Read Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen for Free Online Page B

like the police. They get all scaredy-like. One of them pulls a gun, like he thinks I ratted on them. Then a voice starts shouting at them, telling them the gig she’s-a up and the place is surrounded.
    Two of the guys, they act-a like they want to shoot it out. But The Book, he says no— that’s worse. Just give up and let the lawyers work it out. So they walk outside into the street, arms up, saying don’t-a shoot us Mr. Police Officer, we give up.
    Only— there’s-a no one there.
    I watched from the window and there was-a no cop and no cop-a cars. These tough guys are standing in the street, arms over their heads, looking like chumps, and no-a cop. People on the street start-a laughing at them— including other folk from who they normally take-a the money. The Book, he looks around, trying to figure out who-a pulled the prank. Then he and his guys they-a get in their car and drive away. And they forgot all about the money I was supposed to give them.
    What’s-a that? The actor? Sure, I remember reading about how that nice Mr. Anton died— so sad. He was-a fine actor. I learned the English listening to him on the radio. He could-a gone down to the States and become a big movie star, but he wanted to stay-a here in Canada.
    Say— now you say it, I remember. That thing in my store, with the cops that weren’t-a there— that was only a few days after he died.
    * * *
    They call me a “Lady Reporter”— which pisses me off. ‘Scuse my French. But that’s my point. I cuss like a French-Canadian sailor. I can write as well as any of the men. I smoke like a chimney. And I can drink most of them under the table. But I’m still the “lady.” I’ve busted my hump at this paper for fifteen years. I’ve written the advice column for sappy housewives when the only advice they really need is: “Leave the bum.” I’ve covered fashion shows— and I’m bloody color-blind!
    If there’s any good that came out of the last war it’s that a lot of men went overseas and gals like me got a chance to sit in the big boy chairs. Like the crime beat.
    Brother, the stories I could tell you.
    But the really interesting stories are the ones I can’t tell— the ones I know are out there but I just haven’t yet managed to pin down enough to go to press.
    Like what? Well, you know how there are all these masked mystery men these days— here, and down in the States, and overseas. They’re supposed to be mysterious, enigmas— but most of them have names, have costumes, they leave calling cards and don’t mind being photographed if it makes ‘em look good. So much for mysterious.
    But there’s this one guy— brother, he’s so mysterious he’s like a Chinese puzzle box buried at the bottom of Oak Island. He’s so mysterious I bet only Ambrose Small has his phone number— if you get the gag.
    He’s so mysterious most people don’t know he exists.
    Even those who come in contact with him— well, they more have to infer his existence. That’s how mysterious he is.
    I call him… The Rumor.
    I call him that on account of the fact that you only get hints and whispers about him. That and the only real evidence I’ve pinned down is his voice. Or, at least— a voice.
    The first instance I heard about was from a cop I know who told me about an anonymous tip they got about a jewel robbery. Nothing strange about that. They dispatched a prowl car, they nabbed the crooks. Everyone’s happy. Except when the detective who got the tip checked with the switchboard— no one there could remember putting the call through.
    Then there was that kidnapping. You know the one— that little Van Hooren boy, heir to the candy-bar empire or whatever it was. He gets kidnapped, parents are frantic, cops are on high alert. Then, out of nowhere, the kidnapper, a guy named Alfie O’Leery — so dim he could be a character in Li’l Abner — he shows up at the parents’ house, the little boy in tow. When the cops swarm all over him he’s