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Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx

Chapter 10: Kiss the Sky


Albert Einstein's theories of relativity introduced the idea that the flow of time wasn't constant but depended on the frame of reference of each observer. In 1919, a solar eclipse showed that gravity bent light the way his general theory predicted, making him an overnight celebrity. Of course, this new physics craze didn't make physics any simpler, and plenty of journalists and academics made a living trying in vain to explain his papers to the public. For years afterward, it was common wisdom that only a handful of geniuses truly understood relativity.

Detective Harvey Bullock had failed introductory algebra. Yet the idea that time could change depending on the observer seemed obvious. Bullock was no genius, but he was observing five killers drawing gats on him, and he swore he could finish War and Peace between each heartbeat.

KA-TUMP

His pulse was as loud as a screen door in a hurricane.

KA-TUMP

Harvey began to step back. His fingers patted around his hip, desperate to catch the top of his holster.

KA-TUMP

The Bertinelli hit squad had already slapped leather. One on the left, the quickest of the lot, had his piece up and was drawing a bead on him. The goon was fast, but from practice, not rushing. Family soldiers knew how to aim. They were fifteen paces apart. He wouldn't miss.

KA-

"HEY! HEY! DROP IT!"

Bullock's heart skipped a beat. Cop and crook alike turned to the voice.


Four hours earlier.

Walter Brown was a humble man. He was a manager of middling rank at a paper company where he had worked for thirty years. Lately, he had declined several promotions so he could spend time with his wife and grandchildren. He had few friends, wasn't a member of any team or club, and rarely left the house after dinner. Indeed, there was nothing remarkable about Walter Brown except that he happened to be the Deputy Mayor's brother-in-law and the County Commissioner's second cousin. Fate had given him a better view of the halls of power than any journalist or bureaucrat could ever hope to glimpse.

Walter never cared for politics, but he wasn't naive. He knew that when certain relatives asked him for a favor, it was considerably more serious than borrowing a grill. There was a world of difference between what a politician had to do and what a politician could be seen doing. Public leaders needed work-arounds. But who could do the job?A politician's staff could go where he couldn't, but having an assistant caught crossing a line was only slightly better for a boss' reputation than finding his own name in the headlines. A politician's immediate family faced the same scrutiny, especially since the siblings, wives, and children of those in power tended to have a history in the public eye of their own. But then there were those distant relations with no presence on the social circuit. The Walters of the world were the invisible option. He was too boring to need an alibi.

So when a conclave of Gotham City's highest elected officials needed a messenger to pitch their grievances at a meeting of its most notorious gang lords, Walter was the man they sent. He received a phone call from his brother-in-law last night, warning that his services might be needed. This morning, a stranger from City Hall visited his home, briefed him for ten minutes, and called him a taxi. The taxi left him in a parking garage somewhere in the East End – the hand-off point was different each time – and a shiny blue Lincoln picked him up. Two polite but serious men frisked him, then he was taken downtown to a dark gray skyscraper. The sign over the entrance had the name of an insurance company he had never heard of. But the two men escorted him around the building to a secluded back door protected by a security guard. The guard unlocked the door, and Walter was guided down two grimey maintenance hallways to an old elevator. There was no operator. One of the escorts produced a key. Holding down an unlabeled button, he turned the key in a hidden hole. An unseen bell rung twice.

The elevator car ascended for quite some time. When the doors opened, Walter stepped into a quiet lobby. Sixteen well-dressed men waited here in the rows of plush chairs, reading or playing cards, and the whole group glanced at him as he entered.

The scene was so mundane, it took a moment for Walter to realize that they all had submachine guns.


The present.

When Harvey Bullock's team stormed Carlo's Bar, a pair of officers had hooked around through the alley. Hundreds of exciting chases were aborted every year when fugitives dashed out their back door only to be tackled by a flanking element, and if the front entry went hot, a strike from the rear could save lives. In this case, Officers Wilkes and Montoya had hardly turned the corner when they heard one of the bar's occupants fire a shot. They burst in, but Detective Bullock had already secured the scene. Seeing the situation under control, they returned to the alley to establish a perimeter while Bullock grilled the locals.

