The Death and Life of Superman (29 page)

The bullets suddenly veered away from Supergirl and flew back toward the fleeing men, striking the pavement all around them. George and Richard froze in their tracks and Danny hit the ground, still clinging to his automatic.

“Drop that gun and stay where you are—all of you!”

Danny looked at Supergirl, then looked back at the others. George and Richard were already standing with their hands behind their heads. All the fight drained out of Danny, and he let the gun drop.

Within minutes, police were on the scene, handcuffing the men and reading them their rights.

A police sergeant tipped his hat to the Girl of Steel. “We can’t thank you enough, Supergirl. We’re pretty shorthanded right now. Most of my men were shifted downtown to help out in the precincts under the curfew, and . . . well . . . it hasn’t been a good day.”

“No, Sergeant, it hasn’t. How’s the officer who was hit?”

“He’s pretty banged up, but he got off lucky . . . just a few cracked ribs and some bruises.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” With a sudden spring, Supergirl lifted off into the air.

“Hey, you take care!” the sergeant shouted after her. “We need you more than ever now!”

A patrolman stepped up to the sergeant and followed his gaze as Supergirl disappeared over the rooftops. “You know, Sarge, I never really worried about any of those supertypes before. They always seemed sort of . . . immortal, I guess. But they’re not, are they?”

“No, they’re not. They’re harder to kill maybe, but they put their lives on the line the same as we do.”

Supergirl soared across Bakerline and headed back toward downtown Metropolis. She was glad she’d happened across that crime in progress, but now there was other work that demanded her attention. Buildings were down all over the city, and people—most of them, she hoped, still alive—were buried in the rubble. She prayed that those still living could be found while there was time to save them. As Supergirl flew over Hob’s River, tears came to her eyes. With Superman gone, she had some very big shoes to fill.

Bibbo left the Bayside Clinic and stalked down the still-deserted side streets of Suicide Slum. The doctors had checked him, the professor, and Mildred over and given them a clean bill of health but suggested that they spend the night at the clinic for their own safety. Bibbo wasn’t having any of that. “Keep them beds open fer people what really need ’em,” he’d told them, and headed for his bar.

As Bibbo turned onto Simon Street, a shadow flickered across the sidewalk in front of him. He looked up in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of a caped figure flying by overhead. For a split second, he thought it was actually Superman, but then he realized
Naw, it ain’t my fav’rit. It’s just that Supergirl. We’ll never see Sooperman again. When he needed help the most, there was nothin’ I could do.

His head bowed, Bibbo crossed the street to the Ace o’ Clubs, lost in thought.
Why’d I think I could do any good anyways? Perfesser Ham, he’s the smart one, an’ even he couldn’t do any good. I was just dumb muscle, gettin’ in the way.

The tavern was uncommonly quiet as Bibbo entered, empty except for Lamarr, who leaned back against the bar, polishing a glass, and Highpockets Hannigan, who sat on his usual stool listening to the soft drone of the TV. Lamarr looked up as the door swung shut. “Hey, Bibbo—where ya been, man?”

“Walkin’. Walkin’ an’ thinkin’.”

“Guess it’s not easy gettin’ around tonight, huh? Half of Metropolis must be under curfew.”

“Izzit? I di’n’t notice. Course, it wuzn’t like I had anyplace to go . . . or anythin’ important to do.”

Highpockets swiveled around on his stool. “Lamarr an’ me heard about what you did, Bib—how you an’ the perfesser tried to help Superman. It was on the TV. That wuz a real good thing ya tried to do.”

Lamarr put a hand on Bibbo’s shoulder. “Yeah, we’re proud o’ ya, man. Howzabout
we
buy
you
a drink for a change?”

“Don’t wanna drink.” Bibbo stared down at his shoes. “You guys go on home. Bar’s closed for this evenin’.”

“Closed?” Lamarr stopped with a clean mug, already halfway to the beer tap. “You sure, man?”

