Evil-Doers - A New and Free Gene Kendall Short Story
You see, adding "Free" to the title entices cheapskates to actually open the email.
A short story inspired by mainstream America’s 2000s infatuation with the once tawdry world of comic books—and the rumors surrounding the original comic book art market. Could’ve been more scandalous, given the stories about mobsters laundering their money via original Batman pages, but who am I to invite trouble? If you like what you read, might I be so bold as to direct you toward my Amazon Author page?
EVIL-DOERS
Ricky Liebermann is dead now. Unlike Sherlock Holmes, his death would never be dismissed as an unreliable eyewitness account. Unlike the Shadow, there would be no last-minute escape from a labyrinthine death trap.
The death was a quiet affair. A blessing of peace after too many months battling the toxic proteins invading his brain cells.
There would be no revival based on popular demand. But Ricky’s creation would long outlive the man. He was assured of that in so many kind letters and notes.
Ricky created the Night Bat as a teenager, ushering his creation from pulps to comic books to prime-time television to, finally, the big screen. He didn’t have a story of cheated profits or corporate theft, thanks to an uncle with a law degree and attitude befitting a shark. Ricky spread some of that business acumen around the industry; crusaded for the rights of the creators and was critical in the battle for artists to regain their original art boards from the publishers.
As much a “character” as the Night Bat, Ricky reveled in his wealth and prestige. Ricky would never be spotted in a Cadillac—he zoomed around town in a loving recreation of the Night Bat’s Chiropteran Cruiser.
Selling the television rights gave Ricky a taste of Hollywood, and an excuse to hand over the comic book to his assistants. To the more learned circles of fandom, the Ricky Liebermann issues of Night Bat Comics were the holy texts, his retirement from the title viewed as a heartrending tragedy. The plebs still consumed the product, but those in-the-know recognized most subsequent issues as the work of soulless hacks.
Bill Ostrowski. Herb McMahon. Alfie Schubert. All jobbers, all unworthy to clean Ricky Liebermann’s brush.
Even if those elitists were right, the crimefighter’s mythology endured. The noble Night Bat would eternally slip into the evening and extract vengeance against the criminal underworld.
Those left to continue Ricky’s legacy, those made of flesh and blood, contained perhaps less noble intentions.
Gareth Davenport was a handsome son of a bitch. This was not a subject for debate.
Inky black hair, smoldering gray eyes, a perfectly proportioned nose and geometrically pleasing jawline, all complimented by blemish-free, tawny-brown skin. Slender enough to model slim-fit gentlemen’s suits and brawny enough to carry a Shetland pony on his shoulders. Gareth’s mannerisms, his easy way with people, hinted he was cognizant of these features, and didn’t mind if you spent some time admiring them.
Tragically, Gareth couldn’t translate this beauty and charm into the elusive quality known as “screen presence.” After years of pursuing his dream, Gareth’s resumé remained thin. Yet, today, he was no longer living the life of a starving actor.
Eight months ago, he’d taken a bride. Twenty-two years his senior, Sherry was perhaps in the final stages of losing the kind of superficial beauty enjoyed by those in Gareth’s clique. It did occur to her, posing for their wedding portrait, that she might look more like Gareth’s mother than his spouse. It was a thought Gareth banished from her mind that evening, following a meal of honey-roasted duck with the richest wines and a tumultuous roll in the sands of Pampelonne Beach.
Sherry had spent many years of her own life as a trophy spouse to Ricky Liebermann, as fate would have it, marrying him six months after she dropped out of college. How her first husband earned his fortune was a cute story, one she enjoyed sharing at parties.
At the age of eighty, following his second divorce, Ricky became acquainted with Sherry, a model with copper eyes and luminous blonde locks hired to dress as the Night Bat’s female sidekick at conventions. Ricky loved her legs, Sherry loved his money, and the two soon wed.
The union blessed Sherry with personal shoppers, tennis coaches, and a Moorish-inspired mansion in Santa Cruz’s wealthiest zip code. Ricky, smitten, also arranged for Sherry to cameo in every Night Bat flick.
Clive Owen starred in three of those films, worldwide box office topping over a billion dollars. Years passed, and a reboot of the reboot went into its inevitable production. Aspiring actor Gareth Davenport didn’t land the title role, but was cast as the new star’s stand-in. Gareth and Sherry met on the set, both reaching across the craft services table for the same éclair.
