The authors acknowledge that names, concepts, and images of
many characters that may be used here and ALL related characters
may be owned by other individuals and/or companies and that said
owners retain complete rights to said characters. These concepts
are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong
desire to peer into the potential these characters have in a
combined setting.
This also acknowledges that original concepts presented here
are the intellectual property of the authors.
*******************************
GOTHAM KNIGHTS
PRELUDE
"Waking Nightmares"
Written By -- Tony Wilson (used with permission)
Email -- kilroy@si-net.com
"Preparations"
Written by -- Ali
Email -- SEricAli1@aol.com
Edited by: Jason Tippitt & Tommy Hancock
*******************************
"Waking Nightmares"
Written By -- Tony Wilson
It was a cold October night in Gotham. A black starless
void draped itself comfortably over the city, daring the moon to
come out of hiding. The ink-black skyline was littered with gothic
buildings that jutted out awkwardly towards the shadowy heavens
above. The chilling wind whispered down from the darkness and
played hide-and-go-seek among the tall, weather-beaten buildings.
Gotham Square was beginning to fill up with people as many
reluctantly shuffled out of the theatre into its streets.
The faded yellow lights rolled around the marquee,
endlessly chasing one another. High above the murmur of the crowd,
the humming of the lights could be heard. On both sides it read
THE MARK OF ZORRO in large black letters. Directly below that in
red was the name DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS. Below the marquee, enclosed in
glass, was the lobby with its quaint black and white tiled floor.
It had always reminded Bruce of a big chessboard.
Bruce liked chess. At his age most boys would turn their
nose up at such a game, but he was different. He was fascinated at
the endless strategies one could employ while playing. Every game
was always different. It was nothing like checkers; checkers in
comparison was a baby game to him, always the same old mindless
sliding of chips. As a chess player, he had always fancied the
knight. "You never know where he'll strike from," he would tell
his father. The older man would chuckle ruffle his son's hair and
beam at him proudly. Young Bruce would grin back at him and then
discreetly place his father in check. "Beat you again. You'll have
to do better than that." His parents were astonished at how bright
the boy was. He definitely had a future ahead of him. Bruce Wayne
would be someone special, maybe even a doctor like his father.
At the moment, though, Bruce was more interested in
hopping from one tile to another. He put his feet together and
jumped forward to the next square. "Look, dad. Look at me," he
called out gleefully. His mother smiled warmly and took his hand.
He quickly reached over and took his father's strong hand in his,
and the three of them stepped out of the theatre into the icy
Gotham night.
The Waynes were dressed in their finest clothes; it wasn't
often they went out. Thomas wore his nicest black suit and a tie.
On the cuffs were matching cufflinks, gold with his initials on
them. Martha wore an elegant white dress that went all the way
down to her ankles. She had her shawl pulled tightly around her
shoulders, the beautiful pearl necklace she had gotten for their
anniversary peeking out in front. Her matching purse dangled off
her left shoulder.
"That was great! Do you think we can come see it again
tomorrow night, too?" the boy asked excitedly.
"Well, you'll have to ask your mother about that," Thomas
said with a grin.
"Don't push that one off on me, mister," Martha whispered
to her husband. "We'll see, Bruce. Maybe next weekend we'll take
you."
Bruce nodded, satisfied at the answer. "Hey, are we still
going to get some ice cream tonight? You promised, remember?"
"You bet!" his father replied. "We can just cut through
here. No need to walk all the way around the block on a chilly
night like this."
Thomas guided them around the corner and into an alley that was
just down from the theatre. The sounds of the theatre crowd
quieted down behind them and were soon lost. The silence gave way
to the echoes of their footsteps on the cold hard concrete as they
continued to walk down the dark alley. Bruce looked around
nervously; he didn't like the dark much.
"It's really dark in here," he said quietly.
"That it is," a voice replied from the shadows.
A dark figure in a trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat
stepped out of the blackness. He stepped in front of the Waynes
and thrust a gun in their faces.
"Stop right there. I want all your money and all your
jewelry NOW!" he commanded.
Bruce's heart sped up. He swallowed hard terrified at what
was happening. "Dad..." he started to mumble.
"Shut up, kid!" the man said, shoving the ice-cold barrel
of the gun up to his forehead.
Thomas felt a chill run down his spine. This menacing
stranger was threatening his only son his pride and joy. He
grabbed for the gun. The two men wrestled back and forth for the
weapon, but Thomas was a doctor, not a street thug. A shot rang
out and he stumbled back, clutching his chest. Red blood trickled
over his fingers, and he stared at the stranger, his mouth gaping
wide. Two more shots rang out as the man shot him again. Martha
screamed in horror. The stranger fired off three shots into her
chest. She dropped to the ground with a thud, her pretty white
dress slowly becoming red.
The man reached down and ripped the pearl necklace off of
her lifeless body. It snapped in half with little effort, and
pearls were scattered everywhere, like white raindrops pelting the
alley floor.
Bruce stood by, his eyes filled with tears and his heart
with fear. He was frozen, shocked at what had just occurred. He
felt the cold barrel against his forehead again, but he didn't
care. His mother and father were just lying there, not moving at
all. He tried so hard to call out to them, but his lips betrayed
him. The words were there, trapped in his throat, nothing more
than a whisper. It was like he was suddenly someone else.
His eyes finally focused on the gun, and the world went
into to slow motion. He could hear his little heart pounding in
his chest. Bruce watched on as a finger wrapped itself around the
trigger and slowly squeezed. He waited for everything to go black,
but it didn't. An empty click echoed through the alley.
"Looks like it's your lucky day, kid," the man chuckled in
a gruff voice. And then he was gone.
Bruce dropped to his knees and cried. He cried, not just
because he mourned the loss of his parents, but because it was at
that moment that he realized that he was truly alone in this
world. All of his hopes and dreams had been shattered in one fatal
moment. Nothing was left except the smell of gunpowder. In less
than a minute, his life had changed forever.
****
"ALFRED!"
Bruce sat straight up in his bed, covered in a sticky cold
sweat. His breathing was erratic, his chest heaving violently up
and down. The room was dark, only a hint of light peeking in
through the edges of the thick velvet curtains. Down the hall, he
could hear Alfred's door opening and his footsteps as the older
man padded down the hallway. It was just like when he was young.
He would have a horrible nightmare and wake up crying out for his
parents. Every night for the first two years he called out for
them, but they never came. Only the faithful family butler Alfred
came to his aid, to bring him a glass of milk and assure him that
things would be okay.
The doorknob to his room turned, and the Englishman poked
his balding head into the room.
"Is everything alright, Master Bruce?"
"Yes, Alfred. I just had a nightmare; everything's okay
now."
The older man nodded his head and started to slip back out
of the doorway.
"Wait!"
He stepped back into the room. "Yes, sir?"
"Thank you, Alfred."
"Not a problem, sir." He smiled and closed the door behind
him.
Alfred yawned and stretched his weary bones before heading
downstairs to the kitchen for a warm cup of herbal tea. He put the
teakettle on the stove and stifled another yawn. With the flick of
his wrist he had the stove lit and turned up the heat.
"It pains me to know that we live in a world where someone
would put such a great burden on the shoulders of one that was so
young," he sighed, taking a seat at the small table in the center
of the kitchen.
It wasn't long before he heard familiar footsteps coming
down the stairs. Bruce was back up. Alfred reached into the
cupboard and pulled out another cup and saucer. He was pouring tea
into it when the door swung open. Bruce entered looking quite
disheveled; his face was unshaven, and bags were present under his
tired blue eyes. His red robe was tied tightly at the waist; a
large W embroidered on the back. He shuffled in quietly and sat
down at the table, across from Alfred. The chair creaked as he
brought his weight down on it.
"I had the dream again. It's been along time since I had
it. I figured I'd grown out of it and all, but I guess I was
wrong."
"It's quite possible with it being this close to the
anniversary of their... passing... has stirred it up," Alfred said
hesitantly.
