Hi,

Before I post, I want to say sorry for being a little late.

If you read my reply to your fdk for part 16, you'll know I haven't been feeling at my best.

But I'd also like to take a chance to thank my wonderful beta-readers, and say a particular thank you to EditorJax, who has gone way beyond the call of duty this week and beta'd this part while feeling ill herself.

We hope you enjoy ...

Previously on My Wife The Boss:

“Oh, and by the way, Matt,” Clark said, standing over their son. “I didn't want to continue the argument at Uncle Jim's, but I do agree with your mother when it comes to you drinking beer. Even if it doesn't effect you, drinking alcohol as a minor is illegal -- so no more.”

“Dad! I don't.” Matt protested loudly. “Honest! I've tried it ... but I didn't enjoy it much.” He wrinkled his nose. “I only asked for a beer 'cause I was trying to look grown up. I didn't think. You believe me, don't you? Jor-El doesn't lie!”

His parents were ascending the stairs arm in arm when he saw them exchange glances, and he could swear he heard them chuckle, too. Now what had he said that was so funny?

“Mom ... Dad? You do believe me?”

“We do. Go to bed, son.” Clark shouted.

Matt switched off the lights and trailed wearily up the stairs. Being a grown up sure wasn't easy.

*****
continued ...

Chapter Nine
Headway

St. Andrew's Homeless Shelter was located in an abandoned church in Metropolis' dockland. The church had been built in the late 1800s to minister to the immigrant Catholic families who had poured into the city to work in the many shipyards along the banks of Hobbs Bay. Sadly, during the last century, the shipyard bosses had moved their businesses overseas in search of bigger profits, and many families, too, had moved on, finding work elsewhere.

The less well-off, however, had had to stay behind in the teeming apartment blocks, which also had fallen into disrepair. They took whatever work was available. Metropolis was still a busy port and some found work as dockers, though with new machinery and container-ships, the industry employed less personnel.

The area was now the home of Metropolis' poor, and those who found the pace of modern living too hard to bear. People, who for one reason or another, had fallen through the social-welfare net and now lived in the rundown alleyways and doorways, under bridges and flyovers -- anywhere that would provide them shelter from the inclement weather.

The Catholic diocese had chosen to reopen the doors of the old church as a homeless shelter a few years ago, accepting all, and never questioning the poor souls who found their way to its refuge.

Clark and Matt had chosen early evening to visit the shelter, knowing that this was the best time to reach as many people as possible. During the long, dark nights and piercing cold of winter, the church became a busy hubbub of life, as homeless men and women came for warmth, a modicum of comfort and a wholesome meal.

Besides, during the day, Matt had school and Clark had other stories to pursue.

Father and son walked through the great doors and stood for a second or two, staring at the large interior. The grand pillars and vaulted ceiling still stretched up to the heavens, but the stained-glass windows, which had once shown prisms of light into this place of worship, were now boarded up against the chill from the air outside.

There was no longer the swelling sound of the church organ, nor the sanctified chanting of the priests. In their place was the sound of shuffling feet, chairs scraping against the wooden floor, and the hushed tones of sporadic smalltalk.

The homeless were not prone to lengthy conversations about their busy days at work, nor gossip about their private lives, which most had left behind.

Nevertheless, on this particular evening, there was an unusual buzz about the place. The official statement naming Tanner had not yet been made public by the police, but that didn't mean these people were ignorant of the man's death. Somehow, bad news spread like wildfire through this anonymous population, and Clark could only hope that some of its members would be prepared to answer his questions.

Ever courteous, Clark walked quietly down the side aisle of what had once been the sanctuary and now was divided into two rooms; half serving as a large dining room, the other as a dormitory. He headed toward the kitchen to inquire as to whom was in charge this evening -- and, heedful of the transient population's suspicion toward the media, to seek permission to speak to those present.

Up ahead, a bespectacled, gray-haired priest stood behind a counter, very carefully ladling out soup to those waiting in line. He looked up as the two men approached.

“Clark Kent?” The priest squinted through his thick lenses, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “I was wondering how long it would be before you dropped in to see us.” The man laid down his ladle and beckoned to an assistant to take over his serving duties. With as much speed as he could muster, he came through the narrow door, a white cane in one hand while his other hand stretched out toward Clark. “It's good to see you again. I thanked the good Lord when I heard about your miraculous return from the dead. How are you, my boy?”

For a few seconds, Clark was stunned by the effusive welcome, but very quickly he took the priest's hand, smiling in return. “Father Ninian, it's good to see you're still in Metropolis, but I'd no idea you were in charge of this shelter.”

