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Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx
Chapter 7: Bigger Fish
In the early 19th century, Gotham City built America's first passenger train. It was a timely invention: people previously traveled on horses, and the city's manure output was already fertilizing most of the state. However, passenger trains were only useful near people, and Gotham City was adding an extra city's worth of people every decade. Beet farms became chic markets. Muddy land was dredged from the sea to build tenements. The railroad magnates eventually added new lines, but then they planned to close the old ones. This was a mistake. Old Gotham was not nearly as bustling as its heyday when the Whigs were in office, but the original stops were still useful to a few crusty residents, and these residents could be awfully loud when their commute was threatened.
Influential voices who lived on streets older than the Constitution convinced city planners to detour many of the new rail lines through old stations. They argued that this would save money. This prevented those stations from ever being decommissioned, but it also forced many trains through lengthy detours which could, in the worst cases, add half an hour to a five minute trip. The railroads responded by speeding up the trains and wasting less time on safety inspections, and for a while all the changes broke even.
But each fix merely delayed the inevitable. After several generations of rerouting and accelerating, Gotham's public transit was a maddening mess that was said to have inspired a visiting Franz Kafka. The trains routinely broke their own speed records. Several ancient stops served no local passengers at all. Fortunately, Gotham's tendency to approve foolish civil projects was matched only by its ingenuity at patching foolish civil projects. To shorten routes, local construction firms became world leaders in rail bridges, subways, and elevated trains. Special streetcars and funiculars connected lines where tracks couldn't fit. A child could travel at three elevations on a trip to school. When the roller coaster was invented, no city was less impressed.
By the 1920s, Gotham's train schedules finally approached sanity. The last sticky problem was the maps which were knottier than ever with the extra paths. Plans were drawn to streamline the mass transit system, but the Great Depression crippled them. Getting lost in a bad neighborhood became a tourist rite of passage, and robbing a tourist in a bad neighborhood became the most popular mugger hobby.
The night train Arturo Bertinelli rode out of Hoxton Station was on the Y1-N0 Line. That was its routing code for reasons that were too complicated to explain, but everyone called it the Wino Line for reasons that were self-explanatory. The Wino Line snaked through one of the ugliest corners of the transit system. It had only five more stops, but finding all five on short notice would be a challenge for any out-of-towner. So, when Arutro escaped the War Department's custody, the General swallowed his pride and called the GCPD to request they search each station for a short, dusty, injured man in ripped pajamas.
The police captain who received the call thought for a moment then asked which short, dusty, injured man in ripped pajamas they were looking for. The Wino line hauled semi-conscious bums and deadbeats to wherever bums and deadbeats migrated after last call. It was free after midnight, subsidized by businesses near the early stops to encourage its cargo to bother the late stops instead. If Arturo was the most beat-up, disheveled shmoe aboard, it wasn't by much. The cops would have recognized him at first glace if the General had simply shared the gangster's name, but the military was still clinging to the hope that they could keep the locals in the dark about Operation Underworld and shared as little as possible.
There was a police cordon outside the first station, but Arturo didn't even notice. A pair of cops entered the train at the second station. He saw them in the car ahead and quickly stole a hat and coat off a sleeping slob beside him. One of the cops eyed him for five long seconds when they passed through, but the cop kept walking. Arturo's heart didn't stop pounding until the train pulled away.
The Bertinellis didn't have the same productive relationship with Gotham's Finest as the other Families; theirs was more of a cold truce. Everyone had spilled blood back in the Vendettas, blue or otherwise, but the Bertinellis had practically bathed in it. And even by the standards of his own kin, Arturo hadn't been known as an altar boy (he had, in fact, been an altar boy).
Arturo had hoped at the beginning of the night that he could call on his friends in Washington to bail him out. This hope had started to flicker when Batman had mentioned - in typical villain monologue - that he was in a noose from both the Feds and the local courts. It begged the question of why the military would go so far to rescue and hide him if he was just going to be arrested. There had to be some frame going on, that was for sure. There were pieces in play he couldn't see. It didn't matter, Arturo Bertinelli was nobody's stooge. If he wasn't in on the take, he got out of the picture. That creed had served him well. So he played along, all smiles, then he jumped ship at the earliest opportunity. And not a moment too soon. Coppers wouldn't search a train at two in the morning for some drunks. He was a wanted man.
