Terry Carver had worked for the U-Muv-It company most of his professional life, almost eleven years. This was the biggest job he'd ever been asked to do. He, along with three fellow movers, had brought two trucks hauling a total of twenty pool tables to the convention hall of the Crowne Major Hotel, for a much-ballyhooed pool tournament meant to celebrate the recent change in ownership of the hotel.
Terry's friend, Bob Renge, was helping him move in the eighteenth of those twenty tables. "So," Terry said to his friend, wiping his brow with a wet handkerchief, "I heard you got married."
Bob nodded. "Yep. Me and Mary Harding. Two months ago."
One of the disadvantages in working for a large corporation was that one tended to lose track of friends. "You mean, 'tub 'o chub,' Mary Harding?"
Bob laughed, but not angrily. He had known Terry long enough that he was able to take jokes, even about his wife. "I love Mary, man. Besides, she looks good in a tee-shirt."
Terry looked amazed at his friend. "A tee-shirt? How is she naked?"
"Well, I mean . . . it was a trade off. Know what I mean? She looks good in a tee-shirt . . ."
"Well, if you were willing to trade off like that, why not get married to Julie Snarden?"
"Ghoulie Julie? Are you kidding?"
"Hey, she looks awesome, you know . . . sans tee-shirt."
Terry heard a metal tapping sound, and turned to see Oswald Cobblepot, the new owner of the Crowne Major, umbrella in hand. "You two sound like junior high school children," the chubby man observed dryly.
Bob Renge shrugged. "We've known each other since sixth grade. We live in the suburbs . . . you know, like a big family out there."
Cobblepot nodded with a grin. "Yes, I know how that can be. I dearly wish I still kept in contact with some of the friends I had in my distant youth."
Terry eyed what Cobblepot was carrying. "What's with the umbrella, Mr. Cobblepot?"
Cobblepot held up the parasol. "Oh, this? Why do you ask? It isn't as if I carry one around all the time." Cobblepot turned and looked out the glass doors at the convention hall entrance. "If you must know, I thought it might rain."
Terry held up his hands. "No problem. Just, you know, wondering."
Cobblepot nodded, and turned to the tall man who stood behind him. The two walked towards the pool tables already set up, moving to those at the back of the hall. "Better get back to work, gentlemen," Cobblepot called back. Terry slapped Bob on the back and they walked back outside, passing the other two movers, whom they had never seen in their lives, carrying in the nineteenth table.
The Penguin watched them go, then held up the umbrella in front of him. "I don't see why you insisted that I bring this ridiculous, cumbersome mechanism, Groverton," he said annoyedly to his secretary. "It is sixty degrees and sunny outside. I daresay this is the most utterly cloudless day in Gotham's history."
Groverton shrugged and took the umbrella from his employer. "Weathermen are not the most reliable breed of man, sir. I was just looking out for your best interests, as always."
The Penguin turned to inspect one of the tables. "Of course; that's what you do best. Have you written the bracket for the tournament?"
"I have, sir. But, we've only got nineteen players, counting you, of course. I'm hoping that someone else will enter before the tournament begins."
"Wishful thinking, my friend. You'd be wise to write an alternative bracket with a few byes built in, just in case your hopes don't pan out."
Groverton nodded. "Of course, sir. Do you expect to win tonight?"
The Penguin sighed loudly. "Perhaps. I've been understandably distracted lately. Of course, I've given myself plenty of incentive to win."
"How so?"
"Well, Groverton, not only will I get to defeat another player at the game I love in front of what will hopefully be a somewhat large crowd, but I get to re-pocket the million dollars I put up as prize money."
"That would certainly be incentive enough for me, sir."
"Of course, Groverton," Cobblepot said, taking back the umbrella and looking down its length, "You're only human, after all."
Apartment of Dick Grayson, Newtown, Gotham City, 9:00 a.m.
Dick had been awake for nearly three hours, but laid in bed, not wanting to get up. There was nothing to do until nightfall, anyway. He would wait until an hour or so before sundown, then take his motorcycle out to Gotham Heights, to Wayne Manor, to the Cave. There, he would work out until after eleven o'clock, then leave the Cave and return to Gotham City, as Nightwing.
The problem was always what to do between waking up as Dick Grayson and leaping from roof to roof as Nightwing. Dick could never quite find a routine. He didn't have a job, and he really didn't need one. If he kept his current lifestyle, he could live off of his large bank account for the rest of his life, with much to spare. Dick usually took a trip to the grocery store during the middle of the week, and it was Saturday, so that was shot.
