Mercury Man Read online

  MERCURY MAN

  MERCURY MAN

  Tom Henighan

  Copyright © Tom Henighan, 2004

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Editor: Barry Jowett

  Copy-Editor: Jennifer Bergeron

  Design: Jennifer Scott

  Printer: Transcontinental

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Henighan, Tom

  Mercury man/Tom Henighan.

  ISBN 1-55002-508-2

  I. Title.

  PS8565.E582M47 2004 jC813’.54 C2004-901391-2

  1 2 3 4 5 08 07 06 05 04

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on recycled paper.

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  To Rick and Dale Taylor

  “Mercury? Oh, sure, that’s the Roman name for the Greek god Hermes. That guy was something special! Divine messenger, trickster and the god of businessmen — and thieves — he knew all the paths and portals that lead from world to world, and he could get from here to there in a twinkle. When he put on his travelling hat and winged sandals it meant change was coming, and that could sometimes be painful, although now and then it worked out all right.”

  — Martin Seeland,

  Conversations on Mythology

  CHAPTER ONE

  Heat Wave

  Tom Blake struggled to the window. For two weeks the city had boiled and baked in the July weather. All along Morris Street, a ruler-straight passage through the labyrinth of Mechanicstown, the pavement radiated heat. Light glared from the buildings opposite and from the tops of the parked cars, dazzling the boy’s eyes.

  He squinted and leaned over the sill, trying to find a breeze in the steamy air. He was sweating badly, attempting to ignore the smells that sifted up through the floors of their ancient, run-down apartment block. Garbage smells, cigarette smoke, hints of overcooked food, and human sweat. The smell of time and waste, of lost hopes and stagnant purposes — after a while he couldn’t stand them any more and pulled away from the window. He looked around in despair, then lumbered to the door.

  There was nowhere to go, but anywhere was better than here. He grabbed his key from the hook and took a last look around the place. A living room stuffed with second-hand furniture from Valuemart, the faded walls posted with family photographs, a few old copies of Heavy Metal lying on the tattered rug where he had dropped them after falling asleep. If he and his mother had only been able to find a portable fan it might have been bearable, but fans at a price they could pay were impossible to locate in this heat wave. His mother worked in an air-conditioned supermarket all day, and he had his spell at the diner; otherwise it would have been unbearable.

  Wiping his sweating forehead, Tom thought of Grandpa Sandalls. He tramped down the stairs and stepped into the street. Grandpa Sandalls’s place had air conditioning, and they had slept there a couple of nights — his mother in the spare room and he on the couch — but Grandpa had a way of getting touchy when you stuck around too long. He was great for an hour or so, then his energy seemed to fade and you sensed that he had no use for you, that he wanted to make you disappear.

  Still, an hour in the air conditioning would help. And there would be a cold drink, some snacks, and his collections to check out, including the fabulous comic books …

  Tom walked west toward the Hollis Street intersection. Hollis was a little wider and much busier than Morris Street. In one direction it led to the river, where the old warehouses crowded together along the smelly and polluted channel. Going the other way you could reach Pitt Park, beyond which lay suburban homes, the library, and city hall. Mechanicstown formed a pocket of shabby buildings and cheap stores in the heart of the city. Even so, it was not really convenient to anything and was serviced only by a single hopeless bus route. Committees were always suggesting that the area (which was one of the city’s oldest) should be modernized and improved, but nothing was ever done.

  Tom strolled along the street, beginning to get thirsty already. He wondered where Pete and the guys were. Bim, he knew, would be in the country at his uncle’s farm. He hadn’t seen Estella Lopez in days. Old men and old women were everywhere — the rents were quite low in Mechanicstown. All around him, the shabby trees seemed withered, and cats hid in the darkest alleys. Yet a couple of geezers, with canes and sunglasses, tottered along past the fire hydrant, casting wistful glances at its locked-up metal. Maybe they were remembering the torrents of clear water that had been released by a merciful authority on some long-vanished summer day. Maybe they were afraid they would fall asleep and die if they didn’t move.

  On the corner of Hollis Tom hesitated. It was an anonymous intersection at the best of times, and today the action was minimal — one or two delivery trucks, a few cyclists dressed as if they were heading for the beach, and an empty bus bumping down from the Pitt Park area.

  Tom stood looking around at the stores. Small stores, with cheap gaudy signs and dark interiors — they were always changing hands, always offering something new that nobody wanted. How did people think they could make a living selling “barely used” clothes, gaudy amateur artwork, or ten-year-old knick-knacks for bathrooms? Almost nobody ever dropped in on such places, and only the bar at the corner, the magazine shop, and the economy branch of a local funeral home survived the constant changes.

  “Hey, man, you lookin’ for a freezer locker or something?”

  The figure was upon him before he could blink: Jeff Parker the jogging fool, stripped down and sweating, pumping his feet up and down, smiling, dancing around.

  “You must be crazy! Some day to be in motion,” Tom said, smiling. He was flattered to be addressed by Jeff, a high school superstar who had won every race he had ever entered and was being courted by track coaches from all over the country.

  “I’m in training, I’m always in training. Beat the heat, get in shape for the meet — you know how it is. You headed for work?”

  “Not today. Gotta go check on my grandfather — he’s getting pretty old. Besides, he’s got air conditioning, and I nearly fried in our apartment.”

  “Sounds like a cool move. You ought to be in motion, though. Don’t get any benefit just lumbering around the streets, like.”

  Even as he spoke, Jeff himself stayed in motion, his strong legs pumping steadily. Now he danced around Tom, who had to keep turning to face him. Jeff was a strong guy, shorter than Tom but with well-developed chest and arms. His le
gs, not really long, were awesomely moulded. He was bare to the waist and sweating like a pig.

  “You look like you could run, man. How come you never tried? Always wondered about you, Blake. I may have to recruit you as a partner. Just tried to haul up Wally Jones, but he looks something like a zombie. Must have been out drinking or got something up his nose. Wanna jog back to the park with me?”

  “Sorry, Jeff. Got to go on to my grandfather’s.”

  “Hey, then, you wanna play Little Red Riding Hood, you go ahead.” Jeff smiled at him. “I don’t see no basket, but you watch out for the wolf!”

  He whirled away and with a few strong strides disappeared down Morris Street.

  Almost without looking, Tom scampered across the intersection. A horn sounded close by. His pace continued fast — he didn’t look around. He felt the sweat run but didn’t let that slow him down.

  Of course he could run! He was amazed and a little irritated by Jeff’s taunting. Sure, it was flattering. To run with Jeff Parker — some kids would kill for the privilege. It sounded too much like his mother, though. “Don’t know why you don’t take up some sport,” she would say to him. “Just look at you, rangy and strong, the figure of a tennis star. You never play baseball or anything. Watching too much TV again — I wish you’d get out and get active!”

  Tom winced at the memory, swore at a cat that refused to move from a hot patch of sidewalk, dodged a kid on a bicycle, and walked on past the small hardware stores, the tailor, and the bakery.

  Of course his mother would always be sorry after one of her lectures and give him credit for his hard work and study. In first-year high he had even won a prize. It was for an essay entitled “Reaching for the Stars,” which had been read by one of his friends to the assembled city schools because he was too scared to do it. His mother was thrilled; she knew it didn’t come easy to him. Books didn’t grab him — he liked movies much better — but when he had to, he could buckle down.

  There was no competition with dating and parties, either, because he wasn’t into that scene — avoided it like poison, in fact. Tom told himself he didn’t want any part of it, yet he got angry when he overheard his mother telling someone he was “shy.”

  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, b
y 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 …