Arturo resolved to lay low in some flophouse until the heat died down. Just like the old days. Soon the conductor announced that next station, Lancaster Commons. When the brakes squealed, Arturo pulled his hat down and waited for a crowd to form at the doors. No one rose. A realization struck him like a slap: The Wino line crossed one of the old routes here. Lancaster Commons was a cracked lot full of trash and condemned storage sheds. Even the hobos didn't stop here.
Arturo peeked through the window and saw four police officers standing outside. An annoyed train attendant climbed out to talk to them. Arturo couldn't hear the conversation, but it involved a lot of urgent pointing at the passengers. How could I be caught like this? Geez, I'm the wino tonight! I can smell it on my breath. Arturo slapped his cheek. I have to get my act together.
In short order, the cops began to usher everyone out onto the rotted platform. None of the lights in the station worked. The building was a century old; he wasn't certain if it had ever had lights. What little illumination there was on the platform shone from the train's windows and the headlights of the parked police van which Arturo assumed had entered through the hole in wall.
The officers ordered the thirty-some passengers to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in a line outside the train. The average passenger's blood alcohol was somewhere north of flammable, so this was not a quick process. Several couldn't stand. Most wouldn't shut up.
Arturo kept his head down and quietly fell into line. It was all he could do, his knees were shaking so badly. He thought of his kids. Arturo had been arrested a few times, of course. He spent time in the big house. But any guy could sweat a nickel in the clink if he had something to come back to. What if the Bat hadn't been bluffing? Arturo's name would be mud. All his cousins and friends, all the old accomplices he kept in touch with and the neighbors on his Christmas list - if the bosses gave the word, not a single one would spit on him if he was dying of thirst. They wouldn't take the stand to keep him out of prison. If the fuzz cuffed him, that was it. Life behind bars. Kaput.
As he watched the police move down the line, he knew he wouldn't accept that.
The Bertinelli family tree had produced sixteen felons in the last three generations. Together they were guilty of virtually every crime on the books, yet not one member of the family had served a prison sentence longer than eight years. Each one condemned to more than a decade without parole had either escaped or died trying, and these were the ones that went to trial. No Bertinelli wanted for a capital crime had ever been taken alive.
A pudgy young officer ambled in front of him and held up a flashlight. "Look here, pal."
Arturo continued to face the ground and lifted his hand against the glare.
The officer whistled. "Whoh, what happened to them fingers? Got'em caught in a door?"
Arturo mumbled. "Nothin'."
"Sure pal. Let's see those eyes." Arturo tried to shy away further, but the officer caught his chin and pushed it up.
"Holy beans! You- Hey guys, it's Arturo Bertinelli!" The other three officers turned and the pudgy officer waved them over. "It's Arturo Bleedin' Bertinelli!"
One of the officers scoffed. "What'dya talking 'bout Harold? Ain't no Bertinelli rides a drunk train like 'dis. My cousin chauffeurs one of the old man's sons around. They could buy the damn train."
"Well look!" The officer pulled open the top of Arturo's coat. "He's all beat-up in his pajamas like they said-"
Arturo stepped around and reached into the officer's holster. He had never shot a gun with his left hand before. It felt heavy and awkward, but he wasn't concerned with his aim tonight. He fired two shots over his head.
The cops froze. Dozens of drunks screamed. Arturo ran. He could hoof it for a man his age. A bullet whistled past his leg. He spun and shot from the hip. It ricocheted off something metal. The cops chasing him dived to the floor. Arturo reached the hole in the wall. The weedy lot was covered with dozens of collapsing sheds and piles of debris as tall as a man. Empty bins and crates were scattered everywhere, and the only light was glow of the cloudy moon.
When the officers made it outside, Arturo had disappeared. The three with weapons fanned out at a steady creep. For all its abundant flaws, the GCPD produced stone-cold tactical professionals, and the three officers focused all their training into every step. They all knew Arturo's old reputation. He could be hiding anywhere here, he was armed, and that was more than he needed to put a man in the ground.
