Blackjack Dead or Alive (The Blackjack Series Book 3) (6 page)

“Water,” I said, and Giuseppe repeated my request in Italian to the shopkeeper. He brought over a carafe of iced-water that I downed in one gulp.

“My friend, you eat like you’ve never eaten before.”

I let out a belch and smiled.

“Feels like it,” I said, reaching into the carafe and grabbing a handful of ice that I pressed against my face. I leaned back from the table, refreshed and almost full, tossing the dirty ice back into the carafe and looked around. I clasped my hands and rubbed them.

“Okay,” I said. “Now show me some tools and I’ll fix your car.”

*              *              *              *

The problem with car was an oil issue that I resolved using my screw driver and a couple of strips of twine. It wouldn’t hold forever, but the Citroen would run.

It belonged to a friend of Giuseppe’s, a Frenchman called Alain. I offered him a thousand euros to let me fix the car, and to drive us all to the nearest town with a bank. While I repaired the Citroen, I had Giuseppe offer the café owner more money and he let me leave town with a bagful of baguettes. They were long gone by the time we made the first of the winding turns that rose up the mountain.

“What was the name of that town,” I asked as Alain drove us.

“Il Porto,” the Frenchman said. He might’ve been from a different country, but he spoke English with the same Italian-tinged accent as Giuseppe.

The engine was a loud but constant thrum, and I felt my lids sag. The smart play would be to keep an eye on these guys but I was asleep by the last turn, the small fishing village an afterthought in the distance.

*              *              *              *

I woke to a brusque shove by Alain and the slamming of a car door.

“We are here,” Giuseppe said, leaning into the window from the passenger side.

Alain opened the door for me and I stepped out.

They had lent me an ill-fitting jacket, but I still looked like I had fallen out of a plane. My only hope was Porto Classico wasn’t at the height of fashion. It was a larger town which lay at the edge of a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Porto Classico was dotted with small shops and cafes for tourists driving across the coast. We found a small café next to a bank and Alain invited us to drink some coffee as we waited for the bank to open after the lunch break.

A young, heavy-set waitress came to our table and I let Alain order coffee for us. I just nodded when he pointed towards me.

“So your boat sank,” Alain said, firing up a cigarette, he gave one to Giuseppe and offered me one, which I declined.

I nodded; drinking the iced water the girl had dropped off on the first visit. Motioning to Giuseppe’s water, he slid it in my direction, and I downed that as well.

“How long were you in the water?”

Alain knew I was lying. For all I knew, Giuseppe did as well, but the Italian didn’t seem to care one way or another.

“Just a few hours,” I said, describing the group of rocks as the spot my boat had foundered.

Giuseppe laughed, “Alain was a policeman back in the old days. He doesn’t trust anyone.”

I laughed, “Pays not to trust anyone.”

“So you are rich?” the Frenchman asked, nodding to himself when I raised an eyebrow. “What from? What business?”

“I’m an inventor,” I said. “My name is Jason Hughes,” I said, using the first thing that came to me. It was an amalgamation of my brother’s first name and Apogee’s real last name.

Alain took a long drag off the cigarette. “It had to be something like that,” he said. “The way you fixed my car…”

“It’s a jury rig,” I said. “A temporary fix,” I added when I saw he didn’t understand the term. “She won’t last long with that bypass on the oil pan manifold.”

“You know cars well,” Giuseppe said.

“Everything,” I said. “I can build you…hell, I could build anything.”

“Engineer?”

I smiled at Alain, “Something like that.”

“Where did you learn all this, school?”

“Here and there,” I said. “I tinkered with stuff since I was a kid. Then, yeah, I went to university. Look guys, I’m sorry, but I’d rather not get into my life.”

He was prodding, curious. Maybe it was my face. Even small towns got news about the world shattering villains, and my trial was global news. All it really took was an internet connection. Maybe it was just a suspicious nature, and knowing he had caught me in a lie. One lie had to lead to another, and a former cop probably couldn’t help himself.

“How are you going to get money if you have no identification?” Alain asked.

“A friend will wire it.”

“Two thousand five-hundred dollars?” he said, factoring what I had promised him, Giuseppe and the café owner for all their help.

I shrugged, “We’ll see.”

The girl came over with our coffees and Alain asked her when the bank was open in Italian. She told him, and he checked his watch.

“Fifteen minutes until bank opens,” he said. “Let’s finish our coffees and we see if you are telling the truth.”

