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Post by Romans Empire on Mar 27, 2007 15:51:00 GMT -5
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Post by Romans Empire on Mar 27, 2007 15:52:26 GMT -5
Batman: CITY OF CRIME
Issue 3 of 5: “Towering heights”
Written by: Grant LaFleche
Cover by: Grant LaFleche
Edited by: John Elbe |
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Post by Romans Empire on Mar 27, 2007 15:53:30 GMT -5
You have to love this guy.
Really.
You can try not to. Hell, I’m trying not to right now. I’m having all the luck of Quasimodo in a beauty contest.
You have to love the guy.
Bruce Wayne. The Prince of Gotham.
“Thing is Lucius, I thought turkeys were the way go,” he says, holding his cell phone between his ear and shoulder while sending an email from his laptop. “Everyone loves turkeys.”
I’ve been in here for 20 minutes. Waiting. Listening. And more waiting. Suits me fine. My head feels like a tank has rolled over it. A tank did roll over it. I’ve got a screaming five alarm hang over. Either from the booze I drank at the Inferno or the beating that Frank that Tank gave me.
Or both.
Still it was worth it. Cobblepot coughed up what I was looking for. A lead. A lead on Nancy Hartigan. Well, almost. A lead on her sister, Tess. Used to work for Wayne. One of his army of assistants it turns out. When I called about her, I was passed right to the big man himself. Strange. Like he was expecting the call.
“Really? Lucius are you sure? Because it made sense to me. They have wings, you know. I checked,” Wayne says, grabbing the phone before it slides off his shoulder and swinging his size 10s wrapped in a pair shoes made by some Italian designer whose name I can’t pronounce up on his desk. Those shoes look like they cost more than my car. Even the laces look like they cost more than my suit.
And my car.
“Ok, seriously? But they have wings,” Wayne says. “Lucius, as God as my witness, I swear I thought turkeys could fly!”
I try not to laugh. Mostly because my ribs feel like they crack a bit when I do. But I can’t help it. Like I said. You gotta love the guy.
He waves me toward a small bar in the far corner of his office. It’s only 10:30 a.m. and I haven’t eaten, but a belly full of Canadian Club will at least kill some of the pain.
“Well what about chickens? They can’t fly either? Seriously?”
I know what you are thinking. “How does a moron like this end up with more money than God?” I’ll tell you a secret. Something the guy on the other end of that phone call once told me. Lucius Fox. Wayne’s Joe Friday.
See, I had to do a profile on Fox for the Gazette a few years back when I had really annoyed my editors. They know I hate puff jobs. When I asked Fox what it was like working for a fop like Wayne, he looked right at me. Hard. Like he was looking into my heart.
“I’ll tell you something, Mr. Fynn,” he said, never taking his eyes off of mine. “Bruce comes across as fool a lot of the time. I know. But he isn’t. He knows exactly what he is doing.”
“Ok, Lucius, no turkeys. Good call. Listen I have the press here so I…..no, no, nothing about the Swedish bikini ski team. I hope not anyway,” he says, casting a questioning look my way. I shake my head, stifle another giggle, wince, and take my Canadian Club in single shot. “Yeah, nothing about the girls. I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Ok. Yes, board of directors at noon. Ciao, baby.”
Wayne jumps up from his desk and floats across the floor to the bar. Grabs a bottle of water and takes me by the arm to lead me to a conference room.
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Post by Romans Empire on Mar 27, 2007 15:55:10 GMT -5
“How long as it been, Marv,” he says. “Three years?”
“Four, Bruce.”
“Right. Four. That’s right you came to see me about that weapons program story you did. Good piece that.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t see your byline as often anymore, though,” he says.
“They, uh, keep me busy. Long term stuff, you know.”
“Hmm.”
We enter a conference room. It’s not a conference room. It’s the Sistine Goddamn Chapel. The ceiling goes on forever. The floor is marble. There is a huge stained glass window with an image of winged creature rising from some ruins.
“The phoenix rising,” Wayne says, ushering me past to an outdoor patio beyond the window. “Hope that rises from despair. Catchy, dontca’ think?”
“Sure, Bruce. Sure.”
And then we’re there. The top of the world. Or the top of Gotham, anyway. Wayne’s patio sits on the top floor of Wayne Tower. A 135-storey monster of glass and steel that rises out of the filth of this city.