"I suppose you're right. Will my gear be ready tonight?"
"I'm afraid it will be, sir. I really don't like this idea
of yours at all. It sounds very dangerous, and I do not wish to
outlive you as well."
Bruce sipped his tea and stared at the center of the
table. "I've got to go. I can feel it, Alfred; it's what I'm meant
to do."
"You are meant to die at the age of twenty-three in some
back alley in Gotham over a foolish whim?"
"It's not a whim. I've been training for this for the past
twelve years. All my life, all I did was take, take, take. It's
time now for me to give something back. No one else shall have to
suffer like I did."
"Master Bruce, you can't go through with this!"
Bruce slammed the cup down on the table hard. It cracked,
and tea spilled all over the table. "I can and I will, Alfred! I
have to do this," he said with an intensity that frightened the
old man.
Alfred studied his eyes. They were bright and wild, a
scary passion twinkling within them. He knew his objections would
continue to fall upon deaf ears.
"Can't you see?" Bruce pleaded.
"Yes, sir. Crystal clear, sir," Alfred said coldly,
getting up from the table.
Bruce was left to stare at the old man's back while he
searched for a towel to wipe up the tea.
****
Gotham City was like a spoiled child who needed to be sent
to bed without dinner. It was a place where the right amount of
cash could buy you anything you wanted, city hall not
withstanding. Corruption fed off of the heart of the city like a
bulging parasite too greedy to let go and too dangerous to turn
your back on. Old money kept the place going; it was a city if
industry because of this as well as a den of thieves. Anyone smart
enough to realize that had either moved on or stuck around for a
piece of the action -- everyone, that is, except for Bruce Wayne.
His pain ran deep. Even after all these years he blamed
himself for his parents' death. The guilt turned into frustration.
Frustration gave way to anger. Anger drove him to the edge, and
from there he realized what he had to do. He felt that he had to
avenge their deaths. He put the Wayne Family fortune to work. With
the profits of Wayne Corp and his family's investments, Bruce
dedicated his life to fighting crime.
Early on in his childhood it was discovered that he was
gifted with genius-level intelligence and a photographic memory.
These were tools that would serve him well as he traveled the
world to perfect his craft. When he was only 12 years old, he left
for Europe and spent time studying at the prestigious Cambridge
University. From there it was off to Sorbonne in Paris, then to
the Berlin School of Science, and anywhere else he could learn
what he thought he needed to know. He traveled to the Far East,
where he learned karate from an ascended master in the Paektusan
Mountains of Korea. He picked up savate from a convicted killer
hiding out on an island off of Borneo. He then went on to spend
six months in a Japanese hermitage where he learned judo and
jujitsu. From ninjas he learned how to use the shadows to his
advantage and the craft of using psychology to win a battle before
it begins. In the past twelve years he mastered over a dozen
disciplines, combining them all into a unique style of his own.
At the moment he sat poised on a fire escape landing in
downtown Gotham, watching the scene below with interest. A man
stood in the alley talking to an attractive woman with long dark
hair. Most passersby would likely ignore it, writing it off as
just a pair of young lovers enjoying one another's company on a
quiet night in the city. Bruce knew better, though; his was more
than a casual eye. He had trained with the best, and next to
nothing ever passed him by.
Her makeup was anything but subtle. A real lady would
never wear such outrageous colors. It's not that she wasn't
beautiful; she really was a rather attractive woman. She had high
cheekbones, a good chin, expressive green eyes, and full, pouty
lips. It didn't hurt that she had the kind of legs made for
staring at, either. She was definitely easy on the eyes.
Unfortunately, it was obvious to Bruce that she was not a
debutante by any stretch of the imagination. At best, she was most
likely a high-priced whore, the type of woman the politicians in
this town would spend good money on to take home for the night.
Her social status in this cesspool wasn't an issue with him,
though. At the moment her male friend had just slapped her across
the face, and Bruce didn't take too kindly to people who hit
defenseless women.
He vaulted over the rusty metal railing and dropped down
to the ground behind a dumpster. The hood glanced casually down
the alley, but soon returned to verbally berating the woman. Bruce
stood up and strode confidently down the alley. He was dressed
from head to toe in black: black boots, black pants, black long
sleeve turtleneck, and a black mask to cover his face. He carried
no weapons with him other than his fists and his wits. It would be
more than enough.
The hood backhanded the woman again. "Are you talking back
to me, Selina? Huh? Whores do what they're told, and you've been
told to keep your pretty little mouth shut."
She tried hard to look strong and pushed back the tears.
With a delicate finger she wiped the blood away from the corner of
her mouth. She was already well aware of Bruce's presence and
curious to see what he was up to.
"Are you done yet? How about dancing with me now? I can't
promise I won't fight back, though," Bruce said calmly.
The hood turned around, confused. "What the fuck are you
supposed to be?"
"A concerned citizen." Bruce stepped in and delivered a
roundhouse kick to the man's jaw before he could react. He
stumbled back, but Bruce stayed on him. The woman screamed and
darted off the other way. Bruce gave the man a chop to the throat
and knocked his feet out from under him.
"FREEZE! Stop right there! You're under arrest!" a voice
rang out near the end of the alley.
Bruce forgot everything he had learned. His concentration
was broken. He turned to look over his right shoulder to see two
cops at the entrance running their way. That's when he heard a
metal click and felt a sharp pain in his right calf. He looked
down to see the hood pulling a knife out of his leg and jabbing it
towards his midsection. Bruce went to spring away, but his leg
betrayed him, and the blade buried itself in his side. He clenched
his teeth, fighting the pain. The cops were almost there, and one
of them was pulling his gun.
Bruce knocked the knife out of the man's hand and gave him
a boot to the face with his good leg. The adrenaline kicked in,
and he took off in an uneasy run down the alley, away from the
cops. He heard shots fired as he rounded the corner. Barbs of pain
twisted in his side; the running was stretching the already deep
wound. His vision blurred in and out, and he felt lightheaded.
Survival was the only thing on his mind. Two more blocks and he
would be to the car. He was full of anger; it would keep him going
long enough to get there. This night was supposed to have been a
special night. On this same night, seventeen years ago, he vowed
it would be the first and last time he would ever be a victim.
His side was soaking wet with blood and sweat. His leg
wasn't holding up very well, either. He hopped the last ten feet
to the jet black Packard and threw open the door. He flopped into
the driver's seat like a rag doll and turned the key. The vehicle
came alive, and he sighed happily before putting it into gear. He
pulled out onto the street and hit the gas. Bruce didn't let off
of it until he was almost home.
****
Three days had passed since that night in the alley.
Remarkably, Bruce had made it back to Wayne Manor without further
incident. He now found himself sitting in the study, staring
listlessly out the great window that stretched across the east
wall. Around him four great bookcases rose up to the high ceiling.
They were packed with texts from around the world, covering dozens
of subjects. He sat reclined behind a polished oak desk in his
father's old swivel chair. He wore only a pair of black shorts and
his slippers. His left leg was in a splint, and his side was
wrapped up tightly with white bandages.
Bruce looked like he had been put through the ringer. His
normally bright blue eyes were dull, like they had lost their
fire. His whole face was sunken, and his dark hair was a tangled
mess. The medication had put him in a lull, and depression was
taking its hold. All the training and all the preparation, just
to be taken down by a common street thug. Maybe he would try again
in a few months. Maybe he would just accept the hand fate had
dealt him and play the millionaire playboy for awhile.
He stood up slowly and strolled over to the middle of the
room. He gave the globe that rested there a hard spin on its
pedestal. Bruce paused, glaring up at the painting of his parents
on the wall.
"How can you smile like that? I've failed. I've failed, do
you hear me!" he bellowed, shaking his fist at the painting. "How
am I supposed to avenge you when I can't even get the job done
against a two-bit hood?"
He turned away from the painting and dropped painfully to
his knees. The man sobbed uncontrollably, burying his face in his
rough hands.
