Chapter Five
Unfriendly Allies
Across town in the theatre district, a different sort of meeting was taking place.
Cary Young was a short, balding blond man in his late thirties. Ostensibly he was a theatrical producer, well known for being rather too successful. His productions were extravagantly backed fanfares that seemed to always manage to turn a tidy profit in spite of modest ticket sales. His ties to the Gotham underworld had been suspected for years by the police, but no one had any solid proof. Not even Batman, who knew rather more about Young's connections than the authorities, had quite enough evidence on him.
Three weeks ago his unknown benefactor had died, giving Young the greatest boost of his career. Sam Ballard — the most powerful crimelord in Gotham two decades ago — had generally been believed to have fallen on hard times the last few years, but Cary knew better. Ballard's only offspring was his childless daughter, but he had practically adopted a teenaged Cary after he caught him trying to pilfer and resell Soapy Sam's own stolen merchandise.
Most people would have ended up dead after such a stunt, but Cary Young had always had more than his share of good luck. This time it came to his defense when he landed in the hands of the one mob boss who had a notorious weakness for women and children. Ballard had taken an extraordinary liking to the plucky kid, and treated him as the grandchild he would never have. He'd trained him, listened to his theatrical ambitions, and helped him achieve his dreams.
And when Ballard's son-in-law was murdered in the early 90's, he'd made Cary Young his unofficial heir.
Upon his death, his "legitimate" assets — what little was left after the expense of his lengthy illness — went to his daughter. But his real money, his files, and what remained of the power base he'd once controlled, had all come to his surrogate grandson.
The effete Young, in spite of his passion for the arts and his expensively over-decorated penthouse, ironically shared none of his patron's old-world sensibilities. In his recent attempts at housecleaning, he'd proven to be as ruthless at taking care of old debts as his theatre cronies knew him to be in his other life.
In sharp contrast to most crimelords, who generally hired ugly mugs or supermodel types to do their dirty work, the producer had a marked preference for pretty boy subordinates, the more androgynous the better. Johnny G., with his sharp features, longish black hair, and the hint of exoticism his mixed heritage gave him, fit the bill exactly.
Johnny G. wasn't precisely the most competent mob lackey in town, and he was uncomfortably aware that he was on probation. And under his impeccable manners, his new boss had a barely suppressed air of instability that made Johnny G. really dread giving him the bad news.
Cary Young was seated in the third row of the Byzantium Theatre, watching the rehearsal of his latest production and holding a whispered consultation with the director. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Johnny G. trying to work up the courage to try to get his attention. With a sigh of impatience, he whispered his excuses to the director and made his way to the wings, motioning for Johnny G. to follow.
"Well? You get it?" he asked brusquely.
The younger man hesitated. "Not...exactly."
Young narrowed his eyes. He didn't speak, but let his silence work on the other man's insecurities.
"Never had a chance to look, actually," Johnny G. stammered. "The place wasn't empty after all."
"I thought I told you to make sure it would be. You claimed that's what you'd done."
"I did, boss, I swear. The daughter was supposed to stay in a hotel. I heard her tell the old lady. But I hadn't been looking five minutes before she opened the bedroom door and —"
Danger was implicit in Young's soft voice. "She saw you!"
"Well, it was pretty dark, but yeah. I took off, but then her husband chased me with a spear."
Young blinked in disbelief. "Chased...you...with...a...spear...?"
"Well...maybe not a spear, exactly, but close. One of those, whatchamacallit, bow things." He added defensively, "Hey, you'da run off too if a naked man was chasing you with a bow and arrow."
On second thought, it occurred to him that the boss might enjoy that. He knew absolutely nothing of the producer's personal life, but his manner had always made Johnny distinctly uncomfortable.
Somewhat to his surprise, Young seemed to believe the outlandish story. "This daughter. You said she used to be some kind of crimefighter, like her mother, right? And she lives in Seattle...doesn't that city have a problem with some kind of Batman rip-off who goes around with a bow and arrow?"
Johnny G. shrugged. He'd never heard of any such thing, but he didn't have the connections his boss did. Or, for that matter, the interest. Staying out of the way of the real Batman was enough for him.
"Could be a coincidence," Young admitted. "But it might bear looking into. I'll handle that angle. You get your hands on that database."
Johnny G. was foolish enough to argue back. "I still don't see what's so important about that database. It's gotta be hopelessly outta date after all these years, anyway," he opined.
Young gave him a backhand slap across the mouth. "Get that database," he ordered. "No excuses. And while you're at it, take care of Diana Lance."
->>> ————————>
Two against one. It really wasn't fair odds.
