Written for the Internet by: Nightwing
It seemed like he had just gone to bed.
In reality, Jim Gordon had walked through his front door and gone to bed almost five and a half hours ago. Now, he rolled over and sat on the edge of his bed, his head lowered and his eyes squinted shut. He felt blindly over to his nightstand and found his glasses, putting them on and standing slowly. His knees popped as he did so. His back crackled and and popped as he stretched, reaching for the ceiling.
Gordon stood still beside his bed for awhile, then shook the cobwebs of sleep from his head and started in for the bathroom. There, he shaved--cutting himself twice--, combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and walked back into the bedroom.
Gotham's Police Commissioner had often been told that Jim, you don't need to get up so early and stay so late; commissioner doesn't have to be a hands-on job--not all the time. Whenever someone told him this, Gordon would normally just smile, shrug and say "Well, I've been doing this for a few years now, and I think I've figured out how I can do it best. Now, excuse me; I have to get down to . . ." There was always somewhere to get to.
Jim Gordon dressed and left for work. He'd been a cop in Gotham for ten years, Police Commissioner the last five, and he took the same route everyday. And, it seemed like there was always something.
Today, it was a woman running topless down the sidwalk.
Gordon had been driving down Avenue M when he spotted her, sprinting down the sidewalk, arms flailing, screaming at the top of her lungs. Gordon pulled off to the side, running his front right tire up on the curb. The woman ran right past, and Gordon had to climb over the gearshift and slide out the passenger side of his car. He pulled his badge from his back pocket and held it out as he called to the woman.
"Ma'am, stop!! Stop! Police officer!" The woman stopped and stood timidly in one spot as Gordon started towards her, flashing her his badge then pocketing it.
The woman suddenly became hysterical again, pointing at a point behind Gordon and screaming, "Keep him away from me!! You bastard!! Keep away from me!!" Gordon turned and saw a tall, thin man with thinning hair starting down the stairs of an apartment building down the sidewalk. The commissioner turned back to the woman. On her face he noticed a red area on her cheek, and there were several bruises now evident on her shoulders and beneath her arms. Gordon turned back to the man, who was now approaching them on the sidewalk.
The man pointed. This must be the husband, Gordon thought as he held out his hands and started towards the man. "Is this your husband?" Gordon asked the woman.
"His name is Mark."
Gordon nodded. "All right. Mark! Just calm down, now. This is over now." He pulled his badge. "We'll all go down to Headquarters--first, we'll get your wife some clothes first--"
" . . . hell outta my way, Detective," Mark said angrily, still moving forward. "That's my wife standing naked behind you."
"I can't let you take her home 'til we've had a little talk at the station, Mark."
"This isn't your business. Now, move."
Gordon squared his shoulders and stood his ground. Mark stopped in front of him, and shook his head. He looked ahead at his wife, pointed at her. Gordon took hold of Mark's wrist, twisted it around behind his back, and forced him to his knees. The commissioner pulled the pair of handcuffs from his back pocket and locked Mark's hands together. He hauled the woman's husband to his feet. Gordon opened the back door of his car and shoved Mark inside, locking him in.
"Looks like I'll have to take you two in myself," he said to the woman. He pulled his overcoat out from beneath the passenger seat and tossed it to her. "Put this on, go inside and get on some clothes. Then, we'll all go down to where I work and have a talk." The woman pulled on the overcoat and started for her building. "Hurry up!" Gordon urged, slight annoyance in his voice.
Gordon climbed in behind the wheel of his car, shut the door, and glanced over his shoulder at Mark, who was sitting complacently on the passenger side back seat. "I hope you know you've totally ruined the rest of my morning, Mark," Gordon said as he saw Mark's wife approaching the car, carrying his overcoat and now wearing a black tee-shirt. "How about you scoot over to the other side, Mark? And, by the way, it's Commissioner."
When the woman, whose name was Elaine, was in the car, Gordon resumed his trip to work.
It was always something.
Arkham Asylum, 12:12 p.m.
This cell was a marked improvement from the quarters at Blackgate.
Peter balled his toes into fists and walked around on the carpeted floor of his new cell in New Arkham. Blackgate, a state penitentary, was all bare concrete walls and floors--the total, complete opposite of this. Even the pads were nice in this padded room.
Who knew being insane could have led to such a positive lifestyle change?
Peter turned to face the mirrored door to the cell, and saw his own reflection staring back at him. It was an uncomforable feeling, knowing that he could not see out, but everyone outside could see in. Peter wondered if maybe someone was watching him now. As luxurious a cage as Peter had ever seen, but it was missing the one essential element of a haven: privacy.
Something beeped, and the mirror slid to the right. Oswald Cobblepot stepped inside, and the mirror shut behind him. He was standing simply, shoulders slightly drooping, hands in his pockets, regarding Peter with a faint smile. "I suspect it will take you a few days to settle in to the routine around here. It won't be difficult, I assure you."
Walking to the other side of the room, Peter leaned back against the padded wall. "You hired that lawyer, didn't you?"
Cobblepot nodded. "I did, indeed. Actually, it was more of a selfish deed than it was something to help you out."
Peter waited for Cobblepot to clarify what he'd just said, but he didn't. "Yeah . . . what's that mean?"
