Gotham Noir part 3

[icarus_chained]

Okay, I gotta admit that while this chapter serves an important, nay, even critical plot function, over 90% of it was written because I simply could not resist the opportunity. Every noir needs a barman who knows more than he should, and a torch singer with a tragic past. And i would appreciate it if JSA fans (yes, you heard me) would tell me how horribly I've mangled their babies.

Gotham Noir: The Man with the Lonely Eyes.

Rating:  PG-13 this chapter.

Summary: Matches shows Clark some of the other side of Gotham

Chapter 3: Night on the Town

Malone steered me through the darkening labyrinth with all the natural confidence of a native, dropping that guiding arm after a while to simply walk beside and one step ahead of me. I frowned at that, because while it was a natural enough position for a guide to adopt, there was a kind of casual arrogance to the way he did it that made me feel like one of those bodyguards that follow high-class glitter and lowdown mob bosses around. A pace behind and to the side, watching.

The way the street people let him through, though, with either unease or friendly acceptance, gave the lie of that thought. Matches didn't need nobody to take care of him. Not in the old town, at least. It was his turf, and he was completely at ease there, sidling sideways through the shadows and leering casually at every hooker we passed. And often as not, they gave him a skittering smile back, or a finger flipped easily in discouragement. He was part of the scene in Old Gotham, obviously not someone you messed with, but not an active threat either. At home.

And with me trailing after him like a stray puppy. I shook my head, feeling doubly useless, and tried not to let his image down. It was easier than before, to look like I knew where I was going and what I was doing. I did. I was following Malone, getting grub, and hopefully the hell out of the old town. Without the earlier confusion, my natural build lent itself to a far more impressive picture, and in combination with that and Malone's presence at my side, my good clothes became less the sign of a mark, and more the sign of a business man checking out his old town assets. Not that I was particularly happy to play that part, but it beat having to pound on would-be muggers.

After a while, though, the streets seemed to widen, become less filthy and less drowned in human misery. Malone shot me a backward glance, and grinned at my obvious relief as we finally shook the clinging grasp of the old town from our feet, and stepped out into the bigger city. Back out to where you could call up a nightshift taxi if you needed one. Out to where any attackers were going to be professional criminals, rather than the lowgrade desperates that inhabited the old quarter. Back out into civilisation, in fact, with all that it entailed.

And the first thing it appeared to entail, at least by Malone's lights, was a bar.

He paused in the doorway, waiting patiently while I took in the look of the place, the shabby, well lived-in exterior with no visible name, only a faded sign that appeared to show an illustration of a pocketwatch and a chess piece rook, whatever they were meant to mean. I looked back at him in blank confusion.

"Where are we?"

The match slid to one side of his mouth in a conspiratorial grin, and he laid a hand on my shoulder to guide me in the door. "Kid," he said, as my eyes struggled to accommodate the sudden surge of light, "welcome to John's. Best place in town, for folks like us. Come on in."

I stepped in, and found myself on the top landing of a polished wood staircase, leading down into what looked like an old speakeasy, left over from the bad old days of Gotham Prohibition, now redone to suit more modern tastes. The light that had seemed so bright from outside resolved itself into the muted gleam of old-fashioned lamps, complemented here or there with red-papered shades. A band played quietly on a small stage at the back of the room. The low murmur of conversation dipped as the patrons caught sight of us, then came back up again as Matches took my arm gently and nudged me down the steps and towards the bar.

The barman, a calm sort with the kind of face it was difficult to put an age on, drifted over as we slid into a couple of barstools in one corner, Malone laying his hat on the bar. It was strange to see him suddenly bereft of it. Matches smiled widely in greeting, showing a dazzling collection of stained teeth, and held out a hand to clasp the man's arm in a gesture of friendship.

"John! How ya doin'? Don't suppose you got any grub for an old friend? The kid and me could use a bit of something."

The man shrugged one shoulder fluidly, but didn't answer, instead raising one brown eyebrow in askance at the splinter of wood still bobbing up and down between Matches teeth. Malone frowned in confusion for a minute, then his face cleared and a hand darted up to pull the offending item out of his mouth. He grinned sheepishly, and handed the match to the barman, chewed end first. John took the soggy thing gingerly between two fingers, and disposed of it neatly behind the bar, returning with a look of gentle satisfaction. Matches dipped his head in shame.