Like a phoenix.
The city doesn’t look so bad from up here. Almost livable. If the view didn’t make my knees weak.
“Jesus…”
“You ok, Marv?” Wayne says.
“Yeah. ulp. I just don’t care for heights much,” I say, backing slowly away from the edge finding my seat in a reclining chair. “How do you not get dizzy up here?”
“Oh, well…” Wayne says, standing right on the edge of the ledge. Right on it. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I get vertigo just looking at him. “You get used to it. So, you wanted to talk about Tess Hartigan?”
“Yeah, Bruce. I’m following up on her sister’s murder.”
Wayne tenses at the word “murder”. Not quiet a flinch. Not really. But noticeable.
“How do you know she was murdered?” he says without turning around to face me.
That hot twist happens to my gut again. It’s the way he says it. He knows she was murdered but he’s playing me. Doesn’t want me to know he knows. He’s good at it too. Brucie here should take up poker.
“I saw the GCPD photos of her body.”
For the next several minutes Wayne listens to what I know. He only asks a few questions, but they are detailed and specific. Then he goes quiet. Still. Like he is the only thing in the universe.
“So, uh, Bruce,” I say. “Tess worked for you?
“Yes. Admin assistant to Lucius and then to me for a while,” he said. “Until she vanished.”
“Nancy recommended her?’
“I think so,” he says. “Nancy worked as a VP in our acquisitions department. Pleaded with Fox for three weeks until he gave Tess a job.”
“Bruce, did anything happen with either Nancy or Tess, you know, before they vanished?” I say, unwrapping a new pack of Camels I had stuffed in my pocket.
“No smoking in this building, Marv. Did I ever tell you that you smoke too much?” Bruce says. “Anyway, they didn’t vanish. At least not exactly. I didn’t see Nancy much, but Tess was in my office once or twice a day. She was working out great until about week before the police called to tell me Nancy was found dead. Tess was showing up late. Always looked tired and was short tempered.”
“And that wasn’t in her character?’
“Not so far as I knew. Then she really did vanish. Didn’t show up for work. Didn’t answer her phone.”
“And you didn’t think to follow up?”
“I had Fox take care of it. My schedule is…busy.”
“Hmm. I bet it is,” I say, tapping the pack of cigarettes on my thigh. Nervous habit. Damn I need a smoke. “Tell me, did the cops tell you Nancy was murdered or just plain dead?”
“They said he was suicide,” he says, with a slight rumble in his voice I’ve never heard before. Something that actually makes my blood run cold.
“Who called you? Which cop?”
“It was Captain Maddox.”
Mad Dog Maddox. Small world.
I ask Bruce if he has any contact information for either of them. He says he pulled their records before I got there. Gives me addresses for both them, but says he can’t release any other personal information. His board meeting is coming up so he escorts me out, reminds me twice more I can’t smoke in the building and sends me off.
“Listen Marv, if you learn anything, call me ok?” he says. “Wayne Industries looks after its own you, you know?”
“Sure, Bruce. Likewise, ok?”
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Post by Romans Empire on Mar 27, 2007 15:55:52 GMT -5
I hop into a cab and call my editor on my cell. I haven’t actually been in the newsroom for two days so I have to suffer through a blue streak of cursing that would make Howard Stern blush before I can tell him I have a juicy story. Probably saved my job. He stops yelling long enough to tell me to get in and write it for the noon edition deadline. Front page, he says.
I get inside the Gazette, taking the back stairs to avoid running into my editor. That old windbag would love to blow my eardrums out. I just want to write my story, and get back out on the street. Check out those addresses Bruce gave me.
No dice. When I get into the newsroom, she’s there. Looking good. Like she knows everyone is watching her. Like that is what she’s there for.
Vicki. Vicki Vale.
“Where the hell have you been?” she asks.
Vicki is giving me the look. Her look. Her hands on her hips. The bridge of her nose is all scrunched up from the scowl she is giving me. She only gives me that look when I’ve done something that proves how irresponsible I am. And I prove that a lot.
“Workin’.”
“Uh huh. Two days, Marvin. Two days you haven’t been here! And now you wander in looking like you were in an accident….”
Aw crap. She’s calling me ‘Marvin.’ I am in trouble.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep the chief from firing you? I had to run interference for you for two days, and you don’t even call, you dumb bastard.”
