“The Pembrook Stash”
Featuring The Scorpian
Written by Travis Hiltz
Mac Gargan huddled into his overcoat as he made his way down the sidewalk. Partly it was the chill of the afternoon, partly it was habit of a lifetime.
When your resume’ includes private investigator and supervillain, you are deeply invested in keeping unnoticed, whether from clients, suspects, cops or superheroes.
He discreetly made his way through the other pedestrians, crossed the street and entered the drab, squat diner.
He waved off the middle-aged waitress and then made his way to a back booth.
It was already occupied by two men, but Gargan squeezed in, forcing the thin man already sitting there over, until he was pressed up against the wall.
“Well?” He said, sharply to the heavy-set man across from him.
All three kept quiet when the waitress approached. Gargan nodded for coffee.
“This better be good,” The bald villain continued, gruffly, once she’d gone. “I’m on parole and not supposed to be associating with other criminals, as it could cause me to sink back into the kind of behavior that lead to my unfortunate incarceration.”
“Nice to see you too, Mac,” The other man grumbled.
Gargan continued to glare at the bigger man, with an appraising coldness.
Crocker was a police detective, that Gargan met during his private investigator days. Neither particularly liked the other, but as both were considered crooked, but competent at what they did, each had made use of the other to solve cases and make a little extra cash, to supplement their legitimate vocations.
Gargan had gotten mixed up with J. Jonah Jameson and his, at the time, pet mad scientist, and gone on to a new career as the villainous Scorpion.
Crocker had done some discreet work for the notorious ‘Big Man’, and barely survived that crime lords’ downfall with his badge and pension intact.
The third man was a greasy, morose informant, who was so nondescript and kept to himself, that neither of the other men could have told you his full name. Most people just referred to him as ‘The Weasel”.
“I don’t know what you two are up to,” Gargan muttered, glancing from one to the other. “And not sure I care. Make your pitch, so I can tell you to go to hell, finish my coffee and have plenty of time to catch a ballgame.”
Crocker, unsure, if Gargan was being sarcastic or not, frowned at the ex-investigator, then shrugged.
“I’ve been checking into something, and the Weasel...uh...Al helped me get in touch with you...” Crocker said.
“You got 12 seconds to get my attention,” Gargan interrupted, with listless menace. “Don’t waste it with a story.”
“I’ve got a lead on the Pembrook stash,” Crocker said, in a low voice, while glancing around the diner, guardedly.
Gargan paused, the coffee mug not quite to his mouth. He set it down and peered intently at Crocker.
“If you’re screwing around...”
Back in his pre-Scorpion days, Gargan and Crocker had both been peripherally involved in the Pembrook case.
One of New York’s crime bosses had in his employ, Dan Pembrook, a low-level numbers man. Danny spent several years, very quietly, playing with the accounts and building up a rather sizable “retirement fund”.
Unfortunately, before Pembrook could enact this plan, his employer caught wind of his creative accounting efforts and Danny received a very different, much less relaxing ‘retirement’.
There was an added twist, in that no one knew where the money was hidden, and with Pembrook no longer available to ask, it was a popular pastime to attempt to hunt down the missing money.
The Pembrook Stash had reached near urban legend levels of recognition.
The two men continued to peer at each other for several heartbeats, both, in their own way, mentally planning what came next.
“Okay, Gargan eventually sighed. “Tell me your damn story.”
“I got busted,” Crocker said, frowning at the memory. “And was stuck on “admin duty”: paper shuffling and busy work in a back office, where the higher ups were hoping I’d get so friggin’ bored I’d kill myself.”
“Move it along, or I’m gonna start crying,” Gargan muttered.
“So, I was cleaning out some evidence boxes that got misfiled...and found some stuff about Pembrook...including a couple bits of info that didn’t get into the official police reports.”
“Somebody hid it away?” Gargan asked, sounding interested, despite his best efforts.
“No idea,” Crocker shrugged. “Might just be somebody was lazy or stupid...anyway, I got some stuff...solid stuff. This could be it, Mac!”
Gargan studied the police detective for several seconds. He was having trouble with the strange feeling of actually taking Crocker seriously.
Since becoming the Scorpion, he’d walked away from his old life, as a private investigator with no second thoughts or regrets...except one.
The Pembrook case.
As a detective, Gargan didn’t have the best, or cleanest, reputation. He wasn’t the smartest detective, but he was persistent. He’d built his rep, by treating every case he took, like a starving dog with bone.
While he wouldn’t mind finding that hidden million, Gargan was equally enticed by the idea of finally closing the case.
“What you got in mind?” He asked, in a low tone.
“I got this,” Crocker said, pulling an envelope from inside his jacket. “Couple leads I can handle with a few phone calls but couple one’s gonna need legwork.”
Gargan reached for the envelope, only to have Crocker pull it back. He scowled and then banged his fist against the table, hard enough to startle nearby diners and dent the Formica.
“Don’t screw with me, Crocker,” Gargan growled through clenched teeth.
“I’m not, but that doesn’t mean I’m trusting you,” His tablemate said, working to keep his tone even and a reassuring smile on his face. “I need to know you’re in and you understand how this little partnership works.”
“It sounds like I’m supposed to do the work, while you sit on your fat butt,” Gargan said. “Did I guess right? As an investigator, I got fifty bucks a day, plus expenses.”
“Yeah, I don’t like you either,” Crocker muttered. “Give me 24 hours. Do some legwork, if it’s a bust, walk away and go back to getting your ass kicked by Spider-man.”
Gargan glared at his tablemate, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.
“Fine,” He finally grunted. “What about your boyfriend here?”
“Hey!” The weasel protested.
“Alonzo’s been helping me, when I couldn’t move around,” Crocker explained. “He was the one who told me you were back on the street.”
“Whatever you promised him,” Gargan said. “Comes out of your cut.”
Crocker grudgingly nodded and slid the envelope across the table to Gargan.
“See what you can do with that.”
“How we working this?” Mac asked.
“Alonzo’s our go-between,” Crocker explained. “I have got to stay quiet.”
The Weasel pulled a dingy index card out of his coat and nervously handed it to Gargan.
“The top number’s my apartment,” He stammered. “The other two are places I hang out...do jobs for. You need something, ask for me.”
“Yeah, don’t hold your breath,” Gargan said, dropping a couple dollars on the table and getting to his feet. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Outside, Gargan paused to light a cigarette. It gave him a chance to have a discreet look around. Not spotting anyone that looked like a cop or crook that might have an interest in him, the super villain walked on, contemplating Crocker’s deal.
Crocker and the Weasel were both idiots, and he was unsure if this treasure hunt was worth jeopardizing his own plans. At the same time, the Pembrook case was like a bit of food stuck in his tooth, and to finally wrap it up would be sweet.
Not to mention the chance to get his hands on a million bucks.
“What the hell...!” He shrugged. “Let’s give it a shot.”
Gargan waited until he was back in his apartment before opening the envelope Crocker had given him.
Perched on his sagging, mud-brown sofa, Gargan cleared the numerous takeout food containers and empty coffee cups and spread out several sheets of paper, on the secondhand coffee table.
Gargan sat back on his sofa and read the first page. It was scribbled notes from the Pembrook investigation. He absently fished in between the cushions, pulled out a pen and began scratching his own notes. Most of the info was common knowledge about the case. He circled the couple lines that had potential.
The page that got his attention was a form filled in by Pembroke’s ex-wife, most likely widow, during one of her many police interviews.
Crocker had circled one line and notice a couple newer scribbled lines in Crocker’s handwriting.
‘Pembrook’s wife: only time this info showed up listed as a contact.” The note read. There was a name, phone number and address listed.
“Do I want the money bad enough to go to Queens...?” Gargan muttered.
A couple minutes of research found the woman, Diane Gault, currently worked at a sports bar, a better place to investigate her.
He spent the rest of the afternoon checking out the other leads. As night was falling, Gargan was left with the waitress and an uninspiring rental car receipt.
Gargan grabbed his coat and decided if she turned out to be another dead-end, at least he could get a drink.
He didn’t hate the bar when he got there. It wasn’t bright and shiny, but older, low ceiling and paneled in dark wood. Gargan glanced around, quickly and discreetly, until he spotted his target. He then got a table in her station and settled down, with a beer and a vague plan.
Glancing over at the couple of TVs gave him a way to take in the rest of the bar and its crowd.
There were a couple slightly sketchy characters, here and there, but no one that seemed to have an interest in him or the waitress.
“Need a refill?” Diane asked.
She wasn’t bad looking. Obviously getting older, but not going crazy to hide it. Her whole vibe was someone that wasn’t putting on an act.
“Yeah,” He nodded. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” The waitress replied, absently, as she had already banked his order and was mentally scouting out the rest of her station.
“You were friends with Tracey Pembrook?”
That snapped her back. Diane now gave Gargan her full, slightly anxious, attention.
“Do I know you?” She asked. “I’ve got other tables and...”
“Look, I’m not here to cause any trouble,” Gargan said, keeping his tone low and casual, but kept his gaze on her, on the lookout for any bit of body language that might help him.
