The Pulptress (4 page)

“
Pity,” The Pulptress said
sincerely as she took just a moment to catch her breath, “that your
friends left the party early. I would have enjoyed four far more
than two.”

“
No, Lady P,” rumbled a
rich, full bodied voice at her back, rolling thunder resonating
from a taut muscled broad chest. “Not these two you wouldn’t
have.”

Hearing something slice the
air, The Pulptress waited for the two pair of multivision goggles
tossed from behind her to clatter to the ground at her feet. Then
she whirled around and elatedly watched the one man she knew owned
that booming timbre walk nonchalantly out of the shadows at the
other end of the alley.

Fighting her initial desire
to run up to him and fling her arms around his massive chest like a
little sister welcoming her wandering brother home, The Pulptress
instead simply said, “You’re probably right. None of Lannigan’s
lackeys gave me much sport tonight.”

The new arrival in the
Corridor walked up to The Pulptress, a wide white grin splitting
the features of his dark chocolate face. He stood only a couple of
inches taller than she did in her heels, but still in her eyes he
towered above her as much as he had when she was a child. He wore
what she’d often seen him in; black jeans, a khaki tee shirt half
hidden under a black sports coat and black handcrafted shoes,
Plexico originals. He reached down with a hand seemingly as big as
her head, and with the delicate touch of a surgeon, took her
fingers in his, lifted her hand up and lowered his head down, his
lips barely brushing the top of her hand. “Lady P,” he said in a
husky whisper known to melt women down to nothing but passion, “it
is, as always, a pleasure.”

She bit her lip not to
giggle. Oh he’d heard her laugh and cry, for that matter, more than
once in the years they’d known each other, but now that she was on
her own, no longer a student of his or anyone else’s, it wouldn’t
be proper for her to giggle. “It was a surprise, too, Dillon,” she
said, giving him a quick wink and nod, “seeing you in the bar
tonight. Following me?”

The man known in circles
both high and low and in all corners of the world by a single name
chuckled, again little tiny claps of thunder rising from his
throat. “No, my turn as your tutor and nursemaid ended years ago.
Happenstance is all, pure happenstance.” He slid his right hand
into his coat pocket and pulled out something, now resting in his
palm, that resembled a tangle of golden thread. “Had to…liberate
this little jewel here, known as Alexander’s Knot, from some not so
good people.”

The Pulptress arched an
eyebrow. She’d heard a few things about the rare artifact that
Dillon so coolly slid back into his pocket. “Well, it’s a positive
then,” she said with all honesty, “that you have it now. Not so
good people could cause a bit of havoc with things like
that.”

“
They’ve been known to do
just that,” Dillon concurred. Glancing over his former protégé’s
shoulder, he said, “Tweedle and Twaddle there will probably raise
and rouse in a bit.” He slid one of his tree trunk-like arms around
her waist, saying, “Care to walk with me and tell me just what you
were up to in the Big Apple tonight?”

“
Not at all,” she replied,
reaching up and tugging gently at her domino mask. The adhesive
holding it to her skin gave with a pop. With one hand she slid the
mask into its pocket in her skirt while she pulled her fedora off
with the other. “I’d gotten word that more than one party was
interested in Thomas Kane, parties that I didn’t want to have
him.”

Dillon took the hat from
her hand and held it in his free one. As he ushered her down the
alley, he asked, “For his money or his undeserved
genius?”

She noted the sardonic tone
in his comment. She also noticed, as they walked, two black clad
masked figures stacked up against the Morriston Plaza alley wall
like firewood. “Both, really, but his mind is what I wanted to
protect. He’s not that bad of a guy, Dillon. After his parents were
murdered when he was a kid, he ended up with that crazy aunt of his
who spoiled him like fermented apples. But she couldn’t stop the
intellect he had and neither could he. He…”she hesitated, searching
for the right word, “He just needs time to think. He just needs
direction.”

“
Direction,” Dillon teased,
“that you plan to give him?”

