The north half of the city was littered with industrial parks due to the crisscrossing railroad tracks. Warehouses and textile plants organized by narrow avenues and too few street lights. The only sign of life was the odd passing eighteen wheeler making an early start, and the corner coffee shop that would be teeming with blue-collars come dawn.
Not the place a woman should be at four in the morning.
Montague the bartender had been the one to spot the cop; had an eye for that kind of thing. He had apparently been there the entire night, by himself in a corner, having pretzels and nursing the same beer. Monty’s wasn’t exactly a high class establishment, but it was a yuppies’ club. People came to hang out, shoot the breeze, hit on the waitresses... not brood.
She finished her shift, and then slipped out the window in the ladies’ washroom. Not exactly a graceful exit, true, but sometimes the easiest ways were the crudest. She was glad she had watched her figure, considering the narrow opening. You didn’t see many fat escape artists.
A bus across town and several blocks walk into the film-noir-like setting brought her to a long-term storage warehouse, the kind rich people keep their Ferraris in during the winter. Big garage doors with stenciled numbers on them, barely visible in the moonlight. There was probably a security guard or two somewhere. Maybe even a shack with close circuit cameras. Of course, those cameras would be off, those guards taking a not-so-well-deserved break. Amazing what a C-note will do for the average minimum wage night watchman.
Marlo pulled deep from the smoke in her mouth, walking past the ordered doors. A phone call from Winston had arranged a meeting place and time. A go-ahead from Patty, the other waitress at the club, let her skip out on the next couple nights shifts. The last of her pocket change got her out here. And her own two feet got her to the garage door she was looking for, a grimy out of the way door, but clean around the edges from recent use.
After all that, she still had a nagging doubt. A pang of conscience, maybe. She couldn’t help it. A lot of people did a lot of work to see her walk the good side of the law. Up to this point, she hadn’t really done anything illegal. Nothing they could pin on her, anyways. She walks through that door, and that luxury goes out the window. Hell, by morning, they could probably have a handful of charges they could pick and choose from.
She could turn back now, she figured, reaching in her pocket as she let the cancer stick hang from her lips. She could head on home, get the sleep she should be getting. Hell, she could even walk into a station, stool pigeon on the others inside. Might even be enough to convince Phillips and his gestapo to get off her back.
She played around with the plastic cylinder in her pocket a while, thinking, then pulled it out. A meager six or so pills left, rattling at the bottom. She couldn’t afford more, not if she wanted to pay rent this month too. Never mind next month. Or the one after. Or all the ones to follow a boring, legal, slow life just above the poverty line.
Marlo spit the filter to the ground, stepping it out. She swallowed a pill dry, and gave it a few seconds. To hell with it. Circumstance had made her decision for her, she was going to make the best of it.
And with any luck, she’d be making the best of it on the open side of the bars.
Four thirty in the morning, she should be sleeping by now.
She certainly wasn’t staying for the decor. The inside of the storage warehouse was pretty much as dingy and small as she expected it to be. There was a flea market like table in the middle of the room, with plastic lawn chairs arranged around it. On the table was a battered black speaker phone. With the number pad artfully removed.
The rest of the room was empty, of course. Oh, there were places in the dust that told of things actually being stored here. A crate over here, and cardboard box over there. The black of tires rubbed on the concrete floor. Everything had been relocated. Marlo couldn’t help but grin. Guess there was only so far someone was willing to trust known thieves.
She looked at the two others for a moment. At first glance, they seemed like an odd pair. Of course, that might have to do with the fact they "were" an odd pair. Certainly not Marlo’s first choices for a job like this, but considering the circumstances, she wouldn’t be surprised if they were the best of a bad lot.
The larger of the two was a massive man, nearly seven feet tall if he were to stand upright. He resembled a gorilla, hunched over, his oversized arms hanging in front of him. He wore a white wife-beater t-shirt and black jeans. His hands and feet were the size of Marlo’s torso, and, if rumor was true, had the strength to rip a car in half.
Marlo had some reservations about the bald man, a single spit-curl of hair coming off his forehead. He was a classic thug; silent, obedient, and strong. Of all of Copa Koopa’s old hired muscle, this was the man most talked about.
