The Superman Project

by A. E. Roman

  “Any superheroes?”

  “Of course,” Pablo said. “Joey was going to pencil, ink, and color it for me. It’s gonna be big. The Moby Dick of comic books.”

  “So Joey was your partner?”

  “He was my friend,” Pablo said. “When I heard about him and Gabby, I swear, I felt like my heart was cut in two.”

  Funny. Once upon a time me and the Joey I knew also planned on breaking into the comic-book business. The other kids at St. Mary’s would write the stories, and me and Joey would draw and ink and color them. We put together five issues of St. Mary and The Dirty Dozen, before Joey disappeared one Easter after a trip to Coney Island (which he treated everybody to with proceeds from the design money he got from Bomba’s Auto-Body Shop) with a duffel bag, headed, he said, for Tahiti. But that was a long time ago. Now, I’m a private investigator and Joey is an accused something or other, and what’s worse, he’s too missing to argue otherwise.

  Pablo sighed. He sat on the rickety chair behind the desk and pressed PLAY on an ancient answering machine.

  Message #1: “Pablo. It’s Elvis again. Call me.”

  Message #2: “Pablo, I’m calling you and calling you and you never call me back. It’s Elvis.”

  Message #3: “What the fuck, Pablo?”

  Pablo pressed ERASE on the answering machine three times.

  “Who’s that?” I said. “Let me guess. Elvis?”

  “Yeah. My ex-best friend Elvis. He’s an artist, too. His father was a wrestler. In Mexico. Remember Lucha Libre?”

  Lucha Libre is the Latino version of the WWE.

  “Elvis’s father was Blanco Diablo,” Pablo said. “The White Devil. Now he owns a bodega on a Hundred Sixty-third. I know wrestling’s fake. But I still love watching them fight. It’s that good against evil thing, you know? Elvis was drawing on my comic book all through high school before I met Joey. But we had a disagreement.”

  “What about?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “I’m a person.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “Elvis said he liked Superman Returns.”

  “Everybody makes mistakes,” I said.

  “Exactly!” said Pablo. “Elvis said that not only did he like Bryan Singer’s Superman Returns but that Singer had more genius in one pinky than Richard Donner, who made Superman, had in his whole body.”

  “Superman movies? You fought over that?”

  “It’s not just that,” Pablo said, snapping the cap off a warm Coca-Cola bottle he picked up among a stack. “Elvis, he’s a know-it-all. Ever since we were kids. He’s got that hardheaded Puerto Rican machismo thing. He knows everything and I know nothing. He wouldn’t apologize.”

  “Sounds like he wants to apologize.”

  “I don’t care anymore,” Pablo said. “I suffer from anxiety. I got it from my mother. Elvis doesn’t understand that. He thinks I’m just complaining. That I got too much yin in my yang. That I think like a chick. Chick, that’s the kind of word Elvis uses. He thinks it’s okay to have sex with sixteen-year-old girls. That’s not me. I’m classy. I haven’t been to college yet but I read stuff. From the library. I know stuff. He’s ghetto. He’s not a sensitive person. I am. I’m not ashamed of that.”

  “Is Elvis a member of this Superman Project thing?”

  “TSP?” said Pablo and laughed. “No. He’s got a big mouth. He’s nineteen and acts like a little kid. Arrested development.”

  “I like him already,” I said.

  “You wouldn’t if you met him.”

  “Let’s get back to business,” I said. “What exactly is better than money?”

  Pablo looked around the room and went over to a stack and from the bottom he pulled out a brown leather book bag and from the brown leather book bag he pulled out a photo, wrapped in plastic. He handed it to me. It was a photo of Joey holding up a comic book. A familiar red-caped hero lifted a green car above his head and smashed it into a boulder, wheel flying, one man nearly on all fours, two panicked witnesses running away in wild-eyed terror, one in the foreground, another in the back:

  No. 1, June 1938, ACTION COMICS, 10 cents

  “Joey and a reprint of the first Superman comic book?” I said, holding up the photo. “So what? What’s this got to do with my fee?”

  A bell rang. Pablo went and huddled by the window with soiled green curtains to check. He turned to me and said, “It’s not a reprint!”

