NaNo Part #10
Dec. 1st, 2009 12:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
perpetual_motionI'm at 86k and change and probably within ten thousand words of the end (Yes, again. Shut up.). I'm happy to know people are keeping up. I can't wait to see if it ends like I think it will.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Sunday Morning Coming Down
I woke up as the sky turned pink and gold in the sunrise. I rolled on my stomach, looked out the window, and watched the sky slowly turn blue while I thought. I felt weightless, like someone had snipped the strings from my feet, and I was floating into the atmosphere, a dot in the clouds like a bright red balloon. I’d had the dream again, Billie’s face in the forefront laughing, Wendy walk away. Sally was nowhere to be found. Billie still laughing as I asked about Wendy and Sally. Where was Wendy going. Had she seen Sally. What was so funny.
I rolled out of bed, turned on the coffee pot, took a shower because I felt like something was growing in my chest, something was coming through, and I always thought best in the shower. My mind was clear as an open plain. I kept trying to figure out what I was trying to think, and all I got back was wind. I had a cup of coffee, made some toast, shuffled the odds and ends in my icebox to find the jam. The toast didn’t taste like much; something wet on something dry. I ate it all anyway, had another cup of coffee, walked into the living room and looked around.
Across the room, leaning against the wall, was the ashcan for Atomic Angie. Wendy had demanded we have one in case comics were ever legitimate again, to prove our ownership of the character if anyone tried to claim credit. I crouched in front of the pictures, flipped through them, the edges of the frames a dull weight in my hand. I looked at Sally’s clean lines, Wendy’s careful letters, my own words on the page. Billie had insisted only my name appear on Atomic Angie as the writer. It was a gift, she said, to show her appreciation for the hard work I’d put in to make the book something good, something interesting. To pay me for the research and script revisions.
I picked up the frames, walked with them into the kitchen, laid them out on the kitchen counter. The open plain feeling in my mind started to narrow, started to sharpen, like crops poking through the soil. I took three steps backwards to reach for the phone, picked it up, dialed by touch.
“Hello?” Sally’s voice was rough, confused. I looked at the clock over my stove. It was only seven.
“Sorry,” I said. “I know it’s early.”
“It’s the ass-crack of the day, Julie,” Sally grumbled, almost as bad with mornings as me. “What the hell are you doing up?”
“Bilile’s name isn’t on Atomic Angie,” I told her.
There was a pause. Sally yawned. “And?” she asked.
“Billie’s name isn’t on Atomic Angie,” I repeated.
“Julie, seriously, find your point or let me get back to sleep,” Sally snapped. “Or I will come over and scatter your teeth on the floor.”
“You said that about Annie,” I told her. “After she ratted.”
“Yes, I remember.” Sally yawned again. “Look, Julie, I love you, you know that, but it’s seven in the goddamned morning, so find your point or bounce, okay?”
I looked at the panels again, traced my finger along the mushroom cloud on page two. “We could take it,” I said. “We could take it and restart it.”
“I’m getting off the phone,” Sally told me. “Call me back when both hands are on twelve, and you’re not talking in some sort of weird riddles.”
“If I left,” I said before she could hang up, “would you come with?”
“What?”
“If I left—”
“Left what?”
“Left.” I said, the pointed edges of the crops in my head growing a few inches. “If I left, would you come?” There was a long silence. I wondered if Sally had fallen back asleep. “Would you?” I asked again.
“You saved my life, Julie,” Sally said finally. “I’d probably follow you off a cliff if you asked.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure.” There was shuffling. I could hear Sally throwing off the covers. “Well, you’ve woken me up, best explain yourself,” she said, and I heard a bit of Wendy in her tone.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “There’s an idea, but it’s not quite here yet. It’s still shaky.”
“What’s Atomic Angie got to do with it?” Sally asked.
“Billie’s name isn’t on it,” I said. “She gave it to me, let my name be the only writer on it.”
“I remember,” Sally said. “And I’m the only writer on it. So what?”
“And Wendy’s dead,” I added.
“Julie, connect the damned dots, would you?”
“My name’s on the ashcan,” I said slowly, waiting for the rest of it to click. “Your name’s on the ashcan. Wendy’s name is on the ashcan. But Billie, she isn’t.”
“And?”
“Do you have the others?” I asked. “The ashcans for the other stuff we did.”
“I’ve got a few, yeah. I think Billie still has a couple.”
“They probably have her name on them,” I said. “Can you bring them over?” I asked. “The ashcans.”
“Julie, what the hell?” Sally snapped. “Where’s your thought process?”
“Bring the ashcans,” I said. “I need to see them.”
There was another pause. Sally sighed. I heard her shift on her bed. “Okay,” she said. “Fine, but give me a couple of hours.”
“Ten?” I asked. “Is ten o’clock okay?”
“Make more coffee,” she ordered. “I’m going to hop in the shower.”
“Thanks, Sally.”
“Get your thoughts lined up, Jules. I’m not dragging myself over so you can play around with words.”
The way she called me Jules, slightly exasperated but entirely fond, it made me warm up, gave the idea crop another three inches. “Promise,” I said. “I’ll figure it out.”
I hung up the phone, looked at the clock, weighed my options. I picked up the receiver and dialed again.
“What?” Marla sounded sharp, worried. “Who is this?”
“It’s Julie,” I said. “I’m fine. I need you to go into the office.”
The line was quiet for a few seconds. “You are joking,” Marla finally said.
“I’m not,” I replied. “It’s important.”
“It damned well better be; it’s Sunday.” Marla sighed; she made a sound like she was stretching. “What do you need, boss?” she asked, sounding entirely professional, like I hadn’t knocked her out of a sound sleep.
“This is a personal favor,” I told her. “I need you to lift some files.”
“Files?”
“In the research department,” I said. “I need you to pull the information on some books.”
“And get copies?”
“No copies,” I told her. “No trail. I need the originals.”
“Are we doing something illegal?” she asked.
“Not quite,” I told her. “We’ve got free reign of the research files. This is more ethically gray.”
“Because?”
“Because I’m planning something,” I told her. “Get a pen and paper,” I ordered. “I’ll give you a list.”
“Hold on. I have to put down the phone.”
I listened to the clunk of the phone, the muffled sounds of Marla walking somewhere else in her apartment. The ideas in my head started to bud.
“Back,” she said. “What am I looking for?”
I rattled off a set of titles. “They’ll be in the archive section,” I told her.
“No kidding,” she said. “I haven’t heard some of these.”
I grinned, caught my reflection in the kitchen window. “Exactly,” I said.
“I’m not asking,” Marla answered. “You want the files in your office?”
“Bring them to my place,” I said. “Ten o’clock. I’m having a meeting.”
“I want breakfast,” Marla said. “Order something in.”
“Got it,” I told her. “Get moving.”
“Yes, boss.” There was a smile in her voice. “Was this what it was like in the underground?” she asked, “Short instructions and no explanation?”
“Close enough,” I told her. “See you at ten.” I hung up the phone, counted to ten, and picked it up again, dialed one more time.
“Gardner residence,” Guy said, sounding like he’d been up for hours. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“It’s Julie,” I said. “What are you doing at ten?”
“Hey, Julie. Nothing, as far as I know.”
“Come over to my place,” I said. “I want you to meet a couple of people.”
“Okay.” He sounded confused. “What’s going on?”
“When you get here,” I said. “You’ll love it.”
“Nothing? Not even a hint?”
“Nope,” I said, and I felt like laughing. “Just say you’ll be here at ten.”
“Sure.” He sounded amused. “On the nose. Need me to bring anything?”
“No, you’ll do just fine.”
“Flatterer,” he replied, and I laughed as we said goodbye.
I combed my hair, braided it, dug out a faux emerald clip to keep it in place. I cleared off my dining table, cleaned the crumbs from my counter, started a fresh pot of coffee, and called out to a deli down the street to put in an order.
“I need it delivered at nine forty-five,” I told the man who took the order. “I’m having people over.”
“It’ll be there, Miss,” he promised.
“Fantastic,” I said and got off the line. The phone rang as I was pulling down plates and glasses. “Hello?” I said.
“Jules,” Billie’s voice was soft, friendly, inviting. “I was hoping—”
“Can’t talk, Billie,” I said briskly. “I’ve got people coming over.”
“Room for one more?”
“Not you,” I replied and dropped the receiver into the cradle. It rang again almost instantly. I let it go to the answerphone, listened to Billie leave a message, trying not to sound aggravated. I rewound the tape as soon as she finished, hit ‘play’ and hit ‘delete’ before she could get through the first syllable of her name.
“Her name’s not on the book,” I said to the walls. I looked at the answerphone, walked to the bookcase, reached for a photo album on the bottom shelf and flipped to the back. I pulled out a picture, hunted up a frame, put it in the center of the table. Looked at Wendy smiling at me from it. She was at her desk in one of the speaks, her feet on her desk, a pencil behind her ear, grinning at a slant; it was almost a smirk.
“Her name’s not on the book,” I told the picture. I smiled. “Her name’s nowhere near it.”
1965 -- The Aftermath of the Sixth Raid -- The Trial
The news finally made all the papers after Wendy’s grand jury hearing. She was indicted on a six counts of running a speak, three counts of endangering the welfare of a minor—three of her runners had been seventeen—a dozen counts of possession with intent to sell—one for each book she’d helped produce in the speaks—and sixty-seven counts of selling illegal substances.
I sat in the second row on the prosecutor’s side so Wendy could see me if she turned her head. She looked shocked to see me. I tried to smile; she looked confused.
“Can I get in to see her?” I asked Guy. “Is there a way to do that?”
“You have to sign in,” he told me. “And they’re watching the visitor list.”
“Can I—”
“You have to show identification,” he told me before I could finish the question.
“Shit,” I said.
“Give me two days,” Guy said. “Let me see what I can do.”
Two days later, Guy walked me in the front door of the jail, a hand on my arm. “Look scared,” he told me. I made my lower lip tremble. “Good,” he said. He walked me to the jailer, sitting behind a barred window with a ledger in front of him. “This is Susan Ellis,” he told the jailer. “She’s Wendy Ellis’s sister. Agent Starling said they could speak for a few minutes.”
The jailer shoved the ledger across the desk. “Sign in,” he ordered me.
I wrote my fake name, watched the way I curved the ‘S’. “How long?” I asked, not meeting his eyes.
“Half an hour,” he told me, and his eyes softened a little. “It’ll be a minute while I get her,” he said, and he walked away from the window.
I looked at Guy when the jailer had moved out of sight. “How?” I whispered.
“I got some background on her,” he told me. “She actually has a sister named Susan. I called her pretending to be a reporter; she told me she’d disowned Wendy over this. I thanked her and hung up.” He gave me a small grin. “I figured, if she’s not going to drop in, someone with the same name could slide in under the radar if they had an officer escort and looked scared enough.”
I almost hugged him. I squeezed his arm instead. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you.”
“The underground’s about to be buried,” he told me, “might as well get in while I can.”
“Thank you,” I repeated again.
The jailer came back, pushed a button, and the door next to his window buzzed and clicked. Guy led me in, hand at the small of my back, down to a door with a small window at eye level. He looked in, opened the door, waved me in. He shut the door behind me. I could see him in the edge of the little window, keeping watch, I realized.
“Julie.” Wendy looked completely gobsmacked to see me. “What are you doing here?”
I slid into the chair across from her before my knees gave out. “Are you okay?” I asked. “I mean, considering everything—”
“What the flying hell are you doing here?” Wendy hissed. “If they see you here—”
“They don’t know about me,” I interrupted. “My name’s not on anything.”
Wendy blinked. “What?”
