Quinelle Williams had a busy day ahead of her. She bustled about her small shop, making sure everything was ready. Sarah Bevins, one of the young stars of The CW’s Sunset Place had an appointment at three o’clock. When she arrived, with whatever entourage she brought with her, Quinelle would close the shutters on the windows and lock the door. This would keep the paparazzi, which buzzed around the stores on Rodeo Drive like bees around a flowering shrub, from taking any pictures of the star as she tried on the designer t-shirts that were the shop’s specialty.

Rodeo Drive, and the nearby streets in Beverly Hills, where the elite pay hundreds of dollars for jeans and t-shirts, and thousands for one-off designer gowns, was not immune from the collapse of much of the world’s banking and investment structure. Sales were down in all the shops, and the huge rent on even the smallest retail space had not been lowered.

Movie stars came through and looked at the merchandise, but didn’t buy. They said they had to be cautious, they couldn’t just throw money around any more. As each of them left Quinelle nervously eyed the calendar and thought of the rent that would be due soon.

Born in South Central, Quinelle saw where the money was in L.A. at an early age. She worked her way into the structure of Hollywood, starting as a personal assistant to an actress who, in a switch on the stereotype, played a vicious bitch on camera but in person was as sweet as pie. From there she worked her contacts until she had a shop on Rodeo Drive.

The young TV star’s visit might save the store, if Quinelle could make her feel at home and relaxed. Just a year ago, Sarah Bevins was sharing a two-bedroom apartment in Tarzana with a roommate. This was exactly the kind of client that Quinelle loved. New at being rich and too inexperienced at managing those riches.

Until Bevins arrived, and of course she would be an hour or two late, that was expected,

Quinelle put up with the tourists who wandered in just to gawk at the price tags. They would also take pictures of the sign outside. When they got back to Podunk or wherever they would proudly show their snapshots of the sign that said TROP LUXUEUX. They would never know what it meant, but anything in French impresses most Americans.

The bell over the door rang. Quinelle turned, expecting to see a fat, camera toting tourist. She was astonished to see a woman who was so tall she had to stoop to get through the door. A woman dressed in fur.

Fur was fashionably unfashionable. Many of her clients supported PETA, the animal rights group. Even if it was acceptable, no one she knew would wear such ragged pelts. They looked like they had been running around in the woods a few days before.

The woman straightened out to her full height. She must be eight feet tall, Quinelle thought. And built like a female TV wrestler. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Do you have anything in my size?” the woman asked. She had an accent of some sort.

“This is not a plus size shop, ma’am.”

The giant woman smiled. She reached out and grabbed a handful of t-shirts from a rack, about two thousand dollars worth at TROP LUXUEUX prices. Most of the shirts were sizes that wouldn’t fit over her muscular forearm.

“Too bad,” the woman said. With her other hand she grabbed a metal rack and hurled it through the plate glass window.

*****

“There’s a crime wave in Beverly Hills,” Randall Moss said on the Knighthawk cell phone.

This was like saying, “There’s a Ferrari dealership in Compton.” It was something that just didn’t happen. The only crime in Beverly Hills was bad taste in mansion design.

“Villains are trashing stores and cars on Rodeo Drive and Camden Dr. The heart of the shopping district.”

Marcus was in the Mossoft building downtown. Miles from the warehouse and the Knighthawk gear. “Villains plural?” he asked. “We need Mike.”

“Take as many as you can get,” Marcus said. He was in the same building, in his private office. “I’ll stay here, just call the Nabes and go.”

“Ok.”

“And Marcus? I’m not sure, but it sounds like they’re out. Everyone we busted.”

“What? How?”

“Don’t know. Go.”

Marcus ended the call and dialed again. The special phone scrambled the calls and only a few other phones could unscramble them. All of those phones were in the hands of the Neighborhood Heroes. It also made his voice sound like a robot.

A woman answered and he said, “Beverly Hills. I will pick up as many as you can get in about half an hour.”

*****

The refurbished Protecto-car was fast. That was one good thing about it. As the Knighthawk car, though, it was not in its element. It was dead black and meant to cruise through the night, disappear into shadows. On a bright and clear California mid-morning it stuck out like a cat at the Westminster dog show.

It took longer than Marcus thought to get to the warehouse, get into the suit, fire up the car, go through the secret door in the roof, fly to Mireya’s neighborhood, and pick up the other heroes. He did the suit systems checklist as he flew.

The car was crowded. It was meant to hold four, and Mireya rounded up three heroes, so there were five, including Marcus. Plus Mike, who was flying on his own. He had Pink Poppy, Mireya, that God of Death guy, currently just looking like a Mexican man in jeans and a t-shirt. Then there was Petaurista, who had no powers but glided on wings in his costume.