After several nervous minutes slipping around corners and kicking open sheds, the senior cop declared the lot empty and called his men back inside the station. Searching further would mean separating, and he wouldn't have that on his conscience. The dispatcher on the van radio said reinforcements were coming to serach the neighborhood. They were to stay put and interview the other passengers in case someone on the Wino Line had a clue what Bertinelli was doing. They soon discovered many of the passengers were asleep. One had wandered into a drainage ditch. Two didn't speak English.
It would be a long night.
Arturo Bertinelli wheezed to catch his breath. The red and blue glare of a passing police cruiser slowly faded from the brick walls outside. That was the closest patrol yet. Arturo was laying prone across the front seats of the car he stole half an hour ago. This was the third time he had hurried into an alley to dodge the cops. Arturo wasn't sure when the stolen vehicle would be reported. Maybe not until sunrise, maybe in five minutes. When it was reported, the game was up. He resolved to ditch the car at the earliest convenience and find another one.
Arturo hadn't always been such a distinguished, sophisticated criminal. He had done plenty of odd jobs in his youth, including a stint stealing cars for a chop shop. To his pleasant surprise, he hadn't lost the knack. He put the old lemon in reverse and backed into the street. Normally, in this situation he would stay on foot as soon as he reached the first good crowd. Hiding in Gotham City wasn't difficult if you knew what you were doing.
But tonight was different. He was no ordinary fugitive. He forced to assume that the GCPD would keep pouring out patrols until there were two on every corner. They would find him eventually. He had to get out of their jurisdiction. He had to get to the Narrows.
Gotham City was divided into seven districts. Some were mostly nice, and some were less nice. But when people said that Gotham was a festering wound on the Earth, they were probably thinking of the Narrows, the one district in Gotham that was actually a festering wound on the Earth. It brought the average down.
Books could be written on why, exactly, the Narrows was so terrible. It seemed to house every urban vice and dysfunction that had ever befallen mankind. Even the problems that normally canceled each other out, like scarlet fever and overcrowding, or flooding and boredom, seemed to coexist in the Narrows. Rumor had it no census-taker had ever left alive, but the best guess on the city literature was that the Narrows housed a quarter million people, yet it was also a nugget of popular folklore that the GCPD kept only five precinct houses in the district,
Sane, well-adjusted people did not visit the Narrows if at all possible. This was easy. The Narrows was literally a pit, an artificial gorge dug out of Gotham Bay for extra living space. Gotham had been built on a swamp, so this sort of engineering wasn't unheard of, but it was still the most ambitious project of its kind outside of the Netherlands. The streets of the Narrows averaged fifty feet below sea level. This inferiority to sea level was frighteningly evident: the looming Gotham Dike holding back that sea could be seen from anywhere in the district. And when it was too dark to see, the Dike could still be heard, creaking softly with the weight of the ocean all through the night.
Officially, the Narrows was normal American territory filled with normal American citizens. Officially, the city didn't have plans to quarantine the district on a minute's notice if the social fabric finally self-destructed, something visitors uniformly believed had already happened. It was common knowledge that if a criminal absolutely had to dodge the law, the Narrows was the place to hide. Most Gothamites agreed that this was a decent alternative to prison. The only people who lived in the Narrows were people desperate enough to live in the Narrows. Sane, well-adjusted felons tended to avoid it.
This was especially true for the Families. When your name was Falcone, or Nobilio, or Maroni, or indeed, Bertinelli, you commanded instant respect from anyone in Gotham City. Your face was as good as body armor. No one would touch you. The single exception was the Narrows. Its tenements hid gangs of sadists who couldn't care less if they lived tomorrow, let alone who you were. No one had ever heard of a high-ranking Family member entering the district. It wasn't unthinkable, but it would be the last place the police would look for him. And when the police bothered to hunt any fugitive in the Narrows, it was always in convoys of twenty cops minimum. The President could call for his head on a pike, and he would still have a head-start while they spent half a day organizing.