“My name’s not on anything,” I repeated. “When they raided,” I explained, “my name wasn’t anywhere. Billie cleared me out of it somehow.”
Wendy’s face pinched, her lips pursed. “And served me up.”
“I know.” I felt tears prick my eyes, blinked them away. “God, Wendy,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t,” she ordered. She pointed a finger at me, and I realized she was cuffed. “None of that. I won’t put up with it.”
“It’s my—”
“It’s not,” she cut me off. “You’re responsible for you. Billie’s responsible for her. Did you send her a note asking her to give me up to save her?”
“No,” I said. “Of course not!”
“Then cram it.”
I looked at her, tried to memorize the set of her jaw, the hard shine of defiance in her eyes. “Oh, Wendy,” I said finally.
“You cry on me, I’m going to break these cuffs and shake some sense into you,” she threatened. “You knew the risks.”
I thought of the hard glare she’d given Annie, her barked order to get Annie out of the speak. “She didn’t do it for me,” I said. “She didn’t.”
Wendy leaned back in her chair, tried to cross her arms, glared at her cuffs. “Oh?” she asked.
“They couldn’t even get me for hiding her,” I said. “She cleared me off the map.”
“Vapor,” Wendy said. “She used to say you were vapor.”
“Exactly,” I said. “The officer outside, the one that got me in here, he told me she had no reason to give you up. The agent in charge tried to threaten her with coming after me, but he told her it wouldn’t stick.”
“What are you saying?” Wendy asked. She leaned forward, cupped her hands around each other on the table. “You’re saying—”
“She sold you off to save her own ass,” I said. “It’s pure treason from every angle.”
Wendy slammed her palms on the table. “Bitch,” she muttered. “If I ever get out of here, I’m spitting in her eye.”
“Got it covered,” I promised. “Believe me.”
Something in Wendy’s eyes softened. “Jules,” she said softly. “Oh, honey, don’t—”
“No,” I cut her off. “Don’t try to make it better.”
“Don’t be rash,” she told me. “Don’t just straight to hating her, okay?”
I stared at her. “You are kidding me,” I said. “You’re not advocating—”
“Where’s Sally?” she asked. “I’ve gotten a note, but the postmark was smeared.”
“She’s out,” I said. “She’s clear. They can’t get her.”
“Good.” Wendy shook her head as I opened my mouth again. “Once it’s over,” she said, “once things are squared away, talk to Billie, all right? Be sure before you shatter it.”
“You can’t—”
“I am. I won’t let you shred what you have if you can help it.”
“Annie—”
“I wasn’t in love with Annie,” Wendy said. “Hell, I’ve only ever been in love with the books. It’s been a good life, definitely, but I’ve never been in love, okay? Hold onto it if you can.”
“She sold you out!” I yelped. “You can’t be advocating this! She handed you over on a platter! She threw the match on the pyre, handed your name to the Grand Inquisitor!”
“Poetic,” she said drolly. “But promise me that you’ll try anyway.”
“Why?” I snapped. “What’s the point?”
Her face pulled to the side. She looked away from me, down at the floor. “Jules…”
“What?” I asked, and my voice got softer without my permission. “Wendy?” She looked scared, I realized, slightly pale, hands shaking slightly. “What’s going on?”
She looked at me again. She had tears in her eyes, though she was trying to ignore them. “You know the charges,” she told me. “The list is as long as my arm.”
“It’s happened before,” I told her. “Other people have—”
“Speaks are on the rise,” she interrupted. “They’re busting more than they have at any time since fifty-four. The whole enterprise is one long drain on the budget. They take out one speak, two more spring up in its place. We’re the Hydra; they have to cauterize the stumps, put the immortal head under a stone.”
“What?” I asked. “What are you saying?”
The tears in Wendy’s eyes were gone. She shook her head to make her hair fall down her back. “More weight,” she said. “I’m saying more weight.”
My stomach clenched. I swallowed hard before I could throw up. “You’re not—”
“They’re going to kill me, Julie,” Wendy said. “As surely as we’re sitting here, they’re going to convince the jury that what I’ve done is a killable offense. I go down, the whole underground will go with me, too scared to keep moving.”
“But—”
“I knew that going in,” Wendy said before I could protest. “Mallory and Sandy prepped me for it, promised me it would happen if the underground lasted long enough. Told Sally and Billie and I to accept it early and be ready for it.”
“You can’t,” I said. My voice broke. “You didn’t—”
“We broke the law, Jules. A lot. Don’t kid yourself.”
I reached across the table, touched her cupped hands, looked her in the eyes as she squeezed my fingers. “It’ll work out, Wendy,” I said.
“It will,” she said, and I knew we had different ideas of ‘work out.’ “Don’t discourage yourself, Jules,” she told me. “We’ve got to show them they’re wrong, okay? Show them that two heads will always grow back.”
“But.” I breathed in hard. “Who can I—”
“Billie,” she said. “You’ll have Billie.”
“I don’t want—”
“Don’t finish that,” Wendy snapped. “Not right now, okay? Promise me you’ll give her a chance to explain. I’m going out, no question, but don’t let me die knowing that you weren’t willing to keep things alive, okay? Don’t let me die without a good goddamned reason, all right?”
I couldn’t tell her no, couldn’t do anything but promise. “I’ll try,” I said. “I will.”
“Damn straight.”
We looked at one another. Guy knocked on the door, poked his head in. “Sorry,” he said quietly, “but I just heard someone say Starling is headed this way. If he finds out—”
“Go,” Wendy ordered, her tone exactly like she was clearing a speak. She looked at Guy, smiled a little. “Thank you,” she said to him.
“My pleasure,” he assured her, reached out for my hand. “If we’re out before he’s here, the jailer won’t think to mention us.”
I let go of Wendy’s hand, walked around the table and hugged her quickly. “It’s been an honor Wendy Ellis.”
“Same to you, Julia Schwartz.” She leaned her head against my shoulder. I felt two tears hit my shoulder. “Now scatter,” she said.
Guy and I hurried out, past the jailer with a small wave. I didn’t have to fake the sadness on my face. Guy got me out the front door, around the corner, into his car, and out of the parking lot. “Get down,” he said, and I ducked as Agent Starling drove by, waving at Guy as he went.
“They’re going to kill her,” I said. “That’s what she thinks, anyway.” The firm line of Guy’s mouth told me it was true. “It won’t work,” I said. “It never works.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said. “I really do.”
Legalities and Other Tricks
Sally showed up first, just after nine-thirty. “Food.” She ordered.
“You beat the delivery guy by fifteen minutes,” I told her and took her coat. “You’ll have to wait.”
“Coffee?”
“Fresh pot in the kitchen.”
Sally paused in patting down her hair, looked at me with a shrewd sharpness in her eyes. “How many cups have you had?”
“Too many,” I admitted because she’d see my shaking hands. “But I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s great,” I told her. “Everything’s going to be great.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you planning?”
I grinned, tried to hide it, let it get wider. “Wait for everyone else,” I said, because I knew she’d squirm to know. “Just be patient.”
“And what’s this got to do with Billie?” Sally added.
“Coffee’s in the kitchen,” I told her and turned towards the door to answer the buzzer again.
“It’s Guy.”
“Come on up,” I told him.
He wasn’t wearing a coat, but he was in a thick sweater. “Weather’s trying to get nasty,” he said in greeting, and his lips were cold when he pecked me on the cheek. “What’s going on?”
“Into the kitchen,” I told him. “There’s a fantastic woman named Sally La Rocca who’s heard about you.”
His eyes lit up. “Sally La Rocca? The one who got away?” he asked.
I laughed a little. “ One and the same,” I promised. “Coffee’s on the counter, if you need it.”
“Always,” he told me and walked towards the kitchen as the buzzer went off again.
It was the delivery guy, three boxes in tow, and I pointed him towards the kitchen as I checked the clock by the door. Nine forty. I wondered how Marla was getting on, if she’d run into trouble.
“Julie!” Sally barked from the kitchen, and then she poked her head out the door. “Get in here!” There was a look in her eyes, knowing but slightly uncertain, and I wondered if she’d figured it out.
I walked into the kitchen, paused to tip the delivery guy, and then poured myself a cup of coffee before I joined Sally and Guy at the table. “What?” I asked.
“I’ve been thinking about it since you called,” Sally told me. She pointed towards the Atomic Angie ashcan that I still had propped up on the counter. “You meant Billie wasn’t on the ashcan.”
“Yes, “ I said. I glanced over my shoulder at the ashcan again. “I’m forming a plan,” I said, looking at the mushroom cloud, the ‘A’ in the middle of it. “I’m got a big plan.”
Sally leaned across the table, one arm crooked around her coffee cup. “I remember the last time you had a big plan,” she told me. “I ended up in Oregon for five years.”
“Saved your ass,” I pointed out.
“Point,” Sally gave in. “But I do have a—” the door buzzer sounded again.
“And that’s the last collaborator,” I said and jumped up from the table. I heard Sally and Guy question one another about the “collaborator,” but I didn’t explain, just walked to entry way, pushed the button to open the outer door, and threw open the door to my apartment. I wondered if she would take the stairs or the elevator, wondered if there had been trouble.
Marla came off the elevator with a large purse tucked under her left arm. She spotted me, smiled like she’d seen something wonderful, and then she kissed me hello before I could prepare for it, nearly knocked me back on my heels with the feeling in it. “Hello,” she said.
I swallowed hard. “Hello,” I replied. I touched her waist, right at the line of her belt. “It went all right?”
“No one even twitched,” she promised. She tangled her fingers in mine, pulled me inside her apartment like it was hers. “Where’s everyone else?”
“Who says there’s anyone else?” I asked and couldn’t help but grin.
“You’re up to something,” she said and tapped my nose. “And when you’re up to something, you tend to do it with a team.”
“Give me the files,” I said before she could wrangle it out of me. I watched her dig in her purse for a moment, her hair falling across her cheek. I dared to reach out, push it over her shoulder; she flashed me a smile, and then she handed me a stack of files.
“I found them all,” she said, “and I expect time and a half.”
“Hold that thought,” I said. “I might not be able to sign off on it.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Come on,” I said, and I gestured her towards the kitchen. I poured her a cup of coffee while Sally made introductions, and when I turned to face them all, they were watching me.
“You called me at seven in the morning,” Sally said. “On a Sunday. Make your case.”
I tossed the files onto the table. “Twelve comics,” I said. “None of them with Billie Fraction’s name. Some of them with ours, Sally.”
Sally poked at one of the dusty files with a fingertip. “And?” she asked. There was something sharp in her eyes, something knowing, and I saw, suddenly, the Sally La Rocca who had looked at Ba’s slanted squares and seen something useful and interesting.
“Guy,” I said and looked at him. “How’s your knowledge of copyright law?”
He thought about it for a moment, rubbed his jaw. “Mildly shaky,” he admitted.
“It’s an easy question,” I promised. I looked at Sally again. Her eyes were gleaming like a cat on the pounce. Marla looked confused. Guy just waited for me to elaborate. “The Grey Age comics, what’s their copyright status?”
He wrinkled his eyebrows. “We’re talking the ones that aren’t currently being published?” he asked.
“Right.” I said. “I know some of them are still printing, but what about the others? The ones that were only created and printed in the Gray Age?” I glanced away from him for a moment, to Marla. Her confused expression was clearing. “What’s the copyright status on Gray Age-specific books?”
“Strictly speaking,” Guy said, “under the law, they don’t have one. They were illegal when they came into print, so American law doesn’t recognize them as protected.”
“What about now?” I asked. I pointed to the Atomic Angie ashcan. “If someone came to you, said they had ownership, what would you say?”
