Hero's Blood
Chapter Eight
The first thing that Johnny Napier noticed as he woke was the warmth on his nose. For so long, all he'd been able to remember was cold. Ever since his father died, he'd been cold. In the old theatre with his sister, in the orphanage where he slept in a cold bed and on the streets as he wandered, looking for her. Given all of this, it came as quite a surprise to the thin little boy when he awoke to find himself warmer than he had been in a good long while.
"Ah, good, you're awake."
Johnny slowly opened his eyes and saw that he was sitting in a large, comfortable chair in front of a roaring fire. His battered, old shoes were resting on the hearth and a man was standing just off to the side of the fireplace.
"I was beginning to think you'd sleep forever, kid."
Vincent Falcone was not a tall man, but he looked like a giant to Johnny. He had only seen him once before. The night his father had died.
"You're a very important boy Johnny. We've been trying to find you for a long time. I wish you hadn't run off that night, Johnny." There was an icy undertone to Falcone's voice that sent shivers down Johnny's spine.
Despite the fire, Johnny was doing his level best to keep from trembling in front of this man. He could feel the fear boiling in the pit of his stomach, threatening to rise up and consume him if he gave it half a chance.
"I'm sorry, sir."
Falcone suddenly turned jovial again, throwing his hands into the air and landing on of them on Johnny's shoulder, giving it an affectionate rub.
"Ah, don't worry about it, kid. There's nothing to worry about."
He knelt at Johnny's feet and looked into the boy's eyes, his hand still firmly on Johnny's shoulder.
"I need you to tell me something though, Johnny."
As he crouched in front of Johnny, Facone's face turned to cold stone and his eyes went dark, lifeless, and Johnny nearly screamed.
"What do you remember from the night your daddy died?"
Thomas stood, waiting, in the front office of Masterson Automotive Concepts, the designers of the specialized tires that he employed on his own car, and that he'd found traces of at the crime scene where Johnny had been abducted. There were some doors that were better opened by Thomas Wayne, M.D. than by the Gray Ghost. A small, thin man came through the doors and shook Thomas' hand, the monogram on his kerchief indicated that he was Masterson, the owner.
"What can we do for you this afternoon, Dr. Wayne?"
Thomas gave the man a winning grin and his warmest handshake.
"Well, Mr. Masterson, a few weeks ago I heard of a great new kind of tire that you men were producing here, and I was intrigued. I've been considering funding a new hospital on the East Side, and I want it to be the best, which means the best of everything."
"Well, Mr. Wayne, I assure you that our tires fit that bill, but I fail to see the connection." The befuddled look on Masterson's face brought a smile to Thomas' lips.
"The ambulances, sir, the ambulances. If there's one thing I've seen far too much, it is men who could have been saved if they'd made it to the emergency room just minutes earlier. Now, if these tires are all you say they are, they might be able to help me cut down on transit time in the city."
Masterson nodded, the information registering in his brain. Thomas could tell that he would do well. He could just imagine the schemes going through the small man's mind. He probably saw himself soon supplying all of Gotham's Hospitals with his new tires, and even moving on to other, larger ventures. All of this passed through the razor-keen brain of Thomas Wayne in the second before Masterson responded.
"I couldn't have thought of a nobler use myself, Mr. Wayne. So, shall we draw up an order form for you?"
"Well, here's the rub, Masterson. If I'm to go through with this, it will be to the utmost, which would mean a hefty order. Before I commit funds like that, I'd like to be able to talk to some people who've used these tires, see how they've performed over the long run, things like that."
"What'd you have in mind?"
"Why don't you and I sit down over your client records and see if I can't spot out a few that might be what I need?"
Some hours later, Thomas emerged into the chilly night air outside the warehouse, a folder tucked under his arm and a grim look on his face. Winifred was waiting, bundled in a heavy coat and mittens.
"A successful meeting, sir?"
"Quite, Winifred. Why don't you go home, old friend? I've still a bit more business to attend to here in the city."
"If you wish, sir. Shall I secure the manor?"
"Please do. Thank you, and I'll see you in the morning."
"Good evening, sir."
