It's Superman! A Novel (30 page)

“Mr. Mayor,” intones Dick Sandglass, then he stops and sips from a glass of water. Begins again: “. . . Mr. Mayor,” trying for a looser sound, “there is a ghost gang operating in this city and . . .” Try it
again,
he thinks, and
this
time without the melodrama.
“Sir,
I have proof in this envelope here that a secret gang of criminals is operating in this city—a
ghost gang,
if you will, and . . . And . . . ?” He makes a face, all chagrin, then sticks out his tongue, razzing himself in his bureau mirror.

After looping a Windsor knot in his maroon tie and fitting the knot against his throat, Sandglass pulls his suit jacket from the bedpost and puts it on, smoothing the front, shooting the cuffs. He studies himself again, squaring his shoulders. “Mr. Mayor . . . Mayor La Guardia, thank you for agreeing to meet with me tonight. Sir, there is a ghost gang operating in Greater New York that has been systematically eliminating all of its criminal competition.” Damn, he sounds like Tom Dewey. Or Lowell Thomas.
Relax.

The mayor has agreed to see Dick Sandglass under the conditions the detective proposed to the mayor’s secretary: on the weekend, absent any staff, and with no record of the meeting entered on any appointment calendar. Tonight, seven-thirty, the mayor’s apartment.

It’s twenty past six.

“Mayor, for two years and completely on my own time and at my own expense, I have been collecting evidence that I believe proves the existence of a . . . let’s call it a
ghost gang
operating here in our city.”

Still not right.

Firing a cigarette, he goes and flicks through half a hundred shellac recordings cataloged alphabetically, finally selecting “Ring Dem Bells” by the Duke Ellington Orchestra with a Cootie Williams vocal. He slaps it down and cranks up the Victrola, sets the needle carefully in the lead-in groove. Sitting directly in front of the horn, Sandglass lets the music hit him square in the chest. Soon he’s drumming on his thighs right along with Sonny Greer. He thinks of a woman he knows, a singer, but quickly puts her out of his mind. And thinks of Lex Luthor, then of Mayor La Guardia and their meeting tonight.

His hands quit drumming.

It’s quarter of seven.

“Mr. Mayor, I have with me this evening damning proof that a man trusted by the citizens of this city, trusted by you yourself, sir, has abused that sacred trust and . . . and has been positioning himself to become absolute king of the New York rackets. And that man, I am sorry to tell you, sir, is none other than—”

“That’s when shots ring out from behind a curtain and you fall dead, Pop.”

“Hey, kid, when did you get back?”

“Few minutes ago.” Spider Sandglass stands in the bedroom doorway with his arms crossed and a smile on his face. A paintbrush-size hank of black hair flops across his forehead, the rest glistens with Brylcreem. He needs a haircut. He needs better posture. He needs a job. Ah, leave the kid alone, thinks Dick Sandglass. He’s
trying.

“Go on, Pop, it sounded good. Who’s the mystery villain?”

“You don’t think I sounded like, I don’t know, some guy in the movies?”

“No, it was great. Very professional.”

“Thanks.”

“No, really, you sounded great. Before you know it you’ll be chief of police.”

“Or wearing cement shoes in the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Don’t even joke, Pop.”

“Who’s joking?”

Spider changes the subject. “You want something to eat?”

“You kidding? With the butterflies in
my
stomach? You go ahead, though. There should be some chicken left.”

“I finished that.”

“Well, then you’ll just have to look and see what’s there.”

Spider has been living with his father for three, going on four months now, since he got out of prison with time off for good behavior. He was only supposed to stay here briefly, just till he found some work, but so far he hasn’t. Yeah, and who’s going to hire an ex-con? Lay off, thinks Sandglass. He’s your kid and you love him. And he loves you. Maybe.

When Dick Sandglass goes down the short hall five minutes later to say good-bye, he first asks Spider, “How much of what I was saying did you hear?”

“There’s a ghost gang in town. Where’d you get that?”

“What, ‘ghost gang’? You don’t like it?” His attention is partly diverted by a song on the radio. Ben Pollack, maybe. Or Jean Goldkette. “You don’t like ‘ghost gang’?”

“It’s a little corny.”

“So I won’t use it.” Sandglass walks over to the icebox, puts his file down on top of it next to the radio, and then twists up the tiny volume knob. He can’t help it, he’s just a music nut. “Thanks for telling your old man he’s corny.” And his first guess was right: it
is
Ben Pollack and His Park Central Orchestra. “Buy, Buy for Baby.” Belle Mann on vocals.

