Heroic Measures (continued)

#

March 11, 1995 . . .

Walter sat at the raised table in the restaurant bar. He was early. Having reached a point in his work where he could make no further progress that day without staying considerably later, he had decided to call it a day. It was a luxury that he rarely afforded himself, short of other scheduled events such as doctor appointments. Even with those, he tended to attempt to make up for the time lost.

As evening fell, and sun outside set, the bar’s management had lowered the lights as well. He supposed that it was meant to lend a sort of ambiance to the place, he supposed, but he found that it just filled its interior with shadows, making it more difficult to see. Maybe that was the intent, he decided, to provide an impression of privacy where secrets could be told. And, during the recounting of such tales, more drinks were purchased.

He had chosen it for none of those reasons, but ones of his own. It was in a convenient location, about midway between his workplace and home. The neighborhood in which it was placed was a good one, safe enough to walk in the dark even in late evening. Those who frequented the bar, attached as it was to a fairly reputable restaurant, tended to be either transitory or regular customers. The former tended to be customers waiting for a table; the latter were typically businessmen stopping by for a quick round or two before heading to wherever they called home.

In all of the years during which he had stopped here (although those times had become less frequent of late), he could scarcely remember more than a handful of instance when someone belligerently drunk, or clearly intransient and in search of a free drink, had made even a brief appearance. The clientele tended to be generally polite, occasionally good-naturedly boisterous, and rarely overly loud for extended periods of time. The bartenders—and there had been a few over the years (all men, curiously enough)—had all been quick, good, and professional.

He had taken only one sip from his drink since it had arrived, and that just to ensure that the quality of the Scotch was acceptable. Sampling a drink in the bartender’s presence seemed to Walter to be the same kind of polite courtesy as admiring an artist’s work upon completion or tasting from the meal that a chef had just brought personally to the table. It was perhaps a foolish affectation, he knew, but it harmed no one and that small gesture of appreciation just might make someone else’s day just a little bit better.

A wide shadow passed across the table and then settled into the seat on his left. Without looking, Walter knew that it had to be Kenniston. While the large, broad-shouldered man was difficult to miss, he was capable of moving with a measure of surprising quiet, given his size.

“Walt,” he said, acknowledging Walter’s presence with something just a notch above an unintelligible grunt.

The bartender arrived a moment later, placing a dark cocktail napkin on the table next to Kenniston’s hand. Before the man could speak, Kenniston glanced quickly at Walter’s glass and then placed his order.

“Bourbon and water,” he said. His voice was brusque and deep. “A double.”

The bartender nodded, seemingly unfazed by his customer’s apparent manner. Walter knew that it was part façade and part just who Kenniston was. The large man could not help that his voice sounded like the growl of a cave bear mistakenly awakened from hibernation. There had been times, in fact, when roars of challenge from the hulking man had ended conflicts with various crooks before they had truly begun. Right now, though, he settled back in the chair (which it creaked somewhat ominously under his bulk) with seeming contentment.

“How you been, Walt?” he asked, keeping his voice low. It helped somewhat. “How’s the wife and kids?”

Walter found himself smiling. “They’re doing very well. Jerry’s . . .” He was about to say more when someone approached the table.

The figure seated itself next to Kenniston. Walter nodded, greeting Orlovsky. He was dressed in a dark-colored trench coat with short tails. After gesturing to the bartender for a beer, he slid out of the coat, leaving it to hang behind him off the back of the chair.

“Johan won’t be joining us tonight,” he announced flatly. In answer to his companions’ inquiring looks, he nodded toward one of the television screens mounted near the bar.

It flashed a quick series of scenes featuring a dark-clad hero sporting a vivid pale blue pattern on his outfit. Walter recognized the design immediately. The screen now showed a hazy close-up of the hero’s face—Johan’s face. A moment later, a word was stamped over it: UNMASKED. Below it then appeared: “Tonight at 8:00 Pacific/7:00 Central” and then below that was added: www.unmaskedtv.com.

Walter felt a chill pass through him, culminating in an icy knot in his stomach. He saw Kenniston’s fingers clench into a tight fist, but the large man said nothing as the bartender returned with his drink and a full Pilsner glass for Orlovsky. After placing the two drinks, he did a quick check on the contents of Walter’s glass and then left the table.

“Don’t they realize what they’ve done?” Kenniston rumbled in a low tone.

Orlovsky looked grim.

“I tried to reach him,” he said.

“Too late,” a new voice intruded.

Walter started and looked around in sudden alarm, nearly knocking over his drink. He tried to cover it by picking up the glass and holding it while the new arrival sat down. It was Westin, who was typically even more prompt than Walter when it came to coming to these gatherings.