Not a minute later, Wilkes and Montoya heard cars pull up in front. Montoya asked if they were expecting more units. Wilkes shrugged. Then they heard Bullock's unmistakable bark:

"Marco Bertinelli."

The pair froze. Officer Wilkes whispered in horror, "Ah, poop."

Officer Montoya, no less distressed, put a shaky finger to her lips and nodded to move to the corner. She peaked around and whipped her head back. Wilkes looked at her. She wordlessly held up five fingers. He nodded, swallowed, and readied his weapon. She did the same. They listened to the pack of Bertinellis trading barbs with Bullock. Then it went south. Montoya looked and saw the gangsters go for their guns. She leaned out of the alley and yelled, "HEY! HEY! DROP IT!"

Bullock turned and saw the pair he sent around back getting the drop on the Bertinellis. Beautiful timing. With the gunmen distracted, he stumbled backward and half-ran, half-crawled through the door of the bar. The two officers flanking the door glared at him in exasperation. He realized that by going out alone he had blocked their line of fire. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He rolled out of the doorway and finally found his weapon.

Officer Gilford hustled out of the back room, but Bullock snarled and waved him away. Someone had to keep an eye on the locals. Who knew what they were up to? He patted Officer Smith on the shoulder, and the kid peeled away from the door to take a position by a quarter-open glazed window, holding his service revolver in one hand and the cheap popgun he took from the barfly in the other. Bullock stepped into his place and looked outside.


Three hours earlier.

Walter Brown was politely frisked again, then he was led down yet another hallway. He made small talk with a new escort he recognized. A short distance down the hall was an undistinguished door protected by big guards, all standing at attention, all armed. One nodded vaguely in his direction. Another knocked twice then opened the door.

It was a surprisingly humble meeting room, given that the four gentlemen inside all owned residences as nice as the governor's mansion. He could imagine it holding budget discussions or job interviews like any mid-rent office in the city. The table was unvarnished, the wallpaper was cracked, layers of tobacco soot smudged the furniture, and the red blinds were faded nearly white. His escort pulled out his seat and offered refreshments, which he declined.

Unlike the room, the four men at the table looked like a million bucks. Walter wouldn't have been surprised if gangsters kept half the haberdashers in the city afloat; they always wore the finest suits and every accessory. Walter had met them all many times and never saw one thread out of place. Even relaxed, the bosses made a powerful image, and today they were not relaxed.

Franco "Frank" Bertinelli was uncharacteristically sullen but as intense as always. He was a small man and a bit pudgy, but he moved with an energy that made him almost seem average-sized. Not coincidentally, Walter doubted anyone had called Frank short since he was fourteen, or at least no one had lived to tell about it.

Salvatore "Sal" Maroni was much bigger, with a fleshy face and a truly impressive gut. Whereas Frank seemed grim, Sal had the same smirk as usual. It made him look a little foolish. Walter wasn't sure the deception was intentional, but he doubted anyone underestimated him these days. And smirk or not, today he seemed on edge.

Giuseppe "Icepick Johnny" Nobilo was as silent and inscrutable as the rest of the Nobilo clan. Walter couldn't recall ever hearing more than five words out of those thin lips, and rarely more than one. Giuseppe was blessed with features so average and forgettable that he could hide in a crowd of two. After all these years, he was still a mystery.

And finally there was the man himself, Carmine "the Roman" Falcone. Tall, svelte, refined. Walter had never seen him act any way but the perfect gentleman. And coming from a family of politicians, Walter could spot a fake. Yet for nearly fifeteen years, this gentleman had been mythologized as a sultan among thugs, a grandmaster of blood and deceit, the one who could touch the untouchable. Those guards outside were frightening, but Falcone was something more sublime. He was humbling. And today he was not pleased.

Of course, he was gracious about it.

"Mr. Brown, greetings. To what do we owe the honor?" Falcone smiled, gesturing to his guest.

