Fic: "The Prince's Ghost", Chapter 5
Title: "The Prince's Ghost" (5/11)
Pairing/Characters: Bruce Wayne/Jim Gordon, John Blake, Lucius Fox, Gerard Stephens, Renee Montoya, Harvey Bullock, Derek Powers
Rating: R (overall)
Wordcount: 7,926
SPOILERS: The Dark Knight Rises
Summary: After the events of TDKR, things in Gotham go back to normal and Gordon is getting used to working with a new Batman - until a familiar face is spotted around the city.
Author's Notes: Look out, Ol' Matches is back...
Previous Chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
-------
Chapter 5:
The Need to Avoid Contempt and Hatred
As Bullock and Montoya were concluding their business in the East End, Blake was sat outside Fox’s office waiting patiently for the older man to finish a meeting and trying very hard not to make eye contact with Jessica. Had it only been two days since he’d last been here? So much had happened in such a short space of time - and yet somehow nothing seemed to have changed.
If he were honest with himself, Blake was not entirely certain whether the fleeting figure amongst the gravestones had been Bruce Wayne or whether his fantasies were starting to run away with him. Could it be possible that Bruce was alive; that he was back in Gotham and once more planning to fight crime from the shadows? All reason howled against the concept that Bruce could yet again return from the dead - and from no less than a nuclear explosion - but every ounce of Blake’s instinct knew that there was more in play here than his imagination, and if all his years in Gotham had taught him anything it was to go with his instincts.
What he was here to find out was if anyone else agreed with those instincts.
“-warn you, Lucius, I’m not a man who takes no for an answer. You can’t put me off forever.”
Blake turned in his seat as the door to Lucius’ office opened and Derek Powers stepped into the outer office, closely followed by a tightly-smiling Lucius Fox.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy the prize better if you’ve worked for it a little, Mr Powers,” Lucius said, his smile thinning even further. Apparently oblivious to the barely veiled sarcasm Powers let out a gale of laughter, resting a hand on Lucius’ shoulder.
“Oh Lucius, you’re fantastic! I know I’m going to enjoy working with you.”
“I have no doubt it will prove educational, Mr Powers,” Lucius replied diplomatically, but Blake could see the growing strain beneath the veneer of politeness on his employer’s face. Deciding that Fox would probably welcome the intervention Blake rose from his seat, straightened his suit jacket and slid into the role of ‘Young and Inexperienced Executive’.
“Mr Fox?”
Fox and Powers turned to look at him, relief and annoyance both in evidence at his interruption. Powers looked Blake up and down coldly, the expression in his dark eyes sharp and critical.
“I’m sorry, Mr...?” he queried mildly.
“Yes, my apologies.” Lucius’ smile became a touch more genuine. “Mr Powers, allow me to introduce John Blake; estate manager of the Wayne Orphanage and my executive consultant on the partnership programme with the Gotham Police Department.”
“Mr Blake.” A spark of recognition flitted across the young tycoon’s face, and Powers grinned wolfishly as he shook Blake’s outstretched hand. “We meet at last! Lucius has been telling me about all the good work you’re doing with the GCPD.”
“Thank you, sir.” Blake kept his expression carefully neutral, despite the sick feeling in his stomach. Gordon’s advice to work on his poker face was really paying off. “I hope you’ll consider continuing with the project should the merger prove successful.”
Derek Powers was a couple of inches shorter than Blake and a good few years younger, with ash-blond hair and dark brown eyes. Yet despite his youth and polished manners there was something immediately unsettling about Powers, in that he seemed to radiate an aura of refined menace. Blake did not doubt it was one of the reasons Powers’ career in Daggett Industries had advanced so rapidly.
“It’s in all our interests to help Gotham’s Finest where we can,” Powers said smoothly, and Blake noted the answer was in no way a commitment. “I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the near future, Mr Blake.”
“I expect you will, Mr Powers,” Lucius cut in, before Blake could reply. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I have some urgent business to attend to with Mr Blake. Jessica will show you out.”
“He seems friendly,” Blake commented bluntly as Fox shut the office door behind him, all too happy to put a barrier between them and Derek Powers.
“He’ll fire me on the spot,” Lucius grumbled, walking back over to his desk. “Or manoeuvre me into early retirement; force me to surrender my shares and then kick me out of the company. He won’t make the same mistake as Earle by keeping me on.” He sat down with a heavy sigh, leaning back in his chair and sent Blake a questioning glance. “So what can I do for you, Mr Blake? I wasn’t expecting to see you for a few days yet.”
“It’s nothing to do with business this time, Mr Fox,” Blake said, taking a seat opposite his employer. “More of a personal matter. I’m... starting to wonder if I might believe in ghosts.”
“Well, I must admit no one’s ever come to me for spiritual guidance before,” Lucius said after a moment of stunned silence.
“One ghost in particular,” Blake persevered, steadily meeting the other man’s gaze. He had resolved, whilst waiting outside Fox’s office, to address the subject directly. Being purposefully vague wouldn’t help either of them on this occasion. “One that’s been receiving a lot of media attention in Gotham of late.”
All traces of amusement vanished from Lucius’ face.
“I don’t find that very funny, Mr Blake,” he said flatly.
“Nor do I,” Blake countered. “Which is why I’ve come to you.”
Lucius’ brow creased with mild concern as it became clear that Blake was being utterly serious. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward, regarding the younger man thoughtfully.
“And what, may I ask, has brought this on?” he enquired, his voice softening a fraction.
Blake rose to his feet and took a few restless paces towards the windows, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Where to begin? He lifted his head and gazed out at the Gotham skyline, wondering how to relate the tale without sounding unhinged.
“The night before last -” Blake’s throat had suddenly gone dry, making it hard to speak. “- I think I saw him. It was about six-thirty; I’d just got back to the Orphanage and was parking the car when I spotted someone standing amongst the gravestones of the Wayne family plot. I thought it was one of the boys - you know how they’ve been daring each other to stay there overnight - so I went to fetch him out. I mean, out all night in the snow? Stupid kid would have frozen to death. As I got closer, though, I realised it wasn’t one of the kids; it was a guy. He was about six-feet-one, maybe six-feet-two, wearing a grey sweater with the hood pulled up, a baseball cap covering his face. Doubt I would’ve seen him if I’d been driving any faster. I tried to talk to him, find out what he was doing there, but when I got close he ran. I chased him into the kitchen garden, but then I lost sight of him and he just vanished. No trace of him whatsoever.”
“Sounds like a mortal interloper rather than a phantom, Mr Blake.”
“So I thought,” Blake continued, his jaw setting in a grim line. “Until I saw him move. He vaulted over the railings easy as anything and he was fast; real fast. I’ve seen moves like that before, but only from one person. That, and he was standing by Thomas Wayne’s headstone.”
“Coincidence?” Lucius suggested. “A trick of the light, perhaps?”
“Pretty sure a trick of the light wouldn’t leave footprints,” Blake commented dryly. “I mean, it was a funeral without a body; are we really even sure he’s dead?”
Lucius swung round in his chair, regarding Blake steadily over steepled fingers.
“If it were Bruce Wayne,” he asked. “Why would he run?”
“I don’t know,” Blake replied, honestly baffled. This was what was getting him. “But I’m betting he’d run if he thought he had a reason to.”
A short silence filled the office as Lucius sat digesting the information and Blake stood contemplating the snow-shrouded city, shoulders slumped and hands thrust deep in his pockets.
“Have you told any of this to the commissioner?” Lucius finally asked.
“Not yet,” Blake said. “I wanted to get your thoughts before I spoke to him.”
Lucius nodded, levering himself up from his chair to join Blake by the window.
“We’d better run a check on the manor’s security systems to see if any of the perimeter sensors are malfunctioning,” he said briskly. “Otherwise I strongly suggest, Mr Blake, you keep what you’ve seen to yourself. Jim Gordon has enough on his plate to deal with already without being handed false hope.”
Blake’s face fell.
“There’s really no way Bruce could have survived?”
“Mr Blake,” Lucius said sombrely, gently but firmly laying a hand on Blake’s shoulder. The businessman suddenly looked very old and very tired. “Mr Wayne was an endlessly inventive man. His was one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever known, but there comes a time when even the smartest men run out of ideas.”
He paused, a sigh escaping his lips before he continued.
“And though I’d like nothing better than to believe otherwise, I know in my bones that Bruce Wayne will not be returning to Gotham.”
-------
Once more the Batsignal illuminated the clouds above Gotham. It had begun snowing again in the last half hour and Gordon huddled closer to the spotlight, taking what little warmth he could and cursing the sense of urgency that had overridden the more rational thought to bring up his usual flask of coffee.
It was now gone nine at night; eleven hours since Gordon had given the Sanchez press conference. Second Shift had clocked in and the First Shift reports were resting on the nearby parapet, alongside Bullock and Montoya’s rough transcript of their interview with Sukie Jones. Apparently Stephens’ hunch had paid off and Malone did know something about the murder of Johnny Franks - and there by association would know something about Hinksy. It had been another long day, there was no denying it, but it was by no means over yet.
Surprisingly the press conference had gone off without much incident. Engel had been there but he had not been looking to make trouble, confining his questions solely to the topic on hand which made an unusual but pleasant change. Maybe some of what had been said earlier that morning had made an impression? Gordon dismissed that thought as soon as it had arisen. Engel was not the sort to give up easily, and was most likely waiting for a more opportune moment to corner him; one which didn’t involve a room full of rival reporters being tipped off to a potential scoop.
