The Book of Lies (21 page)

I’m lied to every single day by most of my clients. But as I look at her . . . “I believe you, Serena.”

“Don’t use the phone anymore, okay?” my father barks, so clearly pissed that the woman at the ticket desk looks our way.

“Okay, everybody lose the claws,” I say. “We’re all tired . . . we’ve got twelve minutes till closing . . . Let’s just be—”

“Faster than a speeding bullet!”
a baritone voice announces behind us.

“See, now that’s just horrible,” Serena says, rolling her eyes as we turn toward the official entrance of the exhibit.

Beneath the tall glass windows and across the long rectangular Jerusalem stone lobby, a six-foot-tall statue of Superman holds a giant Earth over his head. On the Earth, there’s a little red flag stuck into Cleveland with a note that says, “Birthplace of Superman!”

“More powerful than a locomotive!”

And more annoying with each passing second.

I race toward the exhibit. “Let’s just get what we came for.”

From what I can tell, the main exhibit hall of the Maltz Museum is set up like a long rectangle—the back half of it dedicated to Jewish artifacts, the front half to the Superman display, which is split into half a dozen smaller rooms. It doesn’t take long to divide them up. I don’t like it. But with closing hour quickly approaching, the only way we’re finding the attic copy they have here is with some speed. On my far left, my father took the room labeled “
Superman in the ’60s
”; on my right, Serena took “
Superman Today
”; and I very purposely staked my claim in the main central exhibit: “
Origins of the Superman
.”

Like any other museum, it has stark white walls lined with Lucite cases of all shapes and sizes, holding everything from old photographs and pencil sketches, to copies of Nietzsche’s mention of the Übermensch and Hitler’s demand for the master race, to 1940s
Superman
movie posters, action figures, jigsaw puzzles, baseball cards, Colorforms sets, cereal boxes, and every other product that you can possibly put a giant red-and-yellow
S
on. But, amazingly, there’s not a single comic book.

In the corner of the wide room, a bright red Superman cape hides the entrance to what looks like a separate part of the exhibit. I’ll bite.

As I pull aside the cape and step inside, the darkness tells me it’s just a small theater. The curved, blue-carpeted benches look like they can seat ten or so people, and on the far left wall, a flat-screen TV announces:

“Up in the sky! Look! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Superman!”

From the crackling of the recording and the clapping of the crowd, it’s an old radio show. But on-screen, it’s a black-and-white photo of young Jerry Siegel and artist Joe Shuster. Most people in 1940s photos look like they’re somehow older than you. But to see these two . . . these kids dressed in shirts and ties . . . one of them sitting at an old typewriter (I’m guessing Jerry), the other leaning over him with a pencil behind his ear (Joe, the artist)—they can’t be outta high school.

“
Yes, it’s Superman. Young America’s stalwart idol
,” the radio announcer says as a montage of more family photos appears on-screen, along with a caption that says: “Audio from
Town Hall Tonight
with Fred Allen (1940).”

“
Hey, listen!
” a little boy’s voice interrupts. “
A new
Action Comics
just came out, and boy, has it got a swell adventure of Superman in it!
” he says as the radio audience cheers.

On the flat screen, there’s another photo, this one of
Action Comics #-1
—just like the one in my backpack.

“
Our guest tonight is the man who originated Superman. He’s Mr. Jerry Siegel. Good evening, Mr. Siegel
,” the announcer says.

“
Good evening, Fred
,” a nasal voice replies, and for the first time—even after walking through his house and his bedroom and his attic . . . even after seeing his photo . . . to actually hear his anxious, squeaky voice—Jerry Siegel is suddenly alive, whispering to me from the dead.

“So you are the man behind Superman, Mr. Siegel?”

“No, I’m just one of the men, Fred. I write the situations and the dialogue, and the strip is drawn by my collaborator, Joe Shuster.”

With each question, the announcer revs up his voice, hoping to draw Jerry out. This kid just created Superman! But with each response, Jerry’s voice—it’s not just that he sounds so wonderfully geeky (though he does)—but to hear his uncomfortable stutter and stammering . . . It’s just— This boy— We expect him to be Superman.

But he’s just Clark Kent.