Tim didn't have school; Dick could always give his young friend a call. Maybe they could hang out together; Tim was practically a younger brother to him. Dick was about to pick up the phone when he realized that Tim might have been spending time with his father, something Dick encouraged in the boy. Dick found himself wishing that he still had a father to spend time with.
Dick shook his head, knocking away any bad memories. Unlike Bruce, who seemed to dwell on things, Dick rarely allowed himself to remember the death of his parents. He already knew what had driven him to become Robin, and eventually Nightwing; there was no point in reliving it over and over again. There was no need for reminding.
Taking a deep breath into his lungs, Dick rolled out of bed, stood, and stretched, reaching for the ceiling. Sighing out the air he had just taken in, he looked at the floor near the bed, searching for something to put on. As bored as I am, you'd think I would spend some time cleaning up this roach motel, Dick thought, speaking to some imaginary, nameless audience in his mind. He bent down and snatched an old tee-shirt from the floor. He pulled it on over his head and spotted a pair of shorts lying near the foot of the bed. He kicked them into the air with his right foot and caught it, pulling them on and walking out for the kitchen.
A visitor to Dick's apartment would have most likely considered his bedroom to be a pig sty, and his kitchen to be that same dirt-filled pit after a lengthy watering. His sink was filled with dirty dishes, with whatever clean dishes that remained from the last time they had been washed (Dick thought sometime before God was around) scattered in piles of three or four along the countertop.
Taking a single, short glance at the filled sink, Dick spun around on his heel and made for the refrigerator. There, he found a half-empty jug of milk. After searching the shelves, he uncovered an unopened box of corn flakes, one that had expired last week. Shrugging, realizing that it would be nearly impossible to distinguish good corn flakes from bad corn flakes, Dick filled a bowl with the cereal, splashed some of the milk over it, and sat down at his kitchen table, which was covered in old junk mail and pizza boxes.
Dick knocked the boxes off onto the floor and sat his bowl of cereal down. Running his hands through his long black hair, he decided he was in desperate need of a shower after breakfast; There's more oil up there than in the entire country of Kuwait!
Dick took a spoonful of corn flakes from the bowl. He chewed them once, and then they sat in his mouth. All right, Dick conceded to himself, I guess there is a difference between good and bad corn flakes . . .
1477 - 1479 Ash Road, Gotham Heights
The man's name was Ray Grail, and he had thrown away the Humphrey Bogart mask.
Whomever had destroyed Black Mask (it was no longer clear exactly who), they hadn't seen any members of the Falseface Society without their masks. That was why they always attacked when the members were together; they didn't know where they lived.
The fact of his anonymity was the only thing that had kept Ray Grail in Gotham City. As far as he knew, he was the only member of the Falseface Society that had survived, but that was all behind him. He was turning over a new leaf, far from the remnants of Black Mask and the rest of the city's underworld. Of course, it remained to be seen how long his reform would last; Ray had tried several times, the last time just before he joined the Society.
Things were different now, though. This time, he had a home, even neighbors. Their names were Jack and Heidi Barrell. They were newlyweds. Heidi was pregnant, Jack had a job in the city. His family was rich, and had bought he and his new wife the large house as their wedding gift. Jack and Heidi lived on one side, and converted the other side into a separate dwelling, to rent in order to earn more income for their soon to be growing family.
Ray Grail had rented the dwelling, and promised that he wouldn't bother his young landlords; newlyweds needed their privacy, as he always said. Ray had no intention of paying the young couple anything other than the monthly rent; he wouldn't bother them a bit.
Unless someone bothered him.
Avian Paradise Casino,1:12 p.m.
The Penguin smiled as the nine ball rolled into the side pocket across from him. Tossing his stick triumphantly onto the felt surface of the table, he patted Groverton consolingly on the back. "You can't win them all, my friend. It is a difficult but true fact of life."
Groverton nodded, raising his eyebrows. "Then, by devoting the considerable resources needed by Firefly to the elimination of one man, are you trying to defy that fact of life?"
Cobblepot started for his desk, speaking to Groverton over his shoulder. "Firefly is my newest acquisition; killing the final Falseface member tonight will be his first test. I hope he passes; I'd hate to have to take back all the money I've given him."
Groverton laid his cue stick down across the Penguin's. "I have the address of Ray Grail; shall I call Mr. Lynns now or later?"
The Penguin shrugged, then looked at the pool table. "Later. I'd like to get some more practice in before tonight."
Groverton started for the table. "I suppose I'll be racking?"
