Chapter 14

Perry flinched at the aggressive chime of the beauty parlor front door as he stepped inside. The two women who'd been waiting behind him hurried toward their stylists, chatting about how desperately they needed work done. A third stylist, a tall, bulky man built more like a longshoreman, although a well-groomed one, raised a sculpted eyebrow at Perry. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Yes?" He couldn't help a questioning rise in his tone. The place was a beauty parlor. Already, one woman was seated in a reclining chair at a sink, with her stylist turning on the water. "Eight a.m? With SPAM?"

The man gestured toward the name painted on the front window in gold letters. "You found SCAM. Maybe you're in the wrong place." He smiled. "Unless you want frosted tips? Would look cute on you. Or blue, maybe. Turquoise."

Perry was distracted by the image. I don't have to suck up to Mr. Brown's tastes anymore. I could do that. Common sense reasserted itself. For all his teasing words, the big man was watching Perry with fixed attention. Perry cleared his throat. "I got a note that said come at eight. From April."

"Ah." As if her name was the magic word— and maybe it was— the man nodded. "Through there." He gestured at a curtained doorway. "Up the stairs. Quick, now."

"Uh, thank you."

The man's smile turned wicked. "Don't thank me yet."

Perry hurried across the room, pulled the heavy fabric curtain aside, and stepped past it. Beyond the doorway, a narrow flight of uncarpeted wooden stairs led up to a metal door with a split across the middle. As Perry began climbing, the stairs creaked and groaned under his feet. He tried to walk slower, shifting his weight more gradually, but that just changed the rhythm of the rasping wood. Deliberate alarm or bad maintenance? At the top, keeping a hand on the rail so he wouldn't pitch off the tiny landing, he knocked on the metal door.

The upper half swung inward and a middle-aged woman stuck her head out. "Yes?"

"April sent me." The phrase had worked downstairs.

"Oh?" The woman gave him a slow up and down inspection, pursed her lips as if unimpressed, but unfastened and swung the lower half open too. "Come in. Wait there." She pointed at an alcove just inside. He stood obediently as she relocked the door between them and the parlor, wondering what Deckard would say. Probably, I don't like you alone in there. But Perry didn't sense any threat. Not that his instincts were worth writing home about.

"Follow me." The woman strode off down the corridor. Perry trotted along behind her.

The hall took a sharp right turn and opened out into some kind of lobby with a utilitarian vinyl floor and a few plastic chairs along one wall. Two young men, one blond, one redheaded, sat behind matching metal desks side by side. In the wall behind them, several closed doors bore numbers one through four, but no other identification.

The nearer of the two men raised his head. "Appointment?"

"Yes." Perry swiveled to watch the woman stride back the way they'd come. He hadn't seen any doors except the one he'd come in. Did she stand in that alcove all day waiting for folks to knock? Who was she?

The blond young man tapped his desk impatiently. "Name and moniker?"

"Uh, Perry Crawford. Peregrine. And I don't have a superhero name."

"But you are one of us?" the redhead asked.

"I guess so." He shifted foot to foot. "In a small way. April said I was activated?"

"Soft powers. Newbie. Got it." The redhead scrolled down a screen. "Crawford, Crawford… Here you are. Okay." He turned to the other man. "Izzy? You have time to do a newbie orientation?"

The blond drawled, "Nooo, Vernon, I'm super busy sitting here buffing my nails."

"Is that a list of superheroes?" Perry asked, craning his neck toward the redhead's screen. "Do you have, like, lists of villains too? Or almost villains?"

"The good, the bad, and the in-between." Vernon patted the top of his monitor. "Why?"

"April said I was supposed to battle evil?—"

Blond Izzy eyed him up and down and muttered, "‘Battle.' Uh-huh."

Perry ignored him. "She warned me about the Lithomancer. And there's this Fox-face guy shooting paintballs with acid in them. Do you have anything that could help me? April told me to use your resources."

"April said that?"

"Sure. Here." Perry scrolled on his phone, found the photos he and Deckard had put in a folder of all the notes, and passed it over.

"Okay, looks legit." Vernon handed the phone back. "We don't give out info to just anyone without direct orders, but I can do a quick check. Paintballs, huh?" He entered some search terms and hit a key. "Not much. There's the Paintball Wizard. I thought he was on the hero list… Oh, convicted of vandalism. Put him into the gray. Still, I doubt he's your man."

"What does he do?"

"Shoots paintballs at walls and the paint turns itself into a mural. A dozen shots and you have new community art. But he did the side of some rich guy's house with a mural of the dude rubbing his hands over a pile of gold coins with skulls on them. Rich guy was not amused. Vandalism. Looks like the community chipped in to pay PW's fine, though."