The older man finally let go of Clark's hand. “My superiors thought the parish in Queensland Park was too much work for an old man like me, especially since my eyesight is failing fast. They decided to give me some missionary work instead, even if it is in Metropolis.” Father Ninian gestured around the room with his cane, his smile broadening until his cheeks creased like a well-read newspaper. “Mind you, I'm not complaining.” He smiled at the woman who had taken over for him. “I have so many helpers that there's little for me to do -- but I still enjoy the work.”

Clark took in the crowded tables of people hunkered over steaming bowls of soup. “And it looks like you do a great job.”

“Well, my flock here isn't quite so devout as I'd like, and they don't always like my prying, but on the whole they're a good bunch.” Father Ninian finally noticed the young man standing behind Clark and, if it was possible, his smile grew bigger. “And, bless my soul, isn't that our young Matt?”

“Yes, Father,” Matt answered, moving to stand next to his father.

“Of course, Matt Kent. Clark's your dad! Why didn't you ever tell me?”

Matt blushed. “I'm sorry, but I didn't know you knew Dad ... and I've been so busy lately, with school and everything, I haven't been around here much.”

“I should think so. Your schoolwork is more important than being a dishwasher here.”

“You sound like my mom,” Matt replied with a rueful grin.

“Ah, your mother is a grand woman. You listen to her and you'll turn out well.” The priest nodded his head wisely. “I remember when your parents solved a nasty run of sexual attacks that took place around St. Agnes, my previous church. The police were stumped, so your mother offered herself as bait. Of course, your father and Superman were guarding her, but she was a very brave woman, and thank goodness they caught the man before he could do her too much harm.” The old priest found an empty pew along the side wall with his cane and he lowered himself down cautiously. “Oh, yes, that surely was a night! I'd met Superman a couple of times before, but I never saw him quite so angry as he was then. When he saw your mother covered in bruises, I was sure he was going to tear the attacker limb from limb ... but your mother stopped Superman with just a few words. Mind you, Lois Lane was no helpless female.” Father Ninian chuckled, though he sounded slightly awed. “You should have seen the villain! When she'd finished with him, I think he was more afraid of her than he was of Superman.”

Matt tore his stunned gaze away from the old priest and fixed his wide eyes on his father. “You never told me that! And neither did Mom!”

“It was a long time ago, and to tell you the truth, it was one of these memories I'd forgotten about until now. I think you were about nine months old at the time, Matt,” Clark replied, his brow creased in concentration. “Believe me, I wasn't exactly happy with your mother's plan, but you know your mother. When she gets an idea in her head, there's no stopping her. Still, after that, she didn't try anything as dangerous again.” He flashed his son a smile. “She realized she had more important responsibilities.”

Father Ninian folded his white cane and laid it on the seat. “I remember it like it was yesterday, but ask me what I had for lunch and I'm stumped. That's what happens when you grow old, you know,” he said with a wry grimace. After a few moments, he spoke again. “Yet I can still see that dreadful night; how terrified your father was of losing your mother.”

Clark blanched. Was this how it was for Lois now?

The thought hit Clark like a sledgehammer. After the kids were born, Lois had become less reckless in her journalistic pursuits, and now, for the sake of the family, he had to be the same. He could still do his job, still investigate, but stunts like throwing himself in front of bombs were definitely out of order, at least until his invulnerability kicked back in ... if it ever did.

“But it all ended well, Matt,” Father Ninian declared proudly, smiling again. “The bad guy was caught and sent to prison, thanks to your parents.” He turned to Clark. “Now what can I do for you today, because I doubt this is purely a social call?”

Clark shook himself out of his wondering. “No, Father. I'm afraid not. We're investigating another case, the Metropolis bomber, and we've been told that he might have frequented your shelter. If you don't mind, we'd like to ask your guests a few questions.”

“Ah, you're talking about poor Bob Tanner,” Father Ninain said. “He did come here, now and then, but I'm afraid I didn't get to know him very well. He was one of the quiet drinkers. Kept himself to himself, but I never dreamed he was capable of committing such a heinous crime. I think perhaps I failed Bob.” His bony hand trembled on the cane by his side and his shoulders drooped, as if he carried a heavy burden.

“I doubt you failed with anyone, Father,” Clark replied quietly. “And there's a chance he didn't commit the crime.”