The man with his name viciously tattooed on his forehead.
This man was Pooh.
Pulling a smoke from her dwindling supply, Marlo considered the other player in this pack. A stark set of contrasts if an English teacher were ever to point one out. A short guy in blue coveralls, he had a rocketeer like helmet under his arm as he leaned up against the wall. He fiddled with one of his many pockets, checking to see if they were properly closed, then checking them again. Not really looking for anything.
Marlo fought back a scowl while considering this kid. He couldn’t be a day over twenty, she figured. He saw her, and nodded back, putting a grim seriousness on his face. He was trying to act cool and collected. Like he belonged here.
He wasn’t fooling anyone. Winston had given her the goods on him. He was a wanna-be, looking to make a name. He had done a couple small jobs, and he was apparently really good with the gadgets and doodads he carried. A hacker and mechanic and repairman and inventor rolled into one. But he carried that wet-behind-the-ears look to him, right down to the homemade logo sewn onto the chest of his coveralls.
He called himself Snappy Boom Boom. Marlo shook her head. Snappy fucking Boom Boom. Between him and Pooh, she almost had the cast of a Saturday morning cartoon.
She walked over to a chair and sat down, relaxing to the point of sticking her feet up on the table. Conversationalists they weren’t. Hell, Pooh was mute. She might go out of her mind just waiting around like this.
Right then, the garage door opened behind her, as Conspiracy P walked in. Marlo glanced at her watch again, frowning. Almost to the second. One thing you quickly learn is that a thief’s most valuable tool in any arsenal is time. More specifically, there was never enough and you always ran out of it.
She sat up straight, and looked at the mastermind behind this late night get together. Marlo was a bit surprised at his appearance; she had completely underestimated how drastically pale he actually was. Bleach white skin and hair. And dressed in matching dress pants, shirt, tie, and suspenders. In fact, the only color on him was the green tinted sunglasses and the children’s lunchbox he carried in one hand. The blue kind with a picture of the Neatos Cartoon Hour on the side.
Pooh and Snappy cautiously took their seats as the ghost like figure stood at one end, waiting patiently. When they were as comfortable as they were likely to get on the plastic furniture, he placed the lunchbox on the table and nodded to them.
"You were all told four o’clock. Anyone who arrived late would not have been appropriate for the task I am going to pitch," he tossed out to the lot of them, just before sliding the lunchbox into the middle of the table and sitting down himself. No sooner had he done so, then the phone rang.
He let it ring a few seconds before addressing them again. "There is three thousand dollars inside," gesturing to the lunchbox, "courtesy of our generous sponsor who is, at this very moment, telephoning us. It is yours to divide amongst yourselves. All you need to do is sit back, and let me take this call."
He looked at every one of them, but his eyes held Marlo’s the longest, as if sizing up players to send on the field. When he was satisfied, he leaned forward, and answered the blaring phone, setting it on the hands free speaker.
"This is Conspiracy P. Go ahead."
Half an hour later, all traces of sleep were well purged from Marlo’s system. She couldn’t fall asleep tonight if she tried.
P had finished his pitch to everyone in the room, including the voice altered sponsor on the other end of the phone. Snappy had started to call him Charlie. Everyone else was less than amused with the joke. The phone was hung up, and a pregnant silence was allowed to settle before P politely cleared his throat.
"Those are the generalities, lady and gentlemen," he addressed them. "One bank, four million dollars in cash, a job that will take place in less than twenty-four hours. Your fee will be ten percent of the total take in cleaned, unrelated currency, to be handed over to you upon drop-off of the haul... split amongst yourselves however you see fit."
Marlo reached into her jacket, and pulled out a fresh smoke, sticking it in her mouth. She just left it there for a couple seconds, hesitating. That seemed to be the theme, she figured. "You’re not straight with this, are you?" she demanded of P more suddenly then she meant to be.
"I say yes. I say we go do this thing!" yipped Snappy.
Marlo frowned hard at him and his Halloween costume. He looked excited, he looked raring to go. She couldn’t believe this kid, he couldn’t be serious. He noticed her less then subtle glare, and nodded his head vigourously. "You heard him. He’s got it all figured out. He’s knows every step we gotta do. This is a made deal."