“Yeah, uh-huh,” She replied, highly skeptical. “Tracey heard that so many times, she had to leave town. Why don’t you guys leave her alone. Bad enough her husband bailed on her and left her to deal with all the crap he stirred up...”
“Okay, wait a second,” Gargan said, keeping his to tone even. “I’m not looking for trouble and I’m not really sure what you’re talking about. I’m an insurance investigator and Tracey Pembrook’s name came up in connection with a policy I’m working on. If you have any info about her, great, if not, they aren’t paying me enough to stalk anybody.”
He took out his wallet and showed her his fake ID and business card.
Diane peered at him, thoughtfully, for several seconds, during which Gargan tried to keep from grinding his teeth. Since becoming the Scorpion, he was not a patient man, preferring to vent his frustration and anger in bouts of violence. It generally got him good results.
Day to day life was grating enough but getting back out and needing to discreetly obtain answers and information, he was ready to beat somebody senseless.
“You aren’t looking for Tracey?” The waitress asked. “Cause, I haven’t talked to her since...”
“Just want to doublecheck some information,” Gargan said, hoping she wouldn’t notice how tightly his free hand was gripping the edge of the table. “Not even sure it’s anything but a coincidence her name showed up in my paperwork.”
“I’ve to get back to work,” she said, after a few more seconds of thought. “I’ll get you a refill. Give me a couple minutes to think.”
“Yeah, sure,” Gargan nodded. “I’ve been stuck worse places.”
He nodded towards the nearest TV.
“Besides, I’ve got twenty bucks on the Redskins.”
He gave a brief glare at her retreating back and then angrily gulped down the rest of his beer.
Gargan spent ten minutes, watching the game ( he really didn’t give a damn about the Red Skins), moving his empty glass around and pretending he didn’t see the bartender and one of the waiter’s keeping an eye on him for potentially bothering a waitress.
He was about ready to give up and walk away, when Diane returned with a glass of beer on a tray.
“Here you go,” she said, with a forced smile. “Have a nice night.”
Gargan slid his clenched fist under the table and fought to keep his expression neutral.
While it would be deeply satisfying to back hand Diane and then beat the crap out of the two knuckleheads that would come rushing to protect her, it would completely trash his plan to lay low and most likely kill any shot he had at tracing further leads.
Seething with barely contained anger, Gargan decided to finish his beer, stiff Diane on the tip and then go throttle Crocker for wasting his time.
He swigged down the beer, and still mentally grumbling to himself, picked up the check.
Scrawled at the bottom, where the waitress usually left a scribbled ‘Thanks and come again’ or a smiley face, it read ‘take the napkin’.
Gargan tossed some bills on the table, deftly palming the check and napkin and left, giving the suspicious bartender a friendly nod on the way past.
He kept his hands in his coat pockets as he walked away, and a professional eye on the people around him. Still nothing that looked or felt like a tail.
He ducked into a hole in the wall pizza place, ordered a slice and then ducked into the men’s room, while he was waiting for his order.
Folded into the napkin was a nondescript, brown key, no identifying mark besides a slightly worn four-digit number. There was also one of the sports bar’s cards.
Scrawled on the back it read:
“Tracey gave me this. No idea if it helps.”
Mind racing, Gargan tucked both key and card in an inside pocket of his coat, threw away the napkin and receipt, collected his slice and headed for the subway station.
He had a lead and a destination in mind.
The building was a block of grey concrete. It looked like any of dozens of garages or machine shops around the city.
Gargan slipped down the side alley and knocked at a side door.
There was a click and the door opened. Gargan went through a dimly lit foyer.
The workroom was practically one huge room, ringed with work benches, banks of equipment, odd pieces of machinery, assorted crates and several battered recliners.
At the far wall, an old man sat hunched over the workbench, intently working on a bulky, metal gauntlet.
He had a large head, with a fringe of white hair.
His clothes were plain, threadbare and stained with various smears of oil, chemicals and the occasional scorch mark.
He turned on his stool, to face his guest, and pushed his glasses up to his prominent forehead to peer at his visitor.
“Gargan, I thought you were still in jail?” He grumbled. “Want me to improve that suit of yours. Have some ideas for a laser...”
“Laying low, Mason.” Gargan said, coming across the room and leaning on the work bench.
Phineas Mason, known to the criminal community as the ‘Terrible Tinkerer” was a brilliant engineer and designer, who toiled as a work for hire gadget builder. “Need a bit of information.”
“I’m not in this for my health,” The Tinkerer muttered, turning back to his task.
“Relax,” Gargan said, reaching into his pocket. He held out the key. “I need this traced. Find out what it fits. You can do this in an afternoon. Fifty bucks and you don’t need to leave your comfy chair or build a death ray.”
Still scowling, the Tinkerer took the brown key, and looked it over, adjusting the special lenses on his glasses.
Gargan leaned back, spotting the old man’s expression shifting from grumpy to thoughtful.
“Basic machining,” The Tinkerer muttered. “Number...probably a locker, P.O. box or...possibly an office...older building...hmmm.”
“Here’s my number,” Gargan said, grabbing a scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil. “You got a phone I can use?”
The old villain nodded and absently gestured towards the end of the workbench. Gargan tried the numbers the Weasel had given him but had no luck reaching the informant.
“Figures.” He grumbled, getting to his feet. “Let me know soon as you got something, okay?”
“Of course.” The villain muttered absently in reply. “See yourself out.”
Back on the street, trying to decide whether he wanted to get dinner, follow another lead or find somebody to punch repeatedly, and which order he’d prefer to do the three in.
So caught up in his own, thoughts, Gargan went a block before noticing he was being followed. Taking a minute to shift from thoughtful anger to annoyance at himself, he started mentally assessing how much trouble he might be in.
There were two of them: one strolling behind him and another who gave a good impression of someone pausing, trying to figure out where he was and where he needed to go.
Gargan slowed his pace, glanced into the window of a restaurant, using its reflective surface to get a further look at his followers.
The one across the street was moving along, probably planning to get ahead of him, so the other guy could tag off.
If they weren’t annoying him so much, Gargan would have admired how smoothly professional they were. He almost felt bad about what he was about to do.
He glanced again at the restaurant’s window, then continued on his way. Before he reached the watcher that had moved ahead of him, Gargan ducked down a side alley.
As soon as he was out of sight, Gargan pulled off his gloves and used his steel-hard fingernails to scale the grimy brick wall.
Crouched on the edge of the roof, he waited until one of his followers entered the alley, looking around. It didn’t occur to the guy to look up, and Gargan was able to easily take him out, by jumping down.
Gargan immediately, clamped a hand onto the man’s throat and hauled him back down the alley and out of sight.
“I’m in kind of a hurry,” He growled in the man’s ear. “So, I’ll make this quick: I’m gonna ask questions. You answer and walk away. Don’t answer and wake up in the hospital. Were you guys watching the Tinkerer?”
The man defiantly glared at Gargan.
Taking his free hand, the super-villain dug a super hard thumbnail into the man’s back. As he felt a rib threaten to crack, the man made a raspy noise and shook his head.
“You’re following me?”
The man nodded, starting to sweat with worry.
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Gargan drawled, right before he drove the heel of his hand against the man’s temple. He sagged like a sack of mud and Gargan let him fall to the damp, trash-strewn ground.
He was then up the brick wall and over the edge of the roof before the man’s partner came looking for him.
The man propped his partner up against a nearby dumpster, failed to revive him and then, cursing under his breath, walked off, most likely in search of a phone, in order to report to whoever had hired them.
“Interesting...!” Gargan muttered.
Neither guy looked familiar to him, but that didn’t mean anything, as he’d made a couple enemies who were in an income bracket that they could hire whoever they wanted.
Gargan traveled across the rooftops, dodging any other tails he might have acquired.
Several blocks away, he came to a halt, and sat with his back against an air conditioning unit. He fished out a cigarette and blew smoke while he thought.
Somebody was after him. He hoped somebody was after a client of the Tinkers’, because that just left one reason.
“Friggin’ Pembrook! Bigger pain in the butt dead, than he was alive,” Gargan muttered. “How’d somebody get onto to me this quick...?”
He clamped his jaw shut until he was in danger of biting his cigarette in half. He needed a plan, a clue to follow, but his mind kept drifting to who he should, or wanted to, beat senseless.
“Make me feel better...not sure it would help,” He growled. “Need somebody I can talk to...Crocker’s too twitchy...who do I know...?”
He sat for several minutes in angry thought, before giving a grim smile, tossing away the cigarette and getting to his feet.
The 10 AM club had at one time been a hot spot, but nowadays, you went there to get a drink, appreciate the selection of old-school country music on the juke box and be left alone.
The cowboy in the green suit slumped loosely in his booth, savoring his drink like he had all the time in the world.
“Buy you a drink, cowboy?” Gargan asked quietly, taking a seat.
“Huh, thought you were still in jail, Mac,” The other man said, tipping back his hat.
“Just because I go a half hour without attacking Spider-man...!” Gargan muttered.
“What’re you up to then, Scorpion?”
Montana was a trick rope specialist, turned ‘problem-solver’ for various criminal organizations. He was part of the notorious trio, the Enforcers.
