Batman 5 - Batman Begins

by Dennis O'Neil

  “I’m not learning polo, Alfred.”

  “Strange injuries, a nonexistent social life . . . these things beg the question of what, exactly, Bruce Wayne does with his time. And his money.”

  Bruce sipped from the health shake. “What does someone like me do?”

  “Drives sports cars, dates film actresses . . . Buys things that aren’t for sale.”

  “Uh huh.” Bruce put the glass onto the tray and without pausing dropped to the rug and began doing push-ups, two per second.

  “Economy of effort?”

  Without stopping his push-ups, Bruce replied, “Not a good idea to waste anything, including effort.”

  “You learned that abroad?”

  “Among many other useful things.”

  Alfred watched him for a while and then said, “Enjoyment was obviously not one of them. If you start pretending to have fun, you might even have a little by accident.”

  “You think?”

  That afternoon, Bruce backed a rented Chrysler into an airport fence. He told the security men that somehow he had lost control of the darn thing and that he was just back from Mount Tamalpais and had they ever been to the West Coast?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was only seven forty-five in the morning and already William Earle was having a bad day. He had lost a bundle when overnight the Tokyo markets nosedived, his espresso machine was on the fritz, and he had a dull, throbbing ache in his temples.

  Then Barry McFraland bustled into his office and things got worse.

  McFraland planted himself in front of Earle’s desk and blurted, “We have a situation.”

  “What kind of situation?”

  McFraland plopped down in a chair and scooted it close to the desk. “The Coast Guard picked up one of our cargo ships last night. Heavily damaged. Crew missing, probably dead.”

  “What happened?”

  “The ship was carrying a prototype weapon. A microwave emitter.”

  “Which does what, exactly? Cook frozen pizza?”

  McFraland uttered a single ha, acknowledging his boss’s joke but not really laughing, and continued. “It’s designed for desert warfare. It uses focused microwaves to vaporize the enemy’s water supply.”

  “And?”

  “It looks like someone fired it up.”

  “What caused the damage?”

  “The expansion of water into steam created an enormous pressure wave and everything exploded—pipes, boilers, drains . . .”

  “Where’s the weapon?”

  “That’s the really bad part. It’s missing.”

  Bruce Wayne guided his Lamborghini Murcielago into the semicircular driveway of Puccio’s, a restaurant that occupied the top floor of the Gotham Arms. His turn was too wide and the car’s right tires went onto the curb and knocked over a potted plant. He jolted to a stop at the valet’s station. A uniformed attendant opened the driver’s door and Bruce emerged.

  “They really ought to make these drives wider,” he said.

  “Yessir, Mr. Wayne,” the attendant said. “Nice car.”

  “You ought to see my other one.”

  Another attendant opened the passenger door and two young women who called themselves Kiki and Sooze got out. They were petite, one brunette and one blond, spike-heeled, and both were wearing very short floral-print dresses.

  Kiki took Bruce’s left arm while Sooze took his right and the trio entered the building through a revolving door dedicated to Puccio’s clientele and went up a modern glass elevator. They rode up to the fortieth floor and stepped into a glittering place of white linen, crystal, and silver tableware, and the aroma of richly sauced dishes. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave the diners a view of downtown Gotham City’s millions of lights. A sculptured fountain with a pool at its center ran along one whole side of the establishment. There was a low murmur of conversation and the plink of spoons and forks against china.

  A tuxedoed maître d’ led Bruce, Kiki, and Sooze to William Earle’s table, where dinner was already under way.

  Earle and four other people, two men and two women, were already enjoying their appetizers.

  Bruce smiled a hello as he and the two women sat.

  There was an animated conversation already in progress between an expensively dressed, middle-aged man and the much younger woman who was obviously his wife. For several minutes, Bruce joined the chitchat, which eventually turned to the crime situation in Gotham and the mysterious vigilante newly arrived in the city. Everyone except the young wife seemed to think that this masked do-gooder was a nutcase.

