“I intend to leave after my death a large fund for the promotion of the peace idea.
“But I am skeptical as to its results.“Alfred nobel
Out Of The Frying Pan
A simple note, written in haste:
Thursday, 10:00 at Welsh Cannery – Fries
Bruce had spent a day trying to work out what Dr. Fries, Gotham’s Coroner, could want to tell Batman. He pondered why it needed to be in person, and he considered whether it was a trap.
Thoroughly convinced that the note was an invitation to a trap, Bruce wanted to run it by his closest confidant, for a second opinion. However, with Alfred still being away with family, he would have to settle for Dick.
There was always the possibility that the younger, more brash man would see it from another angle (because, admittedly, Bruce thought everything was a trap).
He found Dick in the smaller garage that had been converted into a gym. Dick had been working out, if the disarray of the weight bench or the jumprope on the floor was any indication. And now, he was hitting the heavy bag, flinging beads of sweat through the air at impressive velocity.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” Bruce critiqued Dick’s form, though truth be told, his adopted brother was an impressive fighter, and took his physical training and rehabilitation very seriously. He was faster than Bruce, and certainly more agile (even if that wasn’t noticeable to any but the most talented opponents), but his hits didn’t land with the force of Bruce’s. And talent is rarely a match for experience.
Dick relaxed, and clumsily toweled his face with a sweat rag, tossing it onto the floor – probably just to annoy Bruce. He approached his older brother with a roguish grin and a flurry of pantomimed punches (and he exhaled for each of them).
“What’s up old man,” Dick held his mitted hands out for Bruce to pull the boxing gloves off. Bruce rolled his eyes, and yanked at the gloves, then handed them back to Dick with a look that should’ve translated into “put them where they belong,” but that was ignored with the sound of them hitting the hard floor.
“The coroner wants to meet at the old Welsh Cannery tomorrow night,” Bruce stopped abruptly.
“He doesn’t want to meet me,” Bruce made a hand gesture to indicate Batman.
“Oh. Tell me more.”
Bruce showed Dick the note, explaining how he came to be in possession of it. He gave Dick a summary of his observations of Fries, trying to be as objective as possible. He didn’t ask any questions, but when Bruce had finished his rundown, Dick looked up at the clock on the wall, and started running laps around the garage. After ten orbits, he came back, barely even breathing heavy.
“So this is a trap, right? My gut is saying it’s a trap.”
“My gut is saying the same.”
“But he has to go, right?”
“No, he doesn’t. A good detective doesn’t tread lightly into obvious traps. If Fries thinks he’ll show, and is using that to arrange an ambush with GPD, he might actually be trapped, regardless of how well-prepared he thinks he is.”
“And what if it’s not a trap?” Dick retorted. “You said it yourself, Gelio has guys on the coroner’s office at all hours. What if this is the only place that’s enough out of the way of those goons where he felt safe meeting?”
“He can get past the goons.”
“No. He did get past the goons.”
Bruce grunted disapproval at the implication, and tore the note into pieces, eating them one-by-one.
Dick retched disapproval at the bizarre choice.
“There’s a wood stove that is always burning in the kitchen, man.”
“I was looking for an outside view on whether it was a trap. The decision tree was always ‘if trap, don’t go,’ and I hadn’t and won’t consider ‘if trap should he go?’ and frankly, that seems pretty asinine.”
“The coroner is a victim. Gordon apparently trusts him, they might even be social. Fries needs to know that he has allies. You told me that.”
“I cannot conceive of an argument that would change my mind on this,” Bruce was obstinate in his tone and his decision. “Gordon is still a cop. And he still wants to bring him in.”
Dick began to say something, then closed his mouth.
“I’m going to need a hand with something this evening. Late.”
“You can ride a motorcycle, right?”
“Sure,” Dick answered, and he picked up the jump rope and resumed his workout.
“This chair is much nicer than we get at the police precinct,” Commissioner Gelio tented his fingers, and scowled, shifting in his seat and truly feeling the quality of the leather. “It’s quite amusing that the most at-risk city employees should suffer in discomfort, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Fuckin’ laugh riot,” answered Councilman Bob Barnaby. “There’s a lot less council members than cops, though, commissioner. It’s like I said on the phone, I’m votin’ against renewin’ the curfew.”