Gargan had crossed paths with the Enforcers, during a couple cases, and managed to survive the experience. He and Montana had become casual, drinking acquaintances.
“What’re you up to these days?” Montana drawled, peering over the edge of his glass at Gargan.
“Trying to avoid the costume stuff,” Gargan said, signaling the waitress for a drink. “Got talked into doing a P.I. job. Need some info, but I’m out of practice...”
“Uh-huh,” The cowboy nodded. “Keep talking...I’ll figure out how much it’ll cost you.”
“I talked to the Tinkerer,” Gargan said, struggling to keep his temper under control. On top of everything else, he didn’t want to make an enemy of the Enforcers, and, while he and Montana weren’t necessarily pals, he was one of the more tolerable people Gargan knew. “Right after that, I picked up a tail...and no jokes about my costume. Tinkerer mixed up in anything I should be staying away from?”
“Okay,” Montana nodded. “You get that when the Big man was taken down, a whole bunch of fellas decided it was their chance: The Maggie, Fisk is making a grab for territory and the small timers think this is their shot to run with the big dogs...it’s a mess.”
“Where do you and your boyfriends fit into all this?” Gargan asked, taking a sip of his drink, grimaced and put his glass back down.
“Ox is off, joined some team of super villains...probably get himself killed,” Montana shrugged. “Fancy Dan is busy, wheeling’ and dealing...and me, I plan on sitting here, till the dust settles.”
“So, what’s this got to do with me?” Gargan asked. “Who’s got an interest in me?”
The pause was on the verge of getting uncomfortable, when Montana nodded to himself, and took a sip of his drink.
“The Owl.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Gargan muttered, slumping back in his seat. “This day gets worse by the minute...!”
“Now Mac, I ain’t your pa, or your boss,” Montana said. “But whatever you’re mixed up in, I’d advise you to get outta it, PDQ.”
“Would if I could,” Gargan said, getting to his feet. He fished in his pocket and held out a folded fifty-dollar bill. “Thanks for the tip. Hope this puts a dent in your bar tab.”
Montana tipped his hat, then took the offered bill.
Gargan headed back, towards the rest rooms, then slipped out the back door.
Once in the back lot, he scaled the wall, and hit the rooftops, leaping and racing until he was several blocks away. Gargan had no doubt Montana would deal with anybody who might come looking for him.
He made it to the roof of his apartment, spotted the car watching the entrance and went down the fire escape. The place had been searched while he was gone, and whoever did it felt no need to be subtle.
“Damnit, that was my favorite coffee cup...!” He growled, brushing the fragments into the nearby garbage pail. He picked up a knocked over kitchen chair and then headed for the living room.
They’d tossed his few books off the bookcase and slashed at his sofa cushions. With a couch spring digging into his butt, Gargan perched on the sofa, grabbed the phone and started dialing.
“Are you responsible for the ill-mannered gentlemen camped on my doorstep?” The Tinkerer asked, peevishly, after the second ring.
“I was hoping they were after you,” Gargan explained. “But, yeah, sorry about that. What have you got for me?”
“You’ve got nerve, Gargan, I’ll give you that,” The elderly weapons maker said.
“What I don’t have are answers. Tell me about the key.”
“Mass produced...mundane alloy. The numbers indicate it came from a mass transit establishment....”
“So, train, bus station or airport...in New York,” Gargan muttered. “That narrows it down from a billion places I could look, to a million....great. I’m gonna need to pick it up...”
“Oh yes, please bring more thugs and drama to my workshop.”
“Relax, old man,” Gargan growled. “You still have that drop box on the roof?”
“Yes. You taken up flying or are you planning on doing that spring leaping thing your Scorpion suit does?” The Tinker scoffed. “If you’d just let me...”
“No suit,” Gargan snapped. “The minute I put that on, I then have to worry about cops or capes! I’ll get there. Leave the key in the box. I’ll drop off your money.”
“It won’t be enough.”
“It never is,” Gargan replied, as he hung up.
Another jog across the rooftops, got him to the Tinkerer’s roof.
He knelt, by the bulky air conditioner unit, to keep out of sight.
Bolted to the side of it was a cinderblock-sized metal box.
Gargan pulled out a small, heavy envelope and tipped out the key into his palm. He tucked it in an inside pocket and slid in his own envelope with the promised, if inadequate, cash.
He then sat, his back against the unit, to think.
It felt like he’d been doing a lot of thinking the past 24 hours. Maybe too much.
Gargan’s first thought, was he ‘d been an idiot to take the case, he was too out of practice to play PI.
He frowned, grinding his teeth, and clenching his fists. He took the key out of his pocket, turned it over, like a fidget spinner, until a couple things clicked in his brain.
He looked at the key, his mind racing as pieces slowly fell into place.
“That’s just stupid enough to be right...?”
He’d been a solid, if slightly shady, detective, but since becoming the Scorpion, he’d become someone who acted, rather than thought. He’d been fighting his instincts. Pushing down his rage. Thinking he could just think his way through the problem: treating it like an ‘either/or’ thing.
“Maybe it is time to start beating some folks,” He muttered, getting to his feet.
Leland Owsley lived and worked in a penthouse he referred to as his ‘aerie’.
From the outside, neither the penthouse, or the building it was perched upon, looked that impressive or opulent. It was just another mid-sized skyscraper in the city. Just one more nondescript tree in a forest.
Inside, was a completely different story.
Staggeringly elegant and ostentatious, every surface was polished to a shine.
Mr. Owsley, his green suit perfectly tailored to his portly frame, strolled along the wide, marble-tiled hallway.
His swept-up hair, and wide, unblinking eyes, along with his body shape, is what lead to his infamous nickname.
He walked, his cane tip-tapping against the tiles, paying no more attention to the various servants and bodyguards, than he was to the furniture and fancy bric a brac.
Which was a shame, if the Owl had been more attentive, he might have noticed two guards were not at their posts.
With a dismissive gesture, Owsley shooed away his bodyguards and entered his office. Because of his unusual eyes, he kept it dimly lit. It took a few seconds to notice the figure sitting behind his polished oak desk.
“Who...?” The crime boss muttered, darkly.
“Thought you and I should chat,” Gargan said, reaching over and clicking on the desk light.
Gone was the scruffy brown suit and overcoat of the down on his luck private investigator, Mac Gargan was now clad in the green bodysuit of the Scorpion!
He sat still, the only sign of movement, the slow, side to side of his massive, blunt-ended tail. It seemed to move of its own motivation, like a cobra surveying prey.
The Scorpions’ eyes were tiny, compared to the Owl’s, but they were more than his equal when it came to unblinking intensity.
“You take liberties,” The Owl muttered with casual menace.
“Yeah, because you’re such an upright citizen.” The Scorpion replied. “I’m not here to join the debate club. I’m trying to finish a job and you’re getting in my way. That needs to stop.”
“Really? I see it quite the opposite: you are interfering in business that I wish to resolve...”
The Scorpion placed one gloved hand down on the desk and dragged his claws across the polished wood, leaving five gouge marks.
“Not here to debate,” He responded. “You need to step back, or you and I have a problem. “
“We already ‘have a problem”, Mister Gargan,” The Owl replied, frowning at the damage to his desk. “And while you are likely to survive, however I choose to resolve our problem, I doubt your associates would be so lucky...”
The Scorpion made a sound that was equal parts chuckle and snarl.
“What? Crocker and the Weasel? You think I give a damn about them? Or don’t know you already snatched the Weasel? What part of violent sociopath do you not understand? Dump them both, you’ll be saving me a trip.”
The Owl’s cold stoicism wavered for a brief, anxious moment.
“There’s nobody involved in this mess, that matters, but you and me.” The Scorpion growled, flexing his clawed hands. “Anything else is you blowing smoke. Last time: Do we have a problem?”
Three steel claws poked out of the Owl’s green coat sleeve, and he swung viciously at his uninvited guest.
Even faster was the Scorpion’s tail, a green blur which came down on the crime lord’s arm, pinning it to the desk, and driving his claws into the wood.
Wincing in pain, the Owl glared in fury at the Scorpion.
“Do we have a problem?” The Scorpion asked, with a slow, deliberate tone.
“24 hours,” The Owl said, through gritted teeth. “After that, any hint of you in this city, I will use every resource at my disposal to hunt you down...!”
“And if during that 24, I see any hint of you...” The Scorpion replied.
He glanced down at the Owl’s arm, then back up at the crime lord’s angry face.
Once the Owl retracted his claws, the Scorpion raised his tail, and leapt casually off the desk and melted into the shadows.
Come morning, with 16 hours to go, and the Scorpion suit stashed in the trunk of the car he’d “borrowed” from an acquaintance, Gargan got himself some coffee and made his final plans.
He’d made a call to a Crocker, who was so anxious, Gargan could hear him sweating over the phone. He confirmed the Weasel had gone missing, told him about the Owl’s “suspected” involvement, and lied that if Crocker just stayed put, in his office at the precinct station, he’d likely be safe.
In his corner booth, scattered across the dingy table was a collection of scraps of paper and the key.
The pattern then became take a sip of coffee, move a couple pieces of paper around, stare angrily that them for several seconds.
