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A Spotty Record	By : keithcompany Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Crossovers Views: 1777 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or setting of the Marvel Universe. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

Chapter List
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Marcia tried, just once, to say I hadn't actually been authorized to be out on the Dream, to meet the kid and present the Celebrity. I agreed fully. "But I was INVITED by the Supreme Leader of Latveria. Who the fuck would have the authority, or the balls, to override that invitation?" She stormed off and didn't talk to me for a week.   Yay.
Rabin talked to me. The next day, he waved me into his office. "I got a courtesy from a reporter at WEST News." He tapped a key on his laptop. "This is going to be on tonight's broadcast." I saw film of Kevin showing off his hand attachment. "And a guy at school said it looked Geeky, like a comic convention souvenir." He turned from the reporter to the camera. "I said, 'Doctor Doom gave me this hand.' Then I blew him halfway across the playground."
Rabin stopped the clip. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"Hyperbole. The charge isn't sufficient to move a bully any farther than his own muscles can jump. I'm sure the kid ran, but Kevin didn't actually blast him away." I leaned down to rewind the video just a bit. "And that green light at the base of his thumb? Means the capacitor is charged. Whatever did happen, Kevin's parents thought it was righteous."
"He mentioned the Dream Foundation! They're going to hold us responsible!"
"I invited Von Doom," I said. "Never said a word about a taser. Any lawsuit's going to have to at least name Von Doom as a codefendant. Need a brave, brave lawyer, even in this city." I walked out. Left him to sputter.
There was no backlash for the hand or any bully that got slightly singed. Not for us, anyway. We got a few requests to meet Doom. I contacted the kids, asked, "Is Doom REALLY your hero, or do you just want a taser? Because you're going to have to look DOCTOR DOOM in the eye and tell him the truth, you know?" Most hung up on me. A couple thought it over, then begged off.
Dara, the volunteer coordinator, brought me a new problem, though. "There's a girl, an anorexic. She… She wants to meet The Blob."
I suspected I was being set up, but just took the application. It seemed real. I got up and grabbed my coat. "I have to make some calls." She looked at me, at my desk phone, and back at me. I didn't reply, just went out.
I bought a burner phone and rode the subway randomly for a while. Then I got a hotdog and sat down on a bench…somewhere. I hadn't even kept track. I called a number I'd been given almost 10 years ago.
"How did you get this number?" a voice asked after 1 ring. A powerful voice. Not Monarch of Latveria powerful, but up there.   A dangerous and powerful man in New York, certainly. And it was pretty hostile right now. But, after meeting Doom, I wasn't that scared of this guy. Not quite.
"A lawyer came to me in my cell. Told me that Empire Financial was supposed to be a legitimate business. Part of someone's public face. It was the owner's shame that the manager he hired was dirty, and he felt I was owed a favor. "
"Empire Financial was busted nine years, four months ago," the voice pointed out. "Everyone that earned a favor has called it in already. Mostly for money. A few jobs. A little revenge."
"I'm Raymond Malone," I said. "If the favor has expired, I'll toss this phone in a trash can and never bother you again." I heard fingers tapping on a keyboard. Or stabbing. Hammering might be a better word. The voice wasn't the only powerful thing at the other end of the line.
"Ah, yes, Mr. Malone. We expected your call either 9 years ago, or when you were released. What can we do for you?" The hostility had dropped. The voice wasn't honey and cream, but at least we were in a discussion, now, not an accusation.
"I need to find a criminal," I said quickly. "I mean no implication that you associate with any criminals, sir, but I am aware that you have access to a LOT of information about New York. I work for Grab A Dream, and we need to contact The Blob for a kid. Any help you could offer in contacting him would be greatly appreciated. I mean, that's the favor I'm requesting."
Silence stretched for a minute. "You're in Manhattan," he finally said. "Essex Street Station." I was? Well, I wasn't going to argue with the man. "You need to get to Bedford Stuyvesant. Liberty Avenue." There was a street address, then a pause. "And this doesn't count."
"Count?" I asked, brilliantly witty as ever.
"As your favor. We heard about your work at Grab A Dream. Doctor Doom, very impressive. And, we hear, very respectful. Anything we can do to help, just call. A street address isn't even an effort."
"Thank you, sir. I'll try not to take advantage of your generosity." Then I broke the connection. THEN I realized I just hung up on the Kingpin. Leading director of crime in New York City. "Whooooops," I muttered.
