Batman: No Man's Land Page 13

  Fourth and finally…

  Well, he’s the Batman. And the word is spreading that he’s back. And the minor players, they seem to have figured out that it’s time for them to clear the field.

  FOURTEEN

  ON DAY 143 ANOTHER WAR COUNCIL WAS held in the Gordon/Essen home in TriCorner, this time in the garden, rather than the rec room. Spring had come into Gotham quickly and already the temperature was beginning to climb from tolerable to pleasant, and it wouldn’t be long after that, Montoya knew, before they hit humid-as-hell unbearable.

  But on this late May day, under a clear blue sky and comforted by a slight breeze, it was perfect spring, and Montoya wanted to enjoy it.

  Gordon’s garden had exploded in the last few weeks, frozen and dead earth coming rampantly alive with a riot of leaf, vine, and petal. He had planted too much too close together, and now the plants fought one another for space in the soil, trying to reach for light while slaking an ever-present thirst. In another few weeks, the battle would be over, the losers uprooted, the winners entrenching further to wait out the summer. Only the plum tree looked to be above it all, leafy and just beginning to form its fruit.

  They sat in chairs brought from inside the house, Montoya between Essen on her left and Bullock on her right, with Foley and then Pettit extending out. Gordon stood with his back to the tree, using its shade. All of them wore short sleeves but Foley, who was still managing to maintain a jacket-and-tie look, even after so long. Montoya had to hand it to the man; he had the courage of his convictions.

  “A little over a month ago we liberated Old Gotham and reclaimed Central,” Gordon said. “We’ve survived the worst that the winter had to offer us, and we’ve done it without suffering unacceptable losses of personnel or materiel. Current intelligence puts us sharing the No Man’s Land with a handful of minor gangs—the Xhosa, Lynx, and the like—and some of the heavy hitters.

  “It’s the heavy hitters, we need to discuss. Bill, you have an analysis?”

  Pettit rose and took the rolled map from where it lay on the potting shelf, spread it out on the brick patio in front of them, weighting its edges with flowerpots. He used the knife from his belt to indicate positions on the paper.

  “Tactically, we’re exposed as hell right now,” he said with a frown. “Basically, we can be hit at any time from any side except from behind, and that’s only because we’ve got the ocean to our back. Not good if we have to retreat. To the west we have the minor gangs, and right now they’re acting as a buffer against whatever lunatics maybe on the Upper West Side—reports are that Victor Fries is up there, and maybe that psychopath Zsasz.

  “To our north we’ve got Penguin, basically between the edge of Old Gotham and the south side of Robinson Park. He’s got more territory, as well, on the east of the park, which is acting as a buffer for his back, so he can free up more men to put on our border.”

  “He’s not worried about the park?” Foley asked.

  Pettit looked pointedly at Bullock, who cleared his throat and said, “Uh, Poison Ivy’s in the park, Hugh. And since Ivy can control plants, and since she doesn’t like people, she’s pretty much being left alone. Nobody’s going in or out All we know about that situation is that, urn, a certain masked individual apparently went into the Heart of Darkness there at the beginning of May, and when he came out a couple days later, deliveries of fresh produce began making their way throughout the city.”

  “Batman was in the park?” Foley asked.

  Montoya winced, watching the Commissioner, expecting an eruption of some bile, something to acknowledge the mention. Gordon kept his attention fixed on the map and didn’t make a sound.

  “That’s what we heard,” Bullock said. “And there are freshies floating around the city to prove the point. Figure that Penguin worked out something with Ivy near the start of NML to keep his operation supplied with fruits and veggies… then you-know-who went in and, uh, renegotiated a less exclusive deal.”

  “Let’s get back on point,” Gordon said, looking up from the map and taking all of them in with his gaze. “We’ve got gangs to the west and Penguin to the north. It’s the same problem we had with the Demonz and the LoBoys; it’s just a matter of time before one of them decides they want our waterfront property.”

  “You’re not suggesting the same solution we used before?” Foley asked. “Trying to facilitate another war?”

