The Brave and the Bold: Green Arrow and Wildcat

The Man Who Killed Green Arrow

by HarveyKent

“You haven’t heard the last of this!” the angry young man with the shaven head spat, as two uniformed police officers walked him to their car. His arms were still pinned to his body by green nylon cord, courtesy of a bolo-arrow fired by Star City’s guardian, Green Arrow. “You can jail me, but not the cause I fight for! The day will come when real Americans will have had enough of the inferior class leeching from us, and when that day comes, you will all suffer the fate of all traitors!”

“Geez, Monahan,” Green Arrow growled, “get him out of here before I do something I probably won’t regret at all!” Green Arrow stood in front of Sir Eatalot’s Sub Shop, an establishment in downtown Star City. The front window was smashed and lay in shards on the street. The proprietor of the shop, Sanjay Purohit, held a towel full of ice cubes to his forehead, nursing a bruise inflicted by the shaven-headed man.

“You!” the skinhead snarled at Green Arrow. “You’re white! How can you betray your own kind like this? How can you?”

“Monahan–” Green Arrow started, menace in his voice.

“All right, that’s enough,” the uniformed officer said to the skinhead, forcing him down into the car. “Remember your right to remain silent, OK?”

“We’ve been silent long enough!” the skinhead cried out. “These heathen savages have overrun our shores, with their inferior religions and their arranged marriages and their unclean diets. It’s time for the white-skinned descendants of the Founding Fathers to rise up and–” Monahan slammed the police car door, cutting off the skinhead’s further protests.

“I’m real sorry, on behalf of my whole ethnic demographic,” Green Arrow said to Sanjay. “I hope you realize he doesn’t speak for all of us.”

“He’s got a point about the arranged marriages,” the sub shop owner shrugged. “You should see the winner Pop has picked out for me.”

Green Arrow chuckled. “I admire that, being able to laugh in a situation like this.”

Sanjay shrugged. “Beats anything else I could do. Thank you again, Green Arrow. I sure am lucky you were nearby when that whack job threw the brick through my window.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Green Arrow said. “You make the best meatball hoagie in town.”

“You’ll never pay for another one,” Sanjay assured him.

“Thanks, but I don’t work that way,” Green Arrow said. “However, if you want to show your gratitude, and you’ve got some food to spare, there’s a homeless shelter over on Elzufon that’s always looking for help.”

“Elzufon. I’ll call them tomorrow,” Sanjay promised.

“Hey, Green Arrow,” Monahan called from the police car.

“What’s up?” the archer asked, strolling over.

“We just got a call on the radio that should interest you. Dead body found on the docks.”

“Sadly, there’s a dead body found on the docks at least once a week,” Green Arrow said, “so why is this special? Is it someone we know?”

“Well, according to the call,” Monahan said, deadpan, “it’s you.” He watched the archer do a double-take.
***

 

“Snakes aloive!” the uniformed patrolman cried in terror, clutching his heart. “Tis a ghost I’m seein’! An emerald phantom from beyond the grave! Oh, me poor old heart!”

“Knock off the Mike Axford routine, willya, Jablonski?” Green Arrow asked, climbing out of the squad car. “I mean, it was maybe funny the first fifty times.”

“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” the patrolman said, all trace of the accent gone. “I knew this body we found wasn’t you, despite the gift wrapping. Come take a look. Maybe you’ll recognize him.”

“Holy crap,” the archer said, staring down at the body. He had seen a lot in his years as a crime fighter, but very few bodies looked like this. The bruises, the broken nose, the shattered jaw, the grimace of pain that remained even in death. The man had obviously been beaten to death, a very gruesome way to go. He was dressed in an ersatz Green Arrow costume, one of shiny emerald spandex that could be purchased at any one of a dozen costume shops. A phony yellow mustache and goatee were attached to his battered face with spirit gum, the beard hanging down by one end, dislodged by the repeated blows. The hat was missing; the hair on top of the head was not blonde, but dull, dishwater gray. The man was tending to fat, his stomach bulging against the uniform.

“Recognize him?” Jablonski asked.

“No,” Green Arrow said grimly. “My best guess is a street person, a homeless man.”

“How can you tell that?” Jablonski asked.

“Look at the nose,” Green Arrow said, pointing. “It took a lot of punishment tonight, but see those little red marks? Gin blossoms. Medals the body awards itself for distinguished service in the cause of alcoholism. And the face. Look under the bruises and you’ll see the cheeks are raw and reddened. Someone shaved him, and none too gently, before they stuck on the fake beard.”

“Geez, you’re good,” Jablonski said in awe.

“I’m not just another pretty face,” Green Arrow commented, struggling to hold his rage in check through humor. “It looks like someone kidnapped a homeless man, dressed him up like me, and beat him to death.”

“Why in God’s name would anyone do that?”

“Most likely, to send me a message,” Green Arrow said. “This kind of message usually means one thing: if you can read this, you’re too close.”

“Too close to what?”

“That is what I need to find out.” Green Arrow knelt by the dead man’s side. “I’ll find whoever did this to you, buddy. And I’ll make them hurt.”
***

 

“And he was dressed up as you?” Dinah Lance said, over the phone. “I’ll bet that’s got your goat.”

“You know it, pretty bird,” Ollie Queen said. Dinah was in Gotham City, testifying at the parole hearing of a criminal she had helped apprehend there years earlier. “You know I’m not going to rest until I find whoever did this.”