Leafing through Montoya’s report, Gordon’s brow furrowed deeper as he once again reviewed the facts of the case so far - as he had done every day since the name ‘Hinksy’ had gone up in red on the board in the MCU bullpen. Stuart Hinksy had been an unremarkable man of average height and middle age; a family man with a steady full-time job as a low grade lab technician in the Pharmaceuticals Division at Daggett Industries. Hinksy was methodical and efficient in his work, well-liked by his colleagues, up to date with his rent and credit bills, had no gambling debts, no unorthodox sexual tendencies and he wasn’t a drinker; there was therefore no obvious explanation as to why a week ago he had been found dead in a back alley five miles from his idyllically suburban house in Grafton, shot clean through the centre of the forehead. The body had been stripped naked after death, bound hand and foot with zip-strips, and left with a note nailed to its chest reading ‘TRAITOR’ in classic newspaper cut-and-paste style.
Hinksy’s family was distraught, his neighbours outraged, and anyone else who'd known him was equally baffled. His co-workers at Daggett Industries had nothing to add to the investigation, his immediate supervisor in the lab could not have been more astonished (“Stu was always so quiet, such a diligent guy, so not the type!”) and there was nothing on his employment record to suggest even the potential for any wrong-doing. The questions as to ‘why’ and ‘who’ had seemed a long way off being answered.
The dirt, however, had lain only just below the surface. As soon as Gordon’s team had started digging a little deeper it turned out that for the past ten months Hinksy had been receiving large sums of money on a regular basis from an anonymous source; far beyond that which his modest salary could ever account for. Further scrutiny of the Hinksy family home led to the discovery of an incriminating amount of heroin and cocaine slabs neatly stockpiled in the garden shed, which his wife genuinely had no idea even existed. It appeared the proceeds of his fairly profitable sideline in narcotics had been explained away to her as a raise.
Samples of the drugs came back from the lab testing as uncut and undiluted by the usual dealers’ tricks; the highest possible purity, the best there was to be had. Difficult enough for even the top Mob dealers to get hold of even with all their connections and resources, let alone a two-bit supplier at street level. All Narcotics teams had been sent to question every CI they had in an effort to identify Hinksy’s connections - who’d been buying off him, how he’d been getting his supplies, which gang he owed allegiance to - but there was nothing, not even a rumour. Two days into the investigation information about Hinksy had dried up completely, and then five days later Johnny Franks had turned up dead and no one was talking about him either. The coincidence was too great to be anything but suspicious.
Several other things were bothering Gordon about this case beyond the stony silence at street level. The lump payments into Hinksy’s account had been the first indication that there might be a Mob element to the case. Had Hinksy been acting alone or even as part of a small gang he would have deposited the money as it came in, in relatively small sums of cash spaced out irregularly. Instead the payments were a regular four thousand a month, wired from an offshore account in the Caymans. Even for the Mob that was unusual. Then there was the note nailed to Hinksy’s body, the ritual humiliation, Franks’ dismembered girlfriend and now the gun. Someone went to a lot of trouble planning out these three murders; a lot more than Gordon would have come to expect from some Mob in-fighting over a few stockpiled drugs. But something else was still nagging at the back of his mind - something they were missing, something important - yet Gordon was still no closer to figuring out what it might be.
Nine years ago it wouldn’t have mattered. Bruce would have known in an instant.
“Commissioner?”
Gordon spun round on his heels, heart pounding hard in his chest, to find an equally startled Batman staring back at him from over by the stairwell. Batman. But not Bruce.
“Commissioner?” Batman asked again, an edge of concern to his deep voice. “Is something wrong?”
“I...” Gordon visibly deflated as the tension seeped out of his shoulders. Blake. It was only Blake. “Seems like you’ve got the whole appearing from nowhere thing sorted.”
Batman cocked his head to one side in amusement, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
“I’d better stop if I risk giving you a coronary each time.”
“No. No, it’s good that you’re getting better. Well done.”
But Batman narrowed his eyes, clearly not convinced the older man’s state was entirely due to his being caught unawares.
“What’s wrong, commissioner?”
“Nothing, I...” Gordon began, but faltered as the gaze narrowed further. Gordon sighed, irritated, turning to lean on the parapet. There was an awkward silence in which Gordon could feel Batman watching him intently; but he waited, knowing that he wouldn’t be the first to speak.
“Bruce?” Batman questioned quietly.
“Yes,” Gordon admitted, wincing. His Batman would have waited; stayed silent and made Jim speak his mind by doing nothing else but simply being there. Though that Blake would know he was thinking about Bruce was not a comforting thought either, so he squared his shoulders, turned away from the snow-blurred skyline and frowned at the other man. They were here on business, after all. “But it’s not important. What do you know about Matches Malone?”
“What do you want to know?” Batman rumbled after only a moment’s hesitation, Gordon feeling ridiculously relieved that the vigilante had chosen to let the subject drop. The commissioner slid the file containing Montoya’s report along the parapet.
“It looks like there is a definite link between Hinksy and Johnny Franks. Bullock and Montoya talked to Sukie Jones this morning, Malone’s girl when he was last in Gotham, and she said Franks had been to see Malone the night before he died, demanding protection.”
“From who?” Batman asked, picking up the file and scanning through the report.
“She doesn’t know, but Franks had talked to someone about Hinksy’s murder against the wishes of whichever Mob boss has an interest in the investigation going cold. Sukie reckons it’s the reason he was killed.”
“And Malone refused to give protection?” Batman growled, looking up from the report, a glint of anger in those eyes. Gordon shrugged.
“More like ‘couldn’t’. Whoever put the word out is more than someone like Malone can hope to deal with.”
Batman gave a non-descript grunt, reading through the report one last time before replacing it in the file and handing it back to Gordon.
“You reckon there’s a chance Malone knew what Franks talked about?” he asked. Gordon’s moustache twitched at the corners.
“Actually, I was hoping you might go to the trouble of asking him for me,” he said lightly.
Batman stared at him, and Gordon imagined Blake’s eyebrows rising to meet his hairline beneath the cowl. He had never asked Blake for this sort of help before, preferring to use the man more for chasing down hard to access information and have his own people conduct any interrogations. This was a whole new level of trust, and Gordon hoped Blake was aware of that - as, deep down, he also prayed all his doubts about Blake not being up to the task would be proven wrong.
“You have any leads?” Batman eventually enquired.
“Just one,” Gordon said, unconsciously pulling his coat tighter around him. Was it his imagination, or was it getting colder up here? “He’s laying low, waiting for the dust to settle around the bosses before deciding which way to jump, but Sukie said he’s often to be found at the Stacked Deck.”
Batman nodded in acknowledgment.
“Prime spot along the Waterfront,” he huffed. “It’s as good a place as any to start.”
An awkward silence fell between them and Gordon shivered again, now more than ever regretting the absence of coffee. It would have been something to fill the silence as much as to keep them warm.
“So,” he asked, breaking the tension that had begun to thicken the air between them. “You got any thoughts on this?”
“Rupert Thorne,” Batman mumbled without a pause. Gordon felt somewhat satisfied that Blake also had been thinking along the same lines as he had. “Whoever’s responsible wants those that matter to get the message. It has to be someone in the Mob; someone powerful, someone who thinks he’s untouchable, someone with an eye for showmanship.”
“Not Stromwell or Valestra?”
“Thorne’s gone a long way in a very short time,” Batman said gruffly. “He and his backer have got Stromwell and Valestra on the defensive. Even so, political and financial interest will only get him so far; he needs fear and respect on the streets to secure his hold on the city.”
Gordon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure building there. Batman tilted his head to one side, studying Gordon with the same expression of concern as when he’d startled him on his arrival.
“Go home, commissioner,” he rumbled quietly. “Eat a decent meal, get some rest. Davies can handle things ‘til morning; it’s his job.”
“Not you too?” Gordon pleaded. When he received no reply save the continuation of that concerned gaze Gordon dropped his hands to his sides, letting out a huff of irritation. “Why does everyone keep asking me if I’m ok?”
“You’ve been working almost non-stop this past year. You’ve pretty much stitched the city back together single handed; but you’re just one man, commissioner. You can’t expect to keep working near on twenty-two hours a day without running yourself into the ground.”
Gordon drew a sharp breath in through his teeth and hurriedly turned his back, closing his eyes briefly to regain his composure. Unknowingly, Blake had hit the nail right on the head. Yes, he was just one man.
We used to be two.
“Don’t think you’re blameless in this,” he warned jokingly, hoping against hope to lighten the mood and direct attention away from the subject of his health. “Stephens said this morning that I have an ‘I’m-worried-about-Batman’ face.”
“You do,” Batman replied simply, refusing to take the bait. “Stacy diverts all but your urgent calls to Sawyer when she sees you wearing it, and Stephens and Bullock take it in turns to play bouncer at your office door. You’re wearing it now.”
Gordon's shoulders hunched instinctively and he bowed his head, eyes desperately fixed on his shoes as he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.
“But they’ve got it wrong,” Batman continued relentlessly. “Because it’s not me you’re thinking of when you get that look on your face. It’s how I knew you were thinking about him.”
Behind him Gordon felt Batman take a step closer, his voice dropping in volume and register.
“It’s been a year, commissioner. Why won’t you let him go?”
“I’ve tried,” Gordon murmured, making a valiant effort to keep a quaver from his voice. “God knows how I’ve tried, but I can’t. There’s something won’t let me, some part of me that refuses to believe he’s really gone.”
“He was at the centre of a nuclear explosion,” Batman stated harshly, eyes like flint. “He was towing a four-megaton neutron bomb on a ten foot cable. There is no way he could have survived.”
Gordon swallowed down the lump that was rising in his suddenly too-tight throat, taking a steadying breath before trusting himself to answer.
