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Previously :City on Fire, Part 6: Bad Memories
CITY ON FIRE
Part 7
Just Another Day In the Neighborhood
Peter and Betty were walking away from the crime scene, pass the onlookers and fellow reporters in front of the bar, as she went over her notes. They'd interviewed the cops – those who would say more than, “Move along” – and a few witnesses, before they found themselves getting nowhere.
As she reread the statements and quotes she took, she asked, “Did it seem like some of those people didn't wanna tell us what they saw?”
“What gave you that idea? When they said “Back off lady, I ain't seen nuthin” or when trying to bribe them with my money didn't work?”
“Our guy has to be a part of this.”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“It's no coincidence the only ones dead are Butchers and no one else.”
“You're not, are you?”
“And then there's Tombstone. Why wasn't he still in prison?”
“Maybe another stone-themed idiot wanted company and sent him a cake with a file in it... Are the Fantastic Four still in space?”
“Did he escape or did someone pay the right people?”
“See the purple martians over there playing tee-ball with those Skrulls?”
“The mystery vigilante, Tombstone, the Butchers... they're all connected somehow.”
“Maybe they're trying to start a bowling league?”
“There has to be some way to get some answers.”
“Let's see. We could ask the CIA; they're full of information. The FBI; they're also full of it. How about S.H.I.E-”
Betty whipped her hand back and struck Peter in the chest, as she stated, “That's it!”
“Great Betz,” said Peter, as he rubbed his chest. “Think you could let me in on what it is?”
“I know someone who can help; a source I used a couple of years ago about corruption in the Bureau.”
“The FBI piece? Yeah, that was pretty good. Woulda' been better with one of those caricatures of Hoover in a skirt or something.”
Betty placed her hand on her hip and gave Peter a sideways glance, as she said, “Big scoop, remember? Try holding back on the yuk-yuks until we at least know a little more. Hmm?”
"Okay but what about whomp-whomps?"
"Jeez, Peter," she shook her head. “I'd knock you on your butt, but I'm no good with a camera.”
“And they laughed, when I said joining the photo club would save my life one day.”
“Just follow me, Bozo,” ordered Betty, as she shook her head. “Let's go try to get some answers.”
AT THAT MOMENT
As Betty and Peter walked away, neither of them was aware of a pair of binoculars eying them from a van across the street or the man with the slick hair.
Frank Castle put down his binoculars, as he took a miniature receiver from his center console and placed it in his ear. Neither the reporter nor her photographer noticed him among the crowd when he slipped the bug into her coat pocket.
By the description Soap had given him, he was sure she was the reporter he wanted; the one who seemed to be on the right track.
He listened carefully, as she said, “He lives in the middle of Clinton. He's a bit cranky, but he knows what he's talking about; said he still had contacts in the FBI.”
“How's that supposed to help us?” her photographer asked. “I doubt Big Brother is involved in this.”
“That's the CIA-.”
Frank couldn't help himself, as he said, “It's both.”
“If he's still connected, he can probably find us something; facial recognition, satellite imagery, anything.”
“Like the feds have their eyes-in-the-sky pointed on Hell's Kitchen twenty-four-seven.”
“You'd be surprised kid,” stated Frank, as he let them get further ahead, before turning on the van. As he began to tail them, he couldn't help but think about Micro. If these two really wanted answers, he would've been the man to ask; if he were still alive.
Frank shook the thought from his mind, as he focused on the task at hand.
Dwell on it later.
ELSEWHERE
Jon sat at the counter of a diner, on the corner of Red's block. He'd called the old man to come and meet him, not wanting to get too close to Susan and Joseph; worried more heavy hitters could show up. Tombstone was reason enough not to let his guard down. He wore a hoodie and sunglasses while keeping his wounded as hidden as possible. He heard the bell above the door ring and checked for Red, to find the old codger walk in... with little ten-year-old Joseph in tow.
Jon felt his chest balk, as he glared at the old man and mouthed, [Are you f**king insane?].
Red waved him off, as he gave Joseph some money and nudge him to one of the tables.
“Be sure to order me a diet, while I talk to my friend,” Red called to him. “Grandpa needs to get some of this fat outta his ass.”
Jon watched Joseph laugh at the silly old man. The last he heard that laugh, his son was still a baby. He kept his eyes on him, as he jaunted over to a free table and waited for a waitress to come before Red took a seat next to him at the counter.
