Clear division of labor

Late at night in a cheap Gotham bar, the air reeked of stale fries mixed with piss-poor booze.

Several Maroni Family members in filthy leather jackets huddled in a corner booth. Beer bottles lay scattered across the table and floor, and the ashtray was crammed with cigarette butts smoked down to the filters.

One thug with a face full of acne took a huge swig of beer, slammed his glass onto the table, and wiped the foam from his mouth.

An entire table of booze, yet not even a single plate of peanuts.

It was hard to imagine a human being coming up with that combination.

"You hear? Scarface is still lying in the ICU. His doctor says that tube's staying in for life. He'll need machines to eat and shit. Fuck, just thinking about it makes me sick."

His bald accomplice across the table grabbed a handful of peanuts and tossed them into his mouth, mumbling, "Scarface just got unlucky and ran into someone tough. Remember those guys running their mouths on the street last week? Saying the boss had lost his touch, that the Maroni name didn't carry weight in the East End anymore?"

"How could I forget?"

Acne Face shrank back into the booth, his voice dropping involuntarily. "Killer Croc hauled them down to the docks. That scene... my cousin was unloading cargo next door. He heard their bones breaking through two walls. Inch by inch, starting at their toes and crushing his way up. Only after he'd crushed all their limbs did he hang them from utility poles. Dried them out like cured meat."

The men fell silent for a few seconds. Baldy swallowed his peanuts, raised his glass, and took another gulp, as though bolstering his courage.

"Killer Croc's a monster. A fucking monster. The kind that eats people alive. I hear he's been camped out at the docks waiting for Batman these past few days. If that pitch-black freak really dares to show up, who sends who to Blackgate this time is anybody's guess."

"Batman's no pushover either," put in the skinny man who had remained silent in the corner.

"No shit. Who doesn't know Batman's no pushover?"

Baldy waved impatiently. "But bullets don't even dent Killer Croc's hide. He just had bad luck when Batman caught him last time. This time, he's been hunkered down for days, resting up, just waiting to tear off that black cape and polish his shoes with it. You watch. Something big's going down at the docks sooner or later."

Acne Face took another gulp, the alcohol making him a little bolder. "That said, the boss has really looked like shit lately. Scarface is finished, Killer Croc won't budge from the docks, and as for Penguin, I heard from the casino guys that the damn cripple's been telling everyone our Maroni Family can't even handle a freak in pajamas anymore."

Baldy slammed the table, making the bottles jump. "Fucking bullshit! Batman did that! Batman put Scarface in the ICU! What's that pajama kid got to do with it? Penguin, that snake, just wants to stir up more trouble, making up stories everywhere. Once Killer Croc finishes Batman, he's next."

"What if Killer Croc can't handle him?" the skinny man asked quietly.

Baldy opened his mouth but had no answer. Silence settled over the booth again. Outside the bar, a police siren approached and receded, like the background music of a Gotham night.

Acne Face drained the last of his beer and muttered, "Fuck this lousy city."

Behind the counter, the bartender never stopped polishing his glass.

He had been polishing that same glass for a full twenty minutes, until it reflected people's faces.

In Gotham, bartenders usually held several jobs: mixologist, therapist, and unofficial informant for at least three gangs.

Everything he had heard tonight would reach Penguin's ears before dawn.

Meanwhile, at the docks.

Chen Mo crouched atop a container on a gantry crane, looking down at the pitch-black silhouette below.

His feelings were complicated, like a child who had worked hard to finish his homework and desperately needed a gold star from his parents-or simply some payment for his labor.

Bruce Wayne, I know you're loaded. Can't you pretend to mysteriously lose some cash? Then I could honestly return it, and you could give me a huge cash reward.

Tsk.

Chen Mo pointed at the thoroughly trussed-up, oversized mummy below and broke the deathly silence.

"Hey, cool guy dressed like a giant moth! You planning to keep staring at me forever?"

Batman said nothing. He simply stood there like a granite statue that might come alive at any moment, his cape stirring faintly in the sea breeze, his entire figure almost melting into the impenetrable darkness.

Chen Mo sighed, looking utterly weary. "I'll take your silence as a yes. Fine, I get it. You're the cold, aloof type. So, how do you like my work? Killer Croc, Gotham's famous fitness enthusiast, wrapped up as neatly as a Christmas present. Speaking of which, ever gotten a present this big for Christmas?"

Chen Mo pulled a crumpled sticky note from behind his backside and leaped down, the pull of his web carrying him through a light arc in the air.

Smack.

He landed squarely on Killer Croc's scaly face and slapped the sticky note onto his forehead. A crooked line of writing read: "Courtesy of your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Includes one batch of raw materials for a crocodile-skin bag. Note: processing not recommended."

Killer Croc's eyes bulged almost out of their sockets, and a beastlike growl rumbled in his throat,

but his mouth was sealed tight with high-strength adhesive. If looks could kill, Chen Mo would already have been raw spider sashimi.

