For Lois, step one in her master plan had been fairly easy. Rent a cheap, furnished apartment on an upper floor with a reliable fire escape and store some clothes and writing material there. She hadn’t even needed her thin disguise, since the building manager was too drunk to see straight. She wasn’t sure he even knew he’d rented out that apartment for three months to Wanda Detroit – a name no one in her circle of friends and contacts would recognize – who had paid the full term in cash. It left her with enough operating capital to lay out some small bribes and still leave meal money for the time she’d be here. After all, dead women didn’t need savings accounts.
Step two had been quite a bit harder. Buying a gun from Walt had been easy, but getting any real information out of him hadn’t been. The one good thing that had come out of that encounter was that she now knew she could shoot someone if the situation required it. She just hoped he wasn’t hurt too badly.
Step three would be a bit time-consuming but not hard. She’d have to cut her hair short and change the color to make it harder for people to recognize her. This was the ultimate undercover assignment, one where she was not just hiding from the bad guys but from the police and her friends and coworkers.
And from Superman.
The thought that she’d never see Superman again, at least not as a friend, bothered her, but not as much as she would have believed a few days ago. The hero couldn’t help her now. She didn’t even miss his presence as much as she thought she would. It might have been nice to have a superhero along for this, the final great ride of her life, but Lois Lane didn’t need Superman to be a great investigator.
She did, however, miss Clark’s presence. The big Kansas farm boy had wormed his way past her defenses and made himself important to her. He’d never spilled any of the secrets she’d entrusted to him, and he always kept his word. Sure, sometimes he vanished into thin air when she wanted him with her, but thinking back on it she realized that he never disappeared when she really needed him.
And those few kisses they’d shared were little slices of heaven. Those were memories she’d take out and savor as the end came closer. The knowledge that Clark was not only a good kisser, but that he really wanted to kiss only her, warmed her heart and brought a smile to her lips. Lex’ kisses were skilled, precise, and exact. Clark’s were soft and warm and gentle. And his lips fit hers quite well.
The assurance that Cat Grant wasn’t the woman of his dreams was nice, too.
But there wasn’t time for that now. She had to act on the info Walt had given her before it was too late. And she needed to change her look first.
The scissors were sharp enough to shorten her hair, and the package of blonde highlights promised to make what was left of her hair Shine Like The Morning Sun! Lifts in her shoes, dorky horn-rimmed glasses with clear lenses, and some judicious makeup would alter her appearance, as would the oversized sweater and pants stuffed with washcloths. It would also give her a convenient place to hide her revolver. So, before she lost her nerve, and before the cracked mirror over the bathroom sink could fall apart, she began the ordeal of becoming someone else to the outside world.
*****
Nigel had never liked Lois Lane. He would have been far more content had his employer allowed her to die during the failed cyborg boxing venture, but the man had saved her by killing a valued associate instead. Failing that, Nigel would gladly have given up his usual stipend for assassinations to tie her to an anchor chain and drop her into Hob’s Bay, but the Boss had forbidden him to take any overt action against her.
Nigel had never disobeyed any of his employer’s instructions, but he’d been within a breath of doing so after Lex had ordered him that very morning to bend every effort to find Lois Lane. The woman was more than a nuisance – she was an actual danger to the smooth operation of Luthor’s real businesses. Deliberately seeking out this woman was tantamount to taking an afternoon stroll among the targets at a shooting range while wearing an elk disguise.
Nigel decided that he actively disliked Lois Lane and would do almost anything to split her away from Lex Luthor.
In the meantime, he had a job to do, so he did it in the best way he knew how. His informants would relay any and all information to him as soon as she was located. Then he would inform his employer of her whereabouts and be instructed to either watch over her or – shudder – to fetch her back.
So when his personal cell phone rang during his daily report to Mr. Luthor, he excused himself and opened it.
*****
Lex hated it when Nigel answered his phone during a briefing, but he knew that the man would do so only in order to carry out his instructions. Patience wasn’t part of Lex’ personality, but he’d learned the hard way to allow people to do their jobs without his constant interference.