“Well, you seem . . . seem rather young to be the instigator of this highly successful feature, Mr. Siegel. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

As Jerry says the words, images from more old comic books fill the screen. Shots of Superman in World War II: his chest out as he literally punches a German U-boat . . . then him walking arm in arm, centered between an army soldier and a navy sailor. The next image is a shot of the planet Krypton, then one of a baby in a blue blanket being placed in a 1940s version of a rocket ship.

“
And how long have you and Mr. Shuster been working on your high-voltage Robin Hood?
” the announcer asks as the montage continues.

As the red rocket lifts off, a glass window in the ship shows the baby crying inside, while off to the left of the panel, Mom and Dad appear in profile as they both crane their necks up and calmly wave good-bye to their only child. There’s a single tear skiing down the cheek of the mother.

“
We started about eight years ago, but Superman has been in print only the past two years,
” Jerry says.

“Well, what caused the delay? Cirrhosis of the batteries?”

“No, Fred. It took us six years to sell Superman. He was turned down by almost every comic editor in the country.”

The audience laughs hysterically at that one, while on-screen, the camera slowly pulls in on just the crying baby swaddled in the bright blue blanket. Baby Superman, rocketing to the planet Earth. The camera then shifts left, pulling in on the doomed parents . . . then back to the crying baby . . . then back to the parents. The camera’s so close on their profiles, you can see the tiny pink halftone dots that color their faces—and as it pulls even closer—on the mom’s nose and eyes and tears—

“It’s a bit heavy-handed, no?” a voice asks behind me.

I turn around to find a short, muscular man in a too tight business suit. The name tag on his lapel tells me he’s the
Curator
; the way he stands across from me—drifting into my personal space—tells me he’s also a real-deal comic book fan. “It’s really hard with these exhibits,” he explains. “But people forget: At the core of it, Superman is an orphan story.”

“Yeah . . . no . . . I didn’t realize that,” I tell him, turning back to the screen.

“Y’okay?” he says in full midwest accent.

“I’m fine.”

“Y’sure? Y’look a little . . . zapped by kryptonite.” He laughs a hiccupy laugh, and for the first time I realize how much more he blinks than the average person.

“So you’re the curator?” I ask.

“Welcome to Metropolis!” He beams at me, giving three quick blinks. “Gareth Gelbwaks.”

“Great, then maybe you can help me with this, Gareth,” I say, going straight for the backpack and pulling out
Action Comics
in the wax paper—

Gareth’s eyes go wide, as though I just unveiled the Rosetta Stone. “Th-That’s— Where’d you—?” He swallows hard and blinks half a dozen times. “Maybe we should go back to my office.”

“That’d be perfect.”

Within seconds, we weave toward the far right exhibit hall, back past the bathrooms, to an oak door marked,
PRIVATE—STAFF ONLY
.

It’s not until he twists the doorknob that I realize I haven’t seen Serena or—

There’s a rusty squeak as the door swings open, revealing a small conference room, a round meeting table . . . and my father sitting there with his hands in PlastiCuffs.

“Dad, what’re you—?” I race forward, already realizing I’m too late.

The door slams behind me, and I finally spot her: the tall Hispanic woman with a cheap haircut and an even cheaper brown dye job.

“Nice to see you again, Cal,” Naomi says, pointing her gun at me. “Welcome to Metropolis.”

47

I
—I’m sorry,” the curator apologizes to me. “She said you were armed and wanted. I can’t risk the exhibit—”

“Stop talking,” Naomi barks at the curator. Over her shoulder, my dad sits there, devastated. Ex-cons know the consequences best. Next to him, attached to the wall, are two TV monitors: One has a view of the front desk, where we bought tickets; the other alternates among security cameras throughout the exhibit. As the screen blinks, I spot Serena still walking through the exhibit. That’s why Naomi didn’t grab her. She was in the restroom when we bought the tickets. They have no idea she’s with us. It’s the only thing going our way.

Turning to me, Naomi approaches with another set of PlastiCuffs, her gun still pointed at my chest. “Arms out, wrists together,” she insists.

“Before you—”

“Wrists together!”
she explodes, surprising even me. “You helped him, didn’t you? Did you know he threatened my family?”

“Wha? Your family?”

“Cal, I saw Ellis!
I saw him waiting outside your place!
”

She yells so loud, the curator can’t stop blinking. Whatever Ellis did, he clearly lit Naomi’s fuse, which means she’s not listening until she gets what she wants.

