by Jason Starr
“Frankie Collins,” Frank yelled.
“Oh, Mr. Collins,” Cobblepot said. Frank heard shuffling, and the noise receded. The guy must’ve found a private place to continue the conversation. “How may I assist you?”
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Frank said, glancing around to make sure no one could hear him. There was no one there but the rats. “I’ll pay you five grand if you can track down a guy named Roberto Colon, and do so before the cops find him.”
“I can do anything faster than the police,” Cobblepot said. “It’s the advantage of being a one-man operation—no red tape.”
“I like the way you think, Cobblepot,” Frank said. “Maybe you can be a PI yourself someday.” Silently, he added, you creepy little freak.
“Over my dead body.”
“What?”
“I said that’s very unlikely, Mr. Collins,” Cobblepot replied. “I accept. I’ll find Colon, and I’ll do it expeditiously, but I will require ten thousand dollars for my services.”
“All right, you got it,” Frank said. “Ten grand. No problem. Way I see it, you’re worth every penny.” Not that Frank had ten grand to pay him, but by the time the kid figured it out, Frank and the painting would be out on the high seas. It wouldn’t be the last time the kid got ripped off in Gotham, either. Someday he’d look back at this as a learning experience.
“Thank you, Mr. Collins, for being so generous,” Cobblepot said. “So much so that I confess to being suspicious. Mr. Colon must possess something quite valuable, indeed, if you’re willing to pay ten thousand dollars for it. May I ask, is it property, or is it information?”
Oh, shit. The last thing Frank needed was Cobblepot finding out about the Picasso. Better nip this in the bud.
“Just find out where Colon is,” Frank said. “That’s all that matters, and that’s all I’m paying you to do. Call me as soon as you have results.”
There was a moment of silence, and he wondered if the kid had cut him off.
“Of course, sir,” Cobblepot said. “I understand. You’re the customer, and as they say—the customer is always right.”
Without another word Frank ended the call.
His instincts screamed at him that there was something off about Cobblepot, but the creep had delivered in the past, and he’d kept his mouth shut, too. There was no reason to think he’d act any different this time, and by the time he figured out he was being screwed, Frank would be long gone. Maybe Cobblepot and Tommy would have that drink, to commiserate. Frank started to chuckle at the thought, then tried to belch, but instead he threw up all over himself.
“Oh, hell,” he said.
Then he passed out.
TWELVE
At the breakfast table, Bruce sat alone, reading the article in the Gotham Herald about the Williams-Sanchez fight. He was reading it for the third time when Alfred entered.
“Can I get you something else, Master Bruce?” the butler asked. “Some more scrambled eggs, perhaps?” Absorbed in his reading, Bruce didn’t answer right away. He peered at the photograph of the referee holding up Williams’s arm in victory.
“Why do you think Sanchez stayed down for the count last night, Alfred?”
“Well, I don’t think he had much of a choice,” Alfred said.
“But it was only the third round, and he’s a fighter,” Bruce said. “He shouldn’t have quit so easily.”
“There could’ve been a number of factors contributing to it, I suppose,” Alfred said. “Faulty conditioning is one possibility. Boxers need to be focused on their craft, eliminate the distractions, and some are better equipped at doing so than others. Another possibility is that he’s lost his edge. Having the desire to win is almost as important as having the ability to win. It’s called having killer instinct.”
“When you were boxing, did you have a killer instinct?”
“I was hardly boxing, mate,” Alfred said. “When I was a teenager in the East End, we had illegal fights in basements and bars, and punters would bet on us. We didn’t know what we were doing, really—didn’t have any form to speak of.”
“Then you must’ve relied entirely on your killer instinct,” Bruce suggested, “the way animals do.”
“Well, you’re just full of compliments this morning, aren’t you?”
But Bruce didn’t notice his friend’s sarcasm. He imagined that he was Alfred, boxing in the back of a smoky bar, pummeling the other fighter. What must have been akin to adrenaline caused him to shiver.
