"Boss?" asked LaGuardia.

  "What?" snapped Ashmore.

  "I have to go see how the booth's setting up," said LaGuardia, "I'll see you later."

  "Yeah," said Ashmore, "you've got things to do, and I've got things to do."

  Ashmore got to his feet.

  "I'm going to have to nut up," said Ashmore, "or I've got to shut up."

  With that he strode out of his room and into the hallway.

  Kirby felt good to have the long plane ride scraped off him. The shower was divine and though it took longer than he originally planned, it was well worth it. His jet lag was gone and he felt fresh and alert. He also felt like a Coke Zero and some ice. Mitch suggested calling the concierge and Gustav offered to fetch it for him, but Kirby opted to do it himself. Partly because he felt it was good to do simple errands on his own, also he wanted to go for a walk and stock up on fresh air before inhaling the reconstituted air of the convention floor.

  The door clicked shut behind him as he stepped out into the hallway.

  "Kirby Baxter?" drawled a voice behind him with a broad Boston accent.

  Kirby turned to see Jim Madden in all that passed for his glory.

  "Jim," said Kirby, "what a surprise." Madden owned one of North America's largest retail websites specializing in all sorts of collectibles, from comics, to toys, to celebrity autographs. He was a stocky fellow, built like a football player who had given up on training in favour of beer and burritos, and he wore his thinning hair long and pulled back into a ponytail.

  "It's good to see you," said Madden holding out a hand, which Kirby shook. "I thought you were still in Europe."

  "I just got in today for the convention," said Kirby. Madden smelled like hotel shampoo, at least three layers of Axe body spray, and nerves, so Kirby decided to push a button. "I heard you scored some original Dick Wilco art and are going to auction it off here."

  "That?" said Madden forcing nonchalance. "That's nothing more than a silly internet rumour."

  Then why are your eyes darting to the right as you speak? thought Kirby, so he decided to push the button again. "Really, I didn't see anything online about it."

  "Some anonymous dick made an offhand comment on a fan forum about how I could get stuff no one else could, including Dick Wilco stuff," said Madden. "Before you could say 'The Flash' it had gone full blown Chinese whisper into people saying that I actually had some Dick Wilco art, and people are jumping on it like it was the gospel from on high."

  "Really," said Kirby. "Crying shame, I'd actually love to get some original Wilco art."

  "Yeah," said Madden, "wouldn't everyone. I'd love to chat some more, but I really gotta go."

  "I'll see you on the floor," said Kirby.

  "That would be great," said Madden as he headed for the elevators.

  Now Kirby was certain that the rumours were true and that Madden was up to something. Exactly what that something was eluded Kirby at the moment. This certainty went beyond the little physical cues Kirby observed, it came from cold hard experience. Kirby and Madden had run into each other dozens of times at various conventions and industry events, and this was the first and only time that Madden didn't try to hustle some original artwork or autographed books out of Kirby for him to sell on his website. He was usually relentless on that quest and often went beyond just asking. One of Madden's more infamous tricks was to hire people, usually attractive young women, to pose as penniless fans, who just happen to have multiple copies that need autographs as well as sketchbooks for some complimentary drawings, but he never let a chance meeting pass without at least trying to score something.

  At least he never did until now.

  Maybe it was the surprise of seeing Kirby after two years away, maybe it was the stress of keeping this alleged auction of Dick Wilco art a secret, but why play coy with a known Dick Wilco fan that had more money than a Kardashian, and infinitely more taste?

  Kirby knelt down to tighten the laces on one of his high-tops when he heard: "What are you doing here?"

  Kirby knew that voice too and looked up for a confirmation. It was Fred Ashmore, the less than great man himself.

  "I'm here for the convention," answered Kirby. "What are you doing here?"

  "Business," said Ashmore, "important business."

  "That's great," said Kirby, trying to choke down the nasty imp that wanted to rub his new wealth in Ashmore's face and realizing that without input from that nasty little imp, he really didn't have any reason to talk to Fred Ashmore. "I'm staying in the Royal Suite."

  "Really," said Ashmore with a hint of jealousy that was so damn sweet to Kirby's nasty little imp. Kirby could see that something else was eating at Ashmore, and it had to be something big.

  "It's a great room," added Kirby. "It's so big, I'm thinking about throwing a party for some of the industry folks and internet people." Kirby realized that little idea just came straight from the imp inside him, and the fact that it sounded like such a good idea worried him slightly. "It would be a good opportunity for me to catch up on things, let the fans know what I'm up to, and such."

  "What have you been up to?"

  "I've been up to lots of stuff," said Kirby, "too much to tell here, really."

  "Then maybe we should meet later," said Ashmore.

  "I'd love to," added Kirby, letting the imp run free. "Maybe you can come to the party? It will be a lot of fun, and I'm sure the reporters would love to ask you about Shadowknight's sales figures."

  "I'm sure they would," said Ashmore. Then his cell phone rang. "Sorry, I'd love to catch up and all that, but I really got to take this call."

  "No problem," replied Kirby heading to the elevator. "Have a fun convention."

  "I know I put those passes somewhere," said Erica as she went through her carry-on bag.