"Well, I'm a powerful man. I control a lot of things, and I needed the best people available to not only help me hold onto what I have, but acquire more, and share in the fruits of that labor. You were one of those people, so I made you available."
Peter shrugged. "Maybe I should look at that as a compliment."
Cobblepot smiled in agreement. "A backhanded one at that." Peter glanced past Oswald to the mirror. Cobblepot noticed this, and turned to face the glass as well. "Ah, you don't care for the mirror, eh? A young man as yourself would like to have some privacy?"
Peter nodded uncertainly. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so." He paused, then looked at Oswald, grinning wryly. "I get the feeling you could do something about that."
Cobblepot nodded. "I could, yes. But, I need some assurances from you; a promise that I didn't hire Ronald Greenwauld for nothing. You need to help me."
"It'll be hard to help you out with your business from in this cell."
"Well, we can arrange some . . . theraputic excursions for you, when needed. Believe me, Peter, help me out, and my Arkham Asylum can be a pretty nice place to live."
"Can you do something about this mirror? I don't like being able to be seen by everybody all the time."
"I can flip a switch and reverse the way that mirror works. But, as before, you have to do things for me."
Peter looked around at his cell; the place was a palace compared to everyplace else he'd ever lived. He thought a moment, then began nodding his head. "Sure, Penguin. I like it here; I'll help you out."
The Penguin walked back to the mirror, knocked once, and it slid open. He stepped outside, and when the mirror shut, Peter was watching Cobblepot walk down the hall.
Outside Gotham City Police Headquarters, 2:34 p.m.
Gary Lockheed trotted down the stairs, Henry York right behind him. Both men had been apprehended by the Batman last night, before they could break into McTierney's Warehouse.
McTierney's was owned by Gary's brother, Greg, who was owner of Lockheed Construction, Ltd., a small time business that built houses for people who couldn't afford to go to a "major" contractor. Until very recently, the company had been Lockheed Bros. Construction, Ltd.; Greg and Gary had been partners. Henry York was their cousin, and employee. Henry had never really been stable in the financial sense, he had numerous debts and few ways of paying them off. His job at Lockheed paid enough for someone who led a normal life, but whenever Henry got his hands on cash, it never lasted long.
Three weeks ago, Henry and Gary got the idea that maybe it would be better for both of them if they took slightly more than their due share from the company's funds. Both men agreed that it was a good plan, and both agreed that Greg Lockheed was far too benign and trusting a person to catch on to such a scheme. The only problem was, Greg's trust only extended to his family and close friends; to the rest of the world, he was downright paranoid. Greg had never trusted banks--he and Gary's father had lost several hundred dollars several years ago due to what the bank still maintained was a "computer error". Instead of using public banking, Greg Lockheed kept all his company's finances in a safe, which was hidden . . . well, until about four days ago, Henry and Gary had no idea where the safe was.
During the month that would lead up to the attempted robbery of the warehouse, Henry and Gary had virtually turned Lockheed Construction, Ltd. upside down. The company had two primary facilities: the warehouse and an office on Jonathan Street. The office was the first place they looked, and it was almost the last--Greg showed up during their search, saw what they were in the process of doing to his office, jumped to the right conclusion, and came very, very close to pressing charges of breaking and entering against his brother and cousin. That was when the Bros. was removed from Lockheed Construction.
The very next night, Gary went to the warehouse--Greg, in his benigness, had neglected to change the locks on the outside. In the warehouse was a crane, a crane that hadn't been used since Lockheed had bought the warehouse. It was always in the same spot, every morning. But, the warehouse floor was constantly covered by a thick layer of soot, tracked in from the bulldozers, trucks, and men who walked in and out and all around the warehouse with dirty boots on their feet. In this soot, around the unmoving crane, was a circular pattern of contour lines, as if someone were sweeping the dirt around to hide something.
Gary started up the crane, moved it forward--towards the lines in the soot--and checked the floor where it had been. Beneath the soot was a wooden plank, and beneath the wooden plank was a safe, laid beneath the floor on its back, so the dial and the front door were staring up at Gary. That night, he could have accomplished everything that he and Henry had been meaning to do. Unfortunately--it seemed like there was always something--Gary didn't know the safe's combination; he had never heard it, never seen it, never felt the paper it was written on. He had to find it, obviously.
Henry took care of that, returning to the office on Jonathan Street at four in the morning last Monday, searching the place again, and finding the combination scrawled in the back of a Food Master receipt, tucked in between the pages of War and Peace.
Which brought Henry and Gary to the front steps of Gotham City Police Headquarters. They'd picked the wrong day, the wrong time to carry out their plan. The factor they didn't consider was the one they least expected: Batman. What would Batman want with two guys who's criminal ambitions didn't run too far past some breaking and entering, and then the minor theft of several thousand dollars? Obviously, Gotham's twilight protector had too much damn time on his hands.
Gary stepped off the curb and started trying to hail down a cab. He and Henry had been released on their own recognisance, and had been told to await their day in court in Gotham City. Fortunately, their day in court wouldn't come for at least a few weeks, just one of the perks of living in a city where writing "thief and embezzler" on the "Current Occupation" blank of a job application wasn't an out of the ordinary practice for a truly honest man.
