The bell on the door of the bookstore with no title went TINKadink and Augusta O. Incandescente-Ponui, whom everyone called Gussy, walked in. She was carrying a coffee and waving the newspaper over her head. Mr. Venable was wearing his customary suit in his customary spot reading a slim but detailed history of bridge collapses. He had his feet up, but put them down and leaned forward eagerly at the sight of the Cenotaph.

“Gimme, gimme. It was sold out everywhere I looked.”

“They printed a second edition,” Gussy said and handed over the front section. “It’s literally hot off the presses.”

“Good thing you don’t wander in until eleven, eh?”

She gave him a smiling finger and he shook the page straight THRUMP THRUMP and laid the grayish broadsheet out on the desk (after shoving a half-dozen pounds of books and papers to the side) and sipped his coffee from the mug that read Harper Observatory: Where The Stars Shine. He was already wearing his reading glasses.

WHO IS…THE DOWNSIDER???
Costumed Vigilante Caught On Film!

And under that was the art, which took up everything on top of the fold, six columns across: massive guy suplexing a drug dealer, hurling a pimp into a jungle gym, shattering a mugger’s sternum with a ripped-from-the-ground park bench.

“The Downsider. Absurd,” he muttered.

“Better than what you’ve been calling him.”

“Giant Asshole is perfectly suited to this man. He is very large, hence the ‘Giant.’ And he is an asshole. He is an asshole of the greatest magnitude. The words work individually or in combination.”

“He saved us from a mugger.”

“By crippling said mugger. You call him the Downsider. I’m sticking with Giant Asshole.”

Gussy pointed at a picture that showed the back of the vigilante’s outfit, tapped at it triumphantly.

“I told you he had a cape,” she said.

Mr. Venable peered in.

“That? That’s not a cape. It’s the size of a dishtowel.”

“It’s post-modern. It’s a reference to a cape. He’s wearing a ‘cape.’ It’s a comment instead of a statement.”

He peered at her.

“You went to Harper?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a reason your education was free.”

“Well, he doesn’t need the full cape because he can’t fly.”

“You don’t need a cape to fly. Planes don’t have them. The man has some sort of reverse dickey hanging off his six-foot-wide shoulders. And just look what he’s doing.”

In that particular shot, the Downsider was beating a prostitute with another prostitute.

“That’s uncalled for.”

“He’s making the park safe. Children go there.”

“It was two in the morning, Gussy. Children do not go to Graziano Square at two in the morning.”

“Plep.”

There’s no such thing as a bookstore dog. There’s the occasional ancient black lab, muzzle all white and half-blind, snoozing through business hours in a comfy bed by the register, but it’s an exception: dogs are constitutionally inconsistent with the needs of a bookstore. Imagine a bookstore border collie. The dog would chew through your Trollope in the first ten minutes.  Or one of those mean little fuckers gnawing on ankles in the Romance section. How about a bookstore beagle? That wouldn’t work at all. “Sir, do you have the new Stephen–” BAYOOOO BAYOOOOO. It just wouldn’t work. Bookstores require cats.

“Mlaaaarh.”

The newspaper crumpled under her black paws. The tortoiseshell, who had no name, had leapt from the ground upon noticing that the humans were looking at something. It was one of her favorite activities. Napping and murder were fun, but jumping onto a book someone was trying to read was a hoot-and-a-half. They–the humans, that is–would always try to reason with you first, she thought. “Come on. Get off.” Why would you try to reason with a creature that just plopped its ass on your book or teevee or whatever? The very act was unreasonable! Clearly, the cat thought, jumping onto a book was an opening gambit that says, “I am a crazy motherfucker,” but every single time: “Come on, sweetie. Get going, please.” She thought it was hilarious when they were polite.

Mr. Venable was not polite. He picked her up under the armpits and heaved her eight feet onto the nearer of the two tables in the middle of the shop’s front room. The theme this month was Natives and Savages: on one table was literature from foreign countries; on the other were books written about those countries by white guys. 10% discount if you bought the appropriate volumes in tandem. The cat went,

“FfrRROWgh,”

And zipped back into the dimness of the shelves behind the tables, making note of her treatment as she went.

“How old is that cat? She was here when I used to come in as a kid,” Gussy said.

