“You think this is about money, Max?” Dodge rolled his eyes as he said it, but deep down he knew he was going to have to swallow his pride. There were other considerations — expensive considerations — that might very well force him to accept Beardsley’s terms.
After the episode with the President’s kidnappers, Dodge and Hurley, along with another of Captain Falcon’s old teammates, Father Nathan Hobbs, and a young lady named Molly Rose Shannon, had become the trustees of a fantastic secret: a repository of ancient, but somehow otherworldly, technology. Their possession of that secret had led to a unique partnership with the government, which included among other things, the gift of a Catalina flying boat. But more recent developments had thrown that partnership into limbo. The technology they protected had been stolen by an agent provocateur working with the Nazi government of Germany, and in order to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands, Father Hobbs had sacrificed himself in a climactic showdown in India. When the smoke had finally settled, the unusual devices were no longer functional. That loss meant that the government no longer had any reason to offer financial support. Between the rent on his apartment, and the fees for the slip where the Catalina was moored, there was no way he could afford to give up a regular paycheck, no matter how it was earned.
The editor wasn’t finished. “Then there is the matter of your new column to consider. I’ve got to be honest with you, Dodge. I’m only running it as a favor to you. Let’s face it, without your name attached to it, no one would even give it a second glance. So if you’re dead set on fighting this, then consider the Road to Tomorrow a dead end.”
Dodge sagged in defeat. Beardsley had found the chink in his armor and gone right for the heart.
He made one last half-hearted attempt. “Does it have to be Lafayette? He’s kind of screwy.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Hurricane remarked.
Unlike Dodge, who had begun his career as a sports writer, Rodney Lafayette had only ever written fiction — salacious, sensational, scandalous fiction for the pulp magazines — in such copious quantities that he had begun promoting himself as “Lightning Fast Lafayette.” His reputation for erratic behavior, however, had modified his moniker, at least among those whom he imagined to be his peers; in the brotherhood of pulp magazine writers, he was called “Lightning Rod.”
“He’s a damn fine writer,” Beardsley said. “Fastest in the city, and he’s never missed a deadline.”
The last was a none-too-subtle dig against Dodge, who had himself been a paragon of punctuality right up until his own first brush with adventure. When the fate of the world was at stake, priorities had a way of being reorganized.
“Look on the bright side, Dodge. You’ll have more time to go gallivanting off to Timbuktu, or wherever it is you go.”
Dodge glanced at Hurley. “It’s not just my decision.”
Beardsley pushed away from his desk and stood. The change in his demeanor was unmistakable. He knew he had won, and even Hurley’s imposing presence no longer served to intimidate him. “Tell you what. Rod’s waiting downstairs; why don’t we go down and have a cup of coffee together. We’ll see if we can’t ease some of your lingering concerns.”
As they moved out of the editor’s office, Hurricane clasped Dodge’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Dodge. It was fun while it lasted.”
“We’re not down for the count yet.”
“No, but maybe it is time to retire the Cap, what with all that’s happened.” Though he was capable of emitting a roar to rival a stalking lion, Hurricane’s Tennessee drawl had the effect of soothing Dodge’s wounded ego like the purr of a kitten. And the big man was right; things were different now.
When Captain Falcon had been nothing more than a fictional creation, Dodge’s muse sang loud and strong. But the stories hadn’t come quite so easy of late. And losing Molly, who had decided to remain in India, hadn’t helped either. Maybe it was time for a change.
As he followed Beardsley out of the office and down a flight of stairs to the newsroom on the second floor of the Clarion building, where reporters and copywriters were busy pecking away on typewriters, Dodge’s ire began to subside. He knew he was probably going to have to swallow his pride, and he was looking forward to washing to bitter taste from his mouth with a pint of lager at McSorley’s. There was a pretty barmaid there who made no secret of her crush on Dodge, and while he wasn’t over Molly — not by a long shot — this was proving to be one of those rare days when the distraction afforded by a little empty adulation would actually be welcome.
Then, just as quickly as it had formed, that notion frayed and evaporated when his gaze was drawn to the woman lingering at the top of the ornate staircase leading down to the lobby.
It was impossible not to notice her. A statuesque blonde with piercing blue eyes, she would have been absolutely beautiful if her demeanor had been less severe. It was easy to imagine other women, and even men, calling her disparaging names behind her back, accusation to which she would have been completely indifferent. Her bearing alone would have sufficed to draw attention, but that was only the tip of the iceberg. In a city where most women assiduously followed the dictates of fashion, and would not have dreamed of venturing out into public unless dressed to the nines, this woman was scandalously out of uniform. She wore what appeared to be a man’s work shirt and trousers, and her long blonde hair was pulled back in a single ponytail. And despite the fact that at least half of the eyes in the newsroom were either openly or discreetly fixed on her, she seemed not to care. Her own gaze continually swept the room, back and forth like the beam of a spotlight.
Then she saw Dodge. There was a flicker of recognition as, for just an instant, the woman’s eyes met his own, and then her visual sweep resumed.
Dodge kept watching, wondering if he had imagined that momentary pause, but she did not look directly at him again. Nevertheless, she lingered in his consciousness as he followed Beardsley into the adjoining conference room where the department editors met every morning to brainstorm the day’s headlines.
“Dodge! Did you see it yet?”
The source of the eager shout was a tall, wiry man with dark frizzy hair and wire-rimmed spectacles, waving an exact duplicate of the tabloid Dodge had left on Beardsley’s desk. It was Dr. Findlay Newcombe, Dodge’s friend and presently his collaborator on the Road to Tomorrow segment. “Yeah, I saw it.”
“Now you’ll be a hero to rival Captain Falcon,” Newcombe continued, overflowing with enthusiasm and evidently oblivious to Dodge’s lack thereof. The scientist gestured to the other two people with whom he shared the room: a stocky man with a shock of red hair, wearing what appeared to be a silk smoking jacket, replete with a bright red ascot; and an attractive brunette woman wearing a staid gray suit with a matching pillbox hat. “Rodney and Miss Holloway have been telling me all about the plans for the series.”
“Asking for advice is more like it,” intoned the woman, flashing a smile that was more adoring than coquettish. When she spoke, her manner was confident and effusive. “Nora Holloway, Mr. Dalton. It’s an honor to finally meet you. I’ve read every word of your Captain Falcon stories. They’re inspirational.”
“Indeed.” The man, who could only be “Lightning Rod” Lafayette, harrumphed, and strode forward to grasp Dodge’s hand. “Fanciful tales. Almost as good as my own. But just wait and see; soon the world will be buzzing about the Adventures of Dodge Dalton, and saying ‘Falcon? Who’s that?’”
Dodge smiled politely, but shot a look at Beardsley that could have set the editor on fire. “Do tell, Mr. Lafayette.”
The red-haired man didn’t miss a beat. “Fantastic adventures with dastardly villains and diabolical schemes. Narrow escapes, romance, intrigue; exactly what your public clamors for.”