"Nothing is made here, he hasn’t told us _anything_, you shit."
The venom in the swear shut him up. Shut him up good. But it didn’t change his mind. Marlo could tell by the way he quieted down, tapped his fingers against the table. He had already said yes, he wanted to do this. Maybe he thought it would get him the rep he wanted. Maybe he wanted the money.
The money.
P placed both hands on the table, a subtle gesture to get the fractured attention around the table again on him.
"I admit I have been... sparse with details, but I assure you, there _are_ details. I have spoken with our sponsor in person before this. He will be providing all the floor-plans, blueprints, security codes, and anything else we will require. He also has the means to launder the money afterwards, as well as being up-front with your payment."
A flat moment, letting that sit before continuing.
"I have the utmost confidence in Mr. Winston’s recommendations of you three. This will be a small, precise job. And though the provided timeframe may seem a little small..." he looked directly at Marlo, "we will just have to work fast."
She looked at Pooh. He glanced back at her, but said nothing. Not surprising, but she could see it in his face. He wasn’t flooded with the self assurances that P was, nor the rookie eagerness of the kid. He had his apprehensions.
But he would vote yes. Of course he would.
"Though there has been some... enthusiasm already, I have factored in some time for you to all think it over." P gestured to the lunchbox, untouched on the table, as he stood up. "You may take your portion of it as a... hm... consulting fee, leave now, and return to whatever dull lives you were leading before this.
"Or, you can take your portion as an _advance_, gather whatever necessities you think you will require for the job, and return to this location in twelve hours..."
"...In which case, should you all be here, we will do this one night’s worth of work."
That albino fuck, she knew he was purposely pushing buttons. And he just radiated confidence. P had a rep, he knew what he was doing. And he knew who he was selling it to. Every word was carefully chosen. He made sure there was something in the orchestrated speech that appealed to everyone listening. And he did it well.
As far as he’s probably concerned, he knows what we’ll say. As far as he’s probably concerned, we’re just playing the parts he’s already figured we’d be playing. He must think its already good and done, just a matter of jumping through hoops.
Jumping us through hoops.
She felt a sting in her head. She knew what it was.
Reaching into the pocket of her jacket, she felt the plastic cylinder of her pills.
Six pills left.
She lived pretty tight right now. A thousand was a lot of money. It was a lot to her, anyways. It would pay rent. It would pay back Montague. It would buy her pills.
But that’s not why she came. She came because she missed doing something she was really good at. She missed the job, and thrill. The blur. Putting the burn on the cops, and getting away by the skin of her teeth. Places like this, meeting creeps like these to plan this kind of shit.
This exact kind of shit.
She popped open the lunch-box, grabbed her third, counted it in front of everyone, and then jammed it in her pocket. She left the storage facility, not saying anything to anyone as she exited into the red-orange tint of dawn outside. She didn’t have to. They all knew she’d be back.
Marlo got off the bus too late, missing her regular stop. There was a fat woman who didn’t feel it necessary to move to a seat in the back of the bus; instead, she crowded the aisle as she related the (in her opinion) scandalous rumor about her next door neighbors marriage difficulties. And when Marlo tried to push past her, she looked ready to get into quite a huff over the whole thing.
A huff! God, the people in this city, sometimes. Marlo seethed as she walked the two blocks back to her apartment building. She hung up the stage name and did her time for the privilege of what, joining them? The bits of gossip and fashion and what’s on television that night talk that passed for a day to day conversation? Even working at Montague’s club, putting up with the low brow humor and fresh comments about her ass, working alongside the painfully cheerleader-like Patty and her bubble gum, all to take home a below the poverty line paycheck that didn’t pay for her medicine and the hovel she called home.
Phillips was right. She couldn’t possibly have kept that up for much longer. It was driving her further and further into a little ball. Doubt, bitterness, depression, and, worst of all, boredom. She hated the world.
She still hated the world. All the fat ladies blocking all the aisles in all the buses. But at least she didn’t have to be a part of it anymore.
Marlo smirked to herself as she finally got to her building and made her way to the elevator. She wondered which bank that woman kept her money in.