“I know,” he said quietly. “And I'd be an idiot to say otherwise. But damn it all, he was my friend - no, my partner! You can’t expect me to just -”
He stopped as he heard a crunch of gravel on the roof behind him, and Gordon turned just in time to see Batman drop off the parapet, seconds later soaring away on black wings into the night. The commissioner watched until he was out of sight, feeling winded and inexplicably bereft. Blake had walked out on him.
It was an entirely new and unwelcome experience.
And then Gordon noticed that he had been too distracted to remember to turn off the signal after Batman had arrived, having left it blazing away through the entirety of their conversation.
“God damn it!” he hissed through clenched teeth, the words misting the air with his breath. The wind sighed and gusted in response, turning to sting his cheeks with ice crystals. “God damn it all to hell!”
Furious, he shut off the signal, turned on his heel and headed back down the stairwell, slamming the fire escape door behind him with a great clang which echoed angrily across the adjacent rooftops. Five minutes passed, and then slowly a shadowy form uncurled from where it had been concealed behind a heating conduit since before Gordon had arrived. It was a man; about 6’2” in height, wearing a charcoal grey hoodie, black slacks and solid, black boots. Brushing a thin layer of snow from his shoulders he let out a low, heavy sigh, the black silk scarf covering his nose and mouth ensuring that his breath barely left a mark in the frigid air.
“I’m sorry, Jim,” he whispered, the words all but lost to the moaning of the wind. “I’m sorry.”
-------
If Gordon had thought from Batman’s abrupt departure that Blake was merely adopting a further variety of unsympathetic Bat behaviour, he was sorely mistaken. Blake was in fact livid, and had left at that moment simply because he had not trusted himself to say anything he wouldn’t later regret.
Despite Lucius’ cryptic warning Blake had gone to meet Gordon that evening with every intention of telling him about the hooded intruder at the manor, if only to let him know of a potential security breach, but moment he’d seen the commissioner’s face Blake had finally understood what his employer had meant. So he'd had kept quiet, biting his tongue even as Gordon confessed his inability to move on. Perhaps he was giving into paranoia - hell, considering how Bruce had been before he died it was probably only a matter of time - but Blake wouldn’t risk losing the little faith he had worked so hard to gain from the commissioner in favour of a phantom. For all they had worked well together over the past year and a half, Blake had never had any illusions as to how Gordon felt about him taking up the mantle of the Batman. He had known from the start that Jim wanted nothing more than to have Bruce back in the suit instead of him, even though it was a wish that could never be granted.
In that light it was also very hard for him not to take the absence of coffee as a personal slight.
Well, Blake thought bitterly, he’d show Gordon. He could do this job. Bruce had believed him capable of carrying on the legacy of the Batman, and that was more than good enough for him.
Or maybe not, a little voice whispered in the back of his mind.
Blake shifted uncomfortably. The thought had been bothering him for some time, nagging away in the rare moments when his brain wasn’t otherwise occupied, and with the reappearance of Matches Malone it had yet again reared its ugly head. In life Bruce’d had access to information on everyone on the planet - quite literally everyone - yet Blake’s searches of the Cave databanks had returned nothing on Malone beyond his GCPD rap sheet and a list of everyone he’d ever shared a cell with. Nor was this the first time certain key pieces of information had been lacking on minor underworld figures, which led Blake to suspect that the absence of said information was not merely an oversight on Bruce’s part (Besides which, it wasn’t the sort of mistake Bruce would’ve made). No, it meant there was something about Malone that Bruce hadn’t wanted to risk anyone else finding out - even going so far as to take the secret to his grave - and it had to be something big because there was not a single reason Blake could think of, good or bad, as to why Bruce would have gone to such lengths to protect a member of the Mob. Gordon’s mistrust Blake could at least understand, but Bruce...
The thought that Bruce hadn’t trusted him was unthinkable; and therefore Batman would not think about it. At least not tonight.
Having decided to follow up the Matches Malone lead, Batman had lost no time in going straight to the Waterfront district from the roof of the MCU. After making a quick reconnaissance of the area, he had alighted on the warehouse building opposite the Stacked Deck and was now perched on a convenient fire escape overlooking the side exit of the bar. The Stacked Deck, once the property of Carmine Falcone and now owned by Louis “Fishbait” Costello, had been the favoured haunt of the lowest of Gotham’s low-life scum for near on three decades. The regulars were all criminals to a man (or woman), and as such it was the hub of all illicit activities in the city. If something was going down, it was guaranteed someone at the Stacked Deck would know about it. Therefore it was no wonder to Batman that Malone would choose to hang out here, for besides being part of his old territory it was the ideal place to keep his finger on the pulse of Gotham’s underworld. Vital, one might say, for a man who was looking to stay one step ahead of the Mob.
Concealed in the shadows Batman settled a little more comfortably on the fire escape, wrapping his cape around him as protection against the snow, and waited - because in this case it would simply be a waiting game, dictated by human biology and a little local knowledge. Once upon a time during a raid John Blake the patrolman had made the mistake of visiting the men’s restroom in the Stacked Deck and had subsequently sworn never to do so again (Even worse, his partner had ‘forgotten’ to warn him and had just stood there howling with laughter when Blake had re-emerged swearing and gasping for breath). The longstanding custom was that this alleyway served as a replacement facility, as even in the depths of winter a dark back alley was infinitely preferable to the uniquely revolting stench indoors. Therefore it was guaranteed that every male patron frequenting the bar that night would walk through this side door at least once to answer a call of nature. Batman didn’t have any qualms about using the information to his advantage.
Amongst all the various Bat paraphernalia, Bruce had bequeathed to his successor several pieces of advice, one of which in particular came to mind as Batman sat in wait for his prey: Criminals are not complicated, but never make the mistake of thinking they can’t be clever.
By all accounts Malone was clever. Not intelligent like the Joker or Bane - or even the al Ghuls - but sly with a profound ability to talk himself out of tight spots. Batman was therefore determined only to let the gangster talk enough to find out why Johnny Franks had been so afraid and nothing more; anything else beyond that would probably be shit-spinning from the likes of Malone, anyway.
An hour went by in which Batman watched a steady stream of men come and go, most of whom faces he knew from past cases and the Cave databanks. Another half an hour later and the side door opened to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a thin moustache plastered across his upper lip. He was wearing a disgustingly loud plaid suit and a pair of aviator sunglasses and, though he was perched high up, even at this distance Batman could make out the matchstick clenched between his teeth. There, that had to be him. The guy fitted Malone’s general description; and besides which, who else was likely to be walking around here wearing sunglasses at night and chewing on a matchstick?
Oblivious to the fact that he was being watched, Probably-Malone paused in the doorway and half-turned back into the bar, as if someone just inside were talking to him. He let out a dismissive bark of laughter, calling back over his shoulder.
“What, you wanna hold my hand?”
A perfect North Jersey accent - flat and nasal - augmented with a casual leer. Definitely Malone. The gangster slammed the door shut after him, crossed the alley to the dumpster and unzipped his fly. Two storeys above him Batman shifted on his perch, shaking the snow from where it had settled about his shoulders and readied a grapple beneath his cape. Showtime.
He dropped silently and landed in a conveniently dense patch of shadows a few yards away from the dumpster. Judging by the info he had gleaned from those at the MCU who over the years had been privileged enough to witness the Bat ‘at work’, half of Bruce’s success had lain in scaring his target witless before he’d even started asking the questions. With any luck, the same tactic should work just as well now as it had then. As Malone was still facing the dumpster Batman waited patiently for the man to finish, deciding to at least allow him that much dignity. Even he drew the line at interrogating a guy with his dick hanging out.
And then suddenly, without turning round, Malone said calmly:
“’F you’re plannin’ on jumping me, I expect you to buy me dinner afterwards.”
Batman took a hurried glance around the alley, seeking out whoever Malone was talking to and wondering how he had been so careless as not to notice another person had arrived on the scene - but there was no one else in sight.
“Yeah, you lurking in the shadows!” Malone called sarcastically, tucking his shirt back in and fastening his fly. “I am talkin’ to you.”
Wait, Malone was talking to him? Batman cursed silently, but did not move a muscle. How the hell had Malone known he was there? The only person he couldn’t generally sneak up on these days was Gordon, and that was only due to the commissioner having had many years experience at Bat-spotting. Not to mention Malone should have been near-blind wearing those stupid sunglasses in the dark.
“Matches Malone?” Batman growled, covering his inward frustration with outward aggression. He had lost the element of surprise, so the direct approach it would have to be.
“Who wants to know?”
Despite his resolution not to allow himself to be baited, Batman felt a flash of irritation that the cocksure bastard hadn’t even turned round. Was Malone already feeling so secure on his own turf again, or had he simply been away from Gotham so long he’d lost the heightened sense of self-preservation necessary to survive here? Whichever it was, Batman thought darkly, he ought to dispel such illusions fairly swiftly. Quick as lightening he covered the sparse distance between him and Malone, grabbed the man by the scruff of his suit jacket and yanked him back into the shadows. Malone barely had time to let out a startled yelp before he was slammed against the wall, all the breath knocked out of him, and pinned there by two heavy black-gloved hands fisted in his lapels. Batman leaned forward until they were practically nose-to-cowl, baring his teeth in a bestial snarl.
“Me.”
Contrary to Gordon’s belief, this was not John Blake’s first interrogation as the Batman. Since the end of the Crisis there had been the need, on several occasions, to chase down information which hadn’t been available anywhere else but the street - and not easily obtainable at that. That Gordon had been gently misled as to the method of how the information had been obtained was neither here nor there, and Batman had been working on the old principle of the less Gordon knew, the better. Plus he had a feeling that, on some level, the commissioner wouldn’t exactly approve if he found out. He remembered with a quiet satisfaction the first time he had swooped out of the darkness to question a pimp in connection with some of the still at large escapees from Blackgate; the startled cry and the naked fear in the man’s eyes as he’d stepped towards him out of the night. Shit, man! I thought you was dead! It had taken very little persuasion to get the guy to spill all he knew.