“Just make sure you take care of yourself along the way, while you’re trying to save the world,” Dinah reminded.

“Geez, Dinah, can’t you wait until we’re married before you start nagging?” Ollie asked, good-naturedly.

“Come on, you know you always neglect your own health when you’re on a particularly interesting case,” she said. “What did you have for lunch today?”

“Lunch? Lemme see…oh yeah. Leftover sausage and onion pizza.”

“Left over from when?”

“Breakfast.”

“You had sausage and onion pizza for breakfast?!?”

“Sure. With a cup of cocoa and half a grapefruit.”

“I’m going to be sick.”

“Sure, it’s cause you don’t eat right.”
***

 

“Mazzonni here.”

“How old are you, Mazzonni?”

Robert Mazzonni swallowed audibly. He had been dreading this call. “T-twenty-six. Why?”

“Bunglers in my organization rarely get much older than that.”

“Sir, I can explain–”

“Can you? Can you explain why I read in the newspaper this morning about an unidentified body found on the pier, beaten to death, wearing a Green Arrow costume? I can’t wait to hear this one.”

“I was about to dump it in the water, but I heard sirens! I thought the cops were there, and I panicked! I ran! Anybody would have done that!”

“There is no room in my organization for ordinary men, Mazzonni. Why was the body still wearing the costume?”

Mazzonni’s mind raced. It had been because he had spent too much time chatting with West and Montgomery afterwards, and hadn’t had time to strip the body before taking it to be dumped. “I-I was going to remove the costume there, before I heard the sirens. Honest!”

“I see. What do you think I should do about this, Mazzonni?”

“Sir, I don’t see a problem,” Mazzonni said earnestly. “It’s an unidentified body. A homeless bum, a rumpot off the streets. The cops won’t look too hard. The costume’ll give ‘em a laugh, sure, but they won’t dig deep into it. Odds are, they’ll think it’s some college prank.”

“College prank. Beating a man to death?”

“I figure they’ll think frat boys found the body already dead, dressed it up as a hell week stunt or something.”

“Hm.” A brief pause. “Just barely possible. Very well, Mazzoni, we will wait for now and see what the police make of this. In fact, there is a member of our organization in a position of some note in the police department; I will see that your college prank theory gets spread among the police. Perhaps they will pick up on it and investigate no further. You should pray very fervently that they do, Mazzoni.”

The young man swallowed nervously. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I-I won’t let anything like this happen again, sir, I swear!”

There was a brief, mirthless chuckle. “Mazzoni, nobody ever disappoints me….a second time.” The line went dead.
***

 

“Mornin’, Mr. Queen,” the fortyish little man in janitor’s coveralls said as he saw the bearded journalist come through the doors of Police Headquarters. “Down here chasin’ another story, hey?”

“Well, I’m not here for the good coffee, Willie,” Ollie joked, and the two men shared a laugh. “Who’s on the desk this morning?”

“Sergeant Anderson,” Willie confided. “Lucky break, hey? Sergeant Lane’s on vacation. The Poconos, I think.”

“I hope you called ahead and warned them,” Ollie joked. Leaving the janitor laughing, he walked up to the front desk. “Hey, Anderson!” Ollie called out jovially to the middle-aged sergeant seated behind the desk. “How’s Star City’s finest today?”

“Oh, no,” Anderson groaned. “All right, who’s dead?”

“What?” Ollie asked, nonplused.

“You heard me, who’s dead?” Anderson demanded.

“Who said anyone was dead?” Ollie asked, hands spread wide.

“You did!” Anderson snapped, accusingly.

“I did?” Ollie asked, innocently.

“Well, no, you didn’t, not in so many words,” Anderson admitted. “But every time you come down here, acting all chummy, somebody’s dead and you want to find out who and why!”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Anderson–”

“Hold it!”

“Hold what?”

“You said Pete!”

“So?”

“So, if you said it, he’s dead!”

“Anderson, can we cut the comedy routine?” Ollie said, exasperated. “I mean, I enjoy the Abbott and Costello bit as much as the next guy, but aren’t we both on the clock? How do you know I didn’t come down here for something completely different?”

Anderson looked reluctantly sheepish. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry. What did you want?”

“Well,” Ollie said, shuffling his feet, “it is about someone who’s dead, actually. But it might not have been!” he added quickly.

“Ah-ha!” Anderson cried out in triumph. “OK, who is it?”

“The guy they found on the docks, in the Green Arrow costume.”

Anderson’s eyebrows rose. “Him?”

“Why don’t I like the sound of that ‘him’?” Ollie asked, warily.

“Couldn’t begin to guess,” Anderson said, passing a manilla folder across the desk. “You’re a boxing fan, right?”

“Never miss a bout. Why?” Ollie asked, as he took the folder.

“Have a look,” Anderson said. “You’ll see.”

Ollie opened the folder and began to read. Slowly his eyes widened until they were almost bulging out of their sockets. “Hoe-lee kuh-rap!” Ollie ejaculated.
***

 

The diner was a small structure of sand-colored brick and dull, faded chrome, standing at the side of a major interstate highway. Inside the walls were painted pale tan, with chocolate brown simulated wood tables and booths. A long counter ran the length of one wall, with stools upholstered in orange vinyl and a huge, old-fashioned cash register. Scotch taped to the front of the register was a hand-lettered sign that had stood sentinel for over twenty years, reading IN GOD WE TRUST, ALL OTHERS PAY CASH. Leo Barone sat at the counter, the remnants of his meal in front of him.