  "Try your purse," said Andi taking a seat by the wide bedroom window.

  "Right," said Erica, as she put down her carry-on bag and picked up her expansive purse. "This could take a while."

  "How many did you get?"

  "Four," answered Erica.

  "You," said Andi, wanting a cigarette, but fighting the urge so she fished out her iPhone, "Bruce, and your boyfriend–"

  "I don't have a boyfriend," answered Erica.

  "What about that photographer in Los Angeles?"

  "Chaz," said Erica, "we're not going out anymore."

  "I never liked the look of him," said Andi. "Henry said he was the living proof that you really can judge a book by its cover?"

  "Chaz was all cover," said Erica, "no book."

  "So I guess you can spare two invites," said Andi scrolling through the info on her iPhone, "that covers the skinny guy and the midget. I think I can find one for their pet gorilla."

  "Oh Andi," said Erica, "you can be so mean sometimes."

  "A-ha!" exclaimed Andi shooting an arm in the air in triumph.

  "What is it?"

  "The skinny guy, Baxter," said Andi. "I thought there was something familiar about him, and it has nothing to do with comic books."

  "What is it?"

  "He was all over the European papers about a year and a half ago," said Andi showing a newspaper's website on her phone's monitor.

  "Is that in German?"

  "My German's a little rough, but it says that Baxter and that big guy helped the police catch a murderer," said Andi.

  "Get out of here," said Erica, her hands plunging deeper into her purse, "he's a comic book artist."

  "It's true," answered Andi turning over her iPhone to show Erica a photograph of Kirby Baxter, dressed in a suit that looked like he left the hanger in, shaking hands with a man in an much more elegantly tailored outfit. "Here he is getting a medal from the Prince of Lichtenstein himself."

  "That's a surprise and a half."

  "It also says he's rich."

  "How rich can he be?"

  "Obscenely."

  "I figured he has to be rich to be staying at the Royal Suite," said Erica, "but he seemed so normal."

  "Famous last words," said Andi, putting her phone away.

  "Geeky, but a normal kind of geeky."

  "Are you telling me that there are degrees of geeky now?" asked Andi.

  "I have to get the full story of him catching a murderer out of him tonight," said Erica.

  "I'm sure you'll get it out of him," said Andi. "Men tend to do whatever you ask for."

  "You've been reading the tabloids again."

  "I've got to read something while I'm waiting in airports."

  "I thought you liked traveling," said Erica. "Oh, wait, I found them," she added, pulling out the two extra passes.

  "It's lost some of its glamour," replied Andi, opening her own little purse and pulling out one of her extra passes, "I spend half my time following Henry from one party hot-spot to another. That means a lot of airports, a lot of hotels, a lot of going into clubs through the back door, and a lot of time stuck in hotel rooms with migraines. The rest of the time I just stay home."

  "What about your plans to settle down and open your own club in Miami?"

  Andi waved her hand. "Staying in one spot isn't in the cards. Besides, Henry says that clubs come and go, especially with today's economy, and that if he's going to stay on top he's got to stay on the move."

  "I'm not an expert, but I think there's a contradiction somewhere in that saying of his."

  "Henry's deal is music," answered Andi as she passed Erica the extra pass, "not lyrics."

  "Bruce," called out Erica.

  "You rang Madam," replied Bruce as he appeared at the door.

  "Could you please take these to Mr. Baxter and his friends in the Royal Suite?"

  "No problem," said Bruce, taking the passes.

  Silence held sway for a beat and then Andi said: "Enough of my petty miseries. Let's talk about yours."

  Erica paused. She had something she wanted to talk about, something that made her miserable, but didn't want to burden her friend with it.

  "I'm just working my ass off," said Erica flopping on the bed. "Becoming an actress is a lot harder than my agent implied."

  "You're working, that's a lot better than most actors just starting out."

  "Let's see," said Erica, counting off on her fingers, "so far I've done one low budget horror movie playing a model chased by a killer in a clown mask; one guest spot on a sitcom, playing a model; and now this part playing a superhero, who works as a model by day."

  "It could be worse," said Andi.

  "I've got a lot riding on this movie," said Erica, "and I'm really freaking out about it. I let on that I'm enthusiastic, but I'm really scared. I don't know anything about whether the script is any good or not. I know nothing about the director, and the more I learn about the producer, the less comfortable I am with this whole damn thing."

  "As long as you get paid," added Andi, "you can afford a little discomfort."

  It was a rare event for Max Cooperman to find someone more full of shit than he was, but when it did happen he would sit back and savour the moment.

  "The script for this project," said Markus L. the director of The Vengeance Sisters, "has touched a part of my soul."

  "Sure," said Max looking over the man who would bring his movie to life. The life-bringer's real name was Mark Lewis, but such a banal name just wouldn't fit so he changed it to Markus L., and with that name came a new image. A few tattoos, an ironic moustache, and a head carefully coiffed to look uncombed, and voila an artiste had been born. His biggest credit so far had been a music video for some kiddy pop singer, no one could remember which one because they all pretty much looked and sounded the same. "It's a really touching script."

  "I feel it in here," said Markus, holding his hand over his heart. "I think my artistic vision can elevate this film above its bourgeois and banal roots in the so-called comic papers."

