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More jazz verse--the first Batman bit is finally done. Parts of it sound weirdly like Ed McBain.
Smilin’ Jack Napier was a two-bit hood, a soldier and enforcer for the Santini crime family. Vito Santini was an old-fashioned man, a traditional man, he liked to call himself, and insisted that his operation stay away from prostitution, cocaine, and other “unsavoury” trades, sticking to respectable and community-minded pursuits such as running protection rackets and numbers rackets and supplying liquor to speakeasies. When men working under Santini forgot those dictates, or representatives of other families made the error of carrying out their own illegal endeavours on his territory, Santini sent Napier to show them the error of their ways.
Given that a mob boss named Scarface was currently trying to challenge the Santinis’ traditional control of the Gotham docks, there had recently been a lot of people whose ways had proven to be erroneous. Several of their bodies had been found in the East river.
Most of Gotham’s populace did not really believe in the Batman, relegating him to the same class of fantasy as alligators in the sewers or President Hoover’s promise of a chicken in every pot. That was as it should be. Batman did his best work in the dark; flashbulbs and gawking crowds were fine for that gaudily dressed flying man in Metropolis, or the man in the winged helmet who stopped bank robberies in Central City, but the Batman’s effectiveness depended on fear, not red capes and good press. The average Gothamite might believe his existence to be a myth, but the city’s underworld had long since begun looking over their collective shoulders as soon as the sun set.
The Santini family and Scarface’s boys were the exception, not being the superstitious sort. That, or they were arrogant and sloppy. Batman, as he observed a meeting between Napier and one of Scarface’s lieutenants from a catwalk near the ceiling of the Acme Chemical Plant, was leaning towards “arrogant and sloppy.” The building was dark, and his black cloak and cowl would have hidden him from all but the sharpest eyes, but Napier and Kennedy never even looked up.
“I thought these guys hated each other,” Robin muttered. “They look friendly enough to me.” He was crouched on the catwalk next to Batman, his red and green costume looking almost black in the shadows.
“Take a second look, Robin.” Napier might be smiling—the wide grin that had earned “Smilin’ Jack” his soubriquet—but he and Kennedy both wore guns under their suit coats, and their body language was that of two dogs circling in preparation for a fight.
“Not so friendly after all, huh?” Robin sighed, and dropped to the catwalk’s metal surface to sit cross-legged, his chin in his hands. “I wish we could hear what they were saying.”
“Don’t get comfortable,” Batman warned. “Bullock’s squad should be here any moment.”
In addition to being arrogant and sloppy, Kennedy was second cousin by marriage to one Detective Harvey Bullock, and his wife, tiring of Kennedy’s long string of prostitutes and chorus girls, had decided that rather than go to a state judge for a divorce, she’d put in a call to cousin Harvey and get her unfaithful husband brought before a federal judge on charges of conspiracy and violation of the Prohibition Act.
Bullock, Batman judged, would not have too difficult a time collaring Kennedy. Napier, however, was a different matter altogether. He had a reputation for being a dangerous man in a corner, and despite six years doing Vito Santini’s dirty work, had yet to see the inside of a jail cell.
And, indeed, when Batman heard the police cars pull up in front of the building several minutes later, Napier was the first of the two to draw his gun. When Bullock strolled through the door flanked by three pistol-carrying patrolmen, he surreptitiously slid the weapon back under his coat. Kennedy was not so quick to react.
“Well, well, gentlemen,” Bullock said cheerfully. “I got an anonymous tip says this warehouse is full of ‘intoxicating substances,’ and look who I find arguing over the goods. Drop the gun, Kennedy. Annie would never forgive me if I shot you. She’s looking forward to seeing you in jail.”
“Oh, by all means, officer,” Napier said loudly, “take him.” He stepped towards Kennedy and shoved him roughly forward into one of the patrolmen, yanking a pistol out from under his coat in the same movement and firing it over the policemen’s heads. The three men still on their feet ducked, and Napier took off like a shot.
“There’s our cue,” Robin observed.
“The warehouse is surrounded at street level. He’ll have to come up here and go out through the skylight.”
“Got it.” Robin broke left without being told, moving out along the catwalk until he was in position to drop down behind Napier and cut off his retreat.