The road signs into the Narrows didn't exactly say "Warning" or "Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here", but their font and color said it for them. The rusting edges and bullet holes reinforced that point. Gotham was a vertical city, but the sheer cliff above the Narrows put the rest of its hills to shame. And the cliff edge was visible from disturbingly far away. Most real estate in the city tried to stuff three apartments and a grocer into the space of a hog dog stand, but there was more and more unused property near the Narrows. The last block was nearly barren – a no man's land.
Arturo took a deep breath and steered the stolen car onto the long set of single-lane switchbacks that led down into the pit. No building in the Narrows was tall enough to reach above its edge, leading to the strange sensation that he was slowly gliding over a city from out of the sky. A quarter million people lived here, but his was the only vehicle on the path either coming or going.
When Arturo reached the bottom, he stopped and surveyed the wasteland. He heard babies crying and windows breaking. Something down an ally was on fire. Dark figures shuffled at the edge of his vision. For the first time in years, he locked his car doors.
Arturo drove slowly. Cars weren't common, but potholes were everywhere, and most of the streetlights were broken. It was also difficult to tell which businesses were open. Most looked condemned, but he heard noises inside just as many. Occasionally, small groups of men would walk beside the car. If they got close to the door, Arturo rolled down the window and stuck the gun out. This scared them off. He wondered how long that trick would work.
Eventually, he found a sign on a building that advertised rooms to let for fifty cents. The building didn't seem like any conventional hotel. In fact, he couldn't guess its original use. It could have been a fire station or a grain silo for all he knew. He had no money, but he figured his new coat ought to be worth a few nights. It was easy to find the enterance; only one door wasn't chained shut. Arturo had visited plenty of establishments where the man or lady at the front desk was hiding a weapon. This was the first time he had seen a desk clerk openly carry a baseball bat.
His coat bought a room for two nights. Their conversation was short. It clearly wasn't the first time a guest had bartered dirty clothing for a place to sleep. At the top of the stairs was a baby in dippers smoking a cigarette. The baby ignored him. At the end of the hall, his door had a butcher's cleaver sunk into it. His room was about the scummiest corner of an attic he had ever seen, but it was quiet, and no one knew he was here, and he fell asleep in seconds.
Arturo Bertinelli woke to a strong light in his face. He yawned and reached over to close the blinds. Instead, his hand bumped into a stranger's knee. Then he remembered that he was in an attic with no windows, and the Narrows was too far underground to catch the sunrise anyway. He scrambled to sit up and peer above the glare.
It was a flashlight. He could see the huge hand holding it, the fingers as thick as sausages and the knuckles like an ape. He could see the tailored black suit sleeve attached to that hand, and he could see the crisp white shirt under the suit with a red silk tie held by a silver tiepin. He couldn't see the face, but he could see the empty holster under the man's armpit.
The man saw he was awake and lowered the flashlight. The beam drifted down to his other hand which was holding a Hargrave .31.
The spit dried in Arturo's throat.
Since the end of the Bootlegger Vendettas and the Peace of Falcone, the made men of the city rarely had to flex their muscle. They were the establishment, after all. But when they resorted to force, the Gotham Families cleaned up after themselves. One way or another - cement mixers, lye barrels, furnaces, pig farms, international waters – they stayed discreet. There was one exception, the Hargrave Arms .31 Caliber Automatic Pistol. Less than forty still existed, owned mainly as a sort of sheriff's badge for the Gotham mobs' internal affairs. Only Family soldiers could carry the pistol, and only with explicit orders from one of the dons. Even senior capos like Arturo had to obey a stranger holding one.
The Families enforcers employed the Hargrave .31 for its two distinguishing features. First, its rarity. You can't sign a personal message if half the city owns the same letterhead. The police never investigated shootings if they found its trademark rounds at the scene. Second, the cartridge was a low-grain, brass-jacketed animal that made clean little holes in whatever you pointed it at. In other words, it killed slowly. Every regime had a secret police, every cult had an inquisition, and every criminal network had enforcers, and they all knew the value of making an example.