He stood and picked up a fresh cigar, then lit it, half-listening to Nigel’s side of the conversation.
“Yes. You have? Tell me what happened.” A pause, then a sigh. “Young woman, I am not in the habit of playing games. When you have – excuse me?” A longer pause. Lex looked up and saw Nigel’s eyes open wide. “Are you certain of your information? There is no doubt?” Lex began to feel concern. Nigel hadn’t worn that expression of open-mouthed astonishment since the shuttle bombing had been foiled by the newly revealed Superman. “Yes – of course I’ll pass on the information! Just keep looking! Then we will double your usual fee! Yes, double! Call back when you have something useful.”
Nigel closed the phone and stared at it as if it had just told him that he was working for a Jamaican midget wrestler. He turned to Lex and opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“Nigel?” Lex prompted. “Has something untoward taken place?”
“I – yes. Assuming this latest report is to be believed.”
Lex swiveled to face him. “Do you believe it?”
“I’m – not certain. The source is generally reliable, but – this is so out of character for her!”
“Out of character for whom?”
Nigel stood straight and tall. “My apologies, sir. I was quite taken aback by this – this call. My informant tells me that Lois Lane purchased a firearm on the street – a revolver, I believe the source said – and used it to extort information from the weapon’s seller. She even – excuse me, sir, this is the part I find most difficult to credit – Ms. Lane allegedly shot him in the foot to make him talk.”
The imported nine-dollar cigar dropped from Lex’ mouth and fell to the floor. “She – she what?”
Nigel lifted his hands. “I also have difficulty accepting this tale, sir, but we must consider the source, who is reliably placed and has an excellent track record. However, I advise verifying this information before making any decisions based upon it.”
“But – why would Lois shoot someone? What was she doing? Was she researching a story?”
Nigel shook his head. “My first thought is to say ‘no.’ Any information obtained in such a manner cannot be admitted as evidence in a court of law – at least, not when obtained by any law enforcement agent – and Perry White’s ethical standards would not permit him to ask any of his reporters to do anything like this. I am at a loss to explain her actions, sir, assuming that this report is accurate, of course.”
Lex looked around and saw the cigar on the floor, burning a spot in the expensive and irreplaceable Persian rug. He picked it up and stared at it for a moment, then muttered, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“What? Oh, nothing, Nigel. Just rejecting some symbolism.” He stubbed out the cigar in the ivory ashtray on his ebony desk. “We will verify this story. Find out what really happened.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Nigel strode gracefully out of the office, Lex flopped down into his chair. Lois had shot someone? Why? What was going on in her beautiful mind?
Maybe Perry White knew more than he was willing to admit.
*****
Perry and Clark collided in the doorway of his office, then almost as one they stopped and stared at each other. Perry beat Clark to the word when he said, “She’s gone to ground. We won’t find her by running around like chickens with their heads chopped off.”
Clark sighed and nodded. “I know. She’s not at home, not here, not at the doctor’s office, so – where do we look?”
After a moment, Perry snapped his fingers and said, “Henderson!”
“You want me to call?”
“No. You take my cell phone and go poke around at the hospital where that guy who got shot is being treated. I’ll call Henderson and then give you whatever info I can get out of him.”
“Right. Thanks, Perry.”
Clark grabbed his coat and sprinted for the stairway. Perry watched him go, momentarily envious of the younger man’s strength and speed and agility, then walked back in his office, trying to keep the limp he’d picked up from colliding with Kent to himself.
The phone rang before he could lift it to dial out. “Perry White, Daily – “
“White, what’s wrong with your people?”
Perry pulled the phone back and looked at it, then said with exaggerated politeness, “With whom am I conversing, please?”
“Sorry. This is Bill Henderson. What’s this about Lane shooting a guy?”
“I was about to call you about it. I’ve heard the story but haven’t confirmed it yet.”