  “Wouldn’t work,” Pettit said before Gordon could answer. “Word has spread by now about what went down. Can’t get away with the same trick twice.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  They all looked at Gordon. “We’ve had minor incursions from the Xhosa already,” the Commissioner began. “If Penguin pushes, we’ll be fighting on two fronts.”

  “Three fronts,” Montoya said. “Two-Face is to our east, and he’ll attack first chance he gets.”

  Gordon looked at her, then nodded. “Renee’s right. We need to secure a wider territory, insure our own survival. To this end I’m proposing a major offensive to take Penguin’s territory to the north.”

  “Are you crazy?” Foley said.

  “We put Robinson Park to our back, we secure our northern perimeter,” Pettit said. “Tactically sound.”

  “Bullock just said that Ivy’s in the park!” Foley said, getting to his feet. “Dear God, Bill, is that your idea of a safe perimeter?”

  “And she hasn’t come out, Hugh! Ivy’s not the threat Penguin or Two-Face are.”

  Foley turned to Montoya, directing his appeal at her, Bullock, and Essen. “Then we should go after the gangs, after the Xhosa or the Lynx or whoever!”

  “No,” Gordon said again. “We need them as a buffer. We go after Penguin now, while we still have the manpower.”

  Foley spun back, and Montoya saw the man’s cheeks coloring, his hands in fists. “He’s got materiel, for God’s sake, Commissioner! He’s still got bullets!”

  “Which we’ll take from him.”

  “You’ll get us all killed!”

  Gordon stepped forward, nearly on top of Foley. “This is not open to debate, Hugh,” he said evenly.

  Montoya didn’t move, none of them moved, watching. Finally Foley stepped back, his mouth twisting into a sour grimace, as if he were tasting the memory of a bad meal. He looked at each of them in turn, and when his eyes found Montoya’s she didn’t look away, trying to show her sympathy. But no one spoke and she saw his posture change, his shoulders slumping, and then Foley moved past the group, making for the door back into the house.

  “You think you’re a general,” he said, looking back at Gordon. “But you’re not. You’re a bureaucrat who’s playing at war, and we’re going to pay the price.”

  Then he was out of sight, back inside the house.

  “Are there any other objections?” Gordon asked. When no one spoke, he added, “Then that’s all.”

  Pettit rose, saying, “I’ll go talk to him, Jim.”

  Gordon nodded. Montoya got to her feet, waiting for Harvey, but before she was out of the garden she heard the Commissioner calling her name.

  “Renee. Stay for a minute.”

  She stopped, looking at Bullock, who shrugged. Essen had held up in the doorway and was looking back at her with a confused expression.

  “I need to talk to you alone,” Gordon said.

  Montoya watched Essen’s face change, hardening slightly, and then the lieutenant had entered the house, Bullock with her. Montoya turned back around to face Gordon, who was still looking at the map spread out on the brick patio. He had removed his glasses and was rubbing the skin at the bridge of his nose, and she could see the discoloration where the pads on the frames had rested so often and for so long. He replaced the glasses and sighed heavily.

  “What do you think?” he asked. “And please, don’t worry about hurting my feelings.”

  “I think Foley is right, sir. We don’t have the manpower to go up against Penguin. Pettit handed out the last of our bullets two
weeks ago, and he hasn’t been able to find any more. Our offensive capability is seriously limited, now. We used up a lot of our supplies retaking Central and Old Gotham. And for an offensive like the one you’re proposing, you’re going to have to commit all of the cops. We can’t use the civilians in the sectors, they wouldn’t stand a chance, most of them.”

  “I know.”

  “Then you know we’ll probably lose if we try to take Penguin on.” She swallowed hard. “And if that happens…”

  “… if that happens, then chaos will rule Gotham until Judgment Day,” the Commissioner concluded.

  Montoya heard the sound of bees buzzing in the flowers nearby, and distantly, beyond the garden’s walls, the bare hint of voices. Gordon was staring at his house, and she could tell whatever he was thinking, it was giving him no joy. She caught a wisp of fragrance on the air, the bright scent of the plum tree.

