“I own a piece of it, sure. Try the pickle.” McCabe bit into his sandwich.
“Been on the other side,” said Big. “It got kind of hot.”
“Thought so.” He spoke around a mouthful, then swallowed. “I can tell these things, Big. It’s a gift. But look, your problem is that nobody is going to hire you to fight crime in this town. I mean, look at what the law is against. A drink to take your mind off your troubles. A woman to remind you why you’re alive. A friendly game to change your luck. We’re grown men, Big. What are we supposed to do on a Saturday night? Play tiddlywinks?”
“The Skyguard and the Science Pirate went after bank robbers.”
“Bank robbers?” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “You sat through too many matinees, pal. Look, those two costumed slickers weren’t on anybody’s payroll. Self employed all the way. Upper class and in it for themselves.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Now just between us, I could find work for a guy with your talents, but it sure wouldn’t be fighting crime. No, sir.” Seeing the look on Big’s face, he held his hands up to surrender. “Okay, just laying out options. You want my advice? Before you try Jimmy Dooling again, do something amazing. Let him open his morning paper and see how big you can be.”
They were finishing lunch when the second round arrived. McCabe toasted Big. “To the Stilt. Stand tall, pally!” They drank. “Tell the truth now,” he said, eyeing Big over the edge of his glass, “you don’t really have Roosevelt’s card, do you?”
Big fished it out of his pocket and held it so McCabe could read only the front.
“They say he’s going to run for President,” McCabe said.
Big shrugged; he didn’t have any use for politics.
“He’d be a fool not to.” McCabe dropped a quarter on the table for a tip. “Even I could beat Hoover. Republicans turn everything to shit.” He leaned forward. “But that card is no good at Tammany, my friend. Boss Curry hates Roosevelt, even though they’re making nice just now. You keep it handy though—it’ll really impress the cops.”
When they stood to go, McCabe turned from Big to address his customers. “Hey you huckleberries, listen up.” The bar went silent. “This here is The Stilt. Next time you hear it, remember you met him here at the Old Town.”
Big couldn’t see the Empire State Building as he walked uptown because the buildings on Park blocked his view. He knew he was gawking like a hick from Utica; twice he bumped into other pedestrians. The day’s ups and downs had left him lightheaded and when he patted the card in his pocket, the thought of Missy LeHand and what might happen at the Waldorf Astoria at 9:30 burned his brain like McCabe’s hooch. His mother always used to say that there was no place for the likes of him in the big city. But she was gone now and he was determined to prove her wrong. More had happened to him in eight hours than had happened in Utica in the past eight years. He’d met Roosevelt but missed Dooling. McCabe had tried to pull him back into the nightmare and then pointed toward Big’s most cherished dream. It wasn’t enough to get tall. Big needed to be as amazing as this city where the windows glowed with promise and every other door opened into a new world. If only he could stumble upon a holdup. Or a fire. Or Garbo, dangling from a skyscraper.
And then he turned down 34th Street.
For the first time since he’d discovered his power, Big felt tiny. If he got as tall as he’d ever been, he might be able to peer into the windows of the first setback of the Empire State Building. But that wouldn’t be even one-fifth its height. The Adirondack Bank in Utica was a fire plug compared to this superbuilding. He slowed, in part from awe and in part because of the smell. By the time he reached Madison Avenue, it was like cramming barbed wire up his nose. He tried to untangle all of the stink’s evil strands. Rotting meat, yes. Shit straight from hell, okay. But something cooked—no, burnt. Like an electrical fire or failing brakes. This last strand of the smell was fresh and sharp.
Just past Madison, the crowd swarmed the street and both sidewalks. Some, like him, pressed ahead to see the spectacle. Others stumbled away from it, faces ashen, eyes bulging and wet. Big had to tiptoe around splashes of vomit on the street. How long had the monster lain sprawled at the base of the Empire State Building? A week? Ten days? He’d read that the first crowds had brought Midtown to a standstill. That had been before the enormous corpse began to putrefy. Still, there were hundreds of people surging around him holding hats against their faces or breathing through scarves. Big buried his nose in the crook of his elbow and eavesdropped.
