"WE'RE SUPERHEROES"
As a child, I wasted a lot of money on frivolous entertainment. Entertainment such as comic books. Superheroes were my favorite, Batman, Superman, Spider-man, and so on. And being a child, I believe in superheroes. We all did. We read about their adventures. And after reading about them, we’d pretend to be them. But I eventually grew out of it. And as I grew older, superheroes were never much more than an afterthought. That is, until today, when I saw one bleeding to death in a hotel parking lot.
The night was clear and warm. It had been a pretty relaxing night, made even more relaxing with a bottle of whiskey. The parking lot was pretty empty; the types of people using this hotel don’t usually own cars. I had been sitting in mine for six hours, waiting out the Shelly case. Mrs. Shelly hired me to tail her husband, a suspected adulterer. Thirty years of doing real police work and now I’m just a professional peeper. It pays the bills though, so who am I to complain. Desperate, jealous wives are the backbone of the Private Eye industry. I did my best to remain inconspicuous; fortunately my piece of shit car wasn’t going to stick out in this hell hole. One of the benefits to being a poor son of a bitch, I guess.
Jerome Shelly has been inside his hotel room for the last five hours and thirty-eight minutes. Some woman entered the same room four hours ago. I got some pictures, but I was waiting for the big one, one of them together. This guy was playing it pretty paranoid; never let himself be seen with the girl at the same time. Fuck, I hoped he didn’t know I was out here. Had to remind myself that he doesn’t know who I am. Can’t let my own paranoia get in the way of rational thinking. I was already starting to get a little restless. I should just run up and kick the door down. Catch them right in the act. What could they do, nothing. They’d just lie there, naked and helpless while I caught them in their lustful lies. I told myself I was going to do it, but I didn’t believe me. I just needed that fucking picture. Without it, I didn’t get the big payoff. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t get off on destroying marriages, but without the irrefutable proof of a square picture, wives like Mrs. Shelly always make excuses for their bastard husbands. More often than not they expect me to prove them wrong, to assuage their fears, not confirm them. And more often than not, I confirm them. And then I get yelled at. A lot. It’s typical of these broads, but I’ll put up with any abuse just as long as they pay me.
I looked at the dashboard clock. It read 12:56. It was getting late. Finally, the door began to open. I grabbed my camera and started snapping shots in successive order. But like always, luck was against me. A barrage of thunderous gunshots drowned out the sound of my camera right before the hotel door slammed shut. What the fuck was going on? Before I could get my wits about me, a car came barreling around from the back of the hotel. It sped past me and fled onto the highway. Gunshots were never good, but at least it looked like it had nothing to do with my guy. This wasn’t all bad. Somebody probably called the cops, though I doubted they’d show up around here for another half hour at the most. Jerome must know this, hell that’s probably why he meets here; he knows no respectable person dares show his face in this part of town. He’s probably in there right now, yelling at his bitch to calm down so they can make an exit plan. He’s going to want to leave soon, before any cops show up, doesn’t want to get spotted by anybody. He’s going to be even more careful, more paranoid now. Not good for me. But that’s not terrible. I can still get the picture.
At least, that’s what I was thinking when the girl started crying. Or, to be more specific, wailing. Not the girl in the hotel room. This was coming from behind the hotel. Where the gunshots came from. This was bad. Every cell in my brain was commanding me to stay in the car and wait for the picture, but still I found myself climbing out of my car. I told myself that it was my old police instincts kicking in. Yeah, that’s why I would do this, not because I’m a fucking stupid drunk with a death wish. My pistol rattled unsteadily in my hand. The shakes were back. Fucking great. I made my way across the parking lot and leaned against the wall, catching my breath. Only an old fool would get winded running toward his own death. There was still time to get back to the car, but I knew I wasn’t going back. I could hear the girl crying, and something that sounded much like a person being beaten to death. Foolishly, I spun around the corner, completely unprepared for what I would find.
Lying on the ground, not five feet from me, was a corpse covered head to toe in garish blue spandex. There was some kind of yellow lettering on his chest; his face was covered by the same blue spandex as the rest of his body. It was dark, the parking lot was not well lit, but I counted four visible bullet wounds. The blood seeped out from underneath him, pooling around him in the uneven concrete.
This was not the most disturbing thing I’d ever seen. Be a police detective in this city for long enough and you see some strange shit. But there was something about this image, this costumed person lying dead; it shocked me to the core.
The screeching girl brought me back to reality. I suddenly remembered why I had run over here in the first place. I looked for the helpless girl, but instead found something even more shocking than the dead kid. There was another body.
This one looked more like your standard street corpse. Blue jeans, wife beater, tattoos, and his hand gripped around a .357 caliber handgun. But crouching overtop him, was a girl. She too was wearing some kind of spandex costume, this one a deep red. She wore a mask over her face that allowed her long blonde hair to flow down her back. She was the source of the crying and wailing. And she was beating the shit out of this guys face.
I ran over and tried to pull the hysterical girl off of the dead gangbanger. Not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. As soon as I placed a hand on her she spun around and took a swing at me. Thankfully she was off balance and toppled over as she blindly swung her bloodied fists. She screamed.
“Wait!” I coughed out.
She spun around on her butt and looked straight at me and froze. She was wearing some kind of Halloween mask. It vaguely resembled a cat. “Don’t shoot, please!” she cried.
It was then that I realized I was pointing my pistol at her. I quickly shoved into my pocket. It wasn’t until later that I hoped I put the safety on. “I’m not gunna shoot ya, girl,” I said.
“What…what do you want?” she stammered out between whimpers.
I was dumbstruck. I’ve never really had an answer to the question in my whole life. “I’m a detective, I want to help.”
“Are you a cop?” She spurted out.
“No, not anymore. Are you okay? “
“They killed him. He’s dead. You bastard!” she screamed as she resumed pummeling the dead guy.
“Hey, get it together. My name’s Frank, what’s your name?” I asked, trying to get her under control.
She got off the beaten body and stumbled over to her dead friend, muttering incoherently. I was beginning to have serious doubts about getting involved and began the standard cycle of self loathing that comes with regretting your life decisions. But then she turned around, finally showing a semblance of composure and said, “He was the Azul Amigo. I’m the Night Cat. We’re superheroes.”
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