The Book of Lies

23

Don’t touch it!” I call out. “It’s evidence!”

“Evidence?” my dad asks, shaking his head. “You’re not a cop anymore, Cal. Screw evidence. From here on in, we need to figure out how to stay alive—and near as I can tell, it’s by finding out what’s really going on and nabbing whatever’s in here.”

He motions down at the open, white-velvet-lined casket, where a dead Asian man with black hair and surprisingly dark skin lies, arms crossed over his chest. He’s slightly off center, a result of all the shaking and tugging we did to get the coffin out.

Best of all, he has firm skin, lots of makeup, and not a bit of smell. He’s been embalmed. But it’s his fine pin-striped suit, Yale tie, and pristine manicure that tells me he’s from money.

“Okay, enough already,” I growl at my dad. “What the eff is going on?”

Down on his knees and ignoring the question, he squints into the coffin like he’s searching for a lost contact lens.

“Lloyd . . .”

“Help me open the other side,” he says, his voice racing. With a shove, he flips open the lower lid, revealing the interior at the foot end of the casket. It’s cluttered like the back of an old junk drawer: a silver key ring, some dead flowers, a dark wooden rosary, half a dozen family photos, a broken comb (which I think is a tradition in China), a bottle of perfume, a stethoscope (maybe a doctor), and even a full set of clothes wrapped and tied neatly in a blue bow. Accompaniments for the afterlife.

I go for the photos, trying to figure out who this dead guy is. My father goes for the clutter. He pushes aside the flowers and digs underneath the pile of perfectly folded clothes. He’s searching for something, and as fast as he’s moving—he already knows it’s there.

At the bottom of the interior chamber of the coffin, there’s a flat white package the size of a FedEx delivery envelope wrapped in what looks like an oversize Ziploc bag.

My father yanks it out. There’s a zigzagging smile on his face.

“Is it easy for you to lie like that?” I ask. “You’re not just some truck driver. You knew all along this coffin was in here—and what was in it.”

“Cal, stop talking. I think I just saved our lives.”

With a pop, he rips open the Ziploc and— At first it looks like two sheets of paper stuck together, but as he touches it—it’s sticky. Like . . .

“Wax paper,” my father says, running his fingers along the edges, which have been ironed or melted together. In the bottom right corner, there’s faint lettering.

My father pulls it closer, and we both read the typed note:

If found, please return to:

10622 Kimberly Ave. Cleveland

But what’s far more important is what the wax paper holds hidden inside. You can almost see through it—tons of bright colors.

“Oh, man—if this is a Renoir,” my dad blurts. Like a child with a bag of candy, he tugs the two sides and pulls it open. A hiccup of dust and stale air floats upward, revealing an old yellowed magazine that’s trapped within. But as my dad takes out the magazine and thumbs through it . . . No. Not a magazine. The hand-drawn pictures . . . the childish art . . . He flips to the front, and the bright red font on the cover says: Action Comics. In the corner, it says: “No 1. June 1938.” But there’s no mistaking the drawing of the hero with the bright red cape and the big red S on his chest. Superman.

“Oh, we got ’em, Cal. We got ’em!” my father says, his zigzag smile spreading wider.

For a moment, it feels as if someone’s punctured my lungs with a metal hook and is tugging them up through my throat. Ellis said he wanted a book. Benny’s words echo in my head. That murder eighty years ago . . . Mitchell Siegel . . . and his son created—

No way this comic book is just a comic book.