Fewer, Johnny didn’t say it. The councilman wouldn’t keep a clear head if he was being needled to death.
Barnaby snorted like he was clearing a stuffy nose, and took a draw of his cigarette.
“The council thinks you’ve worn out your welcome. The mayor might like you, but he don’t look too long for this world, does he? And the boy wonder ain’t really a fan of police. Way I see it, your curfew ain’t workin’. There’s talk about not renewin’.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Johnny felt the beginnings of a spasm, but he leaned in instead of trying to will it away. His face became a masque of a smiling menace. “You see, I’ve recently whoever the next mayor is won’t be able to replace me as quickly as you think.
“So I’m making it known – in certain circles – that if the curfew fails, we’ll have to reassign some officers. And whichever party has the most votes in favor of renewal, well let’s just say that the Gothamites in those districts will find their calls to the police answered much more reliably.”
“Bullshit. You serve the people of Gotham. You can’t show favoritism to entire districts.”
“You voted to cut the education budget three times. You voted to cut funding to Gotham Fire. Twice. Your opponent hasn’t mentioned that yet, and I understand it’s a tight race.”
Barnaby steamed in his seat.
“Get out of my office.”
“Of course, councilman. I hope that I can count on your vote.”
The commissioner stood up and took his leave, still smiling.
After a long day of knocking doors in Crime Alley and Ashburton, Barbara Gordon was running late for her Tuesday evening debrief with Dick.
Dick was often late (which didn’t make any sense, because they always met at his home), but that didn’t mean that Barbara was alright with the behavior for herself.
She had a key to the house now, and Bruce and the conspicuously absent Alfred had both made great efforts to make her feel at home. Dick, for his part, was the one who suggested giving her a key, and always made a point to have an extra plate for her when their meetings coincided with mealtime.
When she reached the dining room that they used as a campaign office, Dick was already there, wearing a tank top undershirt, and with a towel around his neck. His hair was sopping wet.
“You’re late,” he remarked, with a tone that Barbara took to mean he was only half serious.
“Sorry, had a long conversation with a big group of people in one of the crime alley tenements. It was like a town hall in miniature.”
Dick nodded, and pulled out his folio, as well as the clipboard where he kept records of who he’d spoken with during his own canvass that morning.
The pair compared notes, noting changing sentiments around Dick as a candidate (for the better, in most neighborhoods) and around Karlo (for the worse).
“People are asking about the police, especially in Crime Alley,” Barbara noted. “The feeling in the tenements is they hate the curfew – almost everyone has seen abuses of power – but they still don’t believe that they’ll be as safe with you as mayor, because they think you’re going to fire the whole department.”
“Did they say anything about Gelio?”
Barbara looked away. People told her that they believed in the commissioner’s ability to make Gotham a better city, even if they don’t totally trust the department as a whole.
“They like him. They trust him. They told me that the commissioner is the strongest mark for Karlo,” she finally answered.
Dick let out a concerned sigh, running his fingers through his hair and scratching his head vigorously, sending a tiny mist in every direction.
“Towel,” Barbara commanded, holding out her hand for the towel around Dick’s neck. He put it in her hand and chuckled as she dried her face with it.
“People have been saying the same thing to me,” Dick said. “I’ve had more than one person ask me to commit to keeping him around if I win.”
“Oh. They’ve said that to me, too.”
“I think that’s something we’ll need an answer for at the debate. Any chance your father would give us something on him?”
“Dad doesn’t want the police being politicized. Says life is bad enough for a cop in Gotham without the politicians getting into it,” Barbara halfheartedly smiled. “He’s not much of a voter.”
“Now that I understand. The electoral process is rigged against the little guy.”
“I’ll try again though. He sometimes lets things slip. One time he ranted about these ‘henchmen’ that they hired. Said they were like ‘gangsters in blue.’ Much more brutal and abusive than even the worst guys he’s worked with.”
“It’s a play on words. The company that they’re contracted through is called Henshaw Allied.”
“Oh. Well, thanks for digging. Where are we headed tomorrow?”
“We’re in Harborview and Midtown, if we can get into the apartment buildings.”
“Okay. I’ll make a call to a couple people in the neighborhood that I know, maybe they’ll introduce us to some of their neighbors.”
“That reminds me!” Barbara said suddenly. “There were a couple women in Crime Alley who asked if we would pay their teenagers to knock on doors, part time. I got their information.”
