Party and Umbrella (7)

"Vickin Umbrella Shop? Oh… that was a long time ago."

In the Gotham Police Department office, Brock lit a cigarette and leaned against a filing cabinet. He said to Gordon, "You know, I’m from the East District. Born and raised in Gotham, a kid from the Slums."

"I remember when you first came to Gotham… that must have been a few years ago, right? That’s right. Back then, the East District was still thriving. The Four Great Families were there, along with rows of upscale clubs, all kinds of bars and nightclubs. Even the strippers were the best."

"Don’t think it was some rundown slum." Brock switched the cigarette to his other hand, took a drag, and exhaled a cloud of smoke as he sank into his memories.

"The East District was prosperous for quite a while. Green Street was at its center, with dozens of streets branching outward, including Elizabeth Street, the current hub of gang activity. But back then, Elizabeth Street barely ranked. When it came to prosperity, Green Street was unquestionably the best."

"But now, that place is kind of…" Gordon frowned and touched the corner of his mouth. "I went there while working that case a couple days ago. It really didn’t match what you described…"

"Of course not. I said that was all in the past. Maybe five or six years ago… or seven or eight, it was still the busiest commercial center in the East District. Vickin Umbrella Shop was in one of the back alleys there. Don’t think that made it remote; it was actually the best location."

Brock exhaled another plume of smoke and recalled, "It was the most unusual shop in the East District. Commercial streets under gang control were usually packed with bars, dance halls, and high-end restaurants. An umbrella shop there was pretty out of place."

"But that umbrella shop’s customers were all high-end. The old umbrella maker, Wiggins, was incredibly skilled. The handmade umbrellas he made were symbols of status among Gotham’s gang bosses. If someone went out carrying an umbrella bearing Wiggins’ mark, it meant he was part of Gotham’s criminal upper class."

"I know." Gordon nodded. "When I first came to Gotham, handmade goods were becoming popular. That retro trend was shaping tastes across the East Coast and even the entire country. Everyone said machine-made things were cold and soulless, and only handmade things had taste."

"Maybe so, but not entirely." Brock walked over and sat down. "You know how damned awful Gotham’s weather is. Umbrellas really are useful."

Gordon rested his elbows on the desk, putting his full weight against it as he flipped through a file. "That old umbrella maker must have been very skilled. Too bad he’s dead."

"True. Every gang boss in Gotham only bought umbrellas from him, so plenty of other umbrella makers quit. By now, he was the only handmade umbrella maker left in all of Gotham."

"His craftsmanship was beyond question, but he had a strange temper too. When I still lived in the East District, I heard that he only sold his umbrellas to certain people. Others couldn’t buy one no matter how much they offered."

"Really?" Gordon looked at Brock skeptically. "Those gang bosses aren’t pushovers. If that old umbrella maker dared refuse to sell them umbrellas, wouldn’t they cause trouble for him?"

"I don’t know about that, but it seems no conflict ever broke out." Brock shrugged.

"I don’t think you’ll find any clues through him. He was probably just caught in the crossfire."

Gordon said unwillingly, "Kevin’s death is connected to Fish’s death, but I can’t find any clues through Kevin. So I can only investigate other people. Do you think maybe…"

Gordon sighed, dismissing his own speculation before he continued, "Forget it. It’s unlikely. The handmade goods craze has already passed, and a gang boss like Kevin, who never even went to school, wouldn’t commission some custom handmade umbrella. Our informants never said he knew the boss of Vickin Umbrella Shop. They were probably strangers."

"But I still feel there’s something suspicious about them dying in the same case." Gordon straightened up and planted his hands on his hips. "Gang wars have often dragged innocent people in before, but this case just feels strange…"

"Your instincts have always been accurate." Brock said to Gordon, "How about this? I’ll visit that umbrella shop again later. I grew up in the East District, so I know the area better. If I find any clues, I’ll let you know…"

"That’s all we can do."

As soon as Gordon finished speaking, a young officer knocked on the door. "Boss Gordon, Mr. Little Falcone is here."

Gordon and Brock hurried out. Upstairs, they saw the Director exchanging pleasantries with Evans. Evans wore a suit and was followed by several bodyguards.

It looked as though he, rather than anyone else, owned the Police Department.

Evans had inherited his father’s good looks. He was tall, straight-backed, and handsome, and he had also inherited a beautiful head of blond hair from his mother. He looked less like a mafia godfather and more like a movie star or an exuberant artist.

When he saw Gordon arrive, he turned and shook his hand. "Detective Gordon, I’ve heard so much about you. My classmates and teachers have spoken of you. You’re a good cop…"

Gordon and Brock made small talk alongside the Director and Evans.

That was how Gotham worked. Even though Evans was the prime suspect in a murder case, every police officer had to treat him politely, even as an honored guest, because his surname was Falcone.

