[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Bruce inched the Tumbler forward and smiled. Does it come in black?
Three days later Bruce and Alfred were in the cave below the mansion, bent over a workbench they had
installed, examining what looked like a batter s helmet. As Bruce watched, Alfred picked up a baseball
bat and slammed the helmet-thing, breaking it in two.
Problems with the graphite mixture, Alfred said. The next ten thousand will be up to
specifications.
At least they gave us a discount, Bruce said.
Quite. In the meantime, might I suggest you try to avoid landing on your head?
Good idea. Bruce moved to where the utility belt and grappling gun were hung on a mannequin.
Time to begin testing.
He removed the utility belt, now freed of the harness, from the mannequin and strapped it on, shaking
the gun to be certain that it was firmly nestled in its buckle holster. He went back to the bench and put
on a pair of gloves, one with electric contacts in the fingers and a tiny but powerful battery on the
underside of the wrist. Each glove had scallops like those on the gauntlets he had worn at R s al Ghkl s
monastery.
Devilishly handsome, if I may say so, Master Bruce, Alfred commented.
Emphasis on the devilish, I assume.
Bruce lifted a curved metal object from the bench, hefted it, and threw it at a stalactite. It whistled
across the cave and bit deep into the stone.
Your boomerang did not come back, Alfred said.
It s not supposed to, unless it misses what I m aiming at. By the way, Alfred, I m thinking of calling
these things Batarangs. What do you think?
Devilishly clever, Alfred said.
The following morning there was a small item buried in the local gossip column of the Gotham Times. It
told the world that Bruce Wayne, newly returned to the city, was leaving again for a brief vacation in
northern California. He planned to see the sights in and around San Francisco and was considering a
few days hang gliding at Mount Tamalpais.
Reading the snippet on a westbound plane, Bruce thought it a mistake to have leaked the part about
hang gliding because it might call attention to abilities he wanted to remain hidden.
He was living and learning.
He returned from Mount Tamalpais a week later by commercial carrier. He told the perky young woman
behind the airline s ticket counter that his wallet with his credit cards and ID had been stolen but,
fortunately, he always carried emergency cash in his sock and would five hundred be enough for
passage to Gotham? It was highly irregular and the perky ticket seller had to confer with her supervisor,
but finally Bruce was allowed to board the plane.
He arrived at Gotham International at four in the morning, his only concern that he might run into
someone he knew in the terminal. He did not want anyone to know he was back yet because his alter
ego was about to reappear and he was afraid that someone that smart cop Gordon, for example
might connect Bruce Wayne s return with the mystery man. Sooner or later, he would make a big,
clumsy deal of the wastrel s homecoming do something stupid, maybe.
He need not have worried. No one was in the terminal except a few indifferent maintenance workers,
and the following night no one saw him enter several of Carmine Falcone s habitats and vehicles and
install tiny microphones.
At his last stop, an apartment Falcone owned near the theater district, Bruce placed his bug and went
up the fire escape to the roof. He waited, a small receiver in his ear, until the sky began to lighten.
Time to pack it in . . .
Through his earpiece, he heard the sound of a door opening, the clink of glass against glass, and two
voices. He recognized Falcone s: Tomorrow night, pier fourteen. Tell your guys.
A second voice: Don t worry, Mr. F. They ll be there.
Tomorrow night. Pier fourteen. It s a date . . .
An icy wind was blowing off the bay. Already, the dock area was chilled; soon, the wind would chill the
entire city. A wispy mist blurred the streetlamps and softened the edges of the large cargo container, one
of dozens of similar containers.
Bigger, Alfie, and Steiss were finally working, unloading boxes, and it was about time. They had
arrived at pier fourteen at eight-thirty, as Mr. Falcone insisted, and then waited around for three hours
until the huge overhead crane had swung a cargo container from the deck of a freighter onto the dock.
The night was growing cold and Steiss and Bigger pulled the zippers of their jackets higher. Suddenly
headlights from an approaching sedan lit the scene and the three stopped and for several seconds did not
move.
Detective Flass got out of the car and strode briskly to one of the unloaded boxes. He parted its flaps,
reached inside, and brought out a stuffed bear. He tossed it onto a nearby pile of bears. Next to the bears
was a pile of stuffed rabbits.
Cute, he said.
He went to where a limousine was parked at the curb and let himself into the backseat. Carmine
Falcone was already there, a stuffed rabbit in his lap.
Looks fine out there, Flass said. So the bears go straight to the dealers
And the rabbits go to our man in the Narrows, Falcone said.
What s the difference?
