they’ll cheer up later on . . .
Bruce was far from chipper himself. He was not a morning person—that was one of the many lessons he had learned at the monastery. It was not a matter of character, as some of his high school teachers had apparently believed, but of the body’s natural circadian rhythms. But he had also learned that willpower, judiciously applied, could trump lethargy. If he had to be wide awake and fully functioning in the morning, he could be.
The will is everything . . .
He was traveling light today, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a wallet full of currency. He stood in line for twenty minutes before he could get a taxicab, another indication that he had not yet fully readjusted to being the wealthy scion of a wealthy family: a wealthy scion would have had a limousine waiting. He gave the driver the Madison Avenue address and watched the scenery go by. The cab merged with an army of automobiles, all inching toward the distant Manhattan skyline.
Once the cab had actually crossed the East River into Manhattan, Bruce amused himself by looking at New York City and comparing it to Gotham: the buildings were, on the whole, taller, yet here there was none of the oppressive cavernous quality that characterized downtown Gotham. Sunlight actually reached the sidewalk in Manhattan.
Ninety minutes after it had left La Guardia, the cab stopped in front of a brownstone house that Bruce estimated to be at least 150 years old and was obviously built by someone who was wealthy—a friend of his grandfather’s, maybe? He paid the fare and climbed the steps to the front door. A tasteful brass plate above the doorbell was etched with the words OLYMPUS GALLERY.
The door opened and a pretty young brunette in a pantsuit gave Bruce a catalog printed on vellum and escorted him to a long, wide chamber obviously converted from several smaller rooms. The woman did not recognize him, which relieved Bruce, but did not surprise him. Thomas Wayne had discouraged journalists from publishing photos of his family; the last picture of Bruce to grace the public prints was taken when he was barely fourteen, before he had even attained his full growth, much less been hardened by his travels. He no longer looked much like that cherubic adolescent.
The room was crowded with rows of chairs occupied by a diverse array of men and women, all well dressed, most of them speaking in murmurs to companions. At the far end was a raised platform and a lectern, flanked by paintings on easels and a few statues. The young brunette offered Bruce coffee, tea, chocolate, scones, and pastries. Bruce asked for coffee. A minute later she returned with some in a dainty china cup. She told him that the rooms around them had an interesting variety of works of art and suggested that he might want to examine them after the auction. Bruce thanked her, both for the coffee and the suggestion, and received a carefully crafted smile in return.
A tall, cadaverous man with thick glasses and a few wisps of brown hair combed over his dome moved behind the lectern and welcomed everyone.
He tapped a microphone and winced when a shriek of feedback filled the room, and said, “Before we begin today’s proceedings, I have a regrettable announcement to make. On page eleven of your catalogs—” There was a rustling as the gallery patrons turned pages. The tall man continued. “You see listed there an item offered by James Cavally, a parchment accompanied by his uncle’s translation of its contents. Unfortunately, we are not able to offer this to you today.”
“Why not?” someone asked.
“I regret to say that Mr. Cavally perished in an airplane crash last night and the items described in the catalog were destroyed with him. We, of course, convey our deepest sympathy to his family and friends on their loss. Now, if there are no further questions . . . we begin the auction with lot seven . . .”
Bruce was pretty sure he was not interested in the oil
Bruce was far from chipper himself. He was not a morning person—that was one of the many lessons he had learned at the monastery. It was not a matter of character, as some of his high school teachers had apparently believed, but of the body’s natural circadian rhythms. But he had also learned that willpower, judiciously applied, could trump lethargy. If he had to be wide awake and fully functioning in the morning, he could be.
The will is everything . . .
He was traveling light today, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a wallet full of currency. He stood in line for twenty minutes before he could get a taxicab, another indication that he had not yet fully readjusted to being the wealthy scion of a wealthy family: a wealthy scion would have had a limousine waiting. He gave the driver the Madison Avenue address and watched the scenery go by. The cab merged with an army of automobiles, all inching toward the distant Manhattan skyline.
Once the cab had actually crossed the East River into Manhattan, Bruce amused himself by looking at New York City and comparing it to Gotham: the buildings were, on the whole, taller, yet here there was none of the oppressive cavernous quality that characterized downtown Gotham. Sunlight actually reached the sidewalk in Manhattan.
Ninety minutes after it had left La Guardia, the cab stopped in front of a brownstone house that Bruce estimated to be at least 150 years old and was obviously built by someone who was wealthy—a friend of his grandfather’s, maybe? He paid the fare and climbed the steps to the front door. A tasteful brass plate above the doorbell was etched with the words OLYMPUS GALLERY.
The door opened and a pretty young brunette in a pantsuit gave Bruce a catalog printed on vellum and escorted him to a long, wide chamber obviously converted from several smaller rooms. The woman did not recognize him, which relieved Bruce, but did not surprise him. Thomas Wayne had discouraged journalists from publishing photos of his family; the last picture of Bruce to grace the public prints was taken when he was barely fourteen, before he had even attained his full growth, much less been hardened by his travels. He no longer looked much like that cherubic adolescent.
The room was crowded with rows of chairs occupied by a diverse array of men and women, all well dressed, most of them speaking in murmurs to companions. At the far end was a raised platform and a lectern, flanked by paintings on easels and a few statues. The young brunette offered Bruce coffee, tea, chocolate, scones, and pastries. Bruce asked for coffee. A minute later she returned with some in a dainty china cup. She told him that the rooms around them had an interesting variety of works of art and suggested that he might want to examine them after the auction. Bruce thanked her, both for the coffee and the suggestion, and received a carefully crafted smile in return.
A tall, cadaverous man with thick glasses and a few wisps of brown hair combed over his dome moved behind the lectern and welcomed everyone.
He tapped a microphone and winced when a shriek of feedback filled the room, and said, “Before we begin today’s proceedings, I have a regrettable announcement to make. On page eleven of your catalogs—” There was a rustling as the gallery patrons turned pages. The tall man continued. “You see listed there an item offered by James Cavally, a parchment accompanied by his uncle’s translation of its contents. Unfortunately, we are not able to offer this to you today.”
“Why not?” someone asked.
“I regret to say that Mr. Cavally perished in an airplane crash last night and the items described in the catalog were destroyed with him. We, of course, convey our deepest sympathy to his family and friends on their loss. Now, if there are no further questions . . . we begin the auction with lot seven . . .”
Bruce was pretty sure he was not interested in the oil
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