The Pulptress Read online

  “Oh,” Tori squealed excitedly, “you dance divinely! Swing me! Swing me!”

  “Enough!” belched the round stringy haired man, his hand sliding into his colorful jacket for the polished silver pistol hanging from his shoulder. Before his frankfurter fingers even felt the cold steel of the gun, he was caught off guard by what happened next. Although the criminal with the Van Heflin face seemed to be arguing with his new paramour’s advances, he now appeared to be complying. He jerked forward and suddenly Tori was airborne, her toned, shapely legs fanning through the air, a comely top spinning from the pivot her current dance partner provided.

  The gangly crook took the first hit, a high heeled shoe to the temple. He opened his mouth to gasp or shout or something, but unconsciousness fell over him quickly. All that crawled out over his paper like lips was a weakened, defeated breath.

  Cursing as his front man folded like a sheet in a storm wind, the big bellied man went down on one knee to avoid the return trip of Tori’s high flying heels. As he hit the floor, though, he saw the only other of his team still standing, the good looking kid with sparkling eyes and a killer smile, drop to the floor as if suddenly overcome by sleep. His head dipped forward first, those enchanting glimmers of his fluttering shut, and then the rest of his athletic build followed, crumpling on the floor like discarded laundry.

  As he fell to the floor, Tori, no longer with a neck to hold, flew full body through the air, almost as if she’d been thrown by the Errol Flynn wannabe before he took an unscheduled nap. Rolling up into the ball he already so much resembled, the last remaining attacker hoped for the best. What he got instead was all the blonde and expensive dress he could handle, a torpedo of tantalizing beauty. And, just like his cohorts, a shroud of darkness pulled over him as he unfurled on the floor, knocked completely out.

  Sitting upright by now, Deuce Kane guffawed and slapped his right leg hard as he watched the comedy of errors explode before him. Tori climbed up off the floor, tripping over the thick dead weight the fat man had become, and stumbled heel over heel into the table where the nervous jockey type thug had landed. She glanced up, confused at first, and saw the man who’d been sitting at the table. He looked at her with amused coppery eyes and a mischievous grin adding mirth to his dusky features. Tori giggled at him and pushed away from the table, finally back on her own two feet. As she did so, the short man on the table started moaning, trying to raise his head up. The black man, still holding his brandy snifter up off the table, patted his unwelcome guest on the shoulder, saying in a rumbling voice, “Stay down, old man. Rest.” Apparently taking the advice, the formerly tightly wound henchman dropped back to the tabletop, out cold once more.

  Tori, steadying herself at long last, looked around at the carnage her dancing display had caused. Most of the patrons in the bar were on their feet, clapping and laughing at what some assumed surely had to be some sort of odd impromptu theatrical production. “Oh dear,” Tori sighed, playfully flinging a pale hand to her crimson lips, “did I do that?”

  “Indeed, you did, my dear,” Deuce Kane roared as he, using a table on one side and a chair on the other, pushed himself up off the floor. Rolling his shoulders and pulling at the epaulets of his suit coat, he then wrapped an arm around the blonde beauty’s waist and whispered loud enough for the entire bar to overhear, “Now, let’s go up to my room and see what else you can do.”

  ***

  An hour and forty seven minutes later, spoiled socialite Tori Tenace stepped quietly out of the 32nd floor Penthouse door of the Morriston Plaza Hotel and into the foyer. Her blonde hair was wilder now, an aroused mane of gold. A Fortier purse that of course matched her expensive frock hung from her arm, having been left many hours ago in Deuce Kane’s room. Before closing the door, she turned and leaned coquettishly back into the darkened room. “Good night, Deucey,” she twittered, still ‘sh’ing her ‘s’s, “I’ll see you soon. Enjoy your trip, big boy.” Winking a heavily mascaraed eye, she pushed the door shut and staggered across the foyer to the elevator door, its silver surface shimmering with reflected fluorescent light causing the tipsy jet setter to wince.

