5
Worst Birthday Ever
“I gotta confess something, Charley old pal. Today was the worst birthday ever,” Dogboy said to the destitute codger sleeping against the light pole.
He’d finished up his work without incident, leaving the shop in Mr. Horum’s capable hands. He’d hung around at the arcade for a few hours, feeding quarters into the sundry games.
“I don’t know if she doesn’t like arcades, but this is the second time she’s stood me up at Tralbert’s. That’s gotta mean something, right?”
The old man’s eyes opened. He sat up, grabbing his duffel bag and clutching it to his chest.
“Who’re you? Don’t touch my stuff, ya’ little freak.”
“Don’t worry. I’m a friend. Here, I’ll even give you something for the trouble.” Dogboy reached into his pocket, producing a handful of wax candy he’d won at the arcade. The old man plucked it from his hand then squirreled it away in his bag.
“Charley” backed away from the mighty mongrel, muttering under his breath: “Nobody’s gonna get my stuff. Candy’ll kill ya’s what they always say. I’ll shave off their hair and eat it. Then they’ll know.”
“Charley, we could’ve been pals,” Dogboy said.
“What a coincidence,” came a voice from behind. A man’s hand gripped Dogboy’s arm. “I’ve been looking for a friend like you.”
Dogboy grabbed some Wee Glimmers from his belt then tossed them over his shoulder. A loud POP followed by a flash as they hit the man’s chest. Dogboy whipped around to see one John Upton-Haywood, a reporter from the Colta City Herald he’d encountered before as Bronson Black.
“That’s no way to make friends, mister,” Dogboy said as John lowered the hand covering his eyes. “A kid like me? All alone out here? You’re lucky there aren’t any cops around. Somebody in your position should know better.”
“My position? Ah, so you’ve read my work. Wouldn’t the police be more interested in the infamous Dogboy or in the reward Mayor Lane’s offering for your cape?”
“Tell Mayor Lane he can get bent. I saved the whole freaking city. That’s pretty good for a 14-year-old.”
“You’re 14, huh? Interesting,” John said, scratching the fact into his long notebook. “How do you respond to the mayor’s claim you threw an innocent homeless man off the hospital?”
“I didn’t… I wouldn’t do… He came after me,” Dogboy said.
John put out his hand, offering it to the boy. “I always say a reporter’s main job is stating the obvious, and it’s obvious to anybody with ears Mayor Lane’s full of it. We need to get you on the record. Shine a light on what really happened. Mind if I ask you a few—”
An alarm tore through the night air. Dogboy cocked his head to one side and listened then snatched the notebook from John’s hands.
“Sorry, but we’re gonna have to reschedule the interview for never. People need my help.”
“Huh, so you really buy into the whole altruistic hero thing? I had you pegged as an orphan with abandonment issues.”
“Better go back to psych school, mister. Good night, and remember: I’m Dogboy.”
Dogboy ran toward the alarm, careful to stick to the alleyways. When he arrived at the Colta City Credit Union a few blocks away, he ducked behind a bus shelter to assess the situation.
The alarm blared through the open front doors. A tall man, slapping a blackjack in his palm, kept an eye on the street. Another man appeared behind him, silhouetted by the bright lights inside. Dogboy recognized him. A deep ache grew in his chest.
Hot John stepped out holding two blue sacks up on his shoulder. “Hey, you. Go bring that weird car around. We gotta look around with this little doohickey before we go back.” He took Osbert’s black box then turned it on. The RIGHT indicator light blinked. The meter glowed green. Hot John held the device out, the indicators leading him across the street.
“I’ll be back,” he said. “I gotta go play dog catcher.”
Dogboy pulled a cup-sized metal cylinder from his pocket. The inside was filled with concentric circles with a thin metal pin stuck through the top. He pulled out the pin then gripped the outer shell while he flicked his wrist. The center slid out like a Matryoshka doll, each segment locking into place until he held a three-foot long black cane.
Dogboy tapped the cane on a nearby trashcan to make sure it was solid. He skittered atop the shelter, hoping to get the drop on Hot John. The bulging Plexiglas topper buckled under his weight. A loud crack. The center sank down; white stress lines grew around him in the smooth plastic.