The primary problem with trying to rob the warehouse again was that, as soon as Greg found the money absent from his safe, Gary and Henry would be the prime suspects. Something would have to be done; this time, it couldn't just be two guys breaking into a warehouse. They needed some additional help, and according to the whisper stream that travelled through the streets of Gotham, there was only one man to see about something like this now.
Gary finally succeeded in hailing a cab. As he and Henry were climbing into the back seat, he said to the driver, "WayneTech Plaza, please." He turned to Henry and whispered, "I have a phone call to make, and I want to do it someplace public."
Henry nodded in agreement. "Always thinking, eh Gary?"
The Web, 2145 Ascotte Avenue, 4:45 p.m.
Jim Crazy, along with two other members of the Bone Eaters, walked into the bar and sat down at his normal booth, all the way in the back, left-hand corner. His two companions sat down across from him; they were called Todd the Cock and Freak, respectively. Both had been among the group that had left Spikes the night before. It seemed the Bone Eaters were now divided into two groups of differing opinion; without their leader, Killer Mac, one group wanted to stay and fight for their territory, the others wanted to leave while they still had their numbers and re-establish themselves somewhere else.
Jim Crazy looked in amazement at a waiter that walked up to their table. "And, what would you--"
"What the fuck are you doing?" Crazy asked angrily, his eyes wide. From behind the bar, Arnie, the owner of The Web, ran out and took the waiter by the arm, leading him away.
"Relax, Jim, this is a new guy."
"Better straighten that asshole up, Arnie," Crazy warned. "'Cause I'll kill the little fucker."
Arnie backed away respectfully. "No problem, Jim. It ain't gonna happen again. This, I promise."
Crazy nodded, then turned back to Todd and Freak. "All right. Let's talk about how we are gonna mobilize our people."
"We could steal some cars," suggested Freak.
Crazy shook his head profusely. "There's like fifteen of us, dumbass. You know how many cars we'd have to boost? No fuckin' way."
Todd began tapping his index finger on the table. "So, is there just fifteen of us? We ain't gonna try and get the rest to go along?"
Crazy shook his head again. "Nope. As far as I'm concerned, them and Spikes can stay here and let Penguin fuck 'em in the ass as many times as he wants. It's their problem now. Fuck 'em."
Todd shrugged. "Okay, Crazy. You know me and Freak're behind you all the way, huh?"
"You bet." Crazy touched fists with Freak and Todd. "Who the hell needs Spikes, huh? Long as I got my boys."
Jack's House of Comics, in the basement, 2157 Ascotte Avenue, 5:00 p.m.
Terry "Spikes" Hicks held the Uzi out in front of him and admired it as its barrel glistened in the room's dim light. There were locked bookcases lining the walls of the basement beneath the comic shop, and the shelves within these locked cases held hundreds of weapons, guns, and ammunition for all of them. Spikes brought the Uzi to his chest, smiled at the cold feeling of it next to his bare chest, then reluctantly dropped it on the shelf behind him.
Spikes heard footsteps, and hurriedly closed and locked the open bookcase. There was an old copy of The Tick #1 lying on top of a cardboard box; Spikes grabbed it and opened it to a random page. He peered over the top edge of the comic and saw Jason Henders trotting down the stairs. Spikes exhaled with relief and tossed the comic book indifferently to the side. "Christ, Henders! Where was the knock? The knock I told everybody to do when--before they come down?! I thought you was a damn cop, or something."
Henders, only fourteen years old, shook his head nervously. "Um, sorry. I didn't--didn't remember."
"So . . . what the fuck d'ya want, kid?"
The teen looked at Spikes blankly for a moment, then recognition dawned in his eyes. "Oh, yeah. Jeez, um . . . Danny told me to tell you that he heard from Crisp on Robinson Boulevard that there's a shipful a guns coming in tonight, round three-thirty in the morning at Dock Forty-nine, the, um, southern wharf."
Spikes nodded. "Good job, ya little punk. Go tell everybody to let everyone who's still on our side know that they should meet me in the basement of the old building across from Hennie's, around . . . say midnight."
Henders nodded and took off up the stairs. Spikes leaned back against the bookcase behind him and sighed, looking down at the copy of The Tick lying on the floor in front of him. "Why can't Jack have owned, like, a fuckin' Sheetz? Christ, I hate comic books."
The Sausage House, Doranski Avenue, Little Poland, 6:59 p.m.
Gary Lockheed stepped inside the restaurant and held the door open as Henry walked in. The maitre'de greeted them. "I welcome you, two fine young men. Would you like a private booth? Yes?"
Gary gave the maitre'de a snide look. "No, thank you. We're looking for . . . ah, Mr. Baranski? He should have mentioned us to you when he came in."
"Oh, yes." The maitre'de pointed to a long-legged, thin man sitting at a small table in the far back of the dining room, tentatively sipping a glass of water. "That is the gentleman right over there. Just go on ahead on over."
Gary looked neutrally at the maitre'de, blinking several times, then started towards Mr. Baranski. Henry nodded towards Gary, then looked at the maitre'de, pointing from himself to Gary and shaking his head. The maitre'de just smiled and nodded, then Henry walked over to Baranski's table.
