by Jason Starr
“Why don’t you just go away,” Bruce said, “and stop acting like a jerk.”
A bunch of kids said, “Oooooh.”
“What if I don’t want to walk away?” Jake said, trying to maintain his coolness and toughness. “What’re you gonna do about it?”
“Then I’m going to fight you,” Bruce said.
The oooohs got even louder, and some kids laughed.
Jake laughed, too. “I think that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week,” he said. “Billionaire boy Bruce Wayne says he’s going to fight me.”
“Ha,” Andrew said. “Good luck with that.”
“Why do you hang out with this jerk anyway?” Bruce said to Andrew. “You used to be a decent kid. We had a great time. Remember that sleepover at my house? We watched movies and told ghost stories and made popcorn. Went outside and watched the bats chasing insects. I’m sure you still have some goodness inside you. You don’t need to spend your time following around an idiot like him.”
At that Jake shoved Bruce, hard, causing him to stumble, almost knocking him down.
“Fight, fight, fight…”
“I think I’ve heard enough of you, Wayne,” Jake said. “It’s time for a beating.”
Quickly Bruce raised his fists, like the boxers did, to try to protect his face, but Jake connected with a punch right below Bruce’s right eye. It sounded like two rocks smashing together, and hurt like hell, but Bruce maintained his ground. He knew he didn’t have the strength nor the ability to beat Jake in a fight, but he wasn’t going to fall down.
A lot of the kids chanted and cheered, while others remained silent. No one turned away, however. Bruce didn’t hope that Mr. Watson or another teacher came to break up the fight. He didn’t want to be saved—he wanted to get out of this on his own.
“Is that the best you can do?” Bruce asked, tasting warm blood dripping over his lips. Again he raised his fists.
Jake gritted his teeth and unleashed another punch, this one more powerful than the last, hitting Bruce in the jaw. Once again, Bruce accepted the pain, but didn’t give in to it. He felt dizzy, though, and while he didn’t want to back down, he was afraid that if he took any more blows like that he would get knocked out.
All of the kids were shouting.
Jake had his fist cocked.
Then Bruce remembered Alfred telling him a story of when he was a teenager, growing up in London’s East End. One night two guys had confronted him in an alleyway and attempted to mug him. Rather than fight both guys—which would have, as he had said “led to a surefire defeat”—instead he decided to focus on the weaker opponent.
“If you can’t win the war, at least win the battle,” Alfred had said. So, rather than focusing on how to absorb the next blow from Jake, Bruce turned his attention to Andrew, who was still standing alongside the bigger boy.
Yes, it was true that Andrew hadn’t hit Bruce himself. However, he was complicit by supporting Jake while he was bullying Dennis. So without guilt Bruce charged at Andrew and tackled him like a football player, then began to pummel him in his face as hard as he could. He knew he was doing the right thing—giving Andrew some justice, some payback. Maybe in the future Andrew would make better decisions, better alliances for himself.
Suddenly everyone was cheering for Bruce.
“Hit him! Hit him!”
Bruce expected Jake to come to his friend’s defense, but the big kid just stood to the side, watching, while Andrew screeched in pain. Maybe Jake had been caught off guard, and didn’t know how to react, but Bruce suspected that it was Jake’s true self coming out. Again Bruce heard Alfred’s voice in his head.
“Bullies are often the biggest cowards.”
Alfred hadn’t, however, warned him about how much it would hurt his hands to punch somebody in the face. He’d never been in an actual fight before, but in movies, when people had fistfights in bars or wherever, they never seemed to hurt their hands. Bruce figured he must be doing something wrong, or he needed gloves or some sort of protection, because with each crunching punch it felt like the bones in his hands were breaking.
“Okay, that’s enough, that’s enough.”
Mr. Watson finally showed up to break up the fighting. He separated Bruce and Andrew. Bruce was happy and, yes, a little proud to see the blood gushing from Andrew’s nose.
“Bruce started it,” Jake said. “He just came out of nowhere and attacked Andrew.”