“Get you anything else, son?” the woman behind the diner counter said to Leo. She was barely five feet tall, and about as wide as she was tall. Her unnaturally red hair was tied up in a severe bun, and she had enough eye makeup on to stop X-rays, in Leo’s estimation. Still, the chicken fried steak was good, and this was the only restaurant for fifty miles, if the sign outside were to be believed.

“No, thanks,” Leo said. “Just the check.”

“God bless you,” the woman said with a smile, taking a pencil from behind her ear to figure the bill.

Leo sat at the counter where he had eaten, toying with the remains of his blackberry pie. He was the only customer in the establishment. No other diners’ conversation intruded on his thoughts; only the sounds of gospel music coming from the ancient portable radio on its shelf over the grill. Leo had blocked those sounds out as he ate and thought. He was trying to figure out where to go from here, where the path he had chosen to follow would take him.

“It’s the top of the hour,” an announcer’s voice said over the radio, “and time for the news on KPAX ay-em ten-forty. The big item this hour is a bulletin from Star City, where the body of former professional boxer Jack LeMarra was found beaten to death in the city’s waterfront district.”

Leo dropped his fork, and stared up at the radio.

“LeMarra’s body,” the announcer droned on, “was found wearing a costume like that of Green Arrow, Star City’s resident masked protector. Preliminary autopsy reports say LeMarra died of severe blows to the head and chest area. LeMarra had boxed professionally for many years, winning the New York State bantamweight title in 1973. Forced into early retirement by a brain injury, LeMarra dropped out of sight soon after that…”

The announcer continued reading the stock biography of the once famous pugilist. Leo did not hear a word he said.

“Awful business, ain’t it?” the counter woman said, placing Leo’s check on the counter in front of him. “That’s what comes of takin’ prayer out of the schools. Just leads to iniquity.”

Leo pulled bills from his wallet, threw them down on the counter. “What’s the fastest route to Star City?” he asked, urgently.
***

 

“Come on, come on,” Mazzoni said impatiently, staring at his watch. He stood on the elevated platform of the Saile Street Train Station in Star City, nervously waiting for the train to whisk him out of the city and to safety. The minute he had heard the news item about Jack LeMarra, he had rushed out of the office and had not stopped until he reached the station. The next train out was a southbound express to Miami. Perfect! But it didn’t leave for another forty minutes. Mazzoni nervously bought a few necessities at a station store, articles like a toothbrush and deodorant, and spent the next twenty minutes pacing nervously back and forth on the platform, smoking one cigarette after another.

“Dear God, how long does it take for a train to get here?” Mazzoni demanded of no one in particular. He stepped out to the very edge of the platform, to peer down the tracks and try to get a glimpse of the train. There was a curve in the track just a hundred yards down from the elevated platform; he would not be able to see the train until the last minute. He would hear its whistle, but the city works department was repairing the street just below, and the jackhammers were going full blast; he might not hear a whistle. Seeing nothing, he stepped away from the platform again. He paced nervously, looking up and down, watching out for anyone following him. So far, he saw no one. The eight or nine cigarette butts on the platform had all been his.

What was that? Was that a whistle? So hard to hear over the hammers! Mazzoni rushed to the edge of the platform, leaned out over. Yes! There it was! The Florida train, coming up fast! Soon he’d be safe! Soon he’d be–

Mazzoni felt a powerful impact in the small of his back; a strong arm giving him a quick, forceful shove. He stumbled out over the edge of the platform and down onto the tracks, directly in the path of the oncoming Florida Express. He didn’t even have time to scream.
***

 

“I tell you, you’re wasting my time,” the young man said into the phone. “It can’t be that easy!”

“I know, I know,” Green Arrow said into the portable phone he kept in the bottom of his quiver. “But I need a lead, and it’s worth a try. If nothing comes of it, we haven’t lost anything by trying, right?”

“Except time,” the former Hi-Tek reminded.

“What, how long could it take, for a whiz kid like you?” Green Arrow asked. “Ten, fifteen minutes tops?”

“To hack into the database of every costume retail and rental shop in Star City?” the young man asked incredulously.

“And surrounding areas,” Green Arrow added.

“Oh, right, and surrounding areas,” the archer’s computer expert repeated. “How far do you want me to go, Boston? Or perhaps Gotham City?”

“Boston’s far enough,” Green Arrow said. “Come on, kid, a man is dead, maybe because somebody’s got a grudge against me. Run it down for me, willya?”

“Yeah, sure, you knew I would,” the young man relented. “I just have to put up token resistance. It’s a ritual.”

“Yeah, sure, sure. Call me when you’ve got the info. And hey, this time, nothing cute, all right?”

“What, you didn’t appreciate the way I tweaked the Star City Dispatch’s cover story the last time?” The young hacker had altered the newspaper story on President Reagan’s support of his vice-president’s candidacy for President, replacing a photograph of the two politicians with one of two chimpanzees picking ticks off one another.