Napier was fast, taking the steps three at a time, but the Batman was faster. He reached the head of the stairs in one smooth jump, putting himself between the criminal and the open skylight. “End of the line, Napier.”
“Out of my way, Batsy.” Napier brought his gun up, and Batman sent a batarang sailing out to strike his hand. The gun hit the steps with a loud clang of metal on metal. Napier’s long, thin face twisted into a snarl, no sign now of his famous grin. Batman took a step forwards, very aware of the loaded Mauser that lay on the step at the man’s feet, and Napier turned to run.
Robin dropped from the second level of catwalks to land in a crouch several steps below Napier. “No way, fella,” he said, straightening up with batarang in hand. “You stay right there like a good little criminal while my buddy there ties you up all nice for the cops.”
Napier dropped to a crouch, scooped up the discarded gun with his uninjured left hand, and fired.
Everything happened very slowly after that.
Batman’s shoulder caught Napier in the middle of the back just as the gun went off, bowling him over and sending both men into the beginnings of a headfirst slide down the stairs, halted only by Batman’s grab for the railing. He grabbed Napier’s left wrist with his other hand, pinning the gun to the steps, and looked up, the echoes of the shot still ringing in his ears, to see Robin, eyes closed, clinging to the railing with one hand. The other was pressed against his side.
Blood on a red tunic was just as invisible by moon light as blood on black evening clothes.
Napier wasn’t a big man; tossing him over the railing was the work of an instant. He screamed all the way down, hit something that splashed, and kept on screaming. “It burns, oh shit, it burns!”
“What the hell?” Bullock, wheezing like a bellows, stood frozen at the foot of the steps. “Batman!”
Batman ignored him. He grabbed Dick by the shoulders, taking the boy’s sagging weight, and dropped to one knee in front of him.
The liquid oozing around Dick’s hand looked black in the moonlight, but the smell of blood was obvious even over the reek of chemicals from the vats below. Lower right side, Batman thought, just below the ribcage. No exit wound.
“Oh, Jesus,” Dick moaned, “it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.”
“Damn, is the kid shot?” Bullock started climbing the steps, and Batman was reminded with a jolt that there were other people in the warehouse. Quite a few other people, and he could hear the sirens as more police cars pulled up outside.
“Someone get me out of here!” Napier howled. He sounded like a man in a great deal of pain. Good. Let him melt.
“For chrissake, you morons,” Bullock snapped over his shoulder. “One of you get him out of there before he liquidates!”
Everyone in the warehouse had turned to stare at Napier thrashing around in the chemical vat. Batman scooped Dick up in his arms, hissing a near-silent apology as he did so, and made for the skylight.
Jim Gordon’s shout echoed through the warehouse behind him. “What the hell is going on here?”
“I got no idea what happened, commissioner.” Bullock’s voice drifted out of the open skylight. “The guy must’ve slipped. He’s making this ‘Batman pushed me’ crap up. I didn’t see the Bat nowhere.”
Batman slid the skylight closed, cutting off further sound, and took stock. Dick was a heavy weight against his shoulder, breathing in ragged gasps.
No hospital in Gotham would treat a masked gunshot victim without asking questions, and taking Dick in unmasked would have Batman and Robin’s identities plastered all over the front page by noon tomorrow.
It was a penalty Batman was willing to pay, if necessary, but Dr. Leslie Thompson’s office was only a few streets over, and she always worked late.
Dick was unconscious by the time they reached the Batmobile, a spreading bloodstain darkening the side of his costume. Batman set him in the passenger’s seat and closed the door, then slid the key into the ignition. He could feel the big car vibrate as the engine turned over, but it made no sound, and the scream of solid rubber tires on pavement as he pulled out of the alley was distant and far away.
Smilin’ Jack Napier was a two-bit hood, a soldier and enforcer for the Santini crime family. Vito Santini was an old-fashioned man, a traditional man, he liked to call himself, and insisted that his operation stay away from prostitution, cocaine, and other “unsavoury” trades, sticking to respectable and community-minded pursuits such as running protection rackets and numbers rackets and supplying liquor to speakeasies. When men working under Santini forgot those dictates, or representatives of other families made the error of carrying out their own illegal endeavours on his territory, Santini sent Napier to show them the error of their ways.
