Bad Luck Beauty
Ham was a slender, quick-moving fellow who, year after year, set the benchmark for dressing well. As he entered the headquarters' large study, he set aside his hat and the shiny black swordcane he carried on all occasions.
Hearing a sound behind him, he turned at a snap. "Oh no!" he cried. "One of Doc's experiments has escaped its cage!"
Coming through the door from the laboratory strode a creature right out of a Hollywood fright picture. Only slightly taller than five feet, with a vast chest and long, gorilla arms, the thing surely weighed in at two hundred sixty pounds. On spotting Ham, it twisted its simian face in a grimace and its bristly reddish hair seemed to stand on end.
It opened its wide mouth to speak. Instead of a roar, it uttered a squeak. Actually, several squeaks: "Ah, shaddap, shyster. Are the ambulance drivers on strike or something?"
"Shut your cake hole, you mammalian mistake," Ham fired back. "How many babies and grown men did your ugly mug scare on the way over here?"
Despite appearances, the two were close friends and would pitch in at a moment's notice to help one another out of a jam. But both cherished a good, old-fashioned squabble.
The simian-faced fellow was Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, otherwise known - appropriately enough - as Monk. Although he looked more animal than human, Monk was a genius in a chemistry lab, and dozens of patents at the U.S. Patent Office had his name attached.
Monk and Ham were gearing up for a full-blown mud-slinging session when an interruption came from the front door.
"You two gents sound well-practiced at impressing one another."
Both associates turned toward the speaker: A woman dressed in dark gray, reaching nearly six feet in heels, with a mass of black hair tumbling below her shoulders. Those shoulders would have been considered broad on most women, but on this one they seemed just right. She didn't appear masculine at all, for she was curved in all the ways that the leading journals of fashion and pulchritude said a beautiful woman should be curved. She had the look of an athlete, ready to tackle anything, and the twinkle in her dark eyes suggested she'd have fun tackling it.
Both Ham and Monk gaped. These days, it was rare that such a vision crossed the penthouse threshold.
Ham recovered first. "Pay no attention to the homunculus," he said, jerking his head at Monk. "He's trained to talk, but it usually comes out as nonsense."
"Just what you'd expect to hear from a man with sixteen children and three wives in three boroughs," Monk spat.
"Whoa, boys," the woman gestured for peace. "I just need a little information."
Ham bowed. "Ham Brooks, attorney at law, at your service. The troll is Monk Mayfair, whose chemical experiments, I fear, have done his mental capacities grievous harm."
The woman shook hands with both men, introducing herself: "I'm Catherine Jackson, known to friends and non-friends as Black Cat Jackson."
"It's a pleasure to meet such a vision of loveliness," crooned Monk. "Black Cat, huh? You must wear black all the time, is that it? Are you a widow?"
Ham rolled his eyes at Monk's graceless probing, but Black Cat Jackson merely chuckled.
"It's an odd nickname, I know," she said. "But it comes from my luck - sometimes it's bad for people I meet."
"I can only say that meeting a rare, dark flower such as yourself can only mean that my luck is good today," Monk said, and his wide mouth spread in a grin that surely displayed every tooth in his head.
"Where does he get these lines?" Ham muttered.
"You boys are charming," Cat said, "but I'm looking for Clark Savage."
"On that count you're outta luck," Monk said.
Ham spoke up. "My hirsute companion is correct, Miss Jackson. Is there some way that we may assist you?"
"I'm not sure - I'm not even sure whether Mister - whether Clark can help," she said. "I came here because - well, he may not even remember me."
Monk figured the only people who wouldn't remember Black Cat Jackson were dead and buried.
"He told me that he gets involved with things," Cat Jackson continued. "And I'd heard people mention that he sometimes helps the government. Not knowing where else to seek help after I heard nothing from the Navy -"
"The Navy?" interrupted Monk.
"Is this about the Boston explosion?" Ham asked.
"Yes - or at least I think so."
"The papers say that tanker melted in the sunlight," Monk said. "I just couldn't believe it!"
"It's true!" Black Cat Jackson stamped her foot. Monk was distracted - what a lovely foot, he thought - but only for a moment. "If other people are in danger from the same horrible thing, I thought Clark might already be looking into the situation."
"Nope, not that we know of," Monk answered.
"Oh," the dark woman said. Ham couldn't quite say what her expression meant. Disappointment? Surprise? Before the attorney could open his mouth, Black Cat Jackson was halfway out the door.
"Wait, please, Miss Jackson," he said, and the woman stopped in the doorway and turned.
"Monk spoke out of turn," Ham said.
"Yeah, that's what I did," Monk said, not caring that he was actually agreeing with Ham, but suddenly desperate to keep Cat Jackson from leaving.
"Doc sometimes undertakes investigations that we simply don't know about," Ham explained, trying to draw this lovely woman back into the room. "He may, indeed, already be studying the Boston explosion. If you know something about that event and the possibility of further disasters, you can tell us. We will certainly make sure Doc gets the information. In fact, he may want to see you himself. So if you'll step back inside and have a seat -"
The phone rang, and Monk leaped to the large desk across the room and snatched up the receiver. "Yeah, hello?"
Hearing the response, Monk waved for Cat Jackson. "It's Doc!" He spoke into the phone. "Doc! Where you been? I thought you'd be back a few days ago."
After a pause, the hairy chemist said, "Norfolk, eh? Oh yeah, Ham's right here. But there's someone else showed up this morning to see you. Ever heard of Black Cat Jackson?"
That's when bedlam erupted. Before Monk heard a reply, a gang of men rushed through the half-opened door. The leader grabbed Cat Jackson by the arm while another smacked Ham in the head with a weighted sap.
"Hey!" squawked Monk. He dropped the phone receiver and jumped toward the group of strangers.
Cat Jackson still had one arm free. She made a fist and slammed it into the jaw of the fellow trying to restrain her. He yelled and staggered, and the woman began beating him with both fists. Two other men jumped her, holding her arms and tripping her legs from under her.
Monk howled as his fists swung among the harsh-looking characters attacking him. As he whirled and danced among his assailants, his feet tangled in the phone cord, pulling the telephone to the floor and toppling the hairy chemist. A crew jumped and stamped on Monk until he groaned and twitched. The thug who had laid out Ham advanced and swatted Monk with the sap, and everything went dark for the squeaky-voiced scrapper.
Written By:
Duane Spurlock
based on notes by:
Kenneth Robeson
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