“It must’ve felt great,” he said.
“What did?” Alfred asked, pouring himself a glass of orange juice.
“To strike somebody,” Bruce said. “Cause them pain. To feel so strong.”
Alfred stopped pouring, put the pitcher down, and leaned in close to Bruce, staring with a serious expression. Instinctively Bruce leaned against the back of the chair, and his eyes went wide.
“Never,” Alfred said sharply, then he added, “It’s never right to take joy from someone else’s suffering, Bruce, no matter what the situation. The desire to win is for yourself, and you alone. It’s not right to feel good about pain, not at the expense of someone else.”
Bruce absorbed what Alfred had said, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity for a philosophical argument.
“Even if the person’s evil?” he countered. “A thief, a murderer, or a rapist? What about the robbers who broke in here? Didn’t you feel good when you shot one of them? Didn’t that give you a sense of accomplishment?”
“Not at all,” Alfred said. “I felt justified, but I didn’t feel satisfied.”
“Well, I’d feel satisfied if I killed a bad person,” Bruce said.
“That’s how vigilantes feel,” Alfred said.
“Then I guess I’m a vigilante.”
“Well, when you get older, hopefully you’ll sort this out,” Alfred said. “I don’t think your parents would want you to grow up to become a man who hunts down criminals—whether for justice or for money. I’d hazard to guess they’d consider that a right nightmare.”
Bruce frowned, and was silent. Then he glanced again at the newspaper.
“Last night, before Sanchez went down, he hit Williams with that big uppercut,” Bruce said. “How do you do that?”
“Do you really want to know?” Alfred finished the glass of juice.
“Yes, Alfred. Please show me.”
The butler stood there for a long moment, leaning against the counter, looking at him. Studying him. Bruce couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and began to feel uncomfortable. Abruptly Alfred straightened, and stepped toward him.
“All right then,” he said. “Stand up.”
Bruce stood and faced him.
“You start with your fists in front of you, in your ready, protective position.” Alfred demonstrated and Bruce mimicked him. “Now what you want to do,” Alfred continued, “is wind your arm back like a crank, see?” Bruce began the movement.
“Can I have a word with you, Alfred?”
Bruce’s mother stepped into the room behind Alfred.
“I’m sorry, madam,” Alfred said. “We were just—”
“Right now, please.”
Alfred nodded, and Bruce’s mother turned. Together they left the room. Bruce recognized the look on her face, and wouldn’t have traded places with Alfred for anything. He just hoped he wasn’t next.
He felt bad for getting Alfred in trouble, but maybe it would turn out for the best. Bruce wanted to learn to fight more than anything. Maybe Alfred could convince her that in Gotham, learning to fight was a necessity.
Pulling his arm back, he tried to duplicate what Alfred had shown him, tacking it onto his memory of the fight the night before. He knew his form was off, and he felt awkward and clumsy, but still he imagined he was Sanchez. In his mind’s eye he connected, and then Williams followed with his furious assault.
Like Sanchez, Bruce let his knees buckle, and he went down. But unlike the real Sanchez, as the r
ef counted, Bruce refused to quit. He got back to his feet.
The crowd cheered him on.
THIRTEEN
Alfred was ready to catch hell.
“What were you just doing in there?”
And, sure enough, there it was.
They were in the drawing room, out of earshot of Bruce.
“It’s not how it appeared,” Alfred said, though he knew it was exactly as it appeared. “You see—”
“I’ve made it very clear to you and to Thomas that I don’t want Bruce learning how to fight,” Martha said tersely. “This idea, that he needs to learn to defend himself, is ridiculous. People who know how to fight find themselves in fights. It’s like four-wheel drive.”
“I’m afraid I’m not following,” Alfred said.
“Four-wheel drive for cars,” Martha said. “The people who have it start looking for situations where they can use it. They start trying to drive through snow, and water, or up mountains, and they wind up killing themselves. Bruce has all the advantages in life. He should be focusing on his education, getting ready for college and medical school. Not squandering his efforts on useless and dangerous pastimes.”