“It’s not too long until the election, and maybe they can work in my office after we win. Or at the company. If I’m talking about giving people more fair-paying jobs, I think this is a good chance to practice what we preach. Speaking of fair, are we paying you enough?”
Barbara was struck silent. This job paid her nearly fifty percent more than her job at Wayne Enterprises, which was already a very good job.
“Yes. Um. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I know you love your bicycle, but I’m thinking we could give you a car – at least through the election – just to make it easier to get back and forth, and make you less reliant on the bus?”
Barbara thought for the space between breaths.
It is getting darker earlier. And the ride from the bus stop to the house is another fifteen minutes.
“It would be nice, but it’s not absolutely necessary,” she said. “But it would be nice.”
“It’s necessary,” came the unexpected, authoritative voice of Bruce from the doorway.
I hate it when he does that.
“If you’d prefer, we can hire a driver for you.”
“No, no. That would surely be too much,” Barbara insisted.
“Then let’s get you squared away.” Bruce held out his hand and motioned for Dick and Barbara to join him, and they walked briskly toward the garage.
The big garage.
Bruce and Dick called it the hangar, and while it didn’t have any planes, it could certainly accommodate a small air force. Rows and rows of glistening cars of different makes and models created monochromatic aisles in the enormous outbuilding.
“Gee, do you have anything in black?” Barbara puzzled at the singular color on every vehicle, which all looked like they were recently polished to a glossy shine.
Dick and Bruce both chuckled.
“Any one you like,” Bruce motioned magnanimously to the cars; an invitation for Barbara to tour the hangar.
She walked down the first aisle, side-by-side with Dick, who told her what each of the cars was, what made it great (or, rarely, bad). Bruce strode behind them, looming like a shadow.
Barbara felt a pang of spontaneous guilt.
“This doesn’t seem right,” she was indignant. “We’re talking about rearranging the social order to help the most people, and you have so many cars you can give me one?”
“Barba–“ Dick tried to interject, but she pushed through.
“I mean, just look at this place! How many people could live in this building alone? And you’re using it to store cars? For what? How many Gothamites, who are much worse off than I am, thank you, could benefit from having a free car? You could give a hundred people a car, and build fifty units of housing right here in this hangar,” she was breathing heavily now. “And I like taking the bus! It’s pretty reliable, it’s cheap, it can fit my bike. Why are you laughing, Dick? Oh gosh, I’m sorry.”
Dick just broke down in hysterical laughter, while Bruce just smiled with a warmth Barbara hadn’t truly seen before.
“I had my doubts about you, Barb,” Dick managed to say between fits, “but look what we’ve done to your sense of Justice. You’re well on your way to becoming a socialist.”
Barbara could feel her face start to flush red.
You didn’t do this, Dick. She thought. People deserve a reliable, publicly-funded way to get to their jobs in the morning and home at night.
“Barbara,” Bruce grabbed Dick by the shoulder and squeezed it just a little too hard, and the laughs faded fast. “You don’t have to feel sorry. You’re absolutely right that this space could be better utilized. Most of these vehicles belong to The Pennyworth Foundation, and there’s only a handful that aren’t driven every week. Al lets his employees take them home if they need a car for an upcoming trip, and the social workers he employs use them to make home visits without racking up miles on their personal cars. Many of them ride the bus to get here, too.
“Even considering all of that, you’re correct that Dick and I don’t ride the bus nearly enough, for supposed ‘men of the people,’” Bruce stopped, and put his hand on his chin to think. “Let’s change that. Starting tomorrow, we’re giving up our cars. At least through the debate.”
“What?!” Barbara shouted. “What?!” Dick shouted at the same time.
“This will be a great way for Dick to talk to more people, and learn about how people with less privilege live their lives.”
Dick made a motion to protest, but Bruce cut him off.
“It’s less than a month,” he emphasized.
“Fine,” Dick rolled his eyes.
“And another thing,” Barbara added. “We need a concrete plan to increase investment in transportation. You know a woman named Martha Kane started to build a subway here back in 1919? There are tunnels, but no tracks. It was just an abandoned project, and no one talks about it! You could bring that back! Think about how many jobs that would create.”
The temperature in the hangar seemed to fall by five degrees all at once, and the smile on Bruce’s face became far less warm.
