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Some of the first stories I wrote were about a hapless super-hero for my
seventh grade English class. I have lost them since, but at the end, I had quite a set of
adventures for my hero. A couple of years later I conceived of The Yellow Canary, which
would be a retelling of Don Quixote in modern times. The hero would be a regular guy who
goes out at night in a yellow poncho to fight crime. He would be, of course, quite insane and
have plenty of fun misadventures.
I was never really able to make it work until recently. Before, the book was
only the silly adventures, but then I decided to change the focus of the book. Yes, the Yellow
Canary would be insane. Yes, he would be a bumbling adventurer who sees glory and honor where
there is none. But also would the character be honorable and noble and, occassionally, do some
really good things.
I wrote the book in about a month and a half, and the manuscript has received
some amount of praise from professors and writers, amongst
others. Looking at it now, I am amazed at how a few stories in junior high could evolve into this:
a satire about politics, criminal justice, celebrity, coffee houses, and the dwindling attention
span of Americans.
The first three chapters of the novel can be read below.
CHAPTER 1
A police officer on patrol found him tied in the alleyway off Main, bound to a rusted storm grate. His face was bloodied, little cuts and bruises on his face and arms. Obviously, there had been in a fight, and this guy lost. The winner was gone. On the street beside him sat several kilos of cocaine; the man later admitted that he was attempting to sell the stuff on the streets. He later admitted to quite a bit more than that, and he's still in jail. He will probably never get out.
But on the night he was found, as the ambulance was coming, and the cop was trying to discover exactly what had happened to him, the man said only one thing:
"He flew at me from sky. Like a giant, yellow . . . canary."
* * *
That was two years before I met him. We heard about him some, but he was a myth, a shadow, or a dream to most of us. Then he became real.
Alley Theatre, just on the edge of downtown Houston. I was coming out of a weekend show. The Alley has its own parking garage, but I tend to avoid it. It's cheaper than parking in the lots around there, but it rises off the street in such an incline that you're always worried about drifting back into traffic, even if you're driving an automatic. What makes it worse is that the money collector stands at the top of the incline, so you can't just zip up and be done with it. It's a long game of trying hit the gas enough not to slide backward but not enough to hit the guy ahead of you.
I was going to have to stay late that night anyway, so I just paid the extra couple of bucks and parked down the street in a ground-level lot. It was a minimal cost, and I felt better about it.
I had been on a stakeout of sorts, using the event as a cover for a meeting with a source from inside the mayor's office. The guy had called me a couple of days before. Didn't give me his name. Said he had information about the money scandals floating around the administration (the Kirby Lee administration, since he was mayor at the time). Said he was worried about being watched, couldn't talk on the phone. We arranged to meet in the lobby of the theatre on Friday. He would find me at intermission. Said he knew my picture from the paper. He would give me whatever he had while we talked about the performance.
I waited for him at intermission, and then long after the play had ended, but he never showed. I wasn't exceptionally surprised. These sources turn out to be fakes as many times as they are real. A couple of months after that Friday evening the mayor was cleared of the accusations, but I was covering a different story by then.
I left the Alley that night to empty streets, walked a couple of blocks down to my car, and drove out into the dark street. Stopped at the street light a moment later. Turned on the local rock station, hoping it would keep me awake.
Downtown Houston is a contradiction of sorts. Visitors keeps telling us how spread out it is — how much room there is. It's true compared to the other major cities. There's no shortage of room in Texas, and so there's a bit more room to spread out. It seems smaller in rush hour traffic. Luckily, it wasn't rush hour, and I basically had the street to myself.
Maybe I was drifting off. Maybe I had driven the roads too much to pay attention anymore. Anyway, I didn't see the guy until it was too late, but there he was, the barrel of his gun pressed up against the driver side window. He said something, I couldn't hear him over the music, but his meaning was pretty clear. He wanted my car. I didn't plan to argue with him about it.
Slowly I raised my hands, surrendering the vehicle and only hoping I would make it away alive. It was like every motion was pained, and I took of the seatbelt with a shaking hand and opened the door. I wasn't breathing. I was actually afraid that the very sound of breath might set him off. My only thought was to get as far away as soon as possible. All other ideas I might have had, like the guy somehow being offended by breathing, had probably slipped into absurdity.
But then, it would be pretty silly to think this guy would be heavily influenced by logic. For all I know, he very well might have killed me for breathing. Thankfully, I never found out.
He grabbed me with his free hand and pulled me into the humid night, throwing me against the car in an unnecessary display of control. He had won already; he didn't need to prove himself further.
What happened next is hard for me to relate. I had my face against the roof of the car, my eyes closed in admitted terror. Behind me I heard him threaten me once again, and then there was another yell, and a coming of footsteps: heavy on the asphalt. The gun went off, and my body involuntarily clenched.
