CHAPTER 8
“Danger Zone” —Kenny Loggins
“You keep getting me into these situations,” Sasha whispered. She floated with her arms and feet casually crossed. Credit where credit was due, Sasha was able to casually hover without having to strike a superhero pose.
She and Mike were hovering nine floors over East Seventy-ninth Street at three a.m. Sasha’s parents didn’t even care she was out in the middle of the night. Mike still wasn’t clear on whether her parents were even in the country.
“Nobody is going to hear us up here,” Mike said. “Just don’t shout.”
“What happens if somebody sees us?” Sasha asked.
Cars and pedestrians on the street below were sparse. There were still more office and apartment lights on than one might expect at that hour, but few of those were actually occupied and none of those occupants were looking outside. As always, none of that gave them an excuse to ditch caution.
“That is why we are wearing fashionable dark clothing,” Mike said.
He’d gotten a glob of random flecks of silica onto the latch of the window but was being very careful opening it. It was fortunate that the building was pre-air-conditioning. It had been retrofitted but the windows still opened. As predicted, there was no alarm. And he also didn’t see any telltales. But if he left a single thing that Alnes spotted, the guy would vanish in an instant.
“If Alnes finds out, he’ll be in the wind. Otherwise, they’ll call NYPD. NYPD will send a flyer team. And we’ll explain why we’re breaking in. Then Alnes will find out and he’ll disappear. So, hope nobody looks up.”
He started mouthing the Mission: Impossible theme as he worked the latch.
“Duh, duh, duhduh, duh, duh, duhduh, duh, duh . . .”
“That is going to get so annoying,” Sasha said.
“Everybody always says that,” Mike replied.
He got the window unlatched and very carefully opened it.
He turned himself horizontal and drifted into the room. Sasha gracefully followed.
“Don’t touch anything,” Mike said. “Especially the window frame.”
“I’m just starting to wonder why I’m here,” Sasha said.
“Company?” Mike said, hovering over the chair. He turned so his feet were vertical and gently started swabbing the chair with a Q-tip. “I needed a sidekick?”
“I am not a sidekick,” Sasha said.
“At least you can go out at night,” Mike said. “My last sidekick, his mom tracked his phone constantly. And you’re the lookout. Duh. That’s what sidekicks do!”
“Shouldn’t we be whispering?” Sasha asked.
“There is literally no one in these offices,” Mike said. “I waited ’til the janitors left. We’re done. Let’s go.”
They slid out the window, then Mike closed it and ensured that everything was in order.
“I need an apprentice flying cat burglar?” Mike said, heading upward like a vampire leaving behind his victim. “I’m trying to show off to my future wife, to prove to her that I am a virile and successful potential mate? That my genes are worthy? I get bored talking to myself?”
“I get bored listening to you,” Sasha said.
“Imagine what it’s like to be me, then . . .”
“And that is how you break into an office,” Mike said as they walked out of the alleyway in midtown where they’d landed. “At least if you can fly. Or climb really well.”
“I’m pretty sure this is illegal,” Sasha said. A figure, female by her bone structure, passed by the end of the alleyway and did a double take in their direction. Any intelligent New Yorker would actively ignore a couple people in an alleyway, regardless of the situation. Of course, tourists were always in abundance, and they were a curious lot.
“It is,” Mike said. “It’s called breaking and entering. B and E. It’s like a misdemeanor juvie. Even if we get caught, it will just increase your street cred. Also, they’d have to explain how we did it.”
The woman headed toward them and Mike barely had time to silently warn Sasha.
“Hey, uh, hi,” the woman said, walking up to Sasha. She was in her forties and a little drunk. What she was doing on East Seventy-second at three a.m. was the question. “Are you Sasha Nikula?”
“Um, yes, I am,” Sasha said, her eyes wide.
“Do you want to get a picture with her?” Mike said. “Let me take it.”
“Sure!” the woman said.
When they were done the woman thanked her.
“My daughter wants to be a model,” she said. “You seem very grounded.”
“I try to be,” Sasha said, nervously.
