Death in the City
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Okay, everybody makes at least one stab at TOGOM. So here's the beginning of mine.
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The banner read: ‘The Daily Planet. 60 Years #1 in Metropolis.’ Clark Kent watched the caterer and his assistants with barely concealed bemusement. The caterer, Jacque DuMond, of Jacque’s Catering, caught sight of his assistants taking a break by the vending machines in the elevator lobby of the newsroom floor.
“Come on! Come on!” Jacque told them. “If we're going to turn this dreary little work place into a grand ballroom by Friday night, we can't sit around sipping lattes!”
“Uh, Lois, do you know where Perry and Jimmy took off to this morning?” Clark asked.
“Perry said he had car trouble,” Lois told him. “I guess he figures Jimmy’s a mechanic now, too.”
The elevator doors opened and Perry and Jimmy, came out. They both looked disheveled and upset.
“Lois! Clark! In my office!” Perry yelled, crossing the floor to his office. Jimmy was following on his heels, fairly bouncing with excitement, or an overdose of caffeine – sometimes it was hard to tell. Shrugging, Lois and Clark got up from their respective desks and followed the pair into Perry’s office.
“What's up, Chief?” Lois asked as Perry moved to his desk.
“You're not going to believe what happened to us this morning!” Jimmy said. If he were any more excited, he’d have been bouncing off the walls. “We were almost killed, but I was able to save us.”
“The boy's leaving out a few details,” Perry said. “But bottom line is we were carjacked.”
“Are you all right?” Lois asked.
“Yeah, we're fine. But they got away with that vintage Ford we were using to promote the celebration,” he told them. In was known all around the Daily Planet that Perry had managed to borrow a 1934 vintage Ford Coupe in perfect condition.
“Let me tell you how I saved us! Picture this! We were locked in the garage...” Jimmy began.
“Jimmy! Go slap some cold water on your face,” Perry ordered. Jimmy’s expression turned stubborn. “Go. Now,” Perry told him.
Deflated, Jimmy headed for the office door. “I'll tell you about it later,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him.
“Did you get a good look at them?” Clark asked. He was worried about Perry, but this was also news.
“Sure. I gave the police a detailed description. And then they looked at me like I had three heads,” Perry told them.
“Why?” Clark asked.
“'Cause I told them I'd been carjacked by Bonnie and Clyde,” Perry said. He sounded like he didn’t quite believe it himself.
“Chief, Bonnie and Clyde died over sixty years ago,” Lois said, the voice of reason.
“I know that, Lois. My car was taken, not my senses,” Perry told her. “But these two were dead ringers for 'em. They did quite a job. Make-up, costumes, the whole shebang.”
Lois paused, thinking. “Do you remember anything specific about the costumes?”
Perry sighed. “Lois, I'm not real big on fashion accessories. Especially when there's a gun pointed at me.”
“It's just, well... there was this call on the police scanner last week,” she said. “A man in a brown felt fedora and alligator spats held up a private gun collector.”
“That's right,” Clark agreed. As Superman, he’d checked out the collector’s story. “He got away with an arsenal of antique weapons. Tommy guns, Colt forty five automatics...”
“There could be a connection,” Lois suggested.
“See what you can dig up,” Perry ordered. “That car was a piece of this paper's history. It belonged to one of our great publishers. And more important... it's not insured.”
0 0 0
Sammy Davidson ran the one of the less successful look-alike agencies in Metropolis. His office was in a run-down building on the outskirts of Suicide Slum. The office itself was small, and crowded with a single desk, several tall file cabinets and racks of clothes. The walls were covered by 8X10s of famous people. Sammy himself was seated behind his desk, a phone to his ear.
“That's right... he's a dead ringer for Elvis… Of course before he died,” Sammy was saying to the person on the other end of the phone. He waved to Lois and Clark as they stepped closer to the desk. “Have a seat folks. I'll be right with ya.”
Lois looked around at the shabby office and the two worn vinyl covered chairs in front of the desk. She gingerly sat down, glowering at Clark. “This is the last one of these places you're going to drag me to. Somehow I don't think car-jackers register with agents.”
“Lois, who would know better than a look-a-like agency about famous impersonators?” Clark asked reasonably
“The name's Sammy," he introduced himself after hanging up the phone. “So, what can I do for you nice people?”
“I'm Clark Kent and this is my partner, Lois Lane. We're from...” Clark started.
“Vegas, right?” Sammy asked, cutting him off. Clark shook his head. “No? Wait. I know. Don't tell me. I never forget an act. I got it. Kutsher's, the Catskills.”
“We're reporters from the Daily Planet,” Clark explained.
“Sammy looked disappointed. “Reporters. Oh...” He turned to Lois. “A babe with a face like yours should be in show business.”