  Fumbling around the buttons inset in the wall, a finely crafted nail finally brushed the ‘DOWN’ button and, as if waiting on Tori, the door whirred open, uniformed elevator man and all. She grinned and blew a kiss at the young freckle faced kid as she weaved into the car and relaxed in the corner, the doors sliding shut behind her.

  Twelve floors down and a minute and a half later, Tori ambled clumsily out of the elevator car, turned to glance over her shoulder, and left her already blushing elevator man with another air kiss, letting this one linger a bit longer. The kid’s sweat heavy brow and wide eyes disappeared as the elevator door closed. Shrugging her shoulders and chuckling, Tori Tenace tussled with the clasp on her purse as she walked three doors down from the elevator, lazily leaning to the right. Finally opening the purse, she liberated her room key card from its confines and slid it into the slot for Room 1204. The lock hummed and buzzed ever so slightly and Tori Tenace pushed the door open, still mumbling like a drunken woman with too much money and no responsibilities would at nearly three in the morning.

  When the door closed tight in its jamb behind her, the woman stood up straight, her shoulders cocked back. With the grace of a dancer, she kicked off one high heeled shoe, following it with the other without so much as a misstep. A smile still adorned her exquisite features, but it was no longer the goofy grin of a besotted beauty. It was the knowing, confident grin of a hero. Tori Tenace was no more.

  Only the Pulptress remained.

  She glided across the luxurious hotel room, effortlessly shedding the expensive dress and leaving it on the floor behind her like an unwanted skin. Of all the roles she’d created to be able to blend in anywhere in the world, Tori Tenace was her least favorite. She turned sharply, but delicately into the bathroom, low subdued lights coming on as she entered. Tori was too faux, too plastic, she’d determined that two years ago when she first established most of her alternate identities. Not that all of them were any more authentic, but Tori’s entire persona was everything The Pulptress was not. Still, she was a necessary evil sometimes. Like this one.

  She turned to face the mirror that took up the entire wall in front of her. On the marble tiled counter under the mirror was her ‘Body Box’ as one of her mentors had called it so many years ago. It was handcrafted from pine wood and varnished a dusty gray. It was about twelve inches high and ten inches deep. She flipped open the left side first, laying it flat on the counter, then the right. Arrayed in front of her were various powders, vials of liquid, and other assorted chemicals and treatments. Every single one of them held a very specific purpose, and although they each were different, their use was the same. To make The Pulptress someone she was not.

  Reaching into the left side of the Body Box, she wrapped her fingers around a bottle with a bulbous end. Twisting its lid, she pulled the dropper in the bottle out by its bulb, squeezing as she did. Setting the bottle down on the counter, she tilted her head back and lifted the dropper over her right eye. Gently mashing the dropper’s bulb, she flinched ever so slightly as fluid dripped twice into her eye. She repeated the process in her left eye and began blinking them both rapidly. After a few seconds, she opened them and looked at her naked reflection in the mirror. The almost translucent blue of her eyes swirled and spun in both eyeballs, like little eddies on her pupils. The color changed, giving way to the opulent brown of brewed coffee, accented with flecks of forest green. Reaching to her left, The Pulptress grabbed a wash cloth and dabbed the wetness from her eyes and, after putting the dropper back in its bottle and the bottle back in its place in the Box, continued on to the next chore.

  Lifting a round glass jar, about three inches high and wide mouthed, out of the center of the Box; she popped its plastic lid off. She then set the jar down and scooped up a little of the fine yellow powder the jar held in her right hand. Quickly, she ran that hand through her unk
empt blonde hair. Dipping again into the jar, she applied even more powder to her head. Taking both hands, she vigorously rubbed the powder throughout her hair, almost as if she was washing it. Within seconds there was not a trace of the golden haired woman left. Instead, her hair was a lush, vibrant august red and fell down around her face, mussed though it might have been, as a frame fitting a portrait.

