Typo Squad, page 7
part #1 of Typo Squad Series
Thea followed behind as Dick approached the young man with his hand extended and a smile on his face. As they shook hands, the young man smiled as well.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Dick said. “How are you, Subscript?”
“Workin’ it, you know,” the young man said. “S’all good. Ain’t seen you in a dog’s age, Richard.”
“You know I prefer Dick.”
“Yeah, I read that on a bathroom wall somewhere,” Subscript said, and laughed. “By the way, it ain’t Subscript no more. It’s Superscript.”
“Ah,” Dick said. “Moving up in the world?”
“Aw, man,” Superscript said, rolling his eyes. “Couldn’t resist, could you?”
“I’ll just go ahead and introduce myself,” Thea said, extending her hand. “Thea Saurus.”
“What’s up?” Superscript said, shaking her hand as well. He turned to Dick. “New partner?”
“Yep,” Dick said.
“Does she know what happened with all your old partners?”
“Even I don’t know what happened with all my old partners,” Dick said.
“So,” Thea said, “how do you two know each other?”
“Subscript—” Dick began, but stopped himself. “My apologies, old habits. Superscript here used to be the bane of my existence. He was the leader of a bunch of troublemakers called the Blueline Gang. They ran wild all over Las Palabras, spray painting typos on any surface they could find.”
Superscript chuckled, looking down at his shoes. “Yeah, too true. Too true. Got in a shitload of trouble. But ol’ Dick here saved our asses.”
“Oh?” asked Thea. “How so?”
“Well, intentional posting of a typo is a felony,” Superscript explained. “So we were all looking at some serious prison time. But Dick talked to the judge on our behalf. Said he could set us straight.”
“And, with no false modesty, I did,” Dick said to Thea.
“He did,” Superscript said. “Put us on community service, repainting everything we defaced. Taught us responsibility.”
“And if I’m doing the math right, and I’m probably not, you and the rest of the Blueliners should be eligible in a few months,” Dick said.
“That’s right,” Superscript said. “The first of September.”
“Eligible for what?” Thea asked.
“The judge said if we could keep our noses clean, he’d clear our records and we could apply to Typo Academy,” Superscript said. “It’s gonna be close, but I think we’ll just make the cutoff for the fall semester.”
Dick put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”
“Yeah, well,” Superscript said, turning slightly pink. “Don’t make it all weird.”
“All right,” said Dick. “I’ll resist the urge to hold you and stroke your hair and tell you what a good boy you are.”
Superscript turned to Thea. “I think he was all alone on that mountain for too long.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Thea said.
“What are you doing here anyway?” Dick asked suddenly.
“Oh, we’re repainting the side of the Grammatica,” Superscript said. “Look.”
He pointed to scaffolding lining the outer wall of the building. Two figures dressed similarly to Superscript were hard at work with paintbrushes and rollers.
“Hey, Brackets!” Dick called, waving. “Hey, Carat!”
The two figures stopped what they were doing and waved back enthusiastically.
“Hey!” one of them called back. “We’ll be Typo Squad before you know it! Save us the best lockers!”
“I have the best locker!” Dick called back. “But I’ll see what I can do!”
They resumed their painting and Dick turned back to Superscript. “All right, Thea and I have work to do. Stay out of trouble, okay?”
“Will do,” Superscript said. “Good seeing you.”
Dick moved to head inside, but then turned back.
“Hey,” he said. “The name Anton Nym doesn’t ring any bells, does it?”
Superscript shook his head. “No. Should it?”
“New player in town,” Dick said. “Keep your ears open for me, would you?”
“Anton Nym,” Superscript repeated. “Okay, I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
“Good man.” Dick headed back toward the building steps, Thea close behind. Together they climbed the dozen or so short flights to the front doors, which were carved of ornate oak and had oversized brass pulls mounted on plates. Dick paused, looking at Thea, whose face was filled with excitement and anticipation.