  Gordon broke the silence. “Do you trust me, Renee?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  He nodded and she thought that, somehow, her answer hadn’t been the one he was hoping for, that he looked a little sadder than before, a little older, a little more tired.

  “I need you to do something,” he said. “It’s not an easy thing. It’s something that, if you’re caught doing it, I’ll deny I ever asked it of you. No one can know, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “If you refuse to do what I’m going to ask, I’ll understand. No penalty, I swear, and I won’t think less of you for it. Understand, I’m asking you because you’re the best person for the job, and I think … I think you’ll see that.” He looked at Montoya, those eyes that made her think of her own father. “Am I clear?”

  “Perfectly, sir.” Curiosity was creeping into her voice, and she tried to shut it down. “You know I’ll follow your orders, sir. You know I trust you.”

  He looked even sadder. “I do.”

  And he told her.

  * * * * *

  As a cop, Sarah Essen knew she was suspicious by nature. But that didn’t make her feel any better about it, and it wasn’t helping her now as she looked out the closed window into the backyard where her husband and Detective Renee Montoya were sitting together on the bench by the plum tree, heads bent, clearly deep in conversation. They’d been at it for almost twenty minutes now, and she knew she shouldn’t be timing it, and she knew it shouldn’t really bother her, but it did nonetheless.

  It wasn’t that she suspected her husband of cheating on her, though God knew that if precedent was the issue, it had already been established by the two of them ten years earlier. That wasn’t it at all.

  It was that whatever he was sharing with Montoya, he wasn’t willing to share with her. That rankled. She and her husband had been lovers before becoming friends, and there was a time when communication between the two of them had all but broken down. It had taken time and effort for each of them to learn to communicate, to listen and speak to one another with respect and care. But they had managed. Yet there he was, her husband and friend and lover, clearly engaging Montoya in a confidence he had neglected to share with his own wife.

  More than that, it made Essen nervous. No, that wasn’t quite right.

  It frightened her.

  It meant that whatever he was telling Montoya now, he was afraid to share with the one person with whom he’d been willing to share everything else.

  That couldn’t be good.

  Now Montoya was rising, and so was Jim. He put a hand on the young detective’s shoulder, a pat, more paternal than friendly, and Renee was turning, heading back into the house, toward her, head down.

  “What’s up?” Sarah asked.

  Montoya shook her head. “Nothing. Just… it was nothing.”

  Sarah watched her continue past, then turned back to the window again. In the garden, Jim had sat once more on the bench, staring at the map still weighted down on the ground.

  “Nothing,” Sarah echoed.

  Sure.

  FIFTEEN

  “AND WHERE IS HE?” THE PENGUIN DEMANDED.

  “Um … maybe he got, uh, held up, you know,” Garrett offered.

  “Garrett, my fine friend, do you know what a rhetorical question is?”

  Garrett shook his head.

  “It’s a question asked without the expectation of an answer,” the Penguin explained, fitting another cigarette to the end of the long ebony holder. “My question was a rhetorical one. You did not need to answer it. Light, if you please.”

  Garrett fumbled the Zippo out and snapped the flame to life quickly, bending to light the smoke. He was sincerely trying to be as helpful as possible, still grateful that Penguin hadn’t given him the sack after the disaster on the bridge. All things considered, actually, Penguin had been remarkably forgiving.

  “The Bat Factor,” Penguin had said. “Impossible to predict, and useless to bemoan. The best one can do is anticipate and prepare, and then hope that the damnable flying rodent minds his own business for once in his miserable life.”

  Garrett had understood only half of that, but figured it meant his job was safe. And in fact, replacing the Zippo in his pocket and straightening once more to take in the street, he had to accept that his read was right. Here he was, almost a month later, standing on an empty street at the south edge of Penguin’s territory, baseball bat slung over his back, acting as Cobblepot’s personal bodyguard. And behind Garrett another twenty men, his to command if the Penguin demanded it.

