly.  “Which I’ve had the pleasure of using on a few occasions, Doddsy, thank you very much.  But it ain’t the same.”  He bent forward and grabbed the suitcase by its handle.  “Besides, I gotta lot of work to do.  I’m the undisputed heavy weight champ right now, and I intend to keep that title for a while.”

“Based on points,’ said Belmont.

“You’re a killjoy, D, you know that?”

“You can stay here and do that,” said Scott.  “Plenty of room.”

“Exactly!” said Dodds.  “Free room and board.  You can come and go as you wish.  You’ll have full use of my chauffer whenever you need to get around.”

Grant smiled.  “Wasn’t it me who said I was gettin’ soft hangin’ around this place?”  He shook his head.  “Thanks, but no thanks.  I pay my own way.  I’m a big boy now!”  His smile faded and his eyes narrowed.  “Wait a minute.  Lemme guess.  Payment of stayin’ here is me wearing the cat pajamas?”

“Well,” began Scott slowly.  “We could use you.”

“Yes, we could,” agreed Garrick.  “You could show us a thing or two about fighting!”

“You would be a welcome addition to our band of Mystery Men, Ted,” said Dodds.

“And you do look sexy in that outfit, Ted,” chimed in Dian Belmont.

Wesley Dodds, who was still standing next to his lady, calmly sipped his drink.  Jay Garrick and Alan Scott were closely inspecting a map that was not of interest a moment earlier.  Corrigan was grinning at Ted Grant, watching the man’s skin take on a rosy hue.

Grant blinked several times.  “And that’s another reason for my getting the heck outta here!” he said aiming his wounded wing at Belmont.  “No offense, D, but your modern woman bit is a little too much for my liking.”

“You are going to have a hard time seeing women as an equal,” replied Belmont.

“Ain’t fallin’ for it, D,” Grant said smiling.  “You’re not gonna drag me into another discussion.”

“You know something, Ted?” Belmont asked with a mischievous look on her face.  “Mark my words, but one day you’re going to have to work with a woman who will be tougher than you, stronger than you, and will force you to see women as equals!”

Grant grinned.  “Don’t think so, D,” he said.  “There ain’t no broads in the ring.” He turned to look at the men before Belmont could fling a comeback.  “Like I said, fellahs; this was only temporary so I could clear my name.  You can pass the pajamas to some other mug.  So no hard feelings, but I got bigger fish to fry!”

“You will drop by from time to time?” asked Garrick breaking the few seconds of silence that filled the room.

Grant winked.  “That I will do!” he said.  “Poker, cigars, a little boogie woogie on the radio, and plenty of good hooch!  Boy’s night out; indoors!”

Dodds chuckled.  “Count me out, Ted.  Poker is Dian’s game,” he said. 

Grant’s jaw dropped.  “You play poker?” he asked her in a faint voice.

“If she’s playing, I’m out too!” said Garrick.

Scott winced and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  “Aw, Dian!” he moaned.  “I’m sorry!  I haven’t paid you your two-hundred from the last game.”

“It’s okay, Alan,” she said with a grin.  “You’re good for it!”

Grant swallowed a lump the size of a Packard.  “She beat you to the tune of two-hundred smackers?” he asked, his eyes widening.

“Yeah,” said Scott, rolling his eyes heavenward.  “This time.”

“Besides,” grinned Garrick.  “You have to come back and meet the rest of the group!”

Grant looked at Garrick and then to Scott and Dodds.  “There are more of you?”

Scott nodded and his face became solemn.  “Crime is everywhere, Ted,” he said.  “And it’s growing.  We need to expand our ranks to stem the tide.”

“Each one of us has been gifted with abilities or a tool to insure justice is done,” added Garrick.  “That’s why we want you to stay and join us.”

“Me?” asked Grant.  “Why me?  I don’t have a magic ring, or a knockout gat, or can run fast!“  Grant’s mouth twisted like he had bit into a lemon.  “Or can scare the bejeezus out of someone,” he said, looking sideways at Corrigan.  Jim Corrigan lifted his drink in a toast at Grant.  Ted sighed and looked back at the others.  “I just slug people.  What makes me so special?”

“Ted,” said Dodds smiling.  “Aside from being one of the greatest pugilists alive, there’s a lot more to you than your fists.”

“You just haven’t realized it yet,” added Belmont.

