Frankie Jacks skidded to a stop just inside the alley. Back pressed against the wall he struggled to catch his breath, his blood pounding in his ears. He gulped air and wiped the sweat dripping into his eyes with the sleeve of his ragged flannel shirt. He stayed that way for several long minutes.

“Okay,” he whispered, his breathing once more relatively normal. “Okay. Okay. You lost him. It’s okay.”

He peeked around the corner of the alley, nervous eyes darting from every light to every shadow. He didn’t see anything.

“It’s okay,” he whispered again. “It’s okay. You lost him. It’s okay.”

He lay back against the brick wall, eyes shut, allowing himself a moment to relax. It’d been close. A simple smash and grab, that was all. A simple smash and grab. He had better things to do than to chase a nobody like Frankie around. Unless he knew…

Nah. He didn’t know about that.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice still a rough whisper. “Yeah. He’s gone. He’s gone.” He smiled. Fuck that guy, he thought. Then, aloud, “Fuck that guy.”

“What guy?”

Frankie jumped and squeaked at the sound of the voice so close.

Nemesis leaned one hand against the alley, legs crossed and staff held loosely in his free hand. He was smiling.

“You weren’t talking about me, were you, Frankie?”

Frankie squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.”

Nemesis chuckled and pushed off from the wall. He reached out and patted Frankie on the cheek, evoking another whimper. “That’s good, Frankie. You found religion.” The green-and-grey clad vigilante leaned in close. “You should give your heart to God, because your ass is mine.”

“Oh…” Frankie’s face scrunched up in a semblance of pain. “…God…”

Nemesis leaned back, a moment’s confusion crossing his face. He smirked and rolled his eyes skyward as the tell-tale smell of urine washed over him. He waited a moment as Frankie’s pants darkened, shaking his head.

“Christ, Frankie. What’d you go and do that for? What do you think I’m gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” Frankie whimpered. “I don’t know.”

“What’d you get?” Nemesis continued. “Three, maybe four iPhones?”

Frankie shook his head in denial, tears streaking his grubby face. He suddenly opened his eyes.

“What?”

“iPhones, Frankie.” Nemesis loomed large, an alley light behind him throwing his impressive form into silhouette. The thief hunched against the wall, half the vigilante’s size on a good day.

“I—iPhones?”

Nemesis sighed. His staff whipped forward and Frankie flinched. The metal weapon tapped the bulge in the pockets of Frankie’s dirty cargo pants. There was a distinct tap.

“iPhones, Frankie.”

“Then you’re not here because--?” Frankie’s mouth clamped shut, but he could see it was too late. Nemesis smiled again.

“Because why, Frankie?” Nemesis’ tone was deceptively light.

Frankie shook his head in a short nervous gesture. Nemesis chuckled and waved a finger in front of the little man.

“Ah ah, Frankie. No take-backs.” He leaned forward a little, putting himself very close to Frankie. “You’re in for a bad time of it if you hold back on me now.”

Frankie, never a strong man to begin with broke down, his body sliding to the floor of the alley as he sobbed into his hands. He’d never been much of anything. A petty thief all his life, in and out of juvie and state pens, nothing had ever gone right for him; least of all this.

“Frankie…” Nemesis’ tone held no room for argument.

“Okay,” he said between sobs. “Okay. There’s a guy—“ he stopped and looked up at the vigilante.

“If I tell you this, can I go?”

Nemesis didn’t say anything. Didn’t move at all. He just waited. After several long moments Frankie sighed and began talking.

“There’s a guy. He wants in on the families’ turf. He’s like a Viet vet or something, you know? All soldiery and shit. Has a bunch of other soldier guys with him. He came in pushing some shit from Vietnam or Thailand or some place like that. But he also has a thing for kids. Little kids. I—“ He stopped. Nemesis hadn’t moved but at the mention of children the vigilante’s poise had straightened and had taken on a decidedly menacing air.

“Oh, God, man, you gotta let me go if I tell you.” Frankie was practically begging. “If he finds out I told you…”

“You haven’t told me anything,” Nemesis rejoined, his tone low. “But you will, won’t you.” It was not a question.

Frankie nodded, stifling more sobs. “I don’t know what he wants the kids for—“ Through half-teared eyes Frankie saw the staff come off the ground. He threw his hands up in a pleading gesture. “I don’t! I swear to God I don’t!” His hands dropped.

“But I think I know,” he whispered.