Guy stood up from the table, walked to the ashcan, examined it at a range of six inches. “When there’s no legal copyright,” he said, “when the papers haven’t been filed, then copyright falls back on whoever’s name is scrawled on the paper.” He looked up, tapped his finger against the glass. “In this case, given Wendy’s death, you and Sally would have to fight it out for copyright to this.”
I looked at Sally, cocked an eyebrow. “Want to start a fight?”
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “It’s been awhile.”
“About ten years,” I said.
Marla reached for the files, flipped one of them open. “These are all Gray Age books,” she said. “These are the Gray Age books that Good Editor and Bad Editor decided not to continue when comics legalized.”
“Exactly.” I said. I tapped my fingers on the other files. “Bingo.”
Guy walked back across the room, looked at me, looked at Sally, looked at Marla. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“I don’t want to work with Billie Fraction,” I told him. “I’d rather eat my own shoes.”
“Your shoes if you’re lucky,” Marla said under her breath, and I grinned at her.
“And?” Guy prompted.
“And,” I continued, “the best way to not have to work with Billie Fraction, is to have somewhere else to go, another company—”
“You’re exclusive to Perpetual,” Marla interrupted. She pulled a face. “No getting out of that. They’ve given you an office.”
“I’ll give it back,” I said. “I’ll give them back everything. They can have it. I don’t need it. Or, at least, I shouldn’t.”
Sally leaned back in her chair, gave me a long, appraising look. “What’s in your head?” she asked.
“Vengence,” I admitted. “And the best way to get it—”
“Straight from the wallet,” Sally finished. She beamed, reached for a folder. “Grab me a pen,” she said. “I’m going to start writing down names.”
I tossed her a pen, dug out some paper, handed Marla a phonebook. “When Sally writes down the name, check it in the book,” I told her. “Most of the old guard are still around here.”
“You need paperwork,” Guy said before I could give him a task. “Let me make a couple of calls. I know a some copyright attorneys.”
“You’re aces,” I told him. “Completely.”
He grinned and reached for the phone. “Get me another cup,” he said, holding out his mug.
I poured him another, refreshed Sally’s as well, put a danish from the deli on a plate and squeezed myself in at the table to go through the files with Sally. We worked for three hours, Guy leaving once to pick up forms, Marla making a fresh pot of coffee as I took over cross-referencing the phone book. By two o’clock my place was packed with commies. Writers, artists, runners, readers.
“How?” One of them asked me as Sally called out for more sandwiches. “How do Mallory and Sandy decide that Billie Fraction gets to slither back into the business?”
“I don’t know,” I told her. “But I’m not standing for it.”
“We’re,” Marla said over my shoulder.
“We’re not standing for it,” I corrected. “I know you’ve been out,” I told the woman, “and you can stay out. All I’m asking is that you let me take the rights to your characters, let me use them again, bring them back.”
She grinned, raised her coffee mug in a toast. “Why the hell not?” she said. “Not like I’m doing anything with them while I’m working for a bank.”
“If you need—” I started, but she held up a hand and cut me off.
“It was fun,” she told me. “It was a little dangerous. You can keep it.”
Guy slid over, handed her a form, a pen, walked her through what the paper said, what she was agreeing to. He shook her hand afterwards, told her he’d always been a fan. Marla had to pull him away to talk to someone else, remind him he was there to get some work done.
At nine o’clock Sally got everyone out with bluntness. “We’re out of food!” she yelled. Everyone laughed, chatted a few more minutes, and then they left as a group, the energy in the room suddenly crashing.
“Jesus,” Guy said and rubbed his face. “That was something else.”
We murmured our agreement, Sally from an arm chair, Marla and I from the couch. We were silent for a long moment, listening to the elevator ding and the stairwell door rattle.
“Julie,” Marla said into the silence. “What about your contract?”
I stared at the water spot on my ceiling, briefly considered distracting her by asking if it looked like a bunny. “I’m working on that,” I said.
“I could take a look,” Guy offered around a yawn.
“No,” I said. Shaking my head felt like too much effort, so I waved him off instead. “It’s tight as hell. Mallory and Sandy don’t do business any other way.”
“Get fired,” Sally said. She stretched, and we all listened as her back popped three times. “Do something completely inflammatory.”
I chuckled tiredly. “If that worked, they’d have booted me after I told them what I thought about their hiring Billie. I need something different. I need something that will stick.”
“Give it a week,” Marla said. “Drum up some support.”
I turned my head to look at her, squinted as she blurred at the edges. “Support?” I asked.
“You don’t have any artists,” Marla said.
“Hey!” Sally objected. “Like hell she doesn’t.”
“Okay, fine, she’s got you.” Marla pointed at me. “And you’re writing, but you’ve got a dozen books in there that got handed to you for print. The two of you can’t write and draw a dozen books on your own.”
“You can letter,” I told her. “We’ll teach you how.”
Marla chuckled. “My point still stands.”
“Most of the artists are pay-by-book,” Sally said, a thoughtful tone in her voice. “They’re open-ended. I could probably steal a few away—”
“And pay them with what?” Guy asked, and reality landed in the room like a ton of bricks.
“Mood killer,” I muttered, and he flipped me the most exhausted bird I’d ever seen.
Marla poked me in the ribs; I twisted away. “Don’t do that,” I said. She poked me again. “What?” I snapped.
“What do I drive?” Marla asked.
I narrowed my eyes, not sure I’d heard her right. “What?”
“What do I drive?”
“A car?” Sally guessed.
Marla poked me a third time. “Julie,” she said, a smirk in her tone. “What do I drive?”
“1967 Aston Martion DB—holy shit you’re loaded.”
Marla grinned. “Exactly.”
Sally and Guy looked at one another, then they looked at us. “What?” Sally asked. “I am too tired to play mind games. Spell it out like I’m completely stupid, Marla.”
“Mumsy and Daddums,” Marla said in an overblown, upper-crust accent, “have oodles and boodles of money. So much, in fact, they’ve given me a nest egg.”
“How many numbers are in this nest egg?” Guy asked. He swore under his breath when Marla held up seven fingers. “You are kidding.”
“Ask me how close it is to eight,” she said, and I leaned over and kissed her smile.
“You sure?” I asked. “It might not work. It could belly-up in two months.”
“I’m really very, very, very, very, very, very rich,” Marla assured me. “I’m supposed to be a little risky with it.”
I looked away from Marla, at Sally, raised my eyebrows. “Can you make killings?” I asked.
Sally laughed. “Killings?” she asked. “Really?”
“Kalidascopes?” I offered. “Kittens?”
“Mallory and Sandy are going to have kittens when this hits them,” Sally told me. She pushed herself out of the armchair, stretched again, nearly staggered backwards under the angle of it. “I’m putting out feelers tomorrow. I’ll get you some people, but writers—”
“Got it covered,” I told her. I looked at Guy. “What do you know about real estate?” I asked. “I can’t go hunting up a place to ruin Mallory and Sandy by myself.”
“I know some people,” he promised. “Every good lawyer knows a property broker. What do you need?”
“Open space,” I told him. “Something with a view.”
“All right,” he agreed, and he stood as well. “I’ll call you by Tuesday.” He paused halfway to the door, turned, offered his arm to Sally. “Can I drop you somewhere?” he asked. “I drove here.”
“Thank you,” Sally said, and she tucked her hand into his elbow.
“Love match?” Marla asked once the door had shut behind them.
I thought about it, nearly nodded off and had to shake myself awake. “I’ll think about it tomorrow,” I told her. “I should probably sleep.” I stood up, looked at her slumped on my couch, offered her my hand. “Want to crash here?”
“Sure,” she said, took my hand, let me lift her off the couch. She looked at me closely, pressed her palm to my cheek. “You’re certain?” she asked. “About everything? About what you’re doing?”
I didn’t ask what she meant. “No,” I told her, “but I think I’ve been at a standstill for a long time, you know? Let other people lead me places, let other people hide me, and I want to be in charge of my own idiocy for a change.”
Marla smiled. “All right,” she said. She squeezed my hand. “Lead on.”
1965 – The Aftermath of the Sixth Raid -- The Splash Page
The trial came to a halt at six weeks. A jury of Wendy’s peers found her guilty on all charges and recommended the death penalty. She met my eyes as they took her away, and all I could see was resolution. She knew it was coming, I told myself as I leaned against the side of the courthouse trying not to lose my breakfast. She told you it would happen. You’ve no reason to be surprised.
The flowers edging the side of the building spun crazily. I reached out a hand to steady myself and hit someone in the chest. “Sorry,” I muttered.
“Just me,” Guy said, and he tucked me against his side, pulled me a few steps farther back, held my hair off my neck when I leaned forward and retched.
“They’re really—” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Yeah,” he said and handed me a handkerchief. It was damp and cool, and I managed to look at him from a sidelong glance. “Cops vomit,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve seen it a few times, knew what to look for.”
“Thanks,” I said. I wiped the edges of my mouth, spat in the grass, threw his handkerchief behind the flowers.
“Come on,” he said, and he got me to my feet, got me moving away from the crowd of reporters that was steadily growing. “They don’t know you, I don’t think,” he told me. “But let’s not test their talents.”
We made it to a Monorail stop, and he paused at a vendor cart to buy me a pretzel and a bottle of 7Up. He sat me on a bench, watched me eat, kept one hand on my shoulder and didn’t say a word.
“When?” I asked after I finished the pretzel. I crumpled the napkin in my hand.
“Sentencing will happen in the next couple of weeks,” Guy told me. “They’ll probably expedite it since it’s such a high-profile case.”
I laughed without meaning to, dark and dry. “High-profile?” I asked. I knew it was true, but hearing him say it, it made something twinge in me. “High-profile,” I repeated.
“Easy,” Guy said softly. He moved closer, wrapped an arm around my shoulder, let me slump against the side of him. “They’re going to release Billie,” he told me, “for what that’s worth.”
I thought of Wendy, the way she’d made me promise to talk to Billie, try to find some common ground. “It’s worth something, maybe,” I said. “I don’t know. I told Wendy—” saying her name made my stomach roll. I clenched my fingers on Guy’s arm, felt my nails dig into his jacket, but he didn’t flinch away. “Oh, god.” I whispered. “Oh, shit.”
Guy got me on the Monorail, got me to the stop closet to the cul de sac, got me the six blocks down the street and around the corner, and got me into my living room. I was there, but I wasn’t there. Aware of what he was doing, of where he was going, aware enough to hold onto on of the overhead straps as the Monorail swayed and rocked, but I couldn’t see details. I couldn’t see colors. Would Sally know, I wondered. How could I get word to be sure?”
“Come on,” Guy said when we were in my living room. He set me on the sofa like a ragdoll, paused, hands out, to make sure I could hold myself together, and then he walked to my kitchen, rattled in the cupboards, came back with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured, three fingers a glass, and he handed me one. “Drink,” he ordered. When I had, he poured another, handed it to me again. “Drink,” he repeated.
I felt the burn the second time, wheezed when I breathed out, shivered from my toes to my head, and finally saw Guy for the first time since he’d found me, watching me to see if I was about to crack. “Thanks,” I murmured and tried to clear my throat.
“You’re welcome,” he said quietly. He reached for my hand, held it, watched me set my glass on the coffee table. “What about her?” he asked. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I made a promise to Wendy. Said I’d hear her out.”
“And?” Guy prompted.
I stared at the cut glass tumbler on my coffee table, at the way the light refracted off the curve of the top of the glass. “And I’d much rather take all of her things out to the front lawn and burn an effigy.”
“Well, we’re not doing that,” Guy said, “we don’t have a permit.”
I smiled, weak and watery, reached out and touched his arm. “I appreciate everything you’ve been doing the last few months,” I told him. “There’s being decent, and there’s above and beyond, and you’re definitely in the second part.”
