Double trouble: the legend of crime brulee

Chapter 1.2

Later on, as the shift drew to a close, he overheard her prattling off to a customer while she polished the wine glasses that had just come out of the machine: “Well, no, because there are four tens and one eleven, right? So that’s why you have to do plus one on two, three, four, five, AND six, to balance it out…do you get what I mean?”

Frank chuckled. “For someone who doesn’t think she’s smart, you seem to know your calculus well enough,” he joked.

“She’s teaching me how to count cards in Blackjack,” explained the bar guest.

“No shit? Connie, you wanna come to Vegas with me sometime?”

“Well, it works better in theory, or if you’re just playing at home with the one deck. At the casinos, they keep so many of ‘em in the shoe that your count almost doesn’t even mean anything. Plus, if they catch you counting, they’ll drag you into the back and beat the stuffing out of you.”

“Good to know.” Although, speaking of gambling: dare he try his luck? He’d never had any with her, but still, he hoped beyond hope. It was about that time in the shift when he made his move, and maybe today, her answer would be different. “It doesn’t have to be Vegas. What are you doing after work today?”

Her eyebrows knitted together and she bit her lip, her entire expression an apology. “Oh, I can’t.”

“But I didn’t even say what I wanted to do.” Not that he had that part figured out, but The Nexus was out on DVD now, and if she liked scifi and kung fu, he wouldn’t mind her company at home over a bowl of popcorn.

“I know, but my sister wants me to go downtown to ask a man about a job.”

“Leaving us? Connie, I’m hurt!”

“No, no! I love it here! I opened the store, with you, remember? I’m not going anywhere! The other job would basically be contract work.”

“Oh, so weddings, that sort of thing?”

“Something like that. I promise I won’t give them too much of my availability if they take me. Nellie only wants the referral bonus or whatever, anyway. And I only want to get hired so I can meet guys.”

As if to add insult to rejection.

And yet, she enchanted him still.

She hung up a wine glass, upside down on the rack. In its reflective surface, a vision appeared to Frank: an impossibly muscled figure, its skin slate-gray as if every rippling ab and bulging vein were carved out of stone. The godlike torso gave way to a mane of bright blue flame encircling a cruel, lupine face with eyes that bled the same blue fire.

“Face it, dude. You’re just not her type,” said the Bloodhound. “Anyway, it’s gonna be sacrifice time soon. You decided what you’re willing to part with, or are you just gonna, y’know, kill me somebody again?”

Frank stumbled in place, his vision blurring at the edges as the blood drained from his face.

“You okay, Boss?” asked Connie.

“Yeah…yeah. Just spaced out there for a second.”

***

PRIORITY APPLICANT: MOVE TO FRONT OF QUEUE. DO NOT DISCARD!!!

The words were stamped in bright red across the application of one Constance Cole for the role of stateside hero, but ten minutes past her scheduled appointment time, Special Agent Ned Daniels of the USHD still had no applicant in his office. It figured: another day, another wannabe hero deciding to no-show in favor of other things.

For a moment, he feared the worst: maybe she had shown up. Maybe she had taken one look through his office window and decided, nope, not for her. He'd certainly seen better days.

Once the most venerated tactician in his department, he'd been the Division's name to know, until the Gulf War chewed him up and spit him out. Nowadays, he still enjoyed success as a weapons engineer and a combat theorist, but what good was that when he was all but usurped by some young upstart, flying up in military ranks while justifiably earning himself the nickname 'Blood-n-Guts'? What good was it when he, when he–?!

Twelve minutes. Still no Ms. Cole.

'Probably just a flunkie, it has nothing to do with you,' he tried to convince himself as he sunk into the seat of his squashy, gaudy orange armchair, still waiting.

His khakis were cut off at the knees. So were both his legs, tied inside the pants with knots at the ends so as not to offend, just like in that flick from a few years ago with the Vietnam War and the reta–wait, you couldn't say that anymore, could you?

He was a handsome guy, once, back before depression and defeatism had destroyed his sense of self. Now, all Ms. Cole had to look forward to was a mop of unkept, overgrown hair, eye bags under eye bags under eye bags from long all-nighters playing Call of Booty, and a pale, bitter husk of a man, his remaining limbs emaciated, half from forgetting to eat, half from hoping he'd die of hunger and finally escape the Division's too-tight contract.

This job was only fun if you were top dog.

Yeah, the more he thought about it, the more he hoped Ms. Cole just wouldn't sho–

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" The young woman practically careened through his office door, but seemed to fly gracefully into his guest chair. "Connie Cole, I was supposed to be your 4 o'clock. But then I got stuck behind the train at Falstaff and Fifth–"

Dammit. And just when he had started to look forward to a day off.

"Falstaff and Fifth, yeah, I heard on the radio that train caught fire. Glad you're still with us, Ms. Cole."

"Well, that's one thing we have in common! When can I start?"

She had spunk. That was refreshing. It almost made up for the fact she was drenched from the rain, and dripping onto his floor.