*              *              *              *

I had no identification, but the account only required the twenty-two digit number and their person-to-person desk to clear the money transfer. It was anonymous and accessible from anywhere in the world. Thirty minutes later, I had the branch maximum, five thousand euros. Plenty to pay off Alain, Giuseppe and the café owner for their kindness, and get some clean clothes at the local tailors shop and a pair of shoes that were a little tight.

I had a black wool overcoat, dark gray slacks and a plain white shirt and undershirt. At least I could pass for a regular guy, if a bit taller than most.

“Now you look almost decent,” Giuseppe said, shaking my hand as Alain waited in the car.

“Does he believe me now?” I gestured to the Frenchman.

Giuseppe waved his hands, “He’s like that, my friend. Don’t worry too much. As for this,” he held up an envelope stacked with 1000 euro notes. “It is too much, I think. What did I do to deserve all this money?”

I clasped his shoulder, “You did something,” I said. “I can’t say that I’ve known anyone that’s been kinder to me in a long time.”

He looked bashful for a moment, then noticed a green bus coming up the hill.

“That one is yours, Jason,” Giuseppe said, fixing my coat. “You’ll be alright?”

I nodded, “Get me to a big city and I’ll find my way.”

We looked at each other for a moment and I smiled.

“You’re a real class act,” I said. “Thank you for everything.”

He patted my shoulder. “You’ll be okay,” he said, more declaratively than before, then turned away and got into the car. He waved at me as Alain drove off. The Frenchman gave me a curt nod in the rear view mirror before turning on the main road.

The green bus sidled to a stop, and the door flew open.

“Firenze,” I said. He nodded.

I got on the bus and found a seat near the back. I got the once over from a couple of people on the bus as I ambled down the narrow center aisle, but my recent adventures as an escaped convict beach bum had given me enough of a tan that, when paired with the local garb, helped me blend in. As long as nobody talked to me, I was fine.

I was the only pickup at the stop, and no one debarked, so the driver closed the gate and drove off. I took off my coat and bunched it up to use it as a pillow. It was two and a half hours to Firenze, giving me time to plan.

And to dream.

At Firenze I stopped at the local bank and withdrew more money. The people in charge of the account didn’t ask questions, and I felt a drop of pity for the fool who tried to defraud them. My pockets full again, I sat at a little café and murdered a large plate of pasta before hopping a train to Milan, but once there I had a decision to make. I had already fixed my mind to go into hiding, to drop out of everyone’s radar for a few years. If things got worse, as I expected they would with the world’s hero population sorely outnumbered, maybe I could negotiate, offer myself up as a bounty hunter or something like that, in exchange for a pardon. If the heroes got things under control, which was generally what happened, I could disappear. I would find a quiet place far away from the limelight. If I stayed underground long enough, they would forget me, or someone more dangerous would take my place on the wanted lists. Whatever kept me breathing free air.

And gave me time to plan Haha’s demise.

I bought a first class ticket, paying the agent an extra hundred euros to keep it anonymous and stashed a bottle of wine and a Panini wrapped in wax paper in my coat. The cabin was large and plush with comfortable leather seats and ample leg room. I stretched out; setting the bottle of wine on the small table attached to the wall, and dug the Panini out of my pocket. It had cooled a little, but was still warm when I bit into it. It took effort, but I didn’t shove the whole thing in my mouth. I bit and chewed like a man who had taken a decent meal in his life, trying to savor each bite, washing it down with the occasional sip of wine. I was halfway done eating when a woman came into the cabin and slid into the seat across from me.

I felt my lip curl into a snarl, and was about to say something rude, but she was a stunner. She was a slim, sublime beauty, probably a fashion model headed to Milan. She wore black leggings and a cream colored leather coat that was modest and sexy at the same time, with a red scarf loosely tied around her neck. Large, wide lensed sunglasses balanced on the edge of her nose, the tint just light enough to see the shadow of her eyes. She had a Bluetooth earpiece, speaking German to whoever was on the other end, ignoring me with practiced efficiency.

Instead of telling her to leave, I sat back and cleaned myself up, brushing crumbs off my coat, and corking the bottle and placing it on a table. She acknowledged my existence with a patronizing smile, but didn’t miss a beat in her conversation, which continued for another ten minutes. I began to pity the poor soul on the other end, as it seemed my new guest did most of the talking. My belly full again, I rested my head against the soft seat back, the train’s rumbling a lullaby that ushered me to sleep.

