It's Superman! A Novel (32 page)

Paulie comes home this morning to find Carl asleep on his living-room sofa. The phonograph needle is lisping in the lead-out groove and the moment Paulie turns off the Victrola, Carl wakes up. “What time is it?”

“Around three.”

“In the
morning?”

“Yeah, the
morning.
Some people
work
in the world.” Paulie walks into the kitchen and shakes the coffeepot. A little sloshes inside so he lights a match, then a burner, and reheats it.

Carl slumps in and sits down at the table.

“I walked your dad over to St. Rock’s. They got Forty Hours Devotion going.”

“That was brave of you.” Paulie reaches down a cup and a saucer from a low shelf, gets out the condensed milk. Then he takes out a packet of Herbert Tarrytons and lights one. “You wouldn’t believe how tired I am.”

“Whatcha been doing?” Carl opens the top of a box of lemon-filled cupcakes, the dozen Paulie has a standing order for with the Dugan bread man every Thursday.

“Let me have one of those. If you really must know,” says Paulie, exhaling smoke from his nostrils, “I was carting some kid’s body out to a crematorium over the South Beach section of Staten Island.”

“Some kid?”

“This thing’s hard as a rock,” says Paulie, knocking his cupcake against the metal edge of the table. “Why don’t you remember to put this kind of thing in the icebox, is that too much to ask? I have to eat stale cupcakes?”

“Sorry, Paulie. You know, I bet if you heated it in the oven . . .”

“What, I want hot filling?” Then he makes an anguished face.

“What?”

“I just remembered I was supposed to call the boss when I was finished. If he makes me go out
again
. . .”

“Didn’t you used to have a guy working with you?”

“Yeah, and let me tell you, that was better. Much as Sticky ticked me off, that was better. We could take turns doing things for Mr.—for the boss.” He pours his coffee, adds sweetened milk, and carries the cup on its saucer back into the living room. Carl follows him. “What’d
you
do all evening?”

“Listened to records,” says Carl.

“While I’m taking a body to the crematorium.”

“You said it was a
kid
? How old a kid?”

“Twenties. I killed his father last night.”

“Paulie.”

“What? What, ‘Father Krusada,’ what’s the matter? You disapprove?”

Carl rubs a hand around the top of his head. “Did I say I disapproved? A man has to make a living.”

“Glad you think so. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” says Paulie, “I have to call the boss.”

“Yeah, sure,” says Carl.

Paulie sets down his coffee and sits on the hard chair next to the telephone table. He picks up the receiver but then notices Carl still standing there. “You mind giving me a little privacy?”

“Yeah sure, but . . .”

“What?”

“Is your . . . do you think your boss is ever gonna hire somebody to replace that partner you had?”

“Why?”

“I’d like to apply for the job. If it ever opens up.”

Paulie stares at him for a moment, then shrugs. “Yeah, sure, why not? I’ll mention it.”

“Yeah?”

“I said I would.”

“Hey . . . that’s real white of you.”

“Anything for a pal. Now get out of here.”

Why did he
ever
offer the guy a place to stay till he got back on his feet? He not only takes care of his old man, he also takes care of his crazy friend. Paulie figures he’s probably built up such a reserve of sanctifying grace, doing so many good deeds, that he could shoot
twenty
cops and still get into heaven. He dials the phone and when the boss answers, he says, “All done. That kid is
smoke.”

8

Usually on Mondays, Mrs. O’Shea takes the train to Ossining and visits Denny at the prison there; she brings him his weekly cigarette money and a dozen nickel chocolate bars, Nestlés, which she pronounces “nessles” and he pronounces “nest-lees.” Then they both lapse into awkward silence for half an hour.

But today her first conscious thought is that she won’t be visiting her husband this particular Monday. And perhaps never again. Who knows? She throws off the comforter and rolls out of bed, Lex Luthor’s bed, then steps quickly to the bathroom and jumps into the shower. She keeps the water as hot as she can bear it and scrubs and scrubs at herself. Then she begins reducing the cold water till the spray is entirely hot water and her body burns painfully. Then she twists off the hot tap. Stands there dripping, breathing heavily, her shoulders and meaty chest bright cherry-red, even beginning to blister in places.

Back in the bedroom Mrs. O finds one of Lex’s royal blue bathrobes and puts it on. There are no slippers that fit.