The man at the table sat his water down, and pointed to the table's other two chairs. "Sit down, you two." He threw his wrist out in front of him and looked at his watch. "It's seven o'clock; I was beginning to wonder if you'd show up. I don't like being stood up."
Henry sat down first, leaning towards Baranski, resting his left hand over his pants pocket.. "You are Yardley, right?" he whispered nervously.
Baranski picked up his water glass and sipped, nodding twice. "I said I would be here. Now, you two have to convince me it was worth my while."
Gary sat down. "Whoa, wait a minute. I thought you said that your boss would help me out."
"Well then, if that's the case, why am I meeting you here? Don't you think that, if he'd already decided to help you out, we'd be somewhere planning every possible phase of the job? Anticipating all contingencies?"
"Well . . . "
"Why should I help you?"
Gary scooted in close to the table and leaned forward. "My brother, Greg, owns Lockheed Construction. There is a safe hidden in the floor of his warehouse on Exeter Street, and in there is at least two million. See, my brother doesn't trust the banks; he keeps everything on his own."
Baranski gestured for more information. "And? What's in it for us?"
Henry cleared his throat. "See, me and Gary only need like a few hundred thousand dollars to get set up in Cana--" Henry felt Gary jab him hard in the ribs. " . . . set up where we're going. You guys can have the rest, and blame it on whoever you want. I mean, you guys gotta have enemies you want to get rid of without having to, you know . . ."
"I know. But, why shouldn't we just break into the place ourselves? Take all the cash?"
"Well . . . because, we have the combination to the safe. That'll make it a lot easier on you."
"Now, that is a good point. Of course, if one of you were stupid enough to be carrying the combination on you . . ."
Gary shook his head. "Nope. Listen, we know what we're doing. The only copy of the combination I have is in a safe deposit box, in one of the many banks in this city. I've got the only key hidden in a safe place."
Baranski rolled his eyes. "We both know that story's bullshit, Gary. Henry's got the combination in his front left pocket. You think I can't see how he's been covering it?" The color drained out of Henry's face. "Relax," Baranski reassured him. "Truth is, this job will be a lot easier with you guys, than not with you."
Gary nodded, a smile on his face. "Will, huh? So . . . you . . . ?"
Baranski nodded. "Yes, Mr. Lockheed. You and your butt-buddy here meet me and a few of mine at ten-twenty one Exeter, Apartment One-A, first floor, midnight. Got it?"
Both Henry and Gary nodded.
"Good, now, here comes the waiter. What do you guys want?" Baranski picked up a menu that laid on the table in front of him. "Hope you guys brought some money. Damn; the prices in this Pollack joint . . ."
Gotham City Police Headquarters, 8:42 p.m.
Gordon pulled a cup out of the holder on the wall and held it under the nozzle of the coffee pot.
After reading police reports for the last several hours, he decided that if he didn't get up and do something else soon, even for just a little while, he would never be able to pry himself out of his chair. The husband and wife Gordon had brought in this morning had traded insults and obscenities for nearly an hour before a fed-up commissioner had ordered that the husband be held in custody overnight, and the wife go home and calm down; an officer would stop by tomorrow to take her official statement.
The coffee reached the top of the cup just as Lieutenant Kitch walked around the corner with his personal mug. "Oh, hi, boss."
Gordon sipped his coffee, then extended his index finger away from the cup and pointed at Kitch's mug. "When'd you get that cup?"
The lieutenant held up the mug. "This? Oh, it used to be my father's. See--" Kitch rotated his wrist, turning the mug around; the words Number 1 Dad were printed on the side in bold red letters. "He passed away . . . oh, I guess it's been seven years now."
"You've had that cup ever since you've worked here?" Gordon asked uncertainly, taking another drink from his paper cup.
"Um-hmm." Kitch nodded at the pot. "Any coffee left?"
"Oh," Gordon stepped to the side. "Sorry."
"So," Kitch began, filling up his mug, "you've been locked in the office all day; how're the police reports coming?"
"Boring," Gordon said with emphasis, "as hell."
Kitch took a gulp of the steaming coffee; Gordon winced as he did so, but Kitch seemed unaffected. "Why do people always use similes involving Hell? Hot as Hell I can see, but hard as hell? Long as hell? I've even heard cold as hell . . . seems a little ridiculous."
Gordon shrugged. "I guess that's just part of living in a society where people punctuate everything they say with the word 'like.'"
Kitch smiled and took another sip of coffee. "I'd better get back to my office. I want to finish writing some of the reports you'll be reading tonight; my brother's coming into town tomorrow."
Gordon raised an eyebrow. "Which brother?"
"Darren."
"Darren. He's the one who's . . . ?" Gordon made a shaky motion with his free hand.
Kitch nodded.
"Did things work out with him and that other man?"
"Uh, no. I don't think so. Ron? No, they broke up about two weeks ago."
Gordon finshed his coffee, crumpled the cup in his hand and tossed it into the trash. He patted Kitch on the shoulder, then walked past him and started back to his office. What a world.
Jordon Hotel, Meredith Avenue, 11:35 p.m.
In the alley beside the hotel, Batman reached into the back pocket of the punk he'd just rendered unconscious. He removed a wallet, and held it up to the sixty-nine year old man who stood several feet away on the sidewalk. "Yours?"