"Sorry 'bout that, John old mate. I forgot again."

"Indeed," came a warmly amused voice from down the bar. "You do that all too often, friend. One of these days, I think John should arrange to have you more pointedly reminded." The older blond gentleman grinned cheerfully at Matches' obvious affront, and raised his glass in salute to our impassive barman, who smiled gently in return.

"I don't believe that would be necessary," the unflappable man commented mildly, and nodded to both Malone and myself as he wandered off behind the bar on some errand of his own. I stared after him, then pulled my attention back to the confrontation beside me. Matches slid out of his seat, and stalked slowly up to the nattily dressed interloper, leaving me stiff and uneasy at our side of the bar. The blond only smiled at him, expression clear and innocent, one hand reaching up to delicately adjust his green silk tie as the other expertly swirled the golden liquid in his glass. Malone glared down at him.

"You've gone awful confident all of a sudden, Alan," he growled, and I stiffened as I caught sight of motion behind him, coming half out of my seat as a shorter, burly man with a pugilist's face and carriage came up behind him and reached out to grasp Malone firmly by the shoulder. My new friend went suddenly and completely still.

"And you're getting awful careless all of a sudden," the pugilist commented gruffly. "Why, I coulda killed ya twice over before you even knew I was there!"

The brown-suited figure was silent, but I saw small tremors begin to run through the line of his shoulders, and I moved forward to intervene before I realised what was happening. Malone, shoulders still shaking with laughter, turned rapidly on his heel, one hand reaching up to catch the hand that had imprisoned him and pumping it vigorously, while behind him this Alan fellow smiled indulgently.

"Ted!" the Gothamite exclaimed, with what sounded like genuine pleasure slipping through his sardonic drawl. "Ya old fool, I didn't know you were in town!"

"You didn't know I was coming up behind ya, either. What's up, kid? You getting sloppy on me?"

"Oh, I rather doubt that," Alan spoke up from behind them, and nodded his head wryly at Malone's left sleeve when his bruiser of a pal glanced at him. Ted turned back, eyebrows raised, and Matches just shrugged, the motion sending a neat little curved blade slipping down the cuff to rest negligently in his palm, disguised by the curl of nicotine-stained fingers. The pugilist stared in consternation at the deadly little item, thinking how much damage it might've done with the merest backward flick of his opponent's wrist.

"You never did catch on to that whole 'fighting fair' deal, did'ya, Malone?" he murmured in frank amazement, and clapped the slighter man heartily on the shoulder as the steel vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Matches flashed his yellowing teeth in a grin.

"Fightin' you? You think I'm crazy or what, you old tomcat?"

"I'm sure the thought has occured," their seated companion murmured, and smiled suddenly in my direction. "Why don't you and your new friend come and join us, Malone? You've yet to introduce us, I might add." Matches turned back to me with a look of shamed surprise, and tilted his head in what might have been pleasure when he found me on my feet and at his back. He nodded to me, and I stepped forward hesitantly to join them.

"Heya kid. Sorry to give ya the cold shoulder like that." He slung his arm around my shoulders again in apology, and gestured me forward. "This here sharp dresser with the quick mouth is Alan Scott. He works uptown. And the pugilist goes by Ted Grant, or 'you bloody bastard' to his friends." He pointed them out, then swept his arm back towards me, in an odd little half-bow. "And this here, gents, is Clark Kent, blow-in and alley-spotter extraordinaire."

I couldn't help but wince a bit at that, but held out my hand anyway. First to Alan, who gave me a firm grip and a friendly smile, then to Ted, who wrung my wrist heartily and would probably have slapped my shoulder had Matches not still had his arm drapped around it.

"Clark Kent," the older man mused. "I do believe I've heard that name before. You aren't the Clark Kent that wrote the story on the misappropriation of war funds by Senator Keeling a couple of years back? Out of the Daily Planet?"