“Why, Ms. Vale, I didn’t know you cared,” I say.
“Yeah well…the newsroom would be a lot more boring if you were gone for good.”
Yeah, there is a history here. We were an item once. A while back. Things were good for a while and then the little things got in the way. A thousand little things. Some important. Most stupid. Some of it her fault, most of it mine.
There is a thousand things we should have said. A thousand things I should still say. Instead, I do what I always do. I wink and slip a Camel between my lips.
“Aw. I bet you say that to all the boys.”
Vicki grabs the cigarette out of my mouth. Snaps it and tosses it in the trash.
“I’m serious Marvin. You can’t just disappear like that.”
“Ok, ok, Vic,” I say, pulling another Camel out of the pack.
“And you have better met deadline today. Seriously,” she snatches the smoke from my lips. “There is no smoking here in Marvin. And you smoke too much anyway.”
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Post by Romans Empire on Mar 27, 2007 15:56:31 GMT -5
I slip into my desk, push aside piles of coffee cups and old sandwich wrappers and something that looks like it might have been a banana once off the computer keyboard. Getting the story done will be easy, but I do a quick search of the archives to see if there is anything I missed.
No hits in the Gazette archive. But there are three in another paper’s listings. The Daily Planet.
A few years back the powers that be at the Gazette decide it costs too much to buy online archive stories from other papers. Damn bean counters. So I can only read the first paragraph of the Planet’s stories. The first paragraphs and the bylines. And this byline catches my eye.
I laugh as I dial the Planet’s number. This will be fun.
“Planet, Kent speaking.”
“Howdy farm boy,” I say. “How’s life in Hog town?”
“Wha…Mickey? Mickey Fynn?”
“You got it Clarkie,” I say. “How’s tricks?”
We catch up for a few. It’s been years since we graduated from journalism school, nearly as long since we last saw each other.
“Listen, Mickey, I would love to talk all day. But Perry is in full panic mode. Early deadline for the noon edition. What’s up?”
“A couple of years back you wrote some stories about some really freaky killings. Women murdered, laid out on the floor like they had been crucified….”
“…and had their hands cut off. Yeah. It was the strangest thing. Three killings in two months. Then nothing. It just stopped and the trail went cold.”
Bad news. I was hoping Clark would have something I could follow up on this end.
“Who investigated the killings Clark?”
“Hmm…let me check,” I can hear Clark typing like mad through the phone. I’ve said it a million times, I have never seen a typist as fast as Kent. “Here we go…Yeah, I thought so. Primary investigator was Lt. Maddox.”
Bingo!
“Maddox? Max Maddox?”
“Yeah. But he never really got anywhere with it. Transferred to the Gotham City Police Department four months later.”
Damn. Double Damn. Maddox. Maddox was the guy closing Bullock’s investigation into Hartigan’s murder. He was at the Inferno. There is that hot twist in my stomach again.
“Mickey….”
“Sorry, Clark, my mind wandered. Listen, was there any unusual markings or writing at the murder scenes in Metropolis? Graffiti, anything like that?”
“Yeah,” Clark says. “A nonsense word. DEVI.”
“Any idea what that means?”
“I checked with a egghead friend of mine. Dr. Hamilton. Anyway, he thought it was a Sanskrit word meaning, ‘Goddess,’ ” he says.
“Goddess?”
“That is what he said. Listen, Mickey, what’s going on over there, anything I can help with?”
“No worries Clark. We’re both on deadline here. I’ll fill you in later.”
I write the story in record in time. Details of Nancy’s murder. Tess’s disappearance. The Inferno. The “Goddess” murders in Metropolis and Maddox’s investigation. It smells like page one. Been a long time since I wrote anything for page one.
I have to admit, I missed it.
After the story is filed I sack out in the lunchroom couch for a few hours. I’m still exhausted from my run in with the Penguin. Just a few hours rest and I’ll be good to go.
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Post by Romans Empire on Mar 27, 2007 15:59:07 GMT -5
By the time I wake up, the sun’s down and Gotham, the real Gotham, comes to life. I’ve got that itch. The smoker’s itch. Haven’t had a puff in hours. Or a drink. I’m getting a headache. I need a walk, a smoke and a drink and then everything will be right with the world.
I wander two blocks into Old Downtown before I decide to light up. The first drag is going to be heaven. Heaven in a stick. Too bad they say it’ll kill me.