“What the bloody hell is wrong with ya'?” Jon whispered. “Ya tryin' ta' gimme a heart attack? If Susan finds out-”
“She ain't gonna find out,” stated Red. “She's out job hunting, so I had to watch Joey.”
“I called ya here ta' keep away from them. In case ya hadn't noticed, I'm banged up for a bloody reason.”
Red looked at Jon's arm, as he asked, “So, you the one who took out the walking cinder-block?”
“Aye n' I all but blew up my arm doin' it. There's no tellin' who else might be involved in this n' if Lonnie could find me, someone else could too.”
“You keep saying this like there's more to it than a turf war.”
“People like Lonnie are too good – n' expensive – for a simple grab for territory. I think someone's stirrin' things up between 'em n' I need to know who n' why.”
“Okay. So, why call me?”
“What the hell do ya think I called ya for? You're the one with all the damned contacts; use 'em. This ain't about a bunch of wannabe-bangers tryin' to make a name for themselves anymore; there's somethin' more to it.”
Red shook his head, as he said, “You're as bad as that reporter a few years back. I said I had contacts; doesn't mean I can just call them up snap my fingers and get what I want. Naw, I gotta work my magic; get something for something, ya get me?”
Jon sighed, as he took another look at Joseph. It was hard for him to concentrate, with his son just several feet away; the son he never got to watch grow. No first steps. No first words. Nothing.
“What's it been like for 'im?” asked Jon.
“Don't beat yourself up, son. You did what you did to keep them safe... only reason I didn't whoop your ass when I found you on the barroom floor.”
“Just tell me.”
Red pondered for a moment, before he said, “It ain't been easy. Had two step-daddies who were as good as sh*t on a shoe, while thinking his real daddy died trying to save someone from a mugger.”
“What!?” asked Jon.
“Susan didn't want him thinking his dad left them for some skank. Better you die a hero than live as a painful reminder they weren't good enough.”
“Twist the bloody knife why don't ya'?”
“Susie wasn't the only one hurt when you left, boy. That was my baby girl and you flipped her world upside down and broke her heart. Don't you mistake my attempts to help you as complete and utter forgiveness; what they've gone through since you left, is completely one-hundred percent your fault, and don't you think for a damn second I can just forget that.”
Both men stared at each other with such contempt, the unnoticed waitress standing behind the counter – waiting to take their order – was frozen with worry; no doubt, not the first time she's witnessed a fight over who was going to pay.
“Grandpa!” Joseph called from the table; shaking both men from their staring match.
They looked to see him patiently waiting, with two sodas sitting in front of him and a waitress beside him tapping her foot impatiently. Red plastered on his fake smile, as he nodded and waved.
“We'll get back to this little chat later, boy. Right now, you're gonna sit your ass across from your boy, enjoy a club sandwich and then come back to my place while I call in some favors.”
“But Susan-”
“Will be gone all day.”
Jon stared at Red, while the old man kept smiling at Joseph, before he asked, “What are ya doin', Red?”
Red turned back to Jon; his face softened by a genuine smile.
“I'm lettin' a father have a meal with his boy; even if he don't know who he is.”
Before Jon could protest, Red had left his seat, walked over to Joseph, and sat down next to him. He looked back to Jon and patted the empty space on the table across from them. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to just walk out the door, as he left the counter for their table. As he sat across from them, he tried to give a convincing – not nervous at all – smile.
Joseph surprised him, by giving him a wide-toothy grin, as he said, “Hello, I'm Joey.”
“Uh, h-hey,” Jon managed. “I, uh. I'm... My name is...”
“This is just painful,” stated Red, as he patted Joseph on the shoulder. “The chatterbox here is Mac. He's a friend of Grandpa's.”
“How ya doin', Mac?” asked Joseph, as he stuck out his hand.
Jon held his smile, as he took his son's hand and glared at Red; who knew he hated being called Mac.
“How ya doin', lad?”
“You talk funny.”
With Red's breaking laughter, the three of them started chatting; Jon listening intently to Joseph talk about school, friends, and even a girl he kinda liked, but not like-liked.
It wasn't the same as first steps or first words but he accepted it gladly.
LATER THAT DAY
Jon and Red, with Joseph trotting just ahead of them, took their time getting back to the apartment building. Before leaving the diner, Red had assured him many times that Susan would not be back till later on; that she would be with some friends after looking for a job.