Repeat until the solution leapt up at him or he lost his temper and smashed the table.
Having it confirmed that the Owl was going likely to take out the Weasel and Crocker, meant a couple less things to worry about.
Gargan wasn’t worried about the Owl. He knew he could handle that windbag and whatever he tried to throw at him, but if they caused enough of a ruckus or if the Owl bumped off Crocker before he’d found the money, then Gargan would have to deal with cops. Trouble with cops might then lead to capes...
“Damn...!” Gargan muttered under his breath.
“You going on a trip, hon?” The waitress asked, topping off his coffee. “Or you just like airports?”
“Big fan of airports,” Gargan muttered, not looking up, but reaching for his coffee mug.
Once, the waitress had drifted off, Mac looked up, his thoughts swirling, while he sipped his mediocre coffee.
“The airport...?” He muttered under his breathe. “Could it be that #$%& simple...?”
He gulped down his coffee, scooped up his assorted notes, and dumped some money on the table.
He spent the drive, distracting himself, by wishing he was one of those villains who could fly or teleport, but couldn’t figure out a way to do it and still keep the theme of his name and costume.
If the Tinkerer ever spoke to him again, Gargan thought he’d ask him about it.
Exiting the car, he made his way through the airport.
The ‘you are here’ map he encountered, made him realize there’d been a ton of construction and renovation since he was here last, let alone, back when he was tracking Pembrook originally.
He trudged his way through the airport to the parking garage and took the elevator to the roof.
The gravel crunched beneath his feet, as he walked to the roofs’ edge. He leaned on the dingy, concrete rail and bracing against the stinging wind, looked out over the massive sprawl of runways, parking lots, rooftops and multitudes of people and cars, looking like ants from this high up.
Ignoring the chill, Mac let the pieces come together in his head.
The last place Danny Pembrook had been seen alive was the airport, and rumor had it, he was now part of the foundation of the new parking garage. The key looked to be the kind you’d have for an airport locker. If everything else connected to the airport, why not the money...?
He nodded to himself and headed back down.
Once among the crowds, Gargan kept it lowkey, while not going too far. You don’t act like you are on the run, you act like you are supposed to be, wherever you decide to hide out.
He paused to check out departure/arrival monitors, glanced over a couple shops and made his way through the level until he reached a section of wall lockers.
He strolled past, giving the tail he’d picked up, a chance to catch up without hopefully tipping him off what his destination really was.
He recognized his tail, and decided this was a problem that didn’t need to be out thought.
Gargan walked down a side corridor, pausing to read the signs, as if he was heading for the car park. He took a turn, pleased to find it an empty stretch, and waited.
His pursuer was a small man, barely topping five feet. Slim and athletic. He had dark hair and a thin, well-trimmed mustache. He wore a smart, tailored suit, a light shade of purple, shoes polished to a mirror finish and a tan fedora.
“Afternoon, Dan,” Gargan said, grimly. “Going on vacation?”
The smaller man, immediately slid into a defensive stance.
“Could ask you the same question, Scorpion.” He replied.
‘Fancy’ Dan Brito was another member of the Enforcers. A much-respected martial artist and the trio’s unofficial leader.
While the other members, Ox and Montana, were happy to be muscle for hire. Dan was a sharpie, looking to not only get the Enforcers a healthy paycheck, but to potentially boost them up the power structure of the East Coast underworld.
“Montana needs to learn to keep his mouth shut,” Gargan muttered, staying still, leaning, for all appearances, casually against the wall. “You bring your boyfriends along? Or you hoping to get in the Owl’s good graces all by yourself?”
Fancy Dan chuckled lightly to himself, stepped back and seemed to relax. He took a thin plastic cigarette holder out of his breast pocket, inserted a cigarette but didn’t light it. Something to play with while he thought and talked.
“Funny running into you here, Gargan,” He finally said. “You heading for cooler climes? I hear the city can get pretty hot this time of year.”
“Spare me, Dan,” Gargan grumbled. “I got business to finish, and I am getting damn tired of mooks getting in my way.”
Dan raised an eyebrow in question. His expression and posture gave every impression of casual interest, but to Gargan’s experienced eye, he saw a coiled spring. Fancy Dan was willing to listen, but he was ready and expecting a fight. Whether, in defense or as part of his plan, Gargan hadn’t entirely decided.
“Can’t see how I’m in your way,” Fancy Dan drawled. “I was behind you.”
“I’m so bored with small timers, eager to prove how tough and clever they are,” Gargan growled, one fist clenching. “Talk straight or walk away and get yourself a slice from the food court.”
Fancy Dan glanced down at his cigarette and took a couple seconds to think. He then shrugged and looked back at Gargan.
“You got hold of something,” he said, idlily. “Stirred up a bunch of people.”
“And a smart fellow could, hypothetically, play one of those angles.” Gargan mused, his expression darkening.
“Don’t take it personal, Scorpion,” Dan shrugged. “You know how the business works...gaah!”
Whatever further glib banter, the diminutive gangster had, was interrupted by Gargan lunging forward. One had clamped onto Fancy Dan’s throat, the other smacked into his stomach.
His quick reflexes saved him from serious internal injuries, but it still knocked the wind out of him. Gargan swiftly hauled Fancy Dan into a nearby men’s room.
The short kung-fu expert regained his senses and unleashed a flurry of blows and kicks.
The attack was more an annoyance, then a serious threat, but Gargan knew the clock was running and any part of his plan that went too long risked bringing airport security down on him.
Flinching and attempting to dodge, Gargan swung Fancy Dan and slammed his head against the hand dryer. The smaller man slumped in his grip.
Using Dan ‘s expensive tie and handkerchief, Gargan tied up and gagged him, stashed him in a stall, cleaned himself up, and then was back on his way.
Gargan struggled to keep his casual demeanor. While he was pretty sure Fancy Dan had been on his own, he couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, that he wouldn’t cross paths with the other Enforcers or any of the Owl’s hired muscle.
Trading speed for not looking suspicious, Gargan returned to the triple bank of lockers. It was like making his way through the rows of a library, until he saw the number that matched the key. He spotted it and walked past it, before heading to a nearby vending machine.
With every appearance of contemplating which diet soda he wanted, he glanced about and waited.
“Can I help you, sir?” A security guard asked.
“Huh...? No thanks,” Gargan said, with his best ‘Hey, I’m just a regular guy!’ vibe that he could muster. “Picking up a friend and their plane is late. Killing time. Where’s the best place to get a drink here?”
The guard didn’t completely let his suspicion go but seemed a bit derailed by Gargan being chatty. He recommended a sport’s bar in the food court and walked off.
Tired of having to be low key and stealthy, Gargan went back to the rows of lockers, found the one he wanted and opened it, promising himself he would beat to death the next person to interrupt him. That thought cheered him up enough to relax.
The locker contained an envelope.
“So, help me god, Pembrook,” He muttered, through gritted teeth. “ I will dig you up and beat the crap outta you...!”
Not wanting to stay in one place too long, he tucked the envelope in his coat pocket and went on the move.
Things were getting complicated, and the noose was being pulled closer and tighter around him, if airport security was paying attention to him. He’d given stealth and thinking through problems a shot, but it was time to fall back on plain old violence.
Moving quickly, without running, or looking too frantic, Gargan made his way back through the airport. Quick glances told him he’d attracted a couple tails, both law enforcement and a couple that told him the Owl might have changed his mind.
Reaching the baggage carousel, Gargan grabbed the duffle bag, he’d stashed there earlier. Slinging it over his shoulder, he quickened his pace and fished out the envelope.
Like he expected, it contained, yet another key and a long-term parking receipt. That matched the tattered one in his clue collection.
Ducking down a side corridor, he snapped the lock on a maintenance closet with a super-strength palm thrust, gave the startled janitor a chop to the back of the neck and opened his bag.
Minutes later, the Scorpion burst through the outside wall, and used his coiled cybernetic tail to spring across the airport, eventually landing in a small, neglected parking lot.
The asphalt was cracked, one corner contained a stack of oil drums and most of the vehicles were small maintenance trucks.
A sad, maroon Toyota corolla sulked in the far corner.
The Scorpion moved to the trunk. The key fit in grudgingly and stuck.
“Oh, forget it,” He growled, digging his claws in and with a screech of metal, yanked the trunk lid off the car.
Amongst the usual clutter a car trunk accumulates, was a dusty duffle bag.
A grin on his masked face, the Scorpion unzipped the bag, and transferred the bundles of cash, into the duffle bag, containing his street clothes.
Behind him, the Scorpion could hear the sounds of airport security dealing with the damage he’d caused and then scouring the area for him.
He looked around, taking in his surroundings and his rapidly shrinking options.
“I was getting pretty sick of the city, anyway,” He muttered, curling up his tail and springing across the airfield. A half-dozen springs took him to the runway and onto the tail of a 747 in process of taking off.
The Scorpion huddled up, clutching the duffel bag to his body, digging his claws into the metal.
One last glance back, the Scorpion made a mental note to send the Tinkerer some cash, to stay in his good graces, and give Montana a call. See if he needed to add the Enforcers to his enemies list.