One of the punks rushed Green Arrow headlong while the other disappeared behind him, obviously planning some sort of sneak attack. His booted foot shot out, catching the second kid violently in the stomach and sending him sprawling out of action for awhile. His companion, however, took advantage of the second's distraction and grabbed hold of the bow, grappling with the older man in a test of strength.
Although he landed a lucky blow, managing to tip the edge of the longbow back far enough to clout Green Arrow on the nose, the pain only served to infuriate the crimefighter. He wrested it away from his attacker and used it as a staff, pushing the wooden edge against the young man's throat and shoving hard till he reeled backwards, gasping and choking.
Not fair odds at all. By the time the young punk, who couldn't have been more than about twenty-one or so, thought to make a grab for his gun, he found the business end of a razor sharp arrow aimed in his direction.
"You just go right ahead and try it, boy," growled the mysterious man in green. "I'm looking forward to it."
On an average night, some of them decided to try their luck and some didn't. This one made the gamble. The gun came out, the arrow was released...and both weapons were knocked away harmlessly by a scallop-edged black object that came hurtling out of nowhere.
With a look of stark terror on his face, the boy ran away as fast as he could. Green Arrow turned, knowing exactly what — or rather who — he would see standing behind him.
"Huh," he snorted. "I was wondering when the city guardian would show up."
The newcomer was only slightly taller than Green Arrow, but a lot more powerfully built. He was dressed in a tight-fitting grey bodysuit with a black bat emblem contained within a golden oval across the center of his chest. A cowl topped by pointy ears hid the top half of his face, and the long, blue-black cape he wore had the vague suggestion of bat's wings. In his black-gauntleted hands he clasped three very familiar looking arrows, lost earlier in the evening.
"Hey, thanks," Green Arrow said, reaching for his discarded property. "Those things are expensive to replace."
Batman said nothing. His eyes narrowed to slits and he made no move for a few moments. At length he held out his hand, allowing the other man to take back his arrows.
"Deadly weapons," he said, his voice a deep rasp. "I don't believe in excessive force."
Green Arrow gave him an incredulous look. "You've got to be freakin' kiddin' me! I suppose there's nothing dangerous in that arsenal you carry around?" he protested, gesturing toward the gold utility belt Batman wore around his waist.
"Dangerous, yes. Deadly, no," the newcomer told him succinctly. Lacking patience for the debate he could tell was about to start, he added, "Aren't you on the wrong coast?"
The other man raised his eyebrows. "Oh, so you know who I am, huh? I'm flattered," he joked.
"Don't be. I like to keep up. Why are you in Gotham?"
Oliver sighed wearily. By city standards, it was still early, only a little past two a.m. But it had been a long, frustrating day after getting little sleep last night, and he was tired. He'd spent many hours on the back streets of this strange city "interviewing" people about the whereabouts of his quarry, with varying results. The two he'd run into a few minutes earlier weren't the first who'd shown an inclination to fight, either. The last thing he was up for was an interrogation by a territorial vigilante.
"Look, if you're going to start marking territory here —" he began.
The cold look never left Batman's face. "What are you doing in my city?" he repeated slowly.
"Enjoying the low crime rate," Green Arrow responded sarcastically. "Other than that, not really any of your concern, all right? So feel free to butt out any time you like."
The cowled figure stepped closer to him. "Let's get one thing straight. This is my city. I don't care what you do in Seattle, but once you step foot in Gotham, it becomes my concern."
The archer shook his head disgustedly. "So, now I have to check in with the local vigilante? You know how stupid that — oh, what the hell? I'm looking for information on a little creep who calls himself Johnny G."
"So I've heard...from a couple of guys you shot arrows at."
"Yeah, yeah. Second verse, okay? You know anything about him?"
"Strictly small time. What do you want with him?"
Green Arrow leaned against the dumpster, arms folded, and studied the shadowy figure carefully. Normally he would be more than happy to continue this little confrontation all night long, but he lacked sufficient time and energy just at present. Besides, he'd promised Dinah he would do everything he could to find out what this small time hood wanted from her mother, and this Batman character might have the answers he needed. Goodness knows no one else seemed to.
"You know who he works for?" he asked.
Batman wasn't exactly forthcoming. "Various people, short term," he answered tersely. "Now, why don't you return the favour and tell me exactly what you're looking for?"
"If I knew that, I wouldn't be wasting time with you," Green Arrow told him shortly. "My girlfriend's mother is in the hospital, recovering from surgery. Yesterday, this guy was outside her room, dressed as an orderly. Last night, he broke into her apartment. The cops don't take the matter seriously, but her daughter does."
"Naturally," said Batman. "Is there any particular reason anyone should want to harm her? Has she crossed paths with the wrong people, or does she have information she shouldn't?"