But whatever reaction he’d hoped to elicit from Malone (something along the lines of the gangster turning to terrified putty in his hands) Batman was to be sorely disappointed. In fact, far from being cowed into submission, Malone seemed genuinely put out.
“Oh terrific,” Malone whined, an edge of bitterness to his voice. “As if things ain’t bad enough.”
Batman tightened his grip.
“Believe me, they’re about to get worse.”
“No shit,” Malone mumbled, shifting in an ineffectual attempt to try and get his feet back down on the ground, instead of suspended several inches in the air. “And go easy on the suit! It’s new.”
Beneath the cowl Batman’s frown deepened. Malone was certainly living up to his reputation; arrogant, mouthy and with no end of smart-ass lines. He’d run up against hard cases like Malone nearly every day of his life before the cowl; the bright ones who thought they could sass their way out of a charge, usually the first to cry harassment when you slapped on the cuffs. The only way to deal with them was to keep the words short, direct and to the point, and not let up on them; body language aggressive, but in control. Malone had been gone from Gotham for nearly a decade - long enough to forget what dealing with the Batman was really like - and, therefore, Malone needed to be reminded of his manners. Batman had no use for verbal niceties.
“Alright,” he purred, before letting go and dropping Malone hard on his ass, the gangster letting out a pained cry as his rear connected with the curb. Immediately Batman crowded in close again, not giving Malone time to recover his balance. “I want answers, Malone, and if I don’t get them you’ll have a lot more to worry about than a rumpled suit.”
Now that he and the gangster were ‘up close and personal’, Batman used the moment to make a quick study of the fabled Matches Malone. Height, build and hair colour Batman had noted beforehand; now he logged the extra details which had been invisible at a distance and from his mug shot. Malone’s hair was slicked back and shiny with a little too much gel, his sharp cheekbones framed by short, dark sideburns. Except for the thin moustache he was clean shaved, though not too closely, so his jaw was covered in a rough-looking five o’clock shadow. The aviator glasses hid his eyes, reflecting what little light filtered into the alley from the bar; cheap plastic lenses with no finish and no brand name on the frames, the sort that could be picked up anywhere for a few dollars. His breath smelt of mint and the man reeked of cheap cologne - so much that for a moment Batman speculated whether he might have bathed in the stuff - but beneath it there was a note of something vaguely familiar; a powdery tang at odds with the aggressive manliness of the cologne, something that smelt like... make-up?
“Figures,” Malone muttered, halting Batman's train of thought before it could pursue that line of thinking any further. “When I heard the cops grilled my babe this morning I reckoned you’d be along soon as you crawled outta your coffin.”
“Then you know what I want,” Batman said, letting the comment slide. He wasn’t going to be drawn into trading witticisms. Malone grimaced.
“Yeah, Hinksy and Franks,” he spat. “Same as everybody wants to know. Look, people are getting iced for squealing; what makes you think I’d risk my neck telling you?”
Feeling another stab of irritation Batman let out a low growl, his hands once again grabbing Malone’s lapels, pulling him upwards and shaking him roughly.
“How about you risk not telling me?” Batman hissed, his voice dropping to a deadly pitch.
“Jesus, cool it!” Malone yelped, trying to shrink away from that grasp, but he only succeeded in pushing himself further back against the alley wall. “I only wanted to know if you were still paying!”
Paying? Batman blinked, thrown entirely off balance. Of all the things that could have been said tonight, he had never imagined for a moment that any suggestion of payment might come into it. Was Malone trying to get himself beaten to a pulp? But no, the comment had been defensive and lacked the belligerent tone the gangster had used up until now. If Malone was genuinely surprised by his behaviour, then... then was it possible he had been an informer for Bruce? Batman felt a brief spark of panic blossom in his chest which he fought to stifle, schooling his face back into its harsh lines once more. He couldn’t hesitate now; he had to keep going, keep pressing Malone, keep him off balance.
“That depends on you telling me what I want to know,” he snarled, but he had reacted too late. The damage was already done; Malone had seen his moment of confusion. Now the gangster studied him thoughtfully, or at least what appeared to be thoughtfully to Batman for all he could interpret the man’s expression behind those glasses.
“Y’know,” Malone said quietly. “People have been saying stuff about you. Lot of rumours flying around; like you don’t talk like you’ve got a throat full o’ gravel anymore, like you’re forgettin’ stuff and names you already knew, forgettin’ fellas you’ve put away. I didn’t believe it, thinkin’ it was some game you were playin’ - but here you are, acting like you never set eyes on me.”
“So?” Batman grunted, a slow burn of anger settling behind his eyes. He’d never found any evidence that Bruce had kept any CIs, but Malone’s reaction combined with the suspicious lack of information in the Cave databanks was beginning to add up to a very unpleasant answer. So why the hell hadn’t Bruce thought to mention this? He’d thought of practically everything else!
“So you’re good,” Malone continued. “Good enough to fool most, but I know something they don’t. The first guy’s dead, isn’t he? ‘Course he is; ain’t no escaping an explosion like that, but they’re all too stupid to figure it out. They just think you’re indestructible, like that super-freak in Metropolis or somethin’. The Bat was smart, though. He knew that one day he’d be gone, and with every cop in the city gunnin’ for him he knew it might be sooner rather than later, so he planned to have someone take over.” Malone smiled wolfishly, and Batman felt there was something eerily familiar about that smile which he couldn’t quite place. “Like I said; you’re good, but there’s differences. He was taller than you, for a start.”
Stupid, stupid! Batman thought, furious with himself. He had allowed Malone to talk too much, and as a result the encounter had gotten out of hand. If he still stood any chance of getting the information he wanted tonight he needed to regain control of the situation, and fast. He slammed Malone back against the wall once more, not even wincing when he heard the back of the gangster’s head connect with the brickwork. You’re not there to be nice.
“It wouldn’t make any difference if I were,” he snapped.
“Sure,” Malone coughed, winded but still talking nonetheless. “And no way he woulda picked you if he didn’t think you could do the job - but you ain’t him, and you outta stop tryin’ to be him. Everyone knows that the most dangerous guys are the ones that think they got somethin’ to prove.”
With that, Batman saw red. In one swift movement he hefted Malone above his head and threw him into the dumpster, jumping up afterwards and balancing on the edge, looming over Malone like a dark and terrible bird of prey.
“No more games!” he snarled. “Either you start talking about Franks -” He raised the grapple gun, aiming for the edge of the rooftop. “- or we take this to the next level.”
It was then that the night’s events took yet another unsettling turn. Something almost imperceptible shifted in Malone’s face, and Batman was perplexed to find himself being regarded with what could only be described as disappointment.
“Bad idea,” Malone said flatly, despite being sprawled amongst a heap of stinking garbage bags, despite the bruising Batman knew must be forming across his ribs and chest. “My boys are in the bar, waiting for me to come back in. Soon they’re gonna notice I’m missing, and if I turn up looking shit-scared and roughed-up they’re gonna reckon who I’ve been talking to, and what’s the point of a snitch if the Bad News knows he grassed them up? Way things are at the moment that’d buy Matches Malone a one-way ticket to Harp Land - which I ain’t keen on going to anytime soon, in case you were wondering. Textbook mistake, rookie.”
“So what do I care what happens to a piece of garbage like you?” Batman spat, his anger directed at both himself and Malone. Stupid, stupid fool! “There’ll always be another who’ll squeal.”
“’Coz if you don’t protect your sources they dry up,” Malone sneered, not in the least bit intimidated. “’Coz that ain’t the way it’s played. That ain’t the rules.”
Batman dropped into the dumpster and stooped down, fists once more grabbing Malone’s jacket, smirking as he heard the fabric tear. He leaned in close, so close to the other man that he once again caught the scent of mint and make-up beneath the overpowering cologne, and poured every drop of dark malice he could muster into his voice and glare.
“Not my rules.”
Silence reined over the alley. A siren wailed in the distance. The wind moaned as it coiled its way through the narrow spaces between the warehouses. Somewhere behind the dumpster a rat toppled over an empty tin can.
Malone leered.
He straightened his tie.
Then the world spun through 180 degrees and the next thing Batman knew he was lying on his back in the slush, his body aching like he’d just been hit by a bus, and with no idea how he’d got there. He looked up, disorientated, gaping at Malone who had somehow gotten out of the dumpster and was standing over him; arms folded, a fresh matchstick clenched between his teeth. With a slight bow of his head the dark glasses slid down the gangster’s nose.
And just like that the Bat persona fell apart, leaving only John Blake, ex-cop, lying flat on his ass in a filthy back alley in a borrowed costume that suddenly felt far too large and far too heavy. Because although the man who stood towering above him was undoubtedly Matches Malone, the eyes which glared out at him, transfixing him, were undeniably the eyes of the Batman.
“You either play it by the rules or no rules at all, Bird-boy.”
Some instinct of self-preservation must have kicked in at that moment - some latent fight or flight impulse - because the next thing Blake was aware of was that he was soaring skywards on the end of a line, Malone’s increasingly distant taunts drowned out by the rush of wind and a ringing in his ears. No. Dear Christ, no!
He crashed onto the roof of the warehouse and stumbled, his legs suddenly unable to support him, falling to his hands and knees. He stayed crouched on all fours, gulping down lungfuls of cold air, his heart pounding and his head spinning. Dear God, what had just happened? Had he just seen what he had thought he’d seen? He felt sick, outraged, betrayed - but mostly he just felt overwhelming confusion. How was it possible? There was no way... Fox had said... Yet try as he might, there was no ignoring the truth; the terrible truth that had been right there all along.
Rookie.
Bird-boy.