She flings open the office door and then stops abruptly. Dressed in a midnight-blue tuxedo, Lex is seated behind his desk. He has on a pair of headphones and is scribbling madly on a pad of yellow foolscap. When he sees Mrs. O he frowns, then holds up a warning finger: be quiet. He writes more. Mrs. O half turns her head to the left and, not expecting to find anyone else here, she flinches: Caesar Colluzo, that garlic-eater she can’t abide, is perched rigidly in one of the chairs, his black hat on his lap.

Stationed beside him is yet another of his shiny tin men, another of those creepy robots, this one larger than the others she’s seen, less tubular, leaner. The others were unnerving but ridiculous; this one frightens her. It seems to be turned off. But how can you really tell?

Mrs. O’s attention is diverted by a loud
click:
Lex snapping a toggle on a small radio receiver.

He removes his headphones and tosses them down.

Then he looks at Mrs. O, at Caesar Colluzo. “Apparently,” he says, “I am now the focus of a very classified secret criminal investigation.”

“How do you—?”

“Helen, I was just read the transcript of two intercepted telephone calls, one outgoing, one incoming, from the mayor’s private line.” He picks up a pencil, begins tapping it. “I gather that Fatty has spoken with the late Lieutenant Sandglass’s young sidekick and has chosen to believe what he says. Even without documentation.”

“What does this mean?” asks Caesar. As always he seems disgusted—and Mrs. O is furious that he asked the same question
she
was about to ask. “Now what?”

Lex grins and leans forward. “Oh, I’ll think of something,” he says.

PART FOUR

ANYTHING FOR HALLOWEEN?

Ablutions. The General Slocum. Clark Kent meets
Lois Lane and discovers that, first love is fleeting.
●

1

For nearly a month Lois Lane has been spending most nights with Ben Jaeger, but now she is ready to sleep by herself again.

Ben Jaeger seems not just different, which he definitely is, but
replaced.
The sweet boy-cop has become a cynical and angry cop-cop. He sulks and glowers and still mourns his beloved mentor Dick Sandglass. As part of his mourning ritual Ben even plays on Lois’s Victrola the lieutenant’s blues and hot jazz records, which he “retrieved” from the Sandglass apartment on Second Street. If she has to listen to Mildred Bailey or Bessie Smith
one more time,
Lois thinks she’ll scream.

As a member of the D.A.’s special “task force,” Ben has become obsessed by the criminal investigation of Lex Luthor. Lois feels sorry for the new Ben—she does, she’s not heartless and cold, it’s just . . . she just doesn’t much
like
him. And if she doesn’t like somebody when he’s vertical, she won’t like him any better when he’s horizontal.

Using the hand shower in the tub this morning, Lois decides she really
has
to do something. And what she has to do is end it. When Ben comes back here tonight (he was already gone when she woke up half an hour ago) she is going to talk to him.
If
he comes back tonight.

The Luthor investigation is not going well.

And speaking of that . . .

Lois steps dripping from the tub and blots herself dry with a Turkish towel, uses another to wipe steam from the mirror, then raises the window several inches to let out the steam, let in some cool autumn air. According to John Gambling on the radio, it’s supposed to be sunny and warm today with highs in the upper fifties.

. . . Speaking of Lex Luthor, she’d better put the speed on. In half an hour she has to meet with someone who called her yesterday at the
Daily Planet
on behalf of Willi Berg. Someone named Clark.

After sprinkling talcum powder on her throat and chest and the back of her neck, after she rubs it briskly all around, Lois goes and selects her underwear, then sits down on the side of the bed to roll on her gunmetal stockings. And there, tangled nearby in the sheets, are Ben’s skivvies. Fruit of the Loom. She flicks them on top of her own dirty laundry, piled next to a small, neat stack of
Planets
she intends to go through with scissors whenever she finds the time. The papers are recent editions containing stories Lois wrote:
SUICIDE, 54, WAS JOBLESS 6 YEARS, DRIFTER HELD IN KNIFE SLAYING, LL LAWYER CALLS MISSING SANDGLASS FILE
“
INSIDIOUS MYTH.
”

Lois imagines she’ll eventually grow tired of culling and filing her clippings, but for now it’s still exciting. She’s a reporter!