"No," Perry agreed. "That doesn't sound like this guy. What about someone in a fox mask? An orange one?"

"Fox? I have Silver Fox, Death Fox, Foxy Lady… no one orange." Vernon checked a listing. "Death Fox is on the villain list, wears black. Looks like he's in his sixties now?"

"Not him." Perry hadn't gotten a good look at the guy in either the stairwell or the alley, but he didn't seem like a sixty-year-old.

"I found the Lithomancer," Izzy reported, peering at his screen. "First seen in the nineties, so she'd be in her fifties now. Very scant file. Seems like she hung around with heroes and villains, always on the sidelines. She's on the gray list, because no one knows what she was actually doing."

Perry asked, "Is there a picture of her?"

"Nope." Izzy pushed to his feet. "Right. Come along, young Peregrine, time for your in-depth indoctrination. Oops, did I say that? Orientation." He grinned, a sharp expression full of teeth, and waved at the door numbered 3. "Come into my lair."

Perry took a nervous breath. Are there vampire superfolk?

Vernon sighed. "Don't scare the baby hero, Iz." He told Perry, "Biggest risk is you'll be bored to death."

Three hours later, Perry decided Vernon was right. Izzy sat Perry down on a rickety wooden chair, at a terminal that looked like it had last been upgraded in the nineties, and gave him access to a folder of "Training materials." The videos included The History of SPAM, which took an hour and left him with many views of really banal office buildings and more general platitudes than facts. Also, A Beginner's Guide to Your Powers, which seemed to want him to meditate and practice yoga until his minor powers got so bored they increased just to get him out of downward-dog.

By the end of the first five videos, Perry's eyes were crossing and he'd developed a permanent crick in his spine from the uneven chair. He also hadn't learned anything useful. The one on Levelling Up had sounded promising, but it ended up a shotgun blast of techniques. Exercise, meditate, practice, don't over-repeat, try new things, don't overreach, ask your powers nicely, threaten your powers, don't be silly—your powers are not a separate entity. It ended with the pompous gray-haired narrator saying, "Each of these techniques has worked for someone, but every superhero is a unique individual."

Thanks, Pops, never would've guessed. Perry wasn't sure he wanted his power to be stronger anyhow.

The next video in the training queue was Planes or Heroes— the Socioeconomic Implications of Superflight. Perry could not imagine a world in which he cared. At all.

He pushed back the chair, stood, and stretched. No alarm bells went off, so he opened the door a crack.

Vernon looked up from his desk. "Izzy went to get lunch. Learning good things?"

"Uh." Perry didn't have words to describe the banality.

Vernon laughed. "Come back another time and I'll show you the juicy ones. Like the Contraindications to Mid-Air Coitus video." He fanned himself with one hand.

Perry coughed. "So it's okay if I go now?"

"Sure. You don't have to ask. I'm not your mother." Perry must've reacted because Vernon waved him down. "Go. Stay. Come back whenever. You're SPAM now."

"Uh, thanks." He glanced around. "Is there, like, an emergency number or something I call if I need help?"

"You stand on one foot and chant April's name twenty-seven times."

Perry stared.

Vernon shrugged. "Old joke. Here." He scribbled on a piece of paper. "If you need help, text to that number. I can't guarantee you'll get help. SPAM's short-staffed. Well, clearly, since we recruited you. But we try."

"Does being recruited mean I might get asked to help someone else?"

"By…" Vernon peered at his screen. "…turning their sweater pink? Yeah, if that looks useful, April will let you know."

"How does… Is that in there, that I color-changed Nick-the-prick's shirt color?" That was a secret. No one knew. Although he'd told Deckard. I refuse to start suspecting Deckard again.

"Yep. List of superhero deeds." Vernon pointed. "Listed with an asterisk, meaning determined to be justified after the fact. Also a neighbor's car in 2017. Also acceptable."

"Oh. He ran over a squirrel. On purpose. I put a splash of red like blood on the front of his BMW." It shocked him to think SPAM had known about that. And he hadn't told Deckard that one, which was a relief. "What other deeds are listed?"

"There's something about a traffic light and collateral damage."

Perry felt his face flush. "Not my best move."

"We've all been there." Vernon shrugged. "Not much else. Hey, did you choose a superhero name? How about the Colorist? Perry the Red?"

"I'll give it some thought." Perry edged past him toward the hall.

"Yeah, go out the way you came in. Don't forget to tip your stylist. Although you might stop and get a little color on the tips. Brighten your whole look."