“When I get back, he muttered to himself. “I’ll stick to easy jobs, like killing Spider-man...wonder where this plane’s going?”
When your resume’ includes private investigator and supervillain, you are deeply invested in keeping unnoticed, whether from clients, suspects, cops or superheroes.
He discreetly made his way through the other pedestrians, crossed the street and entered the drab, squat diner.
He waved off the middle-aged waitress and then made his way to a back booth.
It was already occupied by two men, but Gargan squeezed in, forcing the thin man already sitting there over, until he was pressed up against the wall.
“Well?” He said, sharply to the heavy-set man across from him.
All three kept quiet when the waitress approached. Gargan nodded for coffee.
“This better be good,” The bald villain continued, gruffly, once she’d gone. “I’m on parole and not supposed to be associating with other criminals, as it could cause me to sink back into the kind of behavior that lead to my unfortunate incarceration.”
“Nice to see you too, Mac,” The other man grumbled.
Gargan continued to glare at the bigger man, with an appraising coldness.
Crocker was a police detective, that Gargan met during his private investigator days. Neither particularly liked the other, but as both were considered crooked, but competent at what they did, each had made use of the other to solve cases and make a little extra cash, to supplement their legitimate vocations.
Gargan had gotten mixed up with J. Jonah Jameson and his, at the time, pet mad scientist, and gone on to a new career as the villainous Scorpion.
Crocker had done some discreet work for the notorious ‘Big Man’, and barely survived that crime lords’ downfall with his badge and pension intact.
The third man was a greasy, morose informant, who was so nondescript and kept to himself, that neither of the other men could have told you his full name. Most people just referred to him as ‘The Weasel”.
“I don’t know what you two are up to,” Gargan muttered, glancing from one to the other. “And not sure I care. Make your pitch, so I can tell you to go to hell, finish my coffee and have plenty of time to catch a ballgame.”
Crocker, unsure, if Gargan was being sarcastic or not, frowned at the ex-investigator, then shrugged.
“I’ve been checking into something, and the Weasel...uh...Al helped me get in touch with you...” Crocker said.
“You got 12 seconds to get my attention,” Gargan interrupted, with listless menace. “Don’t waste it with a story.”
“I’ve got a lead on the Pembrook stash,” Crocker said, in a low voice, while glancing around the diner, guardedly.
Gargan paused, the coffee mug not quite to his mouth. He set it down and peered intently at Crocker.
“If you’re screwing around...”
Back in his pre-Scorpion days, Gargan and Crocker had both been peripherally involved in the Pembrook case.
One of New York’s crime bosses had in his employ, Dan Pembrook, a low-level numbers man. Danny spent several years, very quietly, playing with the accounts and building up a rather sizable “retirement fund”.
Unfortunately, before Pembrook could enact this plan, his employer caught wind of his creative accounting efforts and Danny received a very different, much less relaxing ‘retirement’.
There was an added twist, in that no one knew where the money was hidden, and with Pembrook no longer available to ask, it was a popular pastime to attempt to hunt down the missing money.
The Pembrook Stash had reached near urban legend levels of recognition.
The two men continued to peer at each other for several heartbeats, both, in their own way, mentally planning what came next.
“Okay, Gargan eventually sighed. “Tell me your damn story.”
“I got busted,” Crocker said, frowning at the memory. “And was stuck on “admin duty”: paper shuffling and busy work in a back office, where the higher ups were hoping I’d get so friggin’ bored I’d kill myself.”
“Move it along, or I’m gonna start crying,” Gargan muttered.
“So, I was cleaning out some evidence boxes that got misfiled...and found some stuff about Pembrook...including a couple bits of info that didn’t get into the official police reports.”
“Somebody hid it away?” Gargan asked, sounding interested, despite his best efforts.
“No idea,” Crocker shrugged. “Might just be somebody was lazy or stupid...anyway, I got some stuff...solid stuff. This could be it, Mac!”
Gargan studied the police detective for several seconds. He was having trouble with the strange feeling of actually taking Crocker seriously.
Since becoming the Scorpion, he’d walked away from his old life, as a private investigator with no second thoughts or regrets...except one.
The Pembrook case.
As a detective, Gargan didn’t have the best, or cleanest, reputation. He wasn’t the smartest detective, but he was persistent. He’d built his rep, by treating every case he took, like a starving dog with bone.
While he wouldn’t mind finding that hidden million, Gargan was equally enticed by the idea of finally closing the case.
“What you got in mind?” He asked, in a low tone.
“I got this,” Crocker said, pulling an envelope from inside his jacket. “Couple leads I can handle with a few phone calls but couple one’s gonna need legwork.”
Gargan reached for the envelope, only to have Crocker pull it back. He scowled and then banged his fist against the table, hard enough to startle nearby diners and dent the Formica.
“Don’t screw with me, Crocker,” Gargan growled through clenched teeth.
“I’m not, but that doesn’t mean I’m trusting you,” His tablemate said, working to keep his tone even and a reassuring smile on his face. “I need to know you’re in and you understand how this little partnership works.”
“It sounds like I’m supposed to do the work, while you sit on your fat butt,” Gargan said. “Did I guess right? As an investigator, I got fifty bucks a day, plus expenses.”
“Yeah, I don’t like you either,” Crocker muttered. “Give me 24 hours. Do some legwork, if it’s a bust, walk away and go back to getting your ass kicked by Spider-man.”
Gargan glared at his tablemate, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.
“Fine,” He finally grunted. “What about your boyfriend here?”
“Hey!” The weasel protested.
“Alonzo’s been helping me, when I couldn’t move around,” Crocker explained. “He was the one who told me you were back on the street.”
“Whatever you promised him,” Gargan said. “Comes out of your cut.”
Crocker grudgingly nodded and slid the envelope across the table to Gargan.
“See what you can do with that.”
“How we working this?” Mac asked.
“Alonzo’s our go-between,” Crocker explained. “I have got to stay quiet.”
The Weasel pulled a dingy index card out of his coat and nervously handed it to Gargan.
“The top number’s my apartment,” He stammered. “The other two are places I hang out...do jobs for. You need something, ask for me.”
“Yeah, don’t hold your breath,” Gargan said, dropping a couple dollars on the table and getting to his feet. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Outside, Gargan paused to light a cigarette. It gave him a chance to have a discreet look around. Not spotting anyone that looked like a cop or crook that might have an interest in him, the super villain walked on, contemplating Crocker’s deal.
Crocker and the Weasel were both idiots, and he was unsure if this treasure hunt was worth jeopardizing his own plans. At the same time, the Pembrook case was like a bit of food stuck in his tooth, and to finally wrap it up would be sweet.
Not to mention the chance to get his hands on a million bucks.
“What the hell...!” He shrugged. “Let’s give it a shot.”
Gargan waited until he was back in his apartment before opening the envelope Crocker had given him.
Perched on his sagging, mud-brown sofa, Gargan cleared the numerous takeout food containers and empty coffee cups and spread out several sheets of paper, on the secondhand coffee table.
Gargan sat back on his sofa and read the first page. It was scribbled notes from the Pembrook investigation. He absently fished in between the cushions, pulled out a pen and began scratching his own notes. Most of the info was common knowledge about the case. He circled the couple lines that had potential.
The page that got his attention was a form filled in by Pembroke’s ex-wife, most likely widow, during one of her many police interviews.
Crocker had circled one line and notice a couple newer scribbled lines in Crocker’s handwriting.
‘Pembrook’s wife: only time this info showed up listed as a contact.” The note read. There was a name, phone number and address listed.
“Do I want the money bad enough to go to Queens...?” Gargan muttered.
A couple minutes of research found the woman, Diane Gault, currently worked at a sports bar, a better place to investigate her.
He spent the rest of the afternoon checking out the other leads. As night was falling, Gargan was left with the waitress and an uninspiring rental car receipt.
Gargan grabbed his coat and decided if she turned out to be another dead-end, at least he could get a drink.
He didn’t hate the bar when he got there. It wasn’t bright and shiny, but older, low ceiling and paneled in dark wood. Gargan glanced around, quickly and discreetly, until he spotted his target. He then got a table in her station and settled down, with a beer and a vague plan.
Glancing over at the couple of TVs gave him a way to take in the rest of the bar and its crowd.
There were a couple slightly sketchy characters, here and there, but no one that seemed to have an interest in him or the waitress.
“Need a refill?” Diane asked.
She wasn’t bad looking. Obviously getting older, but not going crazy to hide it. Her whole vibe was someone that wasn’t putting on an act.
“Yeah,” He nodded. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” The waitress replied, absently, as she had already banked his order and was mentally scouting out the rest of her station.
“You were friends with Tracey Pembrook?”
That snapped her back. Diane now gave Gargan her full, slightly anxious, attention.
“Do I know you?” She asked. “I’ve got other tables and...”
“Look, I’m not here to cause any trouble,” Gargan said, keeping his tone low and casual, but kept his gaze on her, on the lookout for any bit of body language that might help him.
“Yeah, uh-huh,” She replied, highly skeptical. “Tracey heard that so many times, she had to leave town. Why don’t you guys leave her alone. Bad enough her husband bailed on her and left her to deal with all the crap he stirred up...”