Walter nodded in return. "You're too kind Mr. Falcone, I'm sure the honor is mine. Mr. Nobilo, Mr. Maroni, Mr. Bertinelli, thank you all for having me."

The other three bosses nodded their cautious welcome. Only half of their quartet had been born in America, all grew up dirt poor, and none had finished school. Yet Walter, who discreetly represented some of the most powerful and privileged men in the country, was essentially an ambassador in their underworld court; he would kneel and kiss their rings if they so beckoned him.

"What can we do for you, Mr. Brown?"


The present.

When two cops jump out of an alley and train guns on a gang of normal criminals, most often the criminals run, fire back, or stick up their hands. So when the five gunmen merely scrambled for cover, it was either sheer brass or a gut-deep trust that their name made them invincible. Bullock suspected both, but mostly the later. No cop had shot at a made Family man in something like eight years, and this wasn't the closest an encounter had come. Close, but not quite.

And they were right. Montoya and Wilkes hadn't pulled the trigger. Even when the Bertinelli soldiers ignored a direct order, even though they were about to shoot a brother cop, his two officers didn't pull the trigger. And Bullock's kids weren't even dirty. The GCPD just put the rule in your bones. His men wouldn't shoot the Families.

Not first, anyway.

The five gunmen were now ducking behind their two Cadilllacs and a cement tree planter. Marco, just as big as Bullock, was barely nimble enough to slide over the hood of a car, and he huffed as he looked back-and-forth for any other surprises.

Bullock called out, "What are we even doing here? I don't know what this is to you, Marco, but it ain't worth it."

Marco ejected the magazine on his Hargrave, re-counted the rounds, and snapped it back into place. He called back, "I wouldn't be here if it weren't worth it, and you better believe that, Harvey. I swear on my sweet mama's grave, we will go through you to get in that bar."

"Wait, your mom's alive, though."

"You know what I mean."

"Let's calm down and we can all go home with the right number of holes in our face. We both want something here, maybe we can work something out."

"I'm done talking. You need to walk, chubby."

"Oh, that's rich."

Bullock's mind raced for a response to keep the conversation going. The five police and five gangsters kept their standoff cool by a hairsbreadth, shuffling around their covers and sweeping their guns from target to target. His squad wouldn't panic easy, but they weren't angels. And the bosses would only hand out five Hargraves to a team that bled ice, but everyone made mistakes. Bullock felt like he was holding back a flood with his thumb. He wasn't hot on the idea of reenacting the O.K. Corral. Then he had a great idea.

"Marco, just-"

Two streets over, an idling truck's old exhaust backfired. BANG!


Three hours earlier.

Walter folded his hands on the table. "Gentlemen, last night, a warrant was filed for the arrest of Arturo Bertinelli." He faced them in turn, but only glanced briefly at Frank Bertinelli, whose stare was dark and level. "Despite the city's efforts, he remains at large, and authorities are concerned that he is being sheltered by parties close to him."Walter hesitated here, but when he eventually spoke, his voice was firm. "Should Arturo remain at large, the police will begin investigating his friends and family. Anyone found providing him shelter will be tried for harboring a fugitive and as an accessory to his crimes after the fact. And considering Arturo's particular crimes, that would be a grave fate indeed." Walter gave them a moment to consider his announcement, then he continued, "However, if Arturo is found before the end of the day, then it will be obvious he was acting alone and that line of inquiry will not be pursued."

There was silence at the table. They had known each other a long time. Walter could see conversations in their eyes, considering questions and knowing how their peers would answer. There was no bravado here, just calculating. Endless calculating.

He knew the Families observed a code of etiquette when meeting outsiders, and speaking order was paramount. Whichever boss answered first would have an advantage in setting the tone of the group; the others couldn't disagree afterward without looking divided. Of course, it would be offensive to take that advantage without a good reason. The first speaker had to know that he shared the group's consensus. And if there was doubt, then at least he needed some special authority on the issue. And if that was unclear, then at least he had to know the benefits of candor outweighed the risks, and that was rarely certain.

