Mercury Man (2 page)

The hell with them all, he was glad he was on the way to Grandpa's.

But that crack about Little Red Riding Hood stuck in his head. Come to think of it, he hadn't brought anything for the old man.

He shook his head. Two blocks more and I've had it, he thought. Jeff must be out of his mind, running around in this weather. Tom jingled the change in his pockets, considering whether he should stop for a coke. But why waste the money when he was almost there?

He crossed another intersection, sped up past the fire station. (His father, who had run off with another woman when Tom was ten, had been a fireman. Neither he nor his mother had heard from him in years.)

Up ahead, Tom was relieved to see the flashing metal roof and the hulking brown walls of the oversized
private house where his grandfather rented a small apartment. The place, a shabby former mansion, was owned by a couple of old women who liked having a man on the premises. Tom thought it was more like an old folks' home than anything, tucked among a block of semi-detached anonymous rabbit warrens — “affordable housing,” as they advertised it — and right behind an old brewery, but his grandfather didn't seem to mind. “Swore I'd never take an apartment,” Jack Sandalls boasted. “Can't stand elevators and dinky little mailboxes and people thumping overhead and cooking cabbage down the hall. And as for those boxes over there!” — here he would point to the rabbit warrens — “I'd die in one of those places!”

Jack was a retired sea captain who had gambled and lost most of his life savings, yet he had salted away enough money to keep himself well stocked with booze and tobacco — and quite a few other things besides. Occasionally he helped out his daughter — he had paid for Tom's computer, in fact, though it wasn't a very up-to-date model — and he had once treated them to a modest vacation. He thought Tom should be an artist because he could draw so well — another undeveloped talent that had caused Tom nothing but trouble.

Now he hustled down the path as the old metal gate clanked shut behind him. He marched past the honeysuckle and the lilac bushes, dry as old sticks and bare of blooms. He cast a glance at the high curtained first-floor windows and thought he saw one of the old ladies peering out at him, but — anxious to avoid them — he
dodged around the side of the house, thumped up the wooden stairs, and rang the bell of Grandpa's door.

Footsteps sounded inside; he heard his grandfather's familiar muttered curses, then the door opened and the old man stood before him, unshaven, with a ragged mop of silver hair. Just turning seventy, Jack Sandalls was stocky and plump, with a ruddy, weather-beaten face and a jolly bulbous nose. He had big meaty hands that had steered many a ship safely into harbour. Just then, however, he was dressed in a green bathrobe that made him look like a retired boxer. He waved Tom inside readily enough, although his expression was serious, almost grim.

“I thought you were coming yesterday,” he said. His grey eyes looked a little bleary, from drink, maybe, or from lack of sleep.

“Sorry, Granddad, they called me to work all of a sudden. You know how it is, they fire you if you turn them down too much.”

Jack sniffed, but seemed to relent.

“Come in, kid. I figured that was it. The ladies baked a chicken pie for us and I got some left. I guess you're hungry as well as hot.”

Tom stepped into the familiar front room, which reeked of tobacco and unwashed socks. The air conditioning was wonderful, though, a grinding mercy in the background that made him shiver once and then forget about the heat.

Tom loved his grandfather's place, though his mother mildly disapproved. There were books and magazines
everywhere, huge overstuffed chairs, an enormous sofa, a worn oriental rug. A few prints of racing sloops decorated the walls, and a table along one wall was covered with old navigation gear and other sea items — sextants and small spyglasses, a hook from an ancient anchor, brass fittings, dishes stamped with the names of famous ships, pieces of sailcloth, compasses and barometers, maps and charts.

He followed Jack down the hall and into the large kitchen. It was untidy as always, but welcoming. An old cookstove occupied one wall, and there was a view of the overgrown jungle of the backyard.

“Got the pie in the oven to warm up. Help yourself to an Orangina. Got something new to show you today.”

Tom sat at the table and finished off a bottle of Orangina while his grandfather retreated to his bedroom. He returned carrying a big envelope, already opened, out of which he pulled a slipcase enclosing some comic books.