“I’ve no idea. Cut her open and count the rings.”

“That’s trees.”

“Trees, cats, what’s the difference? We’re discussing the news of the day. Have you, Miss Incandescente-Ponui, any idea how many panicked meetings are going on right now?

Mr. Venable had a specific smile on his face: it was the look of a man about to watch his favorite movie or eat a beloved meal or receive a blowjob from someone who had previously displayed both ability and enthusiasm in fellatio. I have had this experience on several occasions before, the smile said, and enjoyed the fuck out of it every time. He stood, and continued.

“The cops will be losing their minds: just because they don’t want to fight crime doesn’t mean anyone else is allowed to. The Town Fathers will be desperate for someone, anyone, to tell them their opinions. The criminals won’t know what crime to commit. Perhaps they can bribe the Giant Asshole. Or maybe they have to murder him. I would also imagine that there are tee-shirts being printed as we speak.”

“We saw this guy a week ago. Everybody knows about him.”

“Everybody knows about the boogedy-man, too, but the situation would change were there a photo of him on the front page of the paper. This–”

He picked up the paper and shook it.

“–requires a statement. An official statement. All centers of power in Little Aleppo must respond to this. It’s imperative.”

“The cops kinda do have to say something.”

“Kinda. Yeah, kinda.”

Gussy had not been working in the bookstore with no title for very long, but she had come to recognize Mr. Venable’s various sarcasms. The word “Yeah” was a tell.

“Don’t be condescending.”

“You’re my employee. I’m of a higher status than you. Everything I say to you is by definition condescending.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m just so excited.”

“What do you think the cops are gonna say?”

The cops had many thing to say, but none were particularly suitable for the evening news. The uniformed officers were rooting for the Downsider and had been since they heard of him; the pictures in the Cenotaph–none of the cops read the article–only reinforced their view. The cops in squad cars and walking beats enjoyed violence, and disliked criminals; the Downsider was everything they’d want from a human being. The detectives in their sharp suits thought the vigilante should be pursued and captured, because what the fuck else would detectives want to do? The officers had several positions, most of them designed to get rivals fired.

The 80’s were a transitional period for the LAPD (No, Not That One): right in between the Old Days and Nowadays. The department was no longer corrupt, at least not by policy. An officer didn’t walk up and down the Main Drag every Tuesday filling a grocery sack with cash any more. Several of the uniformed men had college degrees. Several of the uniformed men were women. One was now required to have a cogent argument as to why a civilian needed to be hit in the head with a stick, as opposed to the old reason, which was “I wanted to.”

Frenchy Somme was from the Old Days, when the only businesses that the cops did not tax were the legitimate ones. (Instead, they allowed the criminals to shake the legitimate businesses down, and then taxed the crooks.) He had not carried the bribe bag up and down the Main Drag, but he had been dispatched the next day to visit those along the route who were late or short. Frenchy did not go to college, but he had struck many college students with his baton. He was also not a woman, but had been on the force when the first female officer strapped on her gunbelt, and viciously harassed her all in good fun. Frenchy thought women were to be defended, and attacked those who declined to be. He was from the Old Days.

Everything hurt.

There was a mirror on the inside of the closet door, so he swung it open and stood up as straight as he could. Faces punch back. Bad for your hand as it is for his jaw. Knuckles like red-hot ingots.; he could hear them hiss. He had a date for the knees. Most of him had decayed over the years, but not the knees, The left one blew when that little hippie punk–Italian, maybe, or Spanish–tackled him during the ’71 Draft Riot. (The Armadillo Room did a Five-Cent Beer Night and it turned into a riot.) Right one went getting out of the car responding to the ’72 Draft Riot. (The Armadillo Room pulled the same dumb bullshit as the previous year, and several of the largest police officers had to stop by the next day to whomp on the owner’s head for a good quarter-hour. Beer has remained market price at the Armadillo since then.) Oh, and the left wrist, but that was done in the service of a higher ideal: punching a fireman in the face at the annual interdepartmental football game.

But Frenchy Somme was from the Old Days and he soldiered through. On willpower. And opiates. Willpower and opiates are natural allies, Frenchy thought as he walked out of his office into the bullpen and then out to the lobby and the perfect lawn of the police station, where there was a cameraman and a boom guy and a woman with gargantuan blonde hair and a smart peach blouse.