I nodded, trying not to flinch as Matches turned to stare in amazement. "A news hawk! I'll be damned!" Scott simply smiled in satisfaction, and no little respect, which had me nearly blushing with pride, for some reason. I don't know why, but the man made you want to be worth his respect.

"I take it then that you ain't be travellin' with him long, Matches?" Grant grinned slyly, and Malone shrugged.

"Found 'im taking a header into a blind alley to play with Ma Peters' boys, down the old town. On purpose. Seemed a decent enough kid, so I thought I'd lend him a hand, maybe show him the error of his ways." He turned to me and his voice took on a sanctimonious cast. "Someone should teach the youngsters of today that brawling in the streets is a sin."

I flushed, but Scott snorted into his drink, and Ted gave our preacher a playful tap on the shoulder that sent him back onto the barstool behind him. Matches landed with a surprised oomph, and shot the old pugilist a glare that promised dire retribution, but that soon faded into a wry grin.

"Meant to ask ya, Teddie-boy," he drawled. "What're you doin' back in my neck of the woods?"

The burly man turned back from giving me a weighing look, and glanced at Scott before answering. "Came for a chat with the man in green over here," he said gruffly, and there was some meaning behind those words that translated itself instantly to them, and left me completely in the dark.

"Ah," Malone mused, and turned to Scott. "You'll be out of town for a while, then?"

Scott nodded, and looked at him sharply. "Why? You in trouble, Matches? Need me to stay for a bit?" But Malone shook his head even as Grant looked set to chime in.

"Nah. Ain't nothing I can't handle. Told you before, old man. I don't back down on a responsibility." And there was a faint flinch from Scott, but he nodded, something old and sad in his eyes.

"And he will not be alone," a mellow voice interrupted from behind us, matter-of-factly. "He is never as alone as he thinks." Our barman had returned, and he had with him two plates of something hot and fragrant. Matches' eyes followed their progress avidly, and I confess mine weren't all that far behind. "Compliments of Ma Hinkle, gentlemen. And try to be neat, Matches."

The street crook swung around the stool to face the bar, his glasses gleaming in the steam from the plate. "Neat as you like, John. I ain't lettin' a scrap escape me!"

John smiled at him, a little sadly, I thought, and beckoned to me to take the other place. As I sat down, he laid a hand on my arm suddenly, catching me off guard, and stared intently at me for a long minute. The others stopped to watch, Matches hastily swallowing a mouthful. I froze, wondering if I'd done something wrong, but a second later the barman withdrew his hand, and nodded to himself. I rubbed at my arm. The man had a hell of a grip.

"Something wrong, John?" Scott asked in concern, shooting me an appraising glance.

"Not at all," he answered beatifically, and smiled warmly at me. "He'll fit right in."

"One of yours, John?" Matches asked, around the mouthful of stew he'd scooped up once it had become apparent that I wasn't about to be kicked out on my ear, but there was an edge to it, a need to know. I frowned.

"Yes, and no," John answered.

"What the hell's that mean?" Malone growled, and John turned to stare at him, his air of imperturbability suddenly menacing, and the crook dipped his head in respect. John nodded to him, as calm as he'd been a moment before, as if that sudden threat had never been, and turned back to me.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Kent," he murmured gently, holding out his hand properly this time. I shook it gingerly, confused, but the others had settled back and seemed all at once to be more comfortable around me, as if I'd passed some crucial test. Scott smiled at me.

"And you, Mr ..." I started, and realised I hadn't the first clue what the man's name was. He smiled.

"Jones. But you may call me John." He nodded gently at me. "If you ever need help in Gotham, Mr Kent, you will find it here. Any friend of Malone's is welcome behind my doors." And he moved off again, only pausing to touch an equally confused Matches lightly on the shoulder. The brown-suited man stared after him in bemusement, then turned back to stare at me as if I'd grown a second head. I noticed suddenly that his eyes, behind those disguising lenses, were a startlingly clear blue, and had a desolate air to them that sent a crazy tendril of deja-vu through me.

I shrugged uneasily, and the moment broke. Malone turned back to his dinner with all the grace and refinement of a starving man, but I happened to look beyond him and caught the eyes of the other two. They were watching us with twin looks of appraisal, and maybe the tiniest hint of hope.