He sounded interested, and his questions were a lot more pertinent than anything they'd gotten from the police at any point. Dinah had insisted on going back to tell them about the incident in the hospital corridor, but they were still less than helpful. Mistaken identity, they called it.
Green Arrow decided to take him into his confidence. "The monster-in-law used to be a crimefighter. Called herself Black Canary. You'd probably have been a kid at the time," he guessed.
"I don't remember."
Oliver laughed, but there was no humour in the sound. "Somebody'll say the same thing about us one of these days. Urban legends. All the same, I think there's somebody that does remember her."
Batman was inclined to agree. "Have you questioned her?" he asked sensibly.
"Not yet. We're not exactly what you'd call the greatest of friends. I wanted evidence before I tried confronting her."
"Mm. I think maybe I can help. Meet me tomorrow night."
Without another word he blended into the shadows and was gone, leaving Oliver wondering if he should get his eyes checked. Handy technique though, he thought. He was good, and he was quiet, but this guy moved like a ghost — take your eyes off him for a second and it was like he was never there.
———————— -
Batman was right. He needed to talk to Diana, and soon.
It was humiliating having to admit that he hadn't yet taken that obvious step, but Dinah had been dead set against it. Her mother was recovering from major surgery, she was still very ill, the last thing she needed was to be frightened over this situation. Oliver hadn't agreed, but it was her call to make and he'd accepted her judgment.
If she was asleep he wouldn't bother her, he decided. It wouldn't hurt to look in on her anyway, might help put her daughter's mind at ease.
He sidled along the fifth floor ledge, envying the other crimefighter's gadgetry. Without question, Batman would have some sort of device that would let him shoot a line up to the proper window and pull himself up without having to do any climbing at all. Lucky so-and-so.
From the open window he heard the unexpected but very familiar sounds of a struggle going on. Flattening himself against the wall, he inched closer and risked a look inside.
Damn!
He'd made his move faster than they had anticipated. Johnny G. — the man was becoming positively ubiquitous — held a pillow above Diana's head, pressing lightly against the hands held up in protest. She was too weak to put up much of a struggle, but the young man prolonged the encounter deliberately, taking pleasure in tormenting her.
"I'll bet you weren't much of a crimefighter, even back in your own day," he heard the punk say. "And look at you now, a sick old woman who can't even hold a hospital pillow off her face. Why don't you just go ahead and tell me what I want to know, huh? You might even be too pathetic for me to kill, then," he lied.
Sadistic little bastard, thought Green Arrow as he ducked quickly out of sight.
But while the protracted strain was no doubt bad for Diana, the delay would ultimately be to her advantage. The archer reached for his bow, took an arrow out of his quiver, and fitted it against the string. Bracing his knee against the window frame, he took aim and fired.
The arrow went straight through Johnny's thigh, far enough so that the head pierced the other leg as well. With a high-pitched scream of agony, he fell down clutching his injured leg. Blood poured out of the wound.
Diana, fighting for breath, her eyes wide with terror, managed to gasp, "Oh, thank God!" and reach belatedly for the emergency button on her bed. She'd thought, in one of those moments of clarity that come in the middle of mortal peril, that she was going to die with a way to summon help only inches away. But fending off her attacker took all of her already depleted strength; she couldn't have risked removing one hand from the pillow, even for a moment.
Her gaze travelled from the whimpering, sobbing mass on the floor to the window. Her saviour was visible in silhouette only, bringing to mind the image of Errol Flynn as Robin Hood, just the way he intended. She had to admit, he cut a dashing figure.
"Go!" she ordered, in a shaky voice that was barely more than a whisper.
He knew what she meant; it wouldn't be advisable for hospital security to find him there. And she would cover for him, either out of gratitude or for Dinah's sake.
"I'll be back," he said, and disappeared from sight.
- >>>————————>
She seemed to be sleeping peacefully when he climbed back through her window, somewhat more than an hour later.
He stood watching over her with an expression of unaccustomed sympathy. All right, so she wasn't his favourite person in the world, but she didn't deserve this...any of it. No one did. And God knew Dinah deserved better than to have to fear for her mother's life on two separate counts.
Oh, no. Dinah. He hoped no one had called her yet; he wanted to break the news to her himself.
"I'm awake," Diana said without opening her eyes.
Oliver dragged a chair next to the bed, noticing that someone had been in and mopped up the gory mess on the floor. He'd noticed the same thing from time to time while visiting other patients, usually in a professional capacity: hospital security might not be all it should, but housekeeping was usually on top of things.
"How ya doin'?" he asked quietly.
Her only answer was a raspy, mocking laugh. Then she opened her blue eyes (unnervingly like her daughter's) and looked him in the face.
"Thank you," she said, not without some difficulty.
He smiled at the understatement, and responded in kind. "It's my job," he reminded her.
"I remember."