Sherry had been discreet in this affair, as discreet as she’d been in the others preceding it. Ricky passed in blissful ignorance of his bride’s secret engagements. In her estimation, she was eminently respectful of her husband’s memory, waiting almost a full year to marry Gareth following the funeral.
An amber blade of sunlight sliced across their Egyptian cotton sheets this morning, inspiring Gareth to hobble over to the window and close the blinds. They’d been up late last night, opening a bottle of Dom Pérignon. (The vintage happened to be Gareth’s year of birth.) Gareth could always recover faster than Sherry, and had no objection to her sleeping past noon.
Checking the time, Gareth cursed when he realized how late he’d stayed in bed. It was just after eleven—brunch time for Gareth, lunch time for Daniela.
Daniela Seabrook didn’t possess Gareth’s interests in things like micro-needling facials, Creme de la Mer moisturizing lotion, or hypoallergenic eye creams. Still pretty, though, in Gareth’s eyes—just not the stunner he knew she could be.
She’d poke fun at him for his “pretty boy routine.” He’d counter with jabs about the inevitability of her skin turning into a crocodile’s. They would laugh darkly at this and many other topics during their late-morning meals.
Daniela was already seated in the downstairs prep kitchen, halfway into her egg salad sandwich. “Nice to know you remembered me,” Daniela said, plum-brown eyes sparkling with amusement. Strawberry-tinted hair framed her round face and accentuated a cool, rosy complexion. The adjoining room had a bottled citrus scent to it, indicating Daniela was half-done for the day.
She looked good this morning. Had actually spent some time on her hair before leaving the apartment. Gareth wondered if he was supposed to notice.
“The fine for showing up late is, as we’ve previously agreed,” she continued, after taking a sip of her Coke, “a hundred thousand dollars.”
Gareth brushed past her, opening the fridge. “Ah, sorry. Looks like you’ll have to accept an IOU.”
“The third one this month,” said Daniela. “Assuming you’re not a horrible, horrible liar, I should be all set for retirement soon.”
Closing the refrigerator door, plate of spinach quiche in hand, Gareth moved to the dinette table. “I’m a bastion of truth and integrity,” he said, joining her for their daily meal. “A man who lives by his word. You’ll be free of that maid outfit shortly; will be exiting our stately manor in a pink Lamborghini, I’m sure.”
“What makes you think I like pink? More importantly, why assume I do this for the money?”
“Should I infer from that statement that you have, well, job skills? That you’ve spent the last eight years here because you love the smell of Ty-D-Bol and Lysol wipes so much?”
Daniela’s eye-roll rivaled that of the snottiest of teenagers. “I’ve spent these past eight years just waiting for a Prince Charming like you to show up, Gareth. The prettiest of the pretty boys, destined to rescue me from a life of servitude.” Her eyes clenched in mock anguish. “If only that aging vixen known as Sherry weren’t standing in our way.”
“She isn’t much of an obstacle.” His hand slid beneath the table and squeezed Daniela’s left knee. “Not much of one at all.”
“Oh, disgusting, Gareth. Stop that,” she grunted, shifting in her chair and slapping his hand away.
They could joke like that, with no expectations that the flirting would lead anywhere. But if Gareth wanted to make it more than a joke, he suspected Daniela wouldn’t offer much resistance.
“Well, can’t blame a lothario for trying.” His hand returned to his linen robe, where he fished around in the side pocket and removed a tiny trinket. “Take a look at this, willya?”
In his palm was a Night Bat decoder ring, a rare piece of merchandise from the radio serial, produced for a mail-away campaign during the late 1940s. Daniela dropped her sandwich to the table and snatched the ring from Gareth’s hand.
“I think there are only a dozen of these known to exist,” Daniela said, her eyes widening. “It ought to be in a museum.”
“We don’t live in a world of ought-to-bes. We live in a world of debts and interest. But I’m sure this tiny sucker will enjoy his new home.”
Reluctance etched on her face, Daniela daintily placed the ring next to Gareth’s breakfast plate. “What are you charging for it?”
“Five grand.”
“It’s worth twice that, easy.”
“Then someone’s getting a helluva deal, aren’t they?” Gareth took in her sourpuss expression. “Are you interested? I could make an even better offer. The ‘Disapproving, Hypercritical Friend’ discount.”