I wondered suddenly what the hell I fallen into, when I'd no business being there at all, and didn't even know Malone, let alone the others. And yet, they seemed to know me, and to have a far better idea of what I was doing in Gotham than I did. For a minute there, I felt a great web draw around me, the Black City reaching out to wrap me in her deadly embrace, and draw me down into something I didn't understand, and might not survive. She's a sly dame, Gotham, and once she has the smallest hold on you, it gets so you'd have to sell your soul to escape. And even that ain't a sure bet, when the devil himself slides his bony hoof up her silken, decaying skirts in frank admiration.

And in that instant as I thought it, as if to show me there was light in even the blackest of cities, an angel chose to walk into the bar. Her blonde hair swinging gently with her rolling gait, drawing attention to curves wonderfully outlined by the black dress beneath her dusty blue jacket, the woman stepped right up to the bar without hesitation, ignoring the instant attention she received, and hailed John.

"Shot on the rocks, John. It's that day again." And every man save me in our little party flinched, as he pulled a bottle from beneath the bar, and poured her drink with just a hint of reverence. I turned to look at Matches, wondering what was going on. He just shook his head sadly, and watched as she tossed the whiskey back in a single shot, grimacing.

She set the glass back on the bar with a determined click, and John removed it gently, pausing to give her hand a gentle pat. She smiled tiredly at him, nodding as if to tell him all was well, and turned to us.

"Hey boys," she murmured softly, a smoky curl to her voice from the whiskey burn. Ted stepped forward, holding out one rawboned hand to take her more slender one, and guide her to the seat Alan had vacated. The two men took up positions to her left, while Malone turned in his seat to face her right profile, and though the little cluster they made should have looked like a queen with her courtiers, with that positioning, instead it looked like they were sheltering her against some chill wind. I felt like an intruder, with not the first clue what was going on.

"Where's the squirt?" Ted asked gruffly, and a small smile flitted over her tired face.

"I left her with Rene for the night. She's minding Suzette's girls, and thought Dinah might like to have fun with them tonight. Dinah agreed." There was a wealth of caring in her voice at the words, and I knew she was talking about her daughter. A woman only talks like that, with that much love, about her child. "She was happily settled in when I left for the evening, telling Rene to be careful hanging up her cape." Alan smiled.

I shuffled my feet uneasily, thinking I maybe shouldn't be listening to this. There was an simple intimacy to it, the kind I hadn't seen in a long while, since moving to Metropolis. It made me remember that I needed to give Ma and Pa a call.

The woman turned to Scott, smiling. "I heard that programme of yours on the wire the other night, Alan. About Gordon and what he's doing for the GCPD. Jack would've been proud."

He smiled, and dipped his head in acknowledgment. "We all do what we can," he murmured, and as if those words suddenly reminded her of something, she turned and reached out to clasp Malone's arm. He stiffened under her hand, looking uncomfortable.

"Matches. I meant to tell you. Your boys, up on the Mile. They won't be moving for another week or so. I checked up on 'em earlier."

He shook his head. "Aw, Birdie, you didn't have to do that. Not today." She smiled sadly.

"You think Jack would've had it any different?"

He looked away, and there was a hesitancy to his voice when he answered. "Don't know about that, Birdie. I ain't at all sure your man woulda liked you helping out someone like me."

She smiled again, and this time there was something gentle in it, a kind of wry humour that edged out the sadness a little. "Jack would've liked you, Matches. I know he would. Okay, he'd've beat the snot outta you the first time he met you, but he'd have liked you. The job meant something to him, keeping the city safe. I guess that's why he ... I guess that's why."

She stopped, swallowing, and Malone patted her hand gingerly, almost panicking as she looked set to cry. I knew what he meant. Dames crying always made me feel like heading for the hills. What're you supposed to do for them? I guess maybe that's why I always liked Lois. Anybody made her cry, and it'd have gotten to the point where killing them was a reasonable option, and one she'd appreciate.

But this Birdie looked set from the same mould, a tough cookie, and the threatened tears disappeared as she shook her head decisively, and looked over at where I stood shuffling my feet on the edge of their circle.