“I loved it,” Green Arrow said. “But I didn’t say that.” Just then, something caught the archer’s eye. “Uh, gotta go. Call me back.” The archer broke the connection and replaced the phone in its storage space. From his position on the roof of the Daily Star building, Green Arrow looked out across the city at the giant clock face on the Star Tower.

A bright green triangle with a thin stem at the bottom–a crude arrow–was shining on the clock face. Someone was trying to get his attention. Perhaps the same person who had dressed up a man in his costume and beat him to death. Green Arrow scowled grimly at the glowing “arrow-signal”.

In two minutes he was on the observation deck of the tower. He looked around, trying to spot the direction from whence the beam had come.

“You don’t waste time,” a gruff voice behind him boomed. The archer whirled on his heel.

“Wildcat?” Green Arrow gaped.

“Yeah, that’s me,” the young hero said. “You recognize me, huh? I guess your buddy Batman told you about me.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, right, he did.” Green Arrow suddenly remembered that Batman had mentioned a new crime fighter taking up the mantle of Wildcat. For a moment, caught by surprise, Green Arrow had thought that the barrier between Earths had been breached; he dared hope that Dinah’s old friends would be able to attend their wedding after all. But no such luck. “What are you doing here? Hey, was that bargain-basement arrow signal your doing?”

“Amazing what you can do with a halogen spotlight and a can of green paint,” Wildcat said. “Forgive the dramatics, but you’re not exactly in the phone book, y’know?”

“I forgot to renew my Yellow Pages listing,” the archer said drily. “So you wanted to contact me. What about?”

“Jack LeMarra,” Wildcat said, suddenly grim. “I know you’re on the trail of his killer. I want in on that action.”

Green Arrow raised an eyebrow. “How come?”

Wildcat looked away, up at the night sky. “He was a friend of mine,” Wildcat said. “More than a friend, really. Almost a mentor. When I was a kid, he worked at the local youth center in my neighborhood. Teaching us boxing, that sort of thing. I looked up to him. Sometimes he’d tell us stories about growing up poor, in the inner city, just like us. He made me think I could make something of myself, you know?” Wildcat turned back to face Green Arrow. “So now I want a piece of whoever killed him. Doesn’t have to be a big piece; just enough to cause a lot of pain.”

“I can dig what you’re saying,” Green Arrow said. “I gotta tell you, whoever did it may not have even known who he was.”

“Huh?” Wildcat said, surprised. “How could they not?”

“He had been living on the streets, a homeless person,” Green Arrow said. “It’s possible whoever did this just picked him up out of the gutter for their jollies. It could just as easily have been someone else.”

“The streets,” Wildcat whispered. “Aw, man, Jack was always playin’ the ponies, losin’ big. It cost him his job at the youth center. The director there, he tried to talk Jack into quittin’, gettin’ help. Guess it didn’t take.”

“Guess not,” Green Arrow agreed. “Well, I really don’t have any leads. I’ve got a friend chasing one thing down, but I don’t expect it to go anywhere. I’m just as in the dark here as you. If you want to put heads together, I’d love the help.”

“This is your city, Robin Hood,” Wildcat said. “You know it. I don’t. I’ll need your help to find Jack’s killer. Speedy I ain’t, but for this case, you’ve got a partner.” Wildcat stuck out his gloved hand. Grinning, the archer wrung it vigorously.

“Welcome to Star City, Sylvester,” he said heartily. “Let’s catch us a killer.”

A shrill beeping interrupted the exchange between heroes.

“Man, your quiver’s ringing,” Wildcat pointed out.

“It does that from time to time,” Green Arrow said, reaching for the hidden portable phone. “Start talking,” he said into the unit.

“Arrow?” the former Hi-Tek’s voice came through the phone. “You’ll never believe this, but the lead just may pan out after all!”

“You’re making my night, kid,” Green Arrow said. “Whatcha got?”

“There’s a tiny costume shop down in Alphabet City,” the young computer genius said, referring to the seedy section of town where the streets had no names, only letters. “Potter’s Costume Emporium. Seems they sold a Green Arrow costume about three months ago.”

“Three months ago?” the archer repeated. “Is that all you’ve got?”

“It gets better,” the young man promised. “Over the last two years they’ve sold about a dozen other costumes to the same customer. All kinds of outfits; policeman, judge, doctor, even cowboy. One Superman costume, too.”

“Always the blue boy,” Green Arrow said. “Sounds like a good lead, all right.”

“And get this. There are smaller charges to the same customer, interspersed over the last two years. The accounting software gave these charges the code RPR.”

“RPR?” Green Arrow repeated. “Doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“Me either, until I checked Potter’s Yellow Pages ad,” Hi-Tek said. “His shop doesn’t just sell and rent costumes. He repairs them, too.”

“Repairs!” Green Arrow spat. Like fixing little rips and tears that would happen if someone wearing the costume met a violent death. “Kid, I love you!”

“Sure, sure, you say that, but you never call, unless you want something,” Hi-Tek joked. He gave Green Arrow the information on the costume shop’s customer, and broke the connection. Green Arrow turned around, to face a grinning Wildcat.

“Pardon me for eavesdroppin’,” Wildcat said. “But I guess that one lead of yours turned out better’n you thought.”

“Half of this business is luck, W.C.,” the archer said. “You’ll pick that up as you go along. Like I was saying before: let’s catch us a killer.”
***

 

“That’s absurd!” the middle-aged man in the five hundred dollar suit declared. “Are you suggesting that I or my company had anything to do with this, this murder? That’s outrageous! I should sue you for libel!”