The ape said nothing, but his gestures said enough. He guided Arturo down the stairs. In the lobby were two more big men in tailored suits. They followed behind as his guide led him out. Two trucks idled on the street, each with a driver, also suited. Arturo was forced into the middle seat of the rear truck. The drivers shifted into high gear as soon as the doors shut.
They glided through the Narrows at five above the speed limit. This was extraordinary, given that the poor roads forced most traffic to putter along at ten or more below it. They didn't stop at intersections, instead sounding their horns and trusting that this passed along the message.
Arturo quickly grew numb to the reckless pace. He spent the dull minutes trying to recognize his escorts. He didn't know every face in the Bertinelli organization, but he knew all the big shots, and they wouldn't escort him with no-name schmoes. But try as he might, these gentlemen were unfamiliar. He wondered how they would have reacted if they had noticed the police pistol under his pillow.
To his surprise, he didn't feel apprehensive about this journey. In fact, he didn't feel anything, just a throbbing in his hand and a sharp headache. His eyes itched; the world was a gray haze. He knew their destination. He knew it ought to reduce him to tremoring clay, but nothing seemed to matter now. He couldn't even bring himself to beg. He slouched low in his seat. When did he kiss reality goodbye? How long ago had he been asleep in his warm bed with his beautiful wife in his comfortable home? Hours? Caro Dio. It felt like days. How much abuse could an old body take?
If time passed, Arturo didn't notice. At some point, he felt a rough nudge in his side and sat up. He couldn't hear the engine, so the truck was stopped. A smear of blood orange dawn, real this time, peaked through the windshield. He rubbed his eyes and saw they were parked in front of a three-story Queen Anne-style Victorian house on a tree-lined street. The house was a classic of its kind, with a generous porch, balconies, towers, steep gables, and chimmeys, all in conservative browns and indigos. Arturo looked around and saw the towers of the city only blocks away. This puzzled him. The only streets near downtown with homes like this were around Hudson University. Why had they bought him here? None of the Bertinellis lived in the area, and they wouldn't conduct this business around strangers.
Another nudge forced Arturo out of the truck. He landed roughly on his feet. His three silent escorts led him briskly to the porch as the trucks drove away. The front door opened as they reached it. Two of the escorts stayed outside. The main ape entered behind him. He was led to a bathroom near the front hall where the ape finally spoke, telling him to wash his face and get dressed fast. He entered the bathroom and found a shirt and trousers hanging from a rack. Arturo washed the grime and blood from his face and arms with a wet towel, then pulled a brush through his hair. He put on the simple outfit, leaving his pajamas on the floor. The clothes fit perfectly.
He walked out, and his escort grunted in approval. As they passed through several rooms, Arturo found each had a man or two, reading the paper or chatting softly. After a final hallway, he entered the kitchen. A pair of old men sat eating oranges at a small table near the window. Arturo's nerves were too frayed for genuine fear, but he still felt vertigo seeing them together. This explained who those apes were and how they found him so quickly, and it strongly suggested why they brought him here.
His escort stepped politely back into the hall, closing the door behind him. The old men turned, eying Arturo inscrutably.
Arturo nodded at one. "Frankie, buongiorno, my respects, cousin," he faced the other, "And it's an honor to see you, Don Falcone."
The two crimelords glanced at each other.
Frank Bertinelli was clearly related to Arturo, though a little older and with a few extra pounds tucked above the belt line. He didn't have Arturo's neat mustache, and he wore thick glasses. Frank was usually more quick to smile than Arturo, but this morning his expression was annoyed.
Carmine Falcone was a long-limbed man with soft features and intelligent eyes. His combed black hair was receding and touched with white, and the first liver spots were showing on his thinning cheeks. He had the air of an aristocrat and seemed as mild as a professor or the director of a bank.
Relations between the Families were as cordial as such relations could be, but it was rare for the bosses to meet in person, and the meetings traditionally took place over dinner. For them to summon Arturo at breakfast meant this had been arranged on very short notice and couldn't be delayed. Falcone had the most extensive network of friends and informants in the city. If anyone could find a bum in the attic of a random hotel in the Narrows in less than a night, he was the man to do it. Falcone was also famous for his real estate empire, which was vast even by mob standards. It wasn't a surprise he owned a home here, and using it made sense. Bosses typically tried to meet in neutral territory, and none of the Families had claims in the area.
