Green Lantern - Sleepers Book 2

by Unknown Author

  “What can I say? I know how a girl lies.”

  “You ever want a job on the force, you come see me. I’ll make you a detective in a heartbeat.”

  Irene went from working as the station’s receptionist to a fulltime reporting gig in less than a year. Her ability to dig into a story

  like a tick and not let go forced her boss to acknowledge her talents as he promoted her to a position that made him look even better.

  “Thanks Fletch, but I got a job. Speaking of which, I’m on deadline—you mind having one of your boys give me a ride back to the radio station when they’re done giving up their coffee and doughnuts?”

  “No problem.”

  The beat cops, still green, stepped gingerly into the room, covering their mouths with their handkerchiefs.

  Beasley waved one over. “Bondini, if you can see straight, give Miss Miller a ride back to her radio station. And make sure you chew a stick of Beeman’s.”

  The younger cop nodded and made his way unsteadily to the apartment door.

  Irene followed, taking notes on the story she was about to file. She turned to the busy detective. “Say Fletch, you wanna get a bite to eat later? I wanna talk to you about the Dekker thing.”

  Fletcher looked at her warily-he knew her interest in the case was beyond professional. But he also knew that of all the reporters he’d dealt with, Irene Miller was not to be denied, and it was infinitely better to work with her than against her.

  “It’s not officially a murder yet,” Beasley said. “But you name the joint and Poppa’ll be there.”

  Irene finished writing in her notebook. “All this talk of Chinese put me in the mood.”

  She looked down at the ribbons of entrails from the dead man’s abdomen, spilled all over the oak floor. “How about we meet up for some rice noodles?” she asked.

  Fletch winked at her. “Madame Wong’s?”

  “Natch. Can’t argue with those cashews. They’re to die for.” Irene winked.

  Irene was out the door and the beat cops were back in the bathroom in a dead heat, desperate to win the race to the toilet.

  Irene poured fresh green tea for Beasley as they sat in the shoddy vinyl booth of the empty Chinese restaurant. The late-night shift of bored busboys and waiters lounged on empty chairs in back, idly smoking amidst the gay, brightly lit red-and-black lanterns.

  Beasley lazily spun the lacquer teacup on the table. “So whattaya want to know?”

  “How cold are your leads on the Dekker case?” Irene asked.

  “Cold.”

  “Don’t play me on this one, Fletch.”

  The detective looked up from his tea. “Look, I got everyone from the governor on down looking to see someone fry for this one. And my guess is that someone’s pressuring them. If I had a lead I wouldn’t be sitting here gabbing with you.”

  Irene stubbed her cigarette into the cold fried rice.

  Beasley leaned in to whisper to her. “He’s not a suspect.”

  “Who?” Irene said.

  “Don’t be coy. You know who. Your vouching for him is good enough for me."

  Irene shot a glance at the detective, who was busy using his chopsticks to fish out a piece of broccoli from his noodles. The nonchalance of his last statement troubled Irene—was Fletch testing her? Did he believe what she told him about being with Scott on

  the night of the killings? And did she reveal too much by calling for this meeting? Damn cops—they never stop working. Just like reporters.

  She decided to try another tack. “Well, what about this Green Lantern character?”

  “What about him?”

  “Isn’t it a bit strange that a week after Dekker’s murder, this guy shows up out of nowhere, fighting crime all over the city?” Beasley looked puzzled. “Are you saying the Green Lantern killed Dekker? You mind connecting those dots for me?”

  Irene shrugged. “I can’t. It was just a shot.”

  “So what’s troubling you Irene? You got something to tell me?” Again, Fletcher was busy with his meal, which confirmed to Irene that, in Beasley’s head Scott was still a suspect. She made a point of waiting until Fletcher looked her in the eyes, then said, “No, I got nothing. I just want this story.”

  If Beasley didn’t believe her, he was too much of a gentleman to give that away.

  “Well, if you can prove Green Lantern had anything to do with it, I’m all ears,” the cop said. “This guy has caused a fifty percent drop in crime. There isn’t a citizen on the streets that he hasn’t helped.”