  Garrett still wasn’t certain exactly why they were there, though.

  Penguin shuffled in a small circle, head up and pushed almost comically forward, adjusting the monocle on his right eye. He was muttering to himself, too, and Garrett had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.

  The man looked like a short, fat, bird, and that’s all there was to it. Only, no feathers.

  It took another five minutes of Penguin’s waddling, by which time Garrett thought be might have actually bitten through his tongue, before things started happening. Garrett saw the man first, coming up from the south end of the avenue, tall, and for a horrifying moment Garrett thought it was the Bat again, what with the way the man’s overcoat flapped like a cape and how big the guy was and everything. But the color was wrong. Then Penguin saw the guy approaching, too, and blew a long exhale of smoke, and Garrett figured that this was who they had been waiting for.

  The man continued to approach, and out of the rubble behind him came more figures, ten by Garrett’s count, all armed with bats and clubs. He grinned. Twenty to ten, they’d win any fight easy.

  “You’re late,” snapped the Penguin.

  “Half the time,” the man said, and Garrett got a look at his face, and got scared again.

  It was one of the freaks.

  “You have a proposal for me, Two-Face?” the Penguin asked, and he sounded bored. Garrett looked respectfully down at his employer. If Penguin was scared of the freak, he didn’t show it.

  “I do,” Two-Face said. “One you’re going to like.”

  “And what exactly do you have in mind, my bipartisan friend?”

  “A solution to a mutual problem. We don’t have to fight, Cobblepot—”

  Penguin held up a gloved hand, then gestured in an arc that took in Two-Face’s men. “If you’re proposing a surrender, Harvey, I should caution you. By all reports my forces vastly outnumber yours.”

  He indicated Garrett and the men standing behind him.

  Two-Face nodded. “But you can’t attack me, can you, Cobblepot? You’re supposed to play nice from here on out. You’ve cut a deal with the Batman.”

  Penguin drew himself up, the cigarette holder in his mouth going level. His voice was tight. “Only for as long as it serves me.”

  “I can give you his land,” Two-Face said. “Keep those white gloves of yours nice and clean.”

  Penguin made the clucking noise. “Such largesse is unlike you, Harvey. Meaning, my confrere, what’s in it for you?”

/>   “You always were a smart bird. Meaning, you take pressure off my northern border. As you’ve said, I’m low on manpower, can’t spare them for both defense and offense. You leave me alone, I can go west.”

  “Gordon’s to your west. Him and those Blue Boys of his.”

  Two-Face grinned, and Garrett was sure he’d be seeing it in his nightmares until he was ninety.

  “I’ll destroy him,” Two-Face said.

  The cigarette holder moved in Penguin’s mouth, bobbing up and down. Penguin said, “You do take it personally, don’t you, Harvey? It’s been quite some time since you and Gordon were seated at the same table.”

  “Some of us don’t forget where we came from.”

  “Ah, yes, the noble police lieutenant and the crusading district attorney, I remember it well.” Penguin removed the monocle, cleaning it against the edge of his waistcoat, then replacing it. “And you guarantee you can take care of the Bat?”

  “Absolutely. Give me two days and a little help, I’ll get it done.”

  “Help how?”

  “Chloral hydrate.”

  “Easily acquired. What else?”

  “Just one more thing,” Two-Face said, glancing over Penguin’s men and settling his look on Garrett. “I’ll need some bait.”

  “Me?” Garrett said.

  Penguin patted his forearm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, my friend. Harvey will take good care of you.”

  * * * * *

  The TallyMan, chief among Two-Face’s lieutenants, was as flamboyant a killer as any who stalked the No Man’s Land. Part of the costumed-criminal set, it was his Seussian top hat that marked him more than anything else. That, and the two revolvers he carried on him at all times, shining silver and more often out of their holsters than in them.

  To Two-Face’s mind, the TallyMan was a glorified hit man, nothing more, and he suffered him only because he could control him. But Two-Face did not like him, and when he saw that the TallyMan was waiting in front of City Hall, it made Two-Face angry.