“Not in my budget, sorry. Also,” she added pointedly, after tearing off another piece of her sandwich, “I’m not a big fan of…what’s the word? Ah, yes. Theft.”
He offered a devilish smile, one that showcased his latest whitening session. “And yet, you’re doing what exactly to stop this injustice?”
“I’m minding my own business. Offering only silent judgment as I finish my lunch and forget we ever had this conversation.”
“But is that how the Night Bat would react to crime?” Gareth mischievously aimed his fork at Daniela. “Would the Dark Crusader for Justice look the other way when villainy is afoot?”
“Luckily for the both of us, I wear a maid’s outfit instead of black leather.”
“Sure you do,” Gareth said with his mouth full. “But even a noble, upright citizen like yourself understands one thing—stealing from a witch like Sherry is no crime.”
He was getting more brazen with the thefts. That ring wasn’t tucked away in some forgotten drawer; it was one of the centerpieces of the “Night Bat Mystery Theatre” exhibit upstairs.
Ricky Liebermann had spent several million dollars collecting a comprehensive archive of Night Bat material. This meant everything from props and costumes from the embarrassingly campy ’60s television show to pages of original artwork from the comics. Ricky’s dream was to have it displayed in a gallery of pop culture artifacts, something he never got around to pursuing before his illness.
Daniela was granted access to the third floor only once a month, and per Sherry’s orders, had to be accompanied by security when she dusted the vintage pieces. Gareth, naturally, had free rein over the mansion. No thick-necked goons following him around as he plundered the Night Bat archives.
Gareth had been pulling this nonsense for over a month now. It started with a few of the action figures, pieces from the ’80s that Ricky Liebermann had left on display in their original packaging. Gareth had overestimated the Lakers’ chances of making the playoffs, and those action figures appeased his ill-tempered bookie. After Gareth washed out during that disastrous Atlantic City trip, he’d lifted some of the aluminum lunchboxes, the ones going for thousands of dollars on eBay.
Those were amazing pieces, too. Painted exteriors of the Night Bat, locked in combat with rogues like the Kraut Terror and Radium-666. Wraparound images from the thermos bottles depicted a montage of Night Bat’s relationship with his ladylove, a barely reformed bad girl by the name of Miss Fury.
Daniela wouldn’t have minded snagging one of those lunchboxes, and were she ever to obtain that decoder ring, it would’ve occupied a prime slot in her own Night Bat display. But she refused to support Gareth’s thievery. He could make all the rationalizations he wanted—go off on a hundred tirades about the woman’s shrill awfulness, remind Daniela he was stealing from someone she despised with a unique passion—and it wouldn’t change a thing. Wouldn’t make him any less of a thief.
Sherry was already hovering around lamented genius and all-around sweetheart Ricky Liebermann when Daniela was a kid. Daniela met the couple at a signing when she was barely six years old, thanks to her father, a comic shop owner and small-time player on the convention circuit. Ricky was ebullient and companionable, signing her reprint collection of the earliest Night Bat comic books while cracking jokes about Daniela’s pigtails. Sherry stood above him wearing Prada shades, stone-faced and bored past all oblivion.
Daniela maintained a postcard relationship with Ricky throughout her youth; saw him at least once a year when he did the convention rounds. Every postcard response, every sketch he’d given her, drawn with that shaky wrist, she cherished as something heaven sent.
At the age of seventeen, Daniela began hinting around about the possibility of Ricky taking her on as an apprentice. He politely encouraged her to pursue other career paths, advice she refused to take. A week after graduating high school, Daniela moved to southern California and wrote this pleading addendum in her latest postcard: “Do you want a young fan to starve, Mister Liebermann?!”
He didn’t take her on as an apprentice. But Daniela gladly accepted the position of house maid. While her friends were earning degrees and falling in love with their future spouses, and while Sherry was off on shopping sprees, Daniela was growing closer with the aging cartoonist. Offering encouragement and moral support during his final days; holding his hand, talking him down during those occasional fits of aggressive dementia.
Doing more for him than Sherry ever did.
She could’ve left after he died. Sherry—with her short temper, relentless name dropping, and condescending attitude—was almost daring Daniela to give notice. But too much of Daniela’s identity had been wrapped up in this job. Too many memories, too many classic Night Bat posters adorning the entrance foyer walls.