“That’s an excellent idea, Barbara,” said Bruce. “Dick is going to finish with you out here, I have some things to do.”
Barbara knew that she’d said something wrong, but she continued walking in awkward silence in the opposite direction from Bruce, who had crossed the floor to the exit in the blink of an eye.
“The subway is a really good idea, Barbara,” Dick said after more uncomfortable quiet. “It’s just, Martha Kane was Bruce’s mother. The city forgot about the project when she and Thomas were…” he trailed off.
“Oh my god, Dick, I didn’t know that was Bruce’s mom. I can’t believe I said that. I-I didn’t know.”
“It’s alright, he’ll be fine. And it is an excellent idea to revive the subway. He meant that. He just likes to brood sometimes.” Dick had the slightest hint of a laugh in his voice.
“Sometimes,” Barbara laughed more obviously, and Dick did the same.
“What about this one?” He asked, running his hands over the sleek curves of a sportier car than most of them. “Daimler Double Six. Fast as hell, too. I think you’d look really good in this,” he added, a little too flirtatiously for Barbara’s liking. It’s not that Dick wasn’t handsome. He was, objectively so. She just wasn’t configured in a way that made her want him. She preferred a partner with more intellectual firepower. And, while Dick was probably smarter than anyone she’d ever dated, she rarely saw him outside of the context of Bruce or Alfred, both of whom seemed to run circles around the youngest member of their little fraternity.
“How do you even see out of that tiny windshield?” Barbara asked. “Doesn’t seem practical. Wait.” Barbara darted to the next aisle, stopping at a 1930 Chevrolet pickup truck, complete with a raw picket stake body on the bed.
“Yeah. It’ll be good for the campaign. Volunteers can ride in the bed, and we can give people rides to the polls on Election Day, and– it looks really great, too.”
“I guess,” he shrugged, and opened the passenger side door to retrieve the key. “Why don’t you drive us back to the house?” Dick suggested, tossing the key in her direction.
Barbara snatched it confidently and smiled.
“The stake body?” Bruce muttered under his breath as the bus bounced him up and down in his seat.
“I thought you said we were giving up cars tomorrow,” Dick was annoyed. The black sweater was itchy and he still didn’t understand what they were doing.”
“That was before you gave Barbara the stake body.”
“We have five of them!”
“And the other four were being taken home. Didn’t you look at the schedule?”
Dick rolled his eyes, and Bruce pulled on the bell to indicate that they were the next stop.
“What is it we’re doing?”
“Hoping there’s a box truck at Shamrock,” Bruce said when they were a distance from the bus. They walked under an underpass down a mildly sloping street which was less and less well lit with every block. “Was thinking about escape routes, and right now, the plan is just ‘run and hide.’”
“How long did you have to wait on Falcone’s roof before you were clear to leave?”
“Gee,” Dick thought about it. “Like two hours. It was so boring.”
“Blow a hole in a guy’s house, and I guarantee everything’s going to be boring for the rest of the night.”
Dick said nothing.
“At first I thought we needed a car, and, part of me still thinks that we do.”
“Wait, are you just walking around in costume through the streets when you patrol?”
Bruce shot a concerned look at Dick, but Dick pushed his head forward to indicate the question was a completely reasonable one. Bruce looked up, scanning the sky.
“I don’t walk on the streets,” Bruce answered. “I move through the shadows.”
“Jesus, Bruce,” Dick’s tone was sardonic. “Maybe you are a dracula.”
The duo arrived at the Shamrock Electro-Lock, Ltd. lot. To Dick’s great relief, (though he still didn’t know why) there were multiple box trucks.
“I take a car to a point, and then I park it,” Bruce explained completely out of nowhere. “I ditch my clothes in an alley, and usually get back to the car late enough that no one notices a giant bat getting into it. But that’s the problem with an automobile.”
“Exactly. If the cops or Falcone made the car, they could move it, or steal it, or booby trap it. Or they could just wait, and follow it. But a motorcycle is easier to hide, it’s easier to get rid of, and it’s faster than almost any car.”
“You have the same problems with a motorcycle, Bruce, except they’re more dangerous, especially in the rain. And it rains all the time! Even if a motorcycle can’t be driven off somewhere, you need two guys to pick one up and throw it in the harbor, and then you’re back on the streets,” Dick wiggled his fingers like a movie monster, and put on a Transylvanian affect. “Sorry, I mean the shaaAAaaAadows.”