"Of course, Groverton," the Penguin said. "As always."
Apartment of Dick Grayson, Newtown, Gotham City, 4:36 p.m.
Dick had been meditating when the phone rang. He stood, uncrossed his legs, stepped off of the couch and walked into the kitchen, where hung his one and only phone. He waited for it to ring once more, then looked at the caller identification display that hung beside the phone; it was Tim calling. Dick picked up the phone. "Dick's House of Recklessly Sliced Blowfish. How can I help you today?"
Tim laughed on the other end. "What would you do without caller I-D?"
Dick shrugged. "I'd probably either have to tone down my sense of humor, or suffer constant embarrassment, in which case I'd go for the embarrassment. What's up?"
Tim sighed, long. Dick walked around the kitchen, pulled a chair away from the table, and sat down next to the phone. "Last night was the dance."
"I know, you mentioned it to me . . . last week, I think."
"Well, Ariana was there."
"Yes, it sounds like this is a bad thing . . . what happened?"
"Well,--"
"Sorry to interrupt, but could you think of some other word to start your sentences other than 'well?' No big deal, it just sounds . . . monotonous."
"Sorry . . . um, see, Ari has a new friend. And, her new friend just happens to be Stephanie Brown."
"Spoiler? She was at the dance, with you and Ariana?"
Tim was silent before he answered, but Dick could picture the boy nodding. "Yeah. I spent so much time trying to avoid Spoiler--I mean, um, Steph--I mean Stephanie, that I avoided Ariana just as much. She left early, and she was majorly upset."
"Did she confront you about, you know, why you were avoiding her all night? Did you tell her why?"
"I thought I was pretty good at making excuses by now. I mean, I've been Robin for awhile now, and I've managed to keep the bag over Dad's head, not to mention Ari and the rest of my friends. But, last night, my mind just turned to mush. I tried to lie to her, but it just didn't come out like it should have."
Dick pushed his lip out thoughtfully. "You sound . . . surprised, Tim. Did you think you were a better . . . well, liar than that?"
"I always told myself that I was just making excuses, but honestly, it's lying. I mean, that's . . . that's what it is. I couldn't lie to Ari. I guess . . . I had pretty much decided I was in love with her."
Dick cracked a grin. "'Pretty much decided?' Sounds like you had a test for it, or something."
Tim stammered for a second; Dick could tell this wasn't something he was used to talking about, although he had called Dick, so he obviously wanted to have the discussion. "I mean, I accepted my feelings for her. I realized them. You've felt that way before, haven't you?"
Dick opened his mouth, then stopped and was silent for a moment. "Yeah, Tim. I felt that way with Kory; but let's not talk about that, all right?"
"Sure. Sure, no problem."
Dick nodded several times and shifted the phone to his other hand, holding it up to his left ear now. "Have you called Ariana? Maybe you should be talking to her. Because, other than listening--which, you know, is no problem--there isn't much I can do for you." Dick laughed self-deprecatingly. "I'm not really an expert on romance!"
Tim laughed weakly a few times; Dick could it was a forced response. "Maybe I will, if I can muster enough mettle. Oh, by the way, I was talking to Alfred today; he's making glazed turkey for dinner tonight, so if you want to come eat with him and Bruce tonight he said he'd put a pizza in the microwave for you."
Dick laughed outloud. "If you see Alfred before I do, tell him I just might take him up on that offer, and to have that pizza ready and hot when he hears the cycle pull up."
"I'll do that. . . . Thanks, Dick."
Dick leaned back in the chair, lifting its front two legs up off the floor. "Hey, I did nothing. And, you know I'm only happy to do it, Tim."
"I'll see you tonight, I guess."
"Yes, you will. Well, at the Cave, probably. I'm flying solo, as it were, tonight."
"See you at the Cave, then."
"Later, Tim." Dick waited until the phone clicked and a dial tone replaced the short silence, then stood and hung up the phone. Alfred wouldn't have dinner ready for at least another few hours. What am I going to do until then? Dick thought as he walked into the living room of his apartment and fell back into a pile of dirty shirts on his couch. Fishing the remote control out from between the cushions of his couch, he clicked on the TV and went exploring.
Wayne Manor, 6:56 p.m.
Bruce emerged from behind the grandfather clock in his father's study, his dark blue tanktop clinging to his sweat-soaked chest. The newspaper was still wrapped in its plastic bag, laying untouched on the couch; Bruce left it be, having already read it downstairs during his twenty-mile run. Bruce sat down on the couch and listened to the silence.
