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“Focus?”
“On yourself. On who you are. You’re Alfred Gordon, right?”
The eerie head nodded stiffly. “Al, mostly. You know that.”
“Of course I do, Grandpa. I just want you to think about who you are. How you look. You need to think about yourself. About your life. Think about Al Gordon. Try to picture your own face, Al. Grandpa.”
The beast blinked. Then slowly, slowly the creature began to shrink. It took minutes longer than it took Cruz or Armo to morph, but finally an old man sat, confused and afraid, amid the wreckage.
“Easy,” Cruz cautioned the police. “If he gets upset, he could morph back.”
“What happened?” Al Gordon wondered. “What am I doing . . . ? Where are my slippers?”
Two NYPD women in plain clothes advanced, guns held low, voices soothing. The officer nodded at Cruz. “Thanks. We didn’t want to have to shoot the thing.”
Cruz de-morphed, resuming her own body. “Happy to help. Probably best to find his daughter and granddaughter. He could go rhino again at any time.”
The crowds cheered—the second time in Cruz’s life she’d been cheered wildly. She heard a name being chanted, a name she’d seen a couple of times on social media. “Trans-it! Trans-it! Trans-it!”
The crowd took up the chorus as Cruz waved and nodded bashfully, and she and Armo went in search of a taxi.
“Transit, huh?” Armo said.
“No,” Cruz said, shaking her head firmly. “Absolutely not. I thought that nickname had died out.”
“It’s better than Berserker Bear.”
“I don’t know. I sort of like Berserker Bear.”
Armo shrugged. “Well, that was easy. All I had to do was stand around and look gorgeous.” He added a wry twist to that final word.
Something you do so very well, Cruz did not say.
By the time they’d found a taxi and reached the brownstone, the New York Post had its online headline: “Transit Strike: Heroes of Harlem,” along with photos and embedded video showing Cruz morphing into a blank-backed Gabourey.
By the time Cruz and Armo had started the coffee machine, the actual Gabourey had tweeted that she was proud her image had helped Transit save the day.
And by the time the coffee was brewed and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches had been made, Shade strolled into the kitchen and said, “Hey, Armo,” then, with a wink, “Hey, Transit.”
Then the doorbell rang.
CHAPTER 17
Superhero Chores, Part 2
THE DOORBELL RANG.
There was no such thing as an innocent doorbell anymore, so Dekka nodded at Shade, who quickly morphed.
Then Dekka opened the door.
“Detective Williams,” Dekka said. “It’s okay, Shade.”
The NYPD detective stepped in and closed the door behind him. He nodded approval. “Good, you were ready for trouble.”
“Yeah, we’ve noticed how trouble keeps happening,” Armo said.
“We think we know the name of the guy, Bug Man.” Williams pulled out his phone and opened a photo. “His name is Robert Markovic. He owns a chain of payday loan companies. He’s rich, as in billionaire-with-a-‘b’ rich. We have a team watching his apartment now, and we think he’s at home.”