Robin.
Bruce.
-------
(To Be Continued.)
Pairing/Characters: Bruce Wayne/Jim Gordon, John Blake, Lucius Fox, Gerard Stephens, Renee Montoya, Harvey Bullock, Derek Powers
Rating: R (overall)
Wordcount: 7,926
SPOILERS: The Dark Knight Rises
Summary: After the events of TDKR, things in Gotham go back to normal and Gordon is getting used to working with a new Batman - until a familiar face is spotted around the city.
Author's Notes: Look out, Ol' Matches is back...
Previous Chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
-------
Chapter 5:
The Need to Avoid Contempt and Hatred
As Bullock and Montoya were concluding their business in the East End, Blake was sat outside Fox’s office waiting patiently for the older man to finish a meeting and trying very hard not to make eye contact with Jessica. Had it only been two days since he’d last been here? So much had happened in such a short space of time - and yet somehow nothing seemed to have changed.
If he were honest with himself, Blake was not entirely certain whether the fleeting figure amongst the gravestones had been Bruce Wayne or whether his fantasies were starting to run away with him. Could it be possible that Bruce was alive; that he was back in Gotham and once more planning to fight crime from the shadows? All reason howled against the concept that Bruce could yet again return from the dead - and from no less than a nuclear explosion - but every ounce of Blake’s instinct knew that there was more in play here than his imagination, and if all his years in Gotham had taught him anything it was to go with his instincts.
What he was here to find out was if anyone else agreed with those instincts.
“-warn you, Lucius, I’m not a man who takes no for an answer. You can’t put me off forever.”
Blake turned in his seat as the door to Lucius’ office opened and Derek Powers stepped into the outer office, closely followed by a tightly-smiling Lucius Fox.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy the prize better if you’ve worked for it a little, Mr Powers,” Lucius said, his smile thinning even further. Apparently oblivious to the barely veiled sarcasm Powers let out a gale of laughter, resting a hand on Lucius’ shoulder.
“Oh Lucius, you’re fantastic! I know I’m going to enjoy working with you.”
“I have no doubt it will prove educational, Mr Powers,” Lucius replied diplomatically, but Blake could see the growing strain beneath the veneer of politeness on his employer’s face. Deciding that Fox would probably welcome the intervention Blake rose from his seat, straightened his suit jacket and slid into the role of ‘Young and Inexperienced Executive’.
“Mr Fox?”
Fox and Powers turned to look at him, relief and annoyance both in evidence at his interruption. Powers looked Blake up and down coldly, the expression in his dark eyes sharp and critical.
“I’m sorry, Mr...?” he queried mildly.
“Yes, my apologies.” Lucius’ smile became a touch more genuine. “Mr Powers, allow me to introduce John Blake; estate manager of the Wayne Orphanage and my executive consultant on the partnership programme with the Gotham Police Department.”
“Mr Blake.” A spark of recognition flitted across the young tycoon’s face, and Powers grinned wolfishly as he shook Blake’s outstretched hand. “We meet at last! Lucius has been telling me about all the good work you’re doing with the GCPD.”
“Thank you, sir.” Blake kept his expression carefully neutral, despite the sick feeling in his stomach. Gordon’s advice to work on his poker face was really paying off. “I hope you’ll consider continuing with the project should the merger prove successful.”
Derek Powers was a couple of inches shorter than Blake and a good few years younger, with ash-blond hair and dark brown eyes. Yet despite his youth and polished manners there was something immediately unsettling about Powers, in that he seemed to radiate an aura of refined menace. Blake did not doubt it was one of the reasons Powers’ career in Daggett Industries had advanced so rapidly.
“It’s in all our interests to help Gotham’s Finest where we can,” Powers said smoothly, and Blake noted the answer was in no way a commitment. “I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the near future, Mr Blake.”
“I expect you will, Mr Powers,” Lucius cut in, before Blake could reply. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I have some urgent business to attend to with Mr Blake. Jessica will show you out.”
“He seems friendly,” Blake commented bluntly as Fox shut the office door behind him, all too happy to put a barrier between them and Derek Powers.
“He’ll fire me on the spot,” Lucius grumbled, walking back over to his desk. “Or manoeuvre me into early retirement; force me to surrender my shares and then kick me out of the company. He won’t make the same mistake as Earle by keeping me on.” He sat down with a heavy sigh, leaning back in his chair and sent Blake a questioning glance. “So what can I do for you, Mr Blake? I wasn’t expecting to see you for a few days yet.”
“It’s nothing to do with business this time, Mr Fox,” Blake said, taking a seat opposite his employer. “More of a personal matter. I’m... starting to wonder if I might believe in ghosts.”
“Well, I must admit no one’s ever come to me for spiritual guidance before,” Lucius said after a moment of stunned silence.
“One ghost in particular,” Blake persevered, steadily meeting the other man’s gaze. He had resolved, whilst waiting outside Fox’s office, to address the subject directly. Being purposefully vague wouldn’t help either of them on this occasion. “One that’s been receiving a lot of media attention in Gotham of late.”
All traces of amusement vanished from Lucius’ face.
“I don’t find that very funny, Mr Blake,” he said flatly.
“Nor do I,” Blake countered. “Which is why I’ve come to you.”
Lucius’ brow creased with mild concern as it became clear that Blake was being utterly serious. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward, regarding the younger man thoughtfully.
“And what, may I ask, has brought this on?” he enquired, his voice softening a fraction.
Blake rose to his feet and took a few restless paces towards the windows, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Where to begin? He lifted his head and gazed out at the Gotham skyline, wondering how to relate the tale without sounding unhinged.
“The night before last -” Blake’s throat had suddenly gone dry, making it hard to speak. “- I think I saw him. It was about six-thirty; I’d just got back to the Orphanage and was parking the car when I spotted someone standing amongst the gravestones of the Wayne family plot. I thought it was one of the boys - you know how they’ve been daring each other to stay there overnight - so I went to fetch him out. I mean, out all night in the snow? Stupid kid would have frozen to death. As I got closer, though, I realised it wasn’t one of the kids; it was a guy. He was about six-feet-one, maybe six-feet-two, wearing a grey sweater with the hood pulled up, a baseball cap covering his face. Doubt I would’ve seen him if I’d been driving any faster. I tried to talk to him, find out what he was doing there, but when I got close he ran. I chased him into the kitchen garden, but then I lost sight of him and he just vanished. No trace of him whatsoever.”
“Sounds like a mortal interloper rather than a phantom, Mr Blake.”
“So I thought,” Blake continued, his jaw setting in a grim line. “Until I saw him move. He vaulted over the railings easy as anything and he was fast; real fast. I’ve seen moves like that before, but only from one person. That, and he was standing by Thomas Wayne’s headstone.”
“Coincidence?” Lucius suggested. “A trick of the light, perhaps?”
“Pretty sure a trick of the light wouldn’t leave footprints,” Blake commented dryly. “I mean, it was a funeral without a body; are we really even sure he’s dead?”
Lucius swung round in his chair, regarding Blake steadily over steepled fingers.
“If it were Bruce Wayne,” he asked. “Why would he run?”
“I don’t know,” Blake replied, honestly baffled. This was what was getting him. “But I’m betting he’d run if he thought he had a reason to.”
A short silence filled the office as Lucius sat digesting the information and Blake stood contemplating the snow-shrouded city, shoulders slumped and hands thrust deep in his pockets.
“Have you told any of this to the commissioner?” Lucius finally asked.
“Not yet,” Blake said. “I wanted to get your thoughts before I spoke to him.”
Lucius nodded, levering himself up from his chair to join Blake by the window.
“We’d better run a check on the manor’s security systems to see if any of the perimeter sensors are malfunctioning,” he said briskly. “Otherwise I strongly suggest, Mr Blake, you keep what you’ve seen to yourself. Jim Gordon has enough on his plate to deal with already without being handed false hope.”
Blake’s face fell.
“There’s really no way Bruce could have survived?”
“Mr Blake,” Lucius said sombrely, gently but firmly laying a hand on Blake’s shoulder. The businessman suddenly looked very old and very tired. “Mr Wayne was an endlessly inventive man. His was one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever known, but there comes a time when even the smartest men run out of ideas.”
He paused, a sigh escaping his lips before he continued.
“And though I’d like nothing better than to believe otherwise, I know in my bones that Bruce Wayne will not be returning to Gotham.”
-------
Once more the Batsignal illuminated the clouds above Gotham. It had begun snowing again in the last half hour and Gordon huddled closer to the spotlight, taking what little warmth he could and cursing the sense of urgency that had overridden the more rational thought to bring up his usual flask of coffee.
It was now gone nine at night; eleven hours since Gordon had given the Sanchez press conference. Second Shift had clocked in and the First Shift reports were resting on the nearby parapet, alongside Bullock and Montoya’s rough transcript of their interview with Sukie Jones. Apparently Stephens’ hunch had paid off and Malone did know something about the murder of Johnny Franks - and there by association would know something about Hinksy. It had been another long day, there was no denying it, but it was by no means over yet.
Surprisingly the press conference had gone off without much incident. Engel had been there but he had not been looking to make trouble, confining his questions solely to the topic on hand which made an unusual but pleasant change. Maybe some of what had been said earlier that morning had made an impression? Gordon dismissed that thought as soon as it had arisen. Engel was not the sort to give up easily, and was most likely waiting for a more opportune moment to corner him; one which didn’t involve a room full of rival reporters being tipped off to a potential scoop.