I toss the comic book on the conference table and calmly stick out my wrists. “Go ahead—put the cuffs on.”

She stops, knowing I’m up to something. “Cal . . .”

“Put the cuffs on,” I repeat. “I’m not fighting.”

She steps in close and threads both my hands into the open circles of the PlastiCuffs. But she doesn’t pull them tight. “Tell me what happened on Alligator Alley with Timothy,” she adds.

I glance at my dad, who shakes his head. He still hasn’t said anything. So if Naomi’s asking, that means they haven’t found the body. Good for us. Still, if I tell her Timothy’s dead—or even place us at Alligator Alley—there’s no way we’re not going right back to Miami for questioning. “I spoke to him that night, but that’s the last I—”

She pulls the zipper as the PlastiCuffs bite my wrists. “Ow! What’re you—!?”

“You think I’m taking your word for it, Cal? Especially after what you did with Ellis!?”

“I didn’t do anything with Ellis!”

“How’d he find my address!? How’d he find where I live!?”

“Are you—?” I take a breath, knowing that the only way to keep her calm is by leading the way. “Please, Naomi—if I were really trying to kill you, you really think I’d let you put me in these cuffs?”

For once, she’s silent.

“Exactly,” I say. “And for all we know, Timothy may be fine.” It’s an awful bluff, but we’re not leaving here without it.

She shakes her head. “I saw the records. And the video, Cal. I know he helped you take that container from the port.”

“And this is why he took it,” I say, pointing my chin at the comic. “But Naomi, I promise you . . . I swear to you . . . whatever
did
happen to Timothy, you have to know it was Ellis.”

“I don’t have to know anything.”

“Sure you do! You could’ve stayed in Florida and just called in some local agents here. Instead, you had such a bad feeling about Ellis . . . about everything . . . you came all the way to Cleveland to solve it yourself. We’re in the same exact boat, Naomi—and if you just take a moment instead of dragging everyone off by their PlastiCuffs, you’ll actually find out what the hell’s so important that Ellis wanted this stupid comic book so badly!”

Naomi looks down at the comic, then to my father, then to me.

“Think about it, Naomi: If we really knew what was going on, would we even be here searching for an answer?”

From the table, she picks up the comic and turns to the curator. “You know what this is?”

“Y-Yeah,” he says.

“You know why it’s important?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Tell me.”

48

L
et me . . . mmm . . .” The curator pauses, his blinking quickening as he watches Naomi pull the comic from its protective wax-paper sleeve. “Please, don’t— Please, can I help you with that?
Please?
” he begs, gingerly prying the comic from her hands and lowering it just as softly to the conference table. “I’m sorry, but that’s . . . mmm—” He stares down at the comic like Indiana Jones examining the Ark.

From his desk, he pulls out a pair of tweezers with wide, flat pincers and uses them to turn the first page. “No foxing . . . no color loss . . . pristine,” he whispers as he continues turning pages. The blinking gets five times faster. But the way he’s frantically flipping forward, he’s not reading. It’s more like . . . he’s looking for something.

His face falls as he reaches the last page.

“What? What’s wrong?” Naomi asks, lowering her gun as if that’ll calm him down.

“I just thought— Even androids dream, y’know?”

Naomi cocks an eyebrow. “Are you in the same solar system we are? What’s this have to do with my missing partner?”

“Let him explain—it clearly has something to do with the history,” I plead. Turning to the curator, I add, “You were trying to find something in there, weren’t you?”

Gareth nods at me and uses his pointer finger to wipe a sweat mustache from his top lip. “They didn’t tell you the story, did they?”

“About the comic?”

“No. Not just the comic. To understand this, you need to know . . . mmm . . . do you even know how Superman was created?”

“By the two kids,” Naomi says, pacing behind my dad and still focused on her partner. “Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster. We saw the video.”

“I didn’t see the video,” my dad says. “And I didn’t do anything wrong here. I was just driving the truck.”

“Let’s just— Can we please stay on track?” I plead, strangely unnerved as I stare at my dad, who’s gripping his PlastiCuffed hands together to stop them from shaking. Up to this point, he’s been strong: plotting and scheming with an almost preternatural confidence. Yet to see him like this, shrinking in his seat with his head down? No one is who they say they are. But of all the faces my father’s shown, I feel like I’m finally seeing the real Lloyd Harper.