Bruce heard the sound of an oven door being pulled open in the kitchen and stood. Alfred was removing the turkey from the oven, the golden bird glistening beneath the kitchen's bright lights. Alfred held the turkey up in front of him, admiring it for a moment, then sitting it down on the counter. The butler closed the oven, washed his hands quickly, then dried them on the towel that hung from the belt of his apron. "Hello, Master Bruce," he said cordially, glancing quickly at the younger man and then turning his full attention to the night's dinner. "Your exercise was invigorating, no doubt."
Bruce pulled the front of his shirt away from his chest. "As usual."
"Master Dick called a short while ago; he will be joining you for dinner tonight."
Bruce closed his eyes and concentrated for a second. "It's six fifty-eight now, Alfred. What time did Dick say he'd be here?"
"I believe he said approximately seven, sir, which, coincidentally, was when I planned to serve the meal."
Bruce started back toward the hallway. "I still have a few minutes before he gets here; I need a shower," he announced over his shoulder. Alfred watched Bruce disappear around the corner, then bent over the turkey. He never ceased to amaze himself.
Several minutes later, as Alfred was dressing up the bird on a serving dish--preparing to place it on the dining room table--the doorbell rang. Alfred picked up the turkey, sat it in the center of the dining room table as he passed by, then walked into the hallway towards the living room. Alfred went from the living room into the vestibule surrounding the front entrance and opened the door. Dick stood there, his motorcycle parked at the foot of the front steps. The young man was dressed in black blue jeans, a dark red button-up shirt, and had on his normal dark blue jacket, unzipped as usual.
Dick stepped inside. Alfred watched as he hung up his own jacket, something that Dick always insisted on doing. "You'd better have that frozen pizza ready, Alfred," Dick said with a wide grin.
Alfred sighed with feigned frustration. "Oh dear," he lamented. "I suppose you'll have to settle for perhaps the most delicious turkey dinner in the history of the Wayne family."
Dick put his arm around the butler's shoulders. "Guess that'll have to do." The two friends walked into the dining room. Dick placed his hand on the first seat on the left from the head of the table, his usual seat, then walked towards the center of the long table to inspect the main course.
"I've also prepared a salad and a delightful corn soup whose recipe I found in an old cookbook," Alfred said as he walked into the kitchen.
Bruce entered the dining room, his black hair combed but still wet from his shower. He was dressed simply in a white button-up shirt with an open collar, black slacks, and black slipper shoes. Dick looked at Bruce, greeting him with raised eyebrows. "Hello, Bruce," he said.
Bruce sat down at the head of the table. "Glad you could make it for dinner tonight." Dick shrugged. Bruce looked at the first chair to his left and patted the place in front of it. "Come and sit down. Looks like Alfred's nearly ready."
Dick sat down just as Alfred returned with a crock of soup. "Ah, Master Bruce," the Englishman said as he sat the soup down between Bruce and Dick, "I hope your shower was refreshing."
Bruce handed Alfred the soup bowl in front of him. "Thank you, Alfred. I feel better, not being drenched in my own bodily fluid." Bruce shot a silencing look at Dick, who was beginning to grin at the remark.
Smiling, Dick held up both hands. "I said nothing."
Alfred filled Bruce's soup bowl, then grinned at Dick in the same amused, fatherly way he had since Dick was a teenager. The butler took both men's plates and took them to the turkey platter.
"So, what's been happening with you?" Bruce asked, then took a spoonful of soup in his mouth.
Dick leaned over the bowl and swallowed a spoonful of the soup, looking down at the bowl with satisfaction. "Well, today I got up, ate breakfast--if you could call it that--and basically watched television all day. You know, typical stuff. I was hoping I could drop down to the Cave a little later and work out for a few hours before I go into the city tonight. If it's all right with you, that is."
Bruce took another spoonful of soup. He nodded several times, then swallowed. "Fine with me. You know it's never a problem, Dick. My resources are always at Nightwing's disposal."
"Nightwing's disposal, eh?"
Bruce's eyes slid to the side for a moment, then he looked back at Dick. "At your disposal."
"So," Dick said, stirring his soup, "What's your plan for tonight? Anything in particular?"
Bruce stuck his fork into a piece of the turkey on his plate, which Alfred had returned. "Well . . . I'm hoping that Tim will want to take another night off. His dance last night was a little more exciting that I'd hoped."
"Tim called me today. He told me about Spoiler being there with Ariana, but it didn't really sound exciting."
Bruce chewed and swallowed a bite of turkey. "He didn't tell you about Raven?"