“Okay, wait a second,” Gargan said, keeping his to tone even. “I’m not looking for trouble and I’m not really sure what you’re talking about. I’m an insurance investigator and Tracey Pembrook’s name came up in connection with a policy I’m working on. If you have any info about her, great, if not, they aren’t paying me enough to stalk anybody.”
He took out his wallet and showed her his fake ID and business card.
Diane peered at him, thoughtfully, for several seconds, during which Gargan tried to keep from grinding his teeth. Since becoming the Scorpion, he was not a patient man, preferring to vent his frustration and anger in bouts of violence. It generally got him good results.
Day to day life was grating enough but getting back out and needing to discreetly obtain answers and information, he was ready to beat somebody senseless.
“You aren’t looking for Tracey?” The waitress asked. “Cause, I haven’t talked to her since...”
“Just want to doublecheck some information,” Gargan said, hoping she wouldn’t notice how tightly his free hand was gripping the edge of the table. “Not even sure it’s anything but a coincidence her name showed up in my paperwork.”
“I’ve to get back to work,” she said, after a few more seconds of thought. “I’ll get you a refill. Give me a couple minutes to think.”
“Yeah, sure,” Gargan nodded. “I’ve been stuck worse places.”
He nodded towards the nearest TV.
“Besides, I’ve got twenty bucks on the Redskins.”
He gave a brief glare at her retreating back and then angrily gulped down the rest of his beer.
Gargan spent ten minutes, watching the game ( he really didn’t give a damn about the Red Skins), moving his empty glass around and pretending he didn’t see the bartender and one of the waiter’s keeping an eye on him for potentially bothering a waitress.
He was about ready to give up and walk away, when Diane returned with a glass of beer on a tray.
“Here you go,” she said, with a forced smile. “Have a nice night.”
Gargan slid his clenched fist under the table and fought to keep his expression neutral.
While it would be deeply satisfying to back hand Diane and then beat the crap out of the two knuckleheads that would come rushing to protect her, it would completely trash his plan to lay low and most likely kill any shot he had at tracing further leads.
Seething with barely contained anger, Gargan decided to finish his beer, stiff Diane on the tip and then go throttle Crocker for wasting his time.
He swigged down the beer, and still mentally grumbling to himself, picked up the check.
Scrawled at the bottom, where the waitress usually left a scribbled ‘Thanks and come again’ or a smiley face, it read ‘take the napkin’.
Gargan tossed some bills on the table, deftly palming the check and napkin and left, giving the suspicious bartender a friendly nod on the way past.
He kept his hands in his coat pockets as he walked away, and a professional eye on the people around him. Still nothing that looked or felt like a tail.
He ducked into a hole in the wall pizza place, ordered a slice and then ducked into the men’s room, while he was waiting for his order.
Folded into the napkin was a nondescript, brown key, no identifying mark besides a slightly worn four-digit number. There was also one of the sports bar’s cards.
Scrawled on the back it read:
“Tracey gave me this. No idea if it helps.”
Mind racing, Gargan tucked both key and card in an inside pocket of his coat, threw away the napkin and receipt, collected his slice and headed for the subway station.
He had a lead and a destination in mind.
The building was a block of grey concrete. It looked like any of dozens of garages or machine shops around the city.
Gargan slipped down the side alley and knocked at a side door.
There was a click and the door opened. Gargan went through a dimly lit foyer.
The workroom was practically one huge room, ringed with work benches, banks of equipment, odd pieces of machinery, assorted crates and several battered recliners.
At the far wall, an old man sat hunched over the workbench, intently working on a bulky, metal gauntlet.
He had a large head, with a fringe of white hair.
His clothes were plain, threadbare and stained with various smears of oil, chemicals and the occasional scorch mark.
He turned on his stool, to face his guest, and pushed his glasses up to his prominent forehead to peer at his visitor.
“Gargan, I thought you were still in jail?” He grumbled. “Want me to improve that suit of yours. Have some ideas for a laser...”
“Laying low, Mason.” Gargan said, coming across the room and leaning on the work bench.
Phineas Mason, known to the criminal community as the ‘Terrible Tinkerer” was a brilliant engineer and designer, who toiled as a work for hire gadget builder. “Need a bit of information.”
“I’m not in this for my health,” The Tinkerer muttered, turning back to his task.
“Relax,” Gargan said, reaching into his pocket. He held out the key. “I need this traced. Find out what it fits. You can do this in an afternoon. Fifty bucks and you don’t need to leave your comfy chair or build a death ray.”
Still scowling, the Tinkerer took the brown key, and looked it over, adjusting the special lenses on his glasses.
Gargan leaned back, spotting the old man’s expression shifting from grumpy to thoughtful.
“Basic machining,” The Tinkerer muttered. “Number...probably a locker, P.O. box or...possibly an office...older building...hmmm.”
“Here’s my number,” Gargan said, grabbing a scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil. “You got a phone I can use?”
The old villain nodded and absently gestured towards the end of the workbench. Gargan tried the numbers the Weasel had given him but had no luck reaching the informant.
“Figures.” He grumbled, getting to his feet. “Let me know soon as you got something, okay?”
“Of course.” The villain muttered absently in reply. “See yourself out.”
Back on the street, trying to decide whether he wanted to get dinner, follow another lead or find somebody to punch repeatedly, and which order he’d prefer to do the three in.
So caught up in his own, thoughts, Gargan went a block before noticing he was being followed. Taking a minute to shift from thoughtful anger to annoyance at himself, he started mentally assessing how much trouble he might be in.
There were two of them: one strolling behind him and another who gave a good impression of someone pausing, trying to figure out where he was and where he needed to go.
Gargan slowed his pace, glanced into the window of a restaurant, using its reflective surface to get a further look at his followers.
The one across the street was moving along, probably planning to get ahead of him, so the other guy could tag off.
If they weren’t annoying him so much, Gargan would have admired how smoothly professional they were. He almost felt bad about what he was about to do.
He glanced again at the restaurant’s window, then continued on his way. Before he reached the watcher that had moved ahead of him, Gargan ducked down a side alley.
As soon as he was out of sight, Gargan pulled off his gloves and used his steel-hard fingernails to scale the grimy brick wall.
Crouched on the edge of the roof, he waited until one of his followers entered the alley, looking around. It didn’t occur to the guy to look up, and Gargan was able to easily take him out, by jumping down.
Gargan immediately, clamped a hand onto the man’s throat and hauled him back down the alley and out of sight.
“I’m in kind of a hurry,” He growled in the man’s ear. “So, I’ll make this quick: I’m gonna ask questions. You answer and walk away. Don’t answer and wake up in the hospital. Were you guys watching the Tinkerer?”
The man defiantly glared at Gargan.
Taking his free hand, the super-villain dug a super hard thumbnail into the man’s back. As he felt a rib threaten to crack, the man made a raspy noise and shook his head.
“You’re following me?”
The man nodded, starting to sweat with worry.
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Gargan drawled, right before he drove the heel of his hand against the man’s temple. He sagged like a sack of mud and Gargan let him fall to the damp, trash-strewn ground.
He was then up the brick wall and over the edge of the roof before the man’s partner came looking for him.
The man propped his partner up against a nearby dumpster, failed to revive him and then, cursing under his breath, walked off, most likely in search of a phone, in order to report to whoever had hired them.
“Interesting...!” Gargan muttered.
Neither guy looked familiar to him, but that didn’t mean anything, as he’d made a couple enemies who were in an income bracket that they could hire whoever they wanted.
Gargan traveled across the rooftops, dodging any other tails he might have acquired.
Several blocks away, he came to a halt, and sat with his back against an air conditioning unit. He fished out a cigarette and blew smoke while he thought.
Somebody was after him. He hoped somebody was after a client of the Tinkers’, because that just left one reason.
“Friggin’ Pembrook! Bigger pain in the butt dead, than he was alive,” Gargan muttered. “How’d somebody get onto to me this quick...?”
He clamped his jaw shut until he was in danger of biting his cigarette in half. He needed a plan, a clue to follow, but his mind kept drifting to who he should, or wanted to, beat senseless.
“Make me feel better...not sure it would help,” He growled. “Need somebody I can talk to...Crocker’s too twitchy...who do I know...?”
He sat for several minutes in angry thought, before giving a grim smile, tossing away the cigarette and getting to his feet.
The 10 AM club had at one time been a hot spot, but nowadays, you went there to get a drink, appreciate the selection of old-school country music on the juke box and be left alone.
The cowboy in the green suit slumped loosely in his booth, savoring his drink like he had all the time in the world.
“Buy you a drink, cowboy?” Gargan asked quietly, taking a seat.
“Huh, thought you were still in jail, Mac,” The other man said, tipping back his hat.
“Just because I go a half hour without attacking Spider-man...!” Gargan muttered.
“What’re you up to then, Scorpion?”
Montana was a trick rope specialist, turned ‘problem-solver’ for various criminal organizations. He was part of the notorious trio, the Enforcers.
Gargan had crossed paths with the Enforcers, during a couple cases, and managed to survive the experience. He and Montana had become casual, drinking acquaintances.