Every individual organ felt pain in that moment, but at the same time I felt nothing. I was at once convinced that I had been shot several dozen times, and at the same time believed the bullet missed me completely. I believed them both simultaneously, and the contradiction didn't register at the time.
In the long moment following the shot I heard nothing at all. I began to relax, and the world returned with me.
Thump, thump, and BAM! The windshield of my car shattered as the carjacker fell on it. No, I realized, he didn't fall, he was thrown. I stared wide-eyed, only then realizing that I was only seeing half of the action. The gun rattled as it slid from his hand and down the hood, then clattered to the ground. I smelled gunpowder in the air, but felt no wound after that. I looked down in awe at the thief, who was looking in awe at something else, but even then I didn't really understand.
And then he came into my life for the first time.
His arms, flashing with shiny yellow, came down on the man. My attacker was helpless as those arms struck him first, then lifted him off the vehicle and flung him down on the road. I heard a grunt, but nothing more. The battle was already over, and I still hadn't looked at the man who saved me.
Before my eyes could even connect those arms with a body, a measure of rope appeared in the small hands, which were covered in black gloves, and the mugger was being bound.
At last I looked to my savior, but saw little more than a blob of yellow there, the slick sounds of artificial, plastic-like fabric sweeping across my ears. The man turned to me, and his figure took a general form. He wasn't very tall, maybe five-eight or ten. His exact shape was hidden by the faded poncho. It was one of those nylon ponchos everyone wore on camping trips in the Boy Scouts. It was yellow, but the clothing he wore underneath — his sleeves, gloves, and pants — was black. His face was covered in the shadows of the poncho's hood and the night, but his eyes seemed to glow beneath.
It was a reflection of the street lights, I know, but in such a situation that sort of thing has an impact.
"The Yellow Canary," I gasped. I had read the articles. I had never been assigned to one of the stories, but I knew of them. The paper had described him as bigger, with some sort of custom-made yellow cloak. Not like this. Not with a poncho as a costume. And yet despite the differences from the past accounts, I knew him. I had thought him only legend, but there he was.
He posed for me. I can't describe it another way. He put one foot forward, puffed out his chest, and put his balled fists to his waist, like I was going to draw him for a comic book cover.
"Good sir," he said, trying his best to speak in a deep, masculine voice that he obviously wasn't born with, "are you injured? Has this knave of a man harmed you?" At this he gave a swift kick into the robber's ribs. There was no sound from the man, so I assumed he was unconscious. Or maybe even dead.
"N-no," I stuttered. The gunshot had apparently missed me during the fight, and I hadn't been harmed in any other way.
The Yellow Canary pointed one arm outward majestically, either continuing his heroic poses or indicating that he was planning to hit a home run.
"I am pleased," he said, and turned to leave.
"Hey," I called out, and he turned. I still couldn't see his face, but I looked into that area where his face had to be. "Thanks."
He bowed stiffly. No, that's not the right word. His motions were swift, intentional, and strong, but not stiff. "My duty requires it of me," he said in a practiced manner. "So long as evil finds its home in this fair city, so will I be there to hold it back. Be warned, oh, evil doers, of the Yellow Canary."
The strange man started away again, and I followed. "I'm a reporter for the Post," I told him. "I would like to tell the people more about your work. Would you agree to a couple of questions?"
"I haven't the time." He continued away.
"I can come with you wherever you need to go. I won't be a bother. Anytime you want me to leave, I'm gone. Anything you don't want to answer, just say so, no problem." He glanced back to me briefly. "The paper's readers would love to hear about you in your own words."
That last part stopped him. I didn't really think I would get the interview so easily, but he turned, considering me for several second. Finally he said, "Will you help me in return?"
"What do you need?" I shrugged. I probably would have done anything. This sort of story doesn't happen upon you very often. You have to grab it as it wanders by.
"A sidekick."
I laughed. I didn't think he was serious at the time, but he was not amused. He just stood there, waiting for the reply. I couldn't see his face, but I recognized that he was serious.
So I answered, "I'm a reporter, not a super-hero."
"It is not worthy of a man to be a mere observer. On the streets you need not just watch; you can make a difference. You can be the news, not merely ask questions about it."
For a moment I said nothing; I was sort of in a daze at the request. He continued, "Friend, I need help. All the great super-heroes must have sidekicks, and so far I have been alone."
I thought I would have done anything for the story. I was wrong.