"Damn you! What kind of God are you to do this to a child?
Huh? Answer me! You took the parents away from an innocent little
boy. You left me stranded with no one! Nothing! You broke my
spirit and you replaced it with pain. Who were you to judge me?
And now you won't even grant me my justice, my peace? You dare to
turn your back on me, even now? How am I to make things right when
they aren't even afraid of me!" he screamed through veil of tears.
Bruce leaned over, his forehead resting gently on the cold
wooden floor of the study. He sniffed and chewed on his upper lip,
tasting the salty tears. His side was hurting again, and his head
was pounding, heralding the arrival of a migraine headache.
"Mother. Father. I love you. I'm sorry; I've failed you,"
he mumbled, spittle running down his chin onto the floor. "I can't
do this. He wasn't afraid of me. I'm sorry..."
Outside the clouds parted, and the moon pulled itself out
into the night sky. With his head feeling almost too heavy for his
neck, Bruce rose up. Moonlight poured in through the great window,
illuminating his tearstained face. A blur moved in front of the
round white orb. He squinted, trying to puzzle out what it was.
The shape grew larger until it blocked out the moon. Wide leathery
wings beat against the air harder and harder until it came
crashing through the window. The glass shattered and rained down
on the study floor. Bruce looked up from the floor at the great
bat in awe. His jaw dropped to his chin, and enlightenment glowed
in his eyes.
"Yes! Criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot. I
have to strike fear into their hearts!"
Bruce rose from the floor a man reborn. He spun around to
face the painting of his parents.
"I will show them fear! I won't fail you a second time!"
he cried out with his hands held high in adulation.
He tilted his head back and laughed like a mad fool. His
laugh echoed throughout the room. Behind him the giant bat swooped
back into the night sky, the full moon rising behind it.
****
"Preparations"
Written by -- Ali
INTERLUDE
SOMEWHERE IN GOTHAM CITY,
DECEMBER 2, 1938...
Andre D'Barre hadn't been in Gotham City for very long, but
he already knew that the experience was going to be a unique one.
The immaculate little man was picked up at Gotham Airport and put
into a limousine with tinted windows that didn't roll down. The
grizzled, gray-whiskered old man who met Andre's plane did not
introduce himself, but he knew who Andre was and claimed that his
employer, Mr. Smith, was eagerly awaiting his arrival.
For Andre, the mysterious old man was his guide on the last
leg of an intriguing journey that began nearly a week ago. Mr.
Smith had contracted Andre to handle a special job, one that for
some reason required absolute secrecy, along with his considerable
talents. Andre presumed Smith was wealthy, based on the amount of
money paid just to get him to Gotham as well as the fee promised
at the end of the job.
The fee in question would allow Andre to send for his family in
Paris and move them all to Quebec as a wealthy man in his own
right.
Still, Andre wondered what kind of work could be of such
importance that it would require this degree of secrecy? Andre
was not allowed to contact any of his friends or associates before
leaving home, and as far as his job was concerned, he was on a
planned holiday to the East Coast. As he sat back in the plush
leather seat of the limousine, it dawned on Andre that no one
really knew for certain exactly where he was. Just as worry and
doubt had begun to creep into his thoughts, Andre felt the car
bump to a halt, and the door slowly opened.
"Come with me," rasped the old man from somewhere in the
shadows in flawless French. Andre took some comfort in the fact
that this man spoke his language fluently. Though it was obvious
that Smith's man spoke the language as a courtesy, hearing the
sound of his mother tongue made Andre feel as if he could hold his
own in whatever situation he managed to get involved in. Andre
had always felt a little uncomfortable about his lack of skill
with English and welcomed the chance to communicate freely, that
is, if the old man were one for conversation. Still, it helped
Andre to take his mind off of the furtive manner in which he had
been summoned. In fact, Andre had gotten so used to oddness of
his present situation that he wasn't dismayed when he realized
that they had parked in a dark back alley. High walls prevented
Andre from getting an idea as to where he was exactly, but from
the glare of the lights and the noise beyond, he was fairly
certain that they were in the heart of Gotham City's downtown.
Andre took time out to study his strange companion as they entered
the rear of the building nearest to the passenger side of the big
touring car. The old man hobbled along with a pronounced limp,
using his cane to support his weight; he was hunched over, and his
dirty gray coveralls prevented Andre from getting an accurate idea
of the man's build and height.
Though the old man's hands were gloved, possibly to protect
them against the growing cold of the evening, they still seemed,
despite the man's age, to be pretty powerful as he took a firm
grip of the handle and led Andre into a dimly lit corridor.
After a slow ride in a shadowy service elevator, Andre found
himself standing in a huge loft. The room was one that would have
been considered exquisitely furnished if it weren't for the yards
and yards of cloth that lay stacked on some of the tables and
couches. Sewing dummies stood silent and waiting all around the
room, and Andre noticed that the quarters already served as home
to several other men and women who toiled silently with needle,
thread and measuring tape. Upon further inspection, Andre noted
that many of the people working in the room were master tailors,
as he himself was. This was, in and of itself, pretty impressive
to Andre. The simple act of getting these masters here in this
one room on what he assumed were the same terms as his own meant
that Mr. Smith had more than enough wealth and influence to make
good on his word.
Still Andre wondered how the group managed to work so well
together, given the equally obvious fact that no one in the room
spoke the same language. The nationality of each tailor was
different, and each person, while a master of his or her chosen
craft, lacked the talent of being multilingual. Andre himself was
barely bilingual and reasoned that Mr. Smith was taking no chances
on his secrecy being compromised in even the most casual manner.
The old man's entrance was noticed as the pair stepped off
of the elevator, and immediately the room burst into a veritable
Tower of Babel. At first, Andre was overwhelmed by all of the
voices, the many languages asking that obviously dealt with the
work at hand, but he soon found himself more amazed at the old
man's ability to answer each person in his or her native language.
It appeared that the old man served both as Smith's spokesman and
this group's coordinator. What Andre also noticed, gratefully,
was the fact that each person in the room did not appear to be
afraid or feel as if they were in any danger of ill treatment. In
fact it seemed that the reverse was more likely; everyone seemed
to be enjoying their stay and the work they were engaged in.
Some took great pride in their work as they showed the old
man their latest effort; some recognized Andre as one of their
contemporaries, and the old man translated greetings to Andre
occasionally. Andre could only nod dumbly at some, or be in awe
of others that had served as an inspiration for his own career.
When the din died down and the tailors and seamstresses
resumed their work, the old man led Andre to an unoccupied table
with a set of seven porcelain cast heads that sat next to several
bolts of cloth and what appeared to be leather, all in the color
of a very dark, almost black, shade of blue. Behind them were
other heads mounted on sturdy wire frames that gave the impression
of shoulders. As a costume designer noted for his incredible
handiwork on capes and long coats, Andre assumed that his job
would be to fashion some kind of cape to be worn by Mr. Smith.
The old man placed his hand on Andre's shoulder, guiding him over
to a small sheaf of papers that sat next to the heads on the
table.
A gravel-like voice came to Andre's ears as he sat down at
the table.
"This is where you will work, M'sieu D'Barre, and the design
of the garment needed will be based upon Mr. Smith's
specifications as written on these notes."
Andre's eyes grew wide as he studied the drawings with
notations written in French. Andre presumed his fellow tailors
were operating with instructions written in their particular
mother tongue as well, so there was no way to know what the result
of their combined efforts would look like, but if it were anything
like the drawings of the cape before him, the final effect would
be something fearsome. Still, Andre was somewhat perplexed by his
contribution to the unique 'fitting' that was taking place, and he
turned to his elderly overseer. "M'sieu Smith is asking for more
than a cloak; he wants me to create a mask, as well?" Andre asked
of his mysterious companion.
"Not a mask, M'sieu D'Barre," the old man replied, "a cowl."
And underneath the steel-gray whiskers, Andre missed the hint of a
smile on the old man's lips...