  FOUR

  Pablo, his back to me, peeked out the window from behind the soiled green curtains and the doorbell started ringing and ringing but Pablo just ignored it. I could almost feel Pablo watching me watching him watch whoever was outside that window, ringing. When the bell rang six more times and died, Pablo Sanchez, his boyish face twisted with annoyance, turned to me and added: “I can get you Joey’s comic book, Chico. The first Superman comic book. Mint condition. Joey’ll give you triple your fee if you find Gabby.”

  I glanced at the photo.

  Then I heard, “Joey could sell that comic book for about three hundred thousand dollars.”

  I looked at the photo again. “Three hundred thousand dollars for a comic book?”

  Pablo nodded. “Maybe even four or five hundred thousand.”

  “Where did Joey get it?”

  “An old TSP member passed away and left it to him.”

  I nodded. “And I thought comic books were just kid’s stuff.”

  The bell kept ringing and Pablo kept ignoring it.

  “I’d be an idiot to take your case based on the promise of payment from a comic book not already in your possession,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

  “Yeah?” Pablo said, excited.

  I smiled. “It took you long enough, but by Great Caesar’s Ghost, I think you’ve convinced me.”

  Helping an old childhood friend was starting to become a bad habit.

  “Where is this Father Ravi of The Superman Project?”

  “I don’t know,” Pablo said. “He hasn’t been seen at TSP since Joey ran off. They just show recorded messages from Father Ravi now. TSP is very hush-hush at the top. They have a lot of secrets. Joey knew them all. My mother just thinks she knows. Joey knew.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Gabby just ran off,” Pablo said. “I don’t care what the police or anybody says or thinks. I’ve known Joey for over a year. We talked about everything, almost every day, five days a week. Somebody is trying to frame Joey. I’m nobody in the Project, not even a member, just the fat janitor.”

  Pablo patted his fat belly. “Joey was high up in the Project. Father Ravi loved him. Joey was next to become the president of TSP. He knew everything and everyone. Joey helped re-create The Superman Project. A lot of people said TSP would never have caught on if it wasn’t for Joey. It would’ve died a long time ago. Everybody said so. Joey got new members, young members, artists, actors, writers, college kids, young businesspeople, female members, rich members, all kinds of donations. Father Ravi is the founder, the spiritual head of TSP. He started The Superman Project but Joey made it what it is today, everybody says that. Something happened. Joey can’t be bribed. Joey isn’t like that. He believes in TSP. They couldn’t buy him, so they had to get rid of him somehow. When Gabby went missing, he was the last one to see her, because of all that domestic trouble, the scratches, the other women, he looked guilty, he got scared so he ran.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  But if Joey believed in this TSP stuff what was up with the other women? Or was that part of the program? Hell, I know that program and I know the dues owed and there ain’t nothin’ spiritual about it.

  “I don’t have any money,” Pablo said. “I’m managing this store. I have a sick mother. But as soon as I get that comic book from Joey, you’re paid.”

  The bell screamed again and finally I said, “I think maybe you should get that.”

  Pablo nodded his head and said, “Hide that.”

  I s
hoved Joey and the comic-book photo nice and neat under the Tupperware bursting with Dominican food, placed them on my lap, and sat down.

  Pablo went out and came back into the office with a kid as skinny as Pablo was fat. He was pale, good-looking, with dark blondish hair and sleepy blue-green eyes. He wore an X-Men T-shirt and colorful Hawaiian shorts, and a white baseball cap with a Puerto Rican flag that read Puerto Ricans Do It Better.

  Elvis.

  “What do you want from my life, Elvis?!”

  “Why are you acting like this, sweetheart?” Elvis asked.

  “I’m busy,” Pablo said. “I need you to go away.”

  “I’ve been calling you for three days.”

  “The wait is over. You found me. I’m fine. Go home.”

  Pablo glanced at me. “I’m sorry about this, Chico.”

  I nodded and sized them up.

  Pablo was fat, good-natured, simple, smart, melancholy but friendly, short, and ambitious about nothing but friendship and comic books.

  Elvis, on the other hand, was six feet tall and lanky, and you could tell by his swagger that he thought a lot of himself.