“This is going to blow you away,” he said, almost clucking with pleasure. Tom knew how much pride his grandfather took in his comic book collection. It occupied one whole wall of his bedroom and contained many golden age classics. It was “one of the best,” as the old man said, and he always added, “A hundred thousand bucks wouldn't touch it,” which Tom and his mother were certain was an exaggeration.

“Just got these yesterday from Tokyo. Had to put out more than I figured to, but what the hell — they're unique!”

Jack opened up the slipcase and carefully set the comics on the table. There were only four of them, part of a series, and although they seemed to be in mint condition there was something dated about them, perhaps due to the cheap paper and the somewhat old-fashioned style of the drawings. Tom picked one up and it felt frail in his hands, but the cover was confident and bright.

“MERCURY MAN COMICS,” it announced. And there, underneath, was Mercury Man himself, in all his glory. A bright caped figured leaping across the page at a cowering twisted-faced Nazi gunman. The date and price stamp read: August, 1941, Vol I, Number 1. 10 cents.

“I never heard of Mercury Man,” Tom said.

“Of course you haven't!” Jack snapped. “These are among the few issues ever printed, and just think, by golly, I have ‘em!”

“They must be worth a lot,” Tom said. He was taking in Mercury Man's costume: blue tights, a red top emblazoned with a staff and snakes, a red hood, a blue cape, and winged slippers instead of boots.

“Isn't he a bit of a rip-off of The Flash?” Tom wondered aloud. Thanks to his grandfather, he knew a lot about the golden age comic heroes.

“Not really. The Flash had blue trousers with yellow streaks down the side. He had the Mercury helmet, sure, and the winged slippers, but the big thing is that he could go so fast you couldn't see him. Now Mercury Man is different: he can't go into high-speed motion, but he just has to touch that staff on his chest with
three fingers of his left hand and he can change into almost anything he wants. When they try to shoot him he could turn into a mouse, for example.”

“Not a good move,” Tom said.

“Or he could turn into a lion or a tiger and scare the snot out of them!”

“You have to be careful what you change into,” Tom said. He remembered reading stories about some unfortunate changes.

“Of course you do! But Mercury Man isn't a fool. His alter ego is Oliver Graham; he lectures on mythology at Lincoln University — that's how he found the old book that gave him the formula for becoming Mercury Man. You see he travelled to Thessaly in Greece — a place known for its witchcraft — and in a tiny mountain village —”

“Sure, sure …”

Jack held up the first comic. “MERCURY MAN FIGHTS A NAZI PLOT TO BLOW UP THE EMPIRE STATE BUILDING!”

“Neat, huh?”

“Nazis? Pretty corny.”

Grandpa Sandalls scowled. “The trouble with you kids today is that you're all too skeptical. It goes with being lazy and with thinking you know everything. You wouldn't even
care
if Nazi spies blew up the Empire State Building.”

Tom studied the face of the spy that was crumpling under the impact of Mercury Man's gloved fist. He thought to himself:
Maybe I wouldn't care …

“Of course I would, Grandpa. It would be terrorists, though, or neo-Nazis. This is so … out of date.”

“That's the point, kid! It's historical. And don't qualify everything to death! Some things are best taken in a gulp.”

Bad-tasting things
, Tom wanted to say, but he knew better than to push his grandfather too far.

“So it's the date that makes these valuable, right, Grandpa? And the mint condition?”

“It's all that, Tom, but it's something else. You see, most comics were created in Metropolis itself, in the original Gotham City. You know what I mean? New York cornered the market in this field like it did for almost everything. But there were some exceptions. Like Mercury Man. You know where Mercury Man was created and printed? You'll never guess, I'll wager that.”

“I don't know. L.A., maybe?”

Jack harrumphed mightily and shook his head. “Not a chance! In fact, these little babies were made right here in West Hope. Yes, sir! They were a crazy dream on the part of one of our local characters, a schoolteacher of mine, he was, by name of Marvin Cormer.”

“Wow! That
is
amazing.”

Tom was thumbing carefully through the comic. Sure enough, even a few of the ads had West Hope addresses. It was almost unheard of.