“ … hundred feet tall, at least.”
“Yeah, but that don’t include … ”
“ … happy now?”
“ … walked across the bridge for this?”
A crew of workers lashed a forty-foot-long arm onto one of the two logging trucks parked in front of the body. Black fingers curled at one end, the exposed flesh at the other was purplish-gray. A fire engine idled nearby; firemen hosed the foul, runny puddles that had oozed from the severed arm into the sewer.
“ … a punishment. Giant apes and flying pirates and lightning men.”
“ … kid sliced that arm right off.”
“Punishment for what?”
The body had landed on its back. The head was still on the torso but both legs were gone and the other arm dangled, almost severed. The shaggy black pelt was charred at the shoulders and there were savage burn holes in the chest. Construction equipment lined up beside what was left of the monster. A sling hung from the hook of a waiting crane. Two of the biggest bulldozers he’d ever seen strained against the corpse, their blades riding up its side and treads chewing asphalt as they failed to get purchase.
“ … they trying to do?”
“Turn him over maybe? Get that sling under … ”
“You saw the lightning guy?”
“Shot down out of the clouds. Crack. Maybe half an hour ago.”
“Another damn superhero to … ”
“Lightning strikes don’t come down, Mabel. They shoot up.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Excuse me.” Big’s heart was pounding. “Did you say something about a superhero?”
Mabel was a short woman in a pillbox hat made of feathers. “Sure. He was just here.”
“Seared the arm right off with his lightning. Just like that.” Her companion, an older man wearing a trilby and a silk scarf, snapped his fingers. “What did they say his name was?”
“Bobby, was it?”
“Billy Bolt,” said another man. “Kid blasted holes in the chest. Looked like he was having fun. Then he took the one arm but couldn’t finish the other.”
“Turned himself back into lightning,” said the older man. “Amazing.”
“Just a kid.” Mabel blinked up at Big; she was wearing too much mascara. “He’ll be back.”
“Think so? He looked kind of dazed.”
“Probably has to recharge or something.”
Big spotted a reporter with his notebook working the crowd. Cameras flashed near the monster, although he couldn’t see the shutterbugs. He should have known that he wouldn’t be the only one to take advantage of the disappearance of the Skyguard and the Science Pirate. A kid who could change himself into lightning? Big didn’t have much time.
He threaded his way to the uptown sidewalk scanning the storefronts. Newstand, drug store, laundry, bank; he chose Mendy’s Deli. Nobody would be eating in this stench.
“Bathrooms for customers only,” said a bored counterman.
“Telephone.” Big pointed. “Got to make a call.”
His suitcase caught on the folding wooden door and Big had to stand it on end in order to squeeze into the phone booth. When he pulled the doors closed, there wasn’t room to get the suitcase all the way open. He twisted The Stilt suit out, stripped naked and wriggled into it. Then he took a deep breath. He realized that his life up until that moment had been nothing but a warmup. Now he was putting himself into the game. He struggled out of the phone boo
th and planted his feet to get tall. He’d practiced this trick back home, sending the stuff so his torso expanded while his legs stayed normal. Only his bare feet hardened with stuff; that way he could run. He winked at the astonished counterman and bent nearly double to fit through the door.
Big had gotten tall in front of people before but never while wearing the costume. The Stilt stood fourteen, maybe fifteen feet; the suit stretched perfectly. When he started for the corpse, the crowd parted for him. He could feel their eyes on him; their astonishment was intoxicating. People called to him, shouted, shrieked. A teenaged girl screamed. He jumped the police cordon and strode across the open space between the crowd and the dead monster.
A beat cop came forward to stop him. “You can’t come this way.” He gestured for The Stilt to turn around. “You just crossed a police line, chum.”
“Afternoon, officer,” The Stilt called. “I’m here to help.”
“What did I do to deserve this?” The cop placed himself in The Stilt’s way. “You with that other freak? The kid?”