None of these judgments could be debated out loud, as disunity was weakness. Walter wondered why the bosses didn't simply send guests out of the room at the beginning and discuss every new issue first in private. He supposed they took too much pride in the impression of spontaneous unity.

As it was, he watched the silent politics play out across the table. The announcement wasn't a surprise, so there was no leader in knowledge. Bertinelli was the obvious interested party, but he had a reputation as a hothead and the others might see him as responsible for their predicament. Falcone usually led the meetings. Still, though famously impartial, he was known to favor cooperation with law enforcement, yet he kept a protective attitude towards the Bertinelli Family. Today such opposing interests made him a wild card. Of the other two, Maroni had a diplomatic temperment but also a reputation for brash self-interest, and he nursed an old feud with the Frank Bertinelli that bubbled up inconveniently every few years. And at the other end, Nobilo had probably never spoken first in any meeting in his life.

Predictably, Falcone broke the deadlock. "We've heard Arturo is a wanted man. Naturally, we wish the best for our esteemed colleague, but it pains me that you would suggest we may be involved in aiding him."

Walter nodded slowly. "Then I beg your forgiveness, Mr. Falcone. Please understand that even highly-regarded citizens such as yourselves are questioned during police investigations from time to time. I've been promised such an ordeal would be conducted with all the discretion and speed your reputations merit. And, I feel obliged to reiterate, the unpleasantness could be avoided entirely should Arturo fall into police custody." Walter leaned forward and added a low tone to his voice. "That outcome would be most convenient for all involved, I'm sure."

The bosses eyed each other. Sal Maroni cut in, still wearing a friendly smirk that would impress a shark, "Hey, listen now. This Arturo is a slippery guy, see? What say he don't show up today? Surely the fine public servants of Gotham City aren't going to hold that against us. After all, we've been nothing but civic-minded and generous for many, many years."

"Be that as it may, Mr. Maroni-"

"Now, 'scuse me, 'scuse me, I respect you, but I want to say first that we have been enormously supportive of the election efforts of just about all elected posts in the city. That was 'cause we believe in this administration. Not once, not even once have we requested anything at all for our support."

As far as Walter knew, that was technically true. The Families had a talent for insinuating what they wanted without actually speaking a request.

"Sir, trust me, the administration values that immensely. But here is the harsh truth, gentlemen. If you weren't already aware, Arturo is wanted for abducting a boatload of Ukrainian travelers. Someone, and we're not sure who, leaked this information to the press before the ink on his arrest warrant was dry. It will make the evening edition of every paper in the city. That's front page material, in all likelihood.

"Now, most of Gotham's local Ukrainians are immigrants. Very tight-knit, you see. And unlike other disreputable races, they can be quite organized, and they they have considerable support with other Slavs – Russians, Poles, and Slovaks. Together, that's six percent of the city, almost all living in the same spot. These neighborhoods tend to be, well, restive I suppose is the word. Quite a chip on their shoulder. Quick to strike and protest, you see."

Falcone brushed his chin critically, "So, what you're saying, is …"

"Friends of the mayor have spoken to leading figures in Little Kiev and the major Russian Orthodox parishes. They've been on edge this year from other perceived slights. If it came to light that we were ignoring crimes against their countrymen – who were fleeing the Nazis, mind you - then three thousand angry Slavs would tear down the district. It would be the Bonus March all over again. Gotham cannot afford that."

The other bosses imminently looked at Icepick Johnny Nobilo. The Nobilos ran Little Kiev, and he would know the local situation. He stared for a minute, then shrugged, lifted a hand, and remarked, "No happy."

The bosses accepted this grimly. His response meant he recognized the residents' potential for unrest, and he admitted the community was too isolated for him to have much clout. The classic solutions, bribes and threats, couldn't manipulate a mob that size, especially if pride was on the line. Discouraging a handful of ringleaders wouldn't extinguish a popular uprising.