“What’re you up to these days?” Montana drawled, peering over the edge of his glass at Gargan.
“Trying to avoid the costume stuff,” Gargan said, signaling the waitress for a drink. “Got talked into doing a P.I. job. Need some info, but I’m out of practice...”
“Uh-huh,” The cowboy nodded. “Keep talking...I’ll figure out how much it’ll cost you.”
“I talked to the Tinkerer,” Gargan said, struggling to keep his temper under control. On top of everything else, he didn’t want to make an enemy of the Enforcers, and, while he and Montana weren’t necessarily pals, he was one of the more tolerable people Gargan knew. “Right after that, I picked up a tail...and no jokes about my costume. Tinkerer mixed up in anything I should be staying away from?”
“Okay,” Montana nodded. “You get that when the Big man was taken down, a whole bunch of fellas decided it was their chance: The Maggie, Fisk is making a grab for territory and the small timers think this is their shot to run with the big dogs...it’s a mess.”
“Where do you and your boyfriends fit into all this?” Gargan asked, taking a sip of his drink, grimaced and put his glass back down.
“Ox is off, joined some team of super villains...probably get himself killed,” Montana shrugged. “Fancy Dan is busy, wheeling’ and dealing...and me, I plan on sitting here, till the dust settles.”
“So, what’s this got to do with me?” Gargan asked. “Who’s got an interest in me?”
The pause was on the verge of getting uncomfortable, when Montana nodded to himself, and took a sip of his drink.
“The Owl.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Gargan muttered, slumping back in his seat. “This day gets worse by the minute...!”
“Now Mac, I ain’t your pa, or your boss,” Montana said. “But whatever you’re mixed up in, I’d advise you to get outta it, PDQ.”
“Would if I could,” Gargan said, getting to his feet. He fished in his pocket and held out a folded fifty-dollar bill. “Thanks for the tip. Hope this puts a dent in your bar tab.”
Montana tipped his hat, then took the offered bill.
Gargan headed back, towards the rest rooms, then slipped out the back door.
Once in the back lot, he scaled the wall, and hit the rooftops, leaping and racing until he was several blocks away. Gargan had no doubt Montana would deal with anybody who might come looking for him.
He made it to the roof of his apartment, spotted the car watching the entrance and went down the fire escape. The place had been searched while he was gone, and whoever did it felt no need to be subtle.
“Damnit, that was my favorite coffee cup...!” He growled, brushing the fragments into the nearby garbage pail. He picked up a knocked over kitchen chair and then headed for the living room.
They’d tossed his few books off the bookcase and slashed at his sofa cushions. With a couch spring digging into his butt, Gargan perched on the sofa, grabbed the phone and started dialing.
“Are you responsible for the ill-mannered gentlemen camped on my doorstep?” The Tinkerer asked, peevishly, after the second ring.
“I was hoping they were after you,” Gargan explained. “But, yeah, sorry about that. What have you got for me?”
“You’ve got nerve, Gargan, I’ll give you that,” The elderly weapons maker said.
“What I don’t have are answers. Tell me about the key.”
“Mass produced...mundane alloy. The numbers indicate it came from a mass transit establishment....”
“So, train, bus station or airport...in New York,” Gargan muttered. “That narrows it down from a billion places I could look, to a million....great. I’m gonna need to pick it up...”
“Oh yes, please bring more thugs and drama to my workshop.”
“Relax, old man,” Gargan growled. “You still have that drop box on the roof?”
“Yes. You taken up flying or are you planning on doing that spring leaping thing your Scorpion suit does?” The Tinker scoffed. “If you’d just let me...”
“No suit,” Gargan snapped. “The minute I put that on, I then have to worry about cops or capes! I’ll get there. Leave the key in the box. I’ll drop off your money.”
“It won’t be enough.”
“It never is,” Gargan replied, as he hung up.
Another jog across the rooftops, got him to the Tinkerer’s roof.
He knelt, by the bulky air conditioner unit, to keep out of sight.
Bolted to the side of it was a cinderblock-sized metal box.
Gargan pulled out a small, heavy envelope and tipped out the key into his palm. He tucked it in an inside pocket and slid in his own envelope with the promised, if inadequate, cash.
He then sat, his back against the unit, to think.
It felt like he’d been doing a lot of thinking the past 24 hours. Maybe too much.
Gargan’s first thought, was he ‘d been an idiot to take the case, he was too out of practice to play PI.
He frowned, grinding his teeth, and clenching his fists. He took the key out of his pocket, turned it over, like a fidget spinner, until a couple things clicked in his brain.
He looked at the key, his mind racing as pieces slowly fell into place.
“That’s just stupid enough to be right...?”
He’d been a solid, if slightly shady, detective, but since becoming the Scorpion, he’d become someone who acted, rather than thought. He’d been fighting his instincts. Pushing down his rage. Thinking he could just think his way through the problem: treating it like an ‘either/or’ thing.
“Maybe it is time to start beating some folks,” He muttered, getting to his feet.
Leland Owsley lived and worked in a penthouse he referred to as his ‘aerie’.
From the outside, neither the penthouse, or the building it was perched upon, looked that impressive or opulent. It was just another mid-sized skyscraper in the city. Just one more nondescript tree in a forest.
Inside, was a completely different story.
Staggeringly elegant and ostentatious, every surface was polished to a shine.
Mr. Owsley, his green suit perfectly tailored to his portly frame, strolled along the wide, marble-tiled hallway.
His swept-up hair, and wide, unblinking eyes, along with his body shape, is what lead to his infamous nickname.
He walked, his cane tip-tapping against the tiles, paying no more attention to the various servants and bodyguards, than he was to the furniture and fancy bric a brac.
Which was a shame, if the Owl had been more attentive, he might have noticed two guards were not at their posts.
With a dismissive gesture, Owsley shooed away his bodyguards and entered his office. Because of his unusual eyes, he kept it dimly lit. It took a few seconds to notice the figure sitting behind his polished oak desk.
“Who...?” The crime boss muttered, darkly.
“Thought you and I should chat,” Gargan said, reaching over and clicking on the desk light.
Gone was the scruffy brown suit and overcoat of the down on his luck private investigator, Mac Gargan was now clad in the green bodysuit of the Scorpion!
He sat still, the only sign of movement, the slow, side to side of his massive, blunt-ended tail. It seemed to move of its own motivation, like a cobra surveying prey.
The Scorpions’ eyes were tiny, compared to the Owl’s, but they were more than his equal when it came to unblinking intensity.
“You take liberties,” The Owl muttered with casual menace.
“Yeah, because you’re such an upright citizen.” The Scorpion replied. “I’m not here to join the debate club. I’m trying to finish a job and you’re getting in my way. That needs to stop.”
“Really? I see it quite the opposite: you are interfering in business that I wish to resolve...”
The Scorpion placed one gloved hand down on the desk and dragged his claws across the polished wood, leaving five gouge marks.
“Not here to debate,” He responded. “You need to step back, or you and I have a problem. “
“We already ‘have a problem”, Mister Gargan,” The Owl replied, frowning at the damage to his desk. “And while you are likely to survive, however I choose to resolve our problem, I doubt your associates would be so lucky...”
The Scorpion made a sound that was equal parts chuckle and snarl.
“What? Crocker and the Weasel? You think I give a damn about them? Or don’t know you already snatched the Weasel? What part of violent sociopath do you not understand? Dump them both, you’ll be saving me a trip.”
The Owl’s cold stoicism wavered for a brief, anxious moment.
“There’s nobody involved in this mess, that matters, but you and me.” The Scorpion growled, flexing his clawed hands. “Anything else is you blowing smoke. Last time: Do we have a problem?”
Three steel claws poked out of the Owl’s green coat sleeve, and he swung viciously at his uninvited guest.
Even faster was the Scorpion’s tail, a green blur which came down on the crime lord’s arm, pinning it to the desk, and driving his claws into the wood.
Wincing in pain, the Owl glared in fury at the Scorpion.
“Do we have a problem?” The Scorpion asked, with a slow, deliberate tone.
“24 hours,” The Owl said, through gritted teeth. “After that, any hint of you in this city, I will use every resource at my disposal to hunt you down...!”
“And if during that 24, I see any hint of you...” The Scorpion replied.
He glanced down at the Owl’s arm, then back up at the crime lord’s angry face.
Once the Owl retracted his claws, the Scorpion raised his tail, and leapt casually off the desk and melted into the shadows.
Come morning, with 16 hours to go, and the Scorpion suit stashed in the trunk of the car he’d “borrowed” from an acquaintance, Gargan got himself some coffee and made his final plans.
He’d made a call to a Crocker, who was so anxious, Gargan could hear him sweating over the phone. He confirmed the Weasel had gone missing, told him about the Owl’s “suspected” involvement, and lied that if Crocker just stayed put, in his office at the precinct station, he’d likely be safe.
In his corner booth, scattered across the dingy table was a collection of scraps of paper and the key.
The pattern then became take a sip of coffee, move a couple pieces of paper around, stare angrily that them for several seconds.
Repeat until the solution leapt up at him or he lost his temper and smashed the table.