*****************************************************
ONE: THE PRICE
THE IVORY TOWERS, GOTHAM CITY, DECEMBER 4, 1938
Selina Kyle, resplendent in a velvet evening gown, stared
around her new apartment with a quiet satisfaction. For a time
Selina had hovered on the brink of oblivion, but she managed to
resurrect her life over the past few months. After that strange
night in the alley when some nutty masked man who chose to defend
her honor saved her from a life of prostitution, Selina had
finally regained her lost spirit. Her ex-husband, Terrance, had
done his best to insure that Selina would become desperate and
destitute. After years of abuse at his hands, she gained the
strength to walk out on him, and Terrance brought his considerable
power to bear upon Selina. He usurped the trust fund left to her
by her father, kept her barred from securing a job at even the
most menial of tasks, and cut off any possible financial
assistance from their mutual friends through threats and coercion.
What Terrance didn't count on were the friends that Selina
had managed to make since her fall from his good graces. Selina's
new friends were obviously considered to be a part of the criminal
class, but these were felons of the best pedigree, society bandits
one and all, of the highest order. One of those friends, her
benefactor in fact, sat across the room from her, sipping his tea
with a bemused grin playing upon his roguish lips. He was a
handsome man with dark features and jet-black hair, who looked
rather dapper in his ordinary black business suit. Yet it would
be obvious to anyone who met Harry Lime that there was nothing
'ordinary' about him and much more going on behind the suave smile
and laughing brown eyes than he let on.
"Did you misplace something Selina?" Harry asked as he set
his tea down on the table. "You've been pacing around here just
staring at things for the better part of ten minutes."
"I'm trying to figure out what all of this is going to cost
me, Harry. You've staked me with cash and an apartment; I'm just
wondering what the catch is."
Harry did his best to look hurt, but his success was
minimal. "Selina, how can you say that? I'm helping you simply
out of the goodness of my heart!
Can't you just accept that and enjoy what you have?"
"You're a snake, Harry -- a pretty one, mind you, but a
snake nonetheless," Selina said with a mild grin. Harry chuckled
in agreement to her statement as she continued, "You do nothing
out of the 'goodness' of your so-called heart. What do you want
from me?"
Selina reflected on the things that Harry and others had
taught her over the last few months. She had been groomed to be
more than just another pretty face; Selina under Harry's tutelage
had become an accomplished thief and con artist, able to gain
entry into any building with nothing more than a hairpin or a
flutter of emerald green eyes if necessary. She had become more
agile and stealthy than she had been as a gymnast, or during her
efforts to avoid Terrance's many rages, for that matter. When
Harry took her under his wing, Selina knew that he was up to
something and that eventually a price would be exacted for his
charity. Whatever that price was, Selina wanted to get her debt
to Harry paid so she could just be left alone to live her life on
her own terms.
Harry smiled warmly at Selina as he responded, "Why, Selina,
my dear, I simply want to help you avenge yourself upon your ex-
husband."
"I beg your pardon?" Selina swooned slightly at Harry's
unexpected answer. She managed to find a nearby chair without
Harry's help and sat down in it to steady herself. "What are you
talking about, Harry?"
"Selina, I do believe I caught you off guard. I didn't
think anything a 'pretty snake' like me could say would produce
such an extreme reaction." Harry beamed politely and then stopped
grinning long enough to enjoy another sip of his tea. "By the
way, this is really excellent tea, my dear, where did you--"
"At the corner store. Get to the point, Harry," Selina said
coolly.
"Very well, my dear, just as you like. When my good friend
Holly introduced us he told me all about your ex-husband's
treachery and how his wealth and power had all but ruined you and
led you to consider, shall we say, a less than dignified line of
work for a woman of your sort. Holly was appalled but could do
nothing more than steer you in my direction. After all, though he
was outraged, dear Holly did not have the means to support himself
and help you. On his meager wages as a writer he was, at best,
barely able to feed himself, but if I said no, he would've tried."
Harry paused for a moment, remembering the earnest face of his
naive best friend when he talked about Selina's predicament. "But
that's our Holly, loyal as a bulldog and nearly as stubborn.
"You yourself told me of how Terrance basically stole your
trust fund, the jewels and furs he bought for you and then tried
to break your spirit by leaving you in desperate circumstances.
Suffice it to say that I may be a rogue, a cad, and a bounder,
Selina, perhaps even a 'pretty snake;' but I can't abide a bully.
I propose that we, or rather you, teach dear Terrance a lesson."
"And how am I supposed to do that Harry? The law can't
touch him!" Selina's nails dug, cat-like, into the fabric of the
chair. The cloth gave slightly, and small tears started to show.
"Who said anything about the law, Selina? I propose that
you use the skills I've taught you to simply regain what's
rightfully yours." Harry's eyes had a playful gleam in them as
Selina realized why Harry had helped her in the first place.
"Mind you, I'd like to have a cut of whatever items you 'acquire'
beyond your personal property, and I've prepared a list of
'incidentals' that may be of some interest to me. That is, if you
should happen to come across them." Harry managed to maintain the
mock innocence on his face as he fished a small notepad from
inside his jacket pocket, tore off the first two sheets, and
handed them to Selina. Harry watched the smile grow on Selina's
face as she read the list. "It's kind of poetic, don't you
think?" Harry added with a hint of laughter in his voice.
"Very much so," Selina said softly. She studied Harry Lime
for a moment; he still held that ever-present expression of mild
amusement, as if he were playing some huge joke on the rest of
the world. Selina studied the list in her hand once again and
smiled at the expression she imagined Terrance would have on his
face in the aftermath of Harry's proposed plan. The image she
conjured up clinched her decision; she was going to go through
with this. And, more importantly, she was going to enjoy it.
"Just when I think I've pretty much figured you out, Mr.
Lime, you do something extremely unexpected to surprise me,"
Selina purred sweetly as she rose from her chair.
"Where's the fun in being a predictable snake, my dear?"
Harry asked with a smirk. "I take it, then, that the price for my
helping you get back on your feet is an acceptable one?" He
drained the last of the tea from his cup and set it down on the
table, making a delicate clatter upon the saucer.
Selina was smiling and silent as she crossed the room and
took Harry's empty cup from the table. "More tea, Harry?" was her
only reply.
*****************************************************
TWO: DADDY'S LITTLE GIRL
THE MAJESTIC THEATRE, GOTHAM CITY, DECEMBER 10, 1938
"Better stick close to the car, Dinah. If there is a
gambling operation above the old Majestic, Lance and I will flush
it out."
Gotham Police Lieutenant Richard Drake smoothed his graying
brown hair, replaced his weather-beaten hat on his head, and
watched the concern and frustration begin to grow on his
daughter's face. They both knew she was more than able to handle
herself in a situation like this one; he had trained Dinah for a
cop's life from her early childhood on, but his instinct as a
protective father overruled his faith in his own teaching skills.
That, and the fact that she was not an official member of Gotham's
police department. As if there were something more he could say
to keep her near the car, the lanky detective added, "Supposed to
be an independent outfit -- no muscle."
Dinah Laurel Drake was mildly outraged at her father's
attempt at pacifying her. "You two go into a possible ambush
while I sit on the sidelines? Uh-uh, I'm coming along." Dinah's
blue eyes flashed fire as she prepared to storm across the street
and face whatever danger awaited her father inside the Majestic.
A strong hand stopped her impulsive march. Dinah spun,
prepared to confront her father, but instead found herself looking
into the pale blue eyes of Richard's new partner, Larry Lance.
Normally Larry would be the kind of man Dinah was attracted to.
He was tall, dark and handsome in an Errol Flynn way, but far more
arrogant than she would've liked. His effectiveness as an
uniformed patrolman got him pushed up quickly into the
plainclothes division as the newest hotshot rookie on the squad.
