This is a repost of a story that was first started a year ago. My brother passed away in February and I lost my muse for a while. I'm almost finished now, but I feel the need to reread this myself, and thought others might like to do the same before I post the last few chapters. Feel free to jump in with feedback of you're new, or just skim if you've seen this before. I'm planning to repost on a MWF schedule until we're all caught up, then add the last few parts from there. Enjoy! --Nov. 2010
The Man Under the Suit
Lois Lane raised both hands in gracious acknowledgement of her coworkers’ praise. “Come on, you guys, it was nothing, really.” She had to say it, of course, but in her heart of hearts she couldn’t be prouder of the front page Late Edition headline, ‘Million Dollar Car Theft Ring Exposed.’
“I still can’t believe they thought you were a boy,” Jimmy marveled.
“Well, I’m no Clark Kent, but the mustache helped. And thanks for teaching me how to boost a car.” Lois grinned at her young co-conspirator.
“No problemo.” Jimmy raised his coffee cup in salute. “To Lois Lane, still going where no reporter has gone before.”
“Don’t encourage her, Jimmy. Her head’s as big as the Metrodome as it is.” Perry was his usual gruff self, but Lois could see the twinkle in his eye. He was proud of her. As he should be.
Before she could bask in the spotlight for more than a moment, however, the editor addressed the room at large. “Okay, what’s everybody standing around for? This is a newspaper, not happy hour at Buckingham Palace.”
The small crowd that had gathered around Lois’s desk quickly dispersed. Even Jimmy hurried off in the general direction of the file room. When Perry was the last one within earshot of Lois, he leaned toward her and drawled in a conspiratorial tone, “He’s in town, you know. Cat just heard from her source at the Jade Inn.”
Lois gave her editor a confused frown. “Who?”
“Clark Kent. Arrives this evening. He’s got the Presidential Suite booked for the next three weeks. His new book comes out next week and he’s doing the round of publicity interviews—Good Morning America, Today, all the local morning shows, you know the drill. I bet he’ll be at Luthor’s White Orchid Ball. You can’t hold the social event of the season and not invite Clark Kent if he’s in town. I know you’ve been chasing an interview with Lex Luthor for months, but if you managed to land a one-on-one with Clark Kent—not a PR puff piece, but a real, in-depth interview—well, *that* would be something to see.” With a last parting wink, Perry strode off toward his office, bellowing for Jimmy as he went.
*****
Clark Kent was not a fan of big cities. They were loud, for one thing. He had learned by now how to tune the background noise out, but it did take a little effort to do so. They were smelly. Like the sounds, he would get used to the constant assault of car exhaust, cooking smells, and human body odors masked by dozens of brands of deodorants and shampoos, but it took a while. He’d rather be surrounded by the clean dirt and animal smells of the farm. But mostly, he hated the way he had to get there. Unless he was fairly familiar with a city, he couldn’t just swoop in for a landing. It was too likely that someone would see him. So, having just finished up two weeks of publicity spots in Los Angeles, he’d been forced to make his L.A. to Metropolis flight the old-fashioned way; commercially. Metropolis—the largest city in North America. He didn’t know how he’d gotten out of stopping there on the last three tours, but this time the publisher had insisted, and Clark had acquiesced.
At least in first class people mostly left him alone. He’d learned long ago how to handle mechanical air travel when he had to: tune out. Metropolis was the last stop on his contractually obligated publicity tour. Clark closed his window shade, reclined his chair, shut his eyes, and allowed himself to start thinking about the next book.
He hadn’t decided yet on his next hero’s name. He wasn’t even sure whether it would be a man or a woman. He only had the vaguest outline of a plot, but he knew it would involve the rescue of at least one girl from the sex trade. There would definitely be drugs in the mix. Guns, of course. Maybe a pair of sisters? He wasn’t sure about that yet. He wasn’t even sure which country he’d set it in. Maybe Cambodia, maybe Nepal. It would all come together once he got his feet on the ground and let the atmosphere--the sense of place and the culture--sink into his pores. He’d come up with a cover, bone up on the local language, then start making contacts. After a few weeks, a few months tops, he’d have enough raw material to hole up in Smallville and start the actual writing.