Given that a mob boss named Scarface was currently trying to challenge the Santinis’ traditional control of the Gotham docks, there had recently been a lot of people whose ways had proven to be erroneous. Several of their bodies had been found in the East river.
Most of Gotham’s populace did not really believe in the Batman, relegating him to the same class of fantasy as alligators in the sewers or President Hoover’s promise of a chicken in every pot. That was as it should be. Batman did his best work in the dark; flashbulbs and gawking crowds were fine for that gaudily dressed flying man in Metropolis, or the man in the winged helmet who stopped bank robberies in Central City, but the Batman’s effectiveness depended on fear, not red capes and good press. The average Gothamite might believe his existence to be a myth, but the city’s underworld had long since begun looking over their collective shoulders as soon as the sun set.
The Santini family and Scarface’s boys were the exception, not being the superstitious sort. That, or they were arrogant and sloppy. Batman, as he observed a meeting between Napier and one of Scarface’s lieutenants from a catwalk near the ceiling of the Acme Chemical Plant, was leaning towards “arrogant and sloppy.” The building was dark, and his black cloak and cowl would have hidden him from all but the sharpest eyes, but Napier and Kennedy never even looked up.
“I thought these guys hated each other,” Robin muttered. “They look friendly enough to me.” He was crouched on the catwalk next to Batman, his red and green costume looking almost black in the shadows.
“Take a second look, Robin.” Napier might be smiling—the wide grin that had earned “Smilin’ Jack” his soubriquet—but he and Kennedy both wore guns under their suit coats, and their body language was that of two dogs circling in preparation for a fight.
“Not so friendly after all, huh?” Robin sighed, and dropped to the catwalk’s metal surface to sit cross-legged, his chin in his hands. “I wish we could hear what they were saying.”
“Don’t get comfortable,” Batman warned. “Bullock’s squad should be here any moment.”
In addition to being arrogant and sloppy, Kennedy was second cousin by marriage to one Detective Harvey Bullock, and his wife, tiring of Kennedy’s long string of prostitutes and chorus girls, had decided that rather than go to a state judge for a divorce, she’d put in a call to cousin Harvey and get her unfaithful husband brought before a federal judge on charges of conspiracy and violation of the Prohibition Act.
Bullock, Batman judged, would not have too difficult a time collaring Kennedy. Napier, however, was a different matter altogether. He had a reputation for being a dangerous man in a corner, and despite six years doing Vito Santini’s dirty work, had yet to see the inside of a jail cell.
And, indeed, when Batman heard the police cars pull up in front of the building several minutes later, Napier was the first of the two to draw his gun. When Bullock strolled through the door flanked by three pistol-carrying patrolmen, he surreptitiously slid the weapon back under his coat. Kennedy was not so quick to react.
“Well, well, gentlemen,” Bullock said cheerfully. “I got an anonymous tip says this warehouse is full of ‘intoxicating substances,’ and look who I find arguing over the goods. Drop the gun, Kennedy. Annie would never forgive me if I shot you. She’s looking forward to seeing you in jail.”
“Oh, by all means, officer,” Napier said loudly, “take him.” He stepped towards Kennedy and shoved him roughly forward into one of the patrolmen, yanking a pistol out from under his coat in the same movement and firing it over the policemen’s heads. The three men still on their feet ducked, and Napier took off like a shot.
“There’s our cue,” Robin observed.
“The warehouse is surrounded at street level. He’ll have to come up here and go out through the skylight.”
“Got it.” Robin broke left without being told, moving out along the catwalk until he was in position to drop down behind Napier and cut off his retreat.
Napier was fast, taking the steps three at a time, but the Batman was faster. He reached the head of the stairs in one smooth jump, putting himself between the criminal and the open skylight. “End of the line, Napier.”
“Out of my way, Batsy.” Napier brought his gun up, and Batman sent a batarang sailing out to strike his hand. The gun hit the steps with a loud clang of metal on metal. Napier’s long, thin face twisted into a snarl, no sign now of his famous grin. Batman took a step forwards, very aware of the loaded Mauser that lay on the step at the man’s feet, and Napier turned to run.