The man nodded, and Batman tossed it down at his feet. The man bent over , picked it up, then regarded Batman, not quite sure what to make of this strange figure, this dark guardian who had dropped from the sky it seemed when the now-unconscious punk had picked the old man's pocket.
"I can take it from here," Batman said, his voice totally empty of any emotion or inflection, just a deep, low rasp. The man nodded, then turned and began walking briskly away from the hotel, down the sidewalk.
Robin stood in the alley, still holding the length of cord he had used to slide down the side of the hotel. "So," he began, "what're we going to do with this one?"
Batman looked up uncertainly. "I'm open to suggestions."
"How about the roof? We could call the police . . ."
"I don't suppose it would hurt a few uniforms to take the elevator up all the way to pick him up." Batman looked up at the roof, then nodded. "Tie him up. When he's ready to be hoisted, toss the open end of the rope up to me." Batman pulled a batarang from his belt, flung it up to the hotel roof, and when he was satisfied of its security, climbed up the cord that trailed behind it. Robin knelt down and got to work tying the punk's hands and feet.
Once the hands were tied, Robin attached a much longer length of cord to a batarang, then wrapped the other end around the man's chest beneath his arms, tying it securely. Robin took the batarang, tossed it up on the roof, and gave it a light tug. The cord was almost completely taut; Robin grinned at how well he had measured it's length. He climbed up to the roof ledge, planting his feet against the side of the building and flipping up on top.
"I like that guy," Robin commented as Batman took hold of the cord and began pulling the unconscious punk up to the roof, "He makes a good anchor."
Batman stepped on the cord to hold it in place, and took the punk by the collar of his shirt and lifted him onto the roof. "Go ahead and call this one in," he told Robin.
Someone cleared their throat. Batman and Robin both turned at the same time; Nightwing was standing at the other end of the roof, sitting on the parapet, hands clasped between his knees. "Hi, y'all!" he said, grinning broadly.
"Nightwing," Batman said in what for him was a warm greeting.
Smiling, the newcomer stood and started towards Batman and Robin. "Hey, Boy Wonder," he said. Robin nodded towards him, holding up his left hand and pressing his right index finger against the earplug in his left ear.
After a moment, the Boy Wonder dropped both hands and gave Nightwing a smile. "What've you been up to?"
"Ah, nothing really. I actually found you two to see if there was anything you need help on? Something I can check out?"
Batman sat the unconscious pickpocket in the corner of the roof, then turned back to his old protege. "There is something you can follow up for me, if you want."
Nightwing shrugged. "Sure. What is it?"
"There's a warehouse on Exeter called McTierney's. Last night, we picked up a few would-be burglars trying to break in. I did a check, and they were employees for the company that owns the place. They were both released from jail today, and they might be dumb enough to try again."
Nightwing nodded. "Sure thing. But, they'd have to be pretty stupid to go back."
"Don't overestimate these guys," Robin cautioned, grinning. "These guys were the definition of stupid."
Batman removed his grapple from his belt and fired it at the side of the Meredith clock tower, which was beside the hotel, and nearly twice as high. "We have a patrol to finish," he said, looking at Robin, who was firing his own grapple. "Good luck tonight."
"Right, thanks," Nightwing said. Batman and Robin jumped off the roof and swung out over the street, landing on the roof of an apartment building, and from there disappearing into the night. Nightwing walked to the edge of the roof, watching the unconscious criminal. "So," he said to the slumbering crook, "rough night for you, huh?"
The punk didn't move.
"Okay, fine. Don't talk to me."
Nightwing had hoped for a little bit of exercise tonight, but maybe taking it easy would be a good idea.
Nothing wrong with a nice quite patrol every once in awhile, he thought as he removed a grappling hook from a compartment around the top of his boot and tossed it over to the next roof.
Sunday
1021 Exeter Street, 12:02 a.m.
The man who was Baranski in the restaurant was Edward Yardley again. He inserted a full ammunition clip into the magazine of his nine millimeter, smiling when he heard it click into place. Besides Yardley, Gary Lockheed, and Henry York, there were also two other Front Liners in the room: Greg Huxtous and Steve Darby, each armed with nine millimeters.
"Don't we get guns?" Henry asked, staring at the three men and their weapons with obvious discomfort.
Yardley looked at Henry with sharp annoyance. "No, you don't. I think we've got it covered." Edward holstered his gun and zipped his black jacket over it. "All you guys gotta do is get us inside the place, and after that into the safe. We open the safe, put the money in Steve's sack there, and get the hell outta there."
Gary cleared his throat. "Um, pardon me, but the safe is front down in the hole. How're we going to get it out of the hole?"
Yardley took a calming breath. He encircled Huxtous and Darby in an invisible line drawn by his index finger. "We, Gary, are going to lift the safe out of the hole. Then, you, with that combination you got, will open the safe. We'll remove the money, and split." Edward watched Gary and Henry in anticipation. "Anything else? Did I answer every fuckin' question you had?"
Henry and Gary looked at each other, then back at Yardley. "No, uh, we're--we're fine," Gary said nervously.
"All right." Yardley walked over and opened the door. "Let's do this thing."
McTierney's Warehouse, 12:10 a.m.