“You can’t do that, Mr. Jeffers,” Green Arrow said calmly.

“Can’t I?” Jeffers ranted. “You watch me, Mr. Arrow! You may think you’re some high-and-mighty super-hero, but the legal process has the same jurisdiction over you as anyone else!”

“I never said it didn’t,” Green Arrow said. “What I meant was, libel is written defamation. You’d have to sue me for slander.”

The powerful businessman sputtered a bit, but did not comment.

“Anyway,” Green Arrow went on, “nobody’s accusing you or your company of anything. All I’m saying is, we found out that the costume the dead man was wearing, and possibly several other costumes used in similar crimes, were purchased with a company credit card from your firm.”

“So maybe you don’t know anything about it,” Wildcat said. “Maybe someone in your company just sneaked these charges in under your nose.”

Jeffers looked at Wildcat, then back at Green Arrow. “Just who is your friend, anyway?”

“Wildcat,” Green Arrow said. “What, didn’t you ever read comic books as a kid?”

“Not as much as he did, apparently,” Jeffers sneered.

“Aw, come on, just one sock!” Wildcat growled, lunging forward. Jeffers leapt back in terror as Green Arrow grabbed his newfound friend’s arm, holding him back.

“Mr. Jeffers,” Green Arrow said, “I’m not one to tell you your business, but might I suggest a little friendly cooperation before my feline friend here really loses his temper?”

Jeffers appeared about to protest again, thought better of it, and calmed down. “Do you have the alleged credit card number?”

“Right here,” Green Arrow said, producing a slip of paper on which he had written the number and handing it to the businessman. Jeffers stared at it in puzzlement.

“This appears to be a cash register receipt from some establishment called Charlie’s Chili Pot,” he said finally.

“The other side, the other side,” Green Arrow said impatiently.

Jeffers flipped the receipt over, studied the written number. “Well, the first four digits are the same as our company credit cards,” Jeffers admitted. “Issued only to executives and other high-ranking employees with expense accounts.”

“Do you recognize the rest of the number?” Wildcat asked.

Jeffers looked up at him. “I suppose you imagine I’ve memorized every credit card number in my organization,” he said haughtily.

“Would you rather memorize the number of stitches over your left eye?” Wildcat growled.

“Down, kitty, down,” Green Arrow said. “How about it, Mr. J? Can we go to your accounting department and check this out?”

“Er, yes,” Jeffers said, glad of a way out of this scenario. “Right this way.”

Jeffers led the two costumed heroes down the hallways of the company, drawing stares from several employees. Finally they reached the accounting department, where Jeffers gave the slip of paper to a frail-looking man at a computer terminal and told him to look it up. The young man punched the keys on the keyboard rapidly, drawing a whistle of approval from Green Arrow.

“Oh, no!” the accountant cried, nearly leaping from his chair.

“What is it?” Jeffers demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“That account number!” the accountant cried. “Entering it into the search parameters activated some kind of hidden virus within the mainframe!”

“Talk English, man!” Jeffers snapped. “What’s happening?”

“Our entire accounting database is being erased!” the accountant cried. “And I can’t stop it!”

“Don’t just sit there, man!” Jeffers shouted at the frenzied accountant. “Do something!”

“There’s nothing I can do, sir!” the accountant stammered, pounding the keys with his fingertips. “This is the most complex virus I’ve ever seen! Nothing I do stops it!”

“If you don’t stop it,” Jeffers screamed, “our entire files will be gone! We’ll be wiped out!”

“And we lose our lead,” Wildcat grumbled. “Hey, G.A., can we do anyth–” The masked hero turned to look at his newfound friend, and found Green Arrow talking on his portable phone again.

“Uh huh,” Green Arrow said rapidly. “That’s right. What? How the hell should I know? Here, you talk to him!” Green Arrow strode forward and thrust the phone at the bewildered accountant. Puzzled, the young man took it and held it to his ear.

“H-hello? Yes. Yes, that’s right. What? You what? You can? How? OK, OK, never mind. Just tell me–yes, yes, I see it. What? No, it’s actually blue. That’s right. Do what, now? Say that again, slower. Uh huh…right…yes…” As he spoke, cradling the phone to his ear with his shoulder, the accountant was rapidly working the keyboard with his fingers. “OK, now it’s got–oh, you do? OK, what now? Oh, right! I never thought of that! OK, let me try it….yes…yes! That did it! You stopped the virus, whoever you are! Say, who is this? Hello? Hello?” The accountant passed the phone back to Green Arrow, and looked at Jeffers in amazement.

“I don’t know who that was, sir,” the accountant said, “but I did what he told me to do, and it stopped the virus! We lost some data, but we stopped it before most of the data was affected!”

“Thank God,” Jeffers muttered, thinking of the potentially lost income.

“How about the data on the credit card number we gave you?” Green Arrow asked. “The one that triggered this virus or whatever?”

“Let me see,” the accountant said, typing on the keyboard again. “Yes, that card was issued two years ago, to a William Lohman in Purchasing.”

“I’ll get him in here at once!” Jeffers snapped. “The very idea–”

“Hang on, Jeffers,” Green Arrow said. “Sparky, can you access employee records on that thing?”