Winifred drove off in the car as Thomas watched him go. It was a wonder he'd been able to keep his night-time activities secret from the wise Englishman these many months, but he knew that he couldn't risk drawing anyone else into his crusade. Armed with new information, he slipped quietly into the Maroni Brothers' warehouse. Along one wall was a map of the city with various photographs and charts attached; all his information about Vincent Falcone's growing empire. Thomas sat down at the long table in front of the wall, took a black leather-bound book from a drawer, and began writing.
"Case file entry number twelve. Masterson's client records show only two other purchasers of the particular tire model that matches the sample from the alley. One is the Gotham Tribune, which has been refitting their delivery vans for winter weather, and the other is a company called Maltese Imports."
Thomas laid the pen down and thought for a moment. Something was tickling the back of his brain, some little piece of trivia that would make this mystery easy to unravel. Suddenly it clicked in his head. He snatched an old issue of Black Mask magazine from his shelf and pulled it open. He occasionally read these detective pulp stories to glean ideas on how he could better cultivate the growing urban legend surrounding the Gray Ghost, but he never thought to consult them for clues. Then, as if by magic, it was there before him.
"The Maltese Falcon, by Dashiell Hammett. Of course."
Maltese Imports. The Maltese Falcon. Vincent Falcone had a sense of humor.
"You won't be laughing after tonight, Falcone."
"Come on, Johnny. All I need to know is what you saw, then it's all over and we're done with you."
Falcone had his hands fixed on Johnny's shoulders and his grip slowly tightened when the boy didn't respond.
"I dunno nuthin, sir. Promise."
"Johnny, Johnny. I wish I could believe you, but I can't. And you just made a mistake m'boy." He came around the chair to face Johnny.
"You lied. You shouldn't have lied, boy."
"Perhaps he's been spending too much time with you, Falcone."
Vincent spun to face the penthouse window. There, against the backdrop of Gotham's lights was a shadow of a big man in a cloak.
"Who in the hell are you?"
No answer was offered as the shadowy figure leapt from its perch and collided with Falcone. His guards were already unconscious, several rooms away as the beefy Italian man swung a large fist at the man who'd dared interfere. The lucky blow caught the Gray Ghost in the ribs, momentarily stunning him, but for just long enough that Falcone delivered another blow, this time to the head, bringing the vigilante to his knees.
"I know who you are, you punk! You're that damned 'ghost' all my boys've been yammering on about. Well, tonight you become a real ghost."
He pulled a revolver from his belt and leveled it at the head of the Gray Ghost.
"Say goodnight, heraaaah!!"
The gun clattered to the floor as Falcone clutched his hand in pain. A great, bloody gash ran along the top of Falcone's hand, and Johnny Napier held an antique sword in his hands, a defiant look on his face.
The boy's brave move gave the Ghost enough time to get to his feet, where he squared off against Falcone.
"You got in one lucky punch, Falcone. Care to try for another?"
Just then, a slew of thugs burst through the double doors to the room. In the momentary confusion, the Gray Ghost scooped up Johnny and sent the boy shimmying up toward the open window. He dropped a magnesium flare and hurried off himself.
"Another time, Falcone!"
And with that, he was gone.
ONE WEEK LATER
"I assure you, Mr. Wayne, this is the best care facility in the state. The boy will receive nothing but the best."
Thomas allowed himself a small smile as he shook hands with the head of the Black's School for Boys. Johnny was sitting alone at the edge of the playground, watching the other boys play. Thomas knelt next to him.
"How are you, Johnny?"
"All right I guess."
"I think that you're going to like it here. They seem like a good bunch of boys."
"Sure. Swell."
"I have to be going, but I'll be by to check on you soon." He found a ball on the ground and handed it to the boy. "Here. Those boys over there look like they just dropped this. Why don't you go see if they'll let you join them."
Johnny took the ball and walked over to the group of boys.
"Hey, thanks, small fry. What's your name, anyway?"
"Johnny."
"Ah, we already got a Johnny here. We'll call ya Jack, how 'bout that?"
Somehow it seemed to work for Johnny, who promptly smiled.
"I like Jack. So can I play?"
Thomas saw the conversation and smiled as he walked away. Falcone would still have to be dealt with, but little "Jack" was safe now. There would be other nights for Falcone, for as he watched the young boys play, he felt himself take on a renewed vigor. It was for them that he fought, it was them that men had bled and died. And so he would go on. The night would no longer belong to evil men, but to the just. The night would belong to the Gray Ghost.