“I was only kidding, Pop. It’s great. I can see it.” Lifting one hand, Spider separates his thumb and first finger by six inches. “
Ghost Gang,
headlines this big.”

“You staying in tonight?” asks Sandglass. Spider is repeatedly dipping his hand into a box of Kellogg’s corn flakes. “Can’t you get a bowl for that? You ate out of a box in prison?”

Spider doesn’t bother to answer those questions. “You really going to see the mayor?”

“Yeah, I really am.”

“Ever meet him before?”

“Once, when he was a congressman. Hey, I got to run. See you when I get back.”

Already Spider has turned his attention back to Ed Sullivan’s column in the
Daily News
spread out on the kitchen table. He doesn’t see the old man go out, but ten seconds later, for some unknown reason, he feels it necessary to glance up at the wall clock. When he does he notices that his father left the envelope he was carrying on top of the icebox.

Sir, I have proof in this envelope here . . .

Theirs is a front-facing apartment on Second Street just off the Bowery, and Spider flings up the kitchen window to see if he can still catch his father.

“Hey, Pop!” he hollers down five stories just as a black Hudson pulls to the curb in front of Dick Sandglass and two men run up from behind him, probably from the next doorway, grab his arms, pinion them both, then drag him across the pavement and fling him into the back of the big car.

Standing at the window in shock, holding the fat envelope in his right hand, Spider Sandglass knows with utter certainty that this is the last time he will ever see his father alive.

2

Back in mid-July Lois Lane found herself in possession of two press tickets to the Sunday matinee of a struggling Broadway show. She went—why not? there was nothing else doing—but she went alone. Everyone she’d asked to come along said no, thanks. The reviews for
Never Too Tired,
yet another society comedy by David Nero and S. B. Dillon, had been universally stinko. By intermission she was agreeing with the critics. Even Frank Conlan and Ilka Chase couldn’t save the damn thing. Who cared about Mainline Philadelphians anymore? Whether they got amnesia or committed adultery? When people were starving, out of work, living on the bum, that stuff seemed worse than trite, it seemed tasteless. Maybe she wouldn’t even stick around. She didn’t
have
to see it through to the end. Was there some law? She was waiting on line at the lobby bar thinking maybe she wouldn’t bother getting a drink, she’d just go home, when a man behind her said, “Your name is Lois, correct?”

She turned and, yes, she knew that she knew him, but couldn’t place him: a tall, good-looking blond in his middle twenties, that chiseled Nordic look except for the spray of mick freckles on his cheeks. He was wearing a gun-club-check jacket and dark blue slacks. When she noticed his shoes, though—his black boatlike shoes—Lois placed him easily: he’d been the cop sitting guard outside Willi Berg’s hospital room two years ago. He’d made her leave her purse with him, which she hadn’t minded doing since he was cute and seemed genuinely apologetic.

“Oh hello!” she said, adding, “I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.”

As soon as he told her, she thought, Lois Jaeger, because that kind of thing, sounding out her possible married name, had been instinctual with her since she was twelve. Just an old stupid habit. It wasn’t like she was looking to get married, she had a career, thank you very much. Lois Jaeger. It wasn’t
bad,
though, and neither was he.

When Ben Jaeger asked how she liked the show, Lois wrinkled her nose. He laughed: his sentiments exactly. Then he asked her if she wanted to go for a drink, even an early supper.

Why not?

Until their fourth date, when he took her to see the Giants play (first time anyone she knew ever suggested doing
that),
Ben Jaeger never brought up Willi Berg’s name. She had been expecting him to, of course, and the fact that he had not led her to wonder with increasing unease if she were being used somehow to run Willi down. But at the Polo Grounds that afternoon Ben suddenly mentioned his boss Richard Sandglass, saying that Sandglass still hoped Willi Berg would come back to town, voluntarily resurface. Sandglass, Ben told her, might be able to help Willi out of his jam.

Lois said, “Are you asking me to pass on a message? Because Mr. Sandglass has already asked me to do the same thing.”

“It’s lieutenant,” said Jaeger.
“Lieutenant
Sandglass.”

“Yeah? And if I want to call him mister, I will. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Are you saying you’re in touch with him still?”

“I asked you first.”