Lodestone wanted to come but he was still on crutches. Marcus told him to coordinate everyone on the phone.

This flying car full of heroes sped down Santa Monica boulevard towards Beverly Hills. They could see where all the action was long before they got there. It was marked, like anything that happened in L.A. that was newsworthy, by a cluster of helicopters, all taking footage of the action for the evening news.

When one of the helicopter crews saw them, it broke off from the formation and came their way. Marcus was used to creeping in shadows himself, or even better, through jungles. He believed strongly in using the element of surprise. With the news media flying towards him, that was the end of that idea.

Marcus had never been to Beverly Hills, except when driving through. He didn’t want to see the mansions and overpriced stores. It wasn’t that far away that people lived among gangs, drugs, and random gunfire. Rodeo Drive wasn’t just a three block span of decadent shopping, it went through South Central, where people pronounced it like a cowboy and horse show instead of “Ro-day-o.”

From above, the area didn’t look that impressive. The stores were mostly one story. There were palm trees down the center of Rodeo Drive, but there were palm trees in the ghetto too. Circling around, he saw a weird statue that was the armless and legless naked torso of a woman, silver colored all over.

Police cars were everywhere, and the sound of metal crashing and breaking glass could be heard. Marcus guessed that these were not normal here. It was kind of like the Rodney King riots brought to Beverly Hills.

Petaurista jumped out and started gliding when he saw a villain in a bright red costume on the street. Mike flew off to do his own thing. Marcus had to find a place to land. He settled the car in front of the Giorgio Armani store.

“Spread out, take whoever you can, but if you need help call Lodestone and he will call the rest of us,” he said.

Using the remote, Marcus made the car disappear high into the sky and hover. Randall wouldn’t be happy if it got trashed.

He didn’t see any villains right away, but there was a familiar buzzing sound in the distance. Don’t tell me HE is here, Marcus thought.

He took two steps and was confronted with something worse than villains. A flock of paparazzi ran towards him, cameras at the ready.

“What’s your name?” one of them shouted. A chorus of cameras clicked.

“Do you have a comics deal yet?” Another one shouted. “What publisher?”

Why hadn’t the police cleared civilians out? Marcus turned and walked away from them. The buzzing was getting louder. He turned in a circle, trying to see where it came from. He didn’t want to be hit by a helmet that could smash through metal.

There he was. Buzz Kill flashed through the next intersection. Marcus started to run in that direction. The paparazzi ran after him. Marcus hoped they would see a hotel heiress or something and go after bigger prey.

The plate glass window of a store exploded onto the street. Tiny shoes that had become missiles filled the air. Two of them clanked off of the Knighthawk armor and spun away.

Marcus could see light through a tunnel that led through two stores into the next street.

A ball of light - it had to be Mike - was the cause. He flew low over the street. He was holding onto a villain in a red costume. He stopped short and threw the villain. The man was carried by momentum into the torso statue on its pedestal.

The torso separated from the pedestal and fell to the street. The sidewalk cracked under its weight. The villain landed behind it.

“Light Man!” Marcus shouted. The ball of light stopped. “Was that - “

“Hard Target,” Mike said. “I dumped him in the ocean on Halloween.”

“They’re all out,” Marcus said.

“Better get busy then,” Mike said and flew away.

“Hey!” someone said. Marcus turned and found cameras in his face. “Knight guy! Armor Man!” Someone was lying on the ground behind the photographers. Marcus pushed through them.

One of the paparazzi was down, with a shoe stuck in his face. Blood pooled under his head. “Call an ambulance!” he said. The photographers kept taking pictures. Marcus ran, keying 911 on his suit’s phone.

A recording answered. He was put on hold.

Turning the corner near the fallen statue, Marcus saw a tall figure wearing fur. Helga.

She was immensely strong, and his knock-out sword only made her stagger. Better to put Mike on her.

“Spam in a can,” a voice said. Blistering heat blasted him from behind. The inside of his armor turned into an oven. Heat Wave’s power didn’t bind him, though. The villain probably thought he would run away.

Marcus took his sword in hand and spun into the heat. He was right, Heat Wave in his arrogance had come in too close. The heat was very bad, and the metal armor amplified it. He brought up the energy blade and passed it through the hovering villain.

Heat Wave looked surprised, then fell to the ground.

Marcus realized had made a mistake. He turned his back on Helga. She hit him so hard her fist might have impaled him if he wasn’t wearing the armor. He was knocked forward, hitting the ground and skidding on his front towards a street light pole. His head hit the pole hard.