Having it confirmed that the Owl was going likely to take out the Weasel and Crocker, meant a couple less things to worry about.
Gargan wasn’t worried about the Owl. He knew he could handle that windbag and whatever he tried to throw at him, but if they caused enough of a ruckus or if the Owl bumped off Crocker before he’d found the money, then Gargan would have to deal with cops. Trouble with cops might then lead to capes...
“Damn...!” Gargan muttered under his breath.
“You going on a trip, hon?” The waitress asked, topping off his coffee. “Or you just like airports?”
“Big fan of airports,” Gargan muttered, not looking up, but reaching for his coffee mug.
Once, the waitress had drifted off, Mac looked up, his thoughts swirling, while he sipped his mediocre coffee.
“The airport...?” He muttered under his breathe. “Could it be that #$%& simple...?”
He gulped down his coffee, scooped up his assorted notes, and dumped some money on the table.
He spent the drive, distracting himself, by wishing he was one of those villains who could fly or teleport, but couldn’t figure out a way to do it and still keep the theme of his name and costume.
If the Tinkerer ever spoke to him again, Gargan thought he’d ask him about it.
Exiting the car, he made his way through the airport.
The ‘you are here’ map he encountered, made him realize there’d been a ton of construction and renovation since he was here last, let alone, back when he was tracking Pembrook originally.
He trudged his way through the airport to the parking garage and took the elevator to the roof.
The gravel crunched beneath his feet, as he walked to the roofs’ edge. He leaned on the dingy, concrete rail and bracing against the stinging wind, looked out over the massive sprawl of runways, parking lots, rooftops and multitudes of people and cars, looking like ants from this high up.
Ignoring the chill, Mac let the pieces come together in his head.
The last place Danny Pembrook had been seen alive was the airport, and rumor had it, he was now part of the foundation of the new parking garage. The key looked to be the kind you’d have for an airport locker. If everything else connected to the airport, why not the money...?
He nodded to himself and headed back down.
Once among the crowds, Gargan kept it lowkey, while not going too far. You don’t act like you are on the run, you act like you are supposed to be, wherever you decide to hide out.
He paused to check out departure/arrival monitors, glanced over a couple shops and made his way through the level until he reached a section of wall lockers.
He strolled past, giving the tail he’d picked up, a chance to catch up without hopefully tipping him off what his destination really was.
He recognized his tail, and decided this was a problem that didn’t need to be out thought.
Gargan walked down a side corridor, pausing to read the signs, as if he was heading for the car park. He took a turn, pleased to find it an empty stretch, and waited.
His pursuer was a small man, barely topping five feet. Slim and athletic. He had dark hair and a thin, well-trimmed mustache. He wore a smart, tailored suit, a light shade of purple, shoes polished to a mirror finish and a tan fedora.
“Afternoon, Dan,” Gargan said, grimly. “Going on vacation?”
The smaller man, immediately slid into a defensive stance.
“Could ask you the same question, Scorpion.” He replied.
‘Fancy’ Dan Brito was another member of the Enforcers. A much-respected martial artist and the trio’s unofficial leader.
While the other members, Ox and Montana, were happy to be muscle for hire. Dan was a sharpie, looking to not only get the Enforcers a healthy paycheck, but to potentially boost them up the power structure of the East Coast underworld.
“Montana needs to learn to keep his mouth shut,” Gargan muttered, staying still, leaning, for all appearances, casually against the wall. “You bring your boyfriends along? Or you hoping to get in the Owl’s good graces all by yourself?”
Fancy Dan chuckled lightly to himself, stepped back and seemed to relax. He took a thin plastic cigarette holder out of his breast pocket, inserted a cigarette but didn’t light it. Something to play with while he thought and talked.
“Funny running into you here, Gargan,” He finally said. “You heading for cooler climes? I hear the city can get pretty hot this time of year.”
“Spare me, Dan,” Gargan grumbled. “I got business to finish, and I am getting damn tired of mooks getting in my way.”
Dan raised an eyebrow in question. His expression and posture gave every impression of casual interest, but to Gargan’s experienced eye, he saw a coiled spring. Fancy Dan was willing to listen, but he was ready and expecting a fight. Whether, in defense or as part of his plan, Gargan hadn’t entirely decided.
“Can’t see how I’m in your way,” Fancy Dan drawled. “I was behind you.”
“I’m so bored with small timers, eager to prove how tough and clever they are,” Gargan growled, one fist clenching. “Talk straight or walk away and get yourself a slice from the food court.”
Fancy Dan glanced down at his cigarette and took a couple seconds to think. He then shrugged and looked back at Gargan.
“You got hold of something,” he said, idlily. “Stirred up a bunch of people.”
“And a smart fellow could, hypothetically, play one of those angles.” Gargan mused, his expression darkening.
“Don’t take it personal, Scorpion,” Dan shrugged. “You know how the business works...gaah!”
Whatever further glib banter, the diminutive gangster had, was interrupted by Gargan lunging forward. One had clamped onto Fancy Dan’s throat, the other smacked into his stomach.
His quick reflexes saved him from serious internal injuries, but it still knocked the wind out of him. Gargan swiftly hauled Fancy Dan into a nearby men’s room.
The short kung-fu expert regained his senses and unleashed a flurry of blows and kicks.
The attack was more an annoyance, then a serious threat, but Gargan knew the clock was running and any part of his plan that went too long risked bringing airport security down on him.
Flinching and attempting to dodge, Gargan swung Fancy Dan and slammed his head against the hand dryer. The smaller man slumped in his grip.
Using Dan ‘s expensive tie and handkerchief, Gargan tied up and gagged him, stashed him in a stall, cleaned himself up, and then was back on his way.
Gargan struggled to keep his casual demeanor. While he was pretty sure Fancy Dan had been on his own, he couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, that he wouldn’t cross paths with the other Enforcers or any of the Owl’s hired muscle.
Trading speed for not looking suspicious, Gargan returned to the triple bank of lockers. It was like making his way through the rows of a library, until he saw the number that matched the key. He spotted it and walked past it, before heading to a nearby vending machine.
With every appearance of contemplating which diet soda he wanted, he glanced about and waited.
“Can I help you, sir?” A security guard asked.
“Huh...? No thanks,” Gargan said, with his best ‘Hey, I’m just a regular guy!’ vibe that he could muster. “Picking up a friend and their plane is late. Killing time. Where’s the best place to get a drink here?”
The guard didn’t completely let his suspicion go but seemed a bit derailed by Gargan being chatty. He recommended a sport’s bar in the food court and walked off.
Tired of having to be low key and stealthy, Gargan went back to the rows of lockers, found the one he wanted and opened it, promising himself he would beat to death the next person to interrupt him. That thought cheered him up enough to relax.
The locker contained an envelope.
“So, help me god, Pembrook,” He muttered, through gritted teeth. “ I will dig you up and beat the crap outta you...!”
Not wanting to stay in one place too long, he tucked the envelope in his coat pocket and went on the move.
Things were getting complicated, and the noose was being pulled closer and tighter around him, if airport security was paying attention to him. He’d given stealth and thinking through problems a shot, but it was time to fall back on plain old violence.
Moving quickly, without running, or looking too frantic, Gargan made his way back through the airport. Quick glances told him he’d attracted a couple tails, both law enforcement and a couple that told him the Owl might have changed his mind.
Reaching the baggage carousel, Gargan grabbed the duffle bag, he’d stashed there earlier. Slinging it over his shoulder, he quickened his pace and fished out the envelope.
Like he expected, it contained, yet another key and a long-term parking receipt. That matched the tattered one in his clue collection.
Ducking down a side corridor, he snapped the lock on a maintenance closet with a super-strength palm thrust, gave the startled janitor a chop to the back of the neck and opened his bag.
Minutes later, the Scorpion burst through the outside wall, and used his coiled cybernetic tail to spring across the airport, eventually landing in a small, neglected parking lot.
The asphalt was cracked, one corner contained a stack of oil drums and most of the vehicles were small maintenance trucks.
A sad, maroon Toyota corolla sulked in the far corner.
The Scorpion moved to the trunk. The key fit in grudgingly and stuck.
“Oh, forget it,” He growled, digging his claws in and with a screech of metal, yanked the trunk lid off the car.
Amongst the usual clutter a car trunk accumulates, was a dusty duffle bag.
A grin on his masked face, the Scorpion unzipped the bag, and transferred the bundles of cash, into the duffle bag, containing his street clothes.
Behind him, the Scorpion could hear the sounds of airport security dealing with the damage he’d caused and then scouring the area for him.
He looked around, taking in his surroundings and his rapidly shrinking options.
“I was getting pretty sick of the city, anyway,” He muttered, curling up his tail and springing across the airfield. A half-dozen springs took him to the runway and onto the tail of a 747 in process of taking off.
The Scorpion huddled up, clutching the duffel bag to his body, digging his claws into the metal.
One last glance back, the Scorpion made a mental note to send the Tinkerer some cash, to stay in his good graces, and give Montana a call. See if he needed to add the Enforcers to his enemies list.
“When I get back, he muttered to himself. “I’ll stick to easy jobs, like killing Spider-man...wonder where this plane’s going?”