Hot John looked up at the boy. “About time I get to smash something,” he said. He swung his hammer up, smashing the topper into a thousand little shards that clung to Dogboy’s cape as he fell.
Dogboy smacked Hot John across the face with his cane on the way down then screamed as his tail-bone crashed into the pavement.
Hot John rubbed his cheek. “Osbert said not to hurt ya’, but I don’t let nobody smack me and get away with it. Hold still, pup.”
Dogboy fumbled for his trick cane, wrapping his fingers around the handle as the mallet came down. He rolled left. The hammer cracked the pavement where his chest had been. He swung his cane around. It slammed into the bridge of Hot John’s nose, causing the brute to wince.
Dogboy took the opportunity to concentrate. Come on, powers… work. He held his hand out, closed his eyes, and imagined the orange light bursting from his palms.
It didn’t work.
Hot John seized the cane from Dogboy then tossed it over a large semi truck parked down the street.
“Fetch,” he said, then waved Dogboy along with his mallet hand.
Dogboy ran behind the truck, keeping a close eye on the crook. The cane rested on the ground, snapped in half from the impact. He leaned down, grabbed both pieces, then stood back up. Several thieves surrounded him. They linked their arms together and pushed in.
Hot John’s head popped up from behind the wall of men. “Let’s load ‘im up. Osbert is gonna be so happy with us.”
The men closed in around Dogboy, lifting him up onto their shoulders as they crossed the street. They stopped by an anachronistic carriage with black and white stripes running down vertically on all sides. The particle board jester mounted on the back held his arms out to trap you in a hug. The top resembled the cap n’ bells on the jester’s hat. The carriage looked like it’d arrived straight from the 19th century except for the empty space in front where a horse would traditionally stand.
A thief broke free from the group, grabbing the Jester’s hand then squeezing his fingers. A latch clicked. The door swung open to reveal a dark chamber, painted black and sealed tight. The men tossed the teenage titan in as they shouted, “For Andrus.”
Dogboy slammed against the back wall. The men climbed in as the motor under the carriage started up. Hot John banged on the top from the driver’s seat.
“Moving out,” he said. The carriage rolled down the street.
Dogboy recognized Blaze right away. “Hey, cowboy,” he whispered, “why don’t we bust out of here and go grab a sarsaparilla? We can talk about that one time these guys cut your tongue out.”
Blaze looked down at him with droopy eyes, shrugged, then looked away.
“Come on. Andrus is gone now. After what he did you don’t owe him anything,” he said.
One of the thieves leaned in, grinning wide with his gnarled green teeth. “We owe him everything, you little piece of snot.”
“You know he’s in a coma, right? Why are you guys still doing stuff for him?”
“My brothers, who has protected you?” the thief said.
“Andrus,” the men shouted.
“Who has fed and clothed you?” he asked. Blaze looked away.
“Andrus,” they affirmed.
“And who shall come ‘round again to arrest our regression?”
“Andrus,” they said.
“Okay. Fine. I get the point,” Dogboy said.
The thief pushed him up against the wall with his foot. “Brothers, this is the boy that hurt him. What’s say we return the favor?”
The men closed in. Dogboy felt heat rising in his chest. As two men grabbed his arms orange light filled the chamber, sending shadows streaking up the thieves’ faces at monstrous angles.
“Psst… Cowboy. Might want to find one of these guys to hide behind,” Dogboy said.
“Keep it down back there,” he said, pounding on the wall behind him. The hum grew louder as it rose in pitch.
Hot John pulled over then hopped down and went around the back. Streaks of orange light leaked out the seams between the boards, followed by the sounds of his men’s muffled screams. Startled, he squeezed the Jester’s hand.
The latch clicked. The door swung open a half inch. Orange light exploded out through the door, sending Hot John flying into a newsstand.
“What happened to all the other thieves?” she asked.
“They… they got hurt,” he said. He played around with his mask, avoiding Cindy’s eyes.
“Hurt like how?” she asked.
“I burned them pretty bad. Blisters and all. Maybe I could have helped them, but if the Guild’s back, we have a lot more to worry about than a few hurt crooks.”