Lois grinned, flattered. “Show business? Me?”
“Hey, I know talent when I see it,” Sammy said, grinning back at her.
“Sammy, we were wondering if you represented any Bonnie and Clyde look-alikes,” Clark asked, trying not to roll his eyes at Sammy’s blatant attempt to flirt with Lois.
Sammy thought for a long moment. “Bonnie and Clyde... Nope. Sorry. But, it's funny that you mention them. I had a guy in here a couple of weeks ago looking for gangster costumes.”
“Do you remember his name,” Clark asked. “Or what he looked like?
“Sure. I keep a record of all my business transactions,” Sammy told them, rummaging around in one of the drawers in his desk. “How do you think I got to where I am today? Uh... here he is. Emil Hamilton. Rented a whole rack of gangster costumes,” Sammy said. “I don't usually let my costumes go out the door without one of my people inside 'em, but business has been slow lately.”
0 0 0
It should have been an easy job. Run in, get the money, get out. Everybody knew John Dillinger, Clyde Barrow, and Bonnie Parker, right? In the old days, just walking in and being recognized was enough for everyone to do what they were supposed to. Not that Dillinger ever actually worked with Barrow or Parker in the old days. But now, Dillinger wasn’t sure if everybody in Metropolis had amnesia or they were just stupid.
They’d chosen one of the branches of the Metropolis Savings and Loan. Savings and Loans were always good for quick cash. Barrow drove the coupe up to the front of the building and parked, leaving Parker at the wheel. Dillinger and Barrow walked into the bank and pulled their guns out from under their overcoats.
“This is a robbery,” Dillinger announced. “Everybody down on the floor.”
For a long moment the tellers, the bank customers, even the armed guard by the vault stood in blank incomprehension at him.
“Down on the floor!” Dillinger yelled, sending a round of shots into the ceiling. They all obediently dropped to the floor. Dillinger bobbed his head at Barrow as he went over to the teller cage. He peered in at one of the tellers, a young, pretty blonde one.
“You. Sister,” Dillinger said, getting her attention. “Give us all your cash, and no funny business.” He pushed several canvas bags toward her.
The teller climbed to her feet and started to fill the bags. Barrow kept his machine trained on the bank customers on the floor.
“Take a good look sister,” Dillinger told her. He turned to the customers. “All of you! 'Cause this is the face you're gonna see smilin' back at you from your evening paper. This is the face of John H. Dillinger.”
The teller just stared at him. The bank doors slammed open and Parker walked in, heels clicking on the marble floor.
“Hey! What's takin, so long?” she complained. “I'm gettin' wrinkles waitin' out there.”
The teller and the customers looked up at a the sound of a familiar ‘whoosh.’ Suddenly, Superman was standing in the door way and a sigh of relief went though the room. He stepped closer to Barrow and Dillinger, cape fluttering behind him.
“Aren't you boys a little late for Halloween?” Superman asked in apparent bemusement.
“Look who's talkin',” Barrow said with a laugh, looking the newcomer up and down. “Who are you supposed to be? 'Little Boy Blue?'”
“Put down your guns,” Superman ordered.
“Oh, my. Now he is one hunk of man,” Parker murmured, loud enough for Barrow to hear. She smirked at him.
Barrow pulled the trigger on his machine gun, aiming directly at Superman, spraying him with a barrage of bullets. The bullets simply bounced off his chest.
“What is this... a cap gun?” Barrow yelled at Dillinger. What he’d seen was simply impossible.
“You can't hit the broad side of a barn,” Dillinger groused. He reached into the bag he’d brought with him and pulled out several sticks of explosives.
Superman took a step forward, but Barrow grabbed one of the customers, a middle aged man, and pulled him to his feet. Barrow put a gun to the man’s back. “That's far enough pal,” Barrow warned. “I ain't gonna miss from this close.”
Superman froze.
Dillinger lit the fuse on the explosives and tossed it behind the teller’s counter. Customers screamed and scrambled for cover as Barrow shoved his hostage away and ran for the door after Dillinger and Parker. Superman ran around the counter, throwing himself on the explosives as they exploded. Smoke billowed from his body as he got to his feet. He started after the three gangsters, but stopped at the sound of a groan.
The bank guard was on the floor, clutching his chest. He was pale, skin clammy. Superman watched after the Ford coupe for a moment as the car disappeared into the midday traffic.
“I better get you to the hospital,” Superman told the guard, scooping the man into his arms.
0 0 0
Lois watched and took notes as the police investigation team dusted the bank for prints, took photos, statements. She caught sight of Clark ducking beneath the yellow police tape, flashing his press pass.
“Nice of you to show up, Clark,” Lois snapped at him. “While you were putting money in the meter, the bank was robbed by someone posing as John Dillinger.”