  “Well, he may be . . . unorthodox,” the young wife said. “But at least he’s getting something done.”

  “Bruce, help me out here,” her husband said.

  “A guy who dresses up like a bat clearly has issues,” Bruce said.

  “But he put Falcone behind bars,” the young wife protested.

  “And now the cops are trying to bring him in,” the husband said. “What does that tell you?”

  “They’re jealous?” the wife asked sweetly.

  As Bruce and the other dinner guests conversed, Kiki and Sooze quietly left the table and headed to the fountain. The two women slipped out of their dresses and lowered themselves, giggling, into the pool.

  The horrified maître d’ hurried toward Bruce. “Sir, the pool is for decoration and . . . your friends do not have swimwear.”

  “Well, they’re European,” Bruce explained.

  The maître d’ looked around, as though seeking help, and said, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Bruce took a checkbook from an inner pocket, uncapped a gold fountain pen, and began writing.

  “It’s not a question of money,” the maître d’ protested.

  Bruce tore a check from the book and gave it to the maître d’. “Take this to your boss. I just bought this hotel—and as of now, I’m making some new rules about the pool area.”

  As the waiter stared at the check, Bruce walked to the pool. Kiki and Sooze grabbed his jacket and pulled him in beside them.

  Later, dressed in robes they had gotten from one of the hotel’s shops, their hair still wet, Bruce, Kiki, and Sooze presented themselves at the valet station.

  “Bruce?” someone called.

  Bruce turned and saw Rachel by the cab stand. She was wearing a cocktail dress, her shoulders bare, and looked stunning.

  “Hello, Rachel,” Bruce said.

  “I heard you were back.” Rachel looked at Bruce’s robe. “What are you doing?”

  “Just . . . swimming. It’s good to see you.”

  “You were gone a long time.”

  “I know. How are things with you?”

  “The same. The job’s getting worse.”

  “You can’t change the world on your own.”

  “No. I guess not. But what choice do I have? You’re busy swimming.”

  Bruce lowered his head and spoke in a near whisper. “Rachel, all this . . . it’s not all I am. Inside, I’m different.”

  An attendant parked the Lamborghini at the curb.

  “Come on, Brucie,” Kiki called, stamping her foot. “We have more hotels for you to buy.”

  Rachel started to walk away. She stopped, looked back at Bruce, and said, “Deep, deep down, you may be the same great little kid you used to be . . . but it’s not who you are underneath—it’s what you do that defines you.”

  Bruce got into the Lamborghini and told Kiki and Sooze that maybe they’d better make an early night of it.

  Rachel’s night was ruined. For just a moment, she thought that maybe there was some hope for Bruce. For just a moment, he was a grown-up version of the earnest child she had known so long ago. Then he reverted to being someone she would cross the street to avoid.

  She glanced at her watch. Whatshisname . . . her date—was he an investment banker?—something like that . . . He should have been here a half hour ago. She’d give him another five minutes.

  At nine the next mo
rning, Dr. Jonathan Crane unfolded his long, lanky body from the front seat of a Lincoln Town Car, got a briefcase from the backseat, and crossed an asphalt lot to the front gate of the Gotham County Jail. The man inside the guardhouse peered at him through the Plexiglas window. Recognizing him, the guard buzzed Crane in. He went past another guardhouse, was buzzed through another door, and was met just inside the main building by the warden.

  “Dr. Crane, thank you for coming down,” the warden said.

  “Not at all. So he cut his wrists?”

  “Probably looking for an insanity plea, but if anything happened . . .”

  Crane patted the warden’s shoulder. “Of course. Better safe than sorry.”

  She escorted Crane through a series of barred doors to a narrow chamber deep inside the jail.

  “Would you like me to stay?” the warden asked.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Crane replied with another reassuring pat. “The therapeutic process is best conducted in private.”

  She hesitated. “I guess it’ll be okay . . . If anything happens, holler. A guard’ll be within earshot.”