His wheelchair was about a foot away from where he sat; he reached for it and missed. "Oh, here, let me–!" Once again, she moved surprisingly quick, almost as if she defied gravity, and before he knew it, he was prying her hands off of either side of his ribs.

"No, no, don't help me."

"Is it because you're afraid I'll drop you, or that I'll pity you?"

"It's because touching someone without permission is fucking rude."

Cornelia Hastings had been listed on her application as a referral, and while he'd liked Connie two seconds ago, he was now wondering exactly what kind of riffraff the young Division upstart intended to drag in.

"Sorry. Well, just so you know, I wouldn't have. Done either of those things, I mean." She folded both arms behind her back. He grabbed the meterstick he'd left propped against the armchair and used it to tow his wheelchair closer, but his progress was slow-going. "Maybe if I just pushed the chair closer? And then held it in place so that…well, ya know."

"I suppose that will work," he conceded.

With what little of her help he would accept, he heaved himself between chairs. "Let go now," he told her, glaring at her over his shoulder until she relinquished her grip on the handles in the back.

"Right. Sorry." She fell back and returned to her seat. He wheeled himself up to his desk.

"How are You finding Blackwater City?"

"Oh, I'm not new, I was born here."

"Funny…most people who are own an umbrella."

"If it's gonna rain, it's gonna rain. And what's a little water?"

He'd never thought of it that way, but she did have a point. Opening the folder with her resume inside, he said, "I see here you're currently working at Antonio's Mex-Italian Cantina as a…I'm sorry, what's that?"

"A barback. It's basically a bartender's assistant. Not a lot of people know what we do, but the term's been around since nineteen seventy th–"

"I'm sorry, but I have to cut you off," said Ned. "I'm having trouble picturing you taking on such an important role within the heroics system when your only work expe–"

"No, no, my turn, lemme stop you right there," she snapped, leaning into it, elbows on the desk. "Barbacks are important! Just last week, I read an article about a barback that put detergent in a carafe meant for beverage service. A bartender grabbed it on accident, thinking it was the shot special of the day, and well, ten hospitalizations and two deaths. If I don't do my job right, somebody could die. Maybe I've never saved anybody, but I keep people alive every day, so don't dismiss me so fast, buster!"

Taken aback, he gaped, swallowed, nodded. "Your sense of duty is impressive. I guess Ms. Hastings was right to send you in."

"My sister's wrong about a lot of things, but I like to think she's right about me."

Wait.

"Sister?"

"Yeah, that's her married name, it's actually Mrs. Hastings. Soon to be Doctor, I guess? She's got a lot going on."

How…juicy.

Oh, Cornelia, he thought to himself. Watch out.

"Are you married? Is it Mrs. Cole?"

"Well, are you?"

"Divorced, if you must know. But I'm the one asking the questions here."

"Sorry, I just thought that last one was a little irrelevant, not to mention invasive."

"Partners and families create liabilities. Picture yourself in the role of a heroine: what would you do if a villain kidnapped one of your loved ones?"

"I guess I don't know," admitted Connie. "I don't really have any loved ones."

"Refreshing of you not to play omniscient." For a moment, he let her cook in her seat, but his mind was made up. He was going to recruit his rival's sister, turn her into an amazing heroine, and then flaunt her in Cornelia's smug face. "Well, Ms. Cole, I'd like to offer you the position. Here's your onboarding paperwork." He handed her a folder out of a drawer. "When can you see us next? I'd like to get a rudimentary assessment of your…" He squinted at her application. "Pyrokinesis? Oh, and do you know your power index?"

"My…what now?"

"It's fine, we'll estimate it when we see you on…?"

"I can't tomorrow, unless…how late are you op–? But then–! Wait! Thursday. I'm free all day Thursday."

"Then we shall see you then, Ms. Cole."

***

HELL YES!

Or maybe, OH NO.

Connie had entered that interview torn, and she still didn't know how to feel. On the one hand, Cornelia's promise of a life of basking in admiration and suffocating under a sea of flabby bellies had not lost its allure, and now that she had the job, the dream was so closely within her reach that she could practically feel all that fat already, pushing supple and sensuous against her wanting palms even as her feet carried her down the kookily colorful carpet of the halls, guided by exit signs overhead, en route to the parking lot from whence she’d came. She didn’t even know how she’d pulled it off, either; everything more or less turned to word vomit on its way up her throat when she was nervous or indecisive. Crime Brulee was always in peak form, always confident, always sure of what to do. Connie Cole? Not so much.

And anyway, circling back to that other hand: she had no idea how to be a hero. She wasn’t even a good person!

The twelve-car pile up? The train fire? Both were strokes of bad luck, but neither of them had actually affected her commute. A chronic victim of her own poor time management skills, she had simply learned to use ambient disaster to excuse her tardiness.

Everyone had a radio. It wasn’t that hard to find something to blame.

And the real reason she drank all her sodas out of soup bowls at work?

She wasn’t the one who had to wash those.