He shrugged, looked away, color high on his cheeks showing embarrassment. “Thanks,” he said gruffly, “but I’m just trying to do what’s right, and you’ve been nice enough to let me.”
I thought about my moods, my anger, Guy having to sign his name to the entry. “You’re a friend,” I told him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. He stood up quickly with an awkward, jerky motion of someone who wasn’t much for sentiment. He picked up the glasses, the whiskey, took them back into the kitchen. I listened to the glasses clunk into the sink, the rattle as he put the whiskey back in the cupboard.
“I’ll talk to her,” I said loudly enough for him to hear me. The cupboard door shut hard. “I promised Wendy,” I said. “And given…” I couldn’t finish it, swallowed hard instead. “I’ll let her talk.” I looked at Guy when he walked into the room. “Because I don’t really know what else to do.” I looked down at my hands, twisted my class ring around my finger. “Because all I’ve done for the last five years is run around the underground and try not to get caught. And I haven’t been. And I have to do something with that.”
“You’re sure?” Guy asked, still halfway across the room.
“Yeah,” I said. I swallowed again, tasted whiskey on the back of my tongue. “Yeah.” I watched his face. He went from angry, to confused, to understanding, to angry, to resigned.
“You want me around for that?”
“The reporters know who she is,” I told him. “ They’ll probably follow her home. You don’t want your face in the middle of that.” I held up a hand before he could argue with me. “You’re still a cop, Guy. How no one’s paid attention to the fact that you’ve always got my elbow, I don’t know, but there’s luck, and there’s asking for trouble.”
He deflated, rolled his shoulders back and tried to pop his neck. “All right,” he said. “I’ll make myself scare for a few days, but check in with me, all right? Let me know you’ve made some sort of decision.”
“I will,” I promised.
Four days later, a taxi dropped off Billie on the front steps. I wondered if Mrs. Liefeld saw her arrive, if she wondered where the car was. Before I could figure out what to say if I ran into Mrs. Liefeld again, Billie was in the front door wearing the slacks and shirt she’d worn six months ago when she’d been arrested. They hung loose on her; she’d lost weight.
“There you are,” she said, and she walked across the living room, touched my hair, my face, the bend in my elbow. “God, but you are a sight for sore eyes.”
“Hi,” I said, feeling dumb. “I thought you’d—”
“I called you for a pick-up,” she told me. “I wanted you to pick me up; I was going to convince you to run away with me for the weekend, go someplace wide-open.”
I stared at her, the green of her eyes, her red hair. Wendy was going to be put to death over the weekend. It was a private execution, but it had made the papers. The spokesperson from the prosecutor’s office had been quoted as saying that justice was swift. I hadn’t kept down food the day before, even after I threw out the paper.
“Say something, Jules,” Billie said. She leaned in close. “You’re acting like you’re not happy to see me.”
“Wendy’s going to be killed tomorrow,” I told her. “So, no, I’m not happy to see you.”
She backed away, eying me like a mouse in a corner. “You don’t…” She shook her head. “Julie, you can’t blame me for this.”
I felt my control snap, felt my promise to Wendy turn to vapor, rush out of the room on an invisible burst of air. “You can not be serious,” I snapped. “You’re not acting like this isn’t your doing.”
Billie looked pained, pressed a hand to her mouth. “Jules, honey, I had—”
“You didn’t,” I told her. “Starling tried to drag me into it, but you hid me too well, tucked me away when I wasn’t looking. He didn’t have jack shit, and you handed him Wendy anyway.”
Billie’s eyes flashed, her hands curled into fists. “Where did you get your information, Jules? From Wendy?”
“Wendy told me to talk to you, hear you out,” I told her. “She told me to try and mend things with you.”
“Then we should—”
“You fucking killed her, Billie,” I said, and it came out flat and toneless. I was so amazed at it, that it wasn’t a shout, that I stopped for a moment, pressed my lips together, watched Billie watch me. “You killed her,” I said, and it was nearly a whisper. “Goddamnit, Billie.” My knees went out, and I fell to the floor, one hand sliding down the wall as I went. Billie was at my side, trying to pull me to her; I tried to shove her off, but my arms had no strength.
“Jules,” Billie murmured into my hair. “Jules, honey, I’m sorry, but it had to be done. Someone had to fall this time.”
“What did they have on you?” I asked. “How bad was it?”
“It was bad.”
“How bad?” I demanded. I pulled away from her so I could see her face. “How bad?” I repeated and shook off her hand when she tried to stroke my hair.
“Jules—”
“Prison time?” I asked.
Billie sighed, reached for me again, looked frustrated when I pulled away. “Damnit, Julie,” she muttered. “I’m trying—”
“What could they have done to you?” and it was a yell that time. I jumped at the echo of my own voice. Billie just blinked at me, impassive, slight frustration in her eyes. “Would they have killed you?” I asked. “Would they have—”
“You’re hysterical,” Billie said a in a calm, even tone. “You need to take a deep—”
I shoved her backward, away from me, got up on my feet and stomped away from her. I ended up in the kitchen, staring at the cupboards, the sink, the notes on the icebox reminding me to pick up dry cleaning and call the repairman about the leaky sink.
“Jules,” Billie’s voice was low, her tone conciliatory. “I want to explain,” she said. “But I need you to calm down.”
I opened a cupboard, reached for a plate, looked at it, smashed it to the ground. Behind me, Billie gasped. “Talk,” I snapped. “Tell me what they were going to do to you that was worse than what they’re going to do to Wendy. Convince me.”
Billie stepped up beside me, stepped around the shards on the floor, tried to touch my arm. I flinched away. “Julie,” she said quietly.
“Tell me,” I repeated. “Don’t touch me. Don’t comfort me. Tell me what was so terrible that it was better to give up Wendy.” I didn’t look at her, just stared into the sink, listened to her breathe.
“They’d…” She shook her head; I watched her hair shake and settle in my peripheral vision. “They’d have locked me away. They’d have come after you.”
“We’ve covered this,” I pointed out. “They wouldn’t. You made sure they didn’t have anything on me.” I wanted to ask why, ask how she’d done it.
“You’d have started another speak,” Billie replied, her tone going hard and a little scared. “You’d have found a group and picked right up where I couldn’t keep you safe.”
“I never asked for you to keep me safe,” I snapped. I looked at her, saw terror in her eyes, saw tears in her eyes. “I didn’t make you do this.”
“No,” Billie said softly. “I chose to protect you; I won’t pretend like you had any part of it.”
“Good.” I looked away again. “And you know they wouldn’t have caught me. You know I wouldn’t have stayed around here. We’d planned it too much, planned the particulars. I know how to follow orders.”
“Yeah,” Billie said, nearly a whisper. “Yeah, you do.”
Silence settled on us, stretched for a full minute, another. I clenched my hands around the edge of the sink. “So what was it?” I asked. “If it wasn’t me. What could they have done? What did they have?”
Billie sighed. I glanced and watched her push her hair out of her face. “Jules,” Billie said. “Honey, I don’t want—”
“They didn’t have enough to put you up for the death penalty,” I said, the knowledge coming from the way her shoulders slumped, the way she wouldn’t look straight at me, the way she flinched away when I said it. “What did they have, Billie?”
“Twenty…” She shook her head, looked away from me and gave me the angle of her profile. “Twenty to life.”
“Plea bargain?” I barked. “They offered you one, I’m sure.”
“Seven-and-a-half to ten.”
My stomach coiled into a tight little ball. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even remember how. I stared out the kitchen window, my eyes focusing to stare at my own reflection. “With good behavior you’d have been out in four or five.” Billie didn’t answer. I reached into the cupboard, pulled down another plate, sent it sailing through the kitchen and dining area, listened to it slam against the far wall. “Five years,” I said, listening to the words settle into the room. “Five fucking years for Wendy’s entire damned life.”
“Jules—”
“Get out,” I snapped. I swung my arm, pointed to the front door. “Get the hell out.”
“You’re being unreasonable,” Billie said, tone harsh.
I hit her before I knew my first had curled. Just to the left of her right eye, my class ring leaving a trickle of blood by her eye. “You’re soulless!” I screamed. “Five goddamned years! What is wrong with you?”
She hit me back, backhanded me across the mouth. I stumbled backwards, hit the icebox, came away from it with both arms out, reaching for any part of her I could tear away. “Bitch!” I screamed, and I got her by the hair.
“Stop it!” Billie yelled, and her fist hit my stomach, knocked the air from me. “Goddamnit, Julie!” She yelped when I twisted her ear, dug my nails into her arm, kicked at her legs. She got at arm at my throat, used her six inches in height and weight to propel me backwards, hold me against the icebox. “I’d have lost you,” she said quietly, blinking away the blood by her eye. “Five years, you’d have left.”
I stared at her, watched her face for some hint of a sick joke. “I said forever,” I told her. “I promised forever.”
“Five years without you would be—”
“Shut up!” I screamed right in her face. I pressed my hand into the soft curve of her lower abdomen, shoved with the heel of my palm and made her stumble backwards. “This isn’t about me. This is about you. You didn’t want to go to prison. You didn’t want to stand up for—”
“I love you!” She screamed over me. “I love you, Jules. I couldn’t be without you!”
“You’re a goddamned coward,” I spat out. I ran the back of my left hand with my mouth, looked at the blood smeared across from knuckle to wrist. “Five fucking years, Billie. Five years, and no one would have died. Wendy wouldn’t be on the way to the fucking gallows.”
“I love you,” she said again, and she curved slightly around herself, arms wrapping around her stomach. “Honey, please. I did it—”
“You did it for yourself,” I cut in. I heard Wendy’s voice in my head, saw the flint in her eyes when she’d gotten nose-to-nose with Annie. Wendy, who let Annie go away and wrote her up rather than worry about personal consequence. Wendy, who was going to die in another two days. “You knew the risks,” I told her. “You knew them better than anyone else. You knew your options.”
“Jules—”
“You’re in the book,” I snapped, and the color drained from her face. Everything else we’d said since she’d walked in the door, everything that had passed between us, and the blacklist made her look faint. “Mallory and Sandy know what you’ve done. They know what you’re responsible for. You won’t work in comics again.”
“You didn’t—”
“You’re a treasonous wretch, Wilhelmina Fraction. You can go to hell.”
We stared at each other for an immeasurable moment. The light in her eyes dimmed, flickered, went out for a moment. My heart twisted at the sight of her, broken and down, and I wanted to grab her, hold onto her, tell her it could be fixed. But it couldn’t, I knew. Going back wasn’t an option from the moment I’d snarled at her to tell me what could have been done to her.
I walked into the bedroom, packed a satchel, stopped in the office for a notebook and pens, Sally’s stack of postcards. I’d buy a toothbrush on the way, I decided. Stop by the bank on the way out of town and close my bank account.
“You can’t leave.” Billie was sitting on the arm of the couch, fingers carefully probing the cut by her eye. Her eye was already swelling, turning purple. “I did it for you, Jules. For us.”
I dropped the satchel by the door, looked in the mirror over the coat rack. I dabbed at my bloody lip with my handkerchief, covered the smear of blood on the back of my hand with my driving gloves. Billie watched over my shoulder, tried to catch my eyes. I put on my dark blue hat with the netting, slid my purse strap into the crook of my elbow. “She’s dying in two days, Billie. That’s your fault. It’s entirely your fault.”
“I love you,” she whispered.
I looked away from my image in the mirror, blinked to keep from crying. “That’s not my problem anymore,” I told her, and I walked out the door.
