A Heart of Stone (Part 1)

Gotham rain at night. Gotham’s rain was always fine and lingering, carrying a bone-deep, soul-chilling cold. Under the lights, the falling rain resembled a gray net, and every drop that neared the ground splashed into tiny bursts of water.

The sound of an engine rose from the end of a dark alley. Accompanied by the faint sound of water, the soft rumble of tires rolling over uneven pavement drew closer. When glaring headlights appeared at the back entrance of the Police Department, Gordon knew he was in trouble.

A long luxury car stopped before Gordon. He saw the reflection of rifle barrels in the window glass, and someone nodded to him in the rearview mirror. No one spoke. The whole affair was as quiet as a Gotham night.

Gordon took a deep breath and touched the pistol at his waist. Though it had just been fitted with new parts, it gave him no sense of security whatsoever. In this city, police officers could not rely on their guns to enforce the law. They could not even rely on them to protect themselves.

A man in a black suit stepped out and opened the car door for Gordon. Gordon checked his watch. It was 9:12 p.m. He was going to miss dinner with Barbara again.

In the end, Gordon got into the car. As it pulled away, he looked out the window. The neon signs of shops flashed past his vision, leaving trails of red and blue light. Raindrops struck the glass, blurring those lights into indistinct halos.

Gordon said, "Who am I here to see?"

"You’ll know when you see him," the person in the passenger seat replied.

When they reached a rough stretch of road, the car swayed slightly. The headlights flickered across different buildings, and soon they turned into an alley Gordon had never visited. He knew this had to be the East End, and the most dangerous fringe of the East End at that.

He got out. The man in black led him to the entrance of a mansion. Two men stood before the doors, both carrying guns. One approached, and Gordon clasped his hands over his forehead. The man took the gun from his waist and frisked him from head to toe. Once he was sure Gordon had no other weapons, Gordon followed the guide inside.

The mansion was lavishly decorated and brightly lit, yet there were not many people inside. Gordon went up to the second floor. The moment the guide opened a door, Gordon saw a broad, imposing back. He knew it was Sal Maroney, the East End’s rising new boss.

Maroney turned around. He was not handsome, and he looked somewhat vicious. The corners of his mouth always pulled sharply downward, while the outer corners of his eyes slanted upward with a constant hint of malice.

Turning the ring on his finger, he said, "Sheriff, please sit. It was rather abrupt of me to invite you here tonight."

"I don’t know what’s wrong with gangsters these days. Every one of you is so polite, you seem more like a cop than I do."

Gordon’s reply was extremely rude. Nor did he sit as Maroney had asked. He remained standing stiffly upright.

Maroney’s expression shifted unpredictably, but he did not seem to mind Gordon’s offense. He said, "I invited you here because I wanted to discuss a deal. You know, the sort gangsters often discuss."

"I don’t make deals with gangsters."

"Oh?" Maroney laughed. "That’s a rather novel thing to say. I’ve heard some of your people say my offer wasn’t high enough, but I’ve never heard of anyone who didn’t want to work with gangsters."

"That’s the truth. I don’t work with any gang."

"Then why did you get involved in the Godfather’s business? Your Field Operations Team must have made quite a bit off his private prison operation."

"I’m simply doing my job as a police officer. Fighting crime is a police officer’s duty," Gordon said.

He meant it sincerely. Even though he knew the criminals he sent in only brought the Godfather greater profits, he really was arresting criminals. If that earned him money, so much the better. But even if it did not, Gordon would keep doing it. After all, he had done the same before this business existed, and he had been the only one doing it then, too.

"My terms are very simple. You don’t have to do anything at all. You only need to stall and find every possible excuse to stop the Field Operations Team from going out."

Maroney spread his hands. "How simple is that? All you have to do is nothing, and I’ll offer you a price that satisfies you."

Gordon said, "I can tell you’ve been imitating the Godfather. I’ve never met Mr. Falcone, but I know Gotham has countless poor imitators of him. They think that using elegant wording, acting mild and courteous, and speaking in affected tones—even putting on an Italian accent—will make them like him."

"But it doesn’t work, Mr. Maroney. You are not Falcone, and Gotham will not have a second Falcone. At least for now, Gotham belongs to the Godfather, not to you."

Maroney’s face darkened completely. Gordon had struck at his sore spot. He really had been imitating Falcone—or, as Gordon had said, perhaps too many people in Gotham were imitating the Godfather.

Though many of them had not even finished middle school, they still copied Falcone, using all kinds of refined phrases and forcing simple sentences into long, convoluted constructions laden with complicated grammar.

They wore suits and bow ties, pinned flowers to their chests, and held fountain pens instead of pistols, just like the Godfather.

