CHAPTER 1

Sugar & Spice

Rankine lifted his head off the floor and peered at his gut, at theblood pumping out of the big hole in his shirtfront, runningdown the sides and creating a huge puddle on the carpet.

"Crap," he muttered. "That's going to be a bugger to patch."

Wasn't supposed to be like this, no way. Three days ago Mitchreckoned it'd be a blow-over, easy street romp — if not exactlysugar and spice and everything nice, then something marginallysweet.

The shop was down an unpopular arcade, in the city onBourke Street, not much pedestrian traffic, and the nearest cophouse three blocks away.

Basics, security-wise: a camera that probably didn't work, justfor show to scare the amateurs, and a newly installed magnetictag security detector straddling the doorway. Probably boughton eBay, but they heard it go off when some kid tried something,so they knew that baby was no Trojan Horse.

The bloke behind the counter seemed to actually be twopeople sharing the same beard, receding hairline and dress-sense(bordering on offensive suburban hippy).

There were no nametags to double-check who was who andthey were always too busy reading shit to pay attention tocustomers' questions — which Mitch said worked to theiradvantage since they wouldn't know what was going on till itwas too late.

The big attraction? This was no diamond merchant, not abank, nor a service station/convenience store. It wasn't even adodgy school kiosk, their usual port-of-criminal-call.

This was a comicbook store, a minor affair specializing in newreleases from America and a wad of collectibles. No manga at all,which was one of the reasons Rankine had never heard of theplace.

The thing was, they had a copy of Action Comics #1 up on thewall.

This meant nothing to Rankine, who coveted an early, uncensoredprinting of Katsura Masakazu's Video Girl Ai manga, sincelater printings changed the art to cover up the nudity.

Mitch courteously filled in the massive gaps in his Americancomic knowhow: the issue that gave Superman his big break,published in the U.S. in 1938 for just ten cents. Over seventy yearslater a rare copy was sold online for $2.16m.

"You know Nick Ratatouille?" Mitch went on.

"Maybe." Rankine had been out front of the folks' place,sitting on his bum on the nature-strip fixing an elusive punctureon the tyre of his painstakingly rebuilt 1974 Malvern Starchopper, trying not to get tangled up in Mitch's plans.

Mitch had a tendency to lead partners astray — namely arrestor injury, or both — even if he always got off scot-free. Still, thiswas one question Rankine believed he could tackle without a lureor a slap. "Isn't he the muscle for Occitan and the boys over onCatalan Crescent?"

"Right on. He heard from a mate who heard from anothermate that it was sold by Nicolas Cage."

"You reckon the comic in that shop is the same one onceowned by him?"

"No, you moron — but if that one got two mill, there's everychance the one on the wall in this dive will get half that, at least.

A million, R, that we can split down the middle. You could getyour bloody Malvern Star gold-plated if you want."

That'd been the clincher. Not the gold plating but theswandooly.

Rankine went along with it all, even forking out the dosh forthe ski masks from an army disposals shop on Elizabeth Streetand a couple of BB-guns he got FedEx'd from Japan that werereplica full-scale Enfield revolvers.

Knocking over a comicbook store would be a breeze. Nothingcould go wrong.

So they'd skipped out on high school on a Monday — he'dforged the letters from their mums as usual — and got out oftheir uniforms in the toilets at South Yarra Station before headinginto town on a Frankston Line train at 2:10 p.m.

Got off at Flinders Street before three, after typical bloodydelays, and waltzed straight to the arcade. Flicked through somebrand new Marvel comics that bored Rankine silly, waiting till noone else was in the shop, and then pulled on the balaclavas andpointed their faux firearms at the bird behind the counter.

"Give us the fucking comic, dickhead!" Mitch screamed in tooloud a voice.

"Sure, kid, sure, don't get your knickers in a knot," old Beard-and-Baldassured him, hands clutching air. "Which one?"

"Clark Kent up there, on the wall." Mitch waved the gun in ageneral direction over the clerk's head. "Move it!"

"You mean ... Are you talking about this?" The man pointed toAction Comics #1, a primitive-looking Superman lifting a greencar above his head and smashing it.

"Sure. Hand-pass it over."

"You boys do realize it's a repro?"

Rankine leaned forward. "A what?"

"Reproduction. This isn't the real thing — why on earth wouldwe have it sitting right here in our shop? That'd be lunacy."

Rankine couldn't be sure, but he sussed the old hippy waslying. Mitch, however, was in a rage, shoving his popgunforward.

"Bullshit!" he shouted, so incensed he lost control of his drool.

Rankine observed this spittle traveling across air from hispartner's mouth; saw it settle down on the desktop and sit there,bubbly and offensive.

That was when Beard-and-Bald got angry. He stared at thesaliva, and then dropped his right hand—

Fretting some, Mitch waggled his toy. "Don't move!"

—And the man stood up straight with an Uzi submachine gunstuck in his mitt. Rankine had a sneaking suspicion this babyhadn't been purchased via mail order from Tokyo; conjectureconfirmed when the thing start dishing out real 9mm bullets.

"Nobody spits in my shop! No fucker steals my comics!"Beard-and-Bald raved as he raked the small area, destroyingmuch of the merchandise before he found his real targets.

Mitch, Rankine could see from his place spreadeagled on hisback, was dead as a dodo, folded up against the wall with brainswallpapering a bunch of DC comics in a rack.

He returned attention to his stomach, felt dizzy, tried to pulltogether the flaps of skin there — same technique as stickingtogether the flaps of rubber with the puncture the other day.

Now, if only he had his tyre-sealant glue.

The next story was done for a 2012 anthology assembled by Luca Vesteand Paul D. Brazill.

It was called Off the Record 2, included forty-six other writers,and was put together to raise money for two children's literacy charitiesin the U.S. and the U.K.

The guidelines? A story based around a classic film title. Given I'ma movie journalist, this was a Heaven-sent request.

I decided to use...