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When I was in the Navy, going through a school to become a Personnelman, our class commander taught us four things to note about any bar you enter on liberty.
First, check to see if there's anything that can be used to barricade the door. Jukebox, table, a fat prostitute at the corner booth, whatever was handy. Second, find out if there's a back door and where it goes. Make sure the alley isn't a dead end. Third, the bathroom must have a window. Keep in mind, if you cannot reach it or cannot fit through it, it doesn't count as a window. And finally, is there a place you can see the street, so you can count how many cop cars have responded to whatever you've done.
Sensible rules that made for a survivable liberty call. I'd show you the scar from the one time I ignored this advice, but that scar was lost with my left knee.
Anyway, in New York, we had our own rules for evaluating bars. Four signs that told you if you were in a Scene. As in Action Scene, or Scene of the Crime. A Scene was a bar that was prepared for some hero in tights to come along and beat the daylights out of one or more of the regular customers.
The bar Fisk sent me to, Sammy's? Definitely a Scene, and it was obvious as soon as I came down the steps from street level to find the doors. First off, the doors were more than double wide. They were huge. Very wide, very tall. Big enough that superhuman heroes and villains would not have to stoop or squeeze through, or damage the place just to look inside.
Second, all the tables and benches were bolted to the floor and walls. Limited their use as missile weapons or barricades.
Third, the Foxhole. Some section of the bar will be heavily reinforced at a Scene. Usually it's under the cash register, and it'll be wide enough for the bartender to crouch behind it, ducking glass, bullets, thugs, whatever else the hero feels like throwing. In Sammy's, the entire bar was made of cinderblocks. Any place the bartender was standing when the cross-examination started, he just had to drop to the floor. Some of the blocks had been cracked by impacts.
And finally, the lights. The only lights in the entire place, not counting the neon beer ads, were really powerful floodlights over each booth. They pointed at the floor in front of the booth, dropping the occupants into shadows behind the glare. Even looking in the mirror didn't get you a glimpse of anyone, or their business.
So, as it was a Scene, the bartender took one look at me and waved me off. "There's an Olive Garden two blocks up the avenue," he suggested. "Much more convivial to a man of your means."
I limped over to the bar and an empty stool. I mugged the leg just the slightest bit. Inside the pen, you hid weakness. At a scene, you tried to indicate that you weren't a threat. "I was told I might find someone here."
"Can't help you," he said, shaking his head.   Just then, a younger kid came out of the back, hauling a big dishwasher tray of beer steins.
"Riesche?" I said. "Carl?"
"RAY!" the kid replied. He put down his burden and leaned over the bar to shake my hand. "How the hell are you, Ray?"
"Much better, seeing you," I said. I was. He looked healthy, and he looked employed. "Didn't know you were getting out," I said/asked.
"She-Hulk got the case overturned. Something to do with aliens posing as corporate headhunters… I didn't really understand what happened, but I wasn't going to stick around until they explained it."
"Of course not." He introduced me to the bartender, who turned out to be his father. Dad was happy to recognize the 'Ray' from some of his son's stories. We'd both been in the scullery, doing what he was doing right now. Just not a lot of beer steins on the inside. We caught up briefly. Then I explained what brought me down here. They shut up. Instantly and completely. Their faces turned to wood.
"I'm certainly not asking either of you to point him out or set up a meet," I said. "But can I just sit here for a while, maybe he'll wander by?"
That's when the lights in the mirror went out. I could not make out what was behind me, but it or they occluded the light from at least three booths. Then it felt like someone slapped a rack of ribs across my back. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a thumb wrap around my upper arm on one side, and two fingers around the other.
A very deep voice bubbled out of the darkness at my back. "Carl? This guy's okay?"
"I swear he was when we were inside, Mr. Dukes," Carl said. He always was an honest kid. A little more support might have been nice right then, but I wasn't too worried. My seat was still on the stool. So, of course, that's when the big guy squeezed and spun me around. It was Fred Dukes, The Blob. A circus fat man who fought the X-Men.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"A fourteen-year-old girl asked the charity I work for to get you to come speak with her."
He was stunned by that answer. Silent for a long moment. "Why?" he finally asked. "Who wants to meet The Blob?" He slapped his gut. Waves rippled across his body. I felt them through the hand still on my back and up through the stool from the floor. All that blubber, he could use it as muscle when he wanted. I think he massed about as much as the building we were under.
