The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [58]
From my backpack, I pull out the old 1938 comic and its protective wax paper.
If found, please return to:
10622 Kimberly Ave. Cleveland
I scan the alleys on both sides of the house (dark but empty), then double-check the numbers on the front porch: 10622. This is it. The address from the coffin.
Before I can even stop, my father’s out of the car.
42
Ring it again,” my dad says impatiently. The words come out in plumes of vapor.
I press the buzzer and put my ear to the frozen metal screen door. I don’t hear anything from inside, including the doorbell. I shouldn’t be surprised. The way the front porch is slanted and the overhead light is cracked, this place has more problems than just some peeling blue paint.
“C’mon! Anyone there!?” My father raps the door with his fist, clearly freezing as he hops up and down. His coat is on Serena, who’s rubbing his back as he settles into calm. I keep checking the length of the block, searching for arriving cars. Ellis . . . Naomi . . . neither of them is stupid. Each minute we’re standing out here . . .
“Easy, easy—I’m coming,” a man’s voice calls from inside.
Serena steps back, almost as if she’s checking that we’re in the right place. There’s no doubt about that. To the left of the door, the front windows that face the porch are filled with sun-faded posters and cards of Superman. A handwritten sign on a sheet of loose-leaf paper says, “Superman’s House!!!”
Serena stares at the sign. My brain flashes to the gun that shot my dad. What the hell does this all have to do with Superman?
The door swings open and an older black man with a Mr. Rogers sweater pokes his head out, careful to keep the cold from seeping in.
“Who is it?” a female voice calls out from deeper inside the house.
“Dunno,” the man calls back, eyeing me and my dad. Then he spots Serena. “I know you?” he asks her.
Like a turtle, Serena shrinks into the shell of her winter coat. “I—I don’t think so.”
“Man, you look familiar,” he adds, and just as quickly shakes it off. Turning back to my dad, he asks, “Where’s your coat? What you want?”
“We . . . er . . . we wanted to see if you . . . y’know . . . we found your address . . . on a comic,” my dad blurts.
The man rolls his eyes. “Oh, man—white boys in the ghetto—you’re fans, ain’t ya?”
“Yeah. Huge fans,” I jump in, determined to get some info. “Why? You get a lot of us?”
“Naw, just here and there. Comes with the house,” he says. “So. Again. What you want?”
I wait for Serena to maybe jump in and charm, but she’s still a turtle in her coat.
“I know this sounds crazy,” I begin, “but y’ever go somewhere and feel like you were just meant to be there?”
“Hoooo, you’re those kinda fans, ain’t ya?”
“We came really far,” I plead.
“How far? Shaker Heights?”
“Florida,” my dad says, bouncing lightly and reminding our host just how cold it is with no coat. “I was tan when I got here.”
It’s just enough of a bad joke to make the man laugh. “Aw, you’re lucky I got a sister in Jacksonville,” he says as he opens the door, shuffling back and revealing the checkerboard pajamas he’s wearing under his sweater. “Shoes over there,” he adds, pointing to a pile of old boots in the corner. “Wife’s request; not mine.”
We nod thankfully, then add our shoes to the pile and hand him our jackets, which he layers on top of an old coatrack. “If ya want, I can hang the backpack, too,” he offers, taking a double take on me. “Man, all that white hair—I thought you were old at first. Like me,” he says. “You get that a lot?”
“Sometimes,” I tell him.
“You should get it more,” he insists. “White hair’s mysterious.”
“He’s very mysterious,” Serena blurts, meaning every word.
The man doesn’t care. “Anyhow, your backpack . . .”
“I’m fine holding it,” I say, sliding it onto my back and getting my first good look at the house, which is centered around a main hallway with three side-by-side sofas running along