“Of course,” the accountant said.

“See what you’ve got on this Lohman guy.”

The accountant looked to Jeffers for confirmation, and Jeffers nodded impatiently. The accountant’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Nothing!” he said momentarily. “We never had an employee by that name! No record at all!”

“A fake employee for a fake credit card number,” Wildcat said.

“Not very imaginative at that,” Green Arrow said. “Willy Lohman, of all things!”

“Get me a purchasing record for that card!” Jeffers demanded. The accountant moved swiftly to reply.

“Quite a lot of activity in the last two years,” the accountant said. “And all of the items purchased were delivered to the Jackerby Hotel, out on Route 256!”

“The Jackerby?” Green Arrow said. “That place has been closed for years!”

“Yes, we own it,” Jeffers said. “We had planned to refurbish it, make it a place where out-of-town personnel could stay while in Star City on business. But when the new Ritzlton was built downtown, just three blocks from here, we got a corporate suite there instead. Been trying to sell the Jackerby for years, but there’s almost no traffic out that way anymore, since the new Interstate went through.”

Green Arrow and Wildcat exchanged thoughtful glances.

“Guess I know where we’re goin’ next,” Wildcat said.

“Guess you do,” Green Arrow confirmed.
***

 

“Come on, the next show starts in five minutes!” a young man of slight build called from the doorway. “Get that guy ready!”

“I’m trying, I’m trying!” a middle-aged man with a pot belly complained. “It’s not easy dressing one of these drunken bums! They squirm around worse’n my kid when I’m tryin’ to put church clothes on ‘im!” The potbellied man was trying to put an expensive-looking business suit on a man who was obviously very, very drunk. He was clean shaven, but the redness of his cheeks attested to a very recent shave. His hair was washed and combed, as well. He staggered and swayed as his attendant forced his arms into a gray pinstripe jacket.

“Wanna drink,” he muttered. “Promised me a drink.”

“You’ll get it, old man,” Pot-Belly grumbled. “Gotta look nice for your drink.”

“Sure,” the drunk smiled. “Gotta look nice.”

Two sets of eyes watched the scene as they peered around the corner of a stack of crates; eyes that watched intently, through the slits of masks. “What the heck is going on here?” Wildcat whispered.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” the archer whispered back. “The little guy said ‘next show’? Oh, man, I sure hope this isn’t what I think it is!”

“What, some kind of gladiator-type thing?” Wildcat whispered back.

“Something like that,” Green Arrow hissed. “Quiet! Something’s happening.”

Pot-Belly had successfully dressed the drunken man, down to an expensive-looking wristwatch (most likely a cheap knockoff, Green Arrow thought). He then pushed the well-dressed drunk through the door that the other man had called through. Green Arrow and Wildcat hurried out through the back way they had crept through, doubled around to find an entrance into the other room. They approached silently, cautiously; then their mouths gaped open.

“The next event on tonight’s card,” a voice intoned over a loudspeaker system, “will be our good friend Charley Halstead. Charley, come forward.”

From the rows of men standing along the walls of the room, an average-looking man in his late thirties stepped up into the empty space in the center of the room. He was of medium height, medium build, undistinguished features; the kind who could lose himself in a crowd easily.

“Charley,” the voice on the loudspeaker said, “remind us who it is that you hate so much…that you want to kill him with your bare hands.”

“My boss,” Charley said. “John O’Connor, my supervisor at the firm. Always passing me over for promotion, and always with some lame excuse or another! Fifteen years I’ve worked at that company, and what do I have to show for it? Three mortgages and a twelve-year-old car, that’s what!”

“And you want to take your frustrations out on John O’Connor, the man who keeps you from getting what’s rightfully yours?” the voice prompted.

“YEAH!” Charley shouted, balling up his fists. The chant was taken up by the spectators, shouting YEAH! YEAH! YEAH!

“Well, here he is, Charley,” the voice said. “Show him how you feel!”

The well-dressed drunk was thrust out into the empty space. Of course this wasn’t John O’Connor, but dressed up in what looked like an expensive suit and watch, perhaps intended to look like a suit and watch the real O’Connor wore frequently, Charley was able to pretend that it was. The drunk staggered uncertainly in Charley’s direction, hopeful of getting his promised drink. Charley grinned savagely, hooked his right arm back, and threw a punch that connected with the drunken man’s chin. Reeling, the drunk went down.

“It’s show time,” Wildcat growled, charging forward from the darkness.

“You said it,” Green Arrow agreed, right behind his new friend.

Both heroes stopped dead when all the spectators produced handguns and aimed them at the heroes. The sound of three dozen hammers being drawn back filled the room. For a tense, silent moment, nothing happened.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” the voice said over the speaker. “As you see, we were expecting you.”

Green Arrow silently cursed.

“Mr. Harvey,” the electronic voice boomed, “remove the gentleman’s bow and arrows.”

Green Arrow fought to keep the surprise from his face as he recognized Ken Harvey, a middle-aged rewrite man from the Daily Star, step forward from the crowd. Harvey had been a rewrite man for twenty years; in his cups he had been known to complain about his position, blaming editors and publishers for failing to recognize his talent. Grinning, he took Green Arrow’s weapons from him and stepped back into the throng of spectators.

“Well, gentlemen,” the voice of the master spoke, “I take it you’ve figured out just what goes on in our little exclusive club?”