"She used to be overweight," I said. "She took the teasing she got very, very personally. Now she's got anorexia, and she's resisting therapy. She's afraid if she cures this, she'll go back to being fat, and being teased about it. I think she hopes you can tell her how to deal with teasing."
"Heh," he grunted. "You don't want me visiting her. I'd tell her to tell them to fuck off."
"Okay," I said. I'd have shrugged if I could move anything above the waist.
He was surprised. "What?"
"If that's your natural response, that's what she wants to hear," I explained. "It's her 'Dream,' to meet you. Not our effort to package therapy through a celebrity figure. No one's going to coach you or edit."
"Really? I can… I can tell her what Fred Dukes would do in her place?"
"It's exactly what she asked for," I pointed out. "Everyone else is probably tip-toeing around her, unsure what they can or cannot say. You can skip past all that if you want."
He let go and reached past me, hand coming back with a stein of beer. He sipped, eyes on me. "I don't want to say something, you know, wrong. Make it worse. I'm an asshole, but not a complete asshole."
"She's IN therapy, and it's failing" I said. "Might be she needs a partial asshole. But, you know, she's fourteen. She could probably handle a few profanities. High school is like that, these days."
He sipped some more, thought some more. Finally, he said, "I got no warrants on me right now," he said.
"Great. I have her schedule, maybe you can see her between some appointments?"
"Who else is going to know?"
"In advance? Right now, you and me," I promised. "No cops, no lawyers, not her doctor, maybe not her, depending on how we do it. Her parents know what she asked, but no one's made any promises, much less an appointment."
He kept glancing behind me. Hopefully Riesche was giving a thumbs up. Then I received a phone number.
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Amy and her fathers left the Medical Arts building on 53rd after her appointment. I stepped towards them on the sidewalk and showed them my ID. "Mr. Antov, we spoke on the phone?"
"Yes," he said suspiciously. "I thought you were going to call this afternoon. When we got back to the apartment."
"Yeah, well, the Dream has accelerated, if you can make some time."
"What does that mean?" Amy asked. I pointed. Across the street, Fred Dukes sat at two tables in the window of The Little Italy Diner. He waved with one hand, eating a pizza with the other. Not a slice, a pizza.
"Oooh! Dad! Dad! Can we?" she asked, then instantly shifted to, "You promised I could."
"It's him. It's really him. I never thought he'd actually…" one father said anxiously. The other punched him in the arm.
"Of course we promised, Amy. Let's go meet the Duke."
"Mr. Dukes," I offered as a gentle correction while we crossed the street. I got a grateful nod. And an anxious stare. They went inside, sat down opposite the villain. I stayed on the sidewalk. A beat cop came up, not running, but quick-marching. Someone must have called. I blocked him from stepping in front of the window.
We ascertained that there were no outstanding warrants for Dukes. Nothing was being damaged. We'd paid in advance for all food, and even pre-tipped the waitress and three bus-boys. There was no cause for alarm or confrontation. He was welcome to stay, but I suggested that it would be prudent not to crowd the man. He didn't want to abandon his duty to protect the city, but he did realize that one man, alone, wasn't going to do a whole lot to stop The Blob. He backed off a few storefronts and kept watch.
I watched the Antovs, all three of them, split a small pizza, talking with Dukes. He mostly spoke to Amy, though he did answer the other two's questions now and then.
After a while, he got up and went out the back. He had to use the rolling delivery door in the alley. The family came out the front. Amy was ecstatic. "That was fucking awesome!" she said.
One of her fathers objected. "Amy, you can't use such language!" he snapped, horrified.
"I sure fucking can," she insisted. "Can't I?"
The other father, the one who'd been anxious before, looked thoughtful. "What if, every swear word she uses, she has to eat something?" he asked his spouse. The other looked scandalized.
"Are you serious?" Amy asked. "I mean, are you fucking serious?" Beginners, I thought. She's smart, though, she'll become more adept with practice. I went inside to make sure everything was settled.
I gave Dara a copy of the diner receipt when I reported success. I didn't charge the foundation for the beer or the burner phone that got us there. Just for a lot of Italian food. Turns out she'd already received a call from one of the Dads. "He said to tell you they were 'very fucking impressed'."
"Amy's cheer is pretty fucking contagious," I nodded. Then I went to refund my pizza outlay. I hoped the news wouldn't interview Amy on live TV.
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A Spotty Record