Ignorance is bliss, my friend. Don t burden yourself with the secrets of scary people.
Scarier than you?
Considerably scarier than me.
Outside, the work of unloading the containers continued beneath a single overhead lamp. Steiss
handed a box to Bigger, who took it away down a narrow passageway between the stacked containers.
Steiss turned back to the darkness in the open container and was yanked inside.
A moment later, Bigger heard a muffled groan. He set the box down and called, Steiss?
There was no reply. Bigger pulled a gun from under his jacket and nodded to Alfie, who was coming
from the docks.
Bigger said, Come on, we gotta
Alfie drew his own gun and together they moved toward the open container.
Behind them, something whistled from the shadows and the overhead lamp shattered. The two men
jerked around, raising their weapons. The thing that had hit the lamp fell to the ground and Alfie lifted
it, trying to see exactly what it was in the darkness. His gaze went past it to the huge crane that loomed
against the sky and the winged shape that hung from it.
The shape moved.
Alfie blinked and whispered, What the hell . . .
The winged shape dropped and its wings whipped out and became rigid. The shape was it a man?
somersaulted and enveloped Alfie.
Bigger ran, his arms pumping, the breath exploding from his mouth. He charged down the narrow
passage between the stacks of containers, came to a corner, slowed and rounded it, and raced toward the
street. A blackness with wings descended on him and he screamed.
In the limo, Falcone and Flass heard the scream. Flass got out of the car, pulled an automatic from a
shoulder holster, and eyes scanning the area, moved toward the docks.
Where the hell re the lights? he muttered.
He slipped into the passage between the containers and his foot hit something soft that moaned. He
knelt, struck a match, and saw Bigger, alive but unconscious.
Flass ran to the limo, jerked open the door, and told Falcone, Call the club. Get some more men. Tell
em to bring guns.
Less than five minutes later, eight men bolted up the steps from Falcone s club and, puffing, ran to
the docks, a block away. Falcone, cradling a shotgun, waited for them beside the limo. He told them that
somebody was around who did not belong and to find that person and kill him.
As they crept toward the containers, guns leveled ahead of them, the smallest of the gunmen
whispered, I wish we didn t haveta do this.
His nearest companion said, Shut up, Jimmy.
I didn t mean nothing, Willy, only . . . [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl szamanka888.keep.pl
Bruce inched the Tumbler forward and smiled. Does it come in black?
Three days later Bruce and Alfred were in the cave below the mansion, bent over a workbench they had
installed, examining what looked like a batter s helmet. As Bruce watched, Alfred picked up a baseball
bat and slammed the helmet-thing, breaking it in two.
Problems with the graphite mixture, Alfred said. The next ten thousand will be up to
specifications.
At least they gave us a discount, Bruce said.
Quite. In the meantime, might I suggest you try to avoid landing on your head?
Good idea. Bruce moved to where the utility belt and grappling gun were hung on a mannequin.
Time to begin testing.
He removed the utility belt, now freed of the harness, from the mannequin and strapped it on, shaking
the gun to be certain that it was firmly nestled in its buckle holster. He went back to the bench and put
on a pair of gloves, one with electric contacts in the fingers and a tiny but powerful battery on the
underside of the wrist. Each glove had scallops like those on the gauntlets he had worn at R s al Ghkl s
monastery.
Devilishly handsome, if I may say so, Master Bruce, Alfred commented.
Emphasis on the devilish, I assume.
Bruce lifted a curved metal object from the bench, hefted it, and threw it at a stalactite. It whistled
across the cave and bit deep into the stone.
Your boomerang did not come back, Alfred said.
It s not supposed to, unless it misses what I m aiming at. By the way, Alfred, I m thinking of calling
these things Batarangs. What do you think?
Devilishly clever, Alfred said.
The following morning there was a small item buried in the local gossip column of the Gotham Times. It
told the world that Bruce Wayne, newly returned to the city, was leaving again for a brief vacation in
northern California. He planned to see the sights in and around San Francisco and was considering a
few days hang gliding at Mount Tamalpais.
Reading the snippet on a westbound plane, Bruce thought it a mistake to have leaked the part about
hang gliding because it might call attention to abilities he wanted to remain hidden.
He was living and learning.
He returned from Mount Tamalpais a week later by commercial carrier. He told the perky young woman
behind the airline s ticket counter that his wallet with his credit cards and ID had been stolen but,
fortunately, he always carried emergency cash in his sock and would five hundred be enough for
passage to Gotham? It was highly irregular and the perky ticket seller had to confer with her supervisor,
but finally Bruce was allowed to board the plane.