Grant felt all eyes on him.  He hunched his shoulders and rolled them.  “Stop with the starin’ already!  I’m getting’ the heebie-jeebies!”  He looked at Corrigan.  “Especially from you!”  Once more Corrigan lifted his glass in a toasting gesture.  Grant sighed again and shook his head.  “Well, that’s my cue,” he said.  “I’m gonna catch a cab and get back to my apartment.”

“I could ring the chauffeur,” suggested Dodds.

Grant gave him a wink.  “Naw, Doddsy,” he said.  “A cab’ll do me fine.  You guys (and lady) take good care of yourself!  Don’t know which I’m gonna miss more; you buncha clowns or that bed.”  Grant thought for a moment and grinned.  “Yeah.  It’s the bed.”  He turned to the door which was opened for him by a snaking green flame.  “See ya in the funny papers!” he said over his shoulder and walked out.  A green flame closed the door behind him and retracted to the hand of Alan Scott.

“Wes,” said Scott.  “I thought you said he was going to be part of the Society.”

Wesley Dodds took another sip from his drink.  “He will,” he replied.  “In time.”


Ted Grant released a shrill whistle and the Yellow cab pulled to a stop in front of him.  He opened the door with his good hand, tossed his bag on the seat, then pulled himself in.  He turned in his seat and stared out the rear window, watching the Dodds mansion shrink in the distance.  He faced forward and leaned his head back on the seat.  He closed his eyes and listened to the blaring horns and roaring engines of traffic, the sound of metal hitting metal and wood and jackhammers from a passing construction site, the sounds of happy laughing children playing in the streets, the conglomeration of music filling the air from many radios coming from apartments and perched on fire escapes, and the myriad of voices calling, selling their wares.  Ted Grant let his senses bathe in the symphony that was New York.  He smiled and began to doze.

As he slept, he saw himself wearing the costume, and standing side by side with Scott, Dodds and Garrick, also in costume, taking out Moretti’s men.  The picture in his mind changed to them listening to FDR on the radio, listening to a boxing match, to eating sandwiches and simply talking.

They were right.  He wasn’t alone anymore.  They were a family.  One that he had always wished for.

The cabbie called out the fare, waking Grant from his slumber.  He passed the driver a tenner and told him to keep the change.  He suggested the man buy something for his wife or kid.  He went up the steps of the apartment building, through the front door and inhaled.  A wide grin appeared instantly on his face.  Corned beef and cabbage! In the middle of the week, no less!  Mrs. Fitzpatrick must be puttin’ on the feedbag, he thought.  Must be a special occasion.

Grant walked up the three flights to his apartment, the scent of food getting stronger with every step.  He’d have to stop by Mrs. Fitzpatrick for leftovers, which he knew there would plenty of since the woman had a habit of cooking like she had a small army to feed.  He walked up to the door of his place and placed the suitcase by his feet and searched in his pocket for the key.  Suddenly the door swung open, revealing a smiling Dian Belmont.

“Well, you took your sweet time,” she said with a smile.

Grant’s eyes went wide.  “What the hell are you doin’ here?!?!?!”

The smiling face of Jay Garrick appeared over her shoulder.

“You coming in or what, Ted?” he asked.

Both stood aside and allowed Ted Grant entry into his apartment.  The sound of his jaw hinges creaking when his mouth dropped open filled the narrow space in the hallway.

The apartment was shoulder to shoulder with neighbors, boxers from the gym, reporters, and a few hard luck pugs he had tossed a ten spot to from time to time.  There were decorations and balloons covering the sitting area and the kitchen (which could be seen from the hallway).  Hanging on the wall above the crowded sitting room was a banner that read, TED GRANT - HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION! and had a photo (taken from one of the posters) on either side of the words of him with his dukes up.  There was boogie woogie playing from a brand new radio in the corner of the sitting area.  And there was Alan Scott and Wesley Dodds grinning. 

There was also Jim Corrigan; the only one sitting on the couch who was nursing a cold beer.

The people filling the room turned and let out a loud cheer when they saw him in the doorway.

Grant lifted his good arm to point and found a cold beer in his hand.  His eyes darted to Garrick.

“We talked about you not doin’ that, didn’t we?” he asked.

“I recall you saying something,” grinned Garrick.

“Never mind,” grunted Grant.  “What the heck is this?”

“It’s a party, Ted,” replied Belmont.  “You’re not that dense, are you?”