I remember the night clearly enough, but my reply still seems strange to me. Maybe because all of it was strange. It had happened so fast, and there I was in front of a myth who was asking something very strange of me, and my mind was not quite caught up with everything yet. This was all a little weird, and more than a little absurd. It was also a little frightening. That night I had almost been killed, and the Canary wanted me to put myself in that position every day. I was still shaking from the attempted robbery, and I didn't want that sort of feeling every day.
There was another fear there, not a fear of death, but something else, and I didn't know what it was at the time. But it was the biggest obstacle I had to cross, and I was really hesitant to try.
In short, I really didn't want to be a sidekick. Not even for the story. So I tried to talk him out of the request, or at least talk myself out of it.
"Superman doesn't have one," I told him, hardly believing I was saying it. I had the Yellow Canary here, and I was basically asking him to leave. That's what it was — I was going to argue with him until he left, and then I would be able to tell my editors that I tried to get an interview but he went away, and maybe even I would believe it.
He said, "Besides him."
"What about Spider-Man?"
"Alright." He held up his hand in another dramatic pose. I couldn't see his face, but I was pretty sure he was rolling his eyes at me. Maybe he knew exactly what I was doing and wasn't going to let me get away with it. "So very few super-heroes actually have sidekicks. But I still need you. It has become too much for me to handle alone. The arrangement will benefit both of us. I will have an ally at my side, and you will have your interview."
"Exclusive access?" I asked. The reporter in me was winning over the coward in me.
"I care little for such things. If you wish that I speak to no one else in the press, then nothing will have changed, for you are so far the first reporter I have so far met. Come with me, and let the lawyers worry over such details. I need only the word of an honest man, and I give my word in return."
Still I was hesitant. More doubts emerged, and this time I wondered if the man in front of me was the true Canary. He really didn't match the descriptions. I hadn't really worried about that while he was saving my life and all, but the danger had passed. Was this guy a fake?
The Yellow Canary must have realized all these reservations. He nodded sympathetically and said, "Meet me tomorrow in the in the second level of the Alley parking lot with your reply. Consider my offer and return to me. Midnight, and I will be there."
"Okay." I could at least meet him.
"Until then," he bowed again, "farewell!"
He ran off like a child released from school. I followed no farther. I was too tired, too afraid, and too shocked at what had happened that evening. Besides, I had a scheduled meeting with the Yellow Canary the following night. I had his word, and I really believed that meant something to him.
In my business, someone's word means nothing. I had just wasted an evening based on someone's word. But there was something about this guy that made me believe.
With my cell phone I called the police, then sat down beside the bound and unconscious criminal. There wasn't much to do except to wait, but the cops were quick in coming. They took the carjacker into custody.
The detective asked me about the night. I told them what had happened in the fight, but left out the conversation that had occurred afterward. He didn't laugh at my story about the Canary, but I could tell he wanted to. I took no offense. I had laughed at all those people who claimed sightings before me. In truth, I still wasn't sure that I believed myself.
But this was only the beginning, and when I was done with this real-life super-hero, the world would believe.
CHAPTER 2
Look: I'm sorry if I get off the topic here, but there are things you need to understand, otherwise none of this is really going to make any sense:
There probably aren't many people reading this account who don't already know that I eventually accepted his offer. If you haven't recognized my name, then you probably guessed that much simply because this wouldn't be much of a story if I never saw the guy again.
Chances are, you recognized my name. It's been uttered once or twice on the news. It was there yesterday, and it will be again tonight, probably in connection with the lead story.
I always wanted to be famous. Well, who doesn't? Nevertheless, I imagined myself becoming a great reporter, uncovering all those things that no one else was able find. Investigative journalism at its best. I would discover something on the level of Watergate. I would have such reputation that the President would tremble when I called. Such are the dreams of the young, but they are very rarely fulfilled.
In time I did become famous, but not because of journalism. At least, not in the end. My Yellow Canary articles, a grand total of three, were famous when they were printed. Especially the second and third. But when it was revealed that I was his sidekick, I began to know what fame was.
I didn't particularly like it.
Someone called up one day to ask me to pose for a cereal box. Me, on a cereal box. If that isn't the big time, I don't know what is. But I said no. I wasn't the real hero of the team, I told the guy. That has always been my little excuse. I really just wanted to be left alone.
Some people ask me what sort of underwear the Canary wore. For some it's the type of food he liked or television shows he watched. I tell those people that I don't know. I am sometimes called to do guest spots on a few news and tabloid shows. I tell them no.
Because of my uniform, there were actually rumors that I would be sued by the big comic book companies for copyright infringement. I'm not sure if they were really thinking about it or not. I doubt it. They would have had a decent enough case if they pursued it, but I was great publicity for them, so any damage I did to their names was more than paid back. They even asked me to advertise for them.
"I'm a reporter," I said to them. "I'm not a hero."