“Consider it confirmed. This guy Walt McNally is a street hustler and gun dealer. Word on the street is that if you want a clean piece, you go see him. Lane shot him in the foot to make him talk about his network, specifically who he reports to. They’re prepping him for surgery right now.”
Perry sighed. “I was hoping this was just some crazy mix-up, but now I’m convinced. Lois got a bad diagnosis from her doctor and she thinks she’s terminally ill.”
Perry thought he heard Henderson swear, but he wasn’t sure. Then the inspector came back on the line. “Look, we have to find her before she kills someone. If she thinks she’s dying there’s no telling what she might do or who she might do it to.”
“I know. Look, Bill, I wish I knew where she was. But you know Lois. If she wants to blend in, she blends in. And if she doesn’t want to be found—“
“I know, I know!” Perry waited for Henderson to speak again. “I’m sorry, Perry, but I have to put out an APB on her and list her as armed and dangerous. I can’t risk my people.”
“I understand. Is there anything you can give me that would help me find her?”
“You now know everything I know. And in violation of normal protocol, I’m going to include you in our loop on her. Unofficially, of course.”
“Of course. In that case, I’d better tell you that Kent is headed to the hospital to interview the guy with the foot wound. Can you tell your officers he’s on his way so they don’t shoot him?”
“Will do. I can’t guarantee Walt will talk, but we’ll see what Kent can get out of him.”
*****
Clark walked into the ER entrance before Perry hung up his phone. He strode directly to the admissions desk and beckoned to one of the nurses. “My name is Clark Kent and I’m with the Daily Planet. Do you have a Walt McNally here as a patient? Gunshot wound to the foot? I need to talk to him as soon as possible.”
The tall redhead frowned at him. “Sir, you must be aware that I can’t give out any information on any person who might or might not be a patient here except to a family member. Are you a family member?”
“No, but I—“
“Then I can’t tell you anything, sir. You’ll have to leave—“
“But I have to talk to him! Other lives are at stake!”
“I’m sorry, sir, you—“
“Hey!” Bobby Bigmouth leaned out from behind a curtain in the treatment area. “Get in here, Kent, before they take Walt up to surgery. It’s okay, Brenda, I’ll vouch for him.”
The nurse frowned and shook her head, then pointed at the curtain. Clark all but ran into the treatment area.
The man on the treatment bed was shorter than Lois and might, after a huge meal and a quick swim while fully clothed, have weighed as much as she did. His face was pale and his eyes were vacant from the painkillers he’d received, but he proved he was at least partially aware of his surroundings when he saw Clark.
“Is this the guy?” he slurred.
“Yeah, Walt, this is the guy. He’s straight as a laser beam but he keeps his word.” Bobby turned to Clark and pointed a long index finger in his face. “And you gotta promise both of us you won’t use anything you hear in any kind of investigation, see? We both have reps to consider.”
Clark frowned. “I can’t do that. All I can promise is that I won’t go after either one of you. My only goal right now is to find Lois, and I can’t do that without your help.”
Walt threw his head back and barked out a drugged laugh. “Ha-ha! On you, Bobby! He jus’ like the rest of ‘em, lies through his pretty, pretty teeth.” He leaned forward and squinted. “Hey, show me them pearly whites! Smile for me and lie to me some more!”
As Clark moved forward, Bobby put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him. “Hang on, Kent. Walt’s already gotten his pre-op meds and he’s pretty loopy. Just stand here a minute, okay?”
“I don’t have time to – “
“Hey! You want to find Lane, you stand there and let me talk.”
They locked eyes for a long moment, then Clark relaxed slightly and moved back. “Go,” he said. “Talk away.”
Bobby nodded and turned to Walt. “Hey, Wally, pal, Kent won’t lie to ya. I swear. All he wants to do is find the dame who plugged you in the foot.”
“Yeah. My foot. They think I’ll walk okay. But I won’t have my pinky toe.” The man sniffed and looked at the far end of the bed. “They couldn’t find it. Couldn’t find it, can’t sew it back on. Rat prob’ly ate it by now.” He covered his eyes with his hands and began to cry. “She shot off my toe! Why’d she shoot off my toe? What’d my toe ever do to her?”