That puts you at the 71k mark. That's right, there's currently 15k more of this. Will probably be 20k by the time I finally end it.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Sunday Morning Coming Down
I woke up as the sky turned pink and gold in the sunrise. I rolled on my stomach, looked out the window, and watched the sky slowly turn blue while I thought. I felt weightless, like someone had snipped the strings from my feet, and I was floating into the atmosphere, a dot in the clouds like a bright red balloon. I’d had the dream again, Billie’s face in the forefront laughing, Wendy walk away. Sally was nowhere to be found. Billie still laughing as I asked about Wendy and Sally. Where was Wendy going. Had she seen Sally. What was so funny.
I rolled out of bed, turned on the coffee pot, took a shower because I felt like something was growing in my chest, something was coming through, and I always thought best in the shower. My mind was clear as an open plain. I kept trying to figure out what I was trying to think, and all I got back was wind. I had a cup of coffee, made some toast, shuffled the odds and ends in my icebox to find the jam. The toast didn’t taste like much; something wet on something dry. I ate it all anyway, had another cup of coffee, walked into the living room and looked around.
Across the room, leaning against the wall, was the ashcan for Atomic Angie. Wendy had demanded we have one in case comics were ever legitimate again, to prove our ownership of the character if anyone tried to claim credit. I crouched in front of the pictures, flipped through them, the edges of the frames a dull weight in my hand. I looked at Sally’s clean lines, Wendy’s careful letters, my own words on the page. Billie had insisted only my name appear on Atomic Angie as the writer. It was a gift, she said, to show her appreciation for the hard work I’d put in to make the book something good, something interesting. To pay me for the research and script revisions.
I picked up the frames, walked with them into the kitchen, laid them out on the kitchen counter. The open plain feeling in my mind started to narrow, started to sharpen, like crops poking through the soil. I took three steps backwards to reach for the phone, picked it up, dialed by touch.
“Hello?” Sally’s voice was rough, confused. I looked at the clock over my stove. It was only seven.
“Sorry,” I said. “I know it’s early.”
“It’s the ass-crack of the day, Julie,” Sally grumbled, almost as bad with mornings as me. “What the hell are you doing up?”
“Bilile’s name isn’t on Atomic Angie,” I told her.
There was a pause. Sally yawned. “And?” she asked.
“Billie’s name isn’t on Atomic Angie,” I repeated.
“Julie, seriously, find your point or let me get back to sleep,” Sally snapped. “Or I will come over and scatter your teeth on the floor.”
“You said that about Annie,” I told her. “After she ratted.”
“Yes, I remember.” Sally yawned again. “Look, Julie, I love you, you know that, but it’s seven in the goddamned morning, so find your point or bounce, okay?”
I looked at the panels again, traced my finger along the mushroom cloud on page two. “We could take it,” I said. “We could take it and restart it.”
“I’m getting off the phone,” Sally told me. “Call me back when both hands are on twelve, and you’re not talking in some sort of weird riddles.”
“If I left,” I said before she could hang up, “would you come with?”
“What?”
“If I left—”
“Left what?”
“Left.” I said, the pointed edges of the crops in my head growing a few inches. “If I left, would you come?” There was a long silence. I wondered if Sally had fallen back asleep. “Would you?” I asked again.
“You saved my life, Julie,” Sally said finally. “I’d probably follow you off a cliff if you asked.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure.” There was shuffling. I could hear Sally throwing off the covers. “Well, you’ve woken me up, best explain yourself,” she said, and I heard a bit of Wendy in her tone.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “There’s an idea, but it’s not quite here yet. It’s still shaky.”
“What’s Atomic Angie got to do with it?” Sally asked.
“Billie’s name isn’t on it,” I said. “She gave it to me, let my name be the only writer on it.”
“I remember,” Sally said. “And I’m the only writer on it. So what?”
“And Wendy’s dead,” I added.
“Julie, connect the damned dots, would you?”
“My name’s on the ashcan,” I said slowly, waiting for the rest of it to click. “Your name’s on the ashcan. Wendy’s name is on the ashcan. But Billie, she isn’t.”
“And?”
“Do you have the others?” I asked. “The ashcans for the other stuff we did.”
“I’ve got a few, yeah. I think Billie still has a couple.”
“They probably have her name on them,” I said. “Can you bring them over?” I asked. “The ashcans.”
“Julie, what the hell?” Sally snapped. “Where’s your thought process?”
“Bring the ashcans,” I said. “I need to see them.”
There was another pause. Sally sighed. I heard her shift on her bed. “Okay,” she said. “Fine, but give me a couple of hours.”
“Ten?” I asked. “Is ten o’clock okay?”
“Make more coffee,” she ordered. “I’m going to hop in the shower.”
“Thanks, Sally.”
“Get your thoughts lined up, Jules. I’m not dragging myself over so you can play around with words.”
The way she called me Jules, slightly exasperated but entirely fond, it made me warm up, gave the idea crop another three inches. “Promise,” I said. “I’ll figure it out.”
I hung up the phone, looked at the clock, weighed my options. I picked up the receiver and dialed again.
“What?” Marla sounded sharp, worried. “Who is this?”
“It’s Julie,” I said. “I’m fine. I need you to go into the office.”
The line was quiet for a few seconds. “You are joking,” Marla finally said.
“I’m not,” I replied. “It’s important.”
“It damned well better be; it’s Sunday.” Marla sighed; she made a sound like she was stretching. “What do you need, boss?” she asked, sounding entirely professional, like I hadn’t knocked her out of a sound sleep.
“This is a personal favor,” I told her. “I need you to lift some files.”
“Files?”
“In the research department,” I said. “I need you to pull the information on some books.”
“And get copies?”
“No copies,” I told her. “No trail. I need the originals.”
“Are we doing something illegal?” she asked.
“Not quite,” I told her. “We’ve got free reign of the research files. This is more ethically gray.”
“Because?”
“Because I’m planning something,” I told her. “Get a pen and paper,” I ordered. “I’ll give you a list.”
“Hold on. I have to put down the phone.”
I listened to the clunk of the phone, the muffled sounds of Marla walking somewhere else in her apartment. The ideas in my head started to bud.
“Back,” she said. “What am I looking for?”
I rattled off a set of titles. “They’ll be in the archive section,” I told her.
“No kidding,” she said. “I haven’t heard some of these.”
I grinned, caught my reflection in the kitchen window. “Exactly,” I said.
“I’m not asking,” Marla answered. “You want the files in your office?”
“Bring them to my place,” I said. “Ten o’clock. I’m having a meeting.”
“I want breakfast,” Marla said. “Order something in.”
“Got it,” I told her. “Get moving.”
“Yes, boss.” There was a smile in her voice. “Was this what it was like in the underground?” she asked, “Short instructions and no explanation?”
“Close enough,” I told her. “See you at ten.” I hung up the phone, counted to ten, and picked it up again, dialed one more time.
“Gardner residence,” Guy said, sounding like he’d been up for hours. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“It’s Julie,” I said. “What are you doing at ten?”
“Hey, Julie. Nothing, as far as I know.”
“Come over to my place,” I said. “I want you to meet a couple of people.”
“Okay.” He sounded confused. “What’s going on?”
“When you get here,” I said. “You’ll love it.”
“Nothing? Not even a hint?”
“Nope,” I said, and I felt like laughing. “Just say you’ll be here at ten.”
“Sure.” He sounded amused. “On the nose. Need me to bring anything?”
“No, you’ll do just fine.”
“Flatterer,” he replied, and I laughed as we said goodbye.
I combed my hair, braided it, dug out a faux emerald clip to keep it in place. I cleared off my dining table, cleaned the crumbs from my counter, started a fresh pot of coffee, and called out to a deli down the street to put in an order.
“I need it delivered at nine forty-five,” I told the man who took the order. “I’m having people over.”
“It’ll be there, Miss,” he promised.
“Fantastic,” I said and got off the line. The phone rang as I was pulling down plates and glasses. “Hello?” I said.
“Jules,” Billie’s voice was soft, friendly, inviting. “I was hoping—”
“Can’t talk, Billie,” I said briskly. “I’ve got people coming over.”
“Room for one more?”
“Not you,” I replied and dropped the receiver into the cradle. It rang again almost instantly. I let it go to the answerphone, listened to Billie leave a message, trying not to sound aggravated. I rewound the tape as soon as she finished, hit ‘play’ and hit ‘delete’ before she could get through the first syllable of her name.
“Her name’s not on the book,” I said to the walls. I looked at the answerphone, walked to the bookcase, reached for a photo album on the bottom shelf and flipped to the back. I pulled out a picture, hunted up a frame, put it in the center of the table. Looked at Wendy smiling at me from it. She was at her desk in one of the speaks, her feet on her desk, a pencil behind her ear, grinning at a slant; it was almost a smirk.
“Her name’s not on the book,” I told the picture. I smiled. “Her name’s nowhere near it.”
1965 -- The Aftermath of the Sixth Raid -- The Trial
The news finally made all the papers after Wendy’s grand jury hearing. She was indicted on a six counts of running a speak, three counts of endangering the welfare of a minor—three of her runners had been seventeen—a dozen counts of possession with intent to sell—one for each book she’d helped produce in the speaks—and sixty-seven counts of selling illegal substances.
I sat in the second row on the prosecutor’s side so Wendy could see me if she turned her head. She looked shocked to see me. I tried to smile; she looked confused.
“Can I get in to see her?” I asked Guy. “Is there a way to do that?”
“You have to sign in,” he told me. “And they’re watching the visitor list.”
“Can I—”
“You have to show identification,” he told me before I could finish the question.
“Shit,” I said.
“Give me two days,” Guy said. “Let me see what I can do.”
Two days later, Guy walked me in the front door of the jail, a hand on my arm. “Look scared,” he told me. I made my lower lip tremble. “Good,” he said. He walked me to the jailer, sitting behind a barred window with a ledger in front of him. “This is Susan Ellis,” he told the jailer. “She’s Wendy Ellis’s sister. Agent Starling said they could speak for a few minutes.”
The jailer shoved the ledger across the desk. “Sign in,” he ordered me.
I wrote my fake name, watched the way I curved the ‘S’. “How long?” I asked, not meeting his eyes.
“Half an hour,” he told me, and his eyes softened a little. “It’ll be a minute while I get her,” he said, and he walked away from the window.
I looked at Guy when the jailer had moved out of sight. “How?” I whispered.
“I got some background on her,” he told me. “She actually has a sister named Susan. I called her pretending to be a reporter; she told me she’d disowned Wendy over this. I thanked her and hung up.” He gave me a small grin. “I figured, if she’s not going to drop in, someone with the same name could slide in under the radar if they had an officer escort and looked scared enough.”
I almost hugged him. I squeezed his arm instead. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you.”
“The underground’s about to be buried,” he told me, “might as well get in while I can.”
“Thank you,” I repeated again.
The jailer came back, pushed a button, and the door next to his window buzzed and clicked. Guy led me in, hand at the small of my back, down to a door with a small window at eye level. He looked in, opened the door, waved me in. He shut the door behind me. I could see him in the edge of the little window, keeping watch, I realized.
“Julie.” Wendy looked completely gobsmacked to see me. “What are you doing here?”
I slid into the chair across from her before my knees gave out. “Are you okay?” I asked. “I mean, considering everything—”
“What the flying hell are you doing here?” Wendy hissed. “If they see you here—”
“They don’t know about me,” I interrupted. “My name’s not on anything.”
Wendy blinked. “What?”
“My name’s not on anything,” I repeated. “When they raided,” I explained, “my name wasn’t anywhere. Billie cleared me out of it somehow.”
Wendy’s face pinched, her lips pursed. “And served me up.”