“Nope. It’s just me.” He took smaller steps so as not to alarm the cop but did not stop his approach. “Name is The Stilt.” Another cop came running, clamping his hat down on his head. He was maybe thirty yards away. “Just got the call from the firehouse to come down and lend a hand with the cleanup.” The way The Stilt had it figured, he might confuse one cop, but two would be trouble. The first cop had his hand on his Colt but the holster’s safety strap was still buckled. The Stilt slowed as if he meant to halt and imagined stuff flowing into his legs. He shot up another five feet. The cop’s eyes went wide but he did not give way.
“This won’t take long,” The Stilt said.
“Mister, I … ”
He stepped over the cop without breaking stride, clearing the man’s head by a good two feet. He let some stuff go from his legs and started running again toward the monster. He did not look back.
He came from behind the two bulldozers, so the operators didn’t see him until he stood between them. One wore a gas mask that looked like it might have seen action in the Great War. The other had a red bandana over his mouth and nose and an engineer’s cap pulled down low in his forehead, so that only his eyes showed. The Stilt saluted and the engineer goggled, then slammed his machine in neutral. Gas Mask followed suit.
“I’m here to help,” shouted The Stilt.
The engineer cupped a hand over his ear and shook his head. The Stilt made a scooping motion and the engineer cut the engine of his machine.
The Stilt leaned into the cab. “Can I try something?”
“Buddy, be my guest. We’re just wasting diesel here.”
“I’m going to lift it up,” said The Stilt.
“You and what army?”
The Stilt smiled. “Can somebody pull the sling under it?”
The engineer considered, clearly full of doubt. Then he shrugged. “Won’t be the craziest thing I seen today.” He gestured for Gas Mask to shut down. “I’ll tell the crane,” he said and began to climb off the dozer.
The Stilt let all the stuff flow out of him until he was his natural size. Standing next to the dead monster, he rolled the sleeves of his costume above his elbows. The stink here was strong enough to bring tears to a statue. He could feel something gluey squish between his toes. He turned his head to one side, took a desperate breath and leaned into the corpse with his arms down, palms brushing against the thick hair of the pelt. His toes curled and stuff began to surge into him through the concrete sidewalk, summoned from the granite spine beneath the city. His feet were no longer flesh as they anchored into the city’s bedrock. His arms stretched and burrowed beneath the dead weight of the corpse and his skin thickened into an impenetrable shell. Stuff clotted his chest, slowed his heart, reinforced his backbone. Chin pressed hard against the body, he tried not to think about the smell. When he’d saved the people in Utica he hadn’t had time to think. He hadn’t noticed when his clothes shredded from his grotesque body, he hadn’t minded the searing heat of the fire, and it didn’t matter whether the crowd swarming like ants below him had been cheering—or laughing at his bare ass. Back then he’d been able to focus on the men and women climbing across his arms, clinging to his neck, weeping with gratitude. But he hadn’t been The Stilt in Utica. He’d been Filbrick Van Loon, a thug who didn’t earn enough collecting a bootlegger’s debts to pay for the doctors his dying mother needed. He’d been a man who could save strangers, but not the only person in the world who loved him. The memory made The Stilt angry; he tapped that anger to pull more and more stuff into himself, getting bigger and stronger. His heart hardened, and now his thoughts grew sluggish and stony as the monster tilted and began to lift off the street. He was the Stilt, yes. Stilt got tall. Stilt was …
“Hold it there, pal.”
Hold what? Stilt didn’t have any pals.
“Stop. You hear me? No higher!”
The Stilt couldn’t see anything but coarse hair and gray skin. With a groan he turned his head. The engineer and the gas mask and some cops and firemen and construction workers were frantically working the sling down the length of the corpse. The Stilt couldn’t smell anything anymore. His nose filled with stuff.
“Okay, let her go.”
The Stilt didn’t understand. Let who go? His mother? That secretary? He couldn’t remember … Missing? Missy?”
“Wake up, Big Guy! Let go!”
“There’s something wrong with him.”
“Can he hear us?”
“Hit the siren!”
A high-and-low metallic yowling, as of a machine in pain, and the furious clatter of bells penetrated the crust squeezing The Stilt’s brain. Stuff begin to flow away; he could think again and his first thought was he had done it!
He was amazing.