I woke to the feeling of free fall, and put a supporting arm out. My new guest recoiled a little, but she had obviously shoved me.

“What the fuck, lady,” I said, arms wide with anger.

She dismissed my fury with a laugh, “You snore loud. I’m trying to speak on the phone, okay?”

“I snore,” I said, bewildered, but giving in to my irritation. “You talk loud, goddammit.”

The woman cocked her head in disbelief.

“This is an important call,” she said. “I paid for a private cabin because of my calls; you understand what I’m saying?”

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my ticket, “I paid for first class too,” I said, waving the ticket around. “So fuck you and fuck your calls.”

Her eyes narrowed and I saw a reply form on her lips when her attention wavered from me to the bobbing ticket in my hand.

“Can I see?”

I showed it to her and she laughed, shaking her head.

“That is a first class ticket,” she said.

“What did I just say?”

She drew a ticket from her coat, and handed it to me.

“That is for a private cabin,” she said. “This one, in fact.”

I saw the discrepancy, even though I couldn’t read Italian, it was clear her ticket was a higher class than mine by virtue of her having paid almost twice as much as I had. I had paid for a first-class seat, not a cabin – it was coincidence that the numbers were the same.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry,” I said and she replied with a cocked eyebrow. “I thought first class was the cabins. I wanted a cabin,” I said standing suddenly and banging my head against the low roof. “Goddammit,” I roared, flinching at the blow. “Sorry,” I went on, walking toward the door.

“It’s fine,” she said.

I opened the door and stopped, “And I’m sorry for insulting you,” I said. “That was out of line,” I said and walked out of the cabin, headed for one of the ushers who were just now finishing a ticket check in the first of the row of cabins.

“Signore,” I said, rushing toward him. “I made a mistake with the tickets. When I bought them, I mean.”

He had a serious face with steely blue eyes and wide shoulders. I was approaching fast, and I could tell he didn’t like it. This guy was used to cowing people, and I had grown accustomed to treading carefully around alpha dogs in their territory. Something about my size was a magnet for little guys wanting to buy trouble.

“See, I bought a first class ticket-“

“This is not first class,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “I mean, I know that now. I didn’t know when I was buying the ticket. I thought first class was-”

“Upgrade is one hundred euro,” he said, again interrupting me.

“Okay, fine,” I said, reaching into my coat pocket.

“But there are no more cabins available,” he said, waiting for me to get my money out, and stepping aside, lifting an arm to guide me to a different car.

“I’ll pay double,” I said, counting off the euros in front of him.

He smiled, shaking his head.

“This is not how we do this,” he said.

“Triple then,” I said. I really didn’t want to be in an open car with dozens of strangers, regardless of how comfortable the seats were. “I got a shitload of money.”

“Sir,” he said, “There is no cabin for you.”

“Quadruple then-“ I said then just bunched up the whole wad shoved it into his hand. “Fuck it. Here, take the lot. Must be two thousand euros.”

For all his bluster, he accepted the cash and even went so far as to start counting it, fixing the messy bunch of money I had handed him.

“Signore…” he said, shaking his head as he adjusted the money. “I have an idea,” he said finally, putting the well-folded money into his pants pocket and reaching for his manifest. “Follow me,” he said and walked me back to the cabin I had come from.

He opened the door and spoke to the model in fast Italian. She nodded and he gestured for me to enter and I sat down back where I was just a moment ago.

The porter nodded and slid the door closed, walking off.

The model was still on the phone, glaring at me over the rims of her sunglasses. I shrugged, not knowing what else to do.

She pointed at me with a long, elegant finger, “No snoring.”

I chuckled, easing myself toward the window and watching the landscape race by.

*              *              *              *

“So are you special police?” she asked me, having just a second before ended her phone call. It was only her switch to English that tipped me off that she was talking to me.

“Me? No,” I said.

“That’s what the porter said,” she said. “That you were on a special mission and needed to borrow the room.”

I chuckled, “No.”

“How much did his lie cost you?”

I looked out the window, “About two thousand Euros, I reckon.”

“Wow,” she said. “Next time you need a lie, please tell me, okay?”

Her posture changed, more relaxed, leaning into me.

“Are you rich?”

I nodded, but she looked down to my shoes, studied the poorly fitting hem of my pants and the cheapie socks.

“I was in a sailboat accident,” I said. “Near Il Porto. I lost everything.”