He arrived at Gotham International at four in the morning, his only concern that he might run into
someone he knew in the terminal. He did not want anyone to know he was back yet because his alter
ego was about to reappear and he was afraid that someone that smart cop Gordon, for example
might connect Bruce Wayne s return with the mystery man. Sooner or later, he would make a big,
clumsy deal of the wastrel s homecoming do something stupid, maybe.
He need not have worried. No one was in the terminal except a few indifferent maintenance workers,
and the following night no one saw him enter several of Carmine Falcone s habitats and vehicles and
install tiny microphones.
At his last stop, an apartment Falcone owned near the theater district, Bruce placed his bug and went
up the fire escape to the roof. He waited, a small receiver in his ear, until the sky began to lighten.
Time to pack it in . . .
Through his earpiece, he heard the sound of a door opening, the clink of glass against glass, and two
voices. He recognized Falcone s: Tomorrow night, pier fourteen. Tell your guys.
A second voice: Don t worry, Mr. F. They ll be there.
Tomorrow night. Pier fourteen. It s a date . . .
An icy wind was blowing off the bay. Already, the dock area was chilled; soon, the wind would chill the
entire city. A wispy mist blurred the streetlamps and softened the edges of the large cargo container, one
of dozens of similar containers.
Bigger, Alfie, and Steiss were finally working, unloading boxes, and it was about time. They had
arrived at pier fourteen at eight-thirty, as Mr. Falcone insisted, and then waited around for three hours
until the huge overhead crane had swung a cargo container from the deck of a freighter onto the dock.
The night was growing cold and Steiss and Bigger pulled the zippers of their jackets higher. Suddenly
headlights from an approaching sedan lit the scene and the three stopped and for several seconds did not
move.
Detective Flass got out of the car and strode briskly to one of the unloaded boxes. He parted its flaps,
reached inside, and brought out a stuffed bear. He tossed it onto a nearby pile of bears. Next to the bears
was a pile of stuffed rabbits.
Cute, he said.
He went to where a limousine was parked at the curb and let himself into the backseat. Carmine
Falcone was already there, a stuffed rabbit in his lap.
Looks fine out there, Flass said. So the bears go straight to the dealers
And the rabbits go to our man in the Narrows, Falcone said.
What s the difference?
Ignorance is bliss, my friend. Don t burden yourself with the secrets of scary people.
Scarier than you?
Considerably scarier than me.
Outside, the work of unloading the containers continued beneath a single overhead lamp. Steiss
handed a box to Bigger, who took it away down a narrow passageway between the stacked containers.
Steiss turned back to the darkness in the open container and was yanked inside.
A moment later, Bigger heard a muffled groan. He set the box down and called, Steiss?
There was no reply. Bigger pulled a gun from under his jacket and nodded to Alfie, who was coming
from the docks.
Bigger said, Come on, we gotta
Alfie drew his own gun and together they moved toward the open container.
Behind them, something whistled from the shadows and the overhead lamp shattered. The two men
jerked around, raising their weapons. The thing that had hit the lamp fell to the ground and Alfie lifted
it, trying to see exactly what it was in the darkness. His gaze went past it to the huge crane that loomed
against the sky and the winged shape that hung from it.
The shape moved.
Alfie blinked and whispered, What the hell . . .
The winged shape dropped and its wings whipped out and became rigid. The shape was it a man?
somersaulted and enveloped Alfie.
Bigger ran, his arms pumping, the breath exploding from his mouth. He charged down the narrow
passage between the stacks of containers, came to a corner, slowed and rounded it, and raced toward the
street. A blackness with wings descended on him and he screamed.
In the limo, Falcone and Flass heard the scream. Flass got out of the car, pulled an automatic from a
shoulder holster, and eyes scanning the area, moved toward the docks.
Where the hell re the lights? he muttered.
He slipped into the passage between the containers and his foot hit something soft that moaned. He
knelt, struck a match, and saw Bigger, alive but unconscious.
Flass ran to the limo, jerked open the door, and told Falcone, Call the club. Get some more men. Tell
em to bring guns.
Less than five minutes later, eight men bolted up the steps from Falcone s club and, puffing, ran to
the docks, a block away. Falcone, cradling a shotgun, waited for them beside the limo. He told them that
somebody was around who did not belong and to find that person and kill him.
As they crept toward the containers, guns leveled ahead of them, the smallest of the gunmen
whispered, I wish we didn t haveta do this.
His nearest companion said, Shut up, Jimmy.
I didn t mean nothing, Willy, only . . . [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]