Flyover City! A Novel (with Superheroes)

17. Personal Entry...

"Just don't say anything to Spliff." he said.

At first, he refused when I offered to buy him a cup of coffee - stuff to do, people to see - but I was relentless. He must have realized that his seriousness betrayed the truth: a part-time bike courier with no live-in girlfriend couldn't possibly have anywhere to be at 7 a.m.

When I asked if he was "on assignment", he barely said another word until we were sitting at Emilio's Super Chef, watching each other cautiously, as we deconstructed our mountainous breakfast burritos for the next two hours. He evaded any questions relating to anything that wasn't blatantly obvious, but he was smart enough not to leave the holes in his story to my imagination.

Yes, he was at one time - but is no longer - a costumed crime-fighter.

No, he's not in town investigating the giant monster attack. (see "is no longer" above)

No, he would not divulge his code-name. (For my own protection, and he kept saying I probably hadn't heard of him, anyway. He doesn't know me very well.) He's also slippery on the question of powers.

Yes, he'll go to the gym with me sometime, to give me some pointers.

He was vague on the details. Whether he was outed by the Powerazzi and forced by the Agency to relocate under an assumed identity. Whether he was, in fact, registered with the Agency at all. He insists that, yes, he really did come here by way of New York (which took Vangaurdian off the list of potential aliases). The rest of the conversation was a delicately navigated maze; if I couldn't get to the finish line, I made it my mission to lead him back into the same corners, to see if he would contradict himself. But his story was airtight. And, for him, anyway, it always ended at the same place:

"Please don't say anything to Spliff..."

Thirteen hours later, I was sitting across from Spliff at the P.S. Lounge, a hole in the wall bar in Denver's makeshift "Greek Town", a cluster of ethnic bakeries and restaurants situated along the long crawl up the evolutionary ladder that is Colfax Avenue. The P.S. is a modern day speakeasy, a quiet, unpretentious joint owned by The Other Greek Pete (as opposed to "Pete the Greek", who owns most of the other businesses in the area. ). On a slow night, if you aren't acting completely belligerent, and The Other Greek Pete is in a really good mood, he'll raise his hand up from his table off in the far corner of the bar, signaling the bartender to treat you to the house shot: The Alabama Slammer.

It wasn't my intention to completely blow my wad to Spliff, who isn't exactly known for his ability to keep a secret. My plan, insofar as I had one at at all, was to grease him for any information he had on Kyle.

"I don't know, man, He was a courier in New York too, as far as I know. Regular people, like I've been saying all along."

"Yeah, but, I mean, what else did he have going on? Was he a student? Does he ever talk about his friends or family? Did he have, like, a girlfriend or anything?"

"Jesus, I don't know. What else do you have going on?"

Yeah, right. Touche.

Two more bottles are set in front of us, and The Other Greek Pete waves us another set of shots. We kept our beers as a chaser.

Spliff cringed from the aftershocks and saluted the bartender, giving her a sly smile. "So what's with the sudden interest, anyway? I thought you hated the guy."

"Of course I don't hate him," Not anymore, anyway. "It's just... there's all these unknowns, you know? You try and pin down what the guy's all about, but you just come up empty."

"Yeah, I guess." He focuses on the bartender and lowers his voice "Hey, Mindy's pretty cute, huh? Do you think she's flirting with me?"

The P.S. bartenders flirt with him, me, and just about anyone else who happens in off the street: it's good for business. I didn't bring it up, though, since I didn't want to get any further off topic than we already were.