“Don’t start, D,” he warned, a smile pushing away his stern look.

“The charges are dropped,” said Garrick.  “You’ve got the heavyweight title.  And you’ve got a few friends to celebrate your good fortune!”

“Jay has a habit of overstating the obvious,” said Belmont.  She ignored the glare from Garrick.  Scott elbowed his way to the three in the hallway, catching most of what Garrick had said. 

“You’ve got a problem with that?” he asked.

“If you’d rather,” said Dodds, taking a pull from the bottle of beer in his hand, “we could ask everyone to leave.”

Ted Grant flashed a huge grin.  “What? And miss Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s corned beef and cabbage?  Are you nuts?!?!”  His smile widened.  “Waitaminute!  That would be more grub for me!”  His smile turned to a wide grin.  “Naw,” he said waving his hand.  “This is Jake with me.  Lemme toss my stuff in the bedroom and I’ll be right back.”

He walked through the crowd, greeting one and all as he passed, holding up his bag for protection when one of the fighters went into a fighter’s pose, and feeling a comfortable sore spot in his back from being pounded by all the glad hands.  He got to his bedroom door and nudged it open with the toe of his shoe.

The suitcase in his hand suddenly dropped to the floor.

“That’s the bed!” he whispered.  He spun and pushed gently through the crowd and back to where Dodds, Scott, Garrick and Belmont stood.  He stared at each of them.  “You got me a bed like the one you have?” he asked.

“No,” said Dodds.

“We gave you that bed,” said Belmont.

“We can always get another,” said Dodds.  “Remember; I’m rich.”

Grant eyes suddenly became misty and he rubbed his sleeve across them. 

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick musta put too much pepper in,” he muttered.  He looked at his small group of friends.  “Thanks, guys,” he said quietly.  “That was really swell of you.”

“Getting the bed in that room was a small headache,” groused Garrick.

Grant punched Garrick lightly in the shoulder.  “Don’t blame me, Jay,” he said.  “Talk to Doddsy!  He coulda got a smaller one!”  He took them all in with his gaze.  He shook his head.  “I don’t know how repay you guys for all this kindness.”

“Guys?” said Belmont.

“Don’t start, D,” warned Grant.

“Oh,” said Scott absently.  “We’ll think of something.”

Several boxers took that moment to grab Ted from behind and lifted him to his shoulders.  The crowd in the tiny apartment cheered.  Grant turned at the waist and shook a fist at the Mystery Men.

“YOU CRUMBS!” he called.  “This is all to get me to . . . why you dirty, rotten, connivin’ . . . “

“We could always take back the bed,” suggested Dodds.

“Oh, my aching back,” muttered Garrick.

“That’s low, Doddsy!” called Ted Grant, fighting to keep the smile from his face.  “Even for you, that’s low!  Well I ain’t doin’ it!  You hear me!  I ain’t doin’ it!” 

Grant was placed on the floor by the boxers and the crowd swallowed him up.

“He’s joining,” said Scott.

“Most definitely,” agreed Dodds.

“Maybe sooner than you think,” said Belmont.

“So we’re not moving the bed, right?” asked Garrick.

Wesley Dodds shook his head.  Jay Garrick sighed in relief.

They looked at one another and smiled.  They turned to see Jim Corrigan, still sitting on the couch, holding up his beer in a toast.  The others responded in kind.

“Speaking of which,” said Scott showing the empty bottle.  “I could use a fresh one.”

“Don’t you start drinking too much, Alan,” scolded Belmont.

“I can hold my liquor, Dian,” he replied.

“Yeah,” grinned Garrick.  “Just like the last time.”  He moved into the crowd and headed to the icebox for replacement beers.  Dodds and Belmont followed.  Scott held up the rear.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.  “Jay?”

“You know what happened,” said Dodds over his shoulder.

“What happened?” asked Scott, pausing only to give a wink to a lovely young brunette.  His eyes shot back to Dodds.  “I don’t remember.”

“Exactly our point!” said Belmont.  “Any pop in there, Jay?”

“Wait a minute!” said Scott.  “What did I do?”

“Later, Alan,” said Garrick, passing him a cold beer and Belmont a Coca Cola.  He walked past the tall gaping man and began to mingle with the crowd.

“But . . . “

“We’ll discuss it later, Alan,” said Belmont following the path that Garrick had made. 