  Crane entered the room and sat at a Masonite table across from Carmine Falcone. Falcone held up his bandaged wrists and smiled.

  “Oh, poor me, Dr. Crane,” he whined. “It’s all too much, the walls are closing in, blah blah blah.” He laughed and in his normal voice continued. “Couple more days of this food it’ll be true.”

  Crane leaned forward. “What do you want?”

  “I wanna know how you’re gonna convince me to keep my mouth shut.”

  “About what? You don’t know anything.”

  “Well, yeah, I do. For instance, I know you wouldn’t want the cops taking a closer look at the drugs they seized. I know about your experiments on the inmates at your nuthouse. I don’t get into business with someone without finding out their dirty secrets. Those goons you hired . . . listen, I own the muscle in this town.”

  Now it was Falcone who leaned forward, until his eyes were inches from Crane’s. “I’ve been smuggling your stuff in for months, so whatever he’s got planned, it’s big. And I want in.”

  Crane contemplated Falcone and sighed. “I already know what he’ll say. That we should kill you.”

  “Even he can’t touch me in here. Not in my town.”

  “There’s something I’d like you to see.”

  Crane placed his briefcase on the table between them and pulled from it an odd contraption: a breathing apparatus attached to a piece of burlap with eye-holes cut in it. “I use it in my experiments. Probably not very frightening to a guy like you. But those crazies . . .”

  Falcone shifted in his chair and inched away from the table. Crane pulled the mask over his head; he looked like he should be standing in a cornfield somewhere.

  Falcone sneered. “When did the nut take over the asylum?”

  A puff of smoke rose from Crane’s briefcase and wafted into Falcone’s face. Falcone coughed.

  “They scream and cry,” Crane said. “Much as you’re doing now.”

  And Falcone began screaming. He stared wide-eyed at Crane, screaming and crying.

  A guard ran in brandishing a club as Crane was putting the mask back into his briefcase. “Dr. Crane, are you all right?”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid he isn’t.” Crane gestured to Falcone, who was curled into a fetal position beneath the table. “It looks like a total psychotic breakdown.”

  “You think he’s faking?”

  Crane moved past the guard and said, “No, no faking. Not that one. You’d better put him someplace where he can’t hurt himself. I’ll talk to a judge, see if I can’t get him moved to the secure wing of Arkham. I can’t treat him here.”

  Heat lightning lit the horizon and a cool breeze swept down the alley behind James Gordon’s apartment. Gordon, a sack of garbage in his hand, paused to look through the kitchen window at his wife Barbara, who was coaxing their young daughter to eat. Thunder rolled from the sky and lightning flashed again.

  “Storm’s coming.”

  Gordon immediately recognized the voice and turned to see Batman crouched on the fire escape.

  “The scum’s getting jumpy because you stood up to Falcone,” Gordon said, lifting the garbage-can lid.

  “It’s a start,” Batman said. “Your partner was at the docks with Falcone.”

  “He moonlights as a low-level enforcer.”

  “They were splitting the shipment in two. Only half was going to the dealers.”

  “Why? What about the other half?”

  “Flass knows.”

  “Maybe. But he won’t talk.”

  “He’ll talk to me,” Batman said.

  “Commissioner Loeb set up a massive task force to catch you. He thinks you’re dangerous.”

  “What do you think?”

  Gordon dropped his sack into the can and replaced the lid. “I think you’re trying to help . . .”

  He was talking to himself. Batman was gone.

  “. . . But I’ve been wrong before.”

  A few minutes later, the rain began to sweep across the docks, where District Attorney Carl Finch was walking beside a man in beige overalls, checking the tags of shipping containers with flashlights.

  They stopped before a particularly large container and Finch said, “This is the one I’m talking about.”

  “What’s your problem with it?” the dock worker asked.

  “It shouldn’t exist. This ship left Singapore with 246 containers and arrived with 247. I’m guessing there’s something I’m not supposed to find in there.”

