Bill always has exact change. His weekday routine helps, if not demands it. He wakes up, readies for work and catches the bus down the corner from his decaying townhome. Once downtown, he visits the convenience store across from his office to get his daily dose of caffeine.
For that, he always has two dollars.
The cashier, Luis Vega, acknowledges him personally, a benefit of being a regular customer. Luis came to the United States with his family ten years earlier, opening his own shop when the opportunity presented itself. He speaks in broken English.
“Hola, Bill. Is $1.99. But you know, sí?”
“Sí, Luis. You’ll throw me off if you ever raise the price,” Bill acknowledges, grinning. He motions to the cup by the register. “Keep the penny. See you tomorrow.”
Luis gives a slight wave. “Sí, adiós. Have good day.”
Bill pushes through the store’s doors onto the busy sidewalk. Cars zoom down the street, horns and tires squealing. He waits patiently at the crosswalk, taking a sip of coffee. When the pedestrian signal appears, he crosses to the other side of the street and enters the Kane Building. Insistent on hiking up the five stories, he immediately heads for the stairs. He never takes the elevator.
Once on the fifth floor, he enters the editorial office of his newspaper, The Daily Herald. He is one of two investigative reporters for the paper, a lesser known when compared to the more recognized of the city. Spying his editor, Mo White, he quickly, and quietly, sneaks over to his desk – to no avail, as a yell comes from across the room.
“Bill, stop right there! Where’s my story on the vigilante task force?”
He pauses at his desk, looking up. “Mo, how many times must I tell you? Commissioner Loeb, or anyone else for that matter, will not comment about it. His only admission is that he doesn’t want the public thinking some lunatic is running around doing the job of the police.”
Mo walks slowly across the room, frustration evident in her expression.
“Bill, some lunatic is doing their job, and I want a story on what they’re doing about it! Now, I know you are a good investigator, and I gave you a chance when no else would.”
He smiles, having heard the harangue before. “And I appreciate that Mo.”
She continues, unfazed by his conciliatory tone. “You’ve done good work in the past, exposing some of the corruption in this town. So, would you please, do what you are paid to do and investigate?”
Exasperated, he relents. “Okay, I’ll make a few more calls and go down to city hall. Again.”
“Thank you.” She begins to walk away, turning back toward him. “By the way, Sergeant Gordon called looking for you.”
He sits up, his interest piqued. “Yeah? What did he want?”
“Don’t know. He said to call him.”
Singularly focused, he picks up the phone. “Ok, thanks chief.”
Lunchtime, four hours later. Bill heads to Finnigan’s, a popular hangout of the police. Especially the uniforms. Gordon, already sitting at a booth near the back, says he has information concerning recent events. Bill walks over, sliding into the seat across from him.
“Hey Sarge. I hear from the boys at the Gazette that the Commissioner isn’t too happy about the latest coverage of our ‘vigilante’.”
Gordon chuckles. “Yeah, he’s a little upset. Loeb calls him a danger to the public, made him out to be worse than any crime lord. I tried to point out to him that this guy did single-handedly capture the number one hood in the city.”
“So you believe this purported vigilante is actually trying to help?”
“I think so, but don’t quote me on it. He paid me another visit a few nights ago, hinting that the dock incident was only part of a larger underworld plot against the city.”
He adamantly points at him. “But that’s off the record. For now.”
Bill leans back in his chair with a broad smile. “You know me, always off the record.”
“Then you’ll be interested to know that later that same night eyewitnesses saw a man, dressed in black, fall – or jump – out an East End apartment while on fire. Said the guy stumbled a bit, then ‘flew’ up onto the roof of an adjacent building and disappeared.”
Bill is skeptically optimistic. “Think it was him?”
“Very likely. He indicated he’d look into all of this some more, and the East End is as good a place as any to do just that. And I have a hunch he found something, or at least someone who didn’t like his snooping.”
Bill’s optimism turns sour. “Then you haven’t heard from him? Did he say what the plot might be?”
“No I haven’t, but he said it had to do with the drugs we seized at the dock. I haven’t uncovered anything further. But–”
Gordon hesitates, cautiously looking around the room.
“But what?”
“D.A. Finch has gone missing.”
Bill leans in with a stunned expression. “The D.A. is ‘missing’? That can’t be coincidence.”
Gordon shakes his head in agreement. “No, it can’t.”
Bill looks at the clock on the far wall. Late in the evening, hardly a soul remains in the building other than those covering the city’s nocturnal activities. He finishes a few items, shutting down his computer for the night. Collecting a couple of files from his desk, cramming them into his briefcase, he grabs his sport coat before heading down the dim hallway to the stairs.