  Irene smiled a crooked grin. “He’s a saint, huh?”

  Beasley ignored her cynicism. “I’m not saying he’s as pure as the driven snow. I don’t know why he’s doing what he’s doing. And until I’m given a strong reason, I’m not going to question his good work.”

  “You’re sounding like a real convert, Fletch.”

  “Look, the guy’s a mensch,” Beasley insisted. “He’s going around stopping all the petty criminals in the city and breaking up racketeers and crime syndicates. That’s a big jump from killing one of the richest, most respected men in the country.”

  “Everyone knows Dekker was crooked. He and his sleazy henchman Faraday,” Irene said emphatically.

  The cop nodded. “Fine. Like I said, connect those dots and I’ll have a collar and you’ll have a scoop. I just don’t see what you’ve got against a do-gooder like the Green Lantern.”

  Irene sat back in the booth. “I haven’t been a reporter for long, but I know enough to know that anyone doing that much good has got something to hide.”

  Beasley was tired, but he saw how troubled Irene was. He’d never seen her stick her neck out for anyone. He liked Alan Scott as well. But he was almost insulted that she’d dangle a Green Lantern lead as a red herring. He rubbed his eyes. He’d give her something to chew on—maybe then he could get some rest.

  “What I’m about to tell you is off the record. There’s a good chance that the report’s going to say that Dekker shot Faraday and died of a heart attack. Case closed and good riddance. Dekker’s family will go along with that because the more we dig, the more dirt we’re finding on Dekker himself.”

  Irene broke into a relieved smile, and despite himself, Beasley did the same. For a moment the detective speculated that maybe there was justice in this world. But just as quickly he dismissed the idea as far too dangerous for anyone in his line of work to believe. He pulled a wad of cash out of his vest pocket to settle up the bill.

  The detective tossed a fortune cookie to Irene. “Now open your goddamned fortune cookie so we can get the hell out of here.”

  aul Shustak bent over the line of dough, carefully and rapidly splitting out small lengths and wrapping them into circles. It was rote work made near perfect from doing it every day, six days a week, every month for a decade.

  Like his brother, Paul had been given nothing in life and earned everything he had. The poverty of his youth had given him the discipline of survival; he learned to waste nothing. More importantly, he learned that everything had a use. A stint in the Army after the orphanage gave him the skill to cook, and after he mustered out he’d decided to open his own bakery.

  P

  The small waterfront neighborhood was the only place he could afford to rent, so he came in as a stranger, cleaning out the formerly abandoned storefront space, trapping rats, hauling off years of garbage piled in the basement, cutting down weeds in the back that had the bulk of trees.

  And there was resentment at his presence, not so much because of his background but because he was not from the small neighbor-

  hood. Not being bom and raised in the dockside tenements made Paul an interloper, worthy of suspicion, speculation and hate. Those that lived there wished they could leave and could not believe that anyone would want to come in to stay.

  When Paul opened the bakery, a group of locals with nothing better to do but glare at him from the windows of the nearby ale house made it their sport to try running the
interloper out. For a while, Paul had to cope with broken windows, the usual hate graffiti, and an occasional midnight fire in his garbage pails. But he expected it. It was consistent with what had been dished out to him since he was bom—why should that change now?

  So he replaced the broken panes, washed out the bumt-out pails and painted over the misspelled graffiti. Eventually Paul’s persistence in rebuilding and reopening wore down the short-attention-spanned bigots and, more importantly, won him some admiring, dedicated customers.

  That had been ten years ago. Now the entire community saw him as a leader, and they looked to him when it came to making any decisions that affected their neighborhood.

  Like his brother, Paul hated to see innocents in harm’s way. He could not resist getting involved and helping others. It was why his business would never prosper: he was quick to give away food to those who needed it, and while it won him respect, it kept him poor. But the way Paul saw it, helping those down on their luck was an investment of another sort, and he merely assumed the dividends would be paid later on.