“We would have the same problem with a motorcycle,” Bruce stepped up into the cab of the box truck. “Open the gate.”
“So what’s your plan?” Dick asked after jogging back to the truck. “You’re going to have a network of motorcycles on every city block? And won’t Shamrock know they’re missing?”
“Put this on,” Bruce said, handing Dick a pair of thick glasses and a scraggly wool newsboy’s cap. “At the docks, you’re going to say your name is Liam Warner.”
On Thursday, September 20th, 1934, the sun had set over New Jersey at 6:58pm. And at 8 o’clock, the Batman moved through the shadows.
No police cars. Barely any cars to speak of, really. West Side was only about 20% occupied. There was a rusty truck parked on four flat tires further down the street. It may have been green or black, but it was impossible to tell in the limited light. Just beyond that, a motorcycle. Matte black. He knew the color with the certainty of ownership.
The Welsh Cannery was formerly the crown jewel of West Side, Gotham City’s manufacturing district.
Now it sat, shuttered and boarded up. A capsized cruise liner in an derelict harbor.
The ghost town of it all did a lot to create tension, but it was a good sign. A trap would require setup – the cops had sent a platoon the last time – and the police scanner was quiet about West Side, as was the norm for a neighborhood mostly made up of vacant buildings and empty homes.
Batman crept to the rear of the building and shot the batrope to the fire escape, with the signature hiss of a CO₂ cartridge propelling the hook upwards. The grapple anchored, and he climbed the rope in the span of a few seconds, with the ease and grace of an acrobat.
From the fire escape, the shadow made his way to the roof, executed a sufficiently paranoid survey, and then walked to the edge.
The closest adjacent rooftop was, fortunately, lower. Unfortunately, it was much lower, and here it would be stupid at best and deadly at worst to assume the roof would support the weight of an adult man wearing several pounds of armor.
Looks like you’ll need to check it out, he thought. And that’s why you arrive early. To learn everything you can about your surroundings.
He loaded another cartridge, discarding the spent cylinder in the gun, and shot the batrope at the other rooftop. It flew downward, anchoring onto a brick chimney vent, and Batman gave it a pull to test the hold. He took a deep breath, coiling the remaining cord around his wrist, leaving a foot or so of slack, and walked backward until the cord was taut again. One, two, three steps, then a leap.
And he was falling. Falling. Falling toward the other rooftop, the sound of the police scanner in one ear and his cape rushing behind him in the other. The brisk night air made him feel like he was flying again, his hand holding the rope behind his head as he hurtled like a missile toward the side of the building.
He was going to miss the roof, but that was his intention. Now, he just needed to miss the wall. The wall. The WALL! Batman flew toward the wall at an angle, a meteor in a cape, when he felt the tightening of the rope wrapped around his forearm, he pulled his hands together to hold the rope like Tarzan holding a vine. Just as he did, the cable caught on the corner of the building, redirecting him to the front of the structure and upward.
He unwound the rope and spun in a reverse somersault in the air, and, his cape completely unfurled, hissed carbon dioxide into the veins of the cloth just before landing on the ground soundlessly.
The clinking of two spent cartridges on the ground, and the scurrying of a rat broke the quiet, and Batman exhaled, walking back toward the building, a former rowhouse speakeasy with an apartment on each of the two floors above .
Breaking into the bar was easier, if more conspicuous, and only required removing two boards that barricaded the front door. He looked up before walking in, scanning the sky for anything unusual; the bottom of his rope swayed easily twelve feet above his head, and snickered inwardly at the distance he must’ve fallen from the swing. He stepped inside the dark bar, and pulled the small metal flashlight from his belt, clicking it on.
The place was in better shape than he expected. There was dust everywhere, but the bar was stocked. Prohibition had ended less than a year ago, but this place looked (from the outside at least) like it hadn’t been visited in years.
“Temperance for Metropolis. Tipplers for Gomorrah,” was the old slogan in the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union. The snobs in Metropolis used to call Gotham Gomorrah. And it probably would’ve stuck if people didn’t love to drink. Not that there weren’t twice as many hooch houses in Metropolis, anyway.