“Evenin’ Mr. Fynn”
Before I can turn around, there’s a beefy arm wrapped around my throat and I’m being dragged into Crime Alley.
I struggle as best I can, but I’m still a mess from the beating I took last night. I haven’t had a smoke all day or a drink since my breakfast meeting with Wayne.
I’m six bags of messed up right now and it’s about to get worse. Much, much worse.
My shadow attacker slams me against a dumpster and drives some brass knuckles into my ribs.
I drop. Hard. I roll over onto my back and look up. It’s Maddox. Mad Dog.
I’m screwed.
“Heya, Max,” I say, waiting for the army drum corps in my head to stop playing.
“Mr. Fynn. I am sure you know why you are here,” he says, waving a copy of the noon Gazette.
“You just missed me that much, sweetie?”
His patent leather boot ends up in my groin so fast I don’t even have time to flinch. I tell myself not to howl in pain. But I double over and hear something that sounds like the scream of a hyena slip past my lips.
“That’s how we handle a smart ass in Gotham, Fynn,” he says, polishing his brass knuckles with his tie. “A smart guy like you outta know that.”
“Cough…I’m a slow learner, peaches”
Another kick. This one to the head. I nearly black out.
“Funny man. Always the funny man. Here is the deal Mr. Funny Man. You drop your investigation into the Hartigan case. And you get to go back to covering dog shows and live for the rest of your short pathetic life. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise what, pumpkin?”
Another kick. To the stomach. This time I do black out for a second.
“I’m sorry…cough…I missed that.”
“I said, otherwise the garbage man will find your body with morning pick up.”
“That’s the deal?”
“That’s the deal.”
“Oh…well…cough... then I guess this is a bad time to ask you to say hello to Mrs. Maddox for me? Oh, and can you ask her if wants those panties back because…”
The brass knuckles smash my left temple with a sickening thump. Like a bat hitting a sack of wet cement. Black sparks jump out before my eyes and my ears start to ring. I was screwed the moment this alley ape dragged me back here. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing Mickey Fynn squirm.
“Ok, garbage pick up it is,” Maddox says, pulling out his glock. “Don’t say I didn’t…”
There’s a whistle. High pitched. Like a blade cutting the air. Then a sound like a dart hitting a board. A wet board. Maddox screams. His guns hits the asphalt. I should get up and run, but my body is happy right where it is. Maddox drops to his knees and I see it. A black knife with scalloped edges. Stuck in his hand.
“You bastard!” he shouts, picking his gun up with his good hand. “Come on out you freak! Come on out!”
There is that whistle again. Maddox screams again. Another blade.
He doesn’t drop the gun this time but empties his clip into the air.
“Come on, freak! Come on!”
A shadow falls over the alley. Over Maddox. I can’t see anything clearly. It’s dark as hell in this alley and that shadow is blocking the bit of light from the street. And I’m still seeing black spots before my eyes.
I can hear ok, though. Something is laughing. Like the devil himself, something is laughing. It isn’t Maddox. He’s too busy screaming like a girl in a horror movie. Begging really. I think I hear a bone snap like dry timber.
And then a voice. Like pure, cold hate given life.
“Why do people with authority always abuse their power,” it says. It’s more a statement than a question. I don’t think it expects an answer.
“You crazy mother…”
Another snap. Maddox howls and I hear what must be his body slam against the alley wall..
“A word to the wise officer Maddox,” that voice says. “Retire!”
I hear footsteps take off down the alley. The shadow vanishes up the wall in a flash and then everything is still.
I coax my legs into standing up but the alley spins like I’m on the tilt-a-whirl. Jesus, how long has it been since I had a drink. A drink. A smoke. That would steady my nerves. Surely. A drink and a smoke.
I try to walk, but I am moving like a mangy three-legged dog in a car wash. I slump to one knee and try not to puke.
There is a flap of leather behind me and the crunch of a boot grinding into the asphalt. And there is that voice.
“Fynn. We need to talk.”
I turn around. And I am convinced I need that drink worse than I thought.
There he is. Like a slice of blackness cut out of the night. Looking at me. Jesus. It’s looking right at me.
The Batman.
He’s REAL.
-End Chapter Three -
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Post by mockingbird on Jul 25, 2011 20:05:19 GMT -5
To let us know what you thought of this issue, please visit the letters page here!
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