"But you are a hero," one of them told me. "You were the sidekick for a real life super-hero."
"For a couple of weeks."
"It doesn't matter. The public sees you as a comic book come to life. You, Mr. Kent, are a hero."
I heard they were going to sue me over my name too. Romero Kent. They thought it was a pseudonym designed to recall Clark Kent and Superman. It isn't. Kent is my real name, inherited from my father and his father, and so on. It probably didn't help that my uniform came partially from a Superman costume.
Such are just rumors. I don't think the companies had even considered lawsuits.
My first name was given to me because of my father's business partner, B. Banner Romero, but people don't care as much about the history of my first name.
Some people ask me if I still fight crime. No, I don't. I really never did, at least until the last days. I'm not the Yellow Canary, I was the reporter following him in a silly outfit.
Then they ask me if I would even be able to say so if I did still fight crime? No, I wouldn't. If I were caught in such activities, I would go to jail for a long time. It was part of my plea agreement. That's how I avoided prison for what happened with the Canary.
Citizen's arrest is legitimate, but the sort of vigilantism the Canary practiced isn't. Sometimes he would catch someone in the act, and he would save someone, like he did for me. That's fine.
The problem came when he made mistakes. When he hunted fugitives and attacked them before they knew he was there — long after the crime was committed. When he attacked someone who wasn't doing anything wrong. The line is often crossed by the super-heroes.
I crossed it too. Big time. That's why I had to negotiate a plea agreement.
They ask me if I know any of the new vigilantes that have sprung up in the Canary's wake. The Defender? The Raven? Odin? The Lemon (who is the most direct — and silly — copy of the Canary)? No. None of them. I'm out of that business now.
I hear about them, same as everyone. There are a few very famous ones, and then thousands who will appear on the streets this weekend and give up the next. They run around the cities dressed up as the Statue of Liberty or something, desperately seeking crime. About fifteen of them are killed every year now. They don't know what they're doing, and they get in too deep.
Some cities have begun hiring super-heroes. Publically funded and well trained. Most importantly — legal. I don't have a problem with those guys. They're police, only with brighter colors in their uniforms. They follow the rules. They read people their rights. They're symbols. They aren't as popular as the Yellow Canary was, but they are figures we can unite behind.
I am, in some ways, the king of the heroes. I don't want to be, but I am. People getting into the business ask me for advice. "Don't do it," I tell them. It's all I will ever say.
Yes, I am famous, but I didn't want to be famous in this way.
Take what's happening right now, for example.
I am waiting for the Texas State Senate Committee on Criminal Justice to talk to me. One of the illegal super-heroes messed up a couple of weeks ago and killed someone. An innocent someone.
That's definitely an example of crossing the line.
I'm the king of the heroes, so they call on me to testify. They think it was the Defender that killed the guy. The evidence is pretty strong that it's him. Of course, they don't know the Defender's real name, so they can't call him to testify or even arrest him. They know my real name. Most people still do.
Outside are protesters. The polls actually suggest that the public likes the vigilantes. The legal ones have approval ratings somewhere around 60 percent. The margin is razor-thin for the illegal ones, slightly on the side of the heroes, but still within the margin of error. But the protestors outside want them all in jail. Me with them.
It's always easier to protest against someone than for him.
This is not good fame.
I once got my High School principal fired. I worked on the school newspaper, desperately trying to make a name for myself even then. I followed him one weekend on a hunch and caught him having an affair with a teacher. The school wouldn't let me print the story, but I made such a fuss about it that the principal got fired.
In the end, it didn't mean anything. I tried to ride on my name after that, but it didn't work. My story was forgotten within the year, even at the small school. Outside those stone walls, no one had ever heard of me.
Such is journalism, I've learned. One story is not enough. To make it you have to always be right there. Sensation after sensation, or you're forgotten.
The only reason I haven't been forgotten is because I have become the story. I have become the scapegoat.
My father was actually a wealthy business man, partner of Mr. Romero. Together they began and maintained several businesses in the area. My father didn't want me to be a journalist.
"Don't you want to create wealth?" he would ask. He wasn't talking about money. He didn't really care about money. He was talking about jobs and manufacturing and retirement plans. Gross National Product-type stuff.
I don't want to give the impression that he wasn't supportive. He was. He was a very good father, and I miss him a great deal. He sent me to college to study journalism, even if he didn't like it. He never demanded that I enter the family businesses. He suggested it, but never demanded it.
He wasn't greedy in the least. Actually, the truth is quite the opposite. He was very generous with his money. He worked hard because he liked to work hard. He sought success, and that's different that money. Money is only a side product of success.