Bibbo swung out one huge mitt, angrily clearing the mugs from the bar with one swipe. “This is
my
bar! When I say it closes, it
closes!
Now go on home!”

Lamarr shrugged and reached for his jacket. “Okay, Bibbo, whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

Lamarr and Highpockets filed out of the tavern, closing the door behind them. Highpockets scratched his head. “Chee, I ain’t never known Bibbo to turn down a drink. I ain’t never seen him like this before!”

“Me neither, man. Then again, I’ve never seen a day like this one before . . . and I tell ya now, I hope I never see another.”

Inside the Ace o’ Clubs, Bibbo turned over the CLOSED sign on the door and flipped a switch, shutting off the lights. The only illumination left was the streetlight filtering in through the tinted windows. Bibbo stood alone in the middle of his tavern, hands thrust deeply into his pockets, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then he cleared his throat and addressed the air around him.

“God? ’S me . . . Bibbo . . . been a while since we talked. I know my pal Sooperman is with ya now, so I guess he don’t really need my prayers. But the rest o’ us sure do.”

Bibbo removed his hat and, with head bowed, knelt on the barroom floor. “Hail Mary, fulla grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed art thou amongst women an’ blessed is the fruit o’ thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother o’ God, pray fer us sinners now an’ at the hour of our death. Amen.”

A tear formed at the corner of Bibbo’s right eye and began to make its way down the stubble of his cheek.

“Take good care o’ Sooperman . . . okay, God? I miss ’im . . . I ’spect just about ever’body misses ’im.” The tavern owner paused for a moment before continuing. “God? I gotta ask ya—why? I mean, I know ya got yer reasons, but why should Sooperman die, when a washed-up ol’ roughneck like me goes on livin’? It ain’t right, God . . . it just ain’t right.”

13

Franklin Hastings took one
look at the rush of activity within the LexCorp Executive Suite and slipped back out the door before he could be noticed. Alone for a moment in the outer corridor, he reached for the bottle of antacid his wife had tucked into his jacket pocket yesterday morning and took a deep swig. There were, at his best guess, at least a dozen people inside the office, most of them waving papers and all of them vying for the boss’s attention. In the two days since the official pronouncement of Superman’s death, Hastings had had little sleep and less peace. His entire department had been called in to coordinate arrangements for the funeral.

Hastings was impressed by all that Luthor had set in motion. The boss had mobilized LexCorp resources within the state, across the country, and even around the world to bring everything together for tomorrow’s memorial service. From what Franklin had seen, Luthor worked the phones as expertly as his father had ever done, cutting through more red tape in half a day than the CEOs of most companies usually dealt with in a year. An incredible amount of work had already been accomplished, but so much remained to be done. Security for the various heads of state and foreign dignitaries had to be coordinated, the worldwide satellite feed had to be set up, the foundations for the tomb had to be completed, and the memorial statue—! Hastings heaved a weary sigh. He didn’t want to think about the statue, but he had to.

Months ago, two students at the Cleveland Institute of Art had started work on a twenty-five-foot statue of Superman for an upcoming exhibition. Learning of the statue after the Man of Steel’s death, Luthor had hastily designed the planned tomb and memorial around it and offered the budding sculptors an extravagant fee to rush completion of their work. He wanted the statue in place for the interment, and Franklin Hastings had been handed the task of arranging for its delivery and installation. In the last few hours, it had become his most pressing assignment.

The demands that Hastings was being asked to meet on such short notice were beginning to take their toll. He hadn’t gotten any sleep in the past thirty-six hours, and his mind was starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges. To be fair, the boss hadn’t so much as napped since this ordeal began, but Luthor was barely twenty-one years old.
That long-haired kid could probably go a week without sleep and still be sharp enough to buy and sell half of the Fortune 500,
thought Franklin. He ran a hand through his own thinning hair. The days when he himself could blithely shrug off the effects of an all-nighter were long gone.