Leafing through Montoya’s report, Gordon’s brow furrowed deeper as he once again reviewed the facts of the case so far - as he had done every day since the name ‘Hinksy’ had gone up in red on the board in the MCU bullpen. Stuart Hinksy had been an unremarkable man of average height and middle age; a family man with a steady full-time job as a low grade lab technician in the Pharmaceuticals Division at Daggett Industries. Hinksy was methodical and efficient in his work, well-liked by his colleagues, up to date with his rent and credit bills, had no gambling debts, no unorthodox sexual tendencies and he wasn’t a drinker; there was therefore no obvious explanation as to why a week ago he had been found dead in a back alley five miles from his idyllically suburban house in Grafton, shot clean through the centre of the forehead. The body had been stripped naked after death, bound hand and foot with zip-strips, and left with a note nailed to its chest reading ‘TRAITOR’ in classic newspaper cut-and-paste style.
Hinksy’s family was distraught, his neighbours outraged, and anyone else who'd known him was equally baffled. His co-workers at Daggett Industries had nothing to add to the investigation, his immediate supervisor in the lab could not have been more astonished (“Stu was always so quiet, such a diligent guy, so not the type!”) and there was nothing on his employment record to suggest even the potential for any wrong-doing. The questions as to ‘why’ and ‘who’ had seemed a long way off being answered.
The dirt, however, had lain only just below the surface. As soon as Gordon’s team had started digging a little deeper it turned out that for the past ten months Hinksy had been receiving large sums of money on a regular basis from an anonymous source; far beyond that which his modest salary could ever account for. Further scrutiny of the Hinksy family home led to the discovery of an incriminating amount of heroin and cocaine slabs neatly stockpiled in the garden shed, which his wife genuinely had no idea even existed. It appeared the proceeds of his fairly profitable sideline in narcotics had been explained away to her as a raise.
Samples of the drugs came back from the lab testing as uncut and undiluted by the usual dealers’ tricks; the highest possible purity, the best there was to be had. Difficult enough for even the top Mob dealers to get hold of even with all their connections and resources, let alone a two-bit supplier at street level. All Narcotics teams had been sent to question every CI they had in an effort to identify Hinksy’s connections - who’d been buying off him, how he’d been getting his supplies, which gang he owed allegiance to - but there was nothing, not even a rumour. Two days into the investigation information about Hinksy had dried up completely, and then five days later Johnny Franks had turned up dead and no one was talking about him either. The coincidence was too great to be anything but suspicious.
Several other things were bothering Gordon about this case beyond the stony silence at street level. The lump payments into Hinksy’s account had been the first indication that there might be a Mob element to the case. Had Hinksy been acting alone or even as part of a small gang he would have deposited the money as it came in, in relatively small sums of cash spaced out irregularly. Instead the payments were a regular four thousand a month, wired from an offshore account in the Caymans. Even for the Mob that was unusual. Then there was the note nailed to Hinksy’s body, the ritual humiliation, Franks’ dismembered girlfriend and now the gun. Someone went to a lot of trouble planning out these three murders; a lot more than Gordon would have come to expect from some Mob in-fighting over a few stockpiled drugs. But something else was still nagging at the back of his mind - something they were missing, something important - yet Gordon was still no closer to figuring out what it might be.
Nine years ago it wouldn’t have mattered. Bruce would have known in an instant.
“Commissioner?”
Gordon spun round on his heels, heart pounding hard in his chest, to find an equally startled Batman staring back at him from over by the stairwell. Batman. But not Bruce.
“Commissioner?” Batman asked again, an edge of concern to his deep voice. “Is something wrong?”
“I...” Gordon visibly deflated as the tension seeped out of his shoulders. Blake. It was only Blake. “Seems like you’ve got the whole appearing from nowhere thing sorted.”
Batman cocked his head to one side in amusement, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
“I’d better stop if I risk giving you a coronary each time.”
“No. No, it’s good that you’re getting better. Well done.”
But Batman narrowed his eyes, clearly not convinced the older man’s state was entirely due to his being caught unawares.
“What’s wrong, commissioner?”
“Nothing, I...” Gordon began, but faltered as the gaze narrowed further. Gordon sighed, irritated, turning to lean on the parapet. There was an awkward silence in which Gordon could feel Batman watching him intently; but he waited, knowing that he wouldn’t be the first to speak.
“Bruce?” Batman questioned quietly.
“Yes,” Gordon admitted, wincing. His Batman would have waited; stayed silent and made Jim speak his mind by doing nothing else but simply being there. Though that Blake would know he was thinking about Bruce was not a comforting thought either, so he squared his shoulders, turned away from the snow-blurred skyline and frowned at the other man. They were here on business, after all. “But it’s not important. What do you know about Matches Malone?”
“What do you want to know?” Batman rumbled after only a moment’s hesitation, Gordon feeling ridiculously relieved that the vigilante had chosen to let the subject drop. The commissioner slid the file containing Montoya’s report along the parapet.
“It looks like there is a definite link between Hinksy and Johnny Franks. Bullock and Montoya talked to Sukie Jones this morning, Malone’s girl when he was last in Gotham, and she said Franks had been to see Malone the night before he died, demanding protection.”
“From who?” Batman asked, picking up the file and scanning through the report.
“She doesn’t know, but Franks had talked to someone about Hinksy’s murder against the wishes of whichever Mob boss has an interest in the investigation going cold. Sukie reckons it’s the reason he was killed.”
“And Malone refused to give protection?” Batman growled, looking up from the report, a glint of anger in those eyes. Gordon shrugged.
“More like ‘couldn’t’. Whoever put the word out is more than someone like Malone can hope to deal with.”
Batman gave a non-descript grunt, reading through the report one last time before replacing it in the file and handing it back to Gordon.
“You reckon there’s a chance Malone knew what Franks talked about?” he asked. Gordon’s moustache twitched at the corners.
“Actually, I was hoping you might go to the trouble of asking him for me,” he said lightly.
Batman stared at him, and Gordon imagined Blake’s eyebrows rising to meet his hairline beneath the cowl. He had never asked Blake for this sort of help before, preferring to use the man more for chasing down hard to access information and have his own people conduct any interrogations. This was a whole new level of trust, and Gordon hoped Blake was aware of that - as, deep down, he also prayed all his doubts about Blake not being up to the task would be proven wrong.
“You have any leads?” Batman eventually enquired.
“Just one,” Gordon said, unconsciously pulling his coat tighter around him. Was it his imagination, or was it getting colder up here? “He’s laying low, waiting for the dust to settle around the bosses before deciding which way to jump, but Sukie said he’s often to be found at the Stacked Deck.”
Batman nodded in acknowledgment.
“Prime spot along the Waterfront,” he huffed. “It’s as good a place as any to start.”
An awkward silence fell between them and Gordon shivered again, now more than ever regretting the absence of coffee. It would have been something to fill the silence as much as to keep them warm.
“So,” he asked, breaking the tension that had begun to thicken the air between them. “You got any thoughts on this?”
“Rupert Thorne,” Batman mumbled without a pause. Gordon felt somewhat satisfied that Blake also had been thinking along the same lines as he had. “Whoever’s responsible wants those that matter to get the message. It has to be someone in the Mob; someone powerful, someone who thinks he’s untouchable, someone with an eye for showmanship.”
“Not Stromwell or Valestra?”
“Thorne’s gone a long way in a very short time,” Batman said gruffly. “He and his backer have got Stromwell and Valestra on the defensive. Even so, political and financial interest will only get him so far; he needs fear and respect on the streets to secure his hold on the city.”
Gordon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure building there. Batman tilted his head to one side, studying Gordon with the same expression of concern as when he’d startled him on his arrival.
“Go home, commissioner,” he rumbled quietly. “Eat a decent meal, get some rest. Davies can handle things ‘til morning; it’s his job.”
“Not you too?” Gordon pleaded. When he received no reply save the continuation of that concerned gaze Gordon dropped his hands to his sides, letting out a huff of irritation. “Why does everyone keep asking me if I’m ok?”
“You’ve been working almost non-stop this past year. You’ve pretty much stitched the city back together single handed; but you’re just one man, commissioner. You can’t expect to keep working near on twenty-two hours a day without running yourself into the ground.”
Gordon drew a sharp breath in through his teeth and hurriedly turned his back, closing his eyes briefly to regain his composure. Unknowingly, Blake had hit the nail right on the head. Yes, he was just one man.
We used to be two.
“Don’t think you’re blameless in this,” he warned jokingly, hoping against hope to lighten the mood and direct attention away from the subject of his health. “Stephens said this morning that I have an ‘I’m-worried-about-Batman’ face.”
“You do,” Batman replied simply, refusing to take the bait. “Stacy diverts all but your urgent calls to Sawyer when she sees you wearing it, and Stephens and Bullock take it in turns to play bouncer at your office door. You’re wearing it now.”
Gordon's shoulders hunched instinctively and he bowed his head, eyes desperately fixed on his shoes as he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.
“But they’ve got it wrong,” Batman continued relentlessly. “Because it’s not me you’re thinking of when you get that look on your face. It’s how I knew you were thinking about him.”
Behind him Gordon felt Batman take a step closer, his voice dropping in volume and register.
“It’s been a year, commissioner. Why won’t you let him go?”
“I’ve tried,” Gordon murmured, making a valiant effort to keep a quaver from his voice. “God knows how I’ve tried, but I can’t. There’s something won’t let me, some part of me that refuses to believe he’s really gone.”
“He was at the centre of a nuclear explosion,” Batman stated harshly, eyes like flint. “He was towing a four-megaton neutron bomb on a ten foot cable. There is no way he could have survived.”
Gordon swallowed down the lump that was rising in his suddenly too-tight throat, taking a steadying breath before trusting himself to answer.
“I know,” he said quietly. “And I'd be an idiot to say otherwise. But damn it all, he was my friend - no, my partner! You can’t expect me to just -”
He stopped as he heard a crunch of gravel on the roof behind him, and Gordon turned just in time to see Batman drop off the parapet, seconds later soaring away on black wings into the night. The commissioner watched until he was out of sight, feeling winded and inexplicably bereft. Blake had walked out on him.