She looked at me closely, finally smiling.

“You don’t sail,” she said, without any doubt.

“I don’t get sunburns,” I said.

She shook her head, “It’s not that. Though you should have more color.”

“My name is Dale McKeown,” I said. “But I’m more commonly known as Blackjack. I’m a super.”

I bit down on the words, seconds too late. Her arrogance and derision were just so grating. So much for trying to avoid notice. I tensed in my seat, unsure of what to do next. I should have taken the denigration and moved on, Milan was a short trip compared to what I might have just opened myself up to. Then again, she wasn’t sizing me up like I was a vagrant pauper anymore.

If someone ever weaponized pride, I’d be dead in a day.

Her dark eyes never left mine as she took the words in and worked through their meaning. I saw her expression go neutral, before growing into something closer to confusion, her head cocking to the side as if a different angle would somehow add more to the puzzle. This was the part where people tended to run screaming, and I was ready for it. Instead she straightened in her seat and grabbed her phone.

“You’re…” she said. “A villain?”

I smiled, letting the full weight sink in.

“But you’re not in any trouble,” I said.

“What?”

She smiled and shook her head and dialed a call.

She wasn’t calling the authorities. I could tell from her demeanor that she wasn’t scared of me at all. If anything, she seemed amused, waiting for the other side to take her call. She still had her head cocked sideways, but I couldn’t get a read on her expression. I just raised an eyebrow as she started talking, this time in French as perfect as her English, as perfect as I imagined her German had been.

“Was a time that kind of thing would impress a girl,” I muttered, turning my attention back out the window.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away from her call. “What did you say about me?”

I recoiled, “Huh? I didn’t say anything about you.”

“You said something, stop lying.”

I almost stood, but the low bulkhead kept me seated.

“I haven’t lied to anyone, lady.”

She smiled, shutting off her phone.

“I’m going to call the Carabinieri,” she said.

“You really don’t want to do that,” I said.

“Oh, because you are a super villain and you’ll kill me?”

I said nothing, fighting the growing scowl forming on my face.

“This Blackjack you pretend to be was halfway across the world just last night,” she said.

“What?”

She tapped at her phone, and turned it to show me a website for the French newspaper, Le Monde. The headlining link was an image of Blackjack, and while I didn’t know if this was the same guy who attacked me, this guy was swapping arrows with Captain Miraculous and the rest of Rising Sun in Los Angeles. It looked like they were fighting on the Santa Monica pier, my old surfing haunt. Along with my copycat was another known villain on the screen, a twelve-foot tall gorilla-man called Silverback and still another that I couldn’t recognize from the poor quality of the picture.

“A guy dressed like this tried to kill me the other night,” I said, thinking to the attack of, what, three days ago? Apparently, the guy had survived the damage to his skybike and was now back in the mainland causing havoc. “More shit they’re going to blame me for.”

The woman looked at the image and back at me and her eyebrows pursed, her attention piqued. “This is not you?”

I shook my head. “A copy cat,” I said. “Poseur,” I added in one of the few French words I knew, but she still didn’t believe me. “That’s fine. I’m sorry I said anything.”

She smiled, and tapped away at her phone.

“When where you born?”

I looked at her, guessing she was checking my wiki.

“I’m thirty three years old,” I said. “I was born September ninth.”

“Where?”

“Modesto Presbyterian Regional Hospital,” I said.

“What is your brother’s name?”

“Jason.”

She read on a bit, obviously reaching the villainy stuff, finding the part where I “kidnapped” Apogee.

“I didn’t kidnap her,” I said. “And she didn’t develop Stockholm syndrome.” I knew my Wikipedia page well. Her eyes flashed at me, suddenly worried. At least she was starting to believe me. “And I’m not going to kidnap you.”

She put her phone down, shaking her head, “Then who is this man,” she said, gesturing to the phone.

“A copy cat, I told you. Someone put him up to it,” I said, though I knew full well who that “someone” was.

We were quiet for a few miles. It was a new thing, having to convince someone of how awful I was. I thought it would be more fun, but strangely enough, I took umbrage at the idea of having to prove my own identity. With all that I had gained and lost the last few years, I always had my notoriety. On a rational level, I understood it wasn’t something to be proud of, but for all that I tried to distance myself from the things I hadn’t done, some of the things I had done were amazing, good or bad. Now even that was being subverted in the name of Haha’s agenda.