Chen Mo patted Killer Croc's head and turned toward Batman, who was slowly approaching.

"Stone-faced cool guy in black, this fellow's hide is too thick, and the spider's nest can't fit him. You don't mind handling him, right? You look better at packing things up."

Batman stopped, his white lenses fixed coldly on him.

He bent down and inspected the angles through which the containers had shifted. The angles between the three gantry cranes, the center of gravity of the stacked containers, and the industrial adhesive precisely applied to the joints.

This had not been a chaotic brawl at all. It was the site of an extremely rigorous, even somewhat twisted physics experiment.

Like a combat sequence he would have calculated on a computer in the Batcave.

Batman straightened, his voice still as cold as shards of ice.

"Who are you, really?"

Chen Mo stiffened, then burst into exaggerated laughter, gesturing wildly.

"Me? I'm your friendly neighborhood hero! Unofficial Gotham City vigilante, member of the Pajama Enthusiasts Association, currently applying for the Outstanding Citizen Award-speaking of which, do we vigilantes have a union or anything? The kind that reimburses equipment expenses? Or do only you bat-themed vigilantes get equipment allowances?"

Batman said nothing.

"Fine. One look at you tells me we don't."

Backing away, Chen Mo fired a web onto a distant crane tower.

"I'm off, then. Say hi to Commissioner Gordon for me. You're pretty close with Commissioner Gordon, right? All Gotham knows he turns on the Bat-Signal for you... You really aren't going to say a single word back? You're so cold. Even the criminals on the street chat with me."

Chen Mo launched himself into the air, still remembering to look back and shout, "You're welcome! I know you want to thank me, but you're obviously the kind who keeps everything bottled up. Keep it in, then! Just don't hurt yourself!"

Batman watched him swing away and fell into a long silence.

He looked down at the sticky note, then at Killer Croc, trapped motionless between the webs and containers.

"Childish."

He spat the word coldly.

Then he pressed his communicator. "Gordon, come collect someone at the docks. Batman has subdued Killer Croc... Bring some heavy-duty solvent, too."

Moments later, sirens shattered the quiet at the docks. Commissioner Gordon arrived with a group of officers, looked at the enormous figure wrapped in webs like a silkworm pupa, a sticky note still on his forehead, then looked at Batman standing in the shadows.

He took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on, making sure he had read the sticky note correctly.

"Spider-Man? He really likes leaving notes everywhere." Gordon pointed at the note on Killer Croc's forehead, his expression caught between amusement and professionalism.

Just as he had not answered Spider-Man, Batman did not answer Gordon either.

He turned toward the shadows, his cape billowing one last time in the sea breeze, then vanished without a trace, as though he had never existed.

"Still not much of a talker."

Gordon sighed and waved to the officers behind him. "Go find a few bottles of heavy-duty solvent. And take that sticky note off. Don't tear it. It needs to go in the files."

Meanwhile, inside Maroni Manor.

Sal Maroni sat in a broad leather chair. Two bloody pieces lay on the marble floor before him. They were two tongues.

Just half an hour earlier, the two idiots who had been running their mouths in the bar had been dragged inside.

Maroni held his whiskey glass, its surface perfectly still, his gaze dark enough to drip water.

He was not angry because they had said he had "lost his touch." He had heard far too much gossip from street thugs.

He was angry because the rumors had spread too quickly.

Scarface had only been in the ICU a few days, and the streets were already discussing "how much the Maroni name was still worth."

If Penguin, that damn cripple, was not behind this, fanning the flames, he would swallow the glass in his hand whole.

That snake excelled at precisely this sort of trick: anonymous leaks passed along through layers of people, making every gossiping mouth think it was the first to speak.

By the time the rumors reached his ears, their source had long since been diluted beyond all trace.

Even tonight, Penguin had sent a hypocritical "message of concern," phrased with extreme politeness, asking whether he needed to contribute some moisturizer for Killer Croc, since the sea breeze at the docks was rather harsh on the skin.

This was no expression of concern.

This was shoving Maroni's face into a toilet and asking whether the water temperature suited him.

Maroni waved a hand as though shooing away two flies.

"Drag them out. Those two should be grateful for my mercy."

The two tongueless thugs were dragged away, overflowing with gratitude.

Maroni picked up his phone and dialed a number.

"Put the word out. Bounty hunters, mercenaries, whoever brings me that spider's head will have wealth and luxury for life, guaranteed by the Maroni Family."

He paused, his finger slowly tracing the rim of his glass. "Alive, I want him brought to me. Dead, I want his body. I'll show all of Gotham that not just anyone can withstand the Maroni Family's wrath!"

A brief acknowledgment came from the other end.

Maroni hung up and raised his whiskey, its surface still perfectly motionless.

He looked out the window at Gotham's murky night sky.

Penguin wanted to watch him and Spider-Man tear into each other, so he would do it for everyone to see.

As for Penguin, that score could be settled slowly.