“This is a party, you know,” grinned Dodds following his lady into the crowd.

Scott stood there with a perplexed expression on his face.  He moved to the couch where Corrigan sat and dropped next to him.

“You heard?” he asked.

Corrigan sat crossed legged, watching the happy people.  He nodded.

“You know about it?” Scott asked.

Corrigan’s head turned slowly and he looked at Scott.  He rolled his eyes and nodded.  Corrigan then turned back to the crowd.

Alan Scott’s face paled.  “That bad?”

Without turning back to face him, Corrigan nodded.  He turned with a dark smile on his face.  He leaned in and began to whisper.  Alan Scott’s face became pale.  As the whispering continued, Alan Scott’s waxy complexion reddened.  He buried both his face in his hands and himself in the cushions of the couch, trying to disappear.


“I’ll get you another plate, Ted,” called Mrs. Fitzpatrick from the kitchen doorway.

“Hold yer horses, Mrs. F!” Grant cried through a mouthful of corned beef and cabbage.  “I ain’t done with the last plate ya gave me!”

Mrs. Fitzpatrick, gray hair, wrinkles that had wrinkles, and all of four feet ten and 90 pounds (dripping wet and carrying a load of bricks), leveled Grant with her bright blue eyes.

Grant sighed.  “Keep it comin’, Mrs. F,” he said aiming his fork at his near empty plate.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s eyes brightened and she shuffled into the kitchen.

The buzzer on the door sounded as Grant took a swig from the bottle of beer.

“Hey, Ted!” a voice cried over the crowd and the music.  “You got company!”

“Aw, jeeze!” he said, one-handedly passing the bottle to Garrick and then took the plate from his lap and passed it to Dodds.  “I’M COMIN’!” he barked.

The front door was open and perched in the doorway was Ricardo Carlos Francisco Estaban Sheldon (after his god-uncle, Sheldon Lipschutz) Dejesus (you know the rest by now).  Ricky was in a wheelchair, his limbs encased in plaster and his face looking like hell.  Behind him stood Jimmy ‘The Bruiser’ McCoy, Eddie Marx, Johnny ‘the Gent’ Casson, Tommy Flanagan, and Dale ‘the Knockout Kid’ Cleese, also sporting their recent injuries.

“Well, well,” said Grant, leaning his good shoulder against the wall.  “What’re you stumblebums doin’ here?”

“We heard what Moretti did to Socker, Teddy,” said Ricky.  He lowered his eyes slightly.  “We came to say we’re sorry we thought you killed him.”

“An’ since Moretti is gone now,” said Marx through a swollen mouth, “we’re out of a job.”

“So what’s that gotta do with me?” asked Grant.  “I don’t need anybody’s leg broken.”

“We don’t do dat no more,” said Johnny Casson, showing missing teeth.  “We’re lookin’ for some honest work.”

Grant frowned.  “I hate repeatin’ myself, but what’s that gotta do with me?”

“Wildcat,” said Dale Cleese.

“How’s that?” asked Grant, his eyebrow lifting.

“It was de Wildcat dat showed us da error of our ways,” said Cleese, pronouncing every word like a poet laureate with extensive brain damage. 

“Yeah!” chimed in Tommy Flanagan.  “If he didn’t give us a beatin’ . . . “

“One we richly desoived,” added Casson, raising a broken finger.

“We’d still be under Moretti’s thumb.”  Jimmy McCoy raised his hand to brush back a hanging lock of hair and winced when his arm lifted past his shoulder.  “That Wildcat guy; he taught us a lesson, ya know?  We’ve never been on the receivin’ end of a beatin’ in a long while.  We forgot what it was like.”  His eyes went to the tops of his scuffed shoes.  “We ain’t so tough,” he muttered. 

“We’re less than that!” exclaimed Marx.  “We’re nuttin’ but a buncha bums for pickin’ on regular Joes who ain’t done nuttin’ but try to feed their families!”

“What he said,” agreed Cleese.

McCoy looked back up at Grant.  “You know people, Ted,” he said.  “You think you can find us work?”

“We do anything!” exclaimed Ricky.  “As long as it’s legit.”  Dejesus looked down at his knees, embarrassed.  “I promised Ma I’d go straight.”

Casson chuckled and winced.  “Yeah, Ted,” he said.  “We promised her too!”