“I know.” I felt tears prick my eyes, blinked them away. “God, Wendy,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t,” she ordered. She pointed a finger at me, and I realized she was cuffed. “None of that. I won’t put up with it.”
“It’s my—”
“It’s not,” she cut me off. “You’re responsible for you. Billie’s responsible for her. Did you send her a note asking her to give me up to save her?”
“No,” I said. “Of course not!”
“Then cram it.”
I looked at her, tried to memorize the set of her jaw, the hard shine of defiance in her eyes. “Oh, Wendy,” I said finally.
“You cry on me, I’m going to break these cuffs and shake some sense into you,” she threatened. “You knew the risks.”
I thought of the hard glare she’d given Annie, her barked order to get Annie out of the speak. “She didn’t do it for me,” I said. “She didn’t.”
Wendy leaned back in her chair, tried to cross her arms, glared at her cuffs. “Oh?” she asked.
“They couldn’t even get me for hiding her,” I said. “She cleared me off the map.”
“Vapor,” Wendy said. “She used to say you were vapor.”
“Exactly,” I said. “The officer outside, the one that got me in here, he told me she had no reason to give you up. The agent in charge tried to threaten her with coming after me, but he told her it wouldn’t stick.”
“What are you saying?” Wendy asked. She leaned forward, cupped her hands around each other on the table. “You’re saying—”
“She sold you off to save her own ass,” I said. “It’s pure treason from every angle.”
Wendy slammed her palms on the table. “Bitch,” she muttered. “If I ever get out of here, I’m spitting in her eye.”
“Got it covered,” I promised. “Believe me.”
Something in Wendy’s eyes softened. “Jules,” she said softly. “Oh, honey, don’t—”
“No,” I cut her off. “Don’t try to make it better.”
“Don’t be rash,” she told me. “Don’t just straight to hating her, okay?”
I stared at her. “You are kidding me,” I said. “You’re not advocating—”
“Where’s Sally?” she asked. “I’ve gotten a note, but the postmark was smeared.”
“She’s out,” I said. “She’s clear. They can’t get her.”
“Good.” Wendy shook her head as I opened my mouth again. “Once it’s over,” she said, “once things are squared away, talk to Billie, all right? Be sure before you shatter it.”
“You can’t—”
“I am. I won’t let you shred what you have if you can help it.”
“Annie—”
“I wasn’t in love with Annie,” Wendy said. “Hell, I’ve only ever been in love with the books. It’s been a good life, definitely, but I’ve never been in love, okay? Hold onto it if you can.”
“She sold you out!” I yelped. “You can’t be advocating this! She handed you over on a platter! She threw the match on the pyre, handed your name to the Grand Inquisitor!”
“Poetic,” she said drolly. “But promise me that you’ll try anyway.”
“Why?” I snapped. “What’s the point?”
Her face pulled to the side. She looked away from me, down at the floor. “Jules…”
“What?” I asked, and my voice got softer without my permission. “Wendy?” She looked scared, I realized, slightly pale, hands shaking slightly. “What’s going on?”
She looked at me again. She had tears in her eyes, though she was trying to ignore them. “You know the charges,” she told me. “The list is as long as my arm.”
“It’s happened before,” I told her. “Other people have—”
“Speaks are on the rise,” she interrupted. “They’re busting more than they have at any time since fifty-four. The whole enterprise is one long drain on the budget. They take out one speak, two more spring up in its place. We’re the Hydra; they have to cauterize the stumps, put the immortal head under a stone.”
“What?” I asked. “What are you saying?”
The tears in Wendy’s eyes were gone. She shook her head to make her hair fall down her back. “More weight,” she said. “I’m saying more weight.”
My stomach clenched. I swallowed hard before I could throw up. “You’re not—”
“They’re going to kill me, Julie,” Wendy said. “As surely as we’re sitting here, they’re going to convince the jury that what I’ve done is a killable offense. I go down, the whole underground will go with me, too scared to keep moving.”
“But—”
“I knew that going in,” Wendy said before I could protest. “Mallory and Sandy prepped me for it, promised me it would happen if the underground lasted long enough. Told Sally and Billie and I to accept it early and be ready for it.”
“You can’t,” I said. My voice broke. “You didn’t—”
“We broke the law, Jules. A lot. Don’t kid yourself.”
I reached across the table, touched her cupped hands, looked her in the eyes as she squeezed my fingers. “It’ll work out, Wendy,” I said.
“It will,” she said, and I knew we had different ideas of ‘work out.’ “Don’t discourage yourself, Jules,” she told me. “We’ve got to show them they’re wrong, okay? Show them that two heads will always grow back.”
“But.” I breathed in hard. “Who can I—”
“Billie,” she said. “You’ll have Billie.”
“I don’t want—”
“Don’t finish that,” Wendy snapped. “Not right now, okay? Promise me you’ll give her a chance to explain. I’m going out, no question, but don’t let me die knowing that you weren’t willing to keep things alive, okay? Don’t let me die without a good goddamned reason, all right?”
I couldn’t tell her no, couldn’t do anything but promise. “I’ll try,” I said. “I will.”
“Damn straight.”
We looked at one another. Guy knocked on the door, poked his head in. “Sorry,” he said quietly, “but I just heard someone say Starling is headed this way. If he finds out—”
“Go,” Wendy ordered, her tone exactly like she was clearing a speak. She looked at Guy, smiled a little. “Thank you,” she said to him.
“My pleasure,” he assured her, reached out for my hand. “If we’re out before he’s here, the jailer won’t think to mention us.”
I let go of Wendy’s hand, walked around the table and hugged her quickly. “It’s been an honor Wendy Ellis.”
“Same to you, Julia Schwartz.” She leaned her head against my shoulder. I felt two tears hit my shoulder. “Now scatter,” she said.
Guy and I hurried out, past the jailer with a small wave. I didn’t have to fake the sadness on my face. Guy got me out the front door, around the corner, into his car, and out of the parking lot. “Get down,” he said, and I ducked as Agent Starling drove by, waving at Guy as he went.
“They’re going to kill her,” I said. “That’s what she thinks, anyway.” The firm line of Guy’s mouth told me it was true. “It won’t work,” I said. “It never works.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said. “I really do.”
Legalities and Other Tricks
Sally showed up first, just after nine-thirty. “Food.” She ordered.
“You beat the delivery guy by fifteen minutes,” I told her and took her coat. “You’ll have to wait.”
“Coffee?”
“Fresh pot in the kitchen.”
Sally paused in patting down her hair, looked at me with a shrewd sharpness in her eyes. “How many cups have you had?”
“Too many,” I admitted because she’d see my shaking hands. “But I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s great,” I told her. “Everything’s going to be great.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you planning?”
I grinned, tried to hide it, let it get wider. “Wait for everyone else,” I said, because I knew she’d squirm to know. “Just be patient.”
“And what’s this got to do with Billie?” Sally added.
“Coffee’s in the kitchen,” I told her and turned towards the door to answer the buzzer again.
“It’s Guy.”
“Come on up,” I told him.
He wasn’t wearing a coat, but he was in a thick sweater. “Weather’s trying to get nasty,” he said in greeting, and his lips were cold when he pecked me on the cheek. “What’s going on?”
“Into the kitchen,” I told him. “There’s a fantastic woman named Sally La Rocca who’s heard about you.”
His eyes lit up. “Sally La Rocca? The one who got away?” he asked.
I laughed a little. “ One and the same,” I promised. “Coffee’s on the counter, if you need it.”
“Always,” he told me and walked towards the kitchen as the buzzer went off again.
It was the delivery guy, three boxes in tow, and I pointed him towards the kitchen as I checked the clock by the door. Nine forty. I wondered how Marla was getting on, if she’d run into trouble.
“Julie!” Sally barked from the kitchen, and then she poked her head out the door. “Get in here!” There was a look in her eyes, knowing but slightly uncertain, and I wondered if she’d figured it out.
I walked into the kitchen, paused to tip the delivery guy, and then poured myself a cup of coffee before I joined Sally and Guy at the table. “What?” I asked.
“I’ve been thinking about it since you called,” Sally told me. She pointed towards the Atomic Angie ashcan that I still had propped up on the counter. “You meant Billie wasn’t on the ashcan.”
“Yes, “ I said. I glanced over my shoulder at the ashcan again. “I’m forming a plan,” I said, looking at the mushroom cloud, the ‘A’ in the middle of it. “I’m got a big plan.”
Sally leaned across the table, one arm crooked around her coffee cup. “I remember the last time you had a big plan,” she told me. “I ended up in Oregon for five years.”
“Saved your ass,” I pointed out.
“Point,” Sally gave in. “But I do have a—” the door buzzer sounded again.
“And that’s the last collaborator,” I said and jumped up from the table. I heard Sally and Guy question one another about the “collaborator,” but I didn’t explain, just walked to entry way, pushed the button to open the outer door, and threw open the door to my apartment. I wondered if she would take the stairs or the elevator, wondered if there had been trouble.
Marla came off the elevator with a large purse tucked under her left arm. She spotted me, smiled like she’d seen something wonderful, and then she kissed me hello before I could prepare for it, nearly knocked me back on my heels with the feeling in it. “Hello,” she said.
I swallowed hard. “Hello,” I replied. I touched her waist, right at the line of her belt. “It went all right?”
“No one even twitched,” she promised. She tangled her fingers in mine, pulled me inside her apartment like it was hers. “Where’s everyone else?”
“Who says there’s anyone else?” I asked and couldn’t help but grin.
“You’re up to something,” she said and tapped my nose. “And when you’re up to something, you tend to do it with a team.”
“Give me the files,” I said before she could wrangle it out of me. I watched her dig in her purse for a moment, her hair falling across her cheek. I dared to reach out, push it over her shoulder; she flashed me a smile, and then she handed me a stack of files.
“I found them all,” she said, “and I expect time and a half.”
“Hold that thought,” I said. “I might not be able to sign off on it.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Come on,” I said, and I gestured her towards the kitchen. I poured her a cup of coffee while Sally made introductions, and when I turned to face them all, they were watching me.
“You called me at seven in the morning,” Sally said. “On a Sunday. Make your case.”
I tossed the files onto the table. “Twelve comics,” I said. “None of them with Billie Fraction’s name. Some of them with ours, Sally.”
Sally poked at one of the dusty files with a fingertip. “And?” she asked. There was something sharp in her eyes, something knowing, and I saw, suddenly, the Sally La Rocca who had looked at Ba’s slanted squares and seen something useful and interesting.
“Guy,” I said and looked at him. “How’s your knowledge of copyright law?”
He thought about it for a moment, rubbed his jaw. “Mildly shaky,” he admitted.
“It’s an easy question,” I promised. I looked at Sally again. Her eyes were gleaming like a cat on the pounce. Marla looked confused. Guy just waited for me to elaborate. “The Grey Age comics, what’s their copyright status?”
He wrinkled his eyebrows. “We’re talking the ones that aren’t currently being published?” he asked.
“Right.” I said. “I know some of them are still printing, but what about the others? The ones that were only created and printed in the Gray Age?” I glanced away from him for a moment, to Marla. Her confused expression was clearing. “What’s the copyright status on Gray Age-specific books?”
“Strictly speaking,” Guy said, “under the law, they don’t have one. They were illegal when they came into print, so American law doesn’t recognize them as protected.”
“What about now?” I asked. I pointed to the Atomic Angie ashcan. “If someone came to you, said they had ownership, what would you say?”
Guy stood up from the table, walked to the ashcan, examined it at a range of six inches. “When there’s no legal copyright,” he said, “when the papers haven’t been filed, then copyright falls back on whoever’s name is scrawled on the paper.” He looked up, tapped his finger against the glass. “In this case, given Wendy’s death, you and Sally would have to fight it out for copyright to this.”