“But she soars to great heights,” Mike said.
“Why are you dressed like a, uh . . . ?” the fan said, suddenly noticing Sasha’s distinctly non-chic attire.
“She’s considering taking a role as a teenage secret agent,” Mike said. “You know, one of those ‘spies like us’ things?”
“Yeah,” Sasha said, brightly. “So, I’m just getting the feel for it, you know?”
“You haven’t said anything about getting into acting,” the fan said. “I follow all your social media.”
“Yeah, well, keep this one quiet, okay?” Sasha said. “I’m not sure I’m right for the role.”
“Oh, you’d be fantastic!”
“What are you doing out at three in the morning, if I may ask, ma’am?” Mike said.
“I dunno . . . I think I’m a little lost . . .”
“Let’s get you back to brighter climes, shall we?”
“You are going to lead me into a life of sin and perdition,” Sasha said.
They’d found the lady an Uber and gotten her headed back to her hotel on East Twenty-seventh and Second Avenue. Dyslexia can be deadly.
“I certainly hope so,” Mike said. “But is it sin and perdition if we’re legally married? And we have done proper superhero good deeds this night. That counts . . .”
“You have to appear in court,” Derrick said at breakfast the following morning.
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t get caught,” Mike said.
“The judge has ruled that your identity is public domain,” Derrick said, “since your suit affects the stock price of Fieldstone. And the defense has called for a competency hearing. So, you have to appear.”
“Yaay!” Mike said. “That means I’m going to need a suit!”
“You’re also going to need a psychological evaluation,” Derrick said. His eyes were narrowed, with a hint of concern.
“Because I want to get a suit?” Mike asked.
“Thanks for going shopping with me,” Mike said. “I figured you’d know the good resale shops.”
Mike and Sasha were poring over various suits at one off East Sixty-eighth Street. Mike greatly preferred New York at night when fewer people were around and that blinding light in the sky wasn’t there. But stores had a tendency to be closed just then. At least he had good company.
“How’d you figure that?” Sasha asked.
“The minute that Laura got her money she started buying clothes and shoes like they were going out of style,” Mike said, pulling one of the suits off the rack and holding it up. “What do you think?”
“Too banker,” Sasha said.
“Your clothes scream resale,” Mike said. “Refitted nicely. But resale.”
Even dressed down in those resale clothes, someone would occasionally recognize Sasha. Thankfully, they would just point and whisper. So far, none were brave enough to approach like the woman the night prior.
“I don’t like to spend money,” Sasha said with an uncomfortable shrug. “My parents spend enough.”
“What’s going to happen when you’re on your own?” Mike asked.
“I’m going to put them on a stipend,” Sasha said, sounding a little distant. This particular matter had clearly been bothering her for a while. “It will be a decent one. My dad’s a businessman; he isn’t going to go broke. But they’re not going to be spending like they have been.”
“You’re not broke, are you?” Mike asked as he held up a navy blue sport coat with gold buttons. “This one?”
“Too ship captain and . . . not you,” Sasha said. “And no. I made sure of that. Plus, all the escrow. When I turn eighteen it will be interesting. I’m going to invest it and probably just quit modeling.”
“Tired of being a dress dummy?” Mike asked.
“Hey!” The shout came from a guy in his thirties, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He was pasty and could stand to eat some fruit. Also, starstruck.
“Are you, uh, Sasha Nikula?” he asked.
“Yes, I am,” Sasha said, smiling brightly.
“Can, uh, can I get a picture?” the guy said, pulling out his phone.
“Why don’t you get one together?” Mike asked. “I’ll take it.”
“Sure!” the guy said, handing over his phone and standing next to Sasha.
“No hands, okay?” Sasha said.
“No! No . . . not . . . no!” he said.
She posed smiling brightly as the guy looked dumbstruck.
“I’m your biggest fan,” the man said after the picture was taken. “This is going to be . . . wow . . . Uh . . .”
“What do you think of this one?” Mike asked, pulling out a slightly oversized black suit with white pinstripes and turning to the fan.