  "I've been looking over your pre-production material," said Cooperman, as he patted the hefty binder on what remained of his lap, "it's very impressive. I really think the headquarters for the sisters is really first rate. How's the construction going?"

  "We will be ready to shoot by Monday," replied Markus L., "though–"

  "Though what?"

  "Well," shrugged Markus. "The unions are starting to poke around. Apparently they don't like you shipping in a construction crew from another city. In fact we're all a little confused about that."

  The crew building the elaborate sets was non-union, which was rare but not unheard of. Cooperman had trucked them in from Montreal. Now industry people considered that an unheard of move, especially in a city literally teeming with experienced movie and television crews. The fact that they all spoke French and so few spoke more than a few phrases of English had made communication tricky.

  "Tell those shit-heels from the union to go fuck themselves," commanded Cooperman, "it's just that easy, and use those exact words." Cooperman had to have some of his own words with the head of the union because in movies, as in life, timing is everything.

  "The schedule's going to be a little tricky," added Markus L., pulling a sheet of paper from his own attaché case.

  "It's simple," said Cooperman, "Sandy Doyle won't be free from her TV series until next week, so just shoot around her with Erica Cross and the stand-in."

  "It's unconventional," said Markus.

  "That's the beauty of being an independent filmmaker," said Cooperman, "you are not bound by those bullshit conventions."

  They were having this little meeting in a booth in the back of the Carnival Room, a hotel bar decorated like it was Mardi Gras every day of the year, but without the drunken girls doffing their tops for beads. The décor – shiny baubles and gaudy looking masks covered the walls – making it look like someone had covered every surface in glue, dragged in a second hand parade float from New Orleans, and then lobbed in a hand grenade.

  "Another potential problem," added Markus "is that we still haven't cast our Dr. Zardoz."

  "Don't worry about that," replied Cooperman. "His scenes don't get shot for another three weeks, and the right actor can just jump right in." Cooperman was still negotiating with Christopher Walken and Ben Kingsley for the part of the mutated mad scientist, but he was stalling at making any sort of final agreement with either one of them. Cooperman was stalling because both Walken and Kingsley had worked for MaxCo Films in the past and knew how the company operated. This meant that they spurned his offer of only a share of the box office receipts and insisted on MaxCo paying them their standard fee in full, and up front. If Cooperman's master plan was going to work out he couldn't afford to make that sort of deal.

  "It seems a little 'seat of the pants,'" said Markus.

  "If I wasn't always right," answered Cooperman, "I wouldn't be rich. Now why don't you talk to the publicity people about what you're going to say at tomorrow's presentation?"

  Markus nodded. Cooperman dismissed him with a wave of one hand and signalled the waitress with the other.

  "Vodka Martini," ordered Cooperman. Technically it was still fairly early but the sun had to be over the yardarm somewhere. He decided to linger at the bar for a while and make a few calls on his mobile and avoid going back to his suite. That dingus Ashmore knew his room number, and had already left a bunch of messages for him, no doubt wanting some way out of their deal. Well, a deal's a deal, and if they wanted to make Max Cooperman fuck off into the sunset then they were going to have to pay.

  "Cooperman!"

  Damn it!

  It was Ashmore; the bastard had to be part goddamn bloodhound.

  "I've been looking all over for you," said Ashmore as he crossed the bar.

  "I'm a very busy man," answered Cooperman taking the Martini from the returning waitress and dropping an American twenty on her tray. "Keep the change honey."

  "We're supposed to be partners," said Ashmore, his arms crossed and his long narrow horse-face pinched up in a vain attempt to look stern.

  "And we are partners," said Cooperman. "The movies I'm going to make with your company's characters are going to be huge."

  "I find that hard to believe," said Ashmore.

  "Why?" asked Cooperman.

  "I've actually read that piece of shit you call a script."

  "Listen," said Cooperman, "I know the movie business, you don't. Now I really gotta go."

  Cooperman made his way to the door, but that bastard was still on his tail.

  Twenty bucks.

  That's what it took to get the dishwasher to leave the door propped open so he could get in. There were no security cameras in this part of the hotel, because the powers that be in the hotel didn't figure that there was anything down here worth stealing. It goes to show what they knew, but he knew better.

  The dishwasher only spoke rough broken English, so he just pointed down a grey cinder-block hall, and said: "There. Green box. Green box."

  He nodded and passed the dishwasher another ten. The dishwasher nodded and stuck a little wooden peg under the door to keep it from locking.

  "Green box," repeated the dishwasher.

  "Green box," he answered with a smile.

  He went down the hallway. A florescent tube flickered above him. He reached a pair of loose swinging doors, and he found his prize.

  It was kind of a green box. Actually, it was a great big green bin sitting under a chute that he knew went all the way up to what the hotel liked to call the Excelsior floor.

  Yes, at the Waterloo, the rich people’s garbage got its own special bin. Wasn't that so goddamn precious.

  She hadn't been there long enough to contribute to the contents of the bin, but her neighbours had. To accomplish his mission he needed knowledge, the sort of knowledge one found only in the trash.

 

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