I looked at Sally, cocked an eyebrow. “Want to start a fight?”
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “It’s been awhile.”
“About ten years,” I said.
Marla reached for the files, flipped one of them open. “These are all Gray Age books,” she said. “These are the Gray Age books that Good Editor and Bad Editor decided not to continue when comics legalized.”
“Exactly.” I said. I tapped my fingers on the other files. “Bingo.”
Guy walked back across the room, looked at me, looked at Sally, looked at Marla. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“I don’t want to work with Billie Fraction,” I told him. “I’d rather eat my own shoes.”
“Your shoes if you’re lucky,” Marla said under her breath, and I grinned at her.
“And?” Guy prompted.
“And,” I continued, “the best way to not have to work with Billie Fraction, is to have somewhere else to go, another company—”
“You’re exclusive to Perpetual,” Marla interrupted. She pulled a face. “No getting out of that. They’ve given you an office.”
“I’ll give it back,” I said. “I’ll give them back everything. They can have it. I don’t need it. Or, at least, I shouldn’t.”
Sally leaned back in her chair, gave me a long, appraising look. “What’s in your head?” she asked.
“Vengence,” I admitted. “And the best way to get it—”
“Straight from the wallet,” Sally finished. She beamed, reached for a folder. “Grab me a pen,” she said. “I’m going to start writing down names.”
I tossed her a pen, dug out some paper, handed Marla a phonebook. “When Sally writes down the name, check it in the book,” I told her. “Most of the old guard are still around here.”
“You need paperwork,” Guy said before I could give him a task. “Let me make a couple of calls. I know a some copyright attorneys.”
“You’re aces,” I told him. “Completely.”
He grinned and reached for the phone. “Get me another cup,” he said, holding out his mug.
I poured him another, refreshed Sally’s as well, put a danish from the deli on a plate and squeezed myself in at the table to go through the files with Sally. We worked for three hours, Guy leaving once to pick up forms, Marla making a fresh pot of coffee as I took over cross-referencing the phone book. By two o’clock my place was packed with commies. Writers, artists, runners, readers.
“How?” One of them asked me as Sally called out for more sandwiches. “How do Mallory and Sandy decide that Billie Fraction gets to slither back into the business?”
“I don’t know,” I told her. “But I’m not standing for it.”
“We’re,” Marla said over my shoulder.
“We’re not standing for it,” I corrected. “I know you’ve been out,” I told the woman, “and you can stay out. All I’m asking is that you let me take the rights to your characters, let me use them again, bring them back.”
She grinned, raised her coffee mug in a toast. “Why the hell not?” she said. “Not like I’m doing anything with them while I’m working for a bank.”
“If you need—” I started, but she held up a hand and cut me off.
“It was fun,” she told me. “It was a little dangerous. You can keep it.”
Guy slid over, handed her a form, a pen, walked her through what the paper said, what she was agreeing to. He shook her hand afterwards, told her he’d always been a fan. Marla had to pull him away to talk to someone else, remind him he was there to get some work done.
At nine o’clock Sally got everyone out with bluntness. “We’re out of food!” she yelled. Everyone laughed, chatted a few more minutes, and then they left as a group, the energy in the room suddenly crashing.
“Jesus,” Guy said and rubbed his face. “That was something else.”
We murmured our agreement, Sally from an arm chair, Marla and I from the couch. We were silent for a long moment, listening to the elevator ding and the stairwell door rattle.
“Julie,” Marla said into the silence. “What about your contract?”
I stared at the water spot on my ceiling, briefly considered distracting her by asking if it looked like a bunny. “I’m working on that,” I said.
“I could take a look,” Guy offered around a yawn.
“No,” I said. Shaking my head felt like too much effort, so I waved him off instead. “It’s tight as hell. Mallory and Sandy don’t do business any other way.”
“Get fired,” Sally said. She stretched, and we all listened as her back popped three times. “Do something completely inflammatory.”
I chuckled tiredly. “If that worked, they’d have booted me after I told them what I thought about their hiring Billie. I need something different. I need something that will stick.”
“Give it a week,” Marla said. “Drum up some support.”
I turned my head to look at her, squinted as she blurred at the edges. “Support?” I asked.
“You don’t have any artists,” Marla said.
“Hey!” Sally objected. “Like hell she doesn’t.”
“Okay, fine, she’s got you.” Marla pointed at me. “And you’re writing, but you’ve got a dozen books in there that got handed to you for print. The two of you can’t write and draw a dozen books on your own.”
“You can letter,” I told her. “We’ll teach you how.”
Marla chuckled. “My point still stands.”
“Most of the artists are pay-by-book,” Sally said, a thoughtful tone in her voice. “They’re open-ended. I could probably steal a few away—”
“And pay them with what?” Guy asked, and reality landed in the room like a ton of bricks.
“Mood killer,” I muttered, and he flipped me the most exhausted bird I’d ever seen.
Marla poked me in the ribs; I twisted away. “Don’t do that,” I said. She poked me again. “What?” I snapped.
“What do I drive?” Marla asked.
I narrowed my eyes, not sure I’d heard her right. “What?”
“What do I drive?”
“A car?” Sally guessed.
Marla poked me a third time. “Julie,” she said, a smirk in her tone. “What do I drive?”
“1967 Aston Martion DB—holy shit you’re loaded.”
Marla grinned. “Exactly.”
Sally and Guy looked at one another, then they looked at us. “What?” Sally asked. “I am too tired to play mind games. Spell it out like I’m completely stupid, Marla.”
“Mumsy and Daddums,” Marla said in an overblown, upper-crust accent, “have oodles and boodles of money. So much, in fact, they’ve given me a nest egg.”
“How many numbers are in this nest egg?” Guy asked. He swore under his breath when Marla held up seven fingers. “You are kidding.”
“Ask me how close it is to eight,” she said, and I leaned over and kissed her smile.
“You sure?” I asked. “It might not work. It could belly-up in two months.”
“I’m really very, very, very, very, very, very rich,” Marla assured me. “I’m supposed to be a little risky with it.”
I looked away from Marla, at Sally, raised my eyebrows. “Can you make killings?” I asked.
Sally laughed. “Killings?” she asked. “Really?”
“Kalidascopes?” I offered. “Kittens?”
“Mallory and Sandy are going to have kittens when this hits them,” Sally told me. She pushed herself out of the armchair, stretched again, nearly staggered backwards under the angle of it. “I’m putting out feelers tomorrow. I’ll get you some people, but writers—”
“Got it covered,” I told her. I looked at Guy. “What do you know about real estate?” I asked. “I can’t go hunting up a place to ruin Mallory and Sandy by myself.”
“I know some people,” he promised. “Every good lawyer knows a property broker. What do you need?”
“Open space,” I told him. “Something with a view.”
“All right,” he agreed, and he stood as well. “I’ll call you by Tuesday.” He paused halfway to the door, turned, offered his arm to Sally. “Can I drop you somewhere?” he asked. “I drove here.”
“Thank you,” Sally said, and she tucked her hand into his elbow.
“Love match?” Marla asked once the door had shut behind them.
I thought about it, nearly nodded off and had to shake myself awake. “I’ll think about it tomorrow,” I told her. “I should probably sleep.” I stood up, looked at her slumped on my couch, offered her my hand. “Want to crash here?”
“Sure,” she said, took my hand, let me lift her off the couch. She looked at me closely, pressed her palm to my cheek. “You’re certain?” she asked. “About everything? About what you’re doing?”
I didn’t ask what she meant. “No,” I told her, “but I think I’ve been at a standstill for a long time, you know? Let other people lead me places, let other people hide me, and I want to be in charge of my own idiocy for a change.”
Marla smiled. “All right,” she said. She squeezed my hand. “Lead on.”
1965 – The Aftermath of the Sixth Raid -- The Splash Page
The trial came to a halt at six weeks. A jury of Wendy’s peers found her guilty on all charges and recommended the death penalty. She met my eyes as they took her away, and all I could see was resolution. She knew it was coming, I told myself as I leaned against the side of the courthouse trying not to lose my breakfast. She told you it would happen. You’ve no reason to be surprised.
The flowers edging the side of the building spun crazily. I reached out a hand to steady myself and hit someone in the chest. “Sorry,” I muttered.
“Just me,” Guy said, and he tucked me against his side, pulled me a few steps farther back, held my hair off my neck when I leaned forward and retched.
“They’re really—” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Yeah,” he said and handed me a handkerchief. It was damp and cool, and I managed to look at him from a sidelong glance. “Cops vomit,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve seen it a few times, knew what to look for.”
“Thanks,” I said. I wiped the edges of my mouth, spat in the grass, threw his handkerchief behind the flowers.
“Come on,” he said, and he got me to my feet, got me moving away from the crowd of reporters that was steadily growing. “They don’t know you, I don’t think,” he told me. “But let’s not test their talents.”
We made it to a Monorail stop, and he paused at a vendor cart to buy me a pretzel and a bottle of 7Up. He sat me on a bench, watched me eat, kept one hand on my shoulder and didn’t say a word.
“When?” I asked after I finished the pretzel. I crumpled the napkin in my hand.
“Sentencing will happen in the next couple of weeks,” Guy told me. “They’ll probably expedite it since it’s such a high-profile case.”
I laughed without meaning to, dark and dry. “High-profile?” I asked. I knew it was true, but hearing him say it, it made something twinge in me. “High-profile,” I repeated.
“Easy,” Guy said softly. He moved closer, wrapped an arm around my shoulder, let me slump against the side of him. “They’re going to release Billie,” he told me, “for what that’s worth.”
I thought of Wendy, the way she’d made me promise to talk to Billie, try to find some common ground. “It’s worth something, maybe,” I said. “I don’t know. I told Wendy—” saying her name made my stomach roll. I clenched my fingers on Guy’s arm, felt my nails dig into his jacket, but he didn’t flinch away. “Oh, god.” I whispered. “Oh, shit.”
Guy got me on the Monorail, got me to the stop closet to the cul de sac, got me the six blocks down the street and around the corner, and got me into my living room. I was there, but I wasn’t there. Aware of what he was doing, of where he was going, aware enough to hold onto on of the overhead straps as the Monorail swayed and rocked, but I couldn’t see details. I couldn’t see colors. Would Sally know, I wondered. How could I get word to be sure?”
“Come on,” Guy said when we were in my living room. He set me on the sofa like a ragdoll, paused, hands out, to make sure I could hold myself together, and then he walked to my kitchen, rattled in the cupboards, came back with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured, three fingers a glass, and he handed me one. “Drink,” he ordered. When I had, he poured another, handed it to me again. “Drink,” he repeated.
I felt the burn the second time, wheezed when I breathed out, shivered from my toes to my head, and finally saw Guy for the first time since he’d found me, watching me to see if I was about to crack. “Thanks,” I murmured and tried to clear my throat.
“You’re welcome,” he said quietly. He reached for my hand, held it, watched me set my glass on the coffee table. “What about her?” he asked. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I made a promise to Wendy. Said I’d hear her out.”
“And?” Guy prompted.
I stared at the cut glass tumbler on my coffee table, at the way the light refracted off the curve of the top of the glass. “And I’d much rather take all of her things out to the front lawn and burn an effigy.”
“Well, we’re not doing that,” Guy said, “we don’t have a permit.”
I smiled, weak and watery, reached out and touched his arm. “I appreciate everything you’ve been doing the last few months,” I told him. “There’s being decent, and there’s above and beyond, and you’re definitely in the second part.”
He shrugged, looked away, color high on his cheeks showing embarrassment. “Thanks,” he said gruffly, “but I’m just trying to do what’s right, and you’ve been nice enough to let me.”