Falcone was like Gotham City’s benchmark. The Godfather’s personal charisma was so powerful that every gang boss imitated him, and Maroney was one of them.

When you came to Gotham, you would be surprised. Here, gangs did not hire a group of kidnappers to drag you away. Instead, they drove black luxury cars silently to your doorstep on a rainy night, then sat behind black desks in lavishly decorated rooms, dressed formally and speaking to you with impeccable courtesy.

They looked less like gangsters than a group of old-fashioned aristocrats, and all of it came from Falcone’s influence.

That was what shamed Maroney. Unlike the others, he believed he had never bowed to the Godfather’s power. He believed he was destined to overthrow Falcone, yet he had to admit that he had indeed been imitating the Godfather all along.

And he was not even a convincing imitation. Maroney was not suited to suits at all. He lacked the Godfather’s refined air. Even a neat suit could not conceal his savagery.

But Falcone represented the most glorious era of Gotham’s underworld. Every gesture he made bore the marks of that boiling age. The poise accumulated through those golden years, that authority which seemed to hold everything in his grasp, fascinated Maroney.

He was filled with malicious ambition to replace the Godfather, but like everyone else in Gotham, he also held a heartfelt respect for him.

Watching Maroney’s silence, Gordon said, "You know, before I even walked through that door, I knew the person who invited me wasn’t the Godfather. Even though you used his favorite model of car and his most common way of inviting someone."

"Is that so? Why?" Maroney asked.

"If Mr. Falcone had invited me here today, I wouldn’t have been searched or disarmed. The Godfather doesn’t actually care whether the people he meets are armed, because he’s far more confident than you are."

Maroney was nearly unable to maintain his facade. Every word Gordon spoke stabbed straight into his heart, because all of it was true.

Whenever Falcone invited anyone over for a talk, he never took their weapons, even if they were desperadoes who had killed countless people. He dared sit behind a desk less than two meters from them, unarmed, and make them submit willingly with nothing but words.

But Maroney did not dare.

How could he let a well-trained veteran police officer come within two meters of him carrying a gun? He had no confidence at all. He had to guard against Gordon suddenly attacking him. He did not even know why Falcone dared do such a thing.

Why was the Godfather so certain that no one he met would dare lay a hand on him? Maroney had never understood that. In his view, one mistake would reduce all his efforts to nothing beneath gunfire. He would never give anyone that chance.

He thought his caution was not wrong, but that did not stop him from feeling the humiliation of having lost before the battle even began. In a low voice, he said to Gordon, "Do you think what you’re doing now is wise? Provoking me again and again on my territory?!"

"Are you casting aside those pretenses now?" Gordon asked. "Your wording just now was no different from that of a street punk. You didn’t use a single complicated word. Is it because you think I’ve seen through The Truth, so there’s no need to keep pretending?"

Maroney waved a hand. A sharp click sounded behind him, the sound of a round being chambered echoing through the room. The Suit Man behind him held a shotgun, aimed directly at Gordon.

Gordon shook his head. "This is the difference between you and Mr. Falcone. You invited me here, claiming you wanted to discuss business, but there has never been any rule that says someone must be killed because a deal falls through. You’re still using the gangster way. If I refuse, you point a gun at me and force me to agree."

"So why bother sending a car and people to bring me here? You might as well have hired kidnappers directly. Like the other gangs in the East End, drag me into a basement, punch me twice, point a gun at my head, and ask whether I agree. If I refuse, shoot me in the arm."

"Enough," Maroney said. He took a deep breath and waved his hand. The man behind him lowered the gun. "You’re clever. You know I don’t want to lose to Falcone."

"Your cleverness saved your life, Sheriff Gordon. Tonight, I can let you leave, but that isn’t because I’m imitating anyone. It’s because I am mercifully giving you a chance to think it over. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

When Gordon walked out of the mansion, cold sweat had nearly soaked through his shirt.

Only he knew how dangerous that moment had truly been. If he had not repeatedly used Falcone to provoke Maroney and stir up Maroney’s rebellious streak, whether he could have left the mansion in one piece would still have been uncertain.

Gotham’s cold wind blew over him, and fine rain lashed his face. He slowly made his way back, thinking that he had not been wrong after all. Maroney was nowhere near Falcone’s equal. He had already flown into a rage out of shame.

If Falcone had invited him tonight, setting aside whether Gordon’s little tricks could have provoked the Godfather at all, even if he had insulted Falcone, the Godfather would not have refused to send him a car home.

With that thought, Gordon raised his head and looked toward Gotham’s night sky. Raindrops fell into his eyes. He wiped his face, then thought that this trouble was probably far from over.