“You think not?” The priest's myopic gaze brightened as it swung in Clark's direction. “I'm not convinced myself, and if you can prove otherwise, I'd be very grateful. I believe Bob was a good man who'd lost his way. Go ahead and ask your questions, though I doubt you'll get many of my congregation to talk. The police were here earlier and most of them clammed up or made themselves scarce. Still, I remember you were very good at getting people to open up.”

“Thank you, Father.” Clark stared at the ground, shoving his hands into his pockets in a self-conscious gesture and hoping he hadn't lost his touch. “You can be sure,” he added, looking up, “I'll treat them with respect.”

“Oh, I never doubted that for a moment, my son.” Father Ninian began to rise slowly and both Clark and Matt extended a hand to help him stand. “Like father, like son,” he said, a gentle smile on his face. “Now, I have to leave you. Duty calls. We hold an evening mass for those who want to partake, and I have to get ready. May God bless your investigations.”

Accompanied by the tapping of his cane, Father Ninian made his way to a small side chapel; the only part of the building that had retained its original purpose. Left alone with Matt, Clark's shoulders tensed as he scanned the crowded room. No one looked in their direction. In fact, most of the diners were apparently engrossed in anything but the two men who had invaded their privacy. Questioning these people was not going to be easy.

“What do we do now, Dad?” Matt asked, sounding a little out of his league.

“I thought you'd worked with these people before,” Clark replied, raising his eyebrows. “Haven't you met one or two of them?”

“Maybe ... but it's mostly when I'm in the suit, and they treat me differently then.” Matt shifted from one foot to the other, looking even more uneasy than his father. “When I'm here as myself, I'm usually the dishwasher-in-chief.”

Matt's awkwardness calmed Clark's nerves. He laughed and leaned close to his son. “Hasn't The Superman Foundation donated a dishwasher to the shelter yet?”

Matt shook his head. “No, only me, and I don't use the powers ... well, hardly ever, and only when no one is watching,” His voice was an even whisper, but he had visibly relaxed at his father's demeanor.

“Maybe we could do something about that.” Clark winked at Matt and started walking between the tables, searching the faces nearest to him, looking for someone who looked ready to talk. “OK, Matt, stay close to me and follow my lead.”

Since his return, Clark had noticed his son was nervous around strangers when he wasn't in the suit. It wasn't too surprising since he'd been the same way as a teen, and he hadn't had the added responsibility of being a superhero. Matt was doing brilliantly as Jor-El, but he was still barely more than a boy.

Clark stopped for a moment and placed his hand on Matt's shoulder. “I hope you know how proud I am of you?”

<You mean Jor-El,> Matt thought back, ducking his head.

<No! You're wrong,> Clark shook his head emphatically. <Superpowers don't make a superhero. Believe me, I've met quite a few people who used them the wrong way. You're the person behind the suit, and that's who I admire.>

<I guess.> Matt sounded a little doubtful. <I'm not sure how much I can help you here though, Dad. You're the investigative reporter ...>

<Then let me do the questioning. If you feel like going out on your own, then jump right in. Just be yourself, and you'll do fine.>

However, an hour later, Clark and Matt decided that the only pertinent information they'd gathered was that Bob Tanner was a quiet, decent man, even when drunk, and that most of the St. Andrew's residents didn't believe he was capable of such a terrible crime.

Clark's sketch had also drawn a blank. No one recognized the guy, but the chance of that had always been slim. In the hope that someone might eventually be able to ID him, Clark pinned a copy of the sketch on the message board, then they said their goodbyes to Father Ninian, who promised to keep them informed of any breakthroughs.

On the way back to the Jeep, they heard the wail of sirens.

“Fire?” Clark asked, looking in the direction of the distant sound. His hearing hadn't improved quite enough for him to make out the details of the accompanying police report.

“Yeah. A big one too ...” Matt cocked his head to one side. “It's the Old Town Theater. The place will be packed for the Christmas show. I have to go.”

“Sure you do, and you're taking me with you ...”

“Dad ...” Matt objected, but his father cut him short.

“Son, I'm coming with you. I might not be up to speed, but if that theater's as full as we think, then you'll need all the help you can get.” Clark stared Matt down. “Don't worry. I'll be careful.”

“What about the other shelter?”

“It can wait until we sort this out. People are in danger and I might be able to help.”

For a second, Matt held his father's stare, then nodded. “OK, let's get moving.”

Matt spun into the suit and, grabbing Clark's arm, zipped into the sky. The journey to their destination was just long enough for Matt to realize that carrying his father was perceptibly easier. Surely Dad was doing his own flying ... or almost, but they didn't have time to test the theory. They had people to rescue.

*****

To Be Continued ...