“And what’s your part in this?”

“I—“ Frankie heaved once, taking a deep breath. “I just tell him where the kids are. The ones on the streets. He comes and gets ‘em or something.”

“Where?”

“Like over on Baker, or down on 3rd by the old—“

The staff blurred, came down next to Frankie’s head. Chipped brick pelted his greasy hair.

“WHERE?!”

Frankie squeaked again and threw his arms over his head. “Bayside! The old Wyatt Hotel! He’s setting up shop there!” He began to cry again. “Oh, God! Please don’t kill me! Please! That’s all I know! That’s all I—“

Through half-squinted eyes Frankie noticed Nemesis was gone.

Frankie lay back against the wall of the alley and struggled to get himself under control. Twenty-five years old and here he was, half-starved, half-strung out and sitting in clothes stolen from a thrift store. Pissed in clothes, at that. Just another nobody.

It was a long time before Frankie felt strong enough to move. He pushed himself up from the floor of the alley and looked both ways, deciding his future. The iPhones in his pocket would buy him enough to pay his week’s rent and probably score him a little ice…

…but it would also buy him a bus ticket out of Hudson City. And a change of clothes at the Thrift Store.

Frankie started walking.

* * * * *

The Breakfast Club was in full swing at Pop’s Bar. Many of the patrons were retirees, but several were simply regulars who had the day off or, in one or two cases, simply needed a little fortifying before facing the day.

“Fucking stocks are killing me,” Maynard groused, his usual opening sortie. He wasn’t watching the television but could hear the low news report from the big screen behind him. He fidgeted with the straw in his madras.

“It’s the Republicans,” Don rejoined. Once again he was wearing a shirt that might have fit him thirty pounds earlier. “The Republicans don’t give a damn about the little guy. It’s all corporate business and politics.”

“Didn’t have this problem under Clinton,” Mercedes Ed said sagely, sipping his coffee. “Of course, he had his own problems under him.”

“Heh.” Walter wheezed and sipped at his VO-Seven. “I haven’t had a problem under me like that in a long time.”

Pops huffed and pulled out a cutting board and a bag of fruit. He gestured with a knife that looked almost as old as he was. “Did they have cars then, Walt, or did you get your dick sucked on horseback?”

A round of wheezing laughter drowned any rejoinder Walt may have had.

“You guys hurt by this economy shit, Pops?”

The owner of the bar squinted up at the television as if the screen held the answer. “Aw, it ain’t nothing to us,” he replied. “Bar like this, we do okay come rain or shine. You assholes just have a good reason not to tip now, is all.”

“That’s true,” Ed agreed wisely, eyeing his cup with a dubious squint. “The economy is now in the same toilet from which you make this coffee.”

“Fuck you,” Pops retaliated, then relented. “Besides, the coffee’s fine cuz I drink it, too. It’s the booze that comes from the toilet.”

From his usual spot at the high-top by the window Luke smiled as much out of habit as anything. He was leaning back in his chair with his laptop and a notepad handy but untouched, much like his Bloody Mary. He stared out the tinted window and watched the morning business carry on. It gave the city a shadowed look even in the bright morning light. Luke smirked and wondered if he was going to be stepping in metaphors this morning.

A change in the timbre of the crowd brought Luke out of his reverie.

“Turn that up,” he heard Don grumble. The usual suspects fell silent as Pops hit the volume on the big screen, and even Maynard turned to watch.

“…was the scene of a somewhat confusing crime early this morning,” a well-groomed man of middle years was saying. Superimposed in a corner box was the usual eye-catching-fear-instilling image, <i>Vigilante Justice?</i>. “Lawrence Evans is on the scene.”

The television now showed a well-groomed black man of middle years in a suit coat holding a microphone in one hand and a notepad in the other. Behind him was an old dilapidated building, the letters “A-T-T” in broken neon visible over his shoulder. There was a crowd of people milling about, mostly police and other emergency crews. Red, blue and yellow lights flickered and flashed from the emergency vehicles just off-camera.

“Thank you, Gary. I’m here at the old Wyatt Hotel in the Bayside area, once home to a plethora of colorful characters and well-to-do visitors to our fair city. In recent years, however, the Wyatt has lain dormant, awaiting a new sponsor to bring it back to its former glory. When noted entrepreneur and retired army colonel Brian Clemens bought the Wyatt late last year it was thought that he would begin restoration of the hotel. Sadly, that was not the case, and the hotel has remained uninhabited. Or so everyone thought.”

