Chapter 10: Bushido

When Bruce Wayne walked into a bar, it was hard not to attract attention. However, when he sauntered in wearing a wary grin and a makeup job worthy of Zatara himself, he barely got any response. It was just the way he liked it, and he tipped his hat to the bartender as he chose a dark seat far enough away from the juke box to avoid having to hear whatever the drunks or thugs chose to play but with the remainder of the room in easy view. A girl came by a moment later, young with eyes darkened by too much eye makeup. "What'll you have?"

"A beer. None of that import crap."

"Anything else?"

He merely looked at her and in a moment she turned away. He didn't like beer particularly, and he was a bit hungry to be honest, but there was something satisfying about falling so completely into his role. Malone wouldn't have ordered anything fancy and wasn't a fan of anything foreign, mostly because he didn't understand or choose to learn anything about a subject beyond Gotham. It was the perfect mindset for a hired man planning to work for the mob in Gotham. He produced a deck of playing cards from his pocket and began a game of solitaire, grunting acknowledgement when the drink arrived. He was careful to seem involved in the game, and perhaps a little depressed with something on his mind. He strained to listen to the folks in booths and at tables around him, drinking and chatting as the night grew longer. Finally, a conversation caught his attention.

"Yeah, I heard about Carlo. He's gonna be out of it for a while, what with that broke wrist."

"He say who did it?"

"Just some nutjob in a hockey mask. Nothing special, he just got a lucky shot. Next time we'll have more guys and more guns."

Matches took a swig of beer and set his ace of spades aside.

"So some douche just decided to butt in? Carlo shoulda shot his ass."

"Yeah, he's never been a great shot."

"Any idea who the guy was?"

"Some asshole with too much time to kill. We're sweeping the neighborhoods now, knocking some heads. We'll find the guy eventually."

"Yeah, put a gun in enough happy housewives' faces and you always get results."

"Ain't that the truth?"

The men laughed loudly, and the way the rest of the room quieted told volumes about their reputations. In his booth, Matches Malone was no longer laying down cards. It was all he could do not to get up and just leave, but he'd already planned and invested time in his persona. If he wanted it to be usable, he'd have to just deal with anything he overheard, no matter how upsetting. Matches wouldn't care too much about that kind of violence.

As a child, Bruce had enjoyed the stories of Sherlock Holmes. Contrary to popular belief, Holmes was no dandy in a deerstalker cap spouting "Elementary, my dear Watson" at every turn. He was a keen analyst, a man interested in boxing and other martial arts as a means of defense. But one of the traits Bruce had admired most of all was Holmes' ability to disguise himself. It was something he'd picked up later from a drama major he'd very briefly dated in his short time at Yale when she'd invited him to midnight showings of old Lon Cheney films in the dormitories. Cheney had been a master of disguise, using whatever he could to twist his face into something memorable yet still full of humanity. Bruce had studied his methods extensively, and later when he'd worked under Zatara the old man had been impressed with Bruce's homegrown skills, roughhewn as they were. It all went back to Holmes, though. The man had been adept at using his disguises to learn about the criminals he pursued. Bruce had studied the subtle cues of body language and the volumes that could be said through simple facial expression. He'd thought himself well-prepared, but Zatara had laughed at him long ago when he'd finally confessed his purpose in learning the art of illusion. "Bruce, you're out of your league. It is not enough to mimic the people you seek to infiltrate. You must also think like them."

Bruce had not wavered, "I've studied the criminal mind. I've lived among them, stolen to feed myself, been made a prisoner."

Zatara only shook his head, "I'm not so sure that you will find this a simple task, nor am I sure that you will benefit from it. It will only serve to fuel your hate, and that can never lead to healing."

Now the words floated back to him. Critically, he studied his own behavior in that instant. He was hesitating in his game, obviously disturbed by something. That something could only have been the words of the men: they were being loud enough to attract everyone's attention. His drink was relatively untouched, something a man who had come to a bar to overcome his sorrows would never have neglected. The muscles on his face were tense as well, indicating some amount of stress: furrowed brow, glaring at the cards laying before him, his body still and wound tight as a predator's.

He stood, downed the bitter beer, left a modest tip, and collected his cards. He needed more practice. Zatara had been right: this business of passing himself off as a disinterested criminal in need of a illicit work would take more practice. Matches Malone would need some refinement. At least he'd made an appearance though, however modest. That would make him slightly familiar the next time he entered the bar. It would have to count for something.

In the meantime, he'd need to finish the costume. Batman would need to act soon if he wanted to spare the innocent people living nearby from potentially vicious attacks. If the men wanted to meet their attacker again, Bruce was more than willing to oblige.