It was a slow, roundabout process. He often wished that he could just swoop in, pull every girl out of every brothel in some grand rescue, and solve the world's problems with brute strength alone. Unfortunately, even with all his extraordinary gifts, he knew that was an unrealistic fantasy. Problems like this had to be addressed systemically, from the roots up. He hoped his story would open enough people’s eyes to the issue that it would make some dent in the public consciousness. If, like his last three novels, it was optioned as a movie as well, it would have an even wider audience. But even if the movie deal never panned out, just the Clark Kent name on the cover almost guaranteed a spot on the Daily Planet best seller list. Not that he’d ever say that out loud; Clark had been raised better than that, and besides, his mother would box his ears if she ever heard even a hint of boasting from him. But he was experienced enough to know that it was true, nonetheless.
*****
At eight-fifteen that evening, Clark’s liveried Lincoln town car with tinted windows pulled up in front of the Jade Inn, Metropolis. Two doormen in the distinctive green jackets and black top hats of the world’s premier hotel approached the car. As one man unloaded the leather suitcases from the car’s trunk and placed them on a waiting cart, his companion opened the back door of the vehicle and stood at attention. As the car’s occupant unfolded himself from the back seat, a third man in a crisp dark business suit emerged from the hotel’s front door and addressed the new arrival.
“Welcome to the Jade Inn, Mr. Kent. My name is Basil Mosby. I am the general manager here at the Jade, Metropolis. We are delighted to have you staying with us. Mr. and Mrs. Ross arrived earlier this afternoon, and I believe that you will find everything in order in your suite. If there is anything my staff and I can do to make your stay more enjoyable, please do not hesitate to call for me.”
Clark gave his host a cursory nod and a brief smile. “Thank you, Mr. Mosby. If you’ve passed Mrs. Ross’s inspection, then I’m sure you have nothing to worry about from me. I’m certain you’ll hear from her if there’s anything we require.”
“Of course, Mr. Kent, as you say. If you’ll follow me, it will be my pleasure to show you to your suite. Right this way, please.”
Clark buried his hands in the pockets of his wool herringbone pants and trailed after the manager. One long elevator ride later, the pair stepped onto the 53rd floor of the Vernon tower and entered the Jade Inn’s Presidential Suite. The striking red-head who emerged from the second bedroom gave Clark a welcoming smile and bade Mr. Mosby goodnight with the assurance that everything was in order and nothing further would be required that evening. A glance through the door of the bedroom revealed that the luggage was already arranged on the bench at the foot of the king bed and was in the process of being unpacked.
As soon as the door of the suite closed behind the departing manager, Clark plopped down into one of the overstuffed chairs that adorned the suite’s living room. He quickly toed off his fine leather shoes and draped one leg over the chair’s arm. Giving the red-head a long-suffering sigh and a rakish grin, he implored her, “Lana, please tell me there are some good old-fashioned Levi’s somewhere in that pile of luggage.”
“What’s the matter, Clark? Too many hours in a ‘tin can’ today?”
“Try too many hours in lambswool,” her friend and employer replied. He stripped the offending sweater over his head and tossed it on the floor next to the shoes. “And hair mousse,” he added, scrubbing both hands over his formerly smooth coif with a disgusted grunt. The result of this last gesture was to leave every strand of Clark’s hair standing on end.
Ruthlessly surpressing the urge to laugh out loud at her friend’s now-outlandish appearance, Lana frowned pointedly at the growing pile of clutter. But her tone was sympathetic as she admonished, “Pick up your things and go look on the chair in your bathroom. And wash your hair while you’re in there. You look ridiculous.
“My bathroom has a chair?” Clark threw over his shoulder as he gathered his discarded clothing and headed for the bedroom.
“A chair *and* an ottoman. After all, you never know when you’ll want to recline at your leisure while waiting for your bath to fill,” Lana teased back. The only reply was the sound of running water.
Three minutes later, no one except his closest friends would have recognized the young man who emerged from the bedroom in blue jeans and a Midwest University tee-shirt. His damp hair, released from the prison of the hated mousse, rested in soft waves over his forehead and curled around his ears and neck. The sleek silver glasses that graced the jackets of every Clark Kent best-seller had been traded in for an old-fashioned pair of horn rims. Even his posture was different. Martha Kent might be tempted to tell him that he was slouching, but Lana knew that he was simply relaxing. The public face of Clark Kent was a far cry from the small-town boy that he still remained at heart. This was Clark at home…or as close to home as Lana could make this suite for the next three weeks.