"I bet you do. That's what all this is about, isn't it? Something to do with the first Black Canary. What did he want?"
"That's a lot to assume," she said, neatly evading the question. She didn't really feel up to sparring with him, but her pride was hurt. Why make it easier for him to come in here and play the conquering hero like the belligerent alpha male he was?
Weakened though she was, he recognised the return of the old Diana Lance.
"Listen, lady. I want some answers out of you and I want 'em now."
Unimpressed, she warned him, "Keep your voice down. There's a guard outside in the corridor."
"Well it's about time they got around to protecting you!" he exclaimed, thinking of everything Dinah had gone through in the last thirty hours or so trying to convince someone that her mother might be in danger.
"Don't pretend you care," she said snippily.
He knew she was just blowing off steam after the experience she'd just gone through, and because of her illness and all that, but the night's frustrations were catching up with him, too, and he wasn't in the mood to cut her any slack.
"Right this minute I wouldn't give a rat's ass, personally," he said candidly. "But whatever happens to you affects your daughter, and I damn sure care about that!"
Diana struggled to sit up straighter in the hospital bed. "And you think I don't!" she inquired icily.
"The way you treat her? Damned if I know. I don't think Dinah does, either."
"You are the very last person in the world who's qualified to give me parenting advice," she snapped. The sheer audacity of the man! After the fine job he'd done with his kid... And then the import of his words hit her.
She doesn't know? Dinah...doesn't know how I feel about her. That can't possibly be true, can it?
Diana remained silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, she told him, "I have a database on the kid's boss and his predecessor. I've been keeping it since the late sixties. If Cary Young didn't know about it before, he obviously does now."
"What do you have on him?"
"Everything," she said simply. "Trade routes for their drug operations, details on money laundering, connections. The personnel sheets are a little out of date by now, but I don't have quite the inside edge I did twenty-five years ago. There's enough to do plenty of damage, even now."
"So why didn't you?" he was compelled to ask.
She shrugged. "Balances and leverages. It's really none of your business."
"Okay," Oliver agreed. She was speaking to him as one hero to another and he understood. He'd had more than a few of those arrangements himself over the years. "But why come after you now, after all these years?"
Diana hesitated, trying to decide how much of the back story to give him. "Twenty, thirty years ago, the biggest crimelord in Gotham City was a man named Sam Ballard. You hear a lot about the so-called criminal giants in the mob today, Rupert Thorne, all those guys...but they're all competing with each other for territory Ballard had mostly to himself in the sixties and seventies.
"My father — he was a cop; Dinah might have told you — worked the case for years. He kept copies of most of his important files at home. And after he died, I took his notes and started adding all the information I could gather to the collection. It was sort of a tribute to him, I guess. Eventually, Ballard found out about it."
Green Arrow knew further information about what had happened then wouldn't be forthcoming, so he didn't press. For the first time, he wondered if the story Dinah had believed all her life, about her mother retiring from crimefighting to concentrate on her family, was really true.
"So how does this guy Young fit into all this?" he questioned.
"Ballard practically adopted him. That's not widely known, I understand. Especially in the circles where Young usually keeps himself. But word has a way of getting around, especially if you know how to listen. Soapy Sam — that's what they called him, because he could slither out from under the law like he'd been lathered — lost a good deal of his action when guys like Chuckie Sol started coming in in the seventies. But not everything."
"And you kept track."
She nodded. "As best I could. I don't know precisely what went to whom when the action started spreading out, but I've got some of the threads. The new guys weren't my target. Three weeks ago, Ballard died. If I know him, he would have left everything he had to Cary Young, including his file on me."
Oliver said, thinking aloud, "And whatever reason Ballard had for leaving you alone, Young doesn't abide by the original contract."
"Obviously. I assume you know how to handle it?"
He chuckled. It was, he thought, more respect than she'd ever accorded him. "I think I've got some idea," he assured her. "Don't worry; you'll be okay."
Diana laughed openly at the irony. "Aside from the gangsters and the cancer, you mean?"
Oliver moved to the window. Turning to her with a cheeky grin he said, "Ah, the cancer won't kill you, lady. You're too mean to die. And I'll take care of the gangsters." And he placed one foot on the sill, ready to make his exit.
Diana called him back. "Oliver..."
He hesitated, and she looked at the man who was, for all intents and purposes, her son-in-law. She'd never liked him, but now she had to trust him. Her life, almost literally, rested in his hands.
"What is it, Diana?" he asked softly.
She chose not to tell him what she was thinking. What she had to say was more urgent, and she knew she didn't have to explain that to him. "Oliver, keep my daughter out of all this. As far away as possible."
"Trust me," he said, and left without a backwards glance.
And, as much as she hated the idea, she thought she could.