"Uh." Perry thought he should be wearing that word on his T-shirt. He backed out and hurried off in search of the stairs.

The odd woman wasn't waiting in the little alcove, which came as a relief. Perry let himself out the metal door and pushed it shut behind him, reached the lower level, and brushed past the curtain. The beauty parlor was busy with all three stylists concentrating on folks' hair. Perry decided the tip comment was probably Vernon's idea of a joke, and hustled out to the sidewalk, wincing at the door chime behind him. If he had been supposed to tip, he'd never be able to show his face in there again.

Deckard had asked him to text when he was done, but Perry hesitated, hovering his finger over the ~Going in now and ~Be careful exchange from three hours earlier. He bet that if he said he was finished, Deckard would try to come pick him up. Except if Deckard was on duty, he might have to send Zamora, and Perry absolutely did not want to sit in a car being interrogated by the formidable detective who made him nervous enough to spill all the beans.

He sent, ~Going fine. Super boring. Let me know when you're free.

Deckard took a couple of minutes before replying, ~Thanks for the update. Glad you're okay. Working.

Perry felt a little guilty about not saying he was done, but it seemed like the smart move. Deckard was clearly busy.

He gazed around. What now?

He could hang out in the café again until Deckard was off work, but with nine bucks in his wallet, he shouldn't be buying five-dollar coffees. His phone chimed a text while he was debating.

Tucker. ~Hey, u got lunchbreak soon? I'm bored.

~I got fired. I have all the time.

~The fuck u did!!!!

It occurred to Perry that Tucker had a car, and was decent company, and also that his old employee locker at the Hoffward Building contained personal possessions he didn't want to give up. Two birds with one stone. ~Want to give me a ride to clean out my locker and I'll tell you all about it?

~Deal. Where r u

Perry directed Tucker to the café. He picked a spot out of the way down the sidewalk and watched the front of the SCAM parlor while he waited. Several people went in and out. Perry had no idea how to tell a superhero from a client wanting their curls frosted. He didn't spot Izzy returning, which was okay because he didn't particularly want to.

Tucker pulled up at the curb in his beater and rolled down the window. "Come on, move your ass. This is a no-parking zone."

Perry got in and buckled up as Tucker headed out with a backfire and a loud honk from the bus he cut off in traffic. Perry double-checked his seatbelt.

"So dish." Tucker whipped around a double-parked delivery van and almost front-ended an SUV. "Why'd you get fired?"

"It wasn't my fault. There was another bomb and my supervisor was pissed. He blamed me."

"For a bomb?" Tucker blinked long eyelashes. "Perry, darling, is there something you want to tell me? Am I about to be blown to smithereens? Or at least blown?"

Perry smacked Tucker's arm and regretted it when he swerved half out of his lane. "Watch out!"

"You hit me. It's not like I did it on purpose." Tucker swerved again, earning another horn blast. "That was on purpose."

Perry gripped the oh-shit bar over the door. "Now I remember why I don't like you."

"Nonsense. You loooove me." Tucker turned to bat his eyelashes at Perry.

"Watch the road!" Perry clutched harder.

They came to a squealing stop at a red light. "Okay, tell Auntie Tucker all about it."

"There's not much to tell. Some guy tried to plant another bomb and I spotted him and chased him down the stairs. The cops came, evacuated, defused the bomb. But somehow, to Mr. Brown, it's my fault for spotting the guy. I should've minded my own business and let the bomb go off, I guess." Perry was surprised at the bitterness in his voice. He hadn't even liked that job.

"You could totally sue to get your job back. You're a hero."

"At-will state. As long as he didn't fire me for having a queer ass, he's allowed."

Tucker pulled out his phone and started a search. When the light turned green, he drove through with one hand thumbing the keypad. Perry decided yelling at his friend would be another distraction but he snatched the phone when Tucker passed it to him. "You chased that guy?"

Perry watched a montage of video clips from the security cameras in the Hoffward with Do you recognize this man?playing across them. None of the images showed Fox-face's features well but they gave a good feel for his size and build. "He couldn't stare at even one camera," Perry muttered as the series ended. "Bastard. Someone who knows him well might recognize him, though."

"Don't change the subject, bird boy. You chased that man? What if he had a gun? Or just punched you? He's twice your size."

"Hardly. And he didn't have a gun."

"That you know of." Tucker smacked Perry's leg. "Don't go getting killed. I know you've wanted to be a superhero since forever, but you can't turn bulletproof just by wishing hard enough."

Tell that to Mr. Positive-Thinking on the SPAM video."I don't want to be a superhero." At this point, he was ready to trade the whole gig in. Although not Deckard. Keeping him.