  And so, with his wife and niece still asleep in the two-room apartment upstairs, Paul came down before dawn to the ritual preparation of the day’s baking, not so much happy but accepting of a life he could not see living any other way.

  Just as he prepared to knead the dough, a suitcase dropped onto the counter before him with a heavy thud, a cloud of powdery flour puffing out like a soft miniature explosion.

  Paul was startled to see Scott standing across the counter: he hadn’t heard him come in. Scott was wearing a rumpled brown overcoat, the collar up. He had the look of someone concealing something.

  “How did you get in here?”

  Scott ignored the question. “Open the bag.”

  Paul could see in the predawn gloom that Scott’s face had a changed quality: although he was attempting to be cheerful, there was a troubled shadow like a veil across his face.

  “Go on—open it up.”

  Paul clacked open the brass latches and looked inside the alligator leather case. What he saw made him give out a long, low whistle. “Where’d this come from?”

  “It’s yours now. Jimmy’s actually, but I’m giving it to you.”

  Paul looked suspiciously at Scott. Scott smiled back. It was a hard smile—more like a grimace.

  “Don’t worry—it’s on the up and up. But if you want to know, it’s from Dekker. Not a gift. More like reparation.”

  Paul shut the case. Scott reached out to put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Now Paul, I don’t want any lip about you not taking blood money... ”

  “I’m taking it,” the baker said.

  Scott stopped in mid-gesture and looked at Paul, surprised. “You are?” “Sure. I need it,” Paul said. “For Alyssa. I’m going away. Joining up.”

  Scott was stunned. “Are you that eager to get in the war?”

  Paul shrugged. “The way Hitler’s going, we’re gong to be in sooner or later.” He took the suitcase and slipped it under the counter. “This’ll help with the shop when I’m gone.”

  “You’re crazy to be joining up,” Scott said. “You got a wife and a kid to take care of.”

  “Yeah, I know. And that’s how I’m gonna take care of ‘em. By doing my part. What’s happening in Europe is going to spread all over the world and it’ll take every one of us to pitch in and stop what’s going on in this crazy world. Every one.”

  Scott looked down, troubled. “Sounds like something the Green Lantern would say... ”

  “That character’s a sap,” Paul declared.

  Scott looked up at Paul. “Says who?”

  “Says me,” Paul replied. “So he’s got these powers. So what does he do-go and round up a bunch of knuckleheads the cops can catch blindfolded.”

  “At least he’s doing something.”

  Paul waved Scott’s rational away. “He’s doing it for the press. He likes to see his name in the papers.”

  Scott worked to conceal his hurt. “You’re awfully hard on the guy. What have you got against him?”

  “I’ll tell you what I got against that guy: right now thousands of ordinary joes like me are leaving our home and families to go fight a war. Meanwhile, this Green Lantern jerk sticks around Gotham, foils some bank robbery and it’s splashed all over the front page.” Alan slouched against the counter. Paul’s words were hitting him hard. “Okay, you got a good point. But you’re a sap for joining up.

  Even if we do end up fighting Hitler, a guy your age could stay out of it—you could get a hardship deferment.”

  Paul shook his head. “You’re not getting it. I want to go. I have to go. I’m sick of men like Hitler and Dekker using their power over the little guy.”

  Alan grinned cynically. “You sound just like Jimmy. First of all, we’re not at war.”

  Paul shrugged. “It’s pretty obvious we will be soon.”

  “You think you’re gonna stop the Hitlers and the Dekkers of the world?” Alan said. “You’re a baker, for crissakes.”

  “You get enough little guys together, and they can stop anyone.” Paul stopped working and looked Scott in the face. “What about you? You thought about joining up?”

  Scott broke his gaze away from Paul. “I’ve got important work here in Gotham... ”

  “At the radio station? I think Tellum could spare you.”

  “No, there’s...other work. It’s complicated.”

  Paul winked at Scott and offered his flour-dusted hand across the counter. “A guy with your engineering skills would come in handy in this fight.”

  Scott took Paul’s hand and slowly shook it. “You would’ve made a good recruiter, Pauly. Or a carnival barker.”