  Sealing and replacing the jar in the Body Box, The Pulptress reached into the right side and pulled from it a turquoise colored tear drop shaped bar of soap. Stepping backward into the shower, she pulled the curtain, but didn’t bother taking a wash cloth with her as this was not a bath proper, just the final part of her routine. The water bit into her skin welcomingly, inviting her to simply melt down into the tub and play in the droplets. She ignored that impulse, scrubbing her entire body, every inch with the soap bar. Water ran down her body in rivulets, taking the pale whiteness of her skin with it as it went. It almost appeared, The Pulptress often thought, that her pigment was paint and the water was literally washing it away. Of course, the process was more complicated than that, the chemical compound within the soap bar counteracting the chemical agent she’d used to whiten her uppermost epidermal layer hours before. Although she was definitely not tropically tanned in any sense of the word, she was glad to see color returning to her skin, even happy to see the freckles in various places that she’d always despised as a child. Every time she became someone else, she always enjoyed literally returning to her own skin more and more.

  Once the last bit of pale swirled away down the drain, she turned off the shower and pulled back the curtain. Taking a towel from the rack adjacent to the shower, she reflected on the scene in the bar as she dried her body. It always amazed her that men hired to act as strong-arms and tough guys, the very people who should know how to fight and especially how not to be taken advantage of, always stood right where she needed them to so she could beat them senseless. She also had to admit, the thought making her smile, that she liked that part of all this probably the best. Not simply the fighting, but the concentration, the strategy that went into reading a room and making the end result come out the way she wanted.

  And she’d gotten most of what she wanted out of this one. Putting the first line of Lannigan’s attack in its place. And enough time to get her business done with Deuce Kane and prepare for Lannigan’s second wave. Her brown eyes drifted to the domino mask nestled in its place at the top of the Body Box’s center section. Yes, she’d gotten what she wanted. Now it was time again for her favorite part of being The Pulptress.

  ***

  “Too quiet if you ask me.” The large square shouldered man fiddled with the multivision goggles that sat too tight on his potato shaped head. His long, but thick fingers sweated inside the black leather gloves he wore, making it more difficult to get them to do anything with his usual skill and dexterity. He stood at the left side of the Morriston Corridor, one foot hiked up against the wall of the Hotel, his back reclined against it. He’d ran out of snide comments fifteen minutes earlier about how the space between two buildings where garbage of all sorts and the cans to hold it was called an alley in any other part of New York City, but on Park Avenue it was a ‘corridor’ and even had a name. He swore at the heat, not simply the unusual Spring mugginess in early morning New York, but more the fact that his two hundred dollar haircut had been reduced to a sticky mat of strawberry blonde locks thanks to the mask he wore. It was a sturdy cloth pullover job, some sort of Kevlar weave material, with an open face. The oversized black goggles with reflective lenses, equipped for any sort of vision needed with just a brush of the left side, occluded most of his pock marked visage. None of that mattered to him, though. He was just hot and irritated. “Guns would make it better. We should have guns.”

  “No dice,” smirked his twin across the alley, a double in almost every way. If someone had been unfortunate to turn off Park Avenue into the Corridor, they would have probably suspected they were seeing double. Both men were just over six feet tall, of similar muscular build, and clothed in matching black skin tight jump suits. Single piece outfits covered with pouches, pockets, and hideaway spots, but identical, even down to the utility belts around their waists and the stylized lavender ‘L’ patch sewn on the upper right arm. “Remember,” the man on the right side of the Corridor, standing just away from the wall, his thick legs spread apart, cautioned, “extraction, not execution.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” chided his associate, their voices being the telltale mark between them. The man on the right was very nearly monotone, a deep baritone voice with one rhythm. His perspiring partner on the other hand wore his New Jersey heritage loud and clear in every word he let loose. “It’s just that,” the sweating man griped, “these gigs don’t come with enough excitement. I mean we got three guys on the inside wrappin’ the package and four of us out here waitin’ on delivery. I’d just like to see a little action instead of being Lannigan’s mail man.”

  “Action,” scoffed the droning man on the right as he looked up the side of the Morriston. He didn’t really expect to see much, the guys on the inside were just that good at this part of the exercise, but still time was ticking and doormen and security guards wouldn’t stay unconscious forever. “You mean like what the first team got earlier? You can have it, pally.”