“I’m not some fly dick, Lois, going out with you to catch a crook, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

Lois nodded vaguely and gazed out over the astonishing green turf of the outfield, the whiteness of the base bags, listening to the whooping roll of the pipe organ over the P.A. system. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I was suggesting.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“And I’m not in touch with Willi Berg, either.”

“Damn, I’ve wasted all this time!”

She poked him in the ribs, and they watched the rest of the game, Giants 4, Boston Braves, 3.

Ten weeks of twice-weekly dates later: early Saturday evening, October the first. After taking in the new Van Gogh exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art, Lois and Ben walk down Sixth Avenue for a while. Then Ben checks his watch and says he really should make a phone call—does Lois mind? It will only take a minute. He just needs to “check in.” He doesn’t say with whom.

And now he’s talking excitedly to someone he calls “Spider” from a booth at the rear of an Irish bar just off Times Square. The air is full of tumbling steam and heavy with the odor of boiled cabbage. He says into the telephone receiver, “It’ll be all right,” and Lois tugs on his belt loop, asking, “What? What’s the matter?”

Ben’s face is ghastly pale when he hangs up. “Lois, I’m sorry, you’re going to have to get home by yourself.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

He shakes his head.

“Ben.”

So he tells her, “Something might’ve happened to the lieutenant. I’m going to his apartment.”

“Let me come.”

“No.”

They push their way down the length of the crowded barroom, Ben leading, clearing a passage, Lois tagging close behind.

Outside on Broadway near the corner of West Forty-eighth Street, Ben steps off the curb and hails a Checker. He puts Lois in while looking over the cab roof to see if he can spot a patrol car to commandeer. Then he bends down, leans into the taxi, and kisses her. “I’ll call you later.”

Lois has taken out a notepad, already flipped through several pages, and says to Jaeger, “Richard Sandglass, 28 East Second Street. Need a lift?”

“Lois, don’t. This is serious. I’ll
call
you.”

Lois tells the hackie, “Twenty-eight East Second, that’s right off the Bowery.”

Up until fifteen seconds ago she had considered Ben Jaeger her boyfriend, and not because they’ve gone all the way, because they still haven’t, not
all
the way, but because she knows his birthday—October the fifth—and for weeks has been trying to think of the perfect gift. Now, though, she’s less sure. Maybe he’s
not
her boyfriend.

“And driver, put on some speed.”

3

“Pop just said he was going out. That’s all he told me.”

“He never mentioned he was going to see the mayor?”

“La Guardia? No.”

“Spider, did you recognize either of the men?”

“No. Two guys. Hats, coats.”

Ben Jaeger rubs a hand across his forehead, then palms it over the top of his head, flattening his hair. “What kind of hats?”

“Hats. Men’s hats.”

Lois, who is sitting with them both at the kitchen table—she arrived at the Sandglass apartment a full ten minutes before Ben did—smiles now at Spider and asks him, “How was he dressed, your dad? Was he wearing his uniform?”

“No, his good suit. His only suit. Pop used to call it his funeral suit—you know, because it’s black and he only wears it when he’s going to wakes and funerals.”

Jaeger says, “Lois, I’m asking the questions, all right?”

Lois shrugs but wants to kick him.

“Spider, this is important,” says Ben. “Did your father take anything with him—a big envelope?”

“I don’t know,” says Spider, reaching for a carton of breakfast cereal, then looking down into it, checking if there are flakes still left. “I didn’t see any envelope.” He stares past Ben through the open kitchen window. “No,” he says, “I don’t remember seeing any envelope.”

4

Mrs. O’Shea’s husband, Denholm, is languishing in state prison at Sing-Sing, has been for the past three years, and will be for the next forty-seven. Denny O’Shea killed a union organizer on the West Side docks—deliberately went after the guy, chased him for a block, then chopped off his head with a shed cutter ordinarily used to trim cabbage. He went down for depraved homicide.

Afterward Mrs. O’Shea found employment at the Straubenmuller Textile High School on West Eighteenth Street. She supervised the kitchen, maintained the on-premises fabrics museum, and devised a streamlined accounting system that saved the arithmetically challenged principal hundreds of hours of headaches. Just about a year ago, however, an audit of the high school’s finances revealed that Mrs. O’Shea had embezzled Straubenmuller out of nearly twenty thousand dollars, which she’d used to buy a summer home in Deal, New Jersey.