“Brace yourself,” Dick said. “This place can be a little overwhelming.”
They went inside.
The doors opened into a large marble antechamber. A pair of guards stationed on either side of a gilded archway checked their credentials and waved them through.
The antechamber gave way to a cavernous room beyond. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the cathedral ceilings. The walls and railings were done in highly polished mahogany. Thick burgundy carpeting covered the floors, cushioning their footfalls.
Dick and Thea were on the second floor, which was open to the area below. As Thea approached the balustrade overlooking the first floor, Dick heard her gasp.
The floor below them had walls lined with bookcases that were stuffed to capacity with books of every size and shape. Dotting the floor were beautiful European-style desks, and seated at those desks were men and women sitting in the most comfortable-looking chairs, all of them wrapped in fluffy robes, all of them reviewing papers with red pens in hand. Circulating around them were men and women dressed in all black with pristine white aprons, taking drink orders, offering massages, and in some cases, performing pedicures. Soft chamber music played from hidden speakers.
“What . . . what is this?” Thea asked breathlessly.
“Those folks wrapped up in the fuzzy robes,” Dick said in a quiet voice, “are CLITs.”
“This is the life that CLITs lead?”
“It is.”
“What the hell?” Thea said. “Why did I join Typo Squad, then?”
“Shhh!” Dick hissed. “Keep your voice down!”
“Fine!” Thea hissed back. “Why did I join Typo Squad then?”
Dick looked down over the unquestionable pampering going on below. “Eh, I imagine all that luxury and being waited on hand and foot gets old after a while.” They watched one of the men in black deliver a glass of champagne on a silver tray with a proper bow to a robed figure.
“And the CLITs’ only job is to review public-facing documentation and make sure it’s clean?” Thea asked.
“That’s all,” Dick said.
“God damn.” Thea didn’t take her eyes off the splendor of the first floor. “Is it too late for me to choose a different career path?”
“Richard!” a voice suddenly cried. Dick and Thea both turned to see a dark-haired woman in a smart suit approaching them quickly. The woman threw her arms around Dick’s neck and kissed him hard on the lips.
“Unbelievable,” Thea muttered as the woman let go of Dick and took a step back, smoothing her hair and her clothes, her eyes locked on his face and a huge smile on hers.
“Hey Lauren,” Dick said. “You know I prefer Dick.”
“Oh,” the woman said breathlessly, “oh yes, so do I.”
Dick smiled. “It’s been a long time.”
“Too long!” Lauren playfully punched Dick on the arm. She turned to Thea. “I know quite a few CLITs that will be thrilled to see Dick.”
Thea’s eyes widened and she blinked twice, slowly.
“This is my new partner, Thea Saurus,” Dick said. “Thea, this is Lauren Ipsum, executive director of the Grammatica.”
“How do you do?” Lauren said, shaking Thea’s hand enthusiastically. “New partner, wow. You certainly must see a lot of Dick.”
Thea blinked again. “Um,” she said, but Lauren was already focused again on Dick.
“So what can I do for you?” she asked. “Is this a social visit, or business?”
“Business,” Dick said, and Lauren’s smile faded just a bit.
“Pity,” she said. “Still, you’re here, and that’s what’s important.” She turned to Thea. “I get ever so excited when Dick is in here. You know?”
“Um,” Thea said once again.
Lauren hooked Dick’s arm. “Come on, we can talk in my office.”
Lauren’s office was at the far end of the building, and had an expansive window behind her desk overlooking the CLITs’ level down below. Dick and Thea settled into the guest chairs and Lauren leaned forward on her elbows, fingers intertwined.
“So,” she said, smiling. “How can I help you?”
“It seems I have a new nemesis,” Dick said. “We were wondering if you might’ve heard anything about him.”
“Ooooh, that’s exciting,” Lauren said. “Nothing like a villain to keep you on your toes. What do you know about him?”
“He calls himself Anton Nym,” Thea offered. “He dresses all in black and wears a black mask with a silver asterisk in the middle of the forehead.”