In college I was the editor of the school paper. We were a small college, and the paper only published once a week. But it was a decent enough read, and I am still proud of the work I did there.
Even if it is forgotten.
After graduating college in 1993, I took a job at the Post here in Houston. I thought I would be there forever, gradually working my way up the organization. My father died suddenly the next year, and I inherited enough to live comfortably for the rest of my life. But I loved journalism, and so I stayed at my job.
Who knew that I would end up sitting before a committee of the State Legislature? I've been questioned by the police a few times over stuff like this, even the F.B.I., but never before by Texas Legislature.
My lawyer and I stand up at the front, and I swear to tell the truth. We sit. The media is crowded in the room. I used to be back there with them. Now I'm on the other side of the camera.
The protesters and the media reflect the interest of the public in this. The proceedings are being carried live without interruption on cable television. I don't think these seven Senators have ever experienced this sort of fame before.
"Where were you on the night of May 25?" the first Senator asks me.
"Home," I reply.
"You live alone."
"That's right. No alibi, I'm afraid."
"What do you do now, Mr. Kent?"
"Internet porn, mostly."
He chuckles. I am glad for that. It's good for the politicians to have a sense of humor. My lawyer pokes me though. Careful, his jab seems to say. So I really answer the question, "My investments give me more than enough income to survive."
He says, "Rumor is that you are actually the self-proclaimed ‘super-hero' called Odin."
"If I were a super-hero, I would pick a better name than Odin. Odin is obviously a ripoff of Thor."
"Who is Thor?"
"A hero in the Marvel books."
"You like comic books?"
"Yes, I do."
"You don't find them kind of childish?"
"Not really. Unless you find it childish to fight for what is good and decent."
"You support these super-heroes, then?"
"The legal ones."
He tilts his head. "Odin is not a legal one."
"So I've heard."
"You applied for a super-hero license in 2000. Rejected."
"I may not work at the Post anymore, but I still think like a reporter. I wanted to see what the process was like. It was curiosity."
"You failed."
"I have flat feet."
"Are you going to tell me that you wouldn't have become a legal hero if you had been accepted?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
He laughs, not believing me. No one ever believes me when I say I don't do those things now.
Oh, what a thing you began, John. The life was never like you thought it would be. It's not what it was supposed to be.
CHAPTER 3
I didn't know it at the time, but that was his name: Jonathan Warwick. That's not really giving anything away, since it's pretty well known by now, though it wasn't at the time. I would learn it soon enough, but I knew almost nothing of the Canary when I went into work the next day. At the time, I still sort of believed that I was the punch line of an elaborate joke.
I took my car in to get the windshield replaced, and took a cab into the Post. I didn't normally come in to work Saturdays, but my meeting with the mayor's office source had been scheduled for the night before, so I was expected to have the article ready by the end of that day. The experience with the Yellow Canary kept me up later than I expected, and I was tired. I wanted to sleep in, but that wasn't going to be an option. The cab dropped me off out front and walked into the building.
"Kent," called my boss even before I reached my desk. I tossed my jacket over my chair and went into his office.
Remington Griffith was a good editor and a pretty nice guy. Middle-aged, balding, overweight. A big Cajun with a red face. His office was decorated with horses. Paintings of horses, pictures, little wooden horses arranged on his bookshelf. He didn't actually own a horse, and never had. I'm not sure he had even ridden one before. It was just his "thing."
Everyone has a "thing." A collection of some sort or an area of expertise. His was horses.
"What'd'ee say?" Remy asked as I walked in. That's what we called him — Remy. It's what he preferred, and we liked him well enough to bend to his wishes.
I sat in one of the fake-leather chairs that faced his desk. I shrugged. "Wasn't there."
The big man gave a sigh and leaned back in his own chair. "Damn," he said, tapping his fingers on the desk. "Damn, Ah worried dat would happen. Ya don't got his numbah, do ya?"
"No, he never gave it to me. Didn't give his name either."
"Well, not much tuh be done 'bout it now. Ah'm sorry ya had t' go all da dare, though."
I grinned at him in one of those ways that says, Wait 'til you hear this. At least, that's what I hope that grin says. Remy may have thought I was coming on to him. I began, "Last night wasn't totally uneventful."
"How so?" he asked. He was on the edge of his seat.
"I was almost carjacked last night."
"Yer kiddin'."
"Not at all."
"Whuht happened?"
"What happened? Are you sure you want to hear this?"
I loved taunting him like that.
"Dammit, Kent . . ." he began, nearly laughing. He could tell it was big.
"The. Yellow. Canary."
There was a moment of silence as Remington Griffith got wide-eyed. "Are ya messin' wit' me, boy? 'Cause if ya are, Ah will kick yer patootee all da way t' Dallas."