“That’s what Kent wants to know, Walt, and he has to find the dame before he can ask her. C’mon, man, we gotta give him somethin’ to go on.”
“My toe, my toe – she shot my toe! I told her not to but she did anyway!” Walt fell back against the pillow. “Now she’s gonna shoot Mike’s toe off too!”
“Mike? You mean Big Mike? She’s gonna shoot Big Mike’s toe?”
“Yeah! I told her where he was! I had to! She was gonna shoot off my other pinky toe!”
Bobby glanced up and Clark and nodded. “Okay, Walt, where did you tell her to find Big Mike?”
“She’s gonna shoot his toe off and he’s gonna blame me! You know how he is, Bobby! He don’t understand about a man’s toes!”
“Hey, Walt, if Kent can find Big Mike before Lane does, he can—“
“Lane? Who’s Lane?”
“Lane’s the crazy dame who shot your toe. Where’s she gonna look for Big Mike? Huh, Walt? C’mon! Where did you tell her to look for Big Mike?”
Walt sniffed and wiped his eyes, then blinked several times. “I don’t remember – wait – yeah, she’s gonna go see him at his office. You know, his basement office?”
Two men in surgical garb opened the curtain and moved to the bed. “Okay, Mr. McNally,” the taller man said, “we’re going to take you to the operating room now. We’ll fix you up just as good as new.”
“Good as new?” The nurse nodded and Walt smiled. “Really?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, Mr. McNally.”
Walt’s eyes brightened and he smiled crookedly. “Then – you found my toe? You got my toe away from the rats and you’re gonna put it back on my foot?”
“Something like that. You just relax and let us take care of you.”
Walt sniffed again. “Okay. Hey, Bobby, you hear that? They found my pinky toe!”
Bobby nodded and smiled at Walt. “Sure, buddy. You just rest and let them take care of you. I’ll see you later.”
“Okay. Bye-bye for now.”
Bobby turned to Clark as soon as the men wheeled Walt out. “I’ll write down the address for you. But you gotta be real careful. Big Mike is mean, and they don’t call him ‘Big’ because he gives a lot of money to charity.”
Clark took the napkin Bobby scribbled on. “Got it. I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Okay. Hey, wait! Why is Lane going all Calamity Jane all of a sudden?”
“I’ll tell you later. Right now I need to go stop her from shooting someone else.”
*****
Big Mike leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Hey! Kowalski! You out there?”
“Sure am, Boss! You need something?”
“Yeah. I’m hungry and it’s almost dinnertime. Go get me a turkey and cheese at the deli shop around the corner.”
The smaller man poked his military-style buzz cut around the door. “Uh, Boss, remember, they moved the shop about three blocks over last month?”
Mike frowned at him. “So walk a little farther!”
“You sure? I don’t wanna leave you here alone. You know what happened to Walt earlier today.”
“I’ll be fine, Ski. I got Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson to keep me company. Go get the sandwich.”
“Fourteen-inch turkey and Swiss with all the trimmings, right? Not toasted?”
“That’s it. And pick up a two-liter soda and a party-sized bag of chips before you come back.”
“Will do. Be back as soon as I can.”
As Kowalski trotted up the steps, Mike opened the top drawer of his desk and lifted out a forty-four caliber magnum revolver. It was his favorite pistol, and unlike most shooters, he was strong enough to fire it quickly and accurately with one hand. He had won quite a few bets at the shooting range by putting all of his bullets inside a seven-inch circle at thirty yards with that one hand, firing all six rounds within five seconds. And it had been a long time since anyone had been dumb enough to bet against him on his prowess with the weapon. Big Mike felt quite safe.
Scant seconds after Kowalski left, he heard the front door of his office open. He snatched up the pistol and held it down beside his leg as he stood and moved cat-like to the front wall of the room he was in. Then he waited.
After a moment, an old woman’s thin, ragged voice called out, “Hello? Is – is anyone here? Can anyone help me?”