Jon was still leery, but the prospect of spending more time with his son – even as Mac – was too much to pass up.
“I got a friend at the Bureau,” said Red. “She's got a friend at the CIA who has a friend at the NSA, etc, etc. I'm sure we can find you something to go on, but, uh...”
“But what?”
“You sure we shouldn't take this to someone else?”
“What? After all the hell ya've given me since this mornin'? Why ya changin' your mind now?”
“I been thinking and it's like you said: If this isn't a turf war, then maybe you're... you know... outta your league?”
Jon's face contorted with muted shock, before he stated in a hushed whisper, “So damn sorry ta've disappointed ya'. I only took out several armed thugs, a super criminal, and nearly destroyed my arm, because ya practically begged me to.”
“That was before. This is now. I don't know if you're up for this, boy.”
“Don't have much choice now,” said Jon, as he shook his head. “I'm on their radar now. Even if they dunno who I am, they're lookin' for me. The quicker I get answers, the quicker all this goes away n' I can get back ta' sittin' in my apartment and smokin' myself ta' death.”
“Hmph! Still ain't quit, huh?”
“One crusade at a time, old man.”
The two of them reached the building steps – just after Joseph – when someone called out, “Fredrick Book?!”
Red looked to see a good looking Brunette and a scrawny twenty-something with a camera. He was puzzled for a moment until it clicked! “Aww, hell. It's you again; Betty Ross or something.”
“Brant,” she corrected him. “Betty Brant for the Daily Bugle. This here is my colleague, Peter Parker.”
Peter waved, as he said, “Sorry to bother you and your family but... well, we're nosy; you know how that goes.”
Joseph laughed, as he pointed at Jon and said, “This is Grandpa's friend, silly.”
Betty nodded sheepishly, as she looked to Jon to apologize. It was then her eyes widened with recognition, as she snapped her fingers at Peter, while she stammered, “Pete, Pete, Pete.”
Peter looked at her, quizzically. “Uh, am I supposed to roll over for a treat or something?”
Jon grabbed Red by the shoulder and said, “I don't like this; get rid of 'em.”
“What you think I'm gonna do; invite them in for tea?”
“You have scones?” asked Peter.
“We have cookies,” answered Joseph.
“Sweet.”
Betty smacked Peter in the chest before she pointed at Jon and said, “That's the guy from the videotape; the one who shot-”
“Shut it!” Jon barked, as he made his way between them and his son. “I'll not have ya talkin' 'bout such things, in front of the boy.”
“Take it, easy pal,” said Peter, as he placed himself in front of Betty. “There's no need to start anything. We're just looking for answers; reporters, remember?”
"I'm the reporter," Betty said as she tried to push Peter behind her.
Red leaned into Joseph and placed an assured hand on his shoulder. “I think it's time for you to go upstairs and watch some cartoons.”
“Adult talk?” asked Joseph, in a heavy sigh.
Red didn't need to answer, as he patted his grandson on the head and waited for him to go into the building before he turned his attention to the busybodies.
“What the hell do you want, lady?!”
“We were looking for him,” answered Betty, as she continued to point at Jon. “We found a video of him at a Butchers' hangout and thought you could help us find him and bam!, here he is... why is he here?”
“Why the hell are ya lookin' for me?” asked Jon. “For all ya know, I'm another whack job who likes shootin' folks and here ya come a-callin'? Don't have much of a survival instinct, do ya?”
“If you only knew,” Peter said aloud; earning him another smack to the chest.
AT THAT MOMENT
Frank kept watch, as the four of them bickered back and forth. The ear-bud hissed with too many voices trying to talk at once; loudly at that. As he continued his surveillance, he took stock of the two newcomers.
The old black man – Red – was the retired FBI agent the reporter was talking about. The man in the hoodie – with the Scottish accent – seemed like the one to keep an eye on. His demeanor wasn't too dissimilar from those he'd worked with before; like Higgins, Cole and Dyson. Frank could tell a man carrying his fair share of demons.
“Will you just shut the hell up!” the old man's voice came in.
“About time," said Frank as he listened intently.
“I can't be having you making all this racket. In case you forgot, my sorry ass has to live here and I don't need the whole neighborhood wondering “what's up with that old man?”. Now you – reporter – get to it.
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