“Medical school?” Alfred said. “That’s the first I’ve heard of this. Bruce fancies being a doctor, does he?”
“Well, it makes sense,” Martha said. “He loves science, and got the best grade in his class in biology last semester.” She paused, as if flustered, then continued. “My point is he can do whatever he wants in life, and that’s what he should be focusing on, not some barbaric sport.”
Alfred held his tongue. He loved boxing, saw it as beautiful and graceful—an art form—but knew saying so to Martha wouldn’t accomplish anything. Well, except fueling her anger.
“I understand your wishes,” he said instead. “Rest assured, I won’t teach Bruce how to box, or instruct him in any self-defense skills, not without the explicit permission of you and Mr. Wayne.”
She didn’t reply at first, as if letting that sink in.
Then…
“Can you make a promise to me, Alfred?”
Alfred had a feeling where this was headed.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
“If something ever happens to me and Thomas, as you know, you’ll become Bruce’s guardian.” Her voice quieted, as if she didn’t want her words to be heard.
“Yes, I’m quite aware of that,” Alfred said, wondering if she and Thomas had chatted about this.
“Can you promise me that, if a worst-case scenario happens, you’ll still respect my wishes? That you’ll make sure Bruce continues with his education. Keep him away from violence, no matter what you have to do to accomplish it? Promise me, please.”
“Does Thomas know you’re having this conversation with me?” Alfred asked.
“No,” Martha said. “Why?”
“Just curious,” Alfred said. Then he added, “Yes, I give you my word.”
He didn’t know how he’d do it—keep both promises, so very different from each other. But for the problem to arise, both of the elder Waynes would have to have died. Though the world in which they lived was violent indeed, such a likelihood seemed far from likely.
“Thank you, Alfred.” She sounded firm again. “That makes me feel so much better, and I’m sorry if I sounded too harsh. I didn’t mean to force you to defend yourself. It’s just something that’s… that’s very important to me, something I think about a lot. I guess I’m just afraid lately. Afraid for Bruce, afraid of a lot of things.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help, Madam, please let me know.”
Martha nodded, turned, and went to the hallway. She looked to her left and right, as if to make sure no one was eavesdropping, and then returned to the drawing room and shut the door.
Almost whispering, she asked, “Has Thomas confided in you, told you anything about what he’s been up to lately?”
“No,” Alfred said. “He hasn’t.”
She peered at him, as if wrestling with a thought.
“I know you wouldn’t tell me even if you did know,” Martha said, “but for weeks, even months now, his behavior has been odd, and lately it’s getting even more so.”
“What sort of behavior do you mean?”
“He goes into his office and locks the door for hours on end,” Martha said. “He won’t let anyone in there, and won’t tell me what he’s doing. He says he’s ‘working,’ but that’s so ambiguous. What does ‘working’ mean? What is he working on, and why does he have to be so mysterious about it?”
“That’s hardly new, Madam,” Alfred said. “He’s been doing it for years.”
“But he does it more frequently now, it seems,” Martha insisted, “and he’s more mysterious about it. He takes these strange day trips upstate, to clear his head, he says. Yet he never tells us where exactly he goes, what exactly he does.
“I want to respect his privacy, give him his space,” she added. “I mean, I understand his work is very stressful, especially lately, and sometimes he needs some alone time. I’m the same way—but I go to spas, for long walks, and I don’t feel like I’m being evasive or elusive. That’s my problem right there. He’s acting evasive and elusive, and it has me concerned, that’s all. I hate secrets.”
Alfred didn’t quite know how to respond.
“I understand,” he said after a moment, “but I’m sure it’s exactly how it seems—that he just likes to get away for a bit.” Now he just had to convince himself that it was true.
“So he hasn’t told you where he goes?”
“No, I’m afraid he hasn’t, madam.”