Larry's being partnered with Richard Drake was possibly one of his
biggest advantages. Richard treated Larry like a son, and in the
back of his mind, a potential son-in-law. At this moment, though,
Larry Lance was half a step away from having his head, cocky smile
and all, handed to him on a silver platter by the raven-haired
young woman.
"Look, kid, listen to your Papa," Lance said, not bothering
to hide his irritation at the girl's stubbornness. "You're not on
the force, yet."
The emphasis on the words 'kid,' 'Papa,' and 'yet' were not lost
on Dinah. Larry assumed that Dinah was just another 'sweet young
thing' who needed to be reminded that her place in a man's world
was obviously one where she would serve best by staying out of
their way during the rough stuff. She hated that kind of
attitude.
"No, but I've been walking these streets with my 'Papa'
since before a rookie like you passed the physical!" Dinah pinned
Larry with a glare that said she was not about to be intimidated
by this man any more than her father.
Richard Drake stepped in to end the debate; he and Larry had
a job to do, and this argument was taking precious time away from
their objective. If the Penguin's information could be trusted,
this group was going to move the operation at the end of the
night. They had to go in while the evidence was still there.
"Watch yourself, Larry. My Little Bird's got a mind of her
own," Richard said as he placed himself between his daughter and
his partner. Dinah winced a little at hearing her father use her
childhood nickname, but she knew it meant that Richard felt Larry
was a little out of line, too. Richard turned to his daughter and
said in a conciliatory tone, "Still, the rookie's got a point,
Dinah. Let's wait till you've gotten your police blues before you
go busting into any gambling dens, okay?" The look in the elder
Drake's eyes held an unspoken 'Please' that Dinah knew all to
well. To keep the peace, she decided to relent.
"Fine, Dad, I'll stay by the car," Dinah grumbled sullenly.
"Thanks, sweetheart; you can be our secret weapon if things
get tough. Let our backup know when they arrive that we've gone
in." Richard pasted on his best smile of confidence for his
daughter as he checked his revolver one last time. "Heck, by the
time they get here, we may have this all wrapped up." Richard
kissed his daughter on the forehead and stuffed his gun in his
shoulder holster. "Let's go, Larry."
"Right behind you, partner." Larry looked over his shoulder
at Dinah with another one of those cocky smiles. "Don't worry,
pretty bird, I'll make sure your Poppa gets back in one piece.
Maybe after this is all over you and I can catch a bite to eat."
"Don't hold your breath rookie," Dinah said flatly.
"Your loss, babe," Larry replied with a hint of annoyance in
his voice. Larry took one last look at Dinah, as if he were
trying figure her out, but he seemed to give up with a sudden
shrug of his broad shoulders and returned his attention to the job
at hand.
Dinah watched, breathless, as the two detectives silently
made their way toward the art deco facade of the Majestic.
Richard and Larry managed to reach the fire escape in the alley
alongside the building without being noticed. Showing a
remarkable demonstration of stealth and teamwork, the pair managed
to climb the side of the building in record time and now crouched
just outside of the gambling den that had been set up in the once
glorious theatre.
The two detectives managed to find a window that allowed
them a clear view of the entire room without compromising their
raid. The room was crammed with people and gaming tables.
Roulette wheels spun wildly, dealers shuffled cards, pool balls
clacked and clattered across rich green felt tables, and slot
machines whirred merrily as players fed coin after coin into the
one-armed bandits. Money and liquor flowed freely among the
laughing crowd.
Larry nudged Richard's shoulder as they surveyed the scene.
"Jackpot," Larry whispered in the older man's ear. Drake nodded
in agreement, but continued to look for possible resistance before
going in. Though there were several tough-looking customers in
the room, no one looked as if they were packing any major
firepower, at least nothing that Richard and
Larry couldn't handle until their backup arrived.
Larry saw Richard go for his holstered gun; he braced
himself for a cue from the older man. Larry had drawn his gun
when the pair arrived at the end of their climb. He was eager to
prove he could pull his own weight to his fellow officers.
And one very beautiful raven-haired girl waiting on the
street below.
Richard's shoulders had stiffened; he cocked the hammer back
on his gun and nodded to Larry. Larry put everything he had into
his right leg as he kicked in the glass.
"FREEZE! POLICE!" was all Larry managed to get out before
he and Richard saw two of the card dealers at the front of the
startled crowd reach beneath the tables and come up with a pair of
submachine guns blazing a sheet of lead hail. Richard had managed
to shove himself and his partner under a pool table as the guns
burned a hole into the windowsill the two detectives had
momentarily occupied. Wood splinters, glass chips, and plaster
rained down on the detectives as they desperately tried to return
fire.
"No muscle?" Larry asked, angry and perplexed, "It's a
machine gun nest!" The angry swarm of bullets began to bite into
the pool table that was shielding the two officers. Divots of
felt and wood began to fly and the eight ball leapt crazily into
the air only to explode over the detectives as the bullets struck
home.
"This is crazy..." Richard's voice trailed off in disbelief.
"The Penguin's information has always been straight as an arrow...
reliable..."
"Well, someone let these boys know we were coming,
Lieutenant, and if we don't get some backup in here soon, we're
cooked!"
A few minutes before the ill-fated entrance of the two
detectives into the gambling den, Dinah had already begun to make
some moves of her own. The setup seemed too pat to Dinah, and she
smelled an ambush from a mile away. Her father had designated her
to be the secret weapon, and she translated that into being on
hand if the two detectives got in over their heads. Even if that
wasn't what her father meant, Dinah decided to be ready if she
were right.
So while her father and Larry scaled the fire escape, Dinah
took a much bolder route. She sprinted across the street, letting
her momentum fuel a magnificent leap to the bottom of the
Majestic's marquee. A swinging back flip landed her on top of the
movie house marquee, gaining her access to the windows of the old
manager's offices that faced the street. Dinah was glad she wore
her green pantsuit; it allowed her a freedom of movement that she
would've never been able to achieve in a dress. Dinah reasoned
that the offices facing the street would be unoccupied to maintain
the illusion that the old Majestic was deserted. Dinah found that
her hunch paid off as she forced the window of one of the offices
open to find no one, not even a lookout, inside the dark and dusty
room. She had just managed to reach the door when she heard the
explosion of glass and the sounds of machine gun fire.
Resisting the urge to barrel into the fray, Dinah peeked
furtively through the cracked doorway, and saw that the hallway
was also deserted. If there had been anyone out in the hall to
watch for intruders, that person was now inside the room watching
whatever was going on. Dinah hoped that her father was okay as
she slipped into the main room. Luckily, she blended into the
crowd of people without being noticed and managed to work her way
over to the gunmen by feigning the same morbid interest that the
other patrons in the casino seemed to have over the final fate of
the trapped detectives.
"I've only got three more rounds, Lieutenant!" Larry was
shouting over roar of the machine guns and the whine of bullets
eating away at their shelter. "What the hell are we going to
do?!"
Richard had noticed his daughter's arrival onto the scene.
He knew that Dinah was moving in closer to her targets and that
she had the situation well in hand. "Sit tight, Lance," Richard
said as he returned
fire, "you never know what little bird might drop in." As Richard
watched Dinah's approach, he couldn't help but feel some fatherly
pride despite their present situation. She would make one hell of
a cop if she got the chance.
Dinah was focused totally on her objective. Whatever fear
she held for herself or her father's safety faded from her mind.
She knew there would be no room for mistakes; one error would mean
a quick end to her life as well as her father's. She felt the
rush of adrenaline, but managed to keep her breathing steady and
her thoughts calm as she waited for her opening. "Okay, Little
bird," she whispered to herself, "time to earn your wings." And
that's when Dinah saw her opportunity in the form of a fainting
cigarette girl. Her swoon cleared a direct path to the shooters;
Dinah took a deep breath and moved in.