In the back of the warehouse was an old wooden door that served as a service entrance. Greg Huxtous walked up to this door, removed a lockpick from his pocket, and went to work. "Is this where you guys got picked up last night?" Yardley asked Henry and Gary.
Gary shook his head. "No, we were trying around on the other side."
Yardley glared at Gary with disbelief. "You worked here? You knew about this old back entrance with a twenty year-old lock, and you went in the front?" Gary and Henry looked at each other, then shrugged, nodding stupidly. "Fuckin' morons," Yardley mumbled under his breath.
Huxtous took hold of the knob and turned it hard to the right. The door swung open, and Yardley stepped forward, brandishing a flashlight, shining it inside the door. Once he was was satisfied that no one was waiting for them inside, he motioned to the others, and they waited until he and Gary and Henry had gone inside. "Where's the light switch?" Henry asked, feeling along the wall.
"No lights! Leave the lights off!" Yardley ordered, a harsh whisper. "Just, follow me, all right? Where's the safe?"
Henry pointed, but Yardley couldn't see. Henry moved up into the light and pointed again at the crane. "Underneath that thing."
Yardley leaned forward slightly, eyes squinting. "The crane? It's under the crane?"
Henry nodded. "Well, yeah. Didn't tell you th--"
"No."
Gary came up beside them, waving his hands and speaking in lightning fast whispers. "It's all right!! All right!! I can move the crane!! It's only a few feet . . . just a few feet I have to move it, then we're in!! Man, we're in!!"
Yardley pushed Gary towards the crane. "Go move it, but try and be quiet. And, stop talking like some gimpy old movie gangster, for Christ's sake."
Up on the roof, Nightwing was listening, an earplug in his right ear, a wire leading from that earplug into a supersensitive microphone that he was pushing firmly against the concrete roof. The microphone worked by picking up even small vibrations in the walls, vibrations caused by speech. It worked best when aimed at glass, but even through the concrete, Nightwing could make out bits and pieces of conversation when the mike was turned up on its highest setting.
He heard heavy machinery being moved. So much for a quiet patrol, he thought with irritation as he packed up the microphone and started for the edge of the roof. The back door was still open, and there were five of them, so it stood to reason that the back and front entrances were being guarded. Since it was already open, the back would be an easier route.
Steve Darby, whom Nightwing didn't recognize, was guarding the door. Darby obviously had some kind of training, since as soon as Nightwing's boot soles touched the ground he had a nine millimeter pointed in his direction. Nightwing dove forward and to the left, ending up with his back to the wall beside the door. Darby stepped outside, and Nightwing's leg lashed out, taking out the other man's feet. Darby landed on his hands, then sprang right back up, somehow managing to maintain his hold on the gun.
The gun fired. Nightwing missed the bullet and moved towards Darby, taking hold of his wrist with one hand and punching him hard in the side of the jaw with the other, all in one fluid motion. Darby still held the gun, but fell back in pain, his jaw screaming at him. Nightwing still held his wrist, and brought the entire arm down over his knee. Darby dropped the gun, his arm most likely broken.
Nightwing left Darby lying, moving inside the warehouse. He spotted Edward Yardley with two of the others beside a large crane, which was slowly backing away from its former spot on the floor, and another man running towards him from the front door of the warehouse. This was Greg Huxtous, whom Nightwing also did not recognize.
Huxtous' gun had a silencer on it, so he wouldn't be too timid about using it. Nightwing darted off to the side, losing himself in the shadows of the cavernous warehouse. He touched a spot on his mask, activating the night vision lenses, and removed a small aluminum ball from the utility belt around his left leg. There was a hook on the surface of the ball, on which Nightwing attached a long length of cord. He held the cord, the ball hanging about six inches down from his hand, and began taking long, measured steps through the shadows, watching Huxtous' every move.
"You move the crane. And, hurry-up," said Edward Yardley, screwing a silencer onto the end of his gun and aiming at random into the dark recesses of the warehouse. Yardley began shooting at indiscriminate spots, most of them nowhere near Nightwing.
One of the bullets from Yardley's gun struck the wall just to the side of Nightwing. Nightwing moved quickly around to the other side of the crane, positioning himself in the shadows behind both men. He brought the ball and cord up to his side and flung it at Yardley's gun hand. The ball led the cord quickly around his wrist, and Nightwing pulled hard, yanking Yardley back suddenly, landing on his backside, his gun clattering to the floor.
Nightwing leapt from the darkness towards Huxtous, the cord still in his hand. He planted his left foot on the floor, spun around backwards on it and caught the man in the side of the head with a powerful reverse roundhouse kick. Huxtous and Yardley were tied with the same cord.
Henry York was off the crane, running for the front door. Gary Lockheed was right behind him. Nightwing unclipped the metal sphere from around Yardley's wrist, attached it to another cord, and threw it hard at the escaping men. The cord wrapped around Henry's feet, tripping him. Gary, in turn, tripped over him.
Both men were writhing, struggling to stand when Nightwing approached them calmly. He knelt down, shaking his head skoldingly. "You guys. . . . You want to at least maybe try to tell me what you were thinking? Getting mixed up with guys like these? That's bad news, my friends."
Gary was silent; Henry moaned, both in pain and in disappointment. "Now, here's what's going to happen. Are you listening? Good, then--" Nightwing looked up suddenly at the sounds of sirens outside. Police already?