It was probably a bad idea to come back here, but she was careful enough to know she hadn’t been tailed. She was relatively sure the building wasn’t being staked either, but even if it was, she didn’t plan to be here long enough to give anything away. She just wanted to grab a few things and change clothes.
It was like talking to the wind, trying to convince Snappy to lose the logoed overalls and helmet for the job. Low key isn’t a runway, he could model his duds when he could back them up. Plain black clothes and a ski-mask has worked for years, and it’ll work for him. There’s better chance to avoid costumes if you dress casual.
She had used her advance for some loose fit cargo pants, t-shirt and a jacket. The extra pockets always came in handy. She also snagged some sneakers and gloves at a sporting store, for the obvious. Last was a trim, getting her shoulder length hair down to a more reasonable buzz cut. She still remembered the one time she was yanked by the roots into the air, she wasn’t keen on re-living that.
Later, someone might trace it all back, see the shopping, put two and two together. But by then, it’ll be over, and Marlo’d be on a beach somewhere, financially secure. She smiled over her smoke, as she opened the door to her apartment and walked in. She wondered if her old account was still active, she was sure she still had the book somewhere in here.
Marlo closed the door behind her, and looked up into the face of an equally surprised, unfamiliar man.
They just stared at each other for a moment, flatfooted, the two of them. Then the man’s mouth opened to speak, and his hand went for something in his jacket.
Marlo didn’t hesitate. She let go of the shopping bags, and decked the stranger.
She didn’t realize until she hit him. The packages hovering beside her, hanging in mid air. Falling slower then she could perceive. The man frozen before her, words like long strings of molasses in her ears, incomprehensible. The world at a crawl.
At that speed, her fist went through him like a paper bag.
His jaw exploded into specks.
Teeth and lip and blood on the wall.
His head twisted around unnaturally.
His throat tearing open to the world.
There was a pop, the best her senses could decipher from the quiet roar of speed.
He hung there, the shock painted on his face.
She blinked, and life hit play again.
She heard the sickening crunch of her impact before anything. His lower jaw was gone, his upper jaw and cheeks crushed up into his eye sockets. It looked like someone took a shotgun to his mouth. It had all happened in less then a second, and whatever he was going to say came out as a bubbly gurgle.
He was dead before hit the ground.
Marlo had killed him.
Hello again! When I first put out Marlo Vivo, I wanted to make a villain based series... not the cackling, crazed, rule-the-world sort, but the old-fashioned rob-a-bank kind. The sort that would run around in the sixties and seventies, stealing jewels and losing to the hero and going to jail, only to eventually break out and return a couple issues later. I also wanted it to be dark and grimy and detective-story-ish, the main character a loser with a shitty yet fascinating job.
When I originally wrote this series in 2002 (wow, that long?), I had the occasional shift in perspective, showing what was happening from Detective Nathan Phillips’ point of view. Coming back to the series, I realized that it stretched the intention, making me write an *actual* police crime story in places... when I should have been writing a *criminal* story. So in these rewrites, all those are gone. We only ever see anything from Marlo’s point-of-view.
Hopefully, this will make things not only easier to write (as I don’t have to make real characters of other characters, only impressions of these characters as Marlo would interpret them), but more interesting to write. What will happen when I get to a plot point that’s important to know to understand what’s going on, but Marlo herself does not or cannot know?
Also, Marlo is, by definition, not a nice person. We already know she’s a criminal, we see she would *rather* be a criminal than "normal", and now she’s killed someone... and these are just the issues we’ve see in two posts! I’m curious how people will react to following the point-of-view of this broken individual.
Finally, I streamlined things here, both in plot and in writing. This was originally issues two and three of the original series, now condensed into a single post. The original second issue ended on the same beat as the first, Marlo agreeing to become a criminal; no need to repeat myself, so out that went.
Also, I did a terrible job of the heist the first time around, especially when it came to them actually doing it. In the 2002 issue four, were they on their first bank or their tenth? Were they successful and got nailed on the last bank, or incompetent and caught at their first? Now, a much smaller job, and easier to explain, a lot less ambitious for a third-string villain getting back in the game, and closer to my film-noir feeling.