"It's no joke. The guy had a gun on me, about to take the car, when the Canary just appeared behind us. I didn't see much of the fight, but, to make a long story short, I drove to work this morning."
"Ya shoulda come in las' night. We coulda got dis in da mornin's papah."
"I couldn't have even made the final edition," I told him. "It was probably being distributed when I got away from there." Which was true. After the event happened and the police were done with me, morning was half done. Besides, I wasn't going to spend another few hours awake to rush a story that didn't need to be rushed.
"There's no hurry," I said. "I'm the only witness who'll be talking about it. The suspect's in custody now, and the police aren't going to volunteer information about the Canary. They have to be specifically asked to say anything, and anything they'd say to direct questions is scripted. We'll run this story first, and we'll run a more complete one than anyone else can. It'll be better in the Sunday edition anyway. You know no one reads the Saturday paper."
"Well, git on it, den. Ah want it by five."
"But there's more."
He was nearly shaking with excitement by this point. "Whuht is it?"
"I talked with him a few minutes. Asked him for an interview."
"He give it?"
"Not yet. But he gave me conditions under which he would."
"Don't ya keep me waitin'. Go on."
"He wants me to be his sidekick. Said if I would help him out on the streets, he would give me an exclusive."
"Holy Mary Mothah uh God," said my boss. "Yer doin' it, ain't ya?"
"I don't know. The guy is probably a fake. The real Canary doesn't give interviews."
"Don't mattah. It don't mattah one bit. You were out all night fo' uh fake, an' uh less important fake den uh Canary fake. Write da story dat he was da Canary, an' meet him again, jus' like he is da Canary. If ya prove he ain't da Canary, den write uh story 'bout uh fake Canary. That'll sell papahs too. When are ya meetin' him?"
"Tonight at midnight."
"Take Jimmy dare wit' ya. Ah want some photos uh him."
"I don't think the Yellow Canary wants photographs taken."
"Den hide Jimmy 'round somewheres. You've done dis sort uh t'ing before."
"You're the boss," I smiled. I knew he'd say as much. Really, I had already decided to go to the meeting. Yeah, the whole nylon poncho outfit had me a little concerned about his authenticity, but this was one of those chances I had to take, no matter the odds of it actually working out.
"Whuht wus he like?" Remy asked with an eager grin. His work as my editor was done for the morning; he asked this question out of pure curiosity. That's the one thing that every good journalist has in common — unquenchable curiosity.
But I wasn't really sure how to answer him. "Well," I began. We always begin that way when we don't actually want to reply. "He's kinda strange. I mean, besides the fact he runs around in the night fighting crime."
"Whuht d'ya mean?"
I had no idea what I meant. I was with the guy only a few minutes, and it was a weird few minutes. I had just had a gun in my face, after all. That's pretty much all I could tell at that point. Reporters write about this sort of thing constantly, but when it happens to us, we're sometimes at a loss for words.
So I told him what I knew. "For instance, it wasn't a yellow cloak. It was one of those ponchos you take camping."
Shouldn't have mentioned that. I knew as soon as I said it that I should have skipped that detail for the time being. At least until I knew a little more. At the beginning of a story, you're just looking for problems. Anything that confirms your suspicions that it's not as good as it looks. It's better to have the problems later when you know what you have. Remy just stared at me, slipping back into his editor shoes.
"Are you uh idiot?" he fumed. "No wondah ya think he's uh fake. He is uh fake. Jay-sus, Kent. Ya coulda told me dis 'bout t'irty minutes ago. Saved me some time."
"I thought it didn't matter if he was a fake or not. He'll still sell papers, right?"
He shook his head. "He has tuh be at least believable as da Canary. Otherwise, we jus' look stupid. Writin' 'bout some fool in uh poncho." He paused. "Write da article 'bout last night. Meet da guy. We'll see if we wanna run da stuff as it comes."
He'd still print it all, I suspected. But the poncho stuff might need to be omitted. Don't be shocked — reporters dress their stories to get readers. That's the way it is.
The big man sighed deeply. I eventually learned to expect this reaction when I told people about the Canary's real uniform. It was one of those details that rubbed against the noble grain that the overall legend had created. It just wasn't right. Everyone sighed just like that — like the wind had just escaped out of the myth.
"Git goin', Kent," my boss told me, and I got up and left his office.
When I got back to my desk, I began writing notes on the article. It's pretty rare for a reporter to actually write about himself. I wasn't sure how to go about it. I decided to just approach it like I would any other assignment, only one of the interviews would be much simpler than is normal.