The first thing that Johnny Napier noticed as he woke was the warmth on his nose. For so long, all he'd been able to remember was cold. Ever since his father died, he'd been cold. In the old theatre with his sister, in the orphanage where he slept in a cold bed and on the streets as he wandered, looking for her. Given all of this, it came as quite a surprise to the thin little boy when he awoke to find himself warmer than he had been in a good long while.
"Ah, good, you're awake."
Johnny slowly opened his eyes and saw that he was sitting in a large, comfortable chair in front of a roaring fire. His battered, old shoes were resting on the hearth and a man was standing just off to the side of the fireplace.
"I was beginning to think you'd sleep forever, kid."
Vincent Falcone was not a tall man, but he looked like a giant to Johnny. He had only seen him once before. The night his father had died.
"You're a very important boy Johnny. We've been trying to find you for a long time. I wish you hadn't run off that night, Johnny." There was an icy undertone to Falcone's voice that sent shivers down Johnny's spine.
Despite the fire, Johnny was doing his level best to keep from trembling in front of this man. He could feel the fear boiling in the pit of his stomach, threatening to rise up and consume him if he gave it half a chance.
"I'm sorry, sir."
Falcone suddenly turned jovial again, throwing his hands into the air and landing on of them on Johnny's shoulder, giving it an affectionate rub.
"Ah, don't worry about it, kid. There's nothing to worry about."
He knelt at Johnny's feet and looked into the boy's eyes, his hand still firmly on Johnny's shoulder.
"I need you to tell me something though, Johnny."
As he crouched in front of Johnny, Facone's face turned to cold stone and his eyes went dark, lifeless, and Johnny nearly screamed.
"What do you remember from the night your daddy died?"
Thomas stood, waiting, in the front office of Masterson Automotive Concepts, the designers of the specialized tires that he employed on his own car, and that he'd found traces of at the crime scene where Johnny had been abducted. There were some doors that were better opened by Thomas Wayne, M.D. than by the Gray Ghost. A small, thin man came through the doors and shook Thomas' hand, the monogram on his kerchief indicated that he was Masterson, the owner.
"What can we do for you this afternoon, Dr. Wayne?"
Thomas gave the man a winning grin and his warmest handshake.
"Well, Mr. Masterson, a few weeks ago I heard of a great new kind of tire that you men were producing here, and I was intrigued. I've been considering funding a new hospital on the East Side, and I want it to be the best, which means the best of everything."
"Well, Mr. Wayne, I assure you that our tires fit that bill, but I fail to see the connection." The befuddled look on Masterson's face brought a smile to Thomas' lips.
"The ambulances, sir, the ambulances. If there's one thing I've seen far too much, it is men who could have been saved if they'd made it to the emergency room just minutes earlier. Now, if these tires are all you say they are, they might be able to help me cut down on transit time in the city."
Masterson nodded, the information registering in his brain. Thomas could tell that he would do well. He could just imagine the schemes going through the small man's mind. He probably saw himself soon supplying all of Gotham's Hospitals with his new tires, and even moving on to other, larger ventures. All of this passed through the razor-keen brain of Thomas Wayne in the second before Masterson responded.
"I couldn't have thought of a nobler use myself, Mr. Wayne. So, shall we draw up an order form for you?"
"Well, here's the rub, Masterson. If I'm to go through with this, it will be to the utmost, which would mean a hefty order. Before I commit funds like that, I'd like to be able to talk to some people who've used these tires, see how they've performed over the long run, things like that."
"What'd you have in mind?"
"Why don't you and I sit down over your client records and see if I can't spot out a few that might be what I need?"
Some hours later, Thomas emerged into the chilly night air outside the warehouse, a folder tucked under his arm and a grim look on his face. Winifred was waiting, bundled in a heavy coat and mittens.
"A successful meeting, sir?"
"Quite, Winifred. Why don't you go home, old friend? I've still a bit more business to attend to here in the city."
"If you wish, sir. Shall I secure the manor?"
"Please do. Thank you, and I'll see you in the morning."
"Good evening, sir."