As she spoke, Clark spotted something on the floor. He bent down and picked the item off the floor.
“Oh, and Bonnie and Clyde put in an encore performance as well,” Lois added. “What's that?” She’d noticed the small slip of brightly colored cardstock in his hand.
“A ticket stub from the cineplex. It might be a clue,” Clark told her.
“A clue? It's a movie ticket stub,” Lois told him. “You know how many people came in here today? It could belong to anyone.”
“It fell out of Dillinger's pocket.”
“How do you know that?” she demanded.
“I... um... saw Superman. On my way back here. He told me what happened.”
She was suddenly mollified. “What does he make of all this?”
“Believe me, Lois, he's as baffled as I am,” Clark told her.
Jimmy ran up as Lois and Clark left the bank, ducking back under the yellow tape. Jimmy had a camera slung over his shoulder.
“Hey, C.K., Lois!” Jimmy yelled as he approached them. “I got some information you're love. Turns out that vintage car the Chief borrowed once belonged to the real Clyde Barrow! That got me to thinking, so I called the cemeteries where they're buried.”
“Jimmy...” Lois warned.
“I know it sounds weird but get this,” Jimmy said. “Both cemetery directors said that a few years ago a scientist had their bodies dug up and took bone and hair samples. Pretty creepy, huh?”
“Did you get the scientist's name?” Clark asked.
“Hamilton.”
“Professor Emil Hamilton?” Lois asked. She sounded like she didn’t quite believe it.
“Yeah. How'd you know?” Jimmy asked, puzzled.
0 0 0
The building had seen better days as had the neighborhood it was in. The sign above the entrance door read 'LC Storage.’ The sign in the window read ‘closed.'
The interior of the building was little better. The former office had been converted into a day room. Dillinger and Clyde sat at the battered table, dividing up their ill-gotten gains while Bonnie Parker sprawled on the broken down sofa, a the old television.
“We got a pretty sweet future in this town, so long as we don't keep running into that clown in the blue tights,” Dillinger commented.
“I'd be happy to keep him occupied any time you boys want to go out and knock over a few more banks,” Parker told them with a grin. She swiveled her hips to accentuate her offer.
“That's enough!” Barrow warned. Parker pouted at him prettily.
The inside door opened and Emil Hamilton walked in wearing a lab coat that was once white, but now sported indelible stains in multiple colors. “What have you done? You were to go nowhere without me!” Hamilton hissed at the three gangsters.
“What are you talkin' about professor?” Dillinger asked innocently.
“I just heard a news report!” Hamilton told them. “Do you realize you could have ruined years of my work?”
“Pipe down,” Barrow ordered.
“I will not pipe down!” Hamilton responded in a near screech. “This experiment is the most significant scientific breakthrough in modern history!”
“Oh look,” Parker commented, glancing at the television. “This new fangled box even shows cartoons!”
Dillinger and Barrow turned back to their chore of counting the cash, ignoring Hamilton.
“I will not be ignored! I didn't give up seven years of my life to bring you back so you could rob banks!”
“Don't be mad, professor,” Parker said, coming up to Hamilton. She smiled at him seductively. He backed away from her as his upper lip twitched. He started to sneeze repeatedly, eyes watering
“You can't keep us locked in here forever,” Parker pleaded. “What is it that girl sings on the radio? 'Girl's just wanna have fun.'”
“You must understand. I've brought you back to life to help civilization. Not hurt it.”
“We gotta do something, professor,” Barrow said, waving at the television. “We're goin' nuts in here watchin' that contraption.”
“I'm sorry, but you must wait until I've completed the genetic altering of your personalities before you can go back out into society,” Hamilton explained. “Until that time, you have to live by my rules.”
“The rules have changed, Professor,” a cultured male voice informed them. Hamilton looked over to the open inner door to see a tall man with a neatly trimmed beard walk in. Behind him was another man, shorter, stockier, wearing a brown felt fedora and chewing on a cigar.
“No one makes the rules for Al Capone, but Al Capone,” The second man remarked. “And now that I'm back... I'm taking over Metropolis.”
The taller man chuckled and Hamilton’s blood went cold. “I really don’t care what you do to Metropolis, Mister Capone, so long as you and your friends do three little favors for me.”
“Who do you want missing?” Dillinger asked. “And what do we get out of it, Mister…?”
“St. John,” the tall man told them. “Nigel St. John. And what do you get out of it? My people continue funding Professor Hamilton’s experiments.”
“And who do you want dead?” Parker asked. She sidled up to St. John, ignoring Barrow’s glower at her.
“No one important,” he said. “Just two annoying journalists and one flying busybody.”
“And just how do you expect us to do that?” Barrow asked. “Bullets bounce off the guy.”
“Don’t worry,” St. James assured them. “I have a way around that little problem.”