I couldn't interview the Canary. Yet. I called the jail and asked about the suspect. Got a name, Ernie Frost, but not much more. He wasn't speaking. Good. The Canary wasn't going to talk, and the police weren't going to say anything unless someone asked them directly (and only I knew to ask them directly). That left only me, and I sure wasn't going to have a comment for the competing news services. At least until after the story broke. Then I might talk, making sure everyone knew that I had it first.
This sort of arrangement has a name, and it is the most beautiful word in a journalist's vocabulary: exclusive. It's like a monopoly on a little piece of news.
I called the police station and asked for Detective Michael Gordon. I knew the guy pretty well. I actually knew him from High School, but it was several years later that we became friends. I had interviewed him for a story, and we got along pretty well. He would talk to me about cases if I asked him nicely enough.
"Gordon," he answered the phone.
"This is the bad guys calling," I said in a poor imitation of a nondescript Looney Toons character. "We've had a meeting, and we're ready to give up."
"Then surely Romero Kent is with you," he chuckled. "The bastard shot my pa."
"Damn, Mike, how'd you know it was me?"
"Hee, hee. Someday you're going to learn another voice, and maybe some sense of subtly. If you ever do, you're going to have me running all over this town on some silly thing or another."
"I'll be sure and work on that."
"Kent, did I happen to see your name on a report this morning?"
"That was entrapment. I specifically asked if she was a cop, and she said no."
"It didn't help that you moaned when she was putting the cuffs on."
"I thought she was roleplaying."
"Hee, hee." That's his laugh. It's a cross between a polite but likely fake one, and something that a James Bond villain might utter as he's taking over the world. "I assume you're calling about the Canary."
"Yeah. His appearance kinda surprised me last night. Not that I'm complaining."
"No kidding. When the perp was brought in last night, he spilled it. I mean all. Told us of a half a dozen separate robberies he's done in the last two months. Minor stuff overall, but at least one felony, so he should get put away for a while. The Canary must have put the fear of God into him."
"It wouldn't be the first time. You guys must be happy about this one."
He gave me his serious tone of voice. "The official position of the department remains unchanged. This sort of vigilante behavior is dangerous. For every real criminal the Canary catches, we get two or three reports telling how he abused the law-abiding public. Law enforcement should be left to the trained and licensed officers hired for this very purpose. You writing all this down?"
"I already have fifteen copies of that very speech."
"Actually, I was just reading it myself. It's what we're supposed to say anytime a reporter asks us about the Canary."
"You getting that many inquiries?"
"Hell, yeah. I think every journalist in this town has been assigned to the story at one time or another. The television anchors like to come down here and ask us the same old question to prove to themselves that they are real journalist and not just news readers."
"Okay, so I got the official response down. What about the unofficial one? Off the record."
"You know how we feel about him unofficially. We love the guy. Well, at least the circles I hang around do. Some of the boys are tired of tracking down complaints against him, but his legend doesn't hurt us one bit. Down here we're tied up in red tape and restrictions. We can keep crime to a certain level, but no lower. The Canary comes in, and just his name inspires such a fear in the criminal that they'll sometimes just give themselves up. They think they see some yellow something in the night, get so frightened they come down here with hands behind their heads. Seriously, we actually get them walking in, telling us they will confess to everything if we will protect them from the Canary. Most of them have never even seen the Canary. That crazy super-hero has made this the safest major city in the country. Truthfully, I'd rather be working on minor complaints against him than real murders and robberies."
"Are there a lot of complaints?"
"Yeah, but who knows how many are true. We get people complaining about George Washington too. But the complaints that come in against the Canary are generally minor. He scared some kid or something like that. Yeah, some of the stuff is against the law, which is why so many warrants have been sworn out against him. But the Canary is different than the typical vigilantes who are just out for revenge or something. He generally catches them in the act, he never uses weapons. I mean, besides his own body. He doesn't really hurt them that badly. His mistakes are minor, his successes sometimes pretty major."
"The Post just ran a story on the Canary's last catch. The guy's lawyer is doing the illegal arrest, exclusionary defense. You know, throw out everything the Canary obtained."
"A lot of them do."
He was right, quite a few of the guys the Canary catches try that. Some just confess, like the guy who had tried to steal my car. But a few will claim that the police department, in not capturing the Canary, is in fact making the Canary a de facto part of the criminal justice system, and is therefore bound by the same rules as a police officer is. It hasn't worked yet, but we were all expecting a liberal judge to get hold of it eventually, and that would be that.
He asked, "Is the judge going to throw it out?"
I replied, "It's Judge White, so I doubt it."
"Good, White doesn't take that sort of stuff. But it'll work one day. Then the doors will open, and everything will come through. After that, nothing that the Canary does will be worth anything, and we'll be back where we started."
"Yeah."
"These days you think that the Bill of Rights was written to keep criminals out of prison." He paused.
