Super Man and the Bug Out | Page 7

of the way up Yonge Street when he heard the siren. A cop car, driving fast, down Jarvis. He sighed his father's sigh and rolled east, heading into Regent Park, locating the dopplering siren. He touched down lightly on top of one of the ugly, squat tenements, and skipped from roof to roof, until he spotted the cop. He was beefy, with the traditional moustache and the flak vest that they all wore on downtown patrol. He was leaning against the hood of his cruiser, panting, his breath clouding around him.
A kid rolled on the ground, clutching his groin, gasping for breath. His infrared signature throbbed painfully between his legs. Clearly, he'd been kicked in the nuts.
The cop leaned into his cruiser and lowered the volume on his radio, then, without warning, kicked the kid in the small of the back. The kid rolled on the ice, thrashing painfully.
Before Hershie knew what he was doing, he was hovering over the ice, between the cop and the kid. The cateyes embedded in the emblem on his chest glowed in the streetlamps. The cop's eyes widened so that Hershie could see the whites around his pupils
Hershie stared. "What do you think you're doing?" he said, after a measured silence.
The cop took a step back and slipped a little on the ice before catching himself on his cruiser.
"Since when do you kick unarmed civilians in the back?"
"He -- he ran away. I had to catch him. I wanted to teach him not to run."
"By inspiring his trust in the evenhandedness of Toronto's Finest?" Hershie could see the cooling tracks of the cruiser, skidding and weaving through the projects. The kid had put up a good chase. Behind him, he heard the kid regain his feet and start running. The cop started forward, but Hershie stopped him with one finger, dead centre in the flak jacket.
"You can't let him get away!"
"I can catch him. Trust me. But first, we're going to wait for your backup to arrive, and I'm going to file a report."
A Sun reporter arrived before the backup unit. Hershie maintained stony silence in the face of his questions, but he couldn't stop the man from listening in on his conversation with the old constable who showed up a few minutes later, as he filed his report. He found the kid a few blocks away, huddled in an alley, hand pressed to the small of his back. He took him to Mount Sinai's emerg and turned him over to a uniformed cop.
#
The hysterical Sun headlines that vilified Hershie for interfering with the cop sparked a round of recriminating voicemails from his mother, filled with promises to give him such a zetz in the head when she next saw him. He folded his tights and cape and stuffed them in the back of his closet and spent a lot of time in the park for the next few weeks. He liked to watch the kids playing, a United Nations in miniature, parents looking on amiably, stymied by the language barrier that their kids hurdled with ease.
On March first, he took his tights out of the overstuffed hall closet and flew to Ottawa to collect his pension.
He touched down on the Parliament Hill and was instantly surrounded by high-booted RCMP constables, looking slightly panicky. He held his hands up, startled. "What gives, guys?"
"Sorry, sir," one said. "High security today. One of Them is speaking in Parliament."
"Them?"
"The bugouts. Came down to have a chat about neighbourly relations. Authorised personnel only today."
"Well, that's me," Hershie said, and started past him.
The constable, looking extremely unhappy, moved to block him. "I'm sorry sir, but that's not you. Only people on the list. My orders, I'm afraid."
Hershie looked into the man's face and thought about hurtling skywards and flying straight into the building. The man was only doing his job, though. "Look, it's payday. I have to go see the Minister of Defense. I've been doing it every month for years."
"I know that sir, but today is a special day. Perhaps you could return tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow? My rent is due today, Sergeant. Look, what if I comm his office?"
"Please, sir, that would be fine." The Sergeant looked relieved.
Hershie hit a speed dial and waited. A recorded voice told him that the office was closed, the Minister at a special session.
"He's in session. Look, it's probably on his desk -- I've been coming here for years; really, this is ridiculous."
"I'm sorry. I have my orders."
"I don't think you could stop me, Sergeant."
The Sergeant and his troops shuffled their feet. "You're probably right, sir. But orders are orders."
"You know, Sergeant, I retired a full colonel from the Armed Forces. I could order you to let me past."
"Sorry sir, no. Different chain of command."
Hershie controlled his frustration with an effort of will. "Fine