The Bat made his way across the creaky floors, testing the wood for give, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. In another city, he’d expect to see drug use, or at least a drifter shacked up in the apartment, which was equally dusty but none the worse for wear. It was a huge studio with a private shower, which suggested to him that the previous occupant was the owner.
No good for hiding, though. Just the one window.
Batman ascended the stairs to the third floor. The apartment here was in much worse shape. The floor had serious water damage and in places looked spongy. There were stained linens bunched in a corner, and there was evidence of mold and moisture all over. This room was used much more recently, if still several months ago.
This doesn’t promote confidence in the integrity of the roof.
Accessing the roof was already suboptimal. He had to enter the musty closet and pull down an access ladder to an attic, which smelled like death warmed over. If there were enough light, he knew he would see a battalion of rats, he certainly heard them scurrying across the baseboards.
From the attic, he needed to lift himself through a vent – a simple enough jump and pull-up – and after popping off the grate, he emerged, lightly touching down onto the rooftop to test its strength.
It was in surprisingly good shape considering the room below, and he jumped in different places to confirm the consistency. He moved to the brick chimney, and retrieved the batrope, coiling it back into the launcher.
He turned his arm over, and rolled up a sleeve to reveal a watch with the face on the underside of his wrist.
9:37, you spent too long casing. Got lost in thought. Go get into position.
He aimed the batrope at the cannery and fired upward. The hiss of the cartridge, followed by the rope falling toward the streets below. He grabbed the cord to stop its descent, and reeled the cord in.
Firing up twenty feet was a lot more ambitious for the little burst of CO₂.
The Batman climbed back through the vent, and descended the stairs to the streets below.
Batman heard Dr. Victor Fries, Gotham City’s coroner, before he saw him.
“Hello?” A voice called out to an empty first floor, his voice reverberating like the inside of a chapel.
The voice’s footsteps fell heavy. He was wearing boots, and obviously untrained in the arts of stealth.
Fries could have Gordon hiding out somewhere, waiting outside. Ambush is unlikely, but don’t get cocksure.
The light-haired crown of the coroner’s head appeared at the threshold of the second floor landing. The man wore a trenchcoat, and looked more like a gumshoe than a doctor.
“Batman?” He scanned the room with a glinting chrome flashlight, and stepped forward, cautiously. “It’s Victor Fries, the coroner.”
A whispered word to the man carried across the abandoned cannery floor:
The man turned on his heel, not displaying any sign of shock or surprise, and holding a revolver in his hand, very close to his body, pointing it in The Bat’s direction.
“Tell the devil Falcone sends his regards,”
A blur of cape and darkness juked to the side, grazed by the gun blast on his rib, and tearing a hole in his cape. He tossed the spent cylinder of CO₂ at the thug’s face. It ricocheted harmlessly off the man’s malar bone, was caught by Batman and immediately jammed back into the bridge of the goon’s nose with enough force to break it.
The man was clumsy, but he was built like a bear, and, as talented a fighter as Batman was, engaging with him only ran out the time between now and whenever the goon’s reinforcements arrived. And there would be reinforcements – Batman recognized the man’s face as one of the police on protective duty at Falcone’s home.
The officer’s nose bled profusely, dark bruises appeared below his eyelids, and tears welled in his eyes. He spat blood onto the ground in a great black gob, and leveled the gun at the living shadow again, firing off three shots in succession, but hitting only crumbling brick.
Batman scanned the room for the closest window, behind burlap grain bags, stacked like bricks. He dove for the stacks, and the goon fired his gun.
In 1867, chemist Alfred Nobel discovered that combining nitroglycerin with an absorbent material, like clay, made it more stable and safer to use for industrial applications. The invention led to great wealth for the man.
Anecdotally, Nobel was wracked with guilt for the destructive forces he’d unleashed upon the world with his invention, and, while nearing the end of his life, he bequeathed the majority of his fortune to a prize to promote Peace.
When improperly stored, dynamite “sweats” or “weeps” it’s nitroglycerin which forms crystals of pure nitroglycerin, destabilizing the material, and making it exceedingly dangerous to handle. In as little as a few weeks in a high humidity, high heat storage, this nitroglycerin leak can occur, and Summer had gone late in Gotham City.
The Caped Crusader was through the window in a mess of glass and pain when it occurred to him that the gunman with the broken nose wasn’t aiming for him, he was aiming for the burlap bags.