As he walks out of the building onto the street, a slight breeze greets him. Leaves and debris swirl around him, hinting at a storm about to hit. Yet, other than a slight rumble in the distance, it does not suggest anything other than another typical night in the ominously dank city. He looks up at the sky, observing only sparsely gathered clouds.
Heading toward the bus station, a familiar face walks toward him – Luis Vega. Bill greets him warmly, softening Luis’ obvious apprehension.
“Hola Luis. Heading home for the night?”
“Hola, Senor Miller. Si, I head home. But first I make a stop.”
Bill notices the sack he holds closely. He broaches the matter indifferently. “Of course. I don’t want to keep you. See you tomorrow.”
As the two part, Luis shyly continues down the street. “Si, I see you. Have good night.”
Bill stands for a moment, smiling to himself. He knows that Luis is on his way to make a seemingly typical night deposit – and that the bank, the one they both use, is in the opposite direction. Neither one ever acknowledges that the other knows, and Bill, unsure whether Luis actually does know, never lets on.
Lost in that thought, he feels his phone ring. It is Sue O’Neil.
“Hey Sue. What’s going on?”
“You haven’t heard from Gordon? Something big in the East End, at the asylum. Police have cornered off the area.”
“Haven’t talked to Gordon since lunch. What are they saying it is? Did someone escape?”
“More like broke in. Reports say staff called the police about a man, in black, supposedly breaking into the asylum.”
His enthusiasm escalates. “A man in black? Our mysterious vigilante?”
“It would seem. I’m hea–”
Her voice breaks off mid-sentence, becoming a flustered shout. “What in God’s name?”
“What? What’s happening?” he screams into the phone, looking perplexed.
She becomes breathless, sounding fearful. “Th-there are . . . th-thousands of . . of b-bats flying down the stre–”
He becomes even more confused. “Bats?! Did you say ‘bats’?”
She screams louder, almost incomprehensibly. “Yes, bats! Thousands, heading in the direction of the asylum. My God!”
He hurries down the street, hailing a cab. “Okay, okay. Um, get to the asylum. I’ll meet you there. And try to find Gordon.”
“Okay!”
Mo White throws the day’s copy on Bill’s desk. She is not happy.
“What is this?”
Bill looks at it, turning his attention away from his typing. He looks up at Mo.
“It’s my story.”
She leans on his desk, looking him in the eyes. “I know that, but it’s not THE story. Last night’s chaos, and this is what you give me?”
“I think Sue did an excellent job on the cover story. She needed it more than me, and she was already on the scene. I know you of all people realize that just because someone lives in the Heights area doesn’t mean they are the only ones who can contribute philanthropically. Or that those who wear mask and use fancy gadgets are the only civic heroes. I just juxtaposed the common man with the one getting a little more copy these days.”
She looks at him with an irritated smirk. She cannot fault him. “Okay, okay. You’re right. Sue did do a good job, and your story is moving. But I want more about our new crime fighter, and I want it from you.”
“Now I know where your nephew gets it from.” He points to his computer screen. “I’m working on it right now.”
“If only Perry had my crack investigative staff,” she responds, smirking. She turns to the screen, reading the first few lines of the article. “‘City Hall announced today the installation of a signal light atop its roof. Sources indicate it will be utilized in times of emergency for contacting local crime fighter, whose identity still remains unknown.’”
She nods her head approvingly. “Sounds good. Don’t forget to mention Gordon’s promotion.”
“Already done, chief”
“And Bill, stop calling me chief. We’ve known each other too long.”
As she turns toward her office, he grins. “Right chief.”
Leaning back in his chair, he grabs the newspaper off his desk. He flips it over, reading the top headline:
“CONSPIRACY, PLOT AGAINST CITY UNCOVERED AT LOCAL ASYLUM; MYSTERIOUS CRUSADER DERAILS PLANS.”
The byline reads Suzanne O’Neil. He flips the paper back to the other side, looking down past the fold. He reads an inset headline:
“FOR TENTH YEAR IN A ROW, WAYNE FOUNDATION RECEIVES ANONYMOUS GIFT OF PENNIES; WILL USE FUNDS TO BUY MEDICINE, FOOD FOR CITY’S POOR.”
The byline reads Bill Miller. Putting down the paper, he returns to his computer and resumes work.
On the street five stories below, the citizens of Gotham go about their business – unaware that heroes lurk among them not just in the night.
©2006 Steve Sagarra
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