"Who's ... Who's your friend, Matches?" she asked, a catch still in her throat, but fading fast. I stepped forward and held out my hand to shake. She took it firmly.

"Clark Kent," I murmured, and sketched the little bow I'd given Selina the night before, under such different circumstances, but the same thought was behind it. There was something about Gotham dames that made you want to protect them, even when you knew they didn't need nobody's pity.

"Dinah Lance," she smiled back, and I blinked at the smoke that had slipped back into her voice. "Pleased to meet you. Any friend of this reprobate is a friend of mine, Mr Kent." I nodded. Looked like that was news to Malone, too. Then she stood, brushing instinctively at her cheeks, even though she hadn't actually shed a tear, and straightened her jacket decisively. "Okay, John. I'm ready."

I wasn't the only one taken aback by her sudden change of tone, but John was as unflappable as always. "The stage is set, whenever you want to head up," he answered. Ted looked up at this.

"Surely you ain't making the girl work tonight, John?" he asked, incredulously. John turned to face him calmly.

"If Miss Lance wishes to sing, then I am not about to stand in her way," he said quietly, and the pugilist's indignation wilted. Dinah grinned at him, laying a calming hand on his arm.

"I'm fine, Ted," she murmured. "It helps to be working, you know? Keeping my mind from dwelling on what was never gonna be. I can't change the past. I just gotta live here and now. And that means singing. Okay?" He nodded, and she turned to me. "You staying, sugar?"

I blinked, looking desperately over at Malone, who shrugged unhelpfully. "I, ah, I don't know, Miss Lance. I should ... I should maybe get back."

She smiled, and dipped her head to look up at me through her lashes. "Now, surely you can stay a while longer, Mr Kent. I'll tell you straight, you ain't lived in Gotham until you've heard the Black Canary sing." And she looked at me so winningly that I found myself sitting down, and a drink in my hand, even before she'd reached the stage.

"The Black Canary?" I whispered to Malone, as a hush drew down over the patrons and she stepped up to the front of the stage. He grinned a little.

"Yeah. Canary because there ain't no sweeter songbird in the county. And Black because that's what she'll beat ya if you try anything funny with her." He smiled sadly up at her, as the opening bars of "Why don't you do right?" began to swirl smokily around the room. "Tough dame, our Birdie. Since her Jack was killed, none tougher."

"Her husband?" I asked, and his face fell a bit.

"Nah. Never made to the altar, those two, though she was gonna have his child. Happiest months of their lives, so I heard. When he died, she took his name for herself and their kid. To remember him by, you know? To let the kid know she had a Dad once. Damn near broke Ted's heart when he heard what happened to her, if Alan is to be believed. And he usually is."

I looked at him, at the pity and admiration in his face, and beyond him to the rapt and tender expressions of his companions, and the patriarchal caring in John's eyes. And as I settled back to spend the evening under the spell of the Black Canary, I figured that black though she may be, there are people in Gotham that shine bright enough to take the edge off the darkness.

***

When I was dragged from my sleep the next morning by the angry ringing of the telephone, sleep clutching determinedly at me after I had staggered home to its embrace no earlier than one o' clock the night before, I began to doubt it once more.

"Kent! Where the hell are you?" Lois nearly screamed in my ear. I dropped the telephone, and had to scramble down beside the bed to find it again.

"What?" I breathed back, scrubbing at my face with one hand. "Lois? What's wrong?"

"Get your farmboy ass down here, Kent!" she demanded, something deeply wrong with her tone. "There's been another murder!"

"What!?" I scrambled to my feet, searching desperately for my pants. "Who is it?" There was a long pause, and my gut clenched with an icy dread. "Lois?"

Her voice was oddly subdued as she answered, like she was afraid to break me. "That woman you were flirting with at the gala, Kent. You remember her?"

I froze, dropping my belt with a clatter. "Selina? Selina Kyle?"

"Clark ... She's dead. They killed her, Clark. I'm so sorry."

I didn't even hear the end of her apology. I'd dropped the phone again, and that time, I couldn't bring myself to pick it back up.

Chapter 4: Suspicion Of Murder