Dick shook his head. "No. He never mentioned anything about Raven."
"Tim told me about it when he got in last night. He thought he should let me know that Raven resurfaced before he went home. From what he told me, it was Peter Devorak at the dance, but it was someone else in the Raven suit."
Dick exhaled slowly. "Whoa. As if things weren't complicated enough around here. What about tonight?"
"Well . . . the Penguin is holding a pool tournament tonight to christen the quote-unquote 'all-new' Crowne Major hotel. There's still a slot open in the bracket, and I think that Matches Malone would be the perfect man to round it out." Bruce sipped a spoonful of soup broth. "Maybe I can find out whose been behind all the turmoil lately."
Dick shrugged, raising his eyebrows. "I've been thinking, maybe you should get another underworld identity. I mean, Matches Malone has done okay for you the last few years, but what about when they catch on as to who's really behind that mustache and the tacky suit . . . maybe it's time for a change of pace."
Alfred set a bowl of salad in front of each man. Dick looked up at the butler. "Hey, Alfred, doesn't the salad usually come before the main course?"
Before Alfred could answer, Bruce chimed in. "I've been asking Alfred to serve the salad last for the past few weeks." Bruce watched as Alfred poured him a glass of iced tea, then took a sip. "It's my change of pace," Bruce said as he sat the glass back down.
Dick laughed hopelessly. "I give up," he said as he dug into the salad. After chewing thoughtfully for a moment, he observed, "You know, the salad actually tastes better after having had a mouthful of turkey."
Beneath Wayne Manor, 7:42 p.m.
Bruce had already called and arranged for Matches Malone to fill in the final spot in the Crowne Major pool tournament. He was already dressed in the red polyester suit that was his other identity's trademark, and a make-up kit sat ready at the table in front of the mirror inside the costume vault. Bruce sat down and patted some of the slightly darker fleshtone onto an applicator.
Dick was sitting in front of the computer. "Hey, Bruce?" he called.
"Yes?" Bruce yelled back from inside the vault.
"You just got an e-mail on the Greenwich Network; should I open it?"
Bruce emerged from the vault and walked up behind Dick, typing over his shoulder. "If it's over the Greenwich Network, then it's from Lester Punny. I set up an account there under an alias so he could contact me more safely." Bruce opened the electronic message, and both he and Dick read it quickly. The message read:
Better you hear if from me, since you'll probably hear it on the street before too long. At least from me, it'll be reliable.
Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin, is the man behind the dethroning of Black Mask. He already controls gambling, and now he's moving into Mask's old prostitution, drug, and protection rackets. Cobblepot just bought the Crowne Major Hotel, and he's holding a pool tourney there tonight. You probably know all of this about the tourney, maybe even you'll be there. But, Cobblepot's after you as much as he was the Falseface. Watch your back.
--You know who
Dick stood from the computer, and Bruce took his place. "The Penguin's the one behind the white tuxedo killers, then. That means it was him who hired Firefly to work with him." Bruce put his hand to his chin thoughtfully. "Dick, could you do me a favor?"
Dick nodded. "Anything, just name it."
"I'm going to need you to cover for me while I'm at the pool tourney. Now that I know it's the Penguin behind all this, I can't afford to miss it tonight."
"Sure. I can handle that. Just standard city patrol, right?"
"Right. Make sure to hit all the major streets, and as many back alleys as you can. Since you live in the city, you should be able to stay out longer than I usually can before sunrise."
"No problem. I think I can take it. I'd like to stop by my apartment before I go out; I've got a better-equipped set of utility belts there that I think I'll be needing tonight."
Bruce closed his eyes an instant, then opened them wide. "You have about three hours before I normally go out, but you might want to get out as soon as possible. If word is out about the Penguin, it may be a busy night tonight."
"What time does the tournament start?"
"Nine. I'll be leaving in about half an hour."
Dick started for the exit from the cave leading directly up and outside.
Bruce stood and started back for the costume vault. "Dick," he called after him, "good luck."
Dick looked back towards Bruce. "Thanks. I hope I don't need it."
As he exited the cave and started for his motorcycle, he had an ominous feeling that he would.
Just Outside Gotham City, 7:50 p.m.
Garfield Lynns had his Firefly costume in the backseat, and his pyrotechnic equipment up beside him in the front. As he was driving out towards Gotham Heights, he would occasionally caress the surface of the napalm tanks, as if he were brushing the hair from the forehead of a child.