Don Falcone gestured for Arturo to take a seat, which he did.
Frank, his cousin and boss, frowned. Arturo hoped he focused more on the first relationship than the second. "Arutro, just what is going on with you? Marie n' your children are gone. All the cops are after your neck. You get into some brawl in your apartment, and now there's a hole in the wall there. And we find you in some flophouse in the Narrows!" He said the place like it was a profanity.
Falcone added, "The police don't appreciate being shot at. We depend on their cooperation."
Frank concluded, "And what happened to your hand?"
Arturo didn't speak for several seconds. When he did, his tone was matter-of-fact. "Batman's after me."
This raised their eyebrows. Falcone seemed curious. "Batman."
"He vandalized my house, scared my family," the dons glared at this offense, "I sent them out of the city to hide."
Frank looked hurt. "Arturo, come on, you get in trouble, why didn't you come to me? Why are the police after you?"
"Batman was trying to pin me to a slave ring."
"A slave ring? What?"
"He had forged papers, Frankie. Said the law was going to take me down, and that you wouldn't back me once you heard about his phony evidence. I panicked, Frankie."
Falcone looked shrewdly at him. "He attacks you at home, yes? How did you end up at your apartment?"
"Well, he wasn't actually at the house, see. He just left his mark behind, to scare me I think. I went to the apartment to hide, but he found me somehow. That's where we talked. He wanted me to squeal on the Family in federal court, said otherwise the cops would pin me as a slaver. I wouldn't do it, of course, and that made him angry." Arturo lifted his injured hand and gestured at it.
Falcone replied, "You fought him off?"
"No. I had called our Navy pals for help."
Frank slapped the table. "What? You don't come to me, but you call the Navy? What is this?"
Falcone held up a hand. "Forgive me. Batman threatens you with a case laid down by federal men, but you call the military to protect you? Why?"
"I didn't know it was a federal deal then. I had called them at home so-"
Falcone interrupted him. "My memory isn't what it used to be, Mr. Arturo. You meet Batman, and he blackmails you. You call our partners in the Navy when you see your house desecrated, but Batman didn't actually reveal his blackmail until he showed it at your apartment?"
Arturo nodded. "Yeah, that's-"
"Then, if you'll forgive my impertinence, Don Bertinelli," Frank gestured for him to continue, "Then what scared you from asking your cousin's help back at your house?"
Frank suddenly realized what Falcone was getting at. He sat up straighter with an owlish glare through his glasses.
Falcone continued. "You had a reason to avoid your cousin's attention? Why?"
The air around the table was silent and heavy.
Arturo stuttered. "I, I-"
Frank crushed the orange slice in his hand, and the juice dripped to the tabletop. "Yeah, Arturo, why?"
"I don't … I ..."
Falcone leaned forward. "Friends, we are men of business. Arturo if you made a mistake, we all play our cards wrong from time to time." He shrugged fondly, "You've been loyal to your cousin for many years, true?"
Arturo dumbly nodded. "Yeah, yes I-"
"I would imagine, Don Bertinelli, that you normally trust Arturo's good intentions, if perhaps not his wisdom?"
Frank scowled and said nothing.
Falcone continued. "But Arturo, that also means now is the time for the whole story."
Arturo pleaded, grateful for the lifeline. "Listen, business hasn't been great. I learned a few months ago that I was nearly out of cash, and nothing was turning a profit. Then I hear about this customs problem with some commie immigrants..."
As Arturo spoke, mostly to his cousin in the tone of a confession, Don Falcone opened the kitchen door and called in an assistant. If only took a few whispered words, then the assistant stepped back out. The young man went to a phone on the other side of the house. The Don had friends in high places whom he could call to ask what the authorities knew, and the Don had cabins deep in the woods that needed to be furnished to hide the fool, should circumstances dictate that the fool ought to be hidden. In any case, it was a place where they could pick his mind far more thoroughly.