  The man in overalls winked at Finch. “Lissen, Counselor, we know the way things work in this town. You and me—we don’t wanna know what’s in Mr. Falcone’s crates.”

  Finch glared at the man. “Things are working differently now. Open it.”

  The man in overalls shrugged and pulled the container door open. Finch swept the inside with his flashlight beam and saw what looked like some kind of industrial machine the size of a small refrigerator.

  “What the hell is this thing?” he asked and then was struck in the back by a bullet. He fell to the ground, dead.

  The man in overalls put a .25-caliber automatic back in his pocket. He grabbed Finch’s ankles and dragged the body into the container.

  By nine, rain was falling throughout Gotham and the suburbs. Most of the city’s street workers had given up for the night and gone home, or were huddled somewhere hoping the storm would end. But in the theater district, one food stand had remained open and there, under its canopy, Flass stuffed a falafel into his mouth, half chewed it, and swallowed. Bowing his head, he left the shelter of the canopy and ran into the pelting rain. He turned a corner and continued running down a narrow alleyway.

  Suddenly something looped around him and he was no longer standing on the pavement; he was being lifted. He stopped when his face was inches from a black mask. He then realized that the masked man was holding him by the ankle, about forty feet above the concrete.

  “Where were the other drugs going?”

  “I don’t know,” Flass gasped.

  Batman released Flass and the cop dropped twenty feet. His scream was lost in a crack of thunder. The wire that looped around him halted his fall. Batman pulled him back up.

  “I never knew,” Flass whispered. “Shipments went to some guy for a couple days before they went to dealers . . .”

  “Why?”

  “There was something else in the drugs, something hidden.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know . . . I never went to the drop-off. It’s in the Narrows . . . cops only go there in force . . .”

  Batman released his hold on Flass. Flass dropped quickly and jerked to a sudden stop just inches from the ground. Then Batman gently lowered him to the ground and disappeared, leaving Flass speechless.

  Like everyone else in Gotham City Bruce Wayne knew about the area locals called “the Narrows.” But, like most who lived u
ptown, or in the suburbs, he had never visited the neighborhood, an island in the middle of the Gotham River with an insane asylum at one end and a labyrinth of dilapidated public housing at the other, accessible only by three bridges and a tunnel. Bruce Wayne would have no business in the Narrows. But Batman—that was something else.

  It was early evening by the time he got there and the rain had increased to a heavy and constant downpour. He entered the housing project grounds by climbing over a chain-link fence and glided to one of the seven bleak, boxlike structures that were crammed with men, women, and children—families of up to ten surviving in tiny, three-room apartments with leaky pipes, peeling paint, and long, dark, treacherous corridors. Batman caught the bottom rung of a fire-escape ladder and began climbing. He halted at a fourth-floor window and took from a belt compartment a small viewer equipped with a night-vision lens. He lay on his back below the window and angled the periscope to see into the apartment beyond. In the greenish night lens he saw that the place was empty except for a few boxes and a large pile of stuffed rabbits.

  From the next apartment, he heard shouts of anger. A little boy opened the window and crept out onto the fire-escape platform. In the ambient light from inside the apartment, Batman could see that the boy, who was about eight, had a smear of grime across his forehead and what looked like a bruise on his cheek. His clothing was torn, his blond hair unruly and falling in a cowlick over his forehead.

  A long way from what scrubbed, pampered, adored Bruce Wayne looked like at that age . . .

  “You’re here to get that guy?” the boy asked.

  “I guess I am.”

  “They already took him. To the hospital.”

  From inside the boy’s apartment came a woman’s shrill voice. “Get your ass back in here.”

  “The other kids won’t believe I saw you,” the boy said.

  Batman handed the viewer to the boy. “It’s yours.”

  Before the boy could thank him, Batman lifted the window to the empty apartment and climbed inside. He took one of the stuffed rabbits from the pile. It had been ripped open. As Batman was examining it, there was a noise at the door. He melted back into the shadows.