“He’s gone,” Westin went on. “Even the family.” His expression looked defeated and troubled. “It looks like they took some things with them, but the furniture and other . . . stuff is still at the house.”

Walter understood. With his identity soon to be public, Johan’s home, his workplace, anywhere he had ever been reported to visit, would now be watched for any signs of his presence.

“I’ll call Rachel,” Orlovsky sighed, starting to rise.

Westin waved him back down. “It can wait until tomorrow,” he said. “And probably should. Maybe even for a few days after that.”

Orlovsky’s expression betrayed his conflicting emotions, but he sank back into his chair.

It was becoming an unfortunately well-practiced routine. Rachel would arrange for a moving company to pack the family’s belongings—before they were looted by souvenir hunters and other, even less savory, scavengers—and move them into storage until the family was located and their possessions covertly returned to them. It was a tricky business, but they had so far been successful in not revealing the new whereabouts and identities of the recently exposed heroes.

“This has to stop,” Westin announced, not for the first time.

“Yes,” Kenniston agreed in a tone that sounded like heavy gravel.

There was a long silence. The four men sat, sipping from their respective drinks in an effort to fill the awkward moment. Like himself, Walter thought, everyone at the table had so far been spared the fate of public exposure of their secrets. None of them were immune or safe; they had merely been lucky to not have drawn the attention of some media reporter. Yet.

“They don’t care,” Westin stated. “Look at what happened on that talk show.”

There were thoughtful nods around the table. In a brazen attempt to grab rating, a female afternoon talk show host had recorded a segment during which a male guest had revealed his secret crush . . . on another man. The matter had seemed to have been handled on-screen reasonably well by all parties involved. Three days later, however, he was murdered by the other guest. While the television network chose to never air the segment (although bootleg copies of it had leaked out), and issued a public apology, many people seemed to feel that the legally antiseptic wording of the press release lacked any real sense of remorse.

“People just aren’t allowed to have heroes any more,” Orlovsky declared flatly. “It’s open season on anyone in the spotlight.”

“That’s a pretty cynical view, don’t you think?” Walter remarked. While he might not entirely agree, he could see that other man’s point. He found the insight both edifying and chilling.

Westin eyed him coolly. “If you have a sunnier interpretation,” he rejoined. “I’d like to hear it.”

Walter regarded the other man’s stare. He did not have an alternate explanation—at least none for which he had any facts to support. There had been several cases brought by heroes, or their representatives, against the networks for violating their privacy, among other violations. In every case so far, the court had ruled against the hero. It equated heroes as a type of celebrity and, citing numerous precedents, stated that those with celebrity status were not entitled to the same level of protection against such violations because of their highly public image. This did not absolve media outlets from all accountability. It simply made it that much more difficult for them to be sued for such alleged violations.

I don’t, Walter admitted silently.

“We need to make them stop,” Kenniston rumbled quietly. “Make them understand.”

“We need to make a public statement,” Orlovsky agreed. “All of us together.”

“And then we’ll be next on their lists,” Westin concluded glumly.

“Not if there’s just one representative.”

“That person’s life as a hero will be over,” Westin warned.

“Someone would have to volunteer,” Orlovsky said, clearly having no intention whatsoever to do so.

There was another long silence. This time the men only stared down at their drinks without touching them.

“I’ll do it,” a voice said. “It’s about time for me to retire from this business anyway.”

Everyone at the table looked up, searching for the source of the statement. A large man, masked somewhat by shadows, stepped toward the table. He was not nearly as large as Kenniston, but still provided an impressive display of muscle and brawn. In one hand, he carried a nearly empty glass of an amber liquid. He down what remained in a single swallow.

“What do you have in mind?”

#

April 18, 1995 . . .

It had taken them many discussions to settle on the proper venue for the press conference. Too many, in Walter’s opinion. Eventually, though, it had been chosen and reserved. The City of Los Angeles Hall of Justice would serve as both the location and as a statement about what was about to be said here.

The afternoon was bright and clear. The morning’s clouds had long since blown away, leaving a brilliant cobalt sky. There was a slight breeze that still spoke of late Spring, ruffling the hair and pages from paper notepads of the mass of assembled media reporters. A small number of peace officers stood nearby, but their function was more ceremonial than necessary.

There came movement from the doors behind the podium. The sounds of the gathered crowd faded to a hush. A moderately-clad figure appeared behind the podium, his cape gathering behind him in the growing wind.

“Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press,” he began. “It is time that we came to an agreement.”