And for the past hour, I'd felt something moving underneath me, under the pier. It moved too regularly for it to be coincidence, and it left metal behind, where there hadn't been any before.
Call me drunk or paranoid, it was probably some guys out crabbing, but I'd been twitchy around the studio with absolutely nothing happening that wasn't supposed to, and I couldn't figure out why crabbers would be hanging traps six feet above the waterline.
I dodged the few candy wrappers scudding around in the sea breeze and found a ladder leading down the side of the pier. I hesitated, wondering if I shouldn't just mind my own business, but then Flattop and Josh showed up.
"You okay, Nick?" Josh asked. "Anything bothering you?"
I had a sudden urge to tell him everything - and I mean everything - but I took a deep breath of the wind coming in off the ocean and the impulse passed. "I dunno," I said. "Just twitchy, I guess. I heard something funny under the pier."
"Probably sea lions," Flattop said. "They sleep on the crossbeams."
I knew it wasn't sea lions suspending crab traps above the water line. "Anyone care to play detective?" I didn't wait for an answer, just swung around onto the ladder and led the way down.
Josh was a little tipsy, and so was Flattop, but I was so hyped and paranoid that I didn't question the wisdom of taking a couple of drunks on a jaunt through the underpilings of a pier. As it turned out, I shouldn't have worried about Flattop anyway, since those overstretched digits of his let him climb like a monkey. Josh got by by holding onto his belt.
I don't know if you've ever been under a pier, but halfway down there's a whole network of beams and crossjoists, sturdy enough to support almost anything, though it's generally just used by the sea lions who hop up at high tide. It was low tide now, a good twelve foot drop to the water below.
I followed the prickling in my skin, avoiding the occasional sea lion, and soon heard the sound of an outboard motor. That was the main source of electricity. On one of the nearby pilings, a metallic circle gleamed in the reflected light of the water.
A boat had tied up to the pilings, and three men were busy affixing another to the tar-soaked wood with duct tape. From the size and shape, I knew exactly what it was - a film cannister.
Maybe I should remind you, since it's generally only known in Hollywood, but film used to be made with nitrocellulose. That's half of what you make dynamite with, and any blast you see in a motion picture generally comes from a few old reels and a match.
I probably don't need to tell you that, but from what happened next, all I can say is that they don't breed for brains in New York. The outboard engine had covered the sound of our arrival and the men in the boat hadn't noticed us yet, but then Josh called out as loud as he could, "Excuse me! You don't want to be doing that, do you?"
They turned around and next thing there were guns out. Flattop pulled Josh to the planks, which was lucky for him since a moment later a bullet whistled through in the space where he'd been.
That was all the time I needed. My St. Elmo's fire was up and my will-o'-wisps were out. They went straight for the guns.
Honestly, I'd only thrown shockers, not enough to kill a person, just enough to zap them unconscious, but electricity has a mind of its own and it likes metal. You run a couple hundred volts through a loaded gun, well, all I can say is you don't have a gun anymore.
You don't have a hand either, not that it mattered, since there were a couple strays, one of which went for the engine, the other for the stuff in the bottom of the boat.
The explosion would have looked good on film, if you like things like that. Bodies flew everywhere and I fell to the planks next to Josh and Flattop, struggling to pull my St. Elmo's back inside before I killed them too. Saltwater splashed over me and I felt the energy arc and sizzle.
Then there was a gurgling sound as the boat went under. In the distance, I could hear the barking and splashing as frightened sea lions jumped back into the ocean.
A moment later, everything was back to normal except for a few bubbles and bits of flaming debris on the surface of the water.
Josh was babbling something about there being too much wind, then Flattop looked at me and I almost gagged at the hero-worship in his weird eyes. "You're Will-o'-Wisp...."
I looked away. "Yeah, I guess so." The film spool taped to the piling glinted evilly, a white envelope stuck to its face, water dripping from the corners.
"Who's Will-o'-Wisp?" Josh asked.
I gritted my teeth, wishing Pete would take that note out of his voice. "Will-o'-Wisp's a hero. He's saved the lives of a lot of jokers. He's about the only one who protects us out here ... but no one knows who he is."
I looked over at Flattop, now being supported by Josh. I shrugged. "I got an ace. I shocked a few people I saw beating up jokers, and no one seems to remember your face if you've got glowing eyes." I lit them up with a little foxfire for demonstration. Yd done it a few times in the mirror, and I knew that under the shadow of hat it could make you look pretty scary. More than that, it kept people from remembering my face, which is important if you're up the sleeve.
"'Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men....'" Josh intoned.
"Beats me, but it sure as hell isn't the police." I took out a cigarette and used a tiny will-o'-wisp as a lighter.
I didn't even have time to take a puff before the bomb's envelope went up in a flash of blinding white fire. We hit the planks just as a second explosion blew, louder than the first without the water to cushion it.
Once my eyes cleared from the dazzle, I saw what was left behind: the piling, cracked through and bent sideways. Small flames licked at the tar-soaked wood.
"Oh shit," Josh said.
Oh shit was right. I totally lost it and my St. Elmo's went up like a beacon. I got to my feet, bristling with energy, and moved away from Josh and Flattop so I wouldn't run the risk of killing them too. My mind went into overdrive as the pieces clicked together. The dripping envelope. The magnesium flare. The blast.
"The tide's the timer," I said. "We've got to disarm the suckers before the water gets high enough to finish the job." One of the things I'd learned was that bombs got a lot more powerful the greater the resistance around them. Anything that could crack a piling on the surface could shear right through underwater.
I could feel where the other cannisters were taped to the pilings, but they were too far down for me to reach. But Flattop - I swear, the man could literally hang upside-down by his toes. His Exacto knife made short work of the duct tape, and he came back up with a bomb, the envelope-fuse thankfully dry.
It was hard, but I pulled the St. Elmo's fire back inside myself, then gingerly pried the envelope loose from the tape. Underneath was a strip of grey metal, the end leading to a hole drilled in the upper edge of the canister. The seam where the halves fit together was carefully tarred shut, waterproofing the ensemble until the tide did its work.
I slit the envelope with my penknife. Inside was some glittery powder. I dropped it into the water and it went up in a flash of white fire.
Pete touched the metal strip. "Magnesium."
I nodded. "In the powder too." I carefully pulled out the wire, then got out my penknife and pried apart the halves of the canister.
Black and grey flecks drifted free, dancing in the ocean breeze. Just like I thought, someone had run film through a coffee grinder. Messily, since there were a few larger chunks and snippets mixed in.
I took out one of the largest and held it up to the moon. The film was scratched, but the image was still clear: Jane Russell and her bosom got up in a western outfit. I slipped it in my pocket and closed the canister.