“Well,” Lauren said thoughtfully, “at least he’s got style.”
“Does any of that ring any bells?” Dick asked.
Lauren shook her head. “No, sorry, it doesn’t.” Then sudden alarm grew on her face. “You don’t think this Nym character has any errorist ties, do you?”
“Can’t rule anything out right now,” Dick replied. “I certainly hope not.”
“Oh, those were dark times, Dick,” Lauren said with a small shudder. “Dark times.”
“Why, what happened?” Thea asked.
Lauren turned to her. “Oh yes, you’re probably too young to remember. There were errorist cells everywhere. Everywhere. They were trying to sneak typos through any way they could. My people were working night and day, running their red pens dry trying to keep up.
“And of course, the tics!” she continued. “Well, you’ll know all about tics, I’m sure. They’re manageable if you only find a typo every now and then. But that first floor sounded like a lunatic asylum in those days.”
She stopped herself, and then looked pleadingly at Dick. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Dick. Please forgive me; I wasn’t thinking.”
Dick shrugged it off. “No worries.”
“Well, anyway,” Lauren said, picking up the thread of her story, “Dick was able to rid us of the errorist threat, and things went back to normal around here. And to thank the CLITs for all their hard work, the mayor started a fund to make sure that they were comfortable and well looked-after. You may have noticed they enjoy a bit of luxury.”
“Yes, I did,” Thea said. “In fact, if you have any application forms handy, I’m definitely interested in handing in my Typo Squad badge and trying life as a CLIT on for size.”
Before Lauren could answer, they heard a loud bang! from somewhere outside the office.
“What on earth was that?” Lauren asked, mystified.
Bang! Bang! The sound seemed to be getting louder, and now was blended with screams and cries.
The trio rushed to the window that overlooked the first floor. Standing there at the opposite end of the space, his black clothes a stark contrast to the tranquil white of the floor, was Anton Nym, a massive, smoking silver pistol gripped in his right hand. Several of the CLITs were dead, their heads nearly blown off from the caliber of the bullets, their white robes stained with shockingly bright red blood. The other CLITs and servants were running in every direction for cover.
“Call for help!” Dick shouted over his shoulder, sprinting for the office door, Thea hot on his heels. He ran out onto the gallery and stopped at the railing that overlooked the lower level. He unholstered his weapon and aimed it at Nym. Thea followed suit.
“Freeze!” he screamed, and Anton’s masked head snapped up. Before Dick or Thea could react, Nym fled out the front entrance.
Dick and Thea sprinted down the gallery and through the entranceway. The two guards who had checked them in now lay in pools of blood on the marble floor.
When the two agents reached the entrance, they shouldered into the doors at full speed, but they were jammed shut.
They stepped back and began to throw forceful kicks at the doors, both of them putting all their weight behind the blows, and they slowly began to give. On the last kick, the doors flew open and Dick and Thea nearly spilled out onto the topmost step. They hurtled down the first flight of steps when Dick suddenly threw out an arm and stopped Thea cold.
She followed his gaze down the stairs. Standing in the middle of the street was Nym, his arm wrapped tightly around a struggling Superscript’s neck. His weapon was pointed straight at Superscript’s temple. People on both sidewalks were screaming and running for cover.
“Were I you,” Nym called to them, his voice still low and distorted, “I would divest myself of any and all weaponry.”
Dick and Thea exchanged a quick glance, and then as one, lowered their guns down to the stair on which they stood, dropping their weapons.
“Now I should ask that you create a distance of separation between yourselves and said weaponry,” Nym said. He was maddeningly calm, even though Superscript kept squirming and trying to get his hands in between his throat and Nym’s forearm.
Dick and Thea each kicked their guns off to the side, raising their hands halfway up. “Don’t hurt the kid,” Dick called to Nym. “This is between us.”