While none of the bosses were eager to admit this, if rumors spread that the Families were conspiring to hide Arturo, they would personally be in danger. It wasn't so long ago that Italians were a few steps ahead of dogs in the city's pecking order. They remembered growing up on a steady diet of resentment and spite. Organized crime was an enterprise in greed, but only a fool assumed that the gangs weren't a great excuse for a bunch of poor boys to assert themselves against a world organized to spit on them. Now open bigotry against Italians was rare, and true hate crimes nonexistent. Some of this improvement was the wider march of progress, but they were sure a decent portion was respect the Families had personally earned by getting their knuckles dirty.

The lesson wouldn't be lost on the Ukrainians.


The present.

Bullock suspected that, on some level, they all knew the noise had been a truck exhaust backfiring. They were just looking for an excuse.

Nine people started firing ten sidearms. The cops had brought the .38 Colt Official Police, their six-chamber double-action revolvers. The Bertinellis had brought the .31 Hargrave, the infamous ten-round semi-automatic pistols, and that idiot from the bar had dropped an old seven-round Colt cousin of the same.

From first bullet to last, the encounter lasted eighteen seconds. Again, Bullock had the mind-expanding sensation of time breaking open. When it was over, he would have guessed five minutes.

In the first minute, the world fractured in noise and light. Bullock felt a hot punch in his cheek, which he tried to touch but couldn't find. A window shattered nearby. He pointed his gun at an angry man in a suit crouching behind a tire. He pulled the trigger and the man's hand exploded. Bullock wondered if it had been his shot or someone else.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bullock noticed Officer Gilford dash into the bar, piece drawn. The kid had heard the music and decided the locals could watch themselves. Gilford made it four steps before some cosmic lucky shot popped through the wall and into his gut. The bullet had seemed so slow, Bullock regretted he hadn't plucked it out of the air.


Two hours earlier.

Walter Brown had been thanked for his message and kindly escorted out. The bosses took a recess to contemplate and confer with their advisers. A light lunch was served, with serious topics forbidden by tradition.

When the bosses resumed their meeting, there was another silent contest over who had the first word. But the new calculation was easily in Frank Bertinelli's favor.

He pinched the fingers of both hands and held them up for emphasis. "Friends. Paisanos. My cousin may have the cleverness of a stupid potato. He crossed my trust, and in doing so, ruined my good name with you. He shames me. He shames us all. But he has a wife and three children. My lawyers suggest he would be put away for life. Life! And a big court case to suffer first. If he is to be punished, I will do it our way, so their home isn't dragged through the mud."

Johnny Nobilo waved his words away. "Feh! We'd risk everything. Let him suffer by the law. Other sons have fathers in jail."

Sal Maroni hummed with an unusually curious expression. "Just how much does Arturo know?"

Frank looked back, suspicious. "What do you mean?"

"Say he's put away for life. You Bertinellis pride yourselves on breaking out of the joint, but suppose he fails, or he doesn't have the heart. There he is, looking forward to thirty more years of a cement wall. Then some new fed comes in with a deal."

"... Are you asking if he would rat?"

"Maybe."

The Sicilian organizations followed a code of silence called Omerta which mandated death before giving evidence to the authorities. Breaking Omerta was unthinkable. There was no graver sin, save perhaps patricide. The number of violators in the history of Italian-American crime could be counted on one hand. Arturo had already shown his infidelity, but at least his sin had been an effort to keep his good standing in the Family. Turning rat was a different scope of betrayal entirely. Just hinting at the possibility under normal circumstances was fighting words, if not cause for a new vendetta.

Sal Maroni raised an eyebrow. "Worst case scenario. How much could he hurt you? How much could he hurt us?"

Frank glared, first with contempt, but this slowly morphed into concern. "You, no. Me?" He looked down in doubt. "Some. A lot." He pulled at his lip.

Nobilo slapped the table. "Then have a man inside keep an eye on him. Keep him honest."

Maroni didn't smile, but he looked far too keen at this path of conversation. "No, no. Don Bertinelli is right. We can't let the courts put him away. Too many opportunities for loose lips."

Nobilo asked, "Then what? Send him on a trip?"

Frank answered, "If it came to that, I'd really send him on a trip."

"You'd rub out your cousin for this?"

Maroni shook his head, "Better: get him in prison, calm the Ukrainians, then do the job, see? Everybody wins."