Just as they were about to invite Evans into the reception room, Evans said, "No need. There’s something I need to say here…"

In the basement of a hotel on Elizabeth Street, Maroney let out a scream. Batman had broken his leg with a steel pipe. Maroney cursed loudly, "You damned freak who can’t mind his own business…"

Batman’s voice was as cold as ever. "I stopped you from killing the hotel owner, but not because I happened to pass by. Obviously, I came looking for you. You’d better cooperate."

Maroney glared at him viciously. "Don’t expect me to tell you anything! You son of a bitch…"

Ten minutes later, Maroney lay sprawled on the floor, all four of his limbs broken. Batman asked him, "Were you the one who shot Fish?"

Maroney apparently had not expected that question. He let out a short gasp, the pain nearly making him pass out, but Batman injected him with a stimulant to keep him conscious.

"You’d better cooperate. Otherwise, even I don’t know what I’ll break next." Batman kicked his arm with his foot. Maroney let out a near-death scream from deep in his throat. At last, he yielded. "It was me… It really was me…"

"Why did you do it?"

"Fish and I had a grudge."

Batman stepped on his broken arm again. Maroney screamed violently and trembled as he said, "Someone threatened me… I had no choice…"

"Who threatened you?"

Maroney remained silent for a long time. No matter how Batman interrogated him, he refused to reveal that name.

Finally, Batman said, "I know where the Maroney family is based, and I know where you’ve hidden your core forces and wealth. If you don’t want a fire with no survivors to suddenly break out there, you’d better cooperate…"

Maroney lay on the floor as if dead. Just when Batman thought he would not speak again, Maroney rasped out a name:

"Evans Falcone."

In a ward at Arkham Asylum, Schiller withdrew his arm, set the umbrella down, and planted its tip on the floor. He said to Cobblepot, "…Don’t tell me you bought this umbrella. You should know you can’t afford something like this."

"So, did you steal it, or did you take it by force?"

Cobblepot looked as though he had been insulted. He pursed his lips and glared at Schiller. "This was what I deserved!"

Schiller folded his hands over the umbrella handle and stood where he was. "Why do you say that?"

Cobblepot turned his head away and did not answer.

At that moment, someone knocked on the ward door. Schiller turned his head. "Come in."

Gordon entered. After coming inside, he first swept his gaze across the ward, glanced at Cobblepot, and finally looked at Schiller. "Little Falcone confessed."

The atmosphere in the room froze for a moment. Cobblepot reacted as though struck by lightning and nearly sprang off the bed. He turned to glare at Gordon and shouted, "What did you say?? Who confessed??"

His tone was full of disbelief. Gordon swallowed and said to Cobblepot, "I know you can’t believe it, because I can’t believe it either."

"But it’s the truth. Before I came here, about half an hour ago, the godfather’s biological son, Evans Falcone, came to the Police Department…"

"Then he admitted that he had ordered Maroney to kill Fish Mooney."

Cobblepot froze halfway through a movement, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets. Then he collapsed back onto the bed as though questioning his entire life, muttering in disbelief, "…He ordered Maroney to kill Fish. Then what did I do? What did I do?"

"I…" Cobblepot seemed to choke on his words. From his expression, it was clear that in those few seconds, he ran through every one of his plans and actions in his mind. Then he said with absolute certainty, "Impossible. How could Little Falcone… This makes no sense at all."

Gordon sighed. "Isn’t that the truth? Brock and I were both stunned. Evans stood in a Police Department full of cops and told us he had come to turn himself in. He was the one who ordered Maroney to kill Fish."

"He has no motive to do that." Cobblepot looked at Gordon. "Aren’t you cops always so concerned with criminal motives? What reason would Little Falcone have for doing this? What would he gain from killing Fish?"

As soon as he finished asking, he said in disbelief, "All right, killing Fish might indeed benefit him a little, such as intimidating others, but he shouldn’t have…"

"I know what you mean. No matter how stupid the godfather’s son was, he wouldn’t use a method like this to eliminate a rival. More importantly, even if he did it, there would be no reason for him to turn himself in."

"Gang assassinations are commonplace in Gotham." Gordon frowned deeply, the deep lines between his brows seeming ready to carve themselves into his face. "Everyone knows this kind of thing happens every day, but that doesn’t mean he has any reason to bring it into the open."

"What exactly does he want? Why drag the Police Department into this?"

Even Gordon himself felt those words were absurd as he said them. What reason would a murder case have to drag the Police Department into it? God! What was he saying? Was he even still a cop?

But in Gotham, this was an understanding everyone accepted. No one called the police over assassinations between gangs. Doing so would make them look weak to their peers and seriously damage their reputation.

But now, the godfather’s own son had come to the Police Department and openly declared that he had murdered Fish. The nature of the matter had become completely different.

If he had not confessed, no one could have forced him to do so, because his surname was Falcone. But now that he had confessed, no one could turn a blind eye to it, also because his surname was Falcone.