“Whaddya want, lady?”
“Oh, thank goodness!” she quavered. “Please, I’m hurt. My leg is all bruised up. I fell against the curb outside.”
He began to relax as he heard the intruder shuffle farther in. “How’d you get hurt?”
“Oh, silly me, I just stepped off the curb to cross the street and I fell. Please help me. I need to get back to my cart. Someone will take all my stuff if I’m not there to protect it.”
Mike relaxed and laid his pistol on the edge of the desk. It was just one of the old homeless bag ladies, pushing all her belongings around in an old beat-up shopping cart. He stepped through the doorway to the outer office and saw an older chubby woman with dirty blonde hair sitting on the couch in his outer office, rubbing her lower leg tenderly.
He decided it couldn’t hurt to kneel down and check her out. “C’mon, lady, let me take a look. I bet you ain’t hurt bawwkkk!”
He didn’t see her other foot snap up into his throat, but he felt it. The huge man rolled onto his back, clutching his neck and trying to breathe.
He’d kill her, he thought as he rolled to sit up and face her. He’d strangle her with his bare hands. He’d –
He’d wait to see what she was going to do with the revolver she was pointing at him. It wasn’t as large a caliber as his, but at this range it didn’t have to be.
“Okay, Mr. Big Mike,” she said in the same thin, reedy voice, “you’re going to tell me who you report to and who the Boss is.”
“Why – agghh!” Mike coughed several times, then growled, “Why should I do that?”
“Why, so I won’t shoot you, my dear.”
He tried to laugh but couldn’t, so he settled for slowly turning on his haunches to one side so he could get his feet under him and make a move. “Now why don’t I believe you’ll—“
The pistol exploded in the old woman’s hand and Mike felt a sharp slap against the outside of his left hip. He collapsed on the concrete floor and grabbed at the offended portion of his body, then lifted up a bloody hand. “Ow! You crazy old – you shot me!”
She smiled. It was a grandmotherly smile, all warm and tender with straight, white teeth. “And I’ll do it again if I have to. Do I have to, young man?”
“You shot me in the butt!”
“I can shoot you somewhere else if you want.”
“Oh, yeah?” It was a weak comeback, he knew, but it was the best he could do at the moment.
She raised her eyebrows. “I could shoot you in the shoulder. No, you might bleed to death if I hit an artery. Let me see – of course. Your knee. Now which one? Left, right, or both? Would you prefer a cane or a wheelchair for the rest of your life?”
“Now wait a minute – “
“Or I could split the difference and make sure you pee sitting down for the rest of your life. Just how much do you like Little Mike, Big Mike?”
Mike’s stomach contracted. There was no reason for him to think that this nutty old broad wouldn’t do exactly what she threatened to do. He had no weapon and she’d incapacitated him. Besides, Mr. Robertson could take care of himself.
He realized that he’d almost waited too long to speak when she pulled back the hammer. “Come now, dearie, I don’t have all day.” She smiled that crazy smile again. “And neither do you.”
Mike lifted his unbloodied hand. “Okay, okay! What do you want to know?”
“The name of the man you report to, dearie, with his address and a description. And I want you to tell me where you get your money and who gets a cut of your money.” She leaned closer and her voice went all grandmother-in-the-kitchen-with-sugar-cookies. “Then I want you to tell me who the Boss of Metropolis is.”
The combined effect of her appearance and her voice and her pistol almost made Mike shudder. This dame was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
“I don’t know the Boss at all, lady.” Her weapon angled toward his groin. “Wait! Wait just a minute! I don’t know the Boss’ name but I’ll give you the guy I report to! And – and everybody who reports to me! That’s all I got! You gotta trust me on that!”
“Oh, I don’t trust you at all, Big Mike.” Her smile made him shudder. “But if that’s all you know, then it will have to do.”
He took a breath and relaxed for a moment. Then she said – in a cold, dead voice – “Just don’t disappoint me.”
With that, Mike was totally convinced. He opened his mouth and spilled all the beans he had.