“Ah, dammit.”

“Chief Somme? Cakey Frankel, KSOS News.”

“I know who you are, Cakey.”

“That’s so sweet. I love meeting fans.”

“You’re the weathergirl.”

Cakey Frankel had started off at KSOS as the weathergirl on the 5:00 news. There are few jobs less strenuous than reporting the weather in Little Aleppo. It’s cool in the winter, and warm in the summer except for three days when it’s real hot. Also, it rains every 18 days. And that’s it. A chimp could do it. A chimp did do it: his name was Professor Bananas, and he did the forecast every night for six years. His handler would set him in front of the map of the neighborhood, which would have cartoon suns or (once every 18 days) rain clouds attached to it. The anchor, Trusted Meese, would say, “And now Professor Bananas with the weather,” and they would cut to the chimp, who would point at the map, and then cut back to Trusted, who would say, ” And that was Professor Bananas  with the weather.” On Fridays, the ape would wear wacky outfits, such as Hawaiian shirts. There was disappointment when Professor Bananas left the show, but it was tempered, as chimpanzees quit jobs by going berserk and devouring the face, hands, and genitals of interns. It Was Fun Until The Very End, Professor read tee-shirts that sprouted up.

So Cakey got the job. Being human, however, she was expected to speak, and speaking was not Cakey’s strong suit. Not the technical aspect of it–she had a croony alto, and did not stutter or stammer–but the content portion. Cakey was clueless. Imagine a shop that specialized in board games, and you went in and asked for Clue, and they did not have it. Imagine just the diagram of a crossword puzzle. Imagine an incredibly boring Nancy Drew book in which nothing gets solved. That is how little clue Cakey Frankel had. As basic as the weather patterns of Little Aleppo were, she couldn’t quite grasp them.

But she was good on teevee, maybe because she was psychologically incapable of not being herself. Her heart lay behind an open window, possibly because she didn’t have the sense to close the curtains. Trusted missed the Professor–they used to drink together–and turned his ire on Cakey, but this just made her more popular. You were almost hard-wired to root for her against adversity: she was like a baby crawling though a working foundry.

“What’s the barometer doing, Cakey?”

“It’s attached to the wall, Trusted. Just sitting there measuring stuff.”

“Good heavens, you’re a twit.”

KSOS’ owner, Paul Loomis, Sr, showed him the letters flowing in. Several asked him to be kinder to that lovely Cakey, but the vast majority were straight-up threats. Trusted promised to tone it down.

“Thank you for the weather, Cakey.”

“Oh, God gives us the weather, Trusted. I just talked about it.”

“You’re just a simpleton, woman. DAMMIT, I WANT MY MONKEY BACK.”

Trusted took a week’s vacation, and Cakey Frankel was a field reporter when he got back. Her reporting style consisted of asking “How do you feel about the allegations?” and then nodding thoughtfully.

“Cakey, we’re rolling in five, four, three,” and the cameraman held up two fingers, then one.

“We’re not actually rolling, Chief. He’s referring to the videotape.”

“I’m familiar with the technology. Seriously, aren’t you the weathergirl? What happened to Flip?”

Flip Chares was the other field reporter. He was at Town Hall hunting down the Town Fathers, who were locking themselves in various offices and climbing out various windows trying to avoid him, the news intern from KHAY, or Barry Cho from the Cenotaph. Flip, his camerman, and sound guy were camped out in front of the marble building way on the Upside. An intern with a walkie-talkie was posted up by the back door.

“You’re new,” Flip said to the sound guy, who had been there for five months.

“Not really. I’m–”

“You should’ve seen what I was doing with my dick last night. Fuckin’ A, my cock was a polymath. Just doing everything, and doing it well. Had some girls over. Had some guys over. Fucked everything that moved. And got fucked. Don’t forget the fucking I took. Kid, I got plunged like a bus station toilet. You see how they dug out the English Channel tunnel? It was like that, but with my asshole. Great night. How old are you? 12, 13?”

“I’m 29 years old.”

“Then you know what I’m talking about.”

“Not really.”