Eight months back, after enduring one of Sherry’s tantrums, Daniela was a rat’s whisker away from quitting, from saying goodbye to those vintage posters forever. This happened to be the same week Gareth moved in, however. And though she’d never admit this aloud, their friendship had become a compelling justification for sticking around the place.
She told herself it was because of his ironic wit, the surprisingly philosophical turns their conversations could take. And, at times, he could show a surprising amount of empathy and compassion. When Daniela’s first real boyfriend dumped her a few months back, Gareth even abandoned the smartass act long enough to give the impression he was a human being after all.
So, yeah, she liked spending time with Gareth. His resemblance to a modern-day Adonis had nothing to do with anything.
Daniela was in her little coupe, applying sunscreen and getting ready to pull out of the driveway, when she spotted Gareth huffing out of the front door.
“Hold up!” he shouted, waving a sizable piece of Bristol board paper in his right hand. When he reached the car, Gareth motioned for her to roll down the window.
Weary, dreading what was to come, Daniela complied. Gareth placed the piece of Bristol board against her steering wheel. It was an original art page from Night Bat Comics #439. The issue’s opening splash page, an image of Night Bat investigating a crime scene, unaware master-thief Maximilian Sunset is creeping nearby, Magnum revolver in hand.
Of all the issues, all the pages he could’ve swiped, it had to be that one.
“This is pretty old, right? What d’you think it’s worth?” Gareth asked, not hiding his wicked grin.
“So you’re plundering the upstairs flat files now?”
“Meeting some buddies for poker tonight. Thought I’d take this along, assuming it’s actually worth something.”
“I’m not your personal art appraiser. And, in case you need to hear it again, what you’re doing is outright scummy.”
Gareth fanned away her complaint. Did it with a twinkle in his eyes. “Hey, hey. Stop with the drama. Is the world better off with all of this stuff collecting dust upstairs? Stuff you know Sherry’s inevitably going to sell herself? At least I’m passing these pieces along to people who care about them.”
“This is a Herb McMahon page,” Daniela said, her voice and lips flat. “He drew dozens of Night Bat comics back in the ’80s.” Daniela gestured for Gareth to take the page away. “Happy?”
“So it’s worth…?”
“All the world, to the right person.”
“Cool,” he answered, cheeks brightening. “I was thinking; you should come with me tonight.”
“Uh-huh. Why?”
“Well, we have a tech-bro or two. And Dayton Dreyfuss, he created Wonk. What’s with the blank stare? It’s that HBO show about the trailer trash who gets voted into Congress.”
Daniela’s face soured.
“No? Well, he’s deep into your adorable nerd world. And Wonk’s auditioning for a ‘handsome bimbo’ role this week, so I figure this won’t hurt.”
“Great. Let me know how it works out,” Daniela said, shifting her little coupe into gear.
Sherry had a late morning appointment with her chiropractor. Gareth awoke in an empty bed and, again cursing the time, made his way from the master bedroom to the prep kitchen.
He told himself he wasn’t still hungover. He was in a mood, though, thanks to Daniela. Thanks to her pathetic prank from yesterday.
“Look-ee who it is. The great, great practical joker,” he said to the back of Daniela’s head, entering the kitchen.
Propped against the base cabinets was the original art page from yesterday. The one allegedly worth “all the world.” Daniela, finishing the last of her potato chips, didn’t even offer a grunt as a greeting. As Gareth examined the refrigerator, she finally asked, “Any reason why this was left sitting out like this?”
“‘This’ being…”
“That Herb McMahon page. Don’t act dumb.”
Slamming the refrigerator door, Gareth stormed over to the base cabinets and lifted the page. Waving it manically, he said, “Did you think it was funny? Setting me up to look like an idiot?”
“I didn’t do anything like that. And, criminal genius, don’t you think it’s stupid to leave that sitting out where Sherry might see it?”
“Sherry never comes in here. And I wanted you to have it.” Gareth flicked the art Daniela’s way. “A keepsake; a tribute to your effortless prank.”
The page slid off the dinette table. Daniela moved from her seat in a hurry, collecting it off the floor. “What’s your problem, man?”
“Do you know what happened when I tried to pay off my losses with this piece of garbage? One of the tech-bros covered his nerdy little face and chuckled, ‘Herb McMahon? That loser?’ Oh, and Dayton Dreyfuss? He poked the other tech-bro in the ribs and said, ‘Inked by Vinnie Colletta, too!’ Then the whole room busted out in laughter—”
“Gareth, just because—”
“Laughter. Derisive, patronizing laughter, Daniela.” He said this coldly and methodically, his fist pounding against the quartz countertop.