And if this reporter doesn’t shake a leg she is going to miss her appointment down in Tompkins Square Park. She finishes dressing (black skirt, white blouse, patent-leather pumps), brushes her hair, and dabs on the slightest coat of lip paint with a fingertip. Finally she’s ready to grab her swagger coat, stick on a beret, and go. Well, almost ready. First she has to make the bed. Crazy or not, it’s a ritual she performs every day.

As she plumps one of the pillows, Lois notices a grease stain on the sham, her nice percale sham—Ben’s hair creme. She
told
him to stop putting on so much Brylcreem; even wished out loud he wouldn’t use any at all. It’s kind of endearing, though. Ben’s vanity over his gleaming hair. He can be so . . . well, he can be so
cute,
and always with the Schrafft’s candy—even at his mopiest he brings her candy or a pint of chocolate ice cream. Oh, God. The truth is, she
does
like Ben, still does, and really it’s not his fault things haven’t worked out. It’s just . . . okay: there’s no
chemistry.
And Lois is beginning to think she wants to fall in love.

She’s never been “in love,” not with any of the boys back in Monticello, not with Willi Berg and not with Ben Jaeger. At least she
hopes
not. Because if
that
was love, all she can say is there are
far
too many beautiful songs touting such a measly emotion.

Lately she has begun to worry about herself—especially after scoring so poorly on
Glamour
magazine’s “How Romantic Are You?” take-it-yourself quiz. Her score (94 points out of a possible 200) put her in the Cold Fish category! What, just because she’s never gone rink skating with a man or necked in a gazebo during a summer shower, never dressed “sylphlike” for her “best beau”? Nertz! She’s romantic, she
is,
she cries when the guy and the girl embrace finally and eternally at the end of serious movies, she cries even harder when one of them becomes fatally ill. She
is
ready to fall in love.

Today is Friday, the twenty-ninth of October 1937.

2

Beginning in the 1830s, a large German immigrant community known as Kleindeutschland thrived on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. The focal point of the community was Tompkins Square, bordered on the north by Tenth Street, on the south by Seventh Street, on the east by Avenue A, and on the west by Avenue B. On the morning of June 15,1904,1,331 Kleindeutschlanders, all of them parishioners of St. Mark’s German Lutheran Church and most of them women and young children, boarded an excursion vessel for a picnic outing to the northern shore of Long Island. The
General Slocum,
an enormous wooden boat with three open decks, two side paddle-wheels, and coal-fed boilers, departed from the Third Street Pier shortly before nine-thirty and steamed up the East River. Minutes later, as she was passing Blackwell’s Island, flames engulfed her forward part. By quarter of ten, the boat was completely afire and foundering in the treacherous waters of Hell Gate. The ill-trained crew discovered that practically all of the fire hoses—decades old and original to the vessel—were rotted. When their nozzles were turned on, the canvas burst. There were insufficient lifeboats, the cork filler had crumbled in the life jackets, and practically none of the passengers could swim. At least 1,300 people died, either burned to death or drowned.

Virtually every family in Kleindeutschland suffered a loss, and the funerals, one following the other around the clock, lasted for more than a week . . .

On his second day in New York City, Clark Kent happened upon a small monument erected to the memory of the
General Slocum’s
dead. He was taking a stroll around his new neighborhood when he saw it—a small bronze of a boy and a girl watching a steamboat—tucked away at the northernmost end of Tompkins Square Park. He read the plaque and was horrified. He pulled his brand-new eyeglasses off his face and rubbed his eyes. For the rest of the day he couldn’t get that awful tragedy out of his mind. He returned the next day and the next. Each time he did he found himself thinking identical thoughts.

This morning, for the fourth straight day, Clark is back at the monument thinking about what he might have done, what heroism he could have performed, had he been around in 1904.

For one thing, he could have plucked women and children out of the East River. A lot of them. And rescued still others from the decks. Or cracked a water tank off its base on the roof of some tall building, then emptied it onto the flames. But wait a second.
Could
he have done that? Could he
do
that if something comparable happened today? Or tomorrow? Is he strong and agile enough to manage such a thing? Such things. Could he still fly while carrying a water tank? And could he grasp the tank with one hand while he socked holes into it with the other? What if he tried—and dropped the whole damn water tank over a city street, crushed a dozen people? Oh God.