He stood tentatively, walking slowly over to the door and listening. There were two cops, he could hear them talking. It's Gotham City, someone must've heard the crane, he thought as he started for the back of the warehouse. "Catch you guys on Court T-V. Gotta run."
The two police officers walked into the warehouse. From the roof, Nightwing could hear one of them say, "Shit, there's four of 'em."
"Look out the back. Five."
"Shit. We'll have to get these three here, and then send someone else for these two jokers."
The larger of the two officers led out both Yardley and Huxtous, while the other cop took Darby out to the squad car.
The squad car pulled onto a one-way sidestreet from Exeter several blocks down. They had been travelling away from the nearest police station since leaving McTierney's. From the sidestreet, the car pulled into an alley behind the Russell & Grove soup factory. There, the two cops got out and opened the doors. Their three passengers all exited teh vehicle, untied, not handcuffed, completely unrestrained. "You stay here; someone'll be around to pick you up in about ten minutes."
Yardley nodded in understanding. "All right. Thanks a lot pal."
The cop shoved Yardley hard against the brick wall of the soup factory. "I ain't your pal, you low life piece a fuckin' scum. I'm just doin' what I was told."
With that, both officers climbed back into the car, and drove off.
Eleven minutes later, a black station wagon arrived, and took Edward Yardley and his friends home.
Gotham City Harbor, South Wharf, Dock 49, 3:21 a.m.
Two hours ago, Batman heard a beep in his ear.
"Yes?" he'd answered, switching on his two-way radio.
"Sir, you've received a message via the computer," answered Alfred's voice.
"An e-mail?"
"Yes, sir, I suppose. The address indicates it is from an . . . R Kramden? Perhaps a poor attempt at humorous disguise?"
Batman had nodded. "Indeed. That'll be important; send it to the palmtop."
"As we speak, sir."
Batman unsnapped the buckle plate from his belt and opened up the small computer. In the electronic in-box was a new file:
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
Be at the southern wharf by 3:30 this morning. Very big shipment, but can't go into details. Don't *have* any. Might want to let police know, too. At least one street gang will probably be there.
--YKW
Batman snapped the palmtop shut and it clicked back over his belt buckle.
He and Robin had now been here for fifteen minutes, sitting and waiting in still patience. Batman could remain totally motionless for almost unlimited periods of time, but Robin hadn't yet mastered this ability, and was growing restless.
"Try not to move so much," Batman scolded him.
Robin brought his knees up to his chest and settled in. They were nestled on the roof of one of the many warehouses that lined the harbor. "This must be what deer hunting is like. Or fishing."
Batman's eyes were rolling back and forth, scanning for any sign of movement. He caught something in the shadows beneath the warehouse, something from the corner of his eye. He saw it move again, and focused in. It was actually several somethings: five people, all white males in their late teens to early twenties, walking along the side of the warehouse. "Let's not spook the game," Batman commented as he turned his head slightly, and slowly reached into his utility belt, removing a tape recorder and microphone.
He turned the small sonic microphone to wide band, high sensitivity, and suctioned it to the side of the building, activating the tape recorder. Then, he and Robin disappeared.
"You sure they're gonna be here, Spikes?"
"Just relax, Danny, you Irish fuck."
"Maybe, um, maybe Crisp was wrong, man. I mean, he's a damn crackhead anyway. Hows 'bout we--"
Spikes smacked the back of his hand hard against Danny's chest. "Hows 'bout you shut the hell up, freakin' dumbass. Just stand still and don't move."
The name of the ship they were waiting for was the Polynesian Harlot, owned and operated by a group of Mexican criminals who were gun runners by trade, generally smuggled whatever they could get paid for. This was their first shipment to Gotham City. As the ship was pulling into the harbor, its captain, Roberto Dorenguez, spotted Spikes and his accomplices walking out from the warehouse.
"Who in hell are you?" Captain Dorenguez inquired harshly as he saw Spikes approaching. "I am not meeting anyone!"
Spikes produced a switchblade from somewhere on him and flicked the blade up, shoving it in the captain's face. "Shut up, motherfucker! You meeting us now!!"
Captain Dorenguez protested adamantly. "My contact, he tell me, he say, 'You take the stuff and your men put it in warehouse on Dock forty-nine!' That's all I know, that's what I do!"
"You unload the shit, and we'll take what we want, got it? And, next time you come back, drop the shit off at Dock fifty-seven, got it?" Captain Dorenguez was staring at the knife; Spikes pressed the blade against the captain's cheek. "Get the shit, or I will gash a hole in your goddamn spic face!"
Dorenguez nodded once, nervously. "Okay. All right, we will."
Spikes withdrew the knife, and Dorenguez ran back onto his ship, spouting off orders in Spanish. Spikes elbowed one of his partners. "I love these Spanish, man. So easy to intimidate!" He twirled the knife around between his fingers, laughing arrogantly. "Ha! . . . I think I'm gonna like that guy, you know?"
Dorenguez and two of his men came down the ramp from the boat to the dock, the men carrying wooden crates, the captain leading the way empty handed. Spikes pointed to the ground in front of him with his knife. "Just set those anywhere."