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“Take it. Just take it and go,” Gareth said, pointing now to the door.
She stood there, stuttering. Holding that art page—that piece Gareth had been assured was a worthless piece of lazy hack work—in her arms as if it were a wounded child.
“Leave!” he shouted.
Daniela obeyed. Neither expected her to run into Sherry in the driveway, home early from her canceled appointment.
Sherry fired Daniela, the “ungrateful, thieving, conniving cow,” on the spot. Still in shock, still sputtering nonsense, Daniela was unable to explain how the original art page had ended up under her arm. That evening, Gareth sent an apologetic text, promising to do what he could to right the situation.
When she called him the next morning to check in, he advised that things were “complicated.” He was working on it, though. Only needed a few more days.
A week later, he stopped responding to her calls. Daniela paced the floors of her two-bedroom apartment, tallying the unpaid bills and anguishing over what she could do next. To make ends meet, she was listing her Night Bat back issues and merchandise on eBay. These weren’t top-dollar items, but she had been expecting far more than what the bidders were willing to pay.
One issue she refused to sell was Night Bat Comics #439. (Not that it would’ve sold for more than a buck, anyway.) She owned four copies, three of them in Near Mint condition. Her earliest copy was coverless, with the last-page subscription coupon cut out and most of the pages dog-eared.
This was the copy given to her by her father, plucked out of the “Give a Comic, Take a Comic” box at the front of his store. An unwanted back issue from decades ago, discarded by a fan who’d outgrown the hobby. Soulless hackwork, according to the true connoisseurs of comics art. But to a girl spending summer afternoons with her father, looking for any distraction after the loss of her mother and the harshest school year of her young life, Night Bat Comics #439 was sublime.
It was corny, she knew, reflecting on the crimefighter’s courage and unyielding commitment to justice. Something she hadn’t lived up to, looking the other way as a “friend” casually committed theft after theft. It was wrong, she knew it, and in her own way, she was as guilty as Gareth.
With shaky fingers, she typed a letter to Sherry, detailing every item stolen by Gareth and, as best she could remember, the parties now in possession of the merchandise.
Was Sherry intolerable? Yes. Did she deserve Ricky’s archive more than a devoted fan? Probably not, but this didn’t justify any of Gareth’s actions.
Another letter was written to Gareth. She thanked him for his occasional flashes of humanity, for his endless supply of movie and music recommendations. Her true thoughts on the man were revealed in the final paragraph: “You’re a great conversationalist. You’re nice to look at. You’re also an irredeemable piece of shit and I think I hate you.”
At the time Daniela mailed the letters, she wasn’t aware that Gareth had already confessed to his crimes. Later, she would discover he and Sherry were secluded in the Colorado Rockies, undergoing intense couples therapy.
A week after their return, Gareth and Sherry made the joint decision to rehire Daniela. (On her first day back, Daniela apologized only for the “irredeemable” crack, a judgment she was now reconsidering.) The opening page of Night Bat Comics #439 was gifted to her as a retention bonus.
The page hung on the wall of her apartment for nearly a year, greeting Daniela after a day’s work, now as Sherry’s personal assistant. Daniela never walked past without a lingering look, never took it for granted. And she was more than happy to share photos of the piece online with collectors, even if some sneered at the “limp hackwork of the forgettable Herb McMahon.”
The images made their way to Mr. McMahon’s grandson. This is what inspired an unexpected phone call to Daniela, one late afternoon after an onerous day of work. She literally swallowed her breath mint, the moment she grasped it was Mr. McMahon on the other line.
Mr. McMahon thanked Daniela for her devotion to his work. Even expressed surprise that anyone would care so much. He also explained that this piece had gone missing from his personal collection, ages back. He’d heard rumors of it circulating in some of the seedier corners of the original art market, but had never seen the proof.
In polite tones, Mr. McMahon explained the personal value he placed on his work, even if he was drawing someone else’s creations, even if he was never one of the industry’s leading lights. Pedestrian, uninspired…fine. But it was his, the product of aching wrists and sleepless nights. And Daniela, as he saw things, had a moral obligation to return the piece.
After all, she didn’t think theft was okay, did she?