Robin dropped from the second level of catwalks to land in a crouch several steps below Napier. “No way, fella,” he said, straightening up with batarang in hand. “You stay right there like a good little criminal while my buddy there ties you up all nice for the cops.”
Napier dropped to a crouch, scooped up the discarded gun with his uninjured left hand, and fired.
Everything happened very slowly after that.
Batman’s shoulder caught Napier in the middle of the back just as the gun went off, bowling him over and sending both men into the beginnings of a headfirst slide down the stairs, halted only by Batman’s grab for the railing. He grabbed Napier’s left wrist with his other hand, pinning the gun to the steps, and looked up, the echoes of the shot still ringing in his ears, to see Robin, eyes closed, clinging to the railing with one hand. The other was pressed against his side.
Blood on a red tunic was just as invisible by moon light as blood on black evening clothes.
Napier wasn’t a big man; tossing him over the railing was the work of an instant. He screamed all the way down, hit something that splashed, and kept on screaming. “It burns, oh shit, it burns!”
“What the hell?” Bullock, wheezing like a bellows, stood frozen at the foot of the steps. “Batman!”
Batman ignored him. He grabbed Dick by the shoulders, taking the boy’s sagging weight, and dropped to one knee in front of him.
The liquid oozing around Dick’s hand looked black in the moonlight, but the smell of blood was obvious even over the reek of chemicals from the vats below. Lower right side, Batman thought, just below the ribcage. No exit wound.
“Oh, Jesus,” Dick moaned, “it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.”
“Damn, is the kid shot?” Bullock started climbing the steps, and Batman was reminded with a jolt that there were other people in the warehouse. Quite a few other people, and he could hear the sirens as more police cars pulled up outside.
“Someone get me out of here!” Napier howled. He sounded like a man in a great deal of pain. Good. Let him melt.
“For chrissake, you morons,” Bullock snapped over his shoulder. “One of you get him out of there before he liquidates!”
Everyone in the warehouse had turned to stare at Napier thrashing around in the chemical vat. Batman scooped Dick up in his arms, hissing a near-silent apology as he did so, and made for the skylight.
Jim Gordon’s shout echoed through the warehouse behind him. “What the hell is going on here?”
“I got no idea what happened, commissioner.” Bullock’s voice drifted out of the open skylight. “The guy must’ve slipped. He’s making this ‘Batman pushed me’ crap up. I didn’t see the Bat nowhere.”
Batman slid the skylight closed, cutting off further sound, and took stock. Dick was a heavy weight against his shoulder, breathing in ragged gasps.
No hospital in Gotham would treat a masked gunshot victim without asking questions, and taking Dick in unmasked would have Batman and Robin’s identities plastered all over the front page by noon tomorrow.
It was a penalty Batman was willing to pay, if necessary, but Dr. Leslie Thompson’s office was only a few streets over, and she always worked late.
Dick was unconscious by the time they reached the Batmobile, a spreading bloodstain darkening the side of his costume. Batman set him in the passenger’s seat and closed the door, then slid the key into the ignition. He could feel the big car vibrate as the engine turned over, but it made no sound, and the scream of solid rubber tires on pavement as he pulled out of the alley was distant and far away.
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I'm not sure why, but the nme Smilin's Jack is just incredibly creepy.
And Bullock! I love his surly-gruff, good at his job, but still a jerk-ness.
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It is, isn't it? It was inspired by that scene in the Batman movie where Jack Nicholson announces that he's "only smiling on the outside," and then laughs maniacally.
And I love Toonverse!Bullock in all his slovenly, donut-munching, surly glory, so he had to be in it. He's one of those great characters that aren't so much a cliche as they are a reflection of the archetype the cliche is based on.
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Yes, exactly! Bullock's one of those characters that ought tp be utterly one-note, but because the Toonverse writers are just that damned good (though this mostly comes up in a later season of Batman, whe Bullock gets an entire episode to himself.)
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For full effect, this really ought to have been drawn, with first person narration in little blue word boxes, vis: "I do my best work in the dark. I leave the newspaper photographers and the cheering crowds to Superman. I am the night. I am Batman."