“Pretty much,” Wildcat growled. “You’re a bunch ‘a sickos who get their jollies beatin’ up defenseless drunks!”

“Drunks dressed up as people you hate,” Green Arrow amended.

“Quite right,” the master said. “We take the jetsam of society, those who wouldn’t be missed, and work out our frustrations against those whom we hate! Think about it, Arrow, Wildcat. Everyone has someone they hate enough to kill. But here, in Star City’s exclusive Hammer of Hate, our members get the chance to do it! Not just once, but as many times as they wish!”

“This has been going on for two years?” Green Arrow asked.

“About that long,” the master agreed. “It would have continued, had not one of my organization slipped up and left the costume on the corpse of the bum we selected last week. And had that bum not turned out to be a once-renowned professional athlete.” A sigh echoed through the speakers. “Fortunes of war, I suppose.”

“So who killed Jack LeMarra?” Wildcat demanded. “I want to see ‘im!”

The master chuckled. “Certainly. Mr. Fox, would you step forward, please?” A beefy man with tattooed forearms and a missing front tooth shambled to the front of the crowd.

“So you’re the man who killed Green Arrow,” the genuine article said.

“Lots of times,” Fox agreed.

“What’s your beef with me?” Green Arrow asked.

“My wife divorced me three years ago,” Fox said. “I only get to see my son every other weekend. And does he idolize his old man, like a boy of twelve’s supposed ta? No! All he talks about is you! Got your pictures all over his room, your damned toy archery kits, everything! My son looks up to a blasted fairy in green tights, not me!”

Green Arrow declined to comment.

“But tonight,” the master said, “Mr. Fox gets to watch the real Green Arrow die, as well as his feline friend! You should have realized that, if I have a man in my organization clever enough to falsify a company credit card from his own firm, and to set up a computer virus when that card number was searched in the database, he would also be clever enough to set up an automatic signal that alerted us when the card number was searched!”

“Can’t think of everything,” Wildcat snarled.

“No, I suppose you can’t,” the master’s voice said. “But I just thought of something!”

“What’s that, Charlie?” Green Arrow asked, looking around for the source of the voice.

“For our entertainment tonight, the two of you will fight each other, until one of you drops!” The crowd loved that idea; chants of “YEAH!” and “MAKE ‘EM KILL EACH OTHER!” went up immediately.

“Nice thought, Don King,” Green Arrow sneered. “And what makes you think we’re gonna fight each other?”

“Because,” the voice said smoothly, “the winner of your fight will be executed, while the loser will be set free.” Green Arrow’s eyes narrowed at the master’s ingenuity. “So, gentlemen, touch gloves and come out fighting.”

Green Arrow turned to his new friend, and found Wildcat’s eyes narrowed grimly. “You heard the man, Arrow,” Wildcat rumbled. “Put up yer dukes.”

Green Arrow and Wildcat circled each other, looking for an opening. All around them, the bloodthirsty spectators watched in anticipation. “Guy could be lying, you know,” Green Arrow said casually. “About lettin’ the loser go.”

“Probably,” Wildcat acknowledged.

“I mean, we know too much about his setup now to be allowed loose.”

“‘s a point,” Wildcat said.

“But we’re still gonna do this.” It wasn’t a question.

“Always the off-chance he’s tellin’ the truth,” Wildcat pointed out.

“Suppose so,” Green Arrow agreed. And with that he threw his first punch. It came out of nowhere, swift and sudden as a striking cobra. Wildcat barely dodged it; the blow glanced off his shoulder rather than smashing into his jaw. The street fighting hero took the advantage then, ramming his elbow into Green Arrow’s side. The archer winced but did not go down. From that point on it was a whirlwind of swinging limbs, a cacophony of flesh striking flesh. Both men were trained fighters; one had experience on his side, the other, youthful energy. Just when one seemed to be winning, the other would rally. After ten minutes, blood was streaming from Wildcat’s nose, as well as from Green Arrow’s split lower lip, and both men were still on their feet.

“Quite a show I have given you, haven’t I, my friends?” the master’s voice boomed from the loudspeakers. Cheers and whoops were the reply.

Wildcat danced from one foot to the other, looking for an opening. Green Arrow suddenly lunged forward, grabbing his opponent in a fierce grapple. The archer’s scowling face was inches from Wildcat’s; the younger hero could feel the hot wind of Green Arrow’s panting breath. The archer muttered one word through his clenched teeth. Wildcat blinked, then summoned up his strength and pushed Green Arrow away from him. The archer was momentarily unbalanced; Wildcat pressed the advantage and dropped to the floor, swinging his legs and kicking Green Arrow’s feet out from under him. Green Arrow went down awkwardly, right shoulder banging hard against the floor. Wildcat snarled, and leapt at the prone hero. Green Arrow quickly drew up his legs, and Wildcat’s stomach collided with the archer’s knees, knocking the wind from him.

“Twenty on the archer,” Harvey, still holding the bow and quiver, said to Fox.

“No way!” Fox spat. “I’ll cover that; the cat-guy’s gonna maul him!”

On and on the battle went. It was obvious that Green Arrow was tiring faster than Wildcat. Finally, the black-suited hero got in a left cross to Green Arrow’s jaw; the archer’s head snapped around with a wet cracking sound, and he collapsed to the floor, in a crumpled heap. Wildcat stood over him, panting for breath, looking down at his fallen friend.