“This place wasn't always the back of beyond, you know. It had signs of spunk, once. Marvin was a bright guy and a good artist who got fed up with school teaching,
and since he knew a lot about the Greek and Roman myths he decided to try to launch his own comic, based on the god Mercury. As you can see for yourself, the product was very good. DC Comics got wind of it and was debating whether to sue him or buy him out when he was drafted. After that the whole thing went on hold, only Marvin didn't come back; he was killed at the Battle of the Bulge.”

“And that was the end of Mercury Man Comics.”

“That was it, except that I remembered these issues. As a teenager I was stupid enough to trade mine away and it's taken me decades to find them again. I'll never sell them now, not if I starve because of it. They'll be with me when I die, I can tell you.”

“I don't know if I feel that way about anything, Grandpa.”

Jack shot him a piercing glance. “Time for some pie, I guess. You can look at the comics, but keep them away from the food and drink.”

While his grandfather set the table, Tom flipped through the comics. They were very slick, but with a few interesting touches, places where the hero broke out of his frame and smashed a grinning spy with a fist that was larger than life. At the same time, his adventures seemed pretty familiar. After saving the Panama Canal from a Japanese assault team, he was on his way to prevent a super-U-boat attack on the Statue of Liberty.

Mercury Man's most formidable enemy was Dr. Dark, a hideously evil genius whose life had changed for the worse after he'd been scarred by the experimental
chemicals he worked with. Mercury Man wasn't completely invincible — none of the superheroes was. In one adventure Dr. Dark learned that Mercury Man could be made helpless by dousing him with mercury. Luckily, as they were about to unmask the helpless hero, Mercury Man's sidekick, Tom Strong — a high school kid whose life Mercury Man had once saved — arrived to rescue him.

“Want gravy with your pie?” Jack called out.

“Sure,” Tom managed to reply, although his attention had been suddenly caught by a page of ads at the back of one of the comics.

“SEND AWAY FOR MERCURY MAN'S OWN RING,” one of the grubby boxed-in notices read. It pictured a boy, bent over and staring at his own hand. “WITH THE MERCURY MIRROR HIDDEN IN THIS RING YOU'LL BE ABLE TO FOOL YOUR FRIENDS. USE IT TO SEE BEHIND YOU. HIDE MESSAGES INSIDE. LIKE MERCURY MAN, YOU'LL FIND A THOUSAND USES FOR THIS HANDSOME RING. JUST SEND THIS COUPON WITH 25 CENTS AND WE'LL RUSH YOUR OWN PERSONAL MERCURY RING. MONEY BACK GUARANTEE!”

Tom shook his head and smiled. But he noticed that the ad gave a local address: Mercury Enterprises, Second Floor, 221 Harbour Street, West Hope.

Harbour Street — he knew where that was all right.

“OK, so sit down and let's eat!” Jack said.

He stood up quickly. No, it was ridiculous.

“I told you those comics were good,” Jack said. “It's got hold of you, I see, despite your cynical ways. What's that you're looking at like a zombie there?”

Tom closed the comic quickly and moved to the table. “Nothing, Grandpa. Let's eat.”

“Careful now. We'll just put my treasures over here on the table. Don't want them all splattered with ketchup and Orangina.”

They finished the pie quickly and continued with ice cream and iced coffee. His grandfather lit up a pipe and offered to put on
Treasure of the Sierra Madre
, but Tom explained that he couldn't stay that long. His mother would expect him to be there when she got back from work.

“You know you said Marvin what's-his-name was killed at the Battle of the Bulge, Grandpa?”

“Marvin Cormer, yeah, damn shame. I think he could have made it with Mercury Man. Of course the big companies would have bought him out, or he would have set up shop somewhere else, but he might have put this place on the map, too — you never know. Look how well the computer companies are doing now. Oh well, times change.”

“What happened to his equipment and stuff after he died?”

“No idea. He had a wife, but she didn't follow up on any of it. Married the operator of the amusement park right next door — fella by the name of Daniel — an oddball, I guess. Anyway, she died and her husband still lives in the old Mercury House. Can you believe it?
The guy never moved! The park's been shut down for years, though. One of the computer companies is trying to buy him out, I hear, but Daniel has some crazy idea that the dump is worth big money. If he's not careful the city will declare it a nuisance or something and he'll practically have to give it away.”

“That isn't Harbour Street, near Boone Jetty?”