Lynns had never actually met his new employer, but from what he heard, Oswald Cobblepot didn't tolerate failure. Cobblepot made news several years ago for firing three dealers from his casino when they failed to attract players to their tables in sufficient numbers. Garfield Lynns wasn't planning on getting fired.
As he entered the suburbs, Lynns slowed his car and began noticing the house numbers; he was looking for 1479 Ash Road. When he passed 1473, he pulled his car off the road and got out, pulling his costume from the backseat. He dressed quickly as Firefly, having put the costume on so many times that he could do it effortlessly in the dark. Once his helmet, with its large insect-like eyes, was secure, Firefly strapped the napalm tanks over his back, and hooked them both into the back hose of his flame-thrower. His identity fully realized, Firefly began a silent march across several front lawns towards his target.
As he was crossing over to the property shared by 1477 and 1479 Ash Road, Firefly saw a light growing larger as it came up the road towards him. It was a motorcycle. Firefly waited until the cycle flew past, then ran the nozzle of his flame-thrower through a window of the house and climbed inside.
1477 - 1479 Ash Road
As Dick drove past the house, he thought he saw something moving near the shadows by its side. When he heard glass breaking after he'd passed the place, he brought the cycle to a stop, and turned around. When Dick's motorcycle pulled up in front of the house, flames erupted from the broken window.
Dick let the cycle fall to the pavement, not bothering to down the kickstand. The house had apparently been entered only seconds ago, and there were already flames curling out into the night. Since he had no fire equipment, Dick kept his motorcycle helmet on as he approached the house. The building had two front doors; two separate families lived there. Dick had a small cellular phone that he always carried with him. He pulled his helmet off quickly, dialed 911, and quickly explained what was going on. He then pocketed the phone, put his helmet back on, and walked up to the front door.
Taking a step back from the door, Dick shifted his weight forwards to his left leg and swung his right foot into the door of 1477, where Firefly had entered. The door broke away from its latch and swung open, rebounding closed halfway when it hit the wall inside. Dick was forced back as flames escaped from the new exit. Waving the smoke away from the faceplate of his helmet, Dick moved cautiously inside.
The shadow of a man was the first thing he saw; and Dick moved towards it. When he stepped up to the man, he realized through the thickening smoke that the man was Firefly, and was shooting more flames onto the wall, staring at them with a childish fascination. Dick moved quickly behind Firefly, disconnected the flame-thrower from the tanks, then took Firefly in a head lock and drug him back towards the broken window. Dick threw the arsonist outside viciously, then moved back towards the center of the room.
The fire was already out of control, and Dick's visibility ended only a few inches in front of him. Dropping to the ground, Dick saw the beginning of a hallway. Assuming that whoever was in the house would be back there, he opened the faceplate of his helmet. "Hey!" he called as loudly as he could. There was no answer, and Dick continued down the hall. He stopped at the first door he reached and crawled inside. He felt linoleum beneath his hands, and realized he must have been in the bathroom. Backing into the hallway, Dick crawled on, faster than before.
The heat was rising constantly, and Dick knew it would soon become unbearable. The next door he came to was shut tight. There was a half-inch crack at the bottom of the door, and smoke was rushing into the room. Knowing that the scorching doorknob would burn his bare hands, Dick drove his shoulder into the door, popping it open.
The room was already full of smoke, and Dick heard coughing. "Hello?!" he called, moving swiftly into the room. He felt ahead and touched a bedspread. "Hello? Where are you?"
"On the bed," a strained female voice said, followed by a flurry of coughs.
"Are you the only one here?"
"No . . . my husband won't wake up, and I haven't heard from the man next door." Another round of harsh coughing. Dick climbed up on the bed and began searching for the source of the female voice. He felt a leg.
"Is that you?"
"Yes. What about my husband?" Dick took hold of the woman's foot and pulled her to him. The heat was almost too much for him now, and would only get worse. He realized that he wouldn't be able to return for her husband. As Dick pulled the woman from the bed, he stood and went to hoist the woman over his shoulder. "Wait," she said, planting her feet on the floor, "You can't do that. The baby."
Dick groaned loudly. "What baby?" he said shortly.
"I'm pregnant," came the answer. Dick heard this, and thought it might make his needing to abandon her husband easier; by saving this woman, he would be saving two lives. Then, he realized that the baby would grow up without a father. In a split second, Dick relived every hardship of the death of his parents, the grieving process, life without a father or a mother.
No, Dick said firmly to himself. This child was going to at least have a mother. "Is there a window in here?" Dick asked.
"No," the woman said.
