Read Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen for Free Online

continued, “I’m going to keep my eye on you from now on.”
    “You’re— what?” I bellowed, rising from my chair so fast that my single malt spilled all over the white tablecloth. Bessy yelped. The other girls at the table went white. A couple of my guys put their hands in their jackets, in case they needed to draw their heaters. The Book just blew casually at his trimmed fingertips like nothing was happening at all. “You threaten me — Tony ‘Spats’ DeMulder — in front of my people, at my table?”
    I’ll give the actor credit. He didn’t flinch. But I think his confidence came more from ignorance than anything. Like he’d acted this scene too many times to know the difference between real life and make-believe.
    It was almost funny when he started to peel off his expensive dinner jacket. “I should warn you, Mr. Spats, that I’ve played both d’Artagnan and Mercutio on stage to rave reviews. And I do my own stunts.”
    It took me a minute to realize that he thought I was going to fight him. If I hadn’t been so mad, I might have laughed. Instead, I sneered: “Boys, plug this—”
    “Not exactly a private club, is it, Spats?” said The Book quietly.
    Still red-faced with anger I looked around and realized almost every eye in the room was on us. No one was dancing. The band was still playing, of course— they were pros. But even the musicians were watching us over their bobbing instruments. I froze, beating back my anger. It had got me into trouble a time or two before. Then I straightened my tie with a little too much force and deliberately sat back down.
    Now it was Anton’s turn to look foolish, standing there with his jacket over his arm, looking ready to duke it out, but with no one stepping up. Finally, with a flap of his jacket like it was a bullfighter’s cape, he slipped it back on. “I trust I’ve made myself clear,” he said. Then he nodded politely at the dames. “Ladies.”
    As he turned away, I muttered under my breath: “Enjoy the rest of your evening, punk. Really— enjoy it while you can.”
    But now? Well, I really wish I’d left well enough alone.
    * * *
    Yessir, I was the detective on the Ken Anton case. What’s that? Oh, sure: for the record I’m Detective Constable Chet MacDougall. Been in plainclothes all of two years.
    The Anton case was kind of a big to-do— what with him being a celebrity and all. I even got quoted in the papers a couple of times. Me! My mom clipped those and put ‘em in a scrapbook.
    Anton was an actor. Did stage, but was probably most famous nationally as a radio actor, doing stuff on the CBC. Even did some work down in New York, I guess. Folks were naturally kind of interested in a rubbernecker sort of way— it’s not like there are too many big-name stars in Canada, are there? And to get himself murdered—
    Oops. Guess I shouldn’t say things like that, eh? I mean, officially, the case was ruled accidental— but we all knew better.
    See, Anton had had a bit of a dustup with this slimy wiseguy, name of Tony “Spats” DeMulder— right in front of a few hundred people in the Palais Royale, of all places. Not exactly low-profile. According to witnesses, Anton all but called Spats out— like Anton thought he was living out some swashbuckler story and he was Ronald Coleman or something. Well, Spats didn’t do anything then— but Anton ends up dead a couple of days later.
    He was found in his bathtub with a script scattered on the floor. He liked to rehearse his lines in the tub— maybe the echo reminded him of a stage. So there he was, naked as the day, pages on the floor— and a radio that cost more than I make in a month bobbing in the water next to him. Apparently that was something else he liked to do in the bath— listen to the radio. He even had a little wooden table custom-made just for it.
    How do I know what he liked to do in the bath? We interviewed some of his lady friends. Let’s just say Mr. Anton didn’t always