Bruce didn’t deny it, since this was technically true, nor did he try to place the blame on Jake. Mr. Watson would be well aware of Jake’s prior bullying behavior, as he witnessed it frequently in the cafeteria. Then, when he consulted with Dean Sterling, they’d be able to connect the dots.
Meanwhile, Bruce was prepared to accept the consequences for his role in the conflict.
He, Andrew, and Jake were hustled off to the nurse’s office. Jake was barely injured—just some scratches on his knuckles. Bruce’s injuries required an ice pack, antibiotic ointment, and bandages. Andrew had gotten the worst of it—a possible broken nose, and both eyes were black and blue. Bruce hadn’t realized he’d hit him so hard. He found it disquieting, but he still felt justified in what he’d done.
Dean Sterling called for each of the boys separately. When it was Bruce’s turn, he entered the room and spoke before the dean could do so.
“I’m ready to accept whatever punishment you deem appropriate.”
“Sit down, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce sat. “You don’t have to call me Mr. Wayne. Bruce is fine.”
“Why does it concern you?” Dean Sterling asked, sounding curious.
“Because I don’t want any special treatment, just because I’m Thomas and Martha Wayne’s son, and I was lucky enough to be born into fortunate circumstances.”
Sterling maintained a serious glare.
“I assure you, you will not receive any preferential treatment from me, Mr… Bruce.” He went on to explain that while he was very well aware who started the fight, and who has been causing trouble at Anders for a long time, that didn’t abrogate the fact that Bruce had participated in the conflict.
“Fighting at Anders is prohibited under all circumstances,” Sterling said, “and the punishment for a first offense is a one week suspension from school. Your family has already been notified, and your butler is on his way over here to pick you up.”
“I understand,” Bruce said. “If I were in your position, I’d do the same thing. I respect your decision, Dean Sterling.”
“You don’t seem very upset by any of this, Bruce, and I have to say, that’s very concerning.”
“I don’t mean to concern you, sir.”
Dean Sterling took a moment, then said, “I fear that, if you were in the same situation again, you wouldn’t do the right thing and notify me or a teacher that an altercation was taking place. I fear that you’d make the same decision you made today, and you’d get into a fight.”
“Yes, I would choose to fight,” Bruce admitted.
“Even though I just reminded you that fighting is against the rules of Anders Preparatory Academy?” Dean Sterling frowned.
“Those are Anders’ rules,” Bruce said, “not my rules.”
“But as a student here, you must abide by the rules of the school.”
“I’m afraid I can’t promise that.”
Sterling let out a deep breath. “And why can’t you?”
“Because, while violence should always be a last resort, there are situations when violence is necessary, such as self-defense or to help someone in need. And if I find myself in one of those situations again, I’ll make the same decision that I made today.”
Sterling shook his head in frustration. “I’m extremely disappointed in you, Bruce,” he said. “I hope you reconsider your attitude during your suspension. You’re dismissed… Mr. Wayne.”
* * *
Bruce was waiting with his backpack slung over one shoulder when Alfred pulled up in the Bentley. He got in th
e back seat and, without a word, they drove away. When they left the school grounds, Bruce saw Alfred’s eyes looking up at him in the rear-view mirror.
“I don’t think your mother will be pleased, Master Bruce.”
Bruce had been expecting to receive his mother’s wrath. Actually, he couldn’t imagine anything that would upset her more than learning that he had been suspended for fighting at school.
“You’re right, she won’t be,” Bruce acknowledged. “But I did what you told me to do.”
“What was that, Master Bruce?”
“The story you once told me, about when you were a teenager in London. How when those two guys confronted you in the alley, you attacked the weaker one.”
“I told you that?” Alfred sounded alarmed.
“Yes, you told me to win the battle, if you can’t win the war.”
“Ah, I think I remember telling you something about that now, didn’t I? Guess I didn’t expect you to take my words so literally, and apply them to a lunchroom brawl.” Another pause, then Alfred said, “The boy you fought with. Is he in worse shape than you?”