“Uh, I don’t know . . . much about . . . suits . . .” he said.
“It’s, uh . . .” Sasha said, considering.
“Black preacher, right?” Mike said. “Screams Jesse Jackson?”
“That, yes,” Sasha said.
“Perfect,” Mike said. “That’s one. The rest I agree don’t work. Where else is good?”
“Maubry’s?” Sasha said.
“Uber?” Mike replied.
“We can probably walk it,” Sasha said.
“Hey, it was great meeting you, man,” Mike said, shaking the man’s hand. “May God walk with you in all the dark places you may go . . .”
“You handled that well,” Sasha said as they managed to break free from the fan. “And that is what I’m getting tired of.”
“Understandable,” Mike said. “When you’re a public figure, you always have to have someone to say no. Someone to be the bad guy. That way you can be nice and someone else can tell them to take a hike.”
“That,” Sasha said. “They just all want to be your friend! And it’s not that most of them are bad people, it’s just . . .”
“How many friends can you have?” Mike said. “And each of them don’t realize that those few seconds you spend on them, extrapolated to the entire fan base, is your entire life. No one raindrop thinks it’s responsible for the flood. Do you know why? Do you want to know?”
“One of your long explanations?” Sasha asked.
“I can do it in one sentence, but it won’t make sense,” Mike said. “Or I can do it in five thousand words, and it might.”
“What’s the one sentence?” Sasha asked.
“We are evolved to never leave high school,” Mike said. “It’s why high school never ends.”
“You’re serious,” Sasha said, laughing. “Just live our entire lives in high school? That would suck.”
“You’re going with an ascot?” Sasha said. “Those . . . aren’t exactly in style.”
“It’s a cravat, not an ascot,” Mike said, testing out cravats in a mirror. “I intend to set a trend.”
“Really?” Sasha said.
“They’re releasing my name and basic fake background tomorrow,” Mike said. “The marshals aren’t all that happy. The background was never designed to stand up to scrutiny. But by the time we have the hearing I’ll be known as the modern Oliver Twist. The hearing is live-streamed and it’s going to be covered by some of the bigger law streamers. I intend to be the height of fashion in my own personal idiom.
“And I’ve already been seen in the company of Sasha Nikula,” Mike added. “Which is status by association.”
“Please tell me you weren’t just hanging out with me to be noticed,” Sasha said. “I hate it when people do that.”
“I wasn’t,” Mike said. “Do you recall what else we’ve been doing? I’m still waiting on the DNA results. Plus, we shall be wed. This is a thing. But by hanging out with you and being noticed it’s already warmed up the information mill. Think about Mike Truesdale for just a second, Sasha. Am I or am I not the strangest person you’ve ever met?”
“You’re certainly different,” Sasha said.
“Dropping the essential Mike Truesdale onto the public without warning is likely to cause brain meltdowns,” Mike said. “They needed some warning and I thank you for allowing that warning. It’s liable to save some lives from stroke and thus we’ve done our job as heroes saving lives. Notice how except for our one foray into crime I’ve always been well dressed when I’m out with you?”
“Yes. You dress better than I do,” she admitted.
“Maybe I can get some of my generation’s males to put on something other than jeans and a clean T-shirt,” Mike said, contemplating a light violet cravat. “I think this one with the Jesse Jackson suit.”
He held them both up to her.
“What do you think? With the suit fitted, obviously.”
“That . . . might work,” Sasha admitted. “The violet is good but a bold choice. You’re going to need to get it fitted pretty quick.”
“Ooooh, Kevinnnn . . . ?”
“Whatever are you two doing here?” Kevin asked. His workspace was a strange juxtaposition between an otherwise immaculate and somewhat spartan modernistic room, but with a table of pure chaos before him. Scattered drawings, pieces of fabric, multiple pairs of scissors, and various writing implements were laid out haphazardly, with measuring tape draped around his shoulders. He was overseeing the redesign of one of the Corps costumes. He liked to change the regular Corps members’ costumes about every two years. “I saw where you’d been seen in public lately. Do I need to know something?”