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter. You've been obsessed with supes ever since I met you." Tucker turned into the alley behind the Hoffward.

"I'm not obsessed with anything." He cast around for a good way to distract Tucker. "Except Kelli-T. Best singer in the known universe. Totally obsessed." He put a hand on his chest and pretended to swoon.

"Hah. Lady Donna can wipe her blond ass off the stage." Tucker parked and got out as Perry did.

"You could just stay with the car," Perry suggested.

"I'm not letting you deal with that Mr. Brown without backup. Also, I crave the drama." Tucker came around and looped his arm through Perry's. "Lead on."

Perry would've preferred to do this without added drama, but getting rid of Tucker was more work than it was worth. He led the way to the back doorbell and rang.

After a few minutes, the door swung open. Alejandro peered out at them. "Perry. Weren't you fired?"

"Yeah. I came for my things from my locker."

"I can't let you in."

"Sure, you can." Perry stuck one purple-sneakered foot into the door, just in case. "That's my own stuff. Brown can't keep it. That's stealing."

"You'd have to tell a lawyer."

"I don't have a lawyer." Perry debated leaving, but dammit, his Kelli-T sweatshirt was in there. "I do have a boyfriend who's a six-foot-two cop and he really enjoys coming after assholes who get in my way."

"You… That tall blond guy? He's your boyfriend?" Alejandro took a step backward, looking past Perry as if Deckard might appear.

Deckard might not appreciate being turned into a bogeyman. Then again, in this situation, he might. Perry put on a grin. "Yep. He loves an excuse to hassle someone."

"Well, I guess it is your own stuff." Alejandro opened the door wider. "But I'll go with you and you can't do anything except empty your locker."

"Like I want to." Perry followed him inside, Tucker clinging to his arm.

Alejandro's brow furrowed. "If the cop is your boyfriend, why is that guy holding your arm?"

"He's my bodyguard," Perry said, sweeping past and down the stairs with Tucker before Alejandro could stop them. Tucker stifled a giggle.

After all that work, the possessions in his locker were disappointing. The sweatshirt wasn't there, just a ratty blue one, plus the black sneakers he'd kept to switch into, and he'd clearly been stuffing candy wrappers in there since forever. He swept his stuff into a bag anyhow, and turned.

"Peregrine!" The thunder of Mr. Brown's voice behind Alejandro made Perry step back.

Why, though? I can't get fired twice. Brown's not going to beat me up in the downstairs hallway in front of witnesses.

Perry raised his chin. "Brown." He really wanted to use Mr. Brown's first name, but couldn't remember it.

"Why are you on these premises? This is trespassing." Mr. Brown turned his scowl on Alejandro. "You!"

Alejandro wasn't a friend but Perry couldn't let him take all the heat. "I came for my belongings, which I have a right to remove as per section thirty-one of the employee contract," he bullshitted.

"There is no section thirty-one."

Damn. Figures Mr. Brown actually knows the contract. "Well, there should be." Perry hefted his plastic bag and waved at the open locker. "I've packed everything I still want. Feel free to clean out the trash." Turning his back, he stomped off toward the stairs, holding his breath.

Tucker scurried to catch up and Alejandro followed. Brown just shouted after them, "See them out, Alejandro. No detours. Don't let that little twerp touch anything except the pavement outside."

"Wow." Tucker bumped Perry's shoulder. "He's annoying. Sorry, Alejandro, dude, but you lost out in the boss department."

Alejandro muttered something unintelligible and ushered them up the stairs and out the door, slamming it behind them.

Perry broke into giggles, clutching at Tucker. "If you had any idea how long I've wanted to say something like that." He gestured expansively. "Clean out the trash, Brown."

"Almost worth getting fired."

"Almost. Except for being broke." The alley was giving him the creeps, though, an echo of being shot at here, twice. "Come on, let's go."

"Where to?" Tucker asked as they got back in his car.

"How much time do you have?"

"I'm not bored anymore." Tucker waved at a pedestrian and swung out of the alley into mid-day traffic, ignoring a screech of brakes. "What drama can you dish for me now?"

"No drama. Back to my place," Perry decided. "I mean, Mrs. Goshima's. I need more clothes. I really want that Kelli-T sweatshirt."

"It makes you look like a fourteen-year-old girl," Tucker said, compliantly turning toward Mrs. Goshima's house.

"That's sexist. Or ageist. Or something."

"No, it's has-some-degree-of-taste-ish." Tucker hung a sharp left.

Perry leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and pretended he was on the Whirligig at the county fair, where these kinds of G-forces were deliberate.