“Yes,” Bruce said. “I think I might’ve broken his nose.” He didn’t mention Jake.
Alfred didn’t say anything for several moments, and Bruce thought a scolding might come.
But then he looked in the rear-view again and, maintaining the same deadpan expression, said, “Well done, mate. Well done.”
TWENTY-FIVE
On Monday morning, Thomas tried several times but still couldn’t reach Frank. Something was definitely off. It wasn’t like him to just go off the grid like this—he was always punctual, almost obsessively so, with his updates. In more than twenty years of working together nothing like this had ever happened.
Was Frank okay? Had he been in an accident, or worse? Had he stumbled onto something, perhaps something involving Hugo Strange?
Wearing a well-tailored suit, Thomas came to the dining room where Martha was having her coffee, reading a novel—the same one she’d been reading lately, Ethan Frome.
“Good morning,” he said, and he went over and kissed her.
“Oh, good morning,” she said without looking up from the novel. “You came to bed late last night. You must be exhausted.”
“Yes, I was working,” Thomas said. “We have a number of important meetings this week, as well as clients coming in from out of town.” He looked around. “Is there more coffee?”
“Yes, I just made a fresh pot.”
“Terrific.” Thomas poured himself a cup.
“I woke up in the middle of the night, and saw you sleeping next to me,” Martha said.
“Okay.” Thomas didn’t know where she was going with this.
“Your hair smelled of cigar smoke.”
“Oh, right, I did smoke one while I was working last night.”
“It’s odd, though.” Now Martha looked up from the book. “Sometimes you smell of cigars, but your office rarely does. It didn’t this morning.”
Instantly he was wary, but didn’t want to show it.
“I open the windows when I smoke,” he said. “For ventilation.”
This made sense, didn’t it?
“But cigar smoke is such a prominent odor,” she persisted. “There was no hint of it in the room, and yet it was plain on you. Even with ventilation, there would be at least a faint odor in there.”
“I, um, don’t know what to say,” he replied, and then he took a big gulp of coffee. “I should get to the office.”
He retreated, but somehow knew he had lost that one.
* * *
Thomas drove to Wayne Tower, the Gotham home of Wayne Enterprises. He parked in his spot in the lot and then headed up the elevator to his offices on the fifty-eighth floor, the top floor of the building. Most people he passed said, “Good morning, Mr. Wayne,” and he said “Good morning,” back.
He used to love coming to work, especially on a Monday morning. It used to make him feel energized, hopeful, excited, but over the past few years—the past few months especially—the energy had changed. There was palpable tension and some employees, in particular certain board members, avoided him. This was due to the internal struggle over the direction of the company… and some felt it was time for Thomas to step down and hand over the reins.
After receiving an update from his assistant on various activities and negotiations, Thomas met with Lucius Fox, his most trusted employee—as well as one of his best friends. They began, as usual, with small talk, then the conversation turned serious.
“Did you have a chance to look into the security situation at Wayne Manor?” Thomas asked.
“I don’t have a full report yet, but we’re working on it,” Lucius said. “At first glance, there doesn’t seem to have been an external breach.”
“‘Seem’ is a nebulous word,” Thomas said. “Things aren’t always as they seem.”
“Well, let’s just say that if indeed a breach took place, in all likelihood the source was internal—either at the house, or here at the offices,” Lucius said. Thomas shook his head in frustration.
“Any idea who?”
“The list would be too long to even speculate on,” Lucius said. “It wouldn’t have been easy to avoid detection, but any member of the board could have gotten into the system, if they had been hell bent on doing so.”
Could Strange have somehow worked in collusion with a rogue board member?
“We have to make sure this never happens again,” Thomas said. “It’s more than my safety, or the security of my possessions. The safety of my wife and son is at stake.”
“We have our top tech people working on the issue as we speak,” Lucius said. “They’re under orders to let me know as soon as they find something.” He sounded certain, yet another thought occurred to Thomas.