It was an entirely new and unwelcome experience.
And then Gordon noticed that he had been too distracted to remember to turn off the signal after Batman had arrived, having left it blazing away through the entirety of their conversation.
“God damn it!” he hissed through clenched teeth, the words misting the air with his breath. The wind sighed and gusted in response, turning to sting his cheeks with ice crystals. “God damn it all to hell!”
Furious, he shut off the signal, turned on his heel and headed back down the stairwell, slamming the fire escape door behind him with a great clang which echoed angrily across the adjacent rooftops. Five minutes passed, and then slowly a shadowy form uncurled from where it had been concealed behind a heating conduit since before Gordon had arrived. It was a man; about 6’2” in height, wearing a charcoal grey hoodie, black slacks and solid, black boots. Brushing a thin layer of snow from his shoulders he let out a low, heavy sigh, the black silk scarf covering his nose and mouth ensuring that his breath barely left a mark in the frigid air.
“I’m sorry, Jim,” he whispered, the words all but lost to the moaning of the wind. “I’m sorry.”
-------
If Gordon had thought from Batman’s abrupt departure that Blake was merely adopting a further variety of unsympathetic Bat behaviour, he was sorely mistaken. Blake was in fact livid, and had left at that moment simply because he had not trusted himself to say anything he wouldn’t later regret.
Despite Lucius’ cryptic warning Blake had gone to meet Gordon that evening with every intention of telling him about the hooded intruder at the manor, if only to let him know of a potential security breach, but moment he’d seen the commissioner’s face Blake had finally understood what his employer had meant. So he'd had kept quiet, biting his tongue even as Gordon confessed his inability to move on. Perhaps he was giving into paranoia - hell, considering how Bruce had been before he died it was probably only a matter of time - but Blake wouldn’t risk losing the little faith he had worked so hard to gain from the commissioner in favour of a phantom. For all they had worked well together over the past year and a half, Blake had never had any illusions as to how Gordon felt about him taking up the mantle of the Batman. He had known from the start that Jim wanted nothing more than to have Bruce back in the suit instead of him, even though it was a wish that could never be granted.
In that light it was also very hard for him not to take the absence of coffee as a personal slight.
Well, Blake thought bitterly, he’d show Gordon. He could do this job. Bruce had believed him capable of carrying on the legacy of the Batman, and that was more than good enough for him.
Or maybe not, a little voice whispered in the back of his mind.
Blake shifted uncomfortably. The thought had been bothering him for some time, nagging away in the rare moments when his brain wasn’t otherwise occupied, and with the reappearance of Matches Malone it had yet again reared its ugly head. In life Bruce’d had access to information on everyone on the planet - quite literally everyone - yet Blake’s searches of the Cave databanks had returned nothing on Malone beyond his GCPD rap sheet and a list of everyone he’d ever shared a cell with. Nor was this the first time certain key pieces of information had been lacking on minor underworld figures, which led Blake to suspect that the absence of said information was not merely an oversight on Bruce’s part (Besides which, it wasn’t the sort of mistake Bruce would’ve made). No, it meant there was something about Malone that Bruce hadn’t wanted to risk anyone else finding out - even going so far as to take the secret to his grave - and it had to be something big because there was not a single reason Blake could think of, good or bad, as to why Bruce would have gone to such lengths to protect a member of the Mob. Gordon’s mistrust Blake could at least understand, but Bruce...
The thought that Bruce hadn’t trusted him was unthinkable; and therefore Batman would not think about it. At least not tonight.
Having decided to follow up the Matches Malone lead, Batman had lost no time in going straight to the Waterfront district from the roof of the MCU. After making a quick reconnaissance of the area, he had alighted on the warehouse building opposite the Stacked Deck and was now perched on a convenient fire escape overlooking the side exit of the bar. The Stacked Deck, once the property of Carmine Falcone and now owned by Louis “Fishbait” Costello, had been the favoured haunt of the lowest of Gotham’s low-life scum for near on three decades. The regulars were all criminals to a man (or woman), and as such it was the hub of all illicit activities in the city. If something was going down, it was guaranteed someone at the Stacked Deck would know about it. Therefore it was no wonder to Batman that Malone would choose to hang out here, for besides being part of his old territory it was the ideal place to keep his finger on the pulse of Gotham’s underworld. Vital, one might say, for a man who was looking to stay one step ahead of the Mob.
Concealed in the shadows Batman settled a little more comfortably on the fire escape, wrapping his cape around him as protection against the snow, and waited - because in this case it would simply be a waiting game, dictated by human biology and a little local knowledge. Once upon a time during a raid John Blake the patrolman had made the mistake of visiting the men’s restroom in the Stacked Deck and had subsequently sworn never to do so again (Even worse, his partner had ‘forgotten’ to warn him and had just stood there howling with laughter when Blake had re-emerged swearing and gasping for breath). The longstanding custom was that this alleyway served as a replacement facility, as even in the depths of winter a dark back alley was infinitely preferable to the uniquely revolting stench indoors. Therefore it was guaranteed that every male patron frequenting the bar that night would walk through this side door at least once to answer a call of nature. Batman didn’t have any qualms about using the information to his advantage.
Amongst all the various Bat paraphernalia, Bruce had bequeathed to his successor several pieces of advice, one of which in particular came to mind as Batman sat in wait for his prey: Criminals are not complicated, but never make the mistake of thinking they can’t be clever.
By all accounts Malone was clever. Not intelligent like the Joker or Bane - or even the al Ghuls - but sly with a profound ability to talk himself out of tight spots. Batman was therefore determined only to let the gangster talk enough to find out why Johnny Franks had been so afraid and nothing more; anything else beyond that would probably be shit-spinning from the likes of Malone, anyway.
An hour went by in which Batman watched a steady stream of men come and go, most of whom faces he knew from past cases and the Cave databanks. Another half an hour later and the side door opened to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a thin moustache plastered across his upper lip. He was wearing a disgustingly loud plaid suit and a pair of aviator sunglasses and, though he was perched high up, even at this distance Batman could make out the matchstick clenched between his teeth. There, that had to be him. The guy fitted Malone’s general description; and besides which, who else was likely to be walking around here wearing sunglasses at night and chewing on a matchstick?
Oblivious to the fact that he was being watched, Probably-Malone paused in the doorway and half-turned back into the bar, as if someone just inside were talking to him. He let out a dismissive bark of laughter, calling back over his shoulder.
“What, you wanna hold my hand?”
A perfect North Jersey accent - flat and nasal - augmented with a casual leer. Definitely Malone. The gangster slammed the door shut after him, crossed the alley to the dumpster and unzipped his fly. Two storeys above him Batman shifted on his perch, shaking the snow from where it had settled about his shoulders and readied a grapple beneath his cape. Showtime.
He dropped silently and landed in a conveniently dense patch of shadows a few yards away from the dumpster. Judging by the info he had gleaned from those at the MCU who over the years had been privileged enough to witness the Bat ‘at work’, half of Bruce’s success had lain in scaring his target witless before he’d even started asking the questions. With any luck, the same tactic should work just as well now as it had then. As Malone was still facing the dumpster Batman waited patiently for the man to finish, deciding to at least allow him that much dignity. Even he drew the line at interrogating a guy with his dick hanging out.
And then suddenly, without turning round, Malone said calmly:
“’F you’re plannin’ on jumping me, I expect you to buy me dinner afterwards.”
Batman took a hurried glance around the alley, seeking out whoever Malone was talking to and wondering how he had been so careless as not to notice another person had arrived on the scene - but there was no one else in sight.
“Yeah, you lurking in the shadows!” Malone called sarcastically, tucking his shirt back in and fastening his fly. “I am talkin’ to you.”
Wait, Malone was talking to him? Batman cursed silently, but did not move a muscle. How the hell had Malone known he was there? The only person he couldn’t generally sneak up on these days was Gordon, and that was only due to the commissioner having had many years experience at Bat-spotting. Not to mention Malone should have been near-blind wearing those stupid sunglasses in the dark.
“Matches Malone?” Batman growled, covering his inward frustration with outward aggression. He had lost the element of surprise, so the direct approach it would have to be.
“Who wants to know?”
Despite his resolution not to allow himself to be baited, Batman felt a flash of irritation that the cocksure bastard hadn’t even turned round. Was Malone already feeling so secure on his own turf again, or had he simply been away from Gotham so long he’d lost the heightened sense of self-preservation necessary to survive here? Whichever it was, Batman thought darkly, he ought to dispel such illusions fairly swiftly. Quick as lightening he covered the sparse distance between him and Malone, grabbed the man by the scruff of his suit jacket and yanked him back into the shadows. Malone barely had time to let out a startled yelp before he was slammed against the wall, all the breath knocked out of him, and pinned there by two heavy black-gloved hands fisted in his lapels. Batman leaned forward until they were practically nose-to-cowl, baring his teeth in a bestial snarl.
“Me.”
Contrary to Gordon’s belief, this was not John Blake’s first interrogation as the Batman. Since the end of the Crisis there had been the need, on several occasions, to chase down information which hadn’t been available anywhere else but the street - and not easily obtainable at that. That Gordon had been gently misled as to the method of how the information had been obtained was neither here nor there, and Batman had been working on the old principle of the less Gordon knew, the better. Plus he had a feeling that, on some level, the commissioner wouldn’t exactly approve if he found out. He remembered with a quiet satisfaction the first time he had swooped out of the darkness to question a pimp in connection with some of the still at large escapees from Blackgate; the startled cry and the naked fear in the man’s eyes as he’d stepped towards him out of the night. Shit, man! I thought you was dead! It had taken very little persuasion to get the guy to spill all he knew.