Falcone had held his peace so far, but now he stood and placed his palms on the table. "Please. Let's not be rash. None of our friends with the law have actually shown what case they have on Arturo. Assuming they can't break the man with their questions, and if they don't have the people he took, what then? On what grounds would they convict? Some vigilante fabricates evidence? Garbage. A child with a fresh diploma could argue his way out of that. What could the newspapers say? 'Some drifters were taken off a ship'? If we don't fall for crude solutions, this just may solve itself. No bodies, no crime."

The other bosses were about to consider this when there was a knock at the door.

A Bertinelli man stuck his head in. "Apologies. Don Bertinelli, a word from your cousin-in-law, Maria. It's an emergency. Something about losing Arturo's secrets."


The present.

Wilkes made a gargling cry. Bullock couldn't see around the corner outside to Wilkes and Montoya, but it sounded bad. He wasn't about to cross No Man's Man to take a closer look. They were on their own.

Or, rather, they should have been. Officer Smith, who had been covering Bullock's right, hopped out his shattered window and scrambled down the sidewalk, firing guns akimbo like a real cowboy. Despite all odds, Smith was kissed by an angel those ten yards and made it through a salvo of hot lead untouched, diving the last five feet headfirst and sliding into the alley. Bullock heard Montoya provide covering fire as Smith dragged the hefty Wilkes down the alley to relative safety.

Officer McCoy, the cop covering Bullock's left, had been picking his shots carefully, and suddenly cheered like a child as he nailed one of the hitmen through the chest. The dying thug didn't fall but slumped against the car. Marco Bertinelli saw this and something broke in his mind. He called a retreat, threw open the door of the Cadilllac and shoved his buddy inside. Not that it would do any good. Then Marco himself struggled into the driver's seat. The other Bertinellis who could still stand made their way inside the car as well.

Bullock watched for minutes as Marco tried to put the car in gear. He made a shot. The rear-view mirror fell off. The car started to pull away. No. He couldn't accept this. Leaving the safety beside the doorway, Bullock strode four steps into the street, lined up a shot while walking, and hammered the trigger.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Empty.

Macro saw the weapon aimed at his face, lifted his own gun at Bullock, and squeezed.

Bam! Bam! Bam!


Twelve years earlier.

Officer Harvey Bullock looked to all the world like another skinny, smooth-cheeked rookie, hardly more than a cadet. He stood in front of a dry goods store in his shiny blue uniform, whistling and tipping his hat at the ladies who walked by. There was a great deal of commotion inside the store, sounds of falling shelves and thrown cash registers, and now some yelling and crying. Soon, the noise stopped, and Macro Bertinelli, a muscular young buck in suspenders and stained undershirt, walked out the door grinning.

Marco held a paper bag in one hand and a golf club under the other arm. He reached into the bag and threw Harvey a thin stack of cash. Harvey grinned and they walked to the shop next door.


The present.

Detective Harvey Bullock looked up at the clouds. He realized he was laying in the road, his head resting on the curb. When the bullets flew, time moved like molasses. When they stopped he swore an hour had paced since he blinked. His hands were sticky. He had dropped his revolver. He had been in pain for awhile, but not any longer. Now he just enjoyed the clouds.


One hour earlier.

The bosses of the Four Families sat in council once again. They occasionally discussed strategy as a group, but they hadn't discussed tactics in years. Still, coordinating a simple snatch and grab was elementary. The only complicating factor was that they had good reason to believe they were in a race with the cops.

The last point to debate was whether they ought to arm the crew with a Hargrave to show any flatfoots they meant business, and business came straight from the top. It wasn't a symbol they offered lightly.

The issue was deadlocked. Bertinelli and Maroni wanted to send the crew along with one. Nobilo was against it. They turned to Falcone. The weight of his word alone would settle the issue, though the others were sure they knew what a cop-friendly peacemaker like him would say.

He sat in thought, fingers steepled, then decided, "Don Bertinelli, you shouldn't send your men with a Hargrave." The others began to respond, but he wasn't finished , "You should send five."