“How do we know one of the tech people isn’t corrupt?”
“We don’t,” Lucius admitted, “but what can we do, aside from requiring the entire company to submit to lie detector tests?”
“I hear you,” Thomas said.
“We have to take this as a major wake-up call,” Lucius said, his voice low. “We can’t afford to be complacent any longer. Problems don’t resolve on their own—they get resolved. This isn’t just about a break-in at Wayne Manor. I’m concerned that persons within the company may be vying for power, and increasingly so—not just in Wayne, but within the political sphere. Gotham has become a dark place in which to live and work, socially and economically, and just because we’re up here, above it all, doesn’t mean we’re immune to the repercussions.”
Thomas frowned at his words, but didn’t have a reply.
* * *
Later, when Lucius had left, Thomas tried Frank a couple more times, but still couldn’t reach him. Frustrated by the lack of news, Thomas decided that the time for waiting was over.
He hadn’t had any direct contact with Hugo Strange since a few weeks after Pinewood had been shut down. On occasion they found themselves at the same social functions, and Thomas scrupulously avoided talking to him. When that failed they had short, perfunctory conversations.
The last time had been at the Gotham Opera House, about three months earlier. Thomas had spotted him in the lobby before the performance, chatting with a woman whom Thomas knew was a major benefactor in the arts world. They made eye contact briefly, and then Thomas had asked Martha if she wanted to go to their seats.
Once there, Thomas glanced around but didn’t see Strange seated anywhere. He didn’t see him during intermission or after the show either.
He knew that Strange maintained medical offices downtown. He had returned to lecturing at Gotham University, and practicing as a psychiatrist. From what Thomas had heard from various sources, he had a thriving career. How horrified would his patients be, though, if they knew the truth about their psychiatrist? It had been the source of endless torment for Thomas that he’d had to stay silent about Strange’s psychopathy, and allow his colleagues and pa
tients to be duped.
His mind made up, Thomas walked across town to Strange’s office building, using the walk to organize what he was going to say, and rode the elevator to the twenty-seventh floor. When he arrived, he told a heavyset woman in a nurse’s gown, sitting at the desk, that he needed to speak with Dr. Strange. Instead he was introduced to a heavyset middle-aged woman he didn’t recognize.
“I’m Ethel Peabody, the doctor’s… assistant,” the woman said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Wayne?”
Although they had never met, or at least Thomas couldn’t recall meeting her, he wasn’t surprised that she recognized him. As a public figure in Gotham, even a local celebrity, he was known to many people he didn’t himself recognize.
“You can’t do anything for me, I’m afraid, Mrs. Peabody,” Thomas said. “My business is with the doctor. Is he here?”
“Yes, but he’s extremely busy right now.”
“That’s all right,” Thomas said. “My schedule is flexible today, so I can wait.”
“Perhaps you misunderstand.” She sounded irritated. “He won’t have any time to speak with you today, but if you can tell me what this is in regard to—”
“I can’t tell you anything,” Thomas said firmly, “but I’ll just sit here and wait for Hugo to become less busy. And if I can’t speak to him today, I’ll come back tomorrow and wait all day, and the day after tomorrow, as well.”
Peabody stared at him for a long, silent moment.
“Wait a moment,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.” While Thomas sat in the waiting area, she went to the back of the office, then returned. A few minutes later, Hugo Strange entered.
Strange appeared much as he had in the Pinewood days. He’d always had an eccentric look—shaved head, a chinstrap beard, and he still wore round, tinted glasses, even when he was indoors. At the time Thomas had accepted it as the look of a quirky genius. With all that had occurred, however, it seemed—at least to Thomas—much more bizarre.
“Thomas Wayne,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
He still had the same odd style of speaking, as well—talking in a low, almost monotone voice, and over-enunciating random words. He pronounced it “surpriiiiise.” Also, there was a hint of ambiguity in his tone—not sarcasm, closer to passive-aggression. As always, it was hard to know what he was really thinking.