  It was also obvious that Pablo had an allure for Elvis. Maybe because Pablo was not afraid to be himself and because he seemed as self-sacrificing as anyone I had ever met. You could tell that about the guy as soon as you met him and his mother, even before he opened his mouth. He was one of those guys. I wouldn’t say he was a chump, but there was no dog eat dog in the dude, not an ounce that you could see.

  Elvis turned to me and said, “Who are you?”

  “He’s a private investigator,” said Pablo. “He’s gonna find Gabby.”

  “Cool,” he said and put out his hand. “I’m Elvis Hernandez.”

  Elvis had what our art teacher Sister Irene at St. Mary’s called the face of classical beauty, everything in proportion to everything else, nose, eyes, lips. It was the textbook face of heroism, whether its owner was a hero or not, admirable or not, like it or not.

  “Chico,” I said, putting out my hand.

  “Puerto Rican.” He smiled.

  “I’ve been called worse,” I said.

  “You know it!” Elvis laughed, hugged, backslapped, and fist-bumped me like I had just agreed to bang on a cowbell in the Puerto Rican Day Parade.

  Chico don’t do parades.

  Elvis tapped a Newport cigarette out of a crumpled pack and offered me one.

  “No, thanks.”

  “We’re busy, Elvis. Will you please leave? You see? I’m not lying. We’re having a meeting.”

  “You not my friend anymore?”

  “No,” said Pablo.

  “So that’s it? After ten years? Growing up together. Elementary school. Junior high. High school. It’s over?”

  “Yeah,” Pablo said, holding the office door open. “If you see me on the street, don’t stop to say hello, walk on, and remember the good times we once shared and remember that it was all your fault. You know it, homie!”

  “That’s fucked up,” said Elvis.

  “You’re fucked up.”

  I stood up. “Maybe I should go.”

  “No, Chico, stay. You go, Elvis.”

  Elvis glanced at me and said, “Pablo thinks I stole his comic-book idea and his girl.”

  “Elvis!”

  Pablo got red in the face. It wasn’t anger; it was shame. The trouble between Pablo and Elvis was not simply the question of whether Bryan Singer or Richard Donner had made the better Superman movie. Apparently, it was a question of work and love, broken hearts, and loyalty. Same old song.

  “I didn’t steal your idea or your girl, Pablo. Captain Bravo was your idea. The Cuchifrito Kid was my idea, you just made him fat. My Cuchifrito Kid looks nothing like yours, he’s skinny like me. Your comic book is science fiction, my comic book is a western. And, anyway, I’m not talking to DC, I’m talking to this brother at Marvel that Chase knows, and Chase was never your girl. It just beez that way, sometimes, papá.”

  “I told you, I don’t wanna talk about Chase!”

  “Who is Chase?” I asked.

  Pablo said, “Chase Gupta is the sister of Gabby Gupta. Joey’s wife. Father Ravi has four daughters. Gabby, the oldest, then Mara, then Chase and Zena—the youngest one. Chase was kinda my girl before—”

  “C’mon!” Elvis said. “Let’s be honest, Pablo. Your girlfriend? You’re overweight. You got a funny hairline, you’re one inch taller than a dwarf, the last girl you had was your left arm, and you have dimples, but in the wrong places. In any case, papá, the reason Chase rejected you and wants me is not because of any of that. She’s looking for someone with potential to take care of her and protect her, and the probability of you doing that is, unlike you, slim. Don’t you see that?”

  Silence. Pablo’s face fell. I couldn’t believe the balls on that Elvis kid either. I saw Pablo’s left hand balling into a fat fist he was too nice of a guy to use. In fact, I would find it hard to believe that Pablo Sanchez ever slugged or socked another human being in anger, no matter what the offense.

  “I don’t give a damn about Chase Gupta!” Pablo said. “Or you! You faker! You liar! You thief!”

  “You should be happy for me, hermano.”

  “Happy? What do you have in common with Chase Gupta?”

  “I’m a Cancer and she’s a Pisces,” Elvis said.

  “You told me that Chase Gupta was too old and big and fat and hard on the eyes! That’s what you said, Elvis! She’s twenty-six and I’m eighteen. She’s too old. That I shouldn’t waste my time! That’s what you told me!”