Cindy grasped a chunk of Bronson’s hair, running her thumb along the singed tip. “You can’t go out in public with your hair all burnt. Come on. Get in here so I can fix you up.
“But what about your mom?” he asked.
“She’s working late, but you’ll have time to get out if she gets home early. Quick. Before I change my mind.”
Bronson crawled through the window, tossing his cape and mask on the bed.
“No way, kid. Those smell like burnt garbage.” She took them to the window, placed the cape flat on the metal grating then set the mask on top.
Bronson sat down in her chair as she retrieved the scissors from her drawer. She snipped off the singed ends. He smiled up at her while she worked.
“So you have to go after them, right?” she asked. “Maybe they slunk back down to their old hideout. Do you remember where it was?”
“Of course,” he said, blowing a few stray hairs off his nose. “I actually checked it out after I got stood up at Tralbert’s… again.”
Cindy walked behind him then started on the back. “Look, I didn’t let you in here so you could give me crap for having a life. I had important stuff to do.”
“Why does your important stuff always happen when we’re supposed to meet up? You know today’s my birthday, right? Kinda crummy thing to do to a guy on his birthday.”
Cindy grabbed a handful of hair, guiding his head back until he was looking straight up at her. “You know, for a kid that likes to play superhero you sure have pretty thin skin.” She held his bangs taut between two fingers then cut across them in a clean straight line.
A tiny hair fell in Bronson’s eye. Orange light shot out his pupil, grazing Cindy’s hand. He snapped his head forward then dug his finger in his eye to root out the foreign object. “Jeez. Oh jeez. I’m sorry. I didn’t hurt you did I?” he said.
“You shot my freaking hand. You’re lucky I— Oops,” Cindy said.
“What is it?” Bronson asked.
Cindy grabbed a small mirror then held it behind her back as she approached Bronson. She held the mirror before him. His bangs were cut straight across until the last three inches on the right, which angled up a few inches shorter than the rest.
“Eh, looks fine to me,” he said.
“Are you kidding? It looks horrible.”
“Can you fix it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. You think you can keep from zapping me for five seconds?”
Bronson nodded. “I’m sorry. I’d never hurt you, Cindy. Not on purpose anyway.”
She smiled then knelt down, holding the mirror up under his hair to use as a straight edge. A moment later she hopped up then flipped the mirror around so he could see her handiwork.
“Don’t you think it’s a little short?” he asked.
“Of course. Now that I’ve fixed it you have an opinion. It’s fine. See, with it short like this, there’s a great dimple on your forehead.” She kissed the dimple. Bronson’s cheeks went red.
“On second thought it’s perfect,” Bronson said, turning away with an embarrassed smile. “I guess I should go hunt down those bad guys. Or sleep. Yeah, maybe sleep.”
“I have some friends I can check with to see if anyone’s seen them. Maybe we can triangulate their hideout or something,” Cindy said.
Bronson climbed out on the fire escape, retrieved his costume, then leaned back in the window.
“Another awesome plan. Keep me posted?” he asked.
“I’ll let you know as soon as we find out anything. Try not to microwave anybody on the way home.”
“I’ll do my best,” Bronson said. “It’s fun hanging out with you, you know? We don’t have to go to the arcade. We can do whatever you want. I think it’d be fun to see each other without all these crooks interrupting all the time.”
“Yeah, that would be fun,” she said. “Happy birthday, by the way.” He leaned in, gave her a quick peck on her upper lip then bolted down the fire escape before she could correct the gesture.
Cindy shut her window then took her walkie talkie off her nightstand. She turned the dial to Channel 4 then pushed in the button to talk.
“Axle,” she said. “Come in, Axle.”
A groggy voice came over the speaker: “What is it, McNeil?”
“Tell everybody to meet me at the school around 10 AM tomorrow. We gotta help out our friendly neighborhood canine.”
“10 AM? During summer break? I don’t like nobody enough to get up that early,” Axle said.
“This is serious,” she said. “If we don’t help him shut down the Guild of Thieves for good the whole city’s probably doomed.”
“Those jokers are back?” Axle said. “We’re in. We’ll be there early.”
“Good,” she said as she watched Dogboy run across the rooftops, “because I’m scared of what he’ll do if it’s all up to him.”
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