“I’d go ten rounds with the Wildcat than argue with Ricky’s mom!” said Cleese with a lopsided grin.

Grant forced back a smile.  “Well, I don’t know, guys, “ he began.  “I’m just getting’ back on my feet and . . . “

“You could hire them as trainers,” said Dodds from over his shoulder.

Grant looked over his shoulder at the bespectacled man.

“You know,” Dodds prompted.  “For your gym.”

“My what?”

“The gym on 17th,” said Dodds.  “The place you own.”

“Yeah!” cried McCoy.  “We can train kids just startin’ out!”

“Show ‘em the ropes!” said Cleese.

“Keep ‘em from turnin’ out like us,” said Ricky.

“C’mon, Ted!” said Marx.  “Give us a chance!”

Keeping his eyes on Dodds, Grant said to the boxers, “Well, we can chew on that later.  We’re havin’ a party right now!”  He cupped his mouth with his hand.  “Hey!  Mrs. Fitzpatrick!  We got any more corned beef and cabbage?”

“You know we do, Ted,” she replied from the kitchen doorway.

“Then set up six more plates for my pals here!”  He turned back to the men.  “Well, go on, ya lugs!  Grab a beer and a plate!  Join the pa . . . YOWTCH!!  JEEZE, RICKY!!! Watch out for the pedal extremities!”

“Sorry, Ted,” Ricky said with a grin as he rolled by.

Grant and Dodds watched the men walk, roll and limp into the main room.  Dodds turned to follow but was stopped when Grant grabbed his shoulder.

“And since when did I own a gym?” he asked.

“I’ll get the paperwork started in the morning,” Dodds replied turning back to the crowd.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Grant said as he pulled the Mystery Man back to face him.  “A gym, Doddsy!” Grant whispered.  “What the hell do I need a gym for??!”

“Maybe to do what Socker did for you?” he answered.  “Help kids out before they’re in too deep?  ‘Helping out the regular Joes’?”

Grant gave him a narrow look.  “D’s been talkin’ outta turn again, hasn’t she?” he asked.

“She did mention a conversation you two had had,” replied Dodds taking a pull from the bottle of beer and hiding his smile behind it.

Grant sighed.  “Okay,” he said.  “I retract my earlier opinion.”  He grinned and punched Dodds in the shoulder.  “Always knew yer heart was in the right place, Doddsy!”  His smile drooped a little as he watched Mrs. Fitzpatrick serve steaming plates of food to the pugs.  He shook his head.  “Excuse me for being dense, but I don’t get it,” he said. 

“Get what?” asked Belmont coming up behind Wesley Dodds.

“Why’d they come to me?” asked Grant.  “There’s gotta be a lot of well-heeled mugs out there who could help ‘em better than I could!”

“They are a group of street Diogenes, looking for that last honest man,” said Dodds.  “Which would be you, my friend.”

Grant stared at Dodds blankly for several seconds. 

“I’m not even gonna pretend I understood that,” replied Grant.  “You wanna give that to me again?  In English?”

“What Wes means is that it looks like the Wildcat made an impression,” said Belmont.  “There’s plenty of room at the mansion, you know.” 

“Yer startin’ up again, D,” snarled Grant.  “What’s it gonna take to get it into your thick skulls that wearin’ . . . “ His voice dropped to a harsh whisper.  “That wearin’ the pajamas was a one-time thing.  I did it once; once!  And I ain’t doin’ it again!”

Dian Belmont stepped close to Grant and kissed him on the cheek.  Grant’s face flushed from chin to crown.

“In the words of William Shakespeare, ‘methinks thou dost protest too much’.”  She turned and slid her arm through Wesley Dodds’ and led them back into the crowd.

“What’s it gonna take to get you people to start speakin’ English!?!?!” Grant cried following behind the Sandman and his lady.  “And don’t you turn your back on me, Belmont!  We ain’t done yet!  Not by a long shot!”  Ted Grant winced.  “The feet, Ricky!  Watch the feet!!!”

“Hey there, folks!” said the announcer on the radio.  “Martin Block and the Make-Believe Ballroom is still here keepin’ the joint jumpin’!  Taking the stage right now is Lionel Hampton and his band, here to send your toes a-tappin’ with that hot number, ‘Flyin’ Home’!  Try to keep up!  Hit it, Mr. Hampton, if you please!”


***


Story © 2007 Bertram Gibbs and may not be reproduced without permission.