But whatever reaction he’d hoped to elicit from Malone (something along the lines of the gangster turning to terrified putty in his hands) Batman was to be sorely disappointed. In fact, far from being cowed into submission, Malone seemed genuinely put out.
“Oh terrific,” Malone whined, an edge of bitterness to his voice. “As if things ain’t bad enough.”
Batman tightened his grip.
“Believe me, they’re about to get worse.”
“No shit,” Malone mumbled, shifting in an ineffectual attempt to try and get his feet back down on the ground, instead of suspended several inches in the air. “And go easy on the suit! It’s new.”
Beneath the cowl Batman’s frown deepened. Malone was certainly living up to his reputation; arrogant, mouthy and with no end of smart-ass lines. He’d run up against hard cases like Malone nearly every day of his life before the cowl; the bright ones who thought they could sass their way out of a charge, usually the first to cry harassment when you slapped on the cuffs. The only way to deal with them was to keep the words short, direct and to the point, and not let up on them; body language aggressive, but in control. Malone had been gone from Gotham for nearly a decade - long enough to forget what dealing with the Batman was really like - and, therefore, Malone needed to be reminded of his manners. Batman had no use for verbal niceties.
“Alright,” he purred, before letting go and dropping Malone hard on his ass, the gangster letting out a pained cry as his rear connected with the curb. Immediately Batman crowded in close again, not giving Malone time to recover his balance. “I want answers, Malone, and if I don’t get them you’ll have a lot more to worry about than a rumpled suit.”
Now that he and the gangster were ‘up close and personal’, Batman used the moment to make a quick study of the fabled Matches Malone. Height, build and hair colour Batman had noted beforehand; now he logged the extra details which had been invisible at a distance and from his mug shot. Malone’s hair was slicked back and shiny with a little too much gel, his sharp cheekbones framed by short, dark sideburns. Except for the thin moustache he was clean shaved, though not too closely, so his jaw was covered in a rough-looking five o’clock shadow. The aviator glasses hid his eyes, reflecting what little light filtered into the alley from the bar; cheap plastic lenses with no finish and no brand name on the frames, the sort that could be picked up anywhere for a few dollars. His breath smelt of mint and the man reeked of cheap cologne - so much that for a moment Batman speculated whether he might have bathed in the stuff - but beneath it there was a note of something vaguely familiar; a powdery tang at odds with the aggressive manliness of the cologne, something that smelt like... make-up?
“Figures,” Malone muttered, halting Batman's train of thought before it could pursue that line of thinking any further. “When I heard the cops grilled my babe this morning I reckoned you’d be along soon as you crawled outta your coffin.”
“Then you know what I want,” Batman said, letting the comment slide. He wasn’t going to be drawn into trading witticisms. Malone grimaced.
“Yeah, Hinksy and Franks,” he spat. “Same as everybody wants to know. Look, people are getting iced for squealing; what makes you think I’d risk my neck telling you?”
Feeling another stab of irritation Batman let out a low growl, his hands once again grabbing Malone’s lapels, pulling him upwards and shaking him roughly.
“How about you risk not telling me?” Batman hissed, his voice dropping to a deadly pitch.
“Jesus, cool it!” Malone yelped, trying to shrink away from that grasp, but he only succeeded in pushing himself further back against the alley wall. “I only wanted to know if you were still paying!”
Paying? Batman blinked, thrown entirely off balance. Of all the things that could have been said tonight, he had never imagined for a moment that any suggestion of payment might come into it. Was Malone trying to get himself beaten to a pulp? But no, the comment had been defensive and lacked the belligerent tone the gangster had used up until now. If Malone was genuinely surprised by his behaviour, then... then was it possible he had been an informer for Bruce? Batman felt a brief spark of panic blossom in his chest which he fought to stifle, schooling his face back into its harsh lines once more. He couldn’t hesitate now; he had to keep going, keep pressing Malone, keep him off balance.
“That depends on you telling me what I want to know,” he snarled, but he had reacted too late. The damage was already done; Malone had seen his moment of confusion. Now the gangster studied him thoughtfully, or at least what appeared to be thoughtfully to Batman for all he could interpret the man’s expression behind those glasses.
“Y’know,” Malone said quietly. “People have been saying stuff about you. Lot of rumours flying around; like you don’t talk like you’ve got a throat full o’ gravel anymore, like you’re forgettin’ stuff and names you already knew, forgettin’ fellas you’ve put away. I didn’t believe it, thinkin’ it was some game you were playin’ - but here you are, acting like you never set eyes on me.”
“So?” Batman grunted, a slow burn of anger settling behind his eyes. He’d never found any evidence that Bruce had kept any CIs, but Malone’s reaction combined with the suspicious lack of information in the Cave databanks was beginning to add up to a very unpleasant answer. So why the hell hadn’t Bruce thought to mention this? He’d thought of practically everything else!
“So you’re good,” Malone continued. “Good enough to fool most, but I know something they don’t. The first guy’s dead, isn’t he? ‘Course he is; ain’t no escaping an explosion like that, but they’re all too stupid to figure it out. They just think you’re indestructible, like that super-freak in Metropolis or somethin’. The Bat was smart, though. He knew that one day he’d be gone, and with every cop in the city gunnin’ for him he knew it might be sooner rather than later, so he planned to have someone take over.” Malone smiled wolfishly, and Batman felt there was something eerily familiar about that smile which he couldn’t quite place. “Like I said; you’re good, but there’s differences. He was taller than you, for a start.”
Stupid, stupid! Batman thought, furious with himself. He had allowed Malone to talk too much, and as a result the encounter had gotten out of hand. If he still stood any chance of getting the information he wanted tonight he needed to regain control of the situation, and fast. He slammed Malone back against the wall once more, not even wincing when he heard the back of the gangster’s head connect with the brickwork. You’re not there to be nice.
“It wouldn’t make any difference if I were,” he snapped.
“Sure,” Malone coughed, winded but still talking nonetheless. “And no way he woulda picked you if he didn’t think you could do the job - but you ain’t him, and you outta stop tryin’ to be him. Everyone knows that the most dangerous guys are the ones that think they got somethin’ to prove.”
With that, Batman saw red. In one swift movement he hefted Malone above his head and threw him into the dumpster, jumping up afterwards and balancing on the edge, looming over Malone like a dark and terrible bird of prey.
“No more games!” he snarled. “Either you start talking about Franks -” He raised the grapple gun, aiming for the edge of the rooftop. “- or we take this to the next level.”
It was then that the night’s events took yet another unsettling turn. Something almost imperceptible shifted in Malone’s face, and Batman was perplexed to find himself being regarded with what could only be described as disappointment.
“Bad idea,” Malone said flatly, despite being sprawled amongst a heap of stinking garbage bags, despite the bruising Batman knew must be forming across his ribs and chest. “My boys are in the bar, waiting for me to come back in. Soon they’re gonna notice I’m missing, and if I turn up looking shit-scared and roughed-up they’re gonna reckon who I’ve been talking to, and what’s the point of a snitch if the Bad News knows he grassed them up? Way things are at the moment that’d buy Matches Malone a one-way ticket to Harp Land - which I ain’t keen on going to anytime soon, in case you were wondering. Textbook mistake, rookie.”
“So what do I care what happens to a piece of garbage like you?” Batman spat, his anger directed at both himself and Malone. Stupid, stupid fool! “There’ll always be another who’ll squeal.”
“’Coz if you don’t protect your sources they dry up,” Malone sneered, not in the least bit intimidated. “’Coz that ain’t the way it’s played. That ain’t the rules.”
Batman dropped into the dumpster and stooped down, fists once more grabbing Malone’s jacket, smirking as he heard the fabric tear. He leaned in close, so close to the other man that he once again caught the scent of mint and make-up beneath the overpowering cologne, and poured every drop of dark malice he could muster into his voice and glare.
“Not my rules.”
Silence reined over the alley. A siren wailed in the distance. The wind moaned as it coiled its way through the narrow spaces between the warehouses. Somewhere behind the dumpster a rat toppled over an empty tin can.
Malone leered.
He straightened his tie.
Then the world spun through 180 degrees and the next thing Batman knew he was lying on his back in the slush, his body aching like he’d just been hit by a bus, and with no idea how he’d got there. He looked up, disorientated, gaping at Malone who had somehow gotten out of the dumpster and was standing over him; arms folded, a fresh matchstick clenched between his teeth. With a slight bow of his head the dark glasses slid down the gangster’s nose.
And just like that the Bat persona fell apart, leaving only John Blake, ex-cop, lying flat on his ass in a filthy back alley in a borrowed costume that suddenly felt far too large and far too heavy. Because although the man who stood towering above him was undoubtedly Matches Malone, the eyes which glared out at him, transfixing him, were undeniably the eyes of the Batman.
“You either play it by the rules or no rules at all, Bird-boy.”
Some instinct of self-preservation must have kicked in at that moment - some latent fight or flight impulse - because the next thing Blake was aware of was that he was soaring skywards on the end of a line, Malone’s increasingly distant taunts drowned out by the rush of wind and a ringing in his ears. No. Dear Christ, no!
He crashed onto the roof of the warehouse and stumbled, his legs suddenly unable to support him, falling to his hands and knees. He stayed crouched on all fours, gulping down lungfuls of cold air, his heart pounding and his head spinning. Dear God, what had just happened? Had he just seen what he had thought he’d seen? He felt sick, outraged, betrayed - but mostly he just felt overwhelming confusion. How was it possible? There was no way... Fox had said... Yet try as he might, there was no ignoring the truth; the terrible truth that had been right there all along.
Rookie.
Bird-boy.
Robin.
Bruce.
-------
(To Be Continued.)