Dick rolled his eyes. "Of course not," he said under his breath. Taking the woman by the hand, he led her to a kneeling position. "We have to crawl out," he said. Dick thought he could see her nod. Pushing her ahead of him, the two crawled out into the hallway. "Just go straight, and take your time," Dick advised. The woman moved forward, and Dick tried to touch the back of her foot every time he moved his right hand forward, so he could make sure she was still there and still moving.
The blood left Dick's face when he heard her scream. She backed up into him, and he realized that the wall had fallen in their path. If circumstances would have permitted, Dick would have punched something. As things were, he stood, scooped the woman into his arms, and ran, praying that he remembered the way he had come in.
Dick emerged from the burning building carrying the woman. He laid her down at the end of the lawn, as far from the fire as he would take her. He heard sirens approaching, and mounted his motorcycle. At a total loss for words, he looked at the woman, at the two lives he just saved, then at the burning house, and the all-too important life he'd been forced to abandon. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but all he could manage was, "I'm . . . I'm sorry about your husband, ma'am."
Dick left on his motorcycle just as the first fire trucks arrived.
Lester Punny's Apartment, Gotham City, 8:47 p.m.
Lester Punny had just poured a cup of coffee when he heard the tapping on his window.
Expecting to see Batman, Punny took his coffee over to the window and climbed out onto the fire escape. He turned to the left railing, where the dark knight usually perched, and saw a total stranger.
The man had long black hair tied in a thin ponytail, a mostly black costume, and a face mask slightly larger than the one Robin wore. The man's expression betrayed a foul mood. "Lester Punny?"
Punny sipped his coffee and nodded. "Yes. Who are you?"
"You can call me Nightwing. Do you know Firefly?"
Punny took another sip of coffee. Angrily, Nightwing took the cup from Punny's hand and flung it into the night; it broke on the wall of a building across the street. "I know Firefly," Punny said, leaning towards his window.
"I want to know where he's staying."
"Why? What happened?"
Nightwing hopped from the rail onto the fire escape. "He burned down a house and killed at least one person. Now tell me!!"
Punny looked inside his apartment and prepared to go back inside. "Calm down. Last I heard, Garfield Lynns was staying at the Cranston Motel on Seider Street, about twenty blocks from here." Punny turned towards his window and climbed inside. When he leaned back out before shutting the window, Nightwing was already gone.
Crowne Major Hotel, 9:23 p.m.
"There is a phone call for . . . Matches Malone."
Matches Malone stood up straight from the pool table. "'Scuse me," he said, leaning his cue stick against the table and moving for the telephone at the other end of the convention hall.
Matches took the phone from the young page who had answered, slipping a five dollar bill into the young man's hand. "Yeah?" he said into the phone.
"It's me, Bruce," Dick's voice said from the other end of the phone.
Slipping out of his Matches persona for a moment, Bruce turned his back to the rest of the convention hall and lowered his voice. "What's going on? Has anything happened?"
Dick was silent for a second, and when he spoke, his voice was as low and dark as Bruce had ever heard it. "Firefly broke into a house on Ash Road as I was riding into Gotham. He burned it down, and I could only save one person. Well, two people, actually."
Bruce wondered what exactly that meant, but this wasn't the time to ask. "What happened to Firefly?"
"I found the bastard inside the house, caught him setting it on fire from the inside. I threw him outside before I went to look for people, and didn't see him anymore."
"Any idea where he went?"
"I talked to Lester Punny a little while ago. I'm on my way to Firefly's place right now. By the way, you'd better let Punny know that we're friends; he didn't seem too comfortable around me."
Bruce lowered his voice another octave. "Dick, listen to me, I've already had to reprimand Tim for letting his feelings get the better of him. I do not want to have that talk with you. You're a grown man, Dick. Control yourself."
"I don't need a lecture, Bruce. I know what I'm doing, and believe me, I can handle this."
Bruce was about to answer, but the line went dead. Bruce heard a dialtone, and hung up. Clearing his throat, Matches Malone returned to his pool game, seeming slightly distracted.
Cranston Motel, Seider Street, 9:29 p.m.
A man named Gil Fields was registered in Room 13-E; it was an alias that Garfield Lynns had used once before. The parking lot around the front and side of the building was darkened, only one of the street lamps still worked at all. Nightwing was able to walk right up to the door. The motel was twenty years old and very run down; it was amazing it hadn't been condemned years ago. There wouldn't be much in the way of security systems.