  “So long, Alan.”

  Scott smiled, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Take care of yourself, Paul.”

  Scott walked into Irene’s office, just off the floor of the newsroom, expecting to see her clacking away at her typewriter.

  Once WXYZ’s receptionist, Irene had parlayed a shot at rewriting wire copy to become a full-time reporter, complete with her own office, little more than the size of a closet, but with a window (overlooking an air shaft). Within a week of moving in she had crammed the office with newspapers, magazines, maps of the war and spools of wire copy. When she was not writing or reporting, she was reading-learning everything and anything she could about the conflict in Europe.

  Scott was mildly surprised to see John Tellum sitting with his legs up at Irene’s desk, reading copy.

  “’Morning boss,” Scott mumbled. After Paul’s ripping of his work as the Green Lantern, he wasn’t in the mood for Tellum’s jovial chatter.

  “More like afternoon, stranger,” Tellum replied. “What are you doing here? Isn’t it your day off?”

  “I need to talk to Irene.”

  “As do I. She’s been busting my chops about sending her overseas.”

  Scott slumped in the worn-out couch tucked in the back of the small office and lit up a cigarette.

  Tellum tossed Irene’s copy onto her desk. “Your girlfriend’s a hell of a good writer, Scott. It’s another Green Lantern piece. You want a gander?”

  Scott thought about Paul’s assessments of the Green Lantern’s feats. “I’ll pass, thanks,” he told Tellum.

  “Did you know that the police cite the Green Lantern as being responsible for a fifty percent drop in crime in the city?”

  Scott was unimpressed. “Yeah? Hoo-rah.”

  Tellum grinned good-naturedly at Scott’s cynicism. “That guy’s got guts. Still, I wonder why he doesn’t go overseas and clean up those Nazis?”

  Scott blew out a stream of cigarette smoke. “You wanna know what I think?”

  “Sure.”

  Scott leaned forward. “Maybe he can’t face going over and fighting alongside men who don’t have the luxury of super powers. Maybe he can’t take the idea of his surviving while watching men around him die.”

  “But he could clean up everything in a week.”
>
  “That’s what Napoleon thought when he went to Moscow,” Scott replied, his voice rising. “It’s what the French thought at Agincourt, the Carthaginians at Syracuse. It’s what Hitler thinks now. The dopes who start wars don’t do it ‘kind of hoping’ they can win. They’re

  always smugly certain of victory, sure that they got the ace-in-the-hole, God on their side; that they’re the superior race or they’ve got a secret weapon or better strategy. Then power begets more power, cruelty justifies more cruelty and past savagery triggers new wholesale slaughter, and pretty soon you’ve got whole nations bent on using whatever force they can get their hands on to wipe each other out, each new assault rationalized under the banner of ending the war sooner.”

  Scott caught himself in mid-rant and shut up, silently cursing himself for blathering on.

  Tellum stared back at him as if he were deranged. “That’s the most I’ve heard you say since you started working here, Alan.” “I’m sorry John. I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

  “It’s not the job, is it?”

  “Ah, heck no. Giving me the job was the best thing you could have done for me, and I appreciate it.”

  “The way I see it, I got a great radio technician. And there’s no denying that you’ve had a rough time.”

  “Well, I appreciate it” Scott turned to Tellum. “Tell me-what do you think of this Green Lantern character? “

  Tellum shrugged. “He gets people listening to the radio news, that’s for sure. But with this war heating up, the people of Gotham have bigger fish to fry. If we do get dragged into fighting Hitler, a guy who uses those kind of powers to catch jewel thieves and muggers will sure look like a dilettante.”

  Scott was about to reply when Irene strode into the room, pushed Tellum so he was leaning forward in her chair, then draped her wool coat across the back of it.

  “Feet off the desk, John. I like to keep it clean.”

  Tellum quickly pulled his loafers off the desk. “Clean like your conscience, huh? Great series on the Green Lantern busting up that gambling ring, Irene—keep it up.”

  “Thanks boss. You know why I asked to see you, right?”