I thought about my moods, my anger, Guy having to sign his name to the entry. “You’re a friend,” I told him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. He stood up quickly with an awkward, jerky motion of someone who wasn’t much for sentiment. He picked up the glasses, the whiskey, took them back into the kitchen. I listened to the glasses clunk into the sink, the rattle as he put the whiskey back in the cupboard.
“I’ll talk to her,” I said loudly enough for him to hear me. The cupboard door shut hard. “I promised Wendy,” I said. “And given…” I couldn’t finish it, swallowed hard instead. “I’ll let her talk.” I looked at Guy when he walked into the room. “Because I don’t really know what else to do.” I looked down at my hands, twisted my class ring around my finger. “Because all I’ve done for the last five years is run around the underground and try not to get caught. And I haven’t been. And I have to do something with that.”
“You’re sure?” Guy asked, still halfway across the room.
“Yeah,” I said. I swallowed again, tasted whiskey on the back of my tongue. “Yeah.” I watched his face. He went from angry, to confused, to understanding, to angry, to resigned.
“You want me around for that?”
“The reporters know who she is,” I told him. “ They’ll probably follow her home. You don’t want your face in the middle of that.” I held up a hand before he could argue with me. “You’re still a cop, Guy. How no one’s paid attention to the fact that you’ve always got my elbow, I don’t know, but there’s luck, and there’s asking for trouble.”
He deflated, rolled his shoulders back and tried to pop his neck. “All right,” he said. “I’ll make myself scare for a few days, but check in with me, all right? Let me know you’ve made some sort of decision.”
“I will,” I promised.
Four days later, a taxi dropped off Billie on the front steps. I wondered if Mrs. Liefeld saw her arrive, if she wondered where the car was. Before I could figure out what to say if I ran into Mrs. Liefeld again, Billie was in the front door wearing the slacks and shirt she’d worn six months ago when she’d been arrested. They hung loose on her; she’d lost weight.
“There you are,” she said, and she walked across the living room, touched my hair, my face, the bend in my elbow. “God, but you are a sight for sore eyes.”
“Hi,” I said, feeling dumb. “I thought you’d—”
“I called you for a pick-up,” she told me. “I wanted you to pick me up; I was going to convince you to run away with me for the weekend, go someplace wide-open.”
I stared at her, the green of her eyes, her red hair. Wendy was going to be put to death over the weekend. It was a private execution, but it had made the papers. The spokesperson from the prosecutor’s office had been quoted as saying that justice was swift. I hadn’t kept down food the day before, even after I threw out the paper.
“Say something, Jules,” Billie said. She leaned in close. “You’re acting like you’re not happy to see me.”
“Wendy’s going to be killed tomorrow,” I told her. “So, no, I’m not happy to see you.”
She backed away, eying me like a mouse in a corner. “You don’t…” She shook her head. “Julie, you can’t blame me for this.”
I felt my control snap, felt my promise to Wendy turn to vapor, rush out of the room on an invisible burst of air. “You can not be serious,” I snapped. “You’re not acting like this isn’t your doing.”
Billie looked pained, pressed a hand to her mouth. “Jules, honey, I had—”
“You didn’t,” I told her. “Starling tried to drag me into it, but you hid me too well, tucked me away when I wasn’t looking. He didn’t have jack shit, and you handed him Wendy anyway.”
Billie’s eyes flashed, her hands curled into fists. “Where did you get your information, Jules? From Wendy?”
“Wendy told me to talk to you, hear you out,” I told her. “She told me to try and mend things with you.”
“Then we should—”
“You fucking killed her, Billie,” I said, and it came out flat and toneless. I was so amazed at it, that it wasn’t a shout, that I stopped for a moment, pressed my lips together, watched Billie watch me. “You killed her,” I said, and it was nearly a whisper. “Goddamnit, Billie.” My knees went out, and I fell to the floor, one hand sliding down the wall as I went. Billie was at my side, trying to pull me to her; I tried to shove her off, but my arms had no strength.
“Jules,” Billie murmured into my hair. “Jules, honey, I’m sorry, but it had to be done. Someone had to fall this time.”
“What did they have on you?” I asked. “How bad was it?”
“It was bad.”
“How bad?” I demanded. I pulled away from her so I could see her face. “How bad?” I repeated and shook off her hand when she tried to stroke my hair.
“Jules—”
“Prison time?” I asked.
Billie sighed, reached for me again, looked frustrated when I pulled away. “Damnit, Julie,” she muttered. “I’m trying—”
“What could they have done to you?” and it was a yell that time. I jumped at the echo of my own voice. Billie just blinked at me, impassive, slight frustration in her eyes. “Would they have killed you?” I asked. “Would they have—”
“You’re hysterical,” Billie said a in a calm, even tone. “You need to take a deep—”
I shoved her backward, away from me, got up on my feet and stomped away from her. I ended up in the kitchen, staring at the cupboards, the sink, the notes on the icebox reminding me to pick up dry cleaning and call the repairman about the leaky sink.
“Jules,” Billie’s voice was low, her tone conciliatory. “I want to explain,” she said. “But I need you to calm down.”
I opened a cupboard, reached for a plate, looked at it, smashed it to the ground. Behind me, Billie gasped. “Talk,” I snapped. “Tell me what they were going to do to you that was worse than what they’re going to do to Wendy. Convince me.”
Billie stepped up beside me, stepped around the shards on the floor, tried to touch my arm. I flinched away. “Julie,” she said quietly.
“Tell me,” I repeated. “Don’t touch me. Don’t comfort me. Tell me what was so terrible that it was better to give up Wendy.” I didn’t look at her, just stared into the sink, listened to her breathe.
“They’d…” She shook her head; I watched her hair shake and settle in my peripheral vision. “They’d have locked me away. They’d have come after you.”
“We’ve covered this,” I pointed out. “They wouldn’t. You made sure they didn’t have anything on me.” I wanted to ask why, ask how she’d done it.
“You’d have started another speak,” Billie replied, her tone going hard and a little scared. “You’d have found a group and picked right up where I couldn’t keep you safe.”
“I never asked for you to keep me safe,” I snapped. I looked at her, saw terror in her eyes, saw tears in her eyes. “I didn’t make you do this.”
“No,” Billie said softly. “I chose to protect you; I won’t pretend like you had any part of it.”
“Good.” I looked away again. “And you know they wouldn’t have caught me. You know I wouldn’t have stayed around here. We’d planned it too much, planned the particulars. I know how to follow orders.”
“Yeah,” Billie said, nearly a whisper. “Yeah, you do.”
Silence settled on us, stretched for a full minute, another. I clenched my hands around the edge of the sink. “So what was it?” I asked. “If it wasn’t me. What could they have done? What did they have?”
Billie sighed. I glanced and watched her push her hair out of her face. “Jules,” Billie said. “Honey, I don’t want—”
“They didn’t have enough to put you up for the death penalty,” I said, the knowledge coming from the way her shoulders slumped, the way she wouldn’t look straight at me, the way she flinched away when I said it. “What did they have, Billie?”
“Twenty…” She shook her head, looked away from me and gave me the angle of her profile. “Twenty to life.”
“Plea bargain?” I barked. “They offered you one, I’m sure.”
“Seven-and-a-half to ten.”
My stomach coiled into a tight little ball. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even remember how. I stared out the kitchen window, my eyes focusing to stare at my own reflection. “With good behavior you’d have been out in four or five.” Billie didn’t answer. I reached into the cupboard, pulled down another plate, sent it sailing through the kitchen and dining area, listened to it slam against the far wall. “Five years,” I said, listening to the words settle into the room. “Five fucking years for Wendy’s entire damned life.”
“Jules—”
“Get out,” I snapped. I swung my arm, pointed to the front door. “Get the hell out.”
“You’re being unreasonable,” Billie said, tone harsh.
I hit her before I knew my first had curled. Just to the left of her right eye, my class ring leaving a trickle of blood by her eye. “You’re soulless!” I screamed. “Five goddamned years! What is wrong with you?”
She hit me back, backhanded me across the mouth. I stumbled backwards, hit the icebox, came away from it with both arms out, reaching for any part of her I could tear away. “Bitch!” I screamed, and I got her by the hair.
“Stop it!” Billie yelled, and her fist hit my stomach, knocked the air from me. “Goddamnit, Julie!” She yelped when I twisted her ear, dug my nails into her arm, kicked at her legs. She got at arm at my throat, used her six inches in height and weight to propel me backwards, hold me against the icebox. “I’d have lost you,” she said quietly, blinking away the blood by her eye. “Five years, you’d have left.”
I stared at her, watched her face for some hint of a sick joke. “I said forever,” I told her. “I promised forever.”
“Five years without you would be—”
“Shut up!” I screamed right in her face. I pressed my hand into the soft curve of her lower abdomen, shoved with the heel of my palm and made her stumble backwards. “This isn’t about me. This is about you. You didn’t want to go to prison. You didn’t want to stand up for—”
“I love you!” She screamed over me. “I love you, Jules. I couldn’t be without you!”
“You’re a goddamned coward,” I spat out. I ran the back of my left hand with my mouth, looked at the blood smeared across from knuckle to wrist. “Five fucking years, Billie. Five years, and no one would have died. Wendy wouldn’t be on the way to the fucking gallows.”
“I love you,” she said again, and she curved slightly around herself, arms wrapping around her stomach. “Honey, please. I did it—”
“You did it for yourself,” I cut in. I heard Wendy’s voice in my head, saw the flint in her eyes when she’d gotten nose-to-nose with Annie. Wendy, who let Annie go away and wrote her up rather than worry about personal consequence. Wendy, who was going to die in another two days. “You knew the risks,” I told her. “You knew them better than anyone else. You knew your options.”
“Jules—”
“You’re in the book,” I snapped, and the color drained from her face. Everything else we’d said since she’d walked in the door, everything that had passed between us, and the blacklist made her look faint. “Mallory and Sandy know what you’ve done. They know what you’re responsible for. You won’t work in comics again.”
“You didn’t—”
“You’re a treasonous wretch, Wilhelmina Fraction. You can go to hell.”
We stared at each other for an immeasurable moment. The light in her eyes dimmed, flickered, went out for a moment. My heart twisted at the sight of her, broken and down, and I wanted to grab her, hold onto her, tell her it could be fixed. But it couldn’t, I knew. Going back wasn’t an option from the moment I’d snarled at her to tell me what could have been done to her.
I walked into the bedroom, packed a satchel, stopped in the office for a notebook and pens, Sally’s stack of postcards. I’d buy a toothbrush on the way, I decided. Stop by the bank on the way out of town and close my bank account.
“You can’t leave.” Billie was sitting on the arm of the couch, fingers carefully probing the cut by her eye. Her eye was already swelling, turning purple. “I did it for you, Jules. For us.”
I dropped the satchel by the door, looked in the mirror over the coat rack. I dabbed at my bloody lip with my handkerchief, covered the smear of blood on the back of my hand with my driving gloves. Billie watched over my shoulder, tried to catch my eyes. I put on my dark blue hat with the netting, slid my purse strap into the crook of my elbow. “She’s dying in two days, Billie. That’s your fault. It’s entirely your fault.”
“I love you,” she whispered.
I looked away from my image in the mirror, blinked to keep from crying. “That’s not my problem anymore,” I told her, and I walked out the door.
That puts you at the 71k mark. That's right, there's currently 15k more of this. Will probably be 20k by the time I finally end it.
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no subject
on 2009-12-01 01:34 pm (UTC)Can't wait for the next installment!!!
p.s. it's tuesday.
no subject
on 2009-12-01 03:23 pm (UTC)