“Congratulations, Wildcat,” the master’s voice said. “You have won the fight.”

“Yippee for me,” Wildcat scowled.

Grudgingly, Harvey passed two ten dollar bills to a grinning Fox.

“To the victor, the spoils,” the master announced. “A quick and easy death. Gentlemen?” Again, the sound of three dozen pistol hammers cocking back. Wildcat’s eyes narrowed, but he did not flinch.

“On my command,” the master said. “One…two…”

Wildcat, brave as he was, was new to the super-hero life. He had not faced death a hundred times, as more experienced heroes had. Thus he could be forgiven if he flinched slightly when the banging noises started.

The noises did not come from the guns aimed at his heart, but from Green Arrow’s quiver, still held by the strap in the hand of Ken Harvey. The disgruntled journalist leapt backward and dropped the quiver like a poisonous snake, as smoke and flames and tiny explosions belched forth from it. The rest of the spectators started in fear and confusion as the tiny room began to fill with thick, choking smoke.

“Good work, kid,” Green Arrow muttered, rising to his feet.

“You planned this?” Wildcat asked. “Guess that’s why you said to stall!”

“You bet,” Green Arrow said. “Think you can mop up these morons by yourself, while I fetch their leader?”

A wide grin split Wildcat’s face. “Just watch me.”

Green Arrow allowed himself a small smile, then bolted through the door and to the fire stairs. He knew there was only one place where the mysterious master could have watched the proceedings in his makeshift arena, and broadcast his voice to it: the hotel security office. Green Arrow’s body ached furiously from the beating Wildcat had given him; every nerve ending screamed in protest as he pumped his legs harder and harder, forcing himself up the stairs. The master would have seen what had happened, would be trying to make his getaway. And Green Arrow was without his bow and arrows.

As the emerald archer burst from the fire stairway, he saw a small, slight form running from the security office. The archer’s hawk like eyes scanned the lobby, searching for a weapon; and lit on a crystal ash tray lying on a small table next to a plush sofa in the waiting area. Green Arrow’s mighty arm grasped the tray, lifted it, and flung it in one fluid motion. His arm cried out in pain, but his throw was true; the tray struck the fleeing man in the back of the neck, and he went down in an unconscious heap.

Green Arrow raced across the lobby to where the mysterious master lay. He had to secure his prisoner and return to the arena to help Wildcat. He had no time to waste. When he saw the man’s face, however, he couldn’t help but take a few seconds for an exclamation of surprise.
***

 

“‘Cat!” Green Arrow cried, bursting through the door. “Are you–”

Wildcat stood in the center of the room, unconscious bodies on the floor all around him, massaging his knuckles. He turned casually in Green Arrow’s direction. “I tried to save you a couple,” he said, “but you took too long.”

“Sorry about that,” Green Arrow said. “Wouldn’t have done to net the little fish and let the big one get away.”

“You get him?” Wildcat asked.

“Sure,” Green Arrow said. “He’s tied up in the lobby. The cops will be surprised when they show up to get him, though. His name’s Willy; he’s the janitor at police headquarters. Been moppin’ their floors, what, thirty years now I think.”

“Plenty of time to work up enough of a mad at the big shots to want to work it out like this,” Wildcat said. “So how’d you pull that trick with the arrows, anyway?”

“I wasn’t as dumb as Willy thought,” Green Arrow said. “I figured he might have rigged some way to be alerted when we tried to access that credit card number. So when we got here, I set a timer on my fireworks arrow to go off in one hour. I figured if we were captured, they’d take my arrows away.”

“I wondered what you were doin’, playin’ with the arrows like that, when we got here,” Wildcat said. He looked down at the still form of Fox, the man who had beaten Jack LeMarra to death.

“We did good tonight, kid,” Green Arrow said. “Brought the bad guys to justice. That’s what we do.”

“Wish you’d quit callin’ me ‘kid’,” Wildcat said, not taking his eyes from Fox.

“OK, then; Wildcat,” Green Arrow said with a chuckle. “You’ve earned the name.”

“Glad you think so,” Wildcat said mirthlessly. “Makes it official, don’t it?”

“Don’t crack wise…Wildcat,” Green Arrow said. After a pause, he added, “Feels kind of hollow, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does,” Wildcat said. “I mean, we brought Jack’s killer in. A lot of killers, of a lot of poor guys whose only crime was bein’ forgotten by society. But so what? They still died, and just so a bunch of emasculated sickos could feel like real men for half an hour. Nothing we do can change that.”

“We can’t change the past, Wildcat,” Green Arrow said. “I’ve got friends who’ve tried. But everything we do, every day, all of us, changes the future. Tonight, you and me changed a lot of futures by putting this sick circus out of business. We can feel good about that.”

Wildcat looked at Green Arrow, and smiled slightly.

“What was the name of that restaurant again?” Wildcat asked.

“What restaurant?” Green Arrow asked.

“The one with the receipt, where you wrote down the credit card number.”

“Oh, yeah! Charlie’s Chili Pot.”

“Good chili?”

“Best around; next to mine, of course.”

“They open now?”

“Think so,” Green Arrow said. “Got a dress code, though.”

“We’re wearin’ shirts and shoes, ain’t we?”

“Point taken.”