  “That was just a first impression,” Elvis said, looking at me as if for support. “It was late and dark. We were dancing. I was on a full stomach, dizzy on whiskey and that was my first time eating Indian food.”

  “When she said she had a thin beautiful woman inside of her,” Pablo argued, “you told me she had at least three.”

  Elvis turned back to Pablo. “Chase is going on a diet. You know me. I got a big mouth.”

  “So what do you want from me, big mouth?”

  “I want your blessing.”

  “I bless you for being a thief and Chase Gupta for taking up any stray that passes by. For choosing looks over sincerity.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I understand,” Pablo railed, as if he had forgotten I was in the room. “You take what’s sacred: friendship, honesty, love, loyalty, integrity, and you throw it in the garbage. And then you come here looking for blessings! She was my girl!”

  “She’s in love with me, papá.”

  “She wasn’t in love with you two weeks ago!” Pablo said. “Maybe she wasn’t in love with me either. Maybe we weren’t a couple yet. But we were going out on dates. We were talking. And you betrayed me! You betrayed ten years of friendship for a girl that you said was a dog!”

  Elvis sighed and said, as if quoting from a book, “I have often laughed at the weaklings who thought themselves good because they had no claws.”

  Pablo’s eyes shot wide open. “Oh, my God!”

  “What is it, Pablo?” I asked.

  Pablo stepped back and away from Elvis, and said, not without horror, “He’s a member of The Superman Project!”

  Elvis nodded and said, “Not only that. I’m running for president of TSP. It’s Chase’s idea.”

  “What?”

  “As Father Ravi’s former secretary,” Elvis said, “your mother has a lot of old and influential friends in the program, Pablo. Chase and I would love to get Esther’s support.”

  “Oh, my God!” Pablo pointed a thick finger at Elvis and said, “Come back here again, and I swear I will destroy you.”

  Pablo didn’t have much force or believability in his voice when he said destroy you, as if he were a child repeating a line he had read in a comic book. There was no commitment, no fury or fire in it. He might as well have been saying, “Would you like fries with that?”

  Elvis turned to me and said, “Pleasur
e.”

  “Likewise,” I said, handing him my card. “Maybe I should meet with you and your girlfriend Chase and we can talk about your candidacy and her missing sister.”

  Elvis nodded and winked and pocketed my card and went out and before he could say one final word Pablo slammed the door in his face. He turned. “What’s up with you, Chico? Why do you want to meet up with Elvis and Chase for? They’re not on our side.”

  “Is that why you’re trying to help Joey find his wife Gabby? To win her sister Chase back from Elvis?”

  Pablo blushed again but said nothing—which said everything.

  “Where can I find this Superman Project?”

  Pablo went into a drawer, waddled over, and handed me four old Black Falcon comic books and a little blue and yellow card marked with red lettering:

  THE SUPERMAN PROJECT

  EXPLORE YOUR POTENTIAL FOR ACHIEVING

  ENLIGHTENMENT

  CONNECT WITH OTHERS WHO THINK LIKE YOU

  FINALLY FIND THE RAINBOW AND THE BRIDGES

  OF DISCIPLINE

  YOU ARE LOOKING FOR

  1134 West 47th Street

  New York, NY

  “Tell me everything, Pablo.”

  “I’ve told you everything.”

  “No you haven’t,” I said. “But you will.”

  FIVE

  Parkchester. 10:30 P.M. The air conditioner was chugging along nicely, pushing back the great big package of humidity that dropped on the Bronx.

  Boo was asleep at my feet and I was skimming, eyes burning from lack of sleep, Wrestling with The Superman by Father Ravi to see if there were any clues in it that might help with finding or just understanding Joey and his missing wife Gabby. Father Ravi’s #1 no-no was any kind of attack, physical or verbal, on any member of The Superman Project. This would result in immediate expulsion. Farther down the list but also prohibited was anti-TSP conversations or writings deemed subversive to “spiritual growth” and contradictory to TSP rules. TSP, the book said, was about “simple living and high thinking,” and the removal of all sensual distractions, to focus the mind on The Superman. Also on the no-no list were drugs, promiscuous sex, smoking, drinking, sarcasm, and cynicism.