"I know just the place . . ." the captain said, reaching into his vest and removing an automatic pistol. "Pigs!" he shrieked, pulling the trigger. Spikes took off running for the warehouse. He felt fire in his leg, and was hobbling badly by the time he hit the wall of the warehouse and slid down onto the ground, holding his calf in pain.
"AH FUCK!! Mexican fuckin' bastards!!" Spikes looked around at the six members of his gang who were standing around looking down at him. "What are you waiting for? Go kill the bastards!!"
The Bone Eaters snapped straight, pulling their guns and spreading out in a row across the road between the warehouses, like an old-time military line advancing in battle. They didn't bother to aim, just started squeezing triggers, confident that enough of their expelled ammunition would find the three targets.
The captain knocked one of his men down and hid behind the crate he had been carrying. Both men who had been on the ship were killed almost immediately, and the captain was now trapped behind the crate.
Robin hit the ground behind two of the Bone Eaters, knocking both of them down with one sweep of his left leg. The other four turned their guns to him. "You dumb bastards!" Spikes yelled out, pain evident in his voice, "One of you kill the kid! There's still Mexicans on that fuckin' boat!"
As if in answer to that statement, the four men who remained on the Harlot emerged, screaming and carrying machine guns that had to be at least twenty years old. They still worked, though, mowing down two of the Bone Eaters right away, and driving the others to run for their lives.
Batman landed deftly on the deck of the Harlot, letting go of his line and letting it swing lazily back to the side of the warehouse where it was tied. The planks of the ship's deck were old, rickety, and the Mexicans onboard heard them creak. They swung around to where Batman had been, and saw nothing. One of them yelled out an order in Spanish, and the four men split up, two walking around the deck on either side of the bridge. The leader, the one who had barked the order, felt something tug on his gun. His eyes squinting, he saw a tiny loop tighted around the barrel just below the sight. There was a thin line running up to somewhere from the loop, and whoever was holding the line yanked on it hard, pulling the gun up and away.
Batman snapped the gun out of the air in front of him, dropped the ammo clip, and took the gun by the muzzle, swinging it around and smacking its former handler hard across the mouth with the butt. The Harlot crewman hit deck, spitting his blood over the old wood.
At the warehouses, Spikes was hobbling away, struggling to catch up to his fleeing gang. The two Bone Eaters were running at top speed away from the dock. Robin flung a razor-R at them, catching one in the leg. He fell to the ground briefly, but got up, screaming as he yanked the sharp piece of metal from his leg, and hobbled away.
Robin looked up and heard sirens, but from only one car. What looked like Commissioner Gordon's car came squealing around a corner in front of the Bone Eaters. The car slammed to a stop and Gordon leapt out with the energy of someone ten years younger and still untouched by an ugly city. He pulled his gun on the advancing gang members. "Stop where you are!! On the ground!!"
The Bone Eaters threw their hands up, stumbling to a clumsy stop and falling to the ground. Spikes remained close to the side of the warehouse and continued to hobble away. "Stop!" Spikes did not obey, and Gordon shot at him. The bullet struck the metal wal of the warehouse and richocheted off into the night somewhere. Spikes hobbled away into the shadows as well.
"Dammit!" Gordon smacked the roof of his car, then reached in and pulled open the glove compartment, removing two pair of handcuffs.
"Commissioner?" Gordon saw Robin walking towards him and raised his gun. "Stay there, Robin." His voice betrayed extreme exhaustion. "Can you tell me what the hell is happening here?"
"Spikes and his half of the gang were here to grab their share from the goods onboard that ship over there. What are you doing here, Commissioner?"
"I got an anonymous phone call about half an hour ago."
"But, it's almost four in the morning . . ."
Gordon knelt down and began cuffing one of the trembling gang members. "No kidding."
The passenger door slammed shut on Gordon's car, but he hadn't seen it opened. He quickly cuffed the second gang banger, then stood, took another look at Robin, and climbed into his car. A tape recorder was lying on the passenger-side seat. The commissioner picked up the tape recorder and pushed the play button:
"I am not meeting anyone! . . . Shut up, motherfucker! You meeting us now!!"
Gordon stopped the tape and dropped the recorder back onto the seat. He looked up; Robin was gone. On the boat parked at the dock, four men were tied and hung by their ankles over the side. Gordon shook his head, then grabbed his police radio and called Headquarters. "This is Gordon, I'm at the southern wharf, Dock . . . ah, forty nine. I need a few units here now, and an ambulance, too. At least two possibly dead, others injured, requiring medical attention."
"Commissioner? Is that you?"
"Yes, now get people here, now. Gordon out."
The commissioner turned off the radio and settled into the driver's seat, resting his hands on the wheel. He looked at the two handcuffed Bone Eaters, then at the Mexicans hanging from the side of the boat. I hate this city, Gordon thought. He did hate Gotham City, but he didn't want to. That, he realized several years ago, was why he stayed. He saw something here that was worth saving, and he would save it, somehow, someday.
The police and ambulance arrived in less than fifteen minutes. Gordon stuck around for a few minutes, then started back for home. If he hurried, he could get about six hours of sleep from the moment he walked in the door until the clock-radio set off its loud, annoying alarm. Six hours probably wouldn't be enough for whatever happened tomorrow.
And, there was always something.