  “Hey, now,” bubbled the New Jersey native, pushing himself off the wall. “Don’t you go comparin’ me to those mooks. I mean, they get to carry their pieces and everything and still get waylaid! By a plastered broad wantin’ to dance no less! If you ask me, Lannigan oughta take every one of them out back and shoot-”

  His heavily accented tirade was rudely interrupted by something clattering on the asphalt between the two men. Both jumped back defensively, reaching for the collapsible nightsticks that hung clipped on the right side of their pouched belts. As they drew their weapons, the sticks extended from about four stubby inches to a slender twelve inches of black reinforced metal. While the whiner stood point, seeing no one initially, his partner knelt down to see what lay at their feet. Goggles. Three sets of goggles just like the ones on his own head. And somehow stuck to the lenses of one pair, a ragged piece of Kevlar reinforced cloth, a stylized lavender ‘L’ emblazoned on it.

  “Geez,” the man on one knee said, absolutely no change in his flat tone, “Compromised. Extraction’s compromised.” He jumped up, his volume only slighter louder as he ordered, “Point, report.”

  “Nothin’,” the other reported. The New Jersey still weighed down every syllable, but gone was the griping, weaseling whine. He was all business now, even though business was apparently bad. He glanced over his shoulder at his partner and what lay on the ground, saying, “There’s nothin’ and nobody.”

  “Then,” chastised his partner, standing up and raising his baton in front of him, pointing into the alley with it, “how do you explain her?”

  What the sweat bathed kidnapper for hire saw when he followed his friend’s gesture, made the droplets on his clammy skin feel ice cold. In part because he was absolutely sure and certain no one had been in the alley two seconds ago. And in part because seeing a woman like her always stopped a man a breath or two short.

  She stood out in the open, right in the middle of the alley halfway between each open end. Even in the dim light cast from shaded bulbs on both sides of the Corridor, it was plain to see what and who she was. A statuesque woman, over six feet tall thanks to the black heels adorning her feet. Her legs were long, lean stems seemingly made of porcelain due to how the shadows played off her skin. She stood with her right foot out in front of her, her hands on her hips, looking dead ahead at her two playmates like a mischievous school girl ready to roughhouse. This image was helped along by the way she was dressed: a short black skirt that accentuated the delicate curve to her hips and the already noted legs; black suspenders with a V necked red and white striped tee shirt under them; a black fedora atop her head of august red hair, pulled down rakishly, casting a hint of sh
adow, but not enough to hide the black domino mask she wore, her rich brown eyes exuding strength from behind it.

  “Don’t bother,” her voice, light yet sharp like the blade of a dagger, tripped playfully from between her ruby red lips, “trying to explain me, boys. Better crooks than you have tried and,” she gave them an exaggerated wink, “they failed just like you would.”

  As her banter faded, both men assumed fighting positions, the New Jerseyite holding his stick high like a caveman’s club, the one tone wonder pulling it close to his chest and tensing into a crouch, right shoulder closest to the ground. He locked gazes with the lady in the alley and said, “Only three masks. What’d you do with the two at the other end?”

  “Nothing,” The Pulptress answered matter of factly. “There were no two at the other end. Guess they grew brains and went home.” She widened her stance just a little and raised her hands up into a boxer’s pose, fingers bent into relaxed fists. “Not too late for you fellas to get a case of the smarts, too.”

  The sweaty complainer lumbered forward a few steps, swinging his Billy club around over his head. “You’re nothing,” he said thickly, “but in the way, little girl.”

  “Okay,” The Pulptress said, her face aglow with unadulterated glee as she leapt forward. “Now it’s too late.”

  Both men charged at the masked woman as she jumped into the air. Landing like an attacking tigress on her feet, she broke into a run, her aim set on the space between them. The more disciplined of the two, the man with no inflection in his words, made the first play as she jumped again, very nearly passing by him. He swung his club up from his chest hard, glancing it off The Pulptress’s left leg. She grunted when hit and tucked her shoulders for the crash landing against some part of the alley. Striking the ground on her right side, she was already in a roll back to her feet. To allow herself any less would have meant death on more than one occasion.