“My mother would have a cow if she saw this place, you know. So would yours.” Clark’s remark was partially muffled by the oversized sweatshirt he was pulling over his head as he spoke. “You could house a good-size family in this suite. It’s almost obscene.”
“You know what Pete says. Clark Kent has a reputation to maintain, and this," her expansive gesture encompassed the entire 1700 square feet of the suite, "is part of the image.” Hearing her own words, Lana wondered anew whether it was really necessary to shoehorn Clark into this persona that made him so obviously uncomfortable. Once again she consoled herself with the thought that it was only a temporary state. A few weeks a year to run the publicity gauntlet, then Clark could go back to choosing whatever image he liked for the next undercover stint. Meanwhile, the Rich and Successful Writer façade sold books, and that was the whole idea.
“What’s wrong with the Holiday Inn?” Clark grumbled half-heartedly.
“You know perfectly well what’s wrong with it, and I know you wouldn’t stay at the Lexor if it was the last place in town, so this is what you get. Suck it up, farm boy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Thus sufficiently chastened, at least for the time being, Clark stuck both thumbs in the pockets of his long-anticipated blue jeans and gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the lights which shone from the far side of the West River. “St. Martin’s Island, right?” he called to Lana.
“Yep. Fort Hob’s Park is right below us, but you can’t see much in the dark. At least, most of us can’t.”
“Not much to see,” Clark answered her, “just a couple of teenagers making out on one of the benches. Nothing you couldn’t see behind the Smallville Dairy Freeze.”
“Who’s behind the Smallville Dairy Freeze?” came a new voice from the suite’s front door.
“No one, Pete. Clark was just giving me the reconnaissance report on Metropolis’s adolescent night crawlers. Sounds like they’re not much different from Smallville’s.”
Pete crossed the living room to greet his wife with a kiss. “No, I don’t guess they would be,” he chuckled. “Hi, Clark. I see you got in okay.”
“I didn’t leave any fingerprints in the plane’s armrest if that’s what you mean. Everything okay downstairs?”
“Yep. I had a nice chat with the chief of security. He knows his stuff. You’re not the first high-profile guest they’ve had here. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble.” Clark acknowledged his friend with a silent nod and turned his attention back to the window. “Oh, I almost forgot.” Pete reached into the pocket of his sport coat. “This arrived by messenger while I was down there.”
Clark reached for the proffered envelope. A frown crossed his face as he read the enclosed invitation. “Luthor?” he scowled and tossed the card onto the nearest table.
“I know.” Pete’s tone was sympathetic. “But I don’t think you can avoid it. The White Orchid Ball is *the* social event of the Metropolis season. To decline without a compelling and publicly explainable reason would raise a red flag that I think you’d best avoid. You’re not ready to go public on him yet. You need to stay under his radar until you are.”
Clark let out a defeated grunt. “You’re right. As usual. Who can I ask? I don’t know a soul in Metropolis, and Clark Kent can’t show up at a social event without a date. Should I fly Zoe or Keiko in?”
“No need," Lana answered him. "Pete has business to attend to that night. Why don’t you take me?”
Clark gave Pete a questioning glance. “What business do you have at 9:00 on a Friday night?”
Pete answered with a sheepish grin, “The Royals are in the playoffs.”
“Ah. I see. In that case, would you mind, Pete?”
“No problem, Clark. You’ll have the best-looking date in the room.”
“No doubt. Okay, it’s a date.”
“I’ll phone in the RSVP tomorrow. For now, I’m taking myself and my husband off to bed. See you in the morning, Clark.” Lana grabbed her husband by the hand and pulled him behind her into the suite’s master bedroom.
Clark returned to the window. From the 53rd floor, he could see the lights of the city spread out beneath him like a meadow of fireflies. He’d been in cities all over the world, but this was his first visit to Metropolis. He’d seen scores of cityscapes before. He didn’t understand why this particular view wouldn’t let him go.