“Fundamentally, yes, it is between us,” Nym said. “But as I stated very clearly in my earlier missives, as you have decided to remain here, I intend to cause you the most harm by bringing harm to the innocent. I know full well how painful and maddening it will be for you to watch them suffer.”
“No!” Dick shouted. “Please.”
On squealing tires, a limousine appeared from a side street and barreled toward Nym. It stopped, its passenger side door directly behind him. The window rolled down and the door flew open from within.
“Young man,” Nym said calmly to Superscript, “I am, generally speaking, not one to try and offer any sage advice, but in this instance I shall make an exception. Do not follow Richard into a path that leads inevitably toward Typo Squad. It’ll only end in pain and misery.”
Nym locked eyes with Dick for a moment, then turned back to his prisoner.
“I shall now release you and step into my awaiting vehicle,” Nym said, and at these words, Superscript ceased struggling. “But I warn you not to move in any way, to try and harm me or escape, or I shall end your life in a very messy way. Are we agreed?”
Superscript nodded as much as he was able, and Nym slowly released him. Nym’s gun was still trained directly on him, and the young man stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the street, his hands now up, his quivering legs threatening to collapse him into a heap.
Nym stepped backward, sat down in the limo’s rear seat, and closed the door, keeping his weapon trained on Superscript through the open window.
“I implore you to walk away from this, Richard,” Nym called out. “Return to the safety of your mountain retreat. If you remain part of Typo Squad, there will be naught but tragedy.”
Nym pulled the trigger. The report echoed off the steel-and-glass buildings and into the evening air. Superscript pitched forward and fell to his knees, a crimson bloom spreading on the front of his sweatshirt, a look of disbelieving shock etched on his young face.
The limousine took off as Nym rolled up his window, disappearing down the nearest side street. Dick and Thea both dove for their guns, but by the time they had them in hand, the limo was long gone.
Dick vaulted the stairs two at a time, Thea directly behind him. He dove for the prone figure in the street and jammed his fingers into the side of Superscript’s neck. Nothing. He looked helplessly at Thea, who put her hand up to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dick paced restlessly around the condo that night, passing by the index cards laid out on the kitchen counter. He read them over and over again, but no matter how much they triggered his tic, he couldn’t escape the image of Superscript lying dead in the street, covered in blood, his once-bright future snuffed out in an instant.
Without even realizing what he was doing, Dick grabbed his suitcase, opening it on the couch in the living room. He began throwing his few possessions in it.
There was a knock at the door.
“Leave me alone.”
“It’s Tanka,” the muffled voice said from the other side.
“I don’t care if it’s a three-headed leprechaun here to bring me a fucking pot of gold,” Dick called. “Leave me alone!”
The lock made a soft clicking sound and the door swung open.
“Of course,” Dick said. “Of course you’d have a key.”
Tanka took in the scene. “Going somewhere?”
“Of course I am,” Dick replied. “Didn’t you hear what happened today?”
“Dick,” Tanka said, his voice low, “he was a good kid. Okay, maybe not a good kid, but he was a kid who was really trying to turn his life around.”
“Yeah, and because I didn’t listen to Nym’s warning, that kid is dead,” Dick said, his hackles rising. “So I’m going back to the mountain like I should’ve done in the first place.”
“Huh.” Tanka moved over to the suitcase, slamming the lid shut. “So you’re one hundred percent sure that if you go away, he’ll go away?”
“If he doesn’t, the rest of you can handle it,” Dick said, stepping right up to Tanka and opening the suitcase again. Tanka slammed it shut once more.
“Same old Dick.” Tanka’s voice was low with barely controlled anger. “Running away when things get tough.”
Dick’s fury ignited like a flare. “You didn’t hold a dead kid’s head in your hands today!” he shouted, now almost nose-to-nose with Tanka. “A kid who was dead because of me!”
“Superscript isn’t the only one who died!” Tanka screamed back, and Dick stepped back as if slapped. “That son of a bitch also killed eight people in the Grammatica!”