“
Hey,” she poked him in the
ribs with an elbow as they rounded the corner out of the alley to
the back entrance of Morriston Plaza. “He could do worse than me as
a guide. I had some pretty good ones.” She looked up at him with an
impish grin. “Well, most of them anyway.” Not letting him get in a
response, she said, “But no, I put him in better hands.”

It was Dillon’s turn to
show some surprise. “What’d you do? Kidnap him before Lannigan’s
lavender gang could?”

This time she couldn’t
repress the girlish giggle. “Not so much. Once he and Tori
staggered to his room, I told him who I was and exactly who besides
Lannigan would likely make a play for him in the next couple of
days. I also had to tell him to explain the two people waiting on
us in his room.”

“
Li Suan and
Dunklin?”

“
Yup,” she chirped, “Two
best snatch and grabbers in the world. Kane sort of agreed, with
persuasion like only Li can provide and then they spirited him away
while I played patty cake with Lannigan’s back up roster. They’ll
take him home and give him a few days to…consider his options while
the heat dies down.”

Dillon whistled a quick
note. “Not many options when you’re one of the only experts in
cosmological weaponry in the world.” Pausing on the street at the
base of the steps leading into the Plaza, Dillon turned so he stood
just inches from his friend. He knew what the doorman looking on
lecherously was thinking as well as what any passersby would
imagine, but that was all right. No better cover for people in
their line of work than mistakes and assumptions. “Speaking of,” he
said, looking down at her, one hand still on her hip, “Been home
lately?”

Glimmers of sadness haunted
her eyes for a moment, then vanished. “No, not in a while. Too many
messes to clean up.”

“
Lady P,” Dillon said,
moving his hand from her waist and tenderly touching her chin,
tilting it back ever so slightly with his finger, “the world’s a
messy place. Always has been, always will be. It was for your
folks, and nobody, not even them were they here, would expect you
to tidy it all up alone.” Dillon bent close to her, the doorman
almost falling down the steps craning his neck for the kiss he
expected to see. Dillon lifted the black fedora he’d held, plopped
it lackadaisically on her red hair, and whispered in her ear, “Go
home, Emily. Rest.”

She smiled at him, leaned
in, climbing up on the tips of her toes, and planted a lingering
peck on his cheek. The doorman slapped his leg hard, his fantasy
frustrated. The Pulptress, her feet flat on the sidewalk now,
stepped back from Dillon. “You know,” she said, “I didn’t need your
help tonight.”

Dillon appeared caught off
guard. “Who, me?” He offered. “When did I help you?”

“
In the bar. When the little
guy started to get off your table. The love tap you gave him. I
could have handled whatever he had.”

“
Of course you could have.
You forget who taught you Kyoshu jitsu. But,” he added, “I do have
to stay in practice. Not all of us can channel Gracie Allen and
fight by pratfall, Lady P.”

As Dillon turned to cross
the street, the young lady known to many as The Pulptress nodded,
waved, and walked into the Morriston Plaza, already calculating the
fastest way from New York to Arkansas.

THE END

by Terry Alexander

20-December-1945

The shiny Ford Coupe turned
up the gravel driveway and stopped before a two story house in
Corinth, Mississippi. “Mom, Dad, it’s great to see you.” John
Charles jumped from the seat, waving at his parents waiting on the
huge porch. “There were times these past few years that I didn’t
think I’d make it home,” he called as he headed up the walkway.
Upon reaching the elderly man and woman, he hugged first one, then
the other.

His mother pulled the apron
up to her eyes, wiping tears away. “Johnny, you don’t know how many
times I prayed for this day to come.”

“
Was it really as bad over
there as the news reels said?” His father slapped him on the
back.

“
Dad, it was a lot worse.”
John turned toward the Coupe. “Mom, Dad, You remember Jill Henry
from Jackson, don’t you?”

A breeze ruffled her short
strawberry red hair as she climbed from the vehicle, her freckled
face lit with a bright smile.