Hastings was starting to close the antacid bottle when Supergirl brushed past him and headed into the suite. He paused and took another quick gulp of the chalky liquid. Then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and pushed open the door.
Okay, once more into the breach.

Supergirl had already moved through a sea of writhing arms and swirling papers and reached Luthor’s side. She crouched beside him, whispering in one ear, while he took a series of calls.
Progress report on the rescue efforts?
wondered Hastings. Six of Hastings’s most ardent rivals were jockeying for position around the boss, but they had to compete both with Supergirl and with Mr. Roy, Luthor’s personal barber. Incredibly, Mr. Roy ignored the chaos around him and continued to trim the boss’s hair as calmly and nonchalantly as if he had the LexCorp CEO seated in his private salon.

Hastings began to weave his way through the crowd as Luthor took yet another call.

“Yes? No, that’s out of the question. Look, we have room for national and international leaders
only!”
Luthor listened impatiently for a moment, then let out a long, exasperated breath. His reply was almost a hiss. “Okay, include Perry White, but no one else! And make sure you contact the Justice League about providing pallbearers!”

As Luthor hung up, a junior aide handed him a series of requisition forms to sign. He hurriedly scrawled his name across them and was about to shove them back when he stopped himself. “Sorry, lass.” He half-smiled, a sudden gesture of extraordinary charm. “It isn’t you I’m upset with.”

The aide, an astonishingly buxom young lady with green eyes, nodded sweetly and gave the boss a warm, sympathetic smile of her own before withdrawing. While others were momentarily distracted by the aide’s departure, Hastings managed to slip into the space she’d occupied.

“Mr. Luthor? Sir?”

Luthor whipped around. “What is it, Hastings?”

Hastings opened his mouth and absently shut it again, fascinated by how Mr. Roy had compensated so smoothly for Luthor’s sudden movement and gone on trimming.

“I
said,
what
is
it, Hastings?”

Franklin snapped out of his momentary reverie and gripped his report more tightly. “It’s about the memorial statue you commissioned, sir. The sculptors say that they’ll be finished in time, but we’re going to have trouble getting it to the crypt site in Centennial Park. Rubble is still blocking the main access routes.”

“So bring it in by helicopter, Hastings. Do I have to think of everything?”

Hastings bit his tongue. He’d already thought of using one of their heavy-duty construction helicopters, but they were all tied up at the moment, helping to lift the wreckage of collapsed buildings. He nervously shifted his weight from one foot to another.
We can’t divert the choppers from the rescue efforts, but how do I tell the boss that without having him jump down my throat?

Supergirl suddenly spoke up. “Let me bring it in, Lex.”

“You, love?”

For a moment, all the furious activity surrounding Luthor ground to a halt. The aides grew silent and the papers stopped swirling. Even Mr. Roy paused and put down his scissors. Without moving his head so much as a single degree, Hastings glanced from Luthor to Supergirl and back again.

Supergirl put a hand on Luthor’s shoulder and tilted her head to look deeply into his eyes. It was, Hastings thought, almost a caricature of earnest intent, but he could swear that the young woman was completely sincere.

“I want to bring the statue in, Lex. I want to do it for Superman.”

Lex reached up and laid his hand over hers. “You do that, love. I can see it’s important to you.”

Still holding Supergirl’s hand, Luthor glanced at Hastings. “I believe that solves your little problem, Hastings. Do you have any others?”

“No, sir.”
Maybe just a question or two . . . like how did you manage to gain such a hold on this stunning young woman? She’s clearly worried enough about your welfare that she willingly took time out from her own rescue efforts.
For one giddy instant, Hastings actually considered asking the question.
That’d be rich
,
but it’d probably be safer to cut myself shaving and go swim with the sharks.
“No other problems at all.”

“Fine.” Luthor turned his whole attention back to Supergirl. He raised her hand to his lips and lightly kissed her curled fingers. “You bring that statue in, love. I know you’ll do us proud.”