Nightwing stood in front of the door to Room 13-E and held his left arm straight out in front of him. He reached into one of the utility compartments that encircled his forearm and removed a black device that was similar to a pen-knife in appearance. Nightwing leaned down and examined the lock, then unfolded a flat piece of metal, its sides tapering to a point. Inserting the pick into the lock, Nightwing took hold of the doorknob with his free hand and turned it towards the left as he worked the pick around inside the lock.
After a few seconds, the door popped open. Nightwing burst inside, shutting the door behind him, leaving the room totally dark but for the minimal light coming in from the window. Nightwing touched his mask on the side of his right eye, activating his night-vision lenses. His eyes looked over every visible inch of the motel room.
The bed was empty.
A look in the chest of drawers revealed they were empty.
There was nothing beneath the bed.
Having found nothing, Nightwing approached the closet and pulled it open: nothing.
Turning around, he approached the bathroom. At first glance, the bathroom appeared as empty as the rest of the room. But, the shower door was closed. Nightwing grasped the handle and pulled, but the door didn't open. Nightwing pulled again, harder this time, and the shower door popped open. There was a loud bang as it came open; Nightwing examined the door and saw that thin copper wire had been used to fashion a crude makeshift lock for the shower door.
Inside the shower, in the far corner, sat a small napalm tank. Smiling with relief, Nightwing picked up the tank. The smile faded and an enraged grimace took its place; the tank was empty, and a small note was taped to the other side:
This is all that's left. Better luck next time.
Warmest regards,
--Firefly
Nightwing crumbled the note. He sat fuming in the shower, his lower lip trembling, his fist clenched so tight that it shook involuntarily. Standing, Nightwing took the tank in his hand and flung it from the shower. The tank collided with the bathroom wall, cracking the drywall in several places. Staring at the canister, his eyes wide beneath his mask, Nightwing stepped out of the shower.
Looking up at the ceiling, trying to look through the ceiling to see God himself, a primeval scream roared out his mouth; a scream that began in his soul.
Crowne Major Hotel, 11:32 p.m.
Bruce had been waiting for this all night.
He stood at one end of the center pool table, and Oswald Cobblepot stood at the other. It was the final match, and only Cobblepot and the man who everyone else knew as Matches Malone remained.
So far, both Matches and Cobblepot had played perfect games all night; each had run the table in all of their respective matches. Cobblepot was breaking this time. Matches sat down in one of the chairs beside the center table and watched as his opponent leaned over behind the cue ball and took aim. As he was about to shoot, Matches cleared his throat, and Cobblepot stopped short. He looked at Matches, annoyed. From beneath the make-up and the fake mustache that defined Matches Malone, Batman stared out at the Penguin. His eyes were ice, his mouth was turned down in an angry frown.
Cobblepot looked at Matches, and a sudden realization washed over his face. Oswald's eyes widened, and without thinking, he took a shot at the cue ball. The white sphere rolled lazily towards the head ball and knocked it gently. None of the nine billiard balls moved more than half an inch.
Matches Malone stood and strode up to the table, standing behind the cue ball. He struck hard and decisively, breaking up the balls, sending them scattering all over the table. The one, four, and seven all rolled into pockets. Matches targeted the two, and sent it into the left corner pocket at the head of the table. Seeing the three, he struck again. The three struck the five and the eight, and all three balls rolled into the same side pocket. Only the six and the nine remained.
Matches pocketed the six easily, and saw the nine, sitting up against the cushion at the foot of the table, only six inches from the corner pocket. Matches walked up behind the cue ball, targeted the nine, then looked up at Cobblepot, who was watching from the side. A look of bitter disappointment was on Oswald's face. The eyes of Batman stared at him once again from behind the face of Matches Malone. Still staring directly into the eyes of the Penguin, Matches sent the cue ball rolling towards the nine ball. The white ball glanced the side of the yellow-striped nine, sending it moving slowly towards the corner pocket. The ball reached the edge of the pocket, stopped for an instant. Cobblepot stared at the ball hopefully, trying to will it away from the hole. It didn't work; the nine ball fell into the pocket.
The crowd of losing players, hotel employees, tenants, and pool aficionados that had gathered to watch the final match erupted in applause. Matches didn't acknowledge them at all. He refused the prize money, throwing it indifferently to the floor when it was handed to him. Matches tossed his cue stick onto the table and walked towards the Penguin. Cobblepot stepped to the side to let him pass, and as Matches walked past, he leaned down to Oswald's ear.
"I win," said Batman's voice. "That's only one."
Matches Malone left the hall.
Cobblepot waited until the crowd had left, then the Penguin snapped his cue stick angrily in half.