Lawrence Evens glanced down at his notepad. “What is known is this: earlier this morning emergency crews were called to the scene by reports of gunshots and fire to the Wyatt Hotel where police discovered more than a dozen children awaiting their help in a neighboring office. Police spokesmen will only say that the children were taken there by what appeared to be someone concerned for their well-being. It is also true that the children were brought there after the, uh, activities within the Wyatt that prompted an emergency response.”

“Now, in the hotel itself were at least six men--perhaps more--who were apparently left bound for the police to find. None were conscious and all have been taken to the local hospital for treatment. Initial reports state that all the men suffered extensive contusions and small abrasions, and that at least several sported broken bones. One was listed as critical, the others stable. A variety of small arms and automatic weapons were found on and around their person, many of them military-grade. There is also some evidence to suggest that a package or a satchel or something similar may have been discovered along with the bound men.”

Again Lawrence glanced at his notes. “There was indeed a fire in the hotel, on the first floor in the back offices where apparently someone had set up some sort of studio or perhaps an office of their own. The fire was largely contained to that room though fire crews are checking the building thoroughly for further evidence of fire. Arson is suspected, but the police stressed that the fire was contained long before they arrived. Someone, or perhaps more than one, kept the fire to that one room.”

The television screen suddenly split, showing the two newsmen side by side; Gary in the studio and Lawrence on the scene.

“Lawrence, you said there were children involved? How old were they and were they harmed in any way?”

“Gary, there were at least a dozen children in the office across the street, ages ranging from approximately eight years of age to as old as twelve or fourteen. Ages were difficult to determine because it appears all the children may have been runaways, or otherwise reported as missing for some time. One unofficial report has stated that the children may have been abused in some way in the recent past over and above the mental and physical effects of living on the streets. Social Services has taken them into care and we’ll be following up on that part of the story when we know more.”

“Very good, Lawrence. Thank you.”

“Lawrence.” The left-hand screen shifted to show an attractive woman in her mid-thirties with dark hair just so. She appeared dutifully concerned. “What’s the overall feel for the scene? Is this a case of vigilante justice or is there something else going on?”

“Well, Jenny,” Lawrence began, again checking his notes. “Here’s the initial speculation: it appears that person or persons unknown were utilizing the Wyatt for their own purposes that may have involved the children. There’s some circumstantial evidence to suggest that one or more of the children had been in the hotel earlier but nothing has been confirmed. The men discovered were all healthy and fit, and one officer was heard to say that they all looked like soldiers. There was certainly evidence of small arms fire of the type expected with machine guns and automatic weapons, but whether these men were victims or perpetrators, and just how the children fit into all of this, has yet to be determined.”

“And the fire,” Jenny prompted. “You said it was contained. Any speculation—“

“One moment, Jenny,” Lawrence interrupted in a rush. The screen showed him glancing behind him. “It appears the fire crews have found—yes, they are indeed carrying what appears to be a body from the hotel.” There was much off-screen chatter as Lawrence and the cameraman tried to get a better angle. “All we can tell at the moment is that the body was pulled from the room with the fire and appears to be burned beyond immediate recognition.” Lawrence glanced at the camera as if it was at fault for him not having more information. “Another angle for us to follow up with.”

Gary cut back in. “Looks like you have your hands full there, Lawrence. Any other information you can provide for us before we let you go?”

Lawrence shook his head. “That’s about it at this point, Gary. We can only guess as to the involvement of the children in all of this, but by the grim faces on police and other emergency personnel, something very bad has gone down. What that is remains to be seen.”

“Thank you, Lawrence.” The screen again filled with Gary’s rugged good looks and concerned expression. “For those of you just joining us there has been a mysterious event at the old Wyatt Hotel in Bayside, where a dozen children were…perhaps rescued, while another half-dozen men were hospitalized by person or persons unknown. One man is apparently dead at the scene but no other details are available. We’ll be sure to keep you updated as more information on this riveting story comes to us. Jenny?”

“Thank you, Gary.” Jenny was all smiles now. “In other news the Deputy Mayor and his wife attended a gala for--“

Pops muted the television. The silence hung in the room for a long while. Pops glanced towards Luke who was again staring out the window. The rest of the Breakfast Club stayed silent except for the occasional clink of a glass or the exhalation of smoke.

Luke continued watching the city through the tinted window, idly stirring his drink with hands partially red and blistered.