The older couple nodded. “I
remember her.” His dad stroked his chin. “Aren’t you Bob Henry’s
oldest girl?”

“
No, Mr. Charles, I’m their
second daughter. Irene is the oldest.”

“
Jill, these are my parents,
Lorene and Arthur.” A wide smile split John’s face. “I went through
the Capitol on the way here.”

“
You took the long way.”
Lorene clutched her son’s arm, unwilling to let him go. “We
expected you yesterday.”

“
Jill and I stopped by the
Justice of the Peace and got married yesterday. I wanted to tell
you personally.” John hurried to his bride’s side.

“
Wha…” The words died on
Arthur’s tongue. “Why didn’t you write and tell us what you had
planned? We would have found a way to get to Jackson.”

“
Jill’s letters kept me
going during the war. Getting back to her was all I ever thought
about. I asked her to marry me after the Japs surrendered.” John
held her hand tightly. “She wrote me back and said yes. So I drove
down to see her first thing after I drew my mustering out
pay.”

Lorene surged forward and
threw her arms around her new daughter-in-law. “Welcome to the
family.” Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. “Let’s take Jill in the
house. We’ve got dinner on the stove now.”

“
You two haven’t eaten?”
John asked.

“
No, we decided to wait for
you to get here.” Lorene tugged on Jill’s elbow. “Now let’s get
Jill in the house.”

“
Hang on a minute, Dad. I
found a gift for you and Mom over in Germany.” John crossed to the
trunk of the new vehicle. “It’s a painting. I found in an old
church. One of the walls crumbled during the shelling and there it
was, behind the wall. They were hiding it from the
Nazi’s.”

“
What kind of painting? One
of them landscape watercolors?” Arthur followed him to the rear of
the car.

“
No, it’s the portrait of a
man in front of a castle.” John pulled a wrapped bundle from the
trunk. “It’ll look great over the fireplace.”

“
That reminds me, I need to
get some more wood. I’m paying the Osborn boys five dollars for a
cord now.” The old man took the bundle from his hand. “We’ll show
your mother after we eat.”

“
I hope Mom made some fried
chicken. I haven’t had a good piece of chicken since I joined the
army.” His hand rested on his father’s shoulder.

“
Let’s go eat, Son. You’re
mother’s been waiting for this day for three years.” He carried his
paper wrapped bundle up the granite steps to the massive oak
door.

An hour later they sat
around the fireplace. John placed a large piece of pecan wood on
the rolling flames. A radio played softly in the back
ground.

“
Where were you during the
war?” Lorene asked Jill.

“
I worked at the aircraft
plant. We were building fifteen planes a day. When the war ended
they let everyone go. Now all I want to do is be a good wife to
John.” Jill sipped from her glass of iced tea. “With his know how,
he’ll land a good paying job in Jackson. It’s a growing city and
they’ll need carpenters.”

“
We were hoping that you two
would settle down right here in Cornith.” Arthur turned to face
John.

“
Come on, Dad.” John jumped
from the couch, not wanting to tackle a delicate subject at the
present time. “Open the package. I think you and Mom will really
like it.” He pulled the paper wrapped bundle from behind the
couch.

“
Oh, Johnny, you didn’t have
to get us a present. The greatest gift I could receive is having
you home safe.” Her liver spotted hands tugged at the string
binding. “I’m all thumbs, can’t get my hands to work
right.”

The paper tore under her
hands. A dash of yellow and blue showed in the upper corner. The
stern face of an oddly dressed man glared from the portrait. His
blue eyes stared off into the distance, his arms folded across his
chest. A gold cross draped over the painting.

“
Who in the world is that?”
Lorene looked from John to her husband. “He sure looks
mad.”

“
That’s Oskar Von Rohm. He
was an Archduke in the thirteen hundreds. From what little
information I could piece together he was a very powerful
nobleman.” He took the painting from his mother’s hands, laying the
crucifix on a nearby coffee table. “You know, I thought his hair
was a lot darker when I packaged it up.”