"Did the suspect say anything about the experience?"
"We're not releasing any details on the Canary."
"Come on, Mike. I was involved in the event. I'm asking as a victim, not a reporter."
"Yeah, but you're going to print it like a reporter."
"Off the record, then. Did he say anything about the cloak?"
"Fine. Nylon poncho, just like you said. It's not the first time we've heard that, but it's not exactly commonplace either. He comes in the night, and the people don't always see him too clearly. Honestly, we don't know which story is right, or if they both are."
"The cloak seems more appropriate for a super-hero, doesn't it?"
"Yeah, I thought so too. More dignified."
"Thanks for your help, Mike."
"Look, the investigating officer was planning to call you in a bit. You want me to go ahead and transfer you over there now?"
"Yeah, that'd be easier."
"Alright. I'll talk to you later, Kent."
"See ya," I replied, and heard the click as I was transferred.
The investigating officer asked me the same questions I was asked the night before. I told him the same story, leaving out the interview and sidekick stuff. In turn, I asked him all the same questions I asked of Mike. He didn't comment much. The police officially don't want another Yellow Canary story coming out. It only encourages such behavior, they say. But they'll give you enough to write the story anyway. The more the myth is told, the more the criminals will fear.
But myths are vague — they don't give exact locations or dates. They didn't want the criminals to know if the Canary only haunts certain streets, because they would simply go to different ones.
Here's really what the police want: no Yellow Canary at all, but the legend of the Canary so strong it still keeps the criminals out of the city.
As it was, they had to pick between two evils. Either have crime up and the Canary gone, or crime down but the Canary still free. Still making mistakes.
Despite Mike's opinion on the matter, it wasn't an easy choice for officials. There were a lot of complaints against the Canary. He truly was a criminal, even if he was a criminal in a noble way. Lawlessness in defense of the law can be dangerous.
The investigating detective told me that an Assistant D. A. would probably subpoena me about testifying. I said that would be fine. I'd be available. I hung up and continued my research. I made some calls to the mayor's office, but they had no comment. They didn't say much on it since the Canary became so popular. Better to say nothing than say the wrong thing. The Politician's Code. I contacted a few other people who have spoken to us about the Canary before, and then I wrote.
The next day, a Sunday, my first Yellow Canary story was printed. There would only be two more published.
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Yellow Canary appearance in downtown
Local vigilante foils car-jacking
by Romero Kent
Post reporter
Mysterious crime-fighter "The Yellow Canary" appeared outside the Alley Theatre late on Friday night to thwart an attempted car robbery. The suspect, identified as Ernie Frost, 31, allegedly fought against the Canary, but was eventually bound and left for police.
This reporter was a witness to the events. Even though Frost was reportedly armed, the Canary approached, pulling the suspect away from the car.
One bullet was fired as Frost resisted, but caused no damage to person or property. The Canary was able to restrain the suspect with rope and then to escape before the police arrived.
Frost is now in police custody.
For two years the Yellow Canary has anonymously and controversially defended Houston against crime. He has been reported to have stopped several robberies, drug deals, and even murders. He has also apprehended fugitives from all over the city.
No one has been able to determine his true identity, but he is most recognizable by his yellow cloak and attached hood.
Though several criminals have been captured and prosecuted because of his actions, he has also been criticized as a dangerous vigilante without legal authority.
"For every real criminal the Canary catches, we get two or three reports telling how he abused the law-abiding public," say police department sources.
More than ten warrants have been issued for the Canary's arrest, but he has so far eluded police.
Even if several complaints against the would-be super-hero have been made, polls suggest that his popularity remains extremely high. Most surveys report that more than 65% of the population approves of his actions.
"He is a real life comic book," says Derek Parker, who runs a web-based Yellow Canary fan club. "In a time when nearly every public figure is failing as a role-model, the Canary is someone we can look up to."
Parker's website contains articles of the Canary's activity, fan fiction, Canary spottings, and even identity theories, theories which range from Police Chief Thomas Kelley to fictional character Bruce Wayne, who became Batman in the DC Comics and in later movies and television series.
But even those who criticize the Canary's methods admit that he has a hand in the city's low crime rate, which has dropped dramatically in the last two years.
A lower crime rate, a spokesperson for National Coalition for Civil Rights has said, is not an excuse for his actions.
"The Yellow Canary is enforcing a type of martial law in Houston. We have received several reports of his violence to even the law-abiding public. Fewer murders a year isn't worth that price."
Such reports have lead to many arrest warrants to be sworn against the Canary. However, the vigilante remains anonymous, so no arrest has yet been made.
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© Copyright 2002 by Paul Lytle. All rights reserved.
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