“I believe you,” Martha said, “even though I’m still not sure you’d tell me if you did know. You always respect Thomas’s privacy, and that’s the right thing to do—as our butler and as his friend. But I consider you my friend, as well. I mean, don’t you feel the same way?”
Alfred didn’t like where this was heading.
“I admire you, Thomas, and Bruce, all very much,” he replied.
“So as my friend, the right thing to do would be to tell me what you know,” Martha said. “Don’t you think?”
“It’s as I told you,” Alfred said. “I don’t know anything at all.”
“So Thomas hasn’t mentioned a woman to you?”
“Never,” Alfred said, “and, to be quite honest, I don’t think he ever would have an affair. He’s not the type, and he adores you.”
“Is there really an affair type, though?” Martha asked.
“Well, yes, I think there is actually. I mean, some blokes I knew in London, used to go ’round the local, chatting up the birds, with their wedding bands in their shirt pockets, hoping the tan lines went unnoticed.”
“Those are the obvious cheaters,” Martha said. “Anyone can spot them. But what about the more subtle ones? The ones you never suspect? I’m talking about the secret-keepers. The ones who on the surface seem like the family men, the providers. Their friends say, ‘Bob? Bob would never cheat. He’s a good guy.’ What about the Bobs? What about the good guys?”
“I can’t speak for what secrets Thomas may or may not be keeping,” Alfred said. “And I can’t say whether he’s one of the Bobs you’re referring to either, but I would be shocked if there were another woman. It just doesn’t feel right, in my gut.”
“Believe me,” Martha said, “I don’t want to be the woman who gets paranoid, jumps to conclusions, thinks her husband is fooling around behind her back. But his behavior is odd, he’s been elusive, so what am I supposed to think?”
Alfred recalled the blood on Thomas’s neck. He’d claimed it was from shaving, though there didn’t seem to be any cut on his face whatsoever. Just the blood. Odd, indeed.
“Thomas is a complicated man,” Alfred said. “Always has been, always will be. But there is one thing I’m absolutely certain of—he would never do anything to hurt you or Bruce, or to put you in harm’s way.”
“Why harm’s way?”
Oh, crikey, Alfred wished he could take that one back.
“It’s just a figure of speech, Madam. I meant he wouldn’t want to get you into a dangerous situation.”
Martha looked as Alfred as if she were trying to see through him.
“What sort of dangerous situation?”
Worse and worse…
“Why do I feel as though I’m climbing out of a hole?” Alfred said. “I just meant a hypothetical situation. I know security is a major concern to Mr. Wayne. That’s why the break-in rattled him, and if I’m guessing, I think it’s related to why he was home late yesterday. He’s been concerned over how the security system was breached, so he’s trying to sort things out at his company.”
Silence.
“I think you know something,” she said. “Something you’re not telling me.”
“You’re a clairvoyant now, are you?” he said, trying to lighten the mood.
“No, but I know you well, Alfred. Sometimes I feel like I know you better than I know Thomas himself. If he did tell you something, and told you not to tell me—if it’s a man’s code or something, I promise I’d never put you in an awkward position.”
“I really have nothing more I can share with you on this matter, Madam,” he replied, trying to sound reassuring. “If there was, I would speak up—for you, for Thomas, and for Master Bruce.”
“I’m sorry, Alfred. I know you’re just doing your job, and I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Thank God you were here the other night, or we could’ve all been killed.”
“Don’t be silly,” Alfred said, “I was just doing my duty.”
“No, you went well beyond your duty. Any other butler who heard gunshots would have hidden in his room until the danger was over. But not you, Alfred. You ran toward the danger—that’s what heroes do. And that’s precisely why there’s no need for Bruce to learn how to fight. As long as he has you to protect him, he’ll be safe.”
Alfred was well into his fifties and had lived a hard life—recovering from countless injuries, grieving dead lovers and fallen mates. He’d be lucky if he lived another twenty years himself.
