with skinny votive candles. A bar with a gleaming brass rail and mirror behind it ran the whole length of the building. Shouts and curses drifted out from behind the swinging doors that led to the kitchen, along with the sizzle of frying meat and the yeasty aroma of baking bread. My stomach quivered in anticipation at the mouthwatering scents. The restaurant’s patrons wore everything from torn jeans and sneakers to designer ball gowns and tuxedos. Quicke’s catered to all segments of Bigtime’s population, including superheroes and ubervillains. Framed posters, newspaper clippings, and autographed pictures of heroes and villains covered the rust-colored brick walls. Action figures crouched in mock-fighting positions on the shelves behind the bar, along with car replicas and plush toys. I was pleased to note there were more than a few Fiera figures among the mix, including one scene where a six-inch-tall version of me pummeled Scorpion. I smiled. I scanned the tables, but I didn’t see any neon-colored costumes among the crowd. Quicke’s was one of the few places considered to be neutral territory in Bigtime. Both superheroes and ubervillains could eat here without worrying about being hit with heat rays or thrown through the plate glass windows. In fact, with its fast turnaround time, more than one superhero and ubervillain grabbed a sandwich or salad at Quicke’s before heading out to do battle for the night. Sometimes, right in the middle of a fight. Debonair, a sometimes hero, sometimes thief with teleportation powers, was particularly fond of doing that.

Kyle seated us at a cozy table in back next to one of the windows that fronted part of Paradise Park. The colorful lights of the carousel spun round and round in the distance like a never-ending comet. Shrieks and shouts of glee penetrated the window, along with the jingle and jangle of the various other rides and attractions at the park. 68

J e n n i f e r E s t e p

Kyle gave us our menus and went back to his post at the front of the restaurant. A fat waiter named Ray came over to fill our water glasses and take our orders. Johnny decided on a black pepper–seasoned steak with the usual trimmings, and the waiter turned to me.

“Your usual, Miss Fine?” Ray asked. Most of the staff at the restaurant knew me by name.

I started to say you betcha, but caught myself just in time. My usual consisted of a half dozen various sandwiches, five jumbo orders of fries, onion rings, hot-’n’-spicy buffalo wings, two bowls of soup, a couple of liters of soda, and the cake of the day. Three of them.

“I’ll have the grilled chicken special.” It came with only a couple of measly sides. It wasn’t going to be enough food. I tried not to cringe.

The waiter looked at me, waiting for the rest of my order.

“That’s all.”

“That’s all? Are you sure, Miss Fine?”

“Positive.” I snapped the menu shut and gave it to him. The waiter gave me an odd look, but he bowed and walked away.