“We’re just friends hanging out,” Sasha said. “Mike needed some help shopping.”
“I have a competency hearing coming up,” Mike said. “What do you think of this suit with this cravat?”
Mike tied the cravat then put the suit up in front of him.
“I need your expert opinion,” Mike said.
“The cravat is a bold statement,” Kevin said, examining the ensemble. “Very daring.”
“I’m a daredevil,” Mike said.
“It’s tremendous!” Kevin said. “But be warned: Once you make a bold fashion statement like that, you’re going to be under a microscope for the rest of your life. Everyone will be judging your look.”
“There is a group in far lands called the Monks of Cool,” Mike said. “In distant lamaseries found only by treacherous secret paths, they study for years to determine the true nature of cool. When it is time for their mastery test, they are taken to a room full of clothing of every style throughout the centuries and asked, of all of these, which is the coolest. The only proper answer is, of course: Whatever I am wearing.”1
“You understand!” Kevin said, putting his hands on either side of Mike’s face. “Not only my little Michelangelo’s David, but my little apprentice of cool!”
“I need to know who I can see—not you—to get the suit fitted,” Mike said. “And well fitted.”
“I know just the person,” Kevin said.
“Wait,” Mike said, holding up his hand. “Is he black or Persian? ’Cause I’m racist. Black and Persian tailors are the only people I trust their fashion sense. In general, white people don’t gots none. You being an obvious exception. And I really need just the right shoes . . .”
“I understand from Kevin you only trust black tailors?”
Mr. Plimpton was exactly what Mike had been looking for in New York: a sixty-year-old black tailor who had probably started as an apprentice tailor when he was a child.
The small, discreet tailor’s shop was tucked away in an older but charming townhome on West 144th Street in Harlem. Counter to Kevin’s workspace, the shop was both packed full of Plimpton’s work and meticulously maintained.
“Black or Persian, sir,” Mike said. “I was raised in the ghetto and have come to have great regard for the fashion sense of well-dressed black men and the tailors who supply them. I was doing business consulting back home before I moved here. One of the first gentlemen I consulted with was a tailor such as yourself, sir.”
“Business consulting?” Mr. Plimpton said. He wasn’t measuring Mike for the refitting himself. He was overseeing a teen male, also black.
“I have already taken numerous college courses, sir,” Mike said, “including in the field of business and finance. It was a way to make money that did not involve standing on a corner dealing drugs.”
“Wise of you,” Mr. Plimpton said. “Where are you from?”
“Discreetly, sir?” Mike asked.
“Everything in this shop is discreet.”
“Baltimore, sir,” Mike said. “East Baltimore. Raised in foster care. I am ABE, though I rarely attend these days as it’s hard to explain why a white kid is in the congregation. Everyone I knew growing up was black. I have a hard time distinguishing white faces. White people all look alike to me.”
“Really?” the teen said. He was pinning the hem and leaned back to check if Mike was lying.
“Really,” Mike said. “You develop the ability to distinguish faces between four and seven. I saw approximately no white people on a day-to-day basis between four and seven. So, they all look alike to me. I also don’t get white people. They think weird. I do get black people including, especially, those who are raised in bad circumstances. ’Cause that was my life growing up. Bad circumstances in a ghetto.”
“Are you sure?” Derrick said, looking at Mike’s outfit back at the apartment.
“I’m sure,” Mike said, removing the pocket scarf. Add accessories until you’re done, then take one away.
“This is a competency hearing,” Derrick pointed out. “And that looks a tad . . . um . . .”
“Outré?” Mike asked. “It will work. Trust me.”
“I’m not sure I should,” Derrick said. “But it’s a bit late to get a tie.”
1. This is stolen blatantly and unashamedly from the late and much-lamented Sir Terry Pratchett. The author strongly recommends that his gentle readers start reading the Grand Master and be prepared to laugh and cry. Do so unashamedly. It is recommended they start with Wyrd Sisters or Guards! Guards! From there you have much enjoyment ahead.