“Hello you,” Helga said in her Norwegian/Swedish/Whatever accent. “Long time no throw.” She picked him up by one leg and dangled him upside down. “You will land in Palm Springs maybe,” she said. She hauled back and threw him.

His leg felt pulled out of joint. Helga had used it like a handle to throw him. Before gravity reintroduced him to the ground, and broke every bone he had, he was surrounded by light. Arms held him.

“Do I have to do all the work?” Mike asked. He put Marcus on his feet, then flew off.

Marcus reached out to a wall to steady himself. When he was more clear headed he saw it wasn’t a wall, but a trolley car.

Had he been transported back to 1932? Everything else in the area was normal. He could even see Helga. And Hard Target was getting up too. Great.

The trolley was all wood and polished brass, with windows all around. Oh, some kind of tourist thing, a tour vehicle that only looked like a trolley. It looked very expensive.

A crashing sound came from behind him. Mike flew by, in some kind of aerial duel with Buzz Kill. The two punched the air at each other, but neither could land a blow. They corkscrewed around each other, trying to find an opening.

A car followed the battling hero and villain. It was a Jeep, with three men in it, the driver and two others. The others were standing up, strapped in somehow but standing up. The Jeep had no top, and a large camera was mounted on a fixed tripod. The men were filming Mike and Buzz Kill, and driving fast to keep up.

What the hell? Marcus thought.

Near Helga, the bricks of a wall bowed out, then fell, leaving a large gap in a wall. Large enough for a figure in a blue costume to walk out. Marcus didn’t recognize him at first, because he was dripping in jewelry.

It was the kid, the young and very strong villain from the warehouse. He had clearly been looting through one of the expensive jewelry stores.

He looked very short next to Helga. She leaned over and said something to him. Marcus had to move, had to figure out a plan. The Knighthawk suit was not designed to take on a platoon of villains.

“911 Emergency,” his phone suddenly blared. “Is this a police or fire emergency?”

Marcus had completely forgotten about calling 911. He was amazed the phone connection was still on. “Man down with a shoe in his face,” he said. “Beverly Hills.”

“This is Los Angeles, sir, I can transfer you to the Beverly Hills police.”

“They’re here, they’re all over, tell them a man on Rodeo has a shoe in his face.” He disconnected. That would have to do. The paparazzi guy probably needed a coroner more than a doctor anyway.

Helga and the kid were moving towards the torso statue, which was lying on its side on the street. They both leaned over. What were they planning?

They lifted the statue and threw it. Towards Marcus. He didn’t run as soon as he should have because he couldn’t believe what they were doing.

The statue sailed into the trolley right through the space that Marcus left a split second earlier. Windows smashed and wood cracked. The whole trolley gave out a groan and settled closer to the pavement. Both front tires popped, air escaping.

Whatever that thing cost the city of Beverly Hills, they were going to have to put it in the budget again next year. The trolley was trashed.

Then the whole intersection shook, like an earthquake slightly stronger than the kind that Angelenos shrug off and return to their Cobb salads.

The ball of light that was Mike had landed on top of Helga. He drove her into the ground like a tent stake. Suddenly she was only four feet tall, and struggling to pull herself out.

Mike turned to the jewelry laden kid and hit him. The blue costumed villain flew backwards and went through a store window that had escaped the carnage until this moment.

The suit cell phone rang. When he answered Lodestone said, “Light Man says he has things under control.”

“Not yet,” Marcus said. “Hard Target is -“ He yelled out, “Behind you!” He ran towards Mike.

Mike turned and faced the man with the target on his chest. Marcus got there in time to hear him say, “I don’t know if you swam back or walked on the ocean floor, but if you don’t want to do it again, put your hands up.”

The red clad villain hesitated for just a second, then raised his hands.

*****

“Poppy got two,” Anthony said. Everyone was back in Mireya’s living room. “José brought down one I haven’t seen before, some kind of rock man.”

Marcus was the only one still in complete costume. José had reverted to his normal self, and the rest had masks off. The Knighthawk suit was designed for sitting and chatting, he was uncomfortable on a wooden chair.

They all raised glasses of beer or soda, depending on their taste, and drank to their victory.

“They all gave up at about the same time, right?” Marcus asked through his helmet speaker.

Anthony looked puzzled and said, “I guess so, but we beat them fair and square.”

“And they all escaped from different prisons at the same time, then went to Beverly Hills?”

“That’s what the news says.”

“Why?”

The room was silent. The heroes looked at each other.

“I get it,” Pink Poppy said. “It was a diversion.”

“What?” Mike said.

“They wanted to keep us, especially Mike, busy while they did something else.” Marcus said.

“While they did what?”

Marcus stood. “I’m sure we will find out,” he said.