The first gunman never saw the blow coming. Leaping through
a break in the crowd, Dinah issued a sharp chop to the man's
Adam's Apple, which caused him to choke. Another hard punch to
the wrist stung the killer, who reflexively opened his hand,
dropping his gun. A final blow directly to the gunman's temple
floored him. The second shooter had begun to turn his gun on
Dinah, but he never got the chance to fire. A quick spin, and
Dinah's dainty foot, wearing a thick, wooden three-inch heel,
caught the second shooter square on the bridge of his nose. Dinah
followed up with an elbow strike to the stomach that left the
second man gasping for air as he dropped to the floor. Larry and
Richard scrambled from behind the pool table, and Dinah casually
tossed a machine gun to each of them.
"That should hold them until your backup arrives." Dinah
rushed up to her father, "Are you okay, Daddy?"
"I'm fine, Dinah," Richard said, beaming pride at his
daughter once more. "You did good, Little Bird."
Dinah brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes as she
looked over at a still-stunned Larry Lance. "You feeling alright,
rookie?"
Larry looked at Dinah and then over to her father who gave
him an 'I told you so' look, and he shook his head as if he were
trying to shake away the remnants of a dream before a more
respectful expression took the place of the cocky one he had worn
earlier in the evening. "Jumping Jehovah," Larry said in a shaky
voice. "Get a badge on this lady...
FAST!"
And in the distance, the wail of police sirens began to be
heard...
*****************************************************
INTERLUDE
TRACK 14, GOTHAM CENTRAL STATION, DECEMBER 10, 1938...
As the special private train pulled into Gotham Central
Station, Joseph LaFollette was whistling a happy tune to himself;
he still couldn't get over his good luck. Two months ago he faced
financial ruin as his auto plant entered the thirteenth week of a
major labor dispute. Though the workers were fond of LaFollette
as an employer, their wages hadn't reflected the prosperity that
was starting to sweep across the nation.
As tensions grew over the wage issue, the plant's newly
formed union decided that they had no other alternative left but
to strike. Things had gotten ugly several times in the past few
weeks, with the police busting up the strike lines in an attempt
to break the spirit of the union, but all the attacks did was
bring public sympathy into the picture. Soon the Detroit Police
Department found themselves mired in a sea of bad press and
lessened both the frequency and severity of their raids.
What LaFollette hadn't revealed to his workers how much of
his own money had gone into keeping the plant open during the lean
years. Because of his efforts, he was nearly broke personally but
had quietly managed to keep most of his people paid even when no
cars were rolling off the assembly line. LaFollette liked his
people; he considered them a kind of extended family, but this
strike very nearly came close to breaking up that family.
That's when LaFollette's white knight came to the rescue in
the form of Tom Bacardi, a jovial blond-haired, mustached chap
with money to burn. He was interested in having several one-of-a-
kind cars built with a minimum amount of attention. Bacardi
indicated that a great deal of money would be paid upon successful
completion of the job, with a bonus of twenty-five thousand
dollars to be added if the project came in ahead of the projected
two- and a half-month schedule. As Bacardi laid out this grand
scheme in LaFollette's office, the auto maker saw something
inspiring enough in this strange man's attitude that nearly made
him believe that Bacardi had checked out all of the angles
involved to make certain that his plans would happen in the manner
that he had outlined them.
LaFollette was all for the project but he still had one
major problem...
"Maybe you didn't notice, Mr. Bacardi, I'm in the middle of
a labor strike," LaFollette said sheepishly. "Why you chose my
company at such an... inconvenient time escapes me." LaFollette
figured that Bacardi was either a very eccentric butter and egg
man, goofy, or he was gowed up on reefer.
"Actually, Mr. LaFollette," Bacardi said with an almost
idiotic grin, "your little labor dispute suits my purposes
admirably." Bacardi leaned across the desk, getting nearly nose
to nose with LaFollette, as if he were about to impart some great
secret of the ages with his next statement. "In fact, your strike
was the very thing that clinched my decision. I'd appreciate your
people keeping it up for the duration of the project at the very
least." Bacardi leaned back with a satisfied expression, as if
LaFollette were in his full confidence now.
LaFollette, stunned, had upgraded Bacardi to a possible
raving lunatic at this point. "Mr. Bacardi, if this is some kind
of joke..."
Bacardi's expression changed mildly in what appeared to be
momentary confusion, and then shifted to a sudden realization.
"Ah, I see, you don't understand my complete plan. Then allow me
enlighten you. As you may have gathered, Mr. LaFollette, I am a
man of means. As such I have my passions, one of which is racing.
In fact you might say that I enjoy the challenge racing provides,
the life and death odds that hang on the precision of a turn, the
rush when one speeds into victory; there are very few things
closer to godhood than the feel of a fine automobile that handles
with split-second effectiveness." Bacardi drew a deep breath; his
face wore a dreamy expression as if he were reliving one of those
moments behind the wheel. He let it out through his nose, and his
face settled back into his wide, toothy grin.
"But I digress, LaFollette, and I apologize for that."
LaFollette hoped that he wasn't appearing as incredulous as
he felt inside about Bacardi's rambling dissertation. Bacardi
didn't seem to take any notice as he continued.
"While my racing career has been more a hobby than a
profession of any major note, my status and wealth tend to precede
me in my haunts all over Europe. So much so that I've had kidnap
attempts made on my person several times during my recent tour of
the racing circuit. Can't be helped, I suppose, with two ex-wives
who are still mentioned in the will and eager to collect," Bacardi
said with an expression that made it seem as if everyone had this
particular problem as a part of their daily routine.
It appeared to LaFollette as if Bacardi were actually on the
verge of becoming serious, but the moment passed and that familiar
smile returned to his face once more. "While I've always been
able to outpace my pursuers, the day may come when I need to have
more extreme measures at my disposal. I'm thinking about having
incredibly fast armored cars built, loaded with specialized
equipment, for the express purpose of being prepared for that
contingency. Seeing as the last few attempts have happened during
my morning drives, it seems to be one of the better ways to
protect my person."
Bacardi noticed the still-confused look resting on
LaFollette's face and continued to expand on his proposal.
"That's where you and your plant come into play, Mr. LaFollette.
I propose to have these vehicles of mine made in complete secrecy.
What better place to do this than a striking auto plant?" Bacardi
settled back in his chair, certain that
LaFollette understood everything completely now.
"And how do you propose that we do this, Mr. Bacardi?"
LaFollette figured it would be best to humor the man until he
could find a cop; it was obvious that Bacardi was off his rocker.
"Hire an all-new staff as strike breakers?"
"No, oh no, no, no Mr. LaFollette! You have the best
craftsmen in all of Detroit working here; their participation is
necessary." Bacardi's smile grew wider, if such a thing were
possible, and once more he leaned over the desk as if to keep this
their little secret. "I intend to end your strike by giving you
half of your fee up front. I simply want you and your men to
continue to go through the pantomime of a strike. You know --
picket signs, angry confrontations, and whatever else you've been
doing, and keep the attention focused on that publicly while my
cars are being built."
"I beg your pardon?" LaFollette had now began to run with
the theory that he had possibly fallen asleep at his desk and this
was one very odd dream. This man couldn't be serious -- fake a
strike just to build some cars? Bacardi had to be insane at the
very least, but it was an intriguing idea if he were serious.
LaFollette chided himself immediately for even entertaining the
thought.
Bacardi chuckled at LaFollette's obvious lack of
understanding. Bacardi shook his head as if he were dealing with
a schoolboy and rose from his chair and walked to the office
window. "I've done my homework on LaFollette Autoworks. Your
staff is on strike, but they don't really want to be. If you
could assure them that you could meet the payroll with a raise for
every man on the line once the strike ends, they'd be back to work
in a second. Before coming to you, I attempted to hire them
through other agents; to a man they pledged their loyalty to you
and this company. I respect loyalty, old boy; indeed, I think it
should be rewarded. So I'm offering you a single job that will
not only help you restore some of your lost personal fortune, but
will also give you the working capital necessary to get your
company back into the game.