Winifred drove off in the car as Thomas watched him go. It was a wonder he'd been able to keep his night-time activities secret from the wise Englishman these many months, but he knew that he couldn't risk drawing anyone else into his crusade. Armed with new information, he slipped quietly into the Maroni Brothers' warehouse. Along one wall was a map of the city with various photographs and charts attached; all his information about Vincent Falcone's growing empire. Thomas sat down at the long table in front of the wall, took a black leather-bound book from a drawer, and began writing.
"Case file entry number twelve. Masterson's client records show only two other purchasers of the particular tire model that matches the sample from the alley. One is the Gotham Tribune, which has been refitting their delivery vans for winter weather, and the other is a company called Maltese Imports."
Thomas laid the pen down and thought for a moment. Something was tickling the back of his brain, some little piece of trivia that would make this mystery easy to unravel. Suddenly it clicked in his head. He snatched an old issue of Black Mask magazine from his shelf and pulled it open. He occasionally read these detective pulp stories to glean ideas on how he could better cultivate the growing urban legend surrounding the Gray Ghost, but he never thought to consult them for clues. Then, as if by magic, it was there before him.
"The Maltese Falcon, by Dashiell Hammett. Of course."
Maltese Imports. The Maltese Falcon. Vincent Falcone had a sense of humor.
"You won't be laughing after tonight, Falcone."
"Come on, Johnny. All I need to know is what you saw, then it's all over and we're done with you."
Falcone had his hands fixed on Johnny's shoulders and his grip slowly tightened when the boy didn't respond.
"I dunno nuthin, sir. Promise."
"Johnny, Johnny. I wish I could believe you, but I can't. And you just made a mistake m'boy." He came around the chair to face Johnny.
"You lied. You shouldn't have lied, boy."
"Perhaps he's been spending too much time with you, Falcone."
Vincent spun to face the penthouse window. There, against the backdrop of Gotham's lights was a shadow of a big man in a cloak.
"Who in the hell are you?"
No answer was offered as the shadowy figure leapt from its perch and collided with Falcone. His guards were already unconscious, several rooms away as the beefy Italian man swung a large fist at the man who'd dared interfere. The lucky blow caught the Gray Ghost in the ribs, momentarily stunning him, but for just long enough that Falcone delivered another blow, this time to the head, bringing the vigilante to his knees.
"I know who you are, you punk! You're that damned 'ghost' all my boys've been yammering on about. Well, tonight you become a real ghost."
He pulled a revolver from his belt and leveled it at the head of the Gray Ghost.
"Say goodnight, heraaaah!!"
The gun clattered to the floor as Falcone clutched his hand in pain. A great, bloody gash ran along the top of Falcone's hand, and Johnny Napier held an antique sword in his hands, a defiant look on his face.
The boy's brave move gave the Ghost enough time to get to his feet, where he squared off against Falcone.
"You got in one lucky punch, Falcone. Care to try for another?"
Just then, a slew of thugs burst through the double doors to the room. In the momentary confusion, the Gray Ghost scooped up Johnny and sent the boy shimmying up toward the open window. He dropped a magnesium flare and hurried off himself.
"Another time, Falcone!"
And with that, he was gone.
ONE WEEK LATER
"I assure you, Mr. Wayne, this is the best care facility in the state. The boy will receive nothing but the best."
Thomas allowed himself a small smile as he shook hands with the head of the Black's School for Boys. Johnny was sitting alone at the edge of the playground, watching the other boys play. Thomas knelt next to him.
"How are you, Johnny?"
"All right I guess."
"I think that you're going to like it here. They seem like a good bunch of boys."
"Sure. Swell."
"I have to be going, but I'll be by to check on you soon." He found a ball on the ground and handed it to the boy. "Here. Those boys over there look like they just dropped this. Why don't you go see if they'll let you join them."
Johnny took the ball and walked over to the group of boys.
"Hey, thanks, small fry. What's your name, anyway?"
"Johnny."
"Ah, we already got a Johnny here. We'll call ya Jack, how 'bout that?"
Somehow it seemed to work for Johnny, who promptly smiled.
"I like Jack. So can I play?"
Thomas saw the conversation and smiled as he walked away. Falcone would still have to be dealt with, but little "Jack" was safe now. There would be other nights for Falcone, for as he watched the young boys play, he felt himself take on a renewed vigor. It was for them that he fought, it was them that men had bled and died. And so he would go on. The night would no longer belong to evil men, but to the just. The night would belong to the Gray Ghost.