SEVENTY-FIVE

I tracked my assistant manager to a rehearsal space at HB Studio on Bank Street. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one looking for a floppy-haired director of a superhero stage show. My favorite shaved-headed police sergeant greeted me in front of the red steel doors.

“Hey, Coffee Lady, fancy meeting you here.”

“What are you doing at an actors’ studio?”

Franco shrugged his big shoulders. “Time sink. McNulty has me reinterviewing everyone who tried to rent a Panther Man costume . . .”

Another good cop sidelined, I thought. Lori Soles was right about McNulty scattering Mike’s squad to the winds . . .

“It could be worse,” Franco added. “Poor Lieutenant Quinn is in the boondocks.”

“Where?”

“Staten Island. McNulty has him ‘overseeing interviews’ of staff and customers at a comic book store. Some wiseass posted the Panther Man credo onto the NYPD Facebook page.”

“Panther Man has a credo?”

“Sure. ‘Do not ask on whom Panther Man pounces. He pounces on you!’”

“That sounds an awful lot like Hemingway.”

“Yeah, the whole ‘bell tolls’ thing.” Franco shrugged. “But my job isn’t to investigate crappy comic book plagiarism. I’m here on a bogus follow-up to a crappy lead. And for the record, I never liked Panther Man. My guy’s Captain America.”

“Do you have a minute?”

“For you? Sure.”

While we loitered in front of HB, I quietly told Franco everything I knew about Gus, his blackmailer, and Madame’s vanishing act. He asked what he could do to help, and I told him a little (unofficial) NYPD backup could be useful.

“Do you know any officer who might be working security at the Brooklyn Cruise Terminal in Red Hook tonight? We could use some help . . . from the inside.”

“There’s a guy at the station house who coordinates that kind of thing,” he said, pulling out his phone. “I’ll reach out to him and see what I can do.”

I thanked Franco, and sent him off to his final “interview” of the day, an Irish pub offering a Panther Man special: two shots for the price of one—for anyone wearing blue.

*   *   *

A few minutes later, I found Tucker in the empty HB theater, dangling Superman on the end of a nearly invisible set of ropes.

“Stop wiggling and strike a pose!” Tuck directed.

My assistant manager clearly had found the perfect Superman. Though the actor’s back was turned to me, his muscular physique was impressive.

Nancy is going to be happy, I thought, as I watched Superman relax his body, high off the ground, and find a stilling balance.

At Tuck’s cry for “action,” Superman thrust out his arms and straightened his legs. With the help of a stagehand, the Man of Steel was able to fly like a superhero over the practice stage.

“Brilliant!” Tucker clapped excitedly. “It’s going to work!”

“I told you it would!” Superman replied from above. “I only weigh one fifty on a fat day. You don’t need thicker ropes. These work better—”

“Oh, my goodness!” I blurted. “Is that Punch up there?”

Superman squinted in my direction.

“Hey, CC, is that you? I don’t have my contacts in!”

It was Punch, Tucker’s boyfriend and one of the most accomplished cabaret drag singers and female impersonators in the Big Apple. And he made a pretty good Superman, too.

“You’ve been bulking up, I see.”

Punch laughed and pulled a cord. Before my eyes, the Man of Steel’s muscles sunk to nothing but limp vinyl.

“It’s an inflatable suit,” Punch explained. “You put it on, use an air can to blow it up like a balloon, and you’re instantly Mr. Universe. A handy little suit for Grindr profiles, too!”

Tuck snapped his fingers. “Bite your tongue. Remember, you’re taken!”

After scolding his partner for even thinking about using a dating app, Tuck turned to me.

“So what’s up, Clare? You look tense. Is something wrong?”

“I need your help. Can you turn me into Breanne Summour for the evening? It’s an emergency.”

Tuck’s eyes gleamed as he rubbed his hands together. “You came to the right theatrical genius! I have a locker downstairs, and it’s full of goodies.”

“You want my advice?” Punch called down from above. “Give her my Marc Jacobs. She’s got the assets for it—no padding necessary.”

“Perfect!” Tuck cried.

“And those tinted Bulgari glasses I wear when I’m doing Jackie O.”

“Will do!” Tuck put his hands on my shoulders, and urged me toward the door. “I also have a blond wig that looks way better than that overprocessed mane of Bree’s. Now let’s get to work—”

“Hey!” Punch shouted, still dangling from the ceiling. “What’s the deal here? I lose my muscles and you forget all about me?”

“Don’t be silly, honey,” Tuck replied, hurrying back to help him down. “Air muscles or not, you’ll always be my Superman.”