By Sam Sleep
I’m Frank Pepitone, from the Preternatural Hero Force, Accountability Department. Everyone who works for us has superpowers of some kind, but not everyone who has superpowers works for us. The higher-ups consider this an inconvenient truth. I consider it about twenty thousand headaches that aren’t mine.
One headache I couldn’t dodge was this Superdude fiasco. The FBI had tracked a lead down to PHF, but their jurisdiction ended there. And that’s why I was on the spacious balcony of Superdude’s penthouse with the rather thin PHF branch of the Russo case file—and one incriminating photo of the city’s favorite superhero.
I knew Superdude fairly well. The idea of him laundering money was like an elephant owning a pet mouse. Highly unlikely. But I was paid the big bucks for not trusting anyone. I had to make sure the faces of the PHF kept their own faces clean. They had the great power; I had the great responsibility.
It didn’t bother me… as long as the higher-ups let me skin the cat my own way.
I slapped the manilla envelope down on the alfresco table. “That’s photographic proof.”
Superdude hardly glanced at it, instead sitting back in his chair to look at me. “Proof of what?”
The sun glinted off the glass towers behind him, and sirens and horns sounded faintly from the streets far below. The wind tried and failed to muss his perfect golden hair. His cape wasn’t so impervious.
I was surprised he even bothered to suit up. Maybe he just never took it off.
I sat across and opened the folder. A single page of Superdude’s financials stared back at me. “I think you know what this is about,” I said.
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
I took another look at the barely useful paper in my folder. “You don’t have anything you want to tell me?” I asked.
“Come on, Frank. You know I wouldn’t hurt a fly. Much less…” He gestured vaguely to the folder. “Whatever you think this is.” Sweat on his forehead betrayed him.
He spoke the truth. That was my superpower. Truth detection. Human lie detector. It wasn’t as useful as everyone assumed it was.
He wasn’t lying, but he didn’t really say much either. I wouldn’t give him the benefit of the doubt yet.
“Nervous, Mr. Dude?”
He scoffed. “No.” Sweat dripped into his eye and he quickly swiped it away.
I took a closer look at my folder. Two transactions were highlighted. An anonymous two-million-dollar donation, and a purchase of chips at some casino in Atlantic City, also for two million. “You like to gamble, Superdude?”
His head dropped. “I knew I should have worn my glasses and a hoodie. Please don’t tell the fans.”
I folded my arms. “About the gambling, or the money laundering?”
“Wait, what?” He shook his head. “What are you talking about, money laundering?”
Confusion, then. His words were true, but emotions could lie. I had to hear him say it. “You’re telling me you didn’t make a deal with the Russo family to lose two million dollars gambling?”
“Of course not! Sure, maybe I went down to Atlantic City to hit up a casino. But that was my own money. I didn’t make a deal with the Russo family or anyone else to launder money in any way, shape, or form.” Truth again.
Just as I suspected.
I glanced at the financial report. The highlighted lines popped out at me, begging not to be ignored.
“What did you get a picture of, anyway?” Superdude reached for the envelope on the table.
I slapped a hand down on it, re-evaluating what I knew of Superdude. I wasn’t allowed to believe in coincidence, after all.
“You get an anonymous donation for two million, then days later, go to a casino and buy that much in chips. And that doesn’t sound suspicious to you?”
“That’s what happened. I’m not involved in money laundering. What do you want me to say?”
Truth. It’s all true. Like I said, not as useful as everyone thinks.
“You won’t tell anyone about my… guilty pleasure, will you?”
I needed a moment to think. I remembered passing a home bar on the way outside. “I need a drink,” I said, gathering the folder and envelope and tucking them under my arm.
“Oh, I don’t actually…” He followed me in, but not fast enough to keep me from rifling through his cabinets. The strongest thing I found was a bottle of cranberry juice.
I faced him. “Where’s the good stuff?”
He shrugged. “It’s a dry bar. I, uh… I don’t drink.”
“Of course you don’t.” I poured myself a tumbler of cranberry juice.
I took a sip and grimaced. “I can’t believe you don’t drink. I need my usual. You couldn’t keep some…” I stopped suddenly as my train of thought rerouted. “Usual.”
I opened the folder again. “Do you always go to”—I read the name off the financial report—“The Red Diamond Casino?”
He nodded sheepishly. “Yeah.”
“And you always buy in with two million?”
“When I have enough, yes, but—”
“And you always lose.”
He winced. “My girlfriend is always telling me to quit. Look, I’ll find some help. I’ll call the hotline. Join a focus group.”
I was pretty sure that’s not what focus groups were for, but I didn’t correct him. “As far as I’m concerned, Superdude, you’re only guilty on two counts. One: being predictable. The Russo family must have learned your routine and figured it was a good way to clean up a cool two mil. And two: being an idiot.”
I pulled the photo out of the envelope and slapped it on the counter. “And I’ve got photographic proof of the second charge.”
It was a candid of him eating a burger, mid-bite, sauce dripping off his chin.
He gave it a blank look. “Wow. And here I thought I was the one being immature.”
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