“I got no idea how many human beings were inside me. None. Fingers, dicks, feet, whatever. You know Lorraine Hu? The real estate lady with her face on the bus stands? She put her whole foot in my ass. Are you looking for a house? Because now’s when you want to buy. You should call her. Everyone else there, though? Professionals. Kid, I won’t lie: my cock’ll break an amateur.

“Mr. Chares, can’t we–”

“There was a woman there last night who goes by the name ‘The Tooth Fairy.’ I asked why. The woman sat on my face and extracted one of my back molars with only vaginal suction. You gotta pay for that kind of talent. Ah, man. Great night. No one overdosed and no one lost anything up their ass. Usually, there’s a watch or two missing at the end of the evening.”

The doors of Town Hall opened and the cameraman tossed his camera on his shoulder, and the sound guy hoisted the boom above his head, and Flip checked his teeth in a hand mirror. He was short, with a long, slim nose and the most pristine combover west of the Mississippi. It did not even move when Lorraine Hu inserted her foot into his ass. A man exited. (Town Hall, not Flip’s ass.)

The first thing everyone asked Berf Parsh was “What?” And then “Can you spell that?” And then the more aggressive would demand his driver’s license where they would see that Berf’s name was Berf. Not even short for anything. He had been the Press Secretary for the Town Fathers for decades and had in that time never told a lie. He hadn’t told the truth, either, but Berf was more proud of the lying bit. He was balding and his chin was weaker than a polio victim. He looked like a man genetically engineered to be yelled at.

The three men from KSOS ran up the stairs–the sound guy sent Barry Cho from the Cenotaph tumbling down the steps with his boom mic–and surrounded him. The cameraman held out his hand and counted down.

“Five. Four. Three,” and two and one were silent; he pointed at Flip as the red light on his camera went on.

“When the fact becomes legend, print the legend. That’s an old journalist’s saying, but what about When you have a picture of a guy in a superhero costume punching people, then: Whoa, nelly. That should be a saying, at least according to this morning’s Cenotaph. Pictures of what was once a neighborhood ghost story on the front page. We are here with Berf Parsh, speaking for the Town Fathers.”

“I’m not speaking for them.”

“You’re their spokesman, Berf.”

“Yes, but I don’t like to let that define me. I’ve taken up squash.”

“Berf, have the Town Fathers seen this morning’s paper?”

“Seen? Most likely.”

“Have they read it?”

“I know Town Father Lamper read the very positive piece about his new gyro place. If I can quote from the review, there is ‘food available for purchase’ and the bathrooms are ‘working but regrettable.’ That’s very positive.”

“Have any of the Town Fathers read the article about the Downsider? And seen the pictures?”

“Some of them, maybe. Who knows with them? Very busy folks.”

“Berf.”

“What did the cops say?”

“We’re waiting on guidance from the Town Fathers on this one,” Frenchy Somme said.

“Have they called you?”

“What?”

Cakey Frankel continued smiling and said,

“Have they called you?”

“No.”

“You should call them.”

“All right, I’ve got meetings to get to.”

“Are they about this Downsider fellow?”

“Thank you, Cakey.”

“Hey! Look! A squatch!” Berf shouted and pointed away from Town Hall. Neither Flip nor his crew looked. They all stood there for a moment, and then Berf ran back into the building.

The bell on the door to the bookstore with no title went TINKadink; a tall woman entered and walked up to Mr. Venable, who was in his customary seat behind his messy desk. The sun was going down. The woman asked,

“Where is Gender Studies?”

“It’s the section that’s arguing with itself,” he said, motioning vaguely towards the back of the shop.

Gussy pulled the woman away from the desk, gave her directions, sent her off, stood in front of Venable.

“Are you pouting?”

“Girls pout. I am a man. I am brooding.”

“Why are you brooding?”

“You saw the news. They’re all punting.”

“That’s a good thing. Punting is not a long-term strategy.”

“Cowardly act.”

“I know. Do you want ice cream?”

“Yes.”

“After we close, we’ll get ice cream.”

“Fine.”

And they did, but until then Mr. Venable brooded behind his messy desk in the bookstore with no title on the Main Drag of Little Aleppo, which is a neighborhood in America.