"I've already taken the liberty of speaking to your union
representatives and your striking employees. If you are willing
to maintain the farce of a strike for just a few more weeks,
they're willing to back you for a chance at a fair shake once the
strike is over." Bacardi's statement was made in earnest, and for
a moment he appeared to be anything but a bored and capricious
playboy looking for a new plaything; he was a man on a mission,
determined to have his way for a much deeper purpose than fending
off greedy ex-wives.
Bacardi turned from the window and reached out a gloved
hand. "So, Mr. LaFollette, do we have a deal?"
LaFollette found himself shaking the smiling man's hand and heard
himself saying, "If you can get my men back on the line, then we
do, Mr. Bacardi."
"You won't regret this, Mr. LaFollette; it'll be worth your
while, you'll see."
"Just one question, Mr. Bacardi. That is, if you don't mind
answering one," LaFollette said suddenly.
"Just the one? Shoot, Mr. LaFollette," answered Bacardi
amiably.
"Isn't this an awful lot of trouble to go through for a few
cars?"
A belly laugh erupted from Bacardi that rivaled a cannon's
roar and filled the entirety of the small office. It took a few
seconds, but Bacardi managed to compose himself and answered with
a slight chuckle still in his throat. "Believe me, Mr.
LaFollette, it beats the amount trouble I'd be in if I had to
remarry one of my ex-wives."
LaFollette still got a bit of a chuckle from that answer
when he looked back on that meeting.
A blast of the train whistle ended LaFollette's reverie. In
a few moments he was standing outside on the platform, shaking
Bacardi's gloved hand once more. Bacardi had been good as his
word; LaFollette's men returned within two hours of Bacardi's
departure and worked double, even triple shifts to get the job
done. The partial payment covered the payroll, the materials, and
the operating costs for Bacardi's special project and all the
while the strike continued on as if no settlement had been
reached.
LaFollette wished he could capitalize on some of the things
his people did for Bacardi, but very few people would be able to
afford what rolled out of the plant onto this private train in the
dead of night a week ago. LaFollette could've sent the train on
its way with anybody from the company as a representative. The
final payment for his services was already in the bank, but he had
to thank the man who saved his company from toppling over the
brink into ruin personally.
Bacardi had inspected the contents of the converted luggage
cars with great satisfaction prior to having his reunion with
LaFollette on the platform.
"Excellent work, Mr. LaFollette. Exactly what I wanted. I
can't thank you enough." Bacardi pulled his collar up a bit
against the chill. "My engine will take them from here. As soon
as the switch is complete, you can be on your way back to Detroit,
with my deepest thanks, LaFollette."
"I should be thanking you Bacardi. It was definitely worth
my while." This time LaFollette was the one grinning like an
idiot as a brisk
December breeze swept over the platform.
"I never promise lightly, old boy. I'm pleased to see that
you've settled your labor issues in the last day or two, according
to the official record in the Gotham Gazette." Bacardi paused and
shared a knowing grin with LaFollette before handing him a leather
briefcase.
"By the way, this is for you."
Opening the case, LaFollette was thrilled to see that it was
his promised bonus in cash. "It's been a while since I've seen
this much cash at one time."
"Yes, fifty-thousand dollars is a hefty sum to pack in one
case."
"Fifty thousand? Our agreement was for twenty-five
thousand," LaFollette asked as his grin made a sudden exit for the
confused look that Bacardi induced so frequently during their last
meeting.
Once more, with a calm smile, Bacardi attempted to explain
LaFollette something that he considered obvious. "Consider the
excess a retainer, Mr. LaFollette. I would like to be able to
have such excellent workmanship on hand if I ever need to have
repairs done or even order a new car from time to time."
LaFollette's smile returned with a vengeance as he spoke.
"So am I to assume we have a new agreement, Mr. Bacardi?" He
offered his hand once again.
"You have something even better," replied Bacardi as he
shook LaFollette's hand once more. "You have my promise that I
will, in some form or fashion, engage your services again when the
time comes."
"I've learned to have a great deal of faith in your
promises, Mr. Bacardi."
"You should, old boy; if you know anything about me at all,
it's that I don't promise lightly." Saying that, Bacardi flashed
another winning smile before turning on his heel and heading for
his private train.
*****************************************************
THREE: BIRD ON A WIRE
THE PENGUIN CLUB, GOTHAM CITY, DECEMBER 10, 1938
The Penguin Club was one of the shiniest jewels in Gotham's
nighttime crown. Within the snow-white marble walls of the club
were many of Gotham's elite, sipping champagne and dancing the
night away. The club itself was once the downtown residence of
one of Gotham's long-forgotten tycoons who took a concrete swan
dive when the market crashed in '29.
Besides the beautiful marble work on the face and interior
of the building, it boasted two indoor heated pools, gold fitted
moldings in the rooms and hallways, an enormous ballroom with a
floor tiled in more marble with alternating tiles of mother-of-
pearl and onyx, a fully equipped gymnasium that occupied the rear
of the building near the pools, and the crowning attraction of the
whole place rested at the top floors of the building in the form
of a lush and verdant rooftop arboretum. The building was a
masterpiece in both design and aesthetics, and at any other time,
it would've brought a pretty penny on Gotham's fast-paced real
estate market. The bank foreclosed on the property quickly after
the owner's sudden demise and hoped to sell the house at a decent
profit. Unfortunately, the hard times of the Depression that hit
the rest of the nation had hit Gotham with the same sudden
swiftness and severity, leaving few interested parties looking for
luxury homes and even fewer who could afford the bank's asking
price. The bank was forced to eventually auction off the building
to collect something on the property, even if it was at a loss.
The new owner, the infamous Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, wasted
no time in refurbishing the building into the Penguin Club and a
bona-fide moneymaker.
Cobblepot was once a brilliant financier who made big waves
in the stock market. The risks Cobblepot took were the stuff of
commerce legend, and his skill at making a longshot pay off worked
well for the little broker and his investors. Cobblepot, while a
financial genius, was a very poor judge of character. Eventually
he fell into a partnership with Milt Biggsley, a mildly successful
filmmaker with a master plan to expand his entertainment empire by
building a family amusement park clandestinely referred to as
Biggstown.
Cobblepot was swayed by the passionate pitches and projected
profits of Biggsley's plan and invested heavily in the Biggstown
project. In fact, Cobblepot, so certain of Biggstown's financial
success, 'borrowed' money from his clients to increase his own
payoff. Unfortunately for Cobblepot and his unsuspecting clients,
the market chose that time to crash. Biggsley disappeared with as
much cash as he could grab, and Cobblepot was attempting to follow
his example when Gotham's Finest caught up to him. Vilified by
the press, Cobblepot was convicted and sent to prison. Where
another man may have been resigned to his fate, Cobblepot
continued to prove that he could survive any setback. Within a
year's time, he had begun to provide financial advice to several
inmates. By the second year he was designated the prison's head
accountant, unofficially, that is. Cobblepot soon found himself
with an early release and pardon after a meeting with an
unidentified gentleman who was said to resemble the governor.
The vindicated little broker had managed to stash away a
small nest egg prior to his arrest and with the assistance of some
of his more forgiving former clients, began to rebuild his
fortune. The Penguin Club was the perfect venue for Cobblepot to
reestablish his connections and regain his former status as a
mover and shaker in Gotham's halls of power without risking his
liberty.
Cobblepot, given his lofty status in Gotham's social world,
was not used to having half of the Gotham City Police Department's
Detective Squad barging into his establishment during the dinner
show. Yet he managed to take it in stride as Lieutenant James
Gordon, considered to be Gotham's top cop, pushed his way into the
club in the middle of Louis
Armstrong's opening number. Richard Drake, Dinah Drake, and Larry
Lance were close on his heels and from the disheveled look of the
two plaster-covered detectives, angry enough to spit nails.
Cobblepot quietly rose from his private table and walked, or
rather waddled, across the crowded room to meet Gordon's party
before his guests took notice of the intrusion.
