Free Jinx by Jennifer Estep

could even put an extra hour on the meter just by focusing on it. When I didn’t make it crumple into a metal heap.
    Abby and I went our separate ways. I got into my silver Benz, locked the doors, turned on the heater, and headed for home. The downtown streets were mostly deserted, except for the occasional homeless person huddled over a steaming subway grate. The wind picked up, and a rain of dry, brown leaves splattered against my windshield and off into the night.
    The usual nighttime sights greeted me as I headed for home. A few shoppers walking out of Oodles o’ Stuff, their arms full of shopping bags. The three-story-high F that marked the entrance to Fiona Fine Fashions. Reporters huddled in the doorway at the Exposé offices puffing at cigarettes, while the skyscraper loomed over them with its winking blue lights. The same scene over at the Chronicle . Muted shrieks of childish glee and calliope music drifting out of Paradise Park.
    The light in front of me flashed to red, and I cruised to a stop. I never ran traffic signals, not even this late at night. With my luck, there’d be a cop waiting just around the corner who’d be more than happy to write me a three-hundred-dollar ticket. And impound my car when my taillights and windshield spontaneously shattered. It had happened before.
    I sat at the intersection, waiting for the light to change, and a strange sort of thump-thump-thumping sound caught my attention. A man in black flew through the air, across my windshield, and smacked into the pavement. I winced. Definitely not the most graceful landing.
    The man struggled to get up, but a seventysomething woman sprinted into view and brought a diamond-topped cane down on the man’s most sensitive area. He howled, curled up into a tight ball, and grabbed himself. The woman smacked her cane in her hand, ready to dish out another whollop if the guy did anything but whimper. A large white pocketbook dangled from her arm, while gravel-sized pearls hung around her throat. A purple angora sweater fluttered like a minicape around her shoulders, and a flower-shaped mask covered most of her face.
    Granny Cane. She was one of Bigtime’s older and most respected superheroes. She didn’t have any powers I knew of—just a diamond-topped walking stick she used to beat muggers and purse snatchers into submission. Granny claimed she kept the streets safe for the elderly. I thought she liked dressing up and showing off, just like all the other heroes and villains. C’mon. A stun gun would have been much more effective for subduing bad guys than a wooden stick.
    Granny hauled the injured man to his feet, grabbed his ear, and stepped into the crosswalk. She yanked him along after her, evidently not caring he now had a pronounced limp and would probably never be able to have children. I averted my eyes, pretending she was just another little old lady crossing the street—albeit one with a weeping, masked man in tow.
    Granny Cane made it to the other side and kept walking. She was probably heading toward the Bigtime Police Station to turn in her latest capture. It was only a couple blocks away.
    I shook my head and kept on driving, hoping she’d be the only superhero I’d see.
    No such luck.
    Even though it was after midnight, it was a hot time in the old town tonight because the superheroes were out in full force. Swifte sped by me a couple of times, followed by police cars and an SNN news truck. Pistol Pete, a superhero who dressed like a cowboy, pulled out his six-shooters and performed some quick-draw tricks for a crowd of onlookers near Laurel Park, while the Fearless Five van cruised around the downtown area.
    I also drove by more than a few villains trying to get the upper hand on their archrivals. Big, brawny Yeti Girl duked it out with Black Samba on top of one of the city buses. But Black Samba danced away from her every time, while the snakes on the superhero’s arms and in her headdress hissed their displeasure at the