They took what seemed like hundreds of pictures. He got ten, fifteen, thirty feet tall. He presented arms folded, boxer-at-the-ready and muscle man poses, then filled the five story entrance to the Empire State Building for them. He spelled his name for reporters from the Daily Mirror and Evening Post, told how he’d chosen his superhero identity and explained the ladder on his costume. He glossed over his recent past since he didn’t want anyone talking to the cops in Utica. The engineer asked for his autograph—his first ever. He printed it: The Stilt. He gave a kid ride on his shoulders, although the brat held his nose the entire time.
Yet for all that, The Stilt’s debut went nothing like Big had imagined it would. This was not a crime he’d foiled, after all—more like garbage he’d collected. His costume was stained and he smelled like hell’s own outhouse. Which meant that the crowd, with the exception of the kid, shied away. No pretty girls offered to kiss him and he signed just the one autograph. Then, as he was telling his story all over again to the reporter from the Times, there was a flash of light in the no man’s land between the monster and the crowd, followed closely by what sounded like an explosion. He turned to see a teenager wearing a white lab coat, white shirt, blue necktie and doughboy helmet painted blue to match. The kid staggered and fell to hands-and-knees in a circle of smoldering asphalt. When he shook himself and got up, Big could see crude white lightning bolts painted on the helmet. The kid glanced from the butchered corpse sprawled on the crippled truck to Big and his face twisted with anger. The Times reporter waved but Billy Bolt gave him the finger. Then he began to glitter and turned into a million snowflakes of light which burst into light and sound. He left only a blue-bright afterimage and a ringing in Big’s ears. Maybe he was supposed to be insulted or jealous or scared, but Big’s only thought was that the kid’s costume needed work.
There was a cop in Mendy’s Deli taking a statement from the angry clerk. Both turned when Big came through the door.
“You!” The clerk looked like he was ready to leap across his counter to throttle Big. “This is your fault.”
“Huh?”
“You saying this is the thief?” The cop glowered, as if sizing Big up for ha
ndcuffs.
“I’m saying this is the freak who put on the damn show. And I’m the lunkhead who left to watch.”
“You know anything about this, sir?”
“About what?”
“My till is empty! And three Westphalian hams gone!” The counterman was shouting now. “I’ve been robbed!”
So had Big. The phone booth was empty; the thief must have used the suitcase to carry off his swag. Big had lost everything he owned.
The cop listened to his story but didn’t seem much interested. He jotted Big’s name in a notebook. “Mister, you can’t be leaving valuables in phone booths.” He raised the notebook to his face as if to ward off Big’s stink. “Not in this town, anyway.”
“What am I going to do?” said Big. “I’m new in town and now I’m broke. I’ve got no place to go.”
“Try the poor house.” The cop snapped the notebook shut.
It was almost dark by the time Big got in line at 432 East 25th Street. On the way he’d clipped a flannel shirt and bib overalls with a patch on one knee from a clothesline strung across a fourth story fire escape. He thought they made him look like a rag picker. He wadded his reeking costume and clamped it under his arm as the line moved up the front steps of the Municipal Lodging House. The frayed man at the reception table wanted to send him to the Registration Bureau at South Ferry until he saw that Big was barefooted. So he took Big’s particulars: Filbrick Van Loon; age thirty-three; born Oriskany, New York; lived thirty-three years in the United States; lived six hours in New York City; last address 12 Faxton Street, Utica, New York; occupation none; military service none; not married; no relatives to contact in case of emergency. They sent him to the mess hall where he dipped sliced bread into a bowl of beef stew that was mostly carrots and potatoes and onions. After dinner he traded his stolen clothes and his costume for a brass chit embossed with the number 48. His things were taken away to be disinfected; they’d be returned in the morning. They gave him and the other homeless men towels and nightshirts. The shower was lukewarm but Big stood under it scrubbing until his skin stung. Afterwards he climbed into the lower of a double-decked iron bed. He got a folded blanket to sleep on instead of a mattress and another blanket for cover but the dormitory was warm and it didn’t matter if his bunkmates snored. Big couldn’t sleep anyway.
Superheroes Page 18