Cobblepot's cherubic face carried a bored, almost detached
expression as Gordon walked up to him. Anyone seeing Oswald
Cobblepot for the first time would probably regard the man an
oddity. Cobblepot was a short, stout man, with a body that was
nearly pear-shaped in its roundness and a nose that stuck out
beak-like from his plump face. Oswald was fond of formal attire,
and his outfit for the evening was no exception: a black tuxedo
with tails, white silk tie and gray satin vest. His imported
black leather dress shoes were covered with spotless white spats
and polished to a high gloss. The entire outfit gave
Cobblepot an almost comical air despite his carrying himself as a
distinguished gentleman. For all intents and purposes, Oswald
Cobblepot resembled a human...
"Penguin," Larry Lance growled through gritted teeth. Lance
may have been compelled to do more than growl if Richard Drake's
grip on his arm hadn't caused the younger man to stay where he was
and let Gordon do the talking.
If Cobblepot were offended by the use of the old nickname
given to him by the press during his trial, he didn't show it
outwardly. He appeared to ignore Lance completely as he pumped
Gordon's hand with an enthusiastic fervor. Gordon was not swayed
and managed to move his graying mustache out of the way of
Cobblepot's flailing cigarette holder before it got singed.
Gordon had never really liked the little man, but Cobblepot
had his uses as an underworld informant. During his stay in
prison, Cobblepot's financial assistance gained him numerous
contacts throughout the underworld. Contacts who were more than
happy to sell information to the little man, who paid well for it.
Cobblepot soon began to broker in information as he once did in
stocks and bonds. The police grew to rely on the accuracy of
Cobblepot's information while criminals paid him a generous sum to
'forget' details from time to time.
So while Cobblepot was one of the city's most reliable
sources of information on almost anything legal or illegal
happening in Gotham, it always came at a price. Gordon knew that
every name Cobblepot gave up, every scheme he informed on, almost
always allowed another criminal, usually a rival of the person
being informed on, to fill the void. Gordon was sure that
Cobblepot was a greater service to the underworld than he was the
forces of law and order. But until he had proof of criminal
conspiracy on Cobblepot's part; Gordon had to tolerate the pompous
little man's presence.
Given the events of tonight's raid and obvious set-up that
nearly got Lance and the Drakes killed, Gordon felt he may finally
have a shot at tying Cobblepot to something big. Maybe something
big enough to have Cobblepot give up one of Gotham's bigger fish
for a change. "James!" Cobblepot bleated excitedly, "If you
needed a table, you should've called ahead! Still I think Armund
can..."
"This is not a social call, Oswald," Gordon said abruptly.
"We need to talk."
Cobblepot's features darkened as he answered. "If this is
related to the 'services' I provide beyond running my club, that
will have to wait until after hours." Cobblepot smoothed his vest
and began to return to his table. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen
and miss, I have guests at my table who require attention."
Gordon jerked the neck of Cobblepot's jacket, spinning the
little man around. When Cobblepot recovered himself, the lapels
of his jacket were firmly bunched in Gordon's grip, and his face
was barely two inches from Gordon's own livid expression. The
suddenness of the detective's actions were so extreme that it
caused many of the club's patrons to stir from the performance
taking place on the stage to the one taking place in the middle of
the dining room.
"Look, Penguin," Gordon hissed softly, "you're two seconds
away from being charged as a material witness in an attempted
murder on Detectives Lance and Drake here." Gordon's last words
caused the blood to drain from Cobblepot's face. Gordon was
pleased to see his attitude and statements were having the desired
effect on Cobblepot's high and mighty demeanor.
"I have no idea what you're talking about" Cobblepot said
hoarsely. "The information I gave to my good friend Richard was
confirmed through several sources. I'm not involved in any
attempt on your men's lives."
Gordon smiled evilly. "I don't know that, Penguin. All I
know is these two followed your tip and were neatly set up for a
gunning job. You are our only lead on this one, and I'm getting an
answer the easy way or the hard way." With a jerk, Gordon pulled
the little man's face even closer. "And right now, Penguin, I'm
leaning towards the hard way. I want answers, and I don't give a
damn who's waiting to have dinner with you."
"Maybe you should care a little, Jim; my steak's getting
cold."
Everyone looked up to see who had spoken. A dark-haired
young man wearing a well-tailored jet-black tuxedo stepped towards
the group. His eyes were a steely blue that seemed to take in
everything around him in the most casual fashion. His bearing was
one that spoke a quiet nobility, and the half-smile he wore seemed
to be something that was strictly for show, something that was
expected of wealthy young men like himself.
"Who the hell are you?" Larry lance asked with definite
annoyance in his voice.
The man glanced casually in Lance's direction but appeared
to be speaking to no one at all as he responded. "Bruce Wayne,
pleased to meet you, Mister...?"
A booming baritone cut in before Lance could answer Wayne.
"Blast it, Bruce, this isn't the time to be polite. It's obvious
Oswald's being manhandled here!" The group looked past Wayne to
see a massive older gentleman forcing his way into the circle. "I
assume you boys have a warrant of some kind in hand for you to
disrupt Mr. Cobblepot's place of business in this fashion?!"
"I repeat," Larry Lance said in a more venomous tone, "who
the hell are you?"
Wayne answered before the older man could, "Forgive me, this
is Mr. Cobblepot's other dinner companion. May I introduce Mr.
Charles Foster Kane? Charlie, this is Lieutenant James Gordon of
the Gotham City Police Department. The older gentleman with him
is Lieutenant Richard Drake and his daughter Dinah. Unfortunately
I'm not familiar with Lieutenant Drake's rather... enthusiastic
partner." Wayne smiled at
Lance politely. "My apologies, Mister...?"
"Lance," Larry said, humbled by Wayne's revelation.
"Detective Larry Lance." Lance closed his mouth with a clacking
sound at the realization that he was in the presence of one of the
most powerful men in America, not to mention Bruce Wayne, one of
Gotham's favorite sons.
"Hush, Charlie," Wayne said to his companion. "I'm sure
Lieutenant Gordon has a perfectly good reason for his lack of
protocol." Turning to Gordon, Wayne said quietly, "Of course
allowing Mr. Cobblepot to explain himself in a less public area
might help to clear the matter up quicker than wrinkling such an
excellent jacket." Wayne smiled as Gordon released Cobblepot's
coat with a nod of agreement. "Might I suggest Mr. Cobblepot's
private office? And if you don't mind, Oswald, I think I'll
accompany you just to make sure that Jim conducts a fair
interview. That is, if you don't mind, Jim."
Gordon looked around at the crowd, who had paid attention to
the whole exchange. Even Louis Armstrong and the band had stopped
playing to watch the scene play out. "It would appear, Bruce,
that I don't have much of a choice in the matter. Okay, you're
in." Gordon looked over at Kane. "I do apologize for
interrupting your evening, Mr. Kane; if you want to sit in on this
too..."
Kane shook his head slowly. "No, sir, I'm satisfied that
young Wayne will keep things on the up and up." He smiled in the
direction of Wayne and
Cobblepot, "Gentlemen, I'll be taking my leave from you. I'm due
to fly back to Xanadu in the morning, and I need my rest. I'm
sure you can handle this on your own." Turning to Gordon's group,
he added, "I'll leave you to your work, officers, miss." And with
that the world-renowned newspaper magnate turned upon his heel and
started for the door. The crowd parted for him almost magically
as he left the room.
"Well, Jim," Wayne asked politely, "shall we go?"
"One moment, Bruce," Cobblepot said with gratitude in his
voice.
Cobblepot then turned to address his customers. "Ladies and
Gentlemen, please forgive the disturbance, but everything's okay
now. I insist you stay for Mr. Armstrong's show and enjoy your
meals on the house this evening in appreciation of your patience."
Cobblepot's practiced smile and generous offer won the